Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ Vicious Delicious ( Chapter 11 )

______________________
Asylum
Supernatural, AU
Dean/Sam

Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

*Disclaimer* I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

______________________
Ch. 11: Vicious Delicious


Dean didn't get far in his pursuit of his brother before being detained. A pair of orderlies, Chuck and Miles met him in the hall, blocking his path. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the amount of space they took up was impressive. They were some of the heavyweights in this asylum, and Dean did not care for them one bit.

“Come with us, Winchester,” Miles said, his huge biceps flexing under his short-sleeved white staff uniform. “Your time is up.”

“Time for what?” Dean asked, stalling. Miles was an islander with deep brown skin and hair that was curly, nearly black and pulled back into a loose ponytail. His eyes were arctic blue and he had a rough touch with the patients, one of which had gained a broken arm. He'd had at least two warnings regarding this sort of thing, and yet no one was bothering to fire him.

Chuck, a guy with shortish dirty blond hair who kind of resembled an older Mark Hamill (on steroids) said, “Your time as a free man. It's off to solitary for you.”

Dean backed up a step, holding his hands up in appeal. “Oh, come on. What for?” He could duck back down the hall where he came from, but there wasn't much in that direction except for the infirmary. Besides, Sam had gone this way and he intended to follow. His brother had looked seriously freaked out.

Miles smiled, showing white teeth. “What for?” He laughed. “Where do I start?”

Chuck threw Miles an exasperated look. “You could start with what he did today.”

“Yes, please enlighten us,” Dean said drolly. “But hurry it up, would ya? Looking at your faces is enough to gag a maggot.”

Miles leveled him with a look that said he'd love to earn another reprimand from his employers by breaking something on Dean. Maybe multiple somethings. “The cafeteria fight.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean said with irritation. “Solitary for that? I didn't even start it.”

“Look, Chuck, isn't he cute?” Miles said condescendingly, nodding at his coworker, “trying to reason with us like this.” He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at Dean. “He doesn't seem to realize there is nothing that can come out of that smart-ass mouth of his that anyone will give a flying fuck about.”

Dean let out an over-dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. “If I come willingly, could you at least do me the favor of not talking?” He held his hands out like he was waiting for handcuffs. “Hell, I'll lock myself up for that.”

“I could always knock your head in hard enough you wouldn't even hear us,” Miles offered.

“Miles,” Chuck said with annoyance. “Stop talking to him, already. You know there's no end to the shit coming out of his mouth. Let's just grab him and be done with it so I can take my smoke break.”

Dean whistled. “So now I see who's wearing the pants in the relationship. Never took you for being pussy-whipped, Miles.”

Miles growled and lunged at him. It was the perfect opening. Dean mentally thanked Chuck for being himself - impatient and lazy - and Miles for having a hair-trigger temper. He used the islander's momentum against him, pulling on the extended arm closest to him as he moved forward as well, sending the man off-balance. Someone with less experience might have found themselves acquainting their face with the floor, but Dean knew Miles would keep his feet. This was just a means of breaking the blockade. He made a break for it.

With luck, and no impediments, he'd be able to outrun them. Maybe. Problem was, no matter how he ran, the time would come when someone found him. Orderlies were fucking irritating like that. It was like the Borg. One mind and all. Where one orderly failed to carry out a task, all the others were updated and the whole facility became a very tight place to maneuver in.

FYI - running from orderlies was a bad thing. It was a sign of misconduct that was usually dealt with in an unpleasant fashion. He tried to avoid it.

As he was careening through the halls, he spied Ed's familiar form and bushy hair.

“Hey, Ed,” he greeted, skidding to a stop.

Ed looked edgy. “Hi, Dean.”

“What's up?” he asked, wondering why Ed was acting weird. He didn't really have time for this, but he needed to find Sam and Ed seemed prone to keeping track of people, especially new ones.

“I shouldn't be talking to you,” the teenager said, turning his shoulder and trying to shuffle away down the hall in a hunkered slouch.

