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They're just outside Aspen—have been for almost a week—when Bobby hits town. He doesn't call first. Just turns up one morning, and Dean almost trips over himself in surprise when he finds the man in their motel parking lot.
"Bobby!" he says, and hugs him hello. The sky is gray, wind stale, and Bobby adjusts his hat.
"Boys," he says, familiar greeting with a worried edge. Dean realizes Sam has found his way outside and stepped up close behind him.
"Hey, Bobby," says Sam, and Dean hears the concern echo back from his brother's voice. "What's up?"
"Omens," says Bobby. "A whole mess of 'em. They started in the area about a week ago."
Bobby gets a room at the same motel, number eleven to the Winchesters' ten, and then stops back over to plan strategy. It should be reassuring to know Bobby is staying so close, but all Dean feels is wary trepidation. He doesn't like it.
But there are omens to investigate, probably a demonic presence to be hunted down and exorcised. The hunt they were supposed to be on is a bust, so they might as well do some good. Sam's been dark and surly since before they got here, and maybe it's the fact they've been on the move without a single successful hunt for weeks. Dean knows he's starting to get antsy with it.
"We can start digging around in the morning," says Dean, because they'll have to start from scratch. None of their previous investigation had anything to do with demonic activity; they've got no leads. Bobby nods, good a plan as any, and Dean feels a shiver in his spine at the fact that Sam is so oddly silent, especially when Bobby stands and leaves for his own room.
"The hell is up with you today?" asks Dean. He doesn't mean to pick a fight, but Sam is starting to freak him out. His brother the talker, the noisy geek with constant opinions, suddenly has nothing to say.
Sam stands instead of answering him, taking seven steps to reach the window. The sky is an angry purple outside, darkening with every moment and threatening to put sunset out of its stubborn misery. Sam closes the curtains, then locks and latches the door. He slides the chain deliberately into place, and Dean doesn't know why he suddenly feels trapped. It's just Sam for god's sake.
"You should probably know the score, Dean," says Sam in a voice gone sugar-dark and heavy. "There are choices to be made."
"Cryptic much?" says Dean, and he stands from the edge of the bed. Sam already has a height advantage over the whole goddamn world, and even though Dean is busy telling himself he has no reason to feel discomfited, he doesn't want to be sitting down right now.
Sam turns, but doesn't face him; eyes downcast instead. He holds his lower lip between his teeth, like he's working something through. Thinking way too hard. Dean takes a step closer. He needs to know what's going on.
"Is this about the omens?" he asks, because he's got nowhere else to start.
"That," says Sam. "And other things." Sam's eyes finally rise to meet him, and Dean's breath catches at the intensity in that look. It's an unforgiving heat and an unfamiliar glint. It makes Dean realize he's standing too close, and he raises his foot instinctively, ready to take a step back.
He doesn't get the chance to complete his retreat. A flurry of vertigo hits him instead, the shift and swish of air past his ears, and suddenly he's got his back to the door. He's pressed hard to the wood, spine tight as he breathes in a startled gasp. He evaluates quickly, ready to counter Sam's pinning hold with one of a hundred different defensive moves.
But there's no hold to counter, no point on which to focus his attack. Dean realizes with a shattered bite of terror that it's not Sam's hands and body holding him so solidly in place. There's nothing but empty space surrounding him, and Sam is two steps away, watching.
"No," Dean whispers, because his brother's eyes are yellow.
"Are you going to scream for help?" Sam asks, and Dean wonders if he's imagining the taunting edge to the words. "I'll let you. Bobby can be here in seconds."
But Dean meets his brother's eyes, yellow stare head-on and harsh, and knows he'll do no such thing. Not when he still needs to understand. He needs to keep his brother close so he can get this yellow-eyed bastard out of him.
"So who are you?" asks Dean, forced calm in his voice. "And how'd you get in him past all the protections we use? Because I've got to admit, that's pretty hardcore."
Sam laughs and shakes his head, looks so goddamn natural doing it, and Dean swallows hard. Tries not to remember a terrified hallucination that rang too close to home—too close to this—as Sam takes a step into his space and stares him down.
"I'm not possessed," he says, and Dean feels the words like deja-vu. "But that's cute, you trying to play the optimist."
"You're not him," Dean insists, heartbeat furiously fast.
"You know me too well to play this game," says Sam, and Dean realizes he's right. This isn't some demon wearing his brother like a suit. This is Sam, reflected in every word and gesture and even the depths of those vivid yellow eyes. This is everything Dean has been too terrified to see.
"Why?" Dean asks, and it barely comes out a whisper.
"That's not important," says Sam, and he almost looks apologetic. "Turns out there was no other way for this to go. But you… you're still a wild card. And I want you to play in my favor." Sam's eyes are too wide, too bright, until Dean loses sight of them entirely, as his brother leans in to murmur straight into his ear, "I need you to play in my favor."
"Sammy," Dean whispers, and he feels lost. Adrift in chaos and completely immobilized, and Sam's breath is warm and intimate on his skin.
"I can't lose you again," says Sam, soft and intent. Then closes his teeth over Dean's pulse.
"Fuck!" Dean hisses, bucking against his invisible bonds. The pain is less startling than the fact that it's Sam, and yeah, now Sam's hands are on him. Warm and steadying, and Dean snarls, "What the hell, Sam?!"
