Spoilers for Night Shifter.

I really pegged Sam and Dean incorrectly. Here they have a little discussion and I figured Sam, being the college boy, would be the one disinclined to religion and Dean, being the soldier-boy, would be the follower. However, a week later I found out that wasn't true at all. That Sammy does pray and Dean is the cynic. I'm not going to change it here, but I will acknowledge it.

"Know what Ron said as soon as you left?"

The black cloth still clung like a second skin to Dean's body. The thought was not comforting. The sound of Sam's voice was not comforting. The Impala purring beneath him…was not comforting. His heart ran jagged in his throat, his breath came in shallow pools to his shoulders.

"No," he said simply. "What did Ron say." A question mark was far from implied.

Sammy didn't take any notice to his reluctance and pushed onward with malice. "He said it looked like you wanted to kiss me then."

The image of the flood lights, Ron watching them from a pool of stupidity and molten light, watching them argue, watching them realize that this time might really be the last time. Dean had wanted to kiss him then, but he hadn't. He had some control he had some…

"I don't want to hear about it."

"Do you know what Sherry said?" Sam persisted relentlessly.

Dean hit the radio with a snap of his wrist.

Styx only had two good songs.

Renegade and the Great Illusion

…Dean hissed at demons and irony.

They didn't try a motel that night; it was stupid, too stupid an idea even for them.

Sam would have suggested they ditch the car if it had been any other car at any other time.

Instead they drove all night until Dean couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

They pulled off into a state rest area. Whichever state they'd gone jack-rabbiting into.

Mexicans crawled like proverbial-politically-incorrect roaches everywhere, browned limbs hung out of windows like untagged corpses. They were tired workers sleeping in the seats of their rusting vans. Old Abuelas and Tias walked crying babes back and forth across the grass, sidestepping dog shit and refuse with every swish of their skirts.

That Dean found comforting as his eyes slid shut. Ready for sleep, ready to dream, ready to block out reality: the nightmare from which no one could ever awake.

"Do you know what Sherry said," Sam insisted suddenly, ripping him away from the promise of the monotonous torture of his psyche.

"No," Dean croaked against the dryness in his throat and the revulsion and loneliness in his heart. "I don't."

"Brave. She called you…so brave…"

Sammy was crawling across the cup holder.

Stolen clothes were holding him hostage within their knit body.

Dean screwed his eyes tighter shut, but pushed the seat back to accommodate Sam in his lap all the same. Sammy was too big for it, their legs were a contorted mess and Sammy's lanky figure had hard joints in uncomfortable places.

Like a knife slicing up under a rib.

"Said that, did she. Nice girl."

"She asked," Sam went on, his voice quavered for one miserable moment before he recaptured that horrible Agent Johnson identity and went on. "She asked if you had always been like that." And there Sam hit him. One wild gesture across the face, the flat of the hand, still a little thin and weak from all that time spent decomposing in its cast. It wouldn't leave a bruise, but it did make a statement."Brave. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She would have fucked you right then."

"Brave." Dean nodded, his eyes still resolutely closed. "You know why I'm brave."

Code, a special code, more subtle and sophisticated than mentions of funky town. A code between them, a code Sam had begged him never to use again.

Sammy made only a sound, that sound, in reply, a deep swallowing noise that made his Adam's apple constrict and bob, veins bulging from stress beneath his flesh.

It was childhood again and tepid demands were laid bare. "Kiss me now. Get me out of these fucking clothes. And then let me have you." Like adoring jealousy and petulant demands to share.

"Don't curse, Sammy, don't…"

"Dean…b…big brother, come on, please…b…before d—a…dawn." Three letters, two of which the same, the A pressed between them to make a name that should not be uttered from the mouth of a broken boy. Dean's eyes remained closed, and the name not spoken caused him more pain than the sin of the words.

"You know how it could have…you know how we should have…"

"Yes. The Clothes."
There wasn't enough room for this; Sammy's back was shoved painfully against the steering wheel. He jarred the car horn once and then twice and then silence. A few curses streamed forth as legs and garments kept getting in the way.

"Don't…don't curse, Sammy," Dean muttered. "Don't curse."

"Curse or pray, Dean," Sam said. They were using names with a shameless lack of subtly like blankets and shields for and from each other. "One I can't help and one I don't believe in."

"If there's devils there's angels, Sammy, if there's…"

"Don't be redundant, Dean." Like redundancy was a worse transgression than this, than Sam's hand smoothing the fine hair at the very insides of his thighs.

"I'm just…I'm just…" One head toss, one more submission, and one more acceptance of the hardening of a heart he had once cultivated when no one else was there to even know it existed. "I'm just sayin'," Dean warbled around the pain in his throat, "it don't hurt to try, Sammy. It don't hurt nothin' to try."

"Even Dillinger got caught, Dean."

"Hah…and why's that, Sammy?" The irrelevancy of their words in connection to the sharp jut-snap-rut exclamations of their actions seemed all too perfect for this world. Code, there must be another code linger beneath the layers of blood and fears.

"Made a mistake, let the wrong people get close…"

"Wrong people…huh…Sammy?"

There it was.

While the effect of orgasm and laughter and hysteria and fatigue left him lightheaded, choking for air as his body convulsed and Sammy pulsed and Mexican workers no longer asleep in their bedraggled gray vans pretended not to see them clearly through the windshield.

"We just won't let anyone in then, Sammy," Dean smiled, forcing his tearing eyes to open already and let the visage of his little brother burn itself into his sight.

"I'm one of those wrong people too," Sam protested with greed and guilt. His shoulders hitched only once as he slumped awkwardly over his brother's shorter torso, fingers clutching at the lingering traces of the stolen black fabric.

"Yeah, well I don't mean you and that's close enough for rock and roll."

Even Bonnie and Clyde met their fates cause they had people they needed to see. Well, Dean realized with belated bitterness and satisfaction. That wasn't a comforting notion at all, but if they had the archetypes set before on tempting silver platters…they might as well reach.

That was nature of sin.

Perverts and pervades.


The effect of orgasm while laughing, laughing like they might as well have been dropping gooney birds and sucking down hashish candies, was like drinking ether, was like drowning, was like flying, was like floating.

Blond and blue eyed, huh? Gentleman may prefer, but with his brother's cock still softening in his asshole after a desperate act of incestuous sodomy, Dean was in no way a Gentleman.

Another little laugh, this time it belonged to Sammy.

"I fucking hate Styx."

"Don't curse, baby, don't curse…"

Though the point was wholly moot.

Standard Disclaimers