“Hey-” Dean said sharply, the behavior annoying him. Ed flinched and looked back at him reluctantly. “Sorry,” Dean apologized immediately, not meaning to speak so roughly; Ed didn't respond too well to that - he clammed up. “Why can't you talk to me?”

Ed pushed his glasses up his nose. “I didn't say that I couldn't,” he corrected snobbishly. “I said that I shouldn't.”

Impatience snapped through Dean like a whip. Argh! WhatEVER! Just get to the fucking point already. “And why is that, Ed?” he said through a teeth-clenching smile.

“Because you're in trouble again, and I don't want to be in trouble.” He sniffed condescendingly. “Why do you always get into trouble, Dean? I should be ashamed to associate with you.”

Dean bit back his response to that. “Just one thing and I'll leave you alone, okay?”

Ed frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I didn't say you had to leave me alone. Are you feeling antisocial, Dean?”

...aaaand Dean's last nerve popped like a chestnut over hot coals. “Have you seen Sam Campbell?” he barked out, feeling like he was going to throttle the irritating boy.

Ed flinched theatrically, arms coming up to his chest like a T-rex. “W-why? Are you going to yell at him too?”

“No,” he growled. “Him, I want to talk to. Now answer the goddamn question, I don't have much time.”

“I think he's back in his room, but--”

“Thanks,” Dean said, taking off at a run again. Milo and Otis were not going to be kept at bay forever. He wanted to get at least a few minutes to see if Sam was okay, see what had him spooked, and maybe even let him know about his impending leave of absence. Well, if there was time before they dragged him off.

He beelined to Sam's room and tried the door. Locked. “Sam? You in there?” he called and rapped on the door.

After a moment, there was a click and the door swung open. Weird. “Sam?” he called again, starting to become suspicious. Sam would always answer him, if he could. Was he even in here at all? He pushed the door open a bit more, ready to jump back as he inched forward and peered inside.

Suddenly, a ridiculously strong arm hooked around his torso and arms from behind, squeezing him like a human bull clamp. “Gotcha,” Miles said, slapping a cloth over his nose and mouth as he held Dean still.

Dean struggled, cursing his luck. It smelled like chloroform. A wretched smell. They used it here on difficult patients to minimize injury to the restraining staff. The stuff always made him feel sick.

His vision began to swim and he saw Wilcox out of the corner of his eye, looking smug as hell. The mustached man regarded him with a glib smile and said, “A dog will always return to its vomit.”

Dean growled in the back of his throat and struggled violently. What the hell kind of shit is this? The guy who started the fight was roaming free, while his ass was getting tossed in a hell box? And where the hell was Sam at?

The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the apologetic face of his once-favorite orderly Paulo who walked out from the room, being the one who had been manning the door. Son of a bitc--! he shouted mentally as he blacked out.

---

When Dean came to, he was lying on his side on a cold, damp concrete floor.

“I see they gave me the best room this time,” he croaked. Oh, he felt like hell. He needed some water.

He rolled into a sitting position, made more challenging by the straight-jacket he'd apparently been laced into. God-damned things were a pain in the ass. Someone was less than pleased with him, that much was apparent; They could have at least laid him out on the bed.

“Dillan?” he called out in a raspy voice. “Pablo?” His head was spinning a bit. “Hey, who the fuck is down here?” Those two were the most likely candidates.

“Shut your hole, Winchester,” a voice called back. It was Dillan.

“Unfortunately for you, it's one of the only things that was left flapping free.”

A deep sigh heralded the orderly's approach. The Irishman looked at him and shook his head. “Really, Dean, what the hell did you do now?”

Dean shrugged.

Dillan leaned against the barred door and gave him a bland stare. “What's sad is I think this is the longest you've gone without landing yourself in trouble.”

“Miss me?”

“Like a hole in the head.”