"Shh," Sam murmurs, body a furnace of heat as he presses up close, toe-to-toe and chest-to-chest, close enough for Dean to feel the rapid-fire ricochet of a pulse beating in counterpoint to his own.
The invisible weight of Sam's will disappears abruptly, but his brother is still there, heavy and solid enough to hold him in place. Dean could fight back now, raises his hands to do just that, but in the end he holds on instead. Can't escape the fact that there's no point even trying when Sam can turn the mind mojo right back on again.
Sam makes a contented sound against Dean's throat, apparently pleased at what he takes for acquiescence.
"What—?" starts Dean, but Sam cuts him off with a kiss. Sudden and wrong and it's a kiss, his brother's mouth hot and entitled, and there's no amount of rational thought can keep Dean from trying to push his brother away now.
But instinct or not, the attempt is useless. Sam is huge and determined, stronger than Dean, and suddenly his hand is at Dean's throat. Enormous, steady fingers that tighten just enough to threaten, and Dean remembers just how much of an upper hand Sam has here. He gives up the struggle, but still resists when Sam's tongue teases across the seam of his lips, demanding entrance.
Dean keeps his mouth stubbornly closed against the implicit command; a challenge of wills, until Sam's hold tightens enough to cut into his airflow. When he parts his lips, it's only to gasp for breath, and he tries to ignore the possessive sweep of his brother's tongue. Tries to pretend it doesn't set loose a flutter of something dark and buried.
"Why?" he asks, when Sam finally releases him from the kiss.
"Because this is how it has to be," says Sam. "And because I want this."
Sam's hand is on his stomach—is sliding lower than his stomach—and Dean closes his eyes against the whimper he finds in his throat. He tries to choke on it, but Sam is there again, kissing the sound away.
It's instinct again, ineffectual and not the smart way to go, but Dean is suddenly fighting; twisting and shoving and trying to get away. Whatever this is, whatever Sam is doing, if Dean doesn't stop it then it's just going to happen. He can't, and they can't, and all Dean wants is to get away.
His struggles are nothing but an opportunity for Sam to twist and spin him around, and Dean ends up with his hands pinned to the door and his cheek smashed uncomfortably against the cool wood. Harsh counterpoint to the heat of Sam pressed against his back, cooing calm nonsense into Dean's ear. Dean freezes, because he knows futility when he feels it; even though panic is still a noisy thrum beneath his skin. Even though he can't possibly miss the fact that Sam is hard, that Sam is rubbing against him ever so slightly. Lazily or unconsciously, and Dean doesn't even know which, but he shivers when Sam presses a kiss to the skin just below his ear; when Sam follows the kiss with another just like it, and Sam's hand slides around to rest on Dean's stomach like he's got any goddamn right.
"Dean," says Sam, needy heat in his voice. "Dean, let me."
"Don't," says Dean, but Sam drops his hand the inch to his zipper anyway. Dean is ready to resume his struggles. To fight this with everything he has even though the outcome is clear and inevitable. It doesn't matter if there's no other way this ends; Dean can't just let Sam strip him down and fuck him against the door. Dean's muscles tense, fight-or-flight kicking into high gear, and he's ready—
"Please," whispers Sam, and there's a new desperation in his voice that undoes Dean completely. "Please don't make me hurt you, Dean."
It's a shattered moment, silence ringing shrill in his ears, and suddenly the world is too sharp in focus. The lamplight is dim yellow, cuts across the walls in Dean's peripheral vision, and Sam's breath on his neck is a staccato rhythm. Jagged and uneven. Perfect.
Dean's got nothing left, not a goddamn thing, and he holds himself still as Sam unzips his fly and pulls his jeans down his hips. He bites his lip at the matching sound behind him; shift and rustle of fabric, and then the jarring sensation of Sam's cock riding the crease of his ass. Surreal and intimate.
"Okay," says Sam, and then clamps a hand over Dean's mouth to silence him as he forces his way in without so much as a finger to prep the way. Dean's world explodes, raw fire and a silent scream as he throws his head back against Sam's shoulder. His fingers scrabble across smooth wood and fail to find purchase, and the world burns hot and ragged as Sam fucks up and into him, splitting him wide on too much, too sudden, too big; his brother's cock is riding him angry and open, and Dean's brain shuts down long before Sam crosses the finish line.
He comes back to the world at the sudden jolt of Sam stilling inside him, hard and deep, and Dean feels the wet heat of his brother's come claiming him from the inside. He whimpers, sags against Sam's chest—Sam's hand still heavy over his mouth—as abused flesh protests the friction of Sam pulling out.
Dean feels wrung out and wrecked, shattered as Sam carefully puts them both back to presentable. He doesn't have any fight left in him, certainly not enough to protest as Sam takes him by the shoulders and turns him. Forces eye contact, Dean's back unsteady against the door.
"Things change now, Dean," says Sam. The words seem too soft for the enormity of that particular understatement, until Dean remembers that Bobby is just a room away. "Everything changes. Bobby doesn't get to know the whole score, not if we want him to live."
Dean swallows and wants to look away, but he can't do it. He can't look anywhere besides Sam's eyes, still yellow orbs pleading with him in the lamplight.
"It's us against the world now," says Sam. "Are you with me?"
They leave hours before dawn, careful and quiet so as not to wake anyone. It will take a hell of a head start to stay off of Bobby's radar.
Dean shifts in the passenger seat, wet discomfort and the memory of Sam laying claim, as they pull onto the nearest interstate and drive.