“Anyone else down here?” Dean asked, almost hopeful that Sam might be here as well, and within vocal range; though, he didn't exactly want his brother to experience this.

“Well, there should be,” Dillan said, a frown forming on his face. “It takes more than two fists to have a brawl. But you're the only one that's come in.”

“Makes a guy feel special,” Dean said sarcastically as he struggled to his feet. He wobbled a bit, still rocking that chloroform in his system. He hoped he didn't fall and crack his head open on anything, like the sink or the john. “You know how long they're gonna keep me in this thing? Kinda hard to get a drink or take a piss like this.” Not to mention the joy of severely stiff arms which he could be looking forward to.

“What,” the Irishman said consideringly. “I think it's a good look for you. Could be improved with a gag, though.”

“You're one hilarious asshole, Dillan. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Sure. Every day - last time you were down here.” The orderly yawned and nodded towards Dean's new, shiny white jacket. “I think it's only till the doc gets here, but don't quote me on that.”

Dean sighed heavily and went to sit on the bed. “Can you at least help me get some water?”

“As long as you're aware that I will knock your ass out if you try anything.” Dillan brandished the black kubotan on his key ring. That stick could be used to disastrous effect on someone's pressure points if the wielder knew what they were doing. Dillan did. He'd sort of learned that by experience.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said.

---

Time passes slowly in solitary.

Slow, like a lethargic snail.

A dead, lethargic snail.

Dean rolled on his side, trying to shift into a position that, even with his jacketed arms, would be comfortable enough to let him sleep a bit longer. He hated being bored, so he'd rather be unconscious. He also disliked having his arms bound.

It had been hours and hours, he was sure, and still, no one had come to see him. Dillan had been decent enough to undo his coat (under pain of death, if he tried anything) so he could use the toilet, and then trussed him back up again. He was also pretty hungry.

He sighed, staring at the dark, featureless concrete wall he was facing into, a grim expression on his face. How long were they planning to keep him here? So far, no one had said anything to him about Gordon, so he was supposedly only being kept like this over the cafeteria thing. But it was strange that no one else was. Not to mention, it was total overkill.

He heard keys at the door of his cell and glanced over his shoulder apathetically. The smile that greeted him made him bolt upright - pearly whites framed by a bushy beard.

“Why are you here?!” Dean snapped, his body going rigid as Dr. Walter let himself into the cell. This guy was always bad news. “Dr. Singer is my doctor,” he said, brandishing the information like a shield. Unease trickled through him, though he didn't show it. “Where's he at?”

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the man said pleasantly. “Why must you always be so confrontational?”

Dean bit back several responses he might have made to that.

“I've just come to have a little chat.”

“A chat,” Dean repeated, thinking that if that was all, hell must have frozen over.

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed, sitting on the edge of the bed, uninvited. That smile widened a few more notches and his eyes glittered. “Just a little chat about your brother, Sam.”

“What about him?” Dean growled, knowing he wasn't going to like this. He thought Bobby had said not everyone knew about that, and yet so many people did seem to know.

“We'll get to that,” Dr. Walter said. “But first things first.” He reached into his pocket and produced several syringes.

Dean's eyes widened and he backed up quickly, pressing his back against the wall. “No.” No, not this. Not again. No.

“No?” the doctor repeated quizzically. “But you don't have a choice, Dean. That's what it means to stay here. You are entrusting your well-being and your care to others. To professionals.”

Dean felt a cold sweat break out upon his forehead and his heart was hammering in his chest. “I don't need anything you're pushing.”

Dr. Walter smiled engagingly. “You've had it all before. It's nothing new. Why don't you just cooperate so we can move on to more pleasant things?”

“Screw you.”

“I met Sam today,” the doctor informed him casually. “I can really see the familial resemblance... like how you are both utterly terrified of me.” His smile warmed. “But where you become more... `charming' than normal, Sam folds in an utter panic.”

Dean's eyes narrowed. “Stay the hell away from him.”

“It was quite fascinating to watch. I look forward to working with him in the future.” Walter's eyes were about as human as a crocodile's and his smile was just as wide and dangerous. “Did you know, he appears to have a fear of needles?”

Dean fought to get his arms free of the straight-jacket, his eyes glittering with hate.

“Now, Dean. It's time you played nice. You can either take your medication like a big boy or I can call your brother in to the infirmary for an evaluation. It's your choice, but I'd rather we focus on you at this time.”

“Bastard,” Dean said through clenched teeth.

“I'm sorry, is that a `yes' or a `no'?”

“It's a big, fat GO TO HELL,” Dean said.

“I see. Well then...”

In a flash, Dr. Walter grabbed Dean by the jacket, flipping him on his stomach and onto his bound arms. A firm hand held his head to the mattress sideways, and a knee in his back kept him down. He was strong for a doctor, not to mention unorthodox and probably a classic case for malpractice.

Dean's eye rolled as he spotted one of the syringes being readied in the doctor's free hand and he tried to throw him off.

“I would highly recommend you hold still, now,” Dr. Walter cautioned, knee grinding painfully into his spine. “I would hate to have the needle snap off in your neck. It is a very tricky site for intravascular administration, but the only one available with your arms bound up as they are.”

Dean suffered the feel of the needle sliding into his vein with eyes clenched shut, his breathing shallow. He could almost feel the poison flooding into him, one excruciating milliliter at a time.

The needle burned as it slid back out and soon, another took its place. And another. Three, all told, puncturing him like prehistoric mosquitoes, gentle hands like wings brushing his skin, holding them steady.

Nausea burbled in him as his blood spread the drugs around with every rapid heartbeat, smearing them through his system. He breathed heavily against the mattress, trying to get a handle on it.

“I hope you know,” Walter said as he collected the used syringes and put them into his pocket, “you're one of my favorite patients, Dean.”

“Bite me,” he ground out.

“But,” the doctor continued. “I do have high hopes for Samuel. Such a broken boy, in need of repair.”

“No,” Dean said, voice unsteady. “Leave--” God, his head felt like a fucking windmill. “Leave him alone!”

Dr. Walter leaned down to speak in his ear. “I should get started right away.”

“No!” he yelled.

His shoulder was patted in a patronizing fashion.

“NO, goddamn you!!”

---

Dillan sighed and turned a page of his magazine. Dean sure was losing his shit. Now he was shouting like a freaking banshee.

What could he possibly be getting worked up over in here?

He shook his head, hoping someone decided to get Winchester out of his hair soon.

---

Sam was kept cooped up in his old room, unable to leave, for nearly 2 days. He was locked in. The orderly who put him there informed him that it would be a lot more pleasant than solitary, and that if he didn't like it, he should try not getting into trouble next time.

Bobby visited him once, during the first day and he looked anything but happy.

Sam tried to ask him about Dean, but all he could get out of the psychiatrist was that he might not see him for a while. It wasn't a good enough answer and he'd yelled that at Bobby, and Bobby had yelled right back that information was a privilege, not a right. He'd said that their sense of entitlement and lack of respect for the rules undid any good he could do for the two of them. He seemed really frustrated and disappointed in them.

`I'll talk to you after you've had time to think about what you've done,' he'd said.  

On the morning of the third day, there was a knock at the door. Sam consulted the clock and saw it was time they'd be bringing something to eat for breakfast. “Come in,” he said needlessly. They were the ones with the keys, after all. But it let him talk to someone at least.

Marilene bustled in with a tray. “Good morning, Sunshine. How are we today?”

“Okay,” he said.

“I heard a little something,” she hummed under her breath as she tidied the room.

“What's that?”

“You ought to be getting company soon, but you didn't hear that from me.” She came over and fluffed his pillows with a smile tugging at her lips. “A little birdy told me it might be your old, devilish roommate. He should be getting out of solitary today - he always was a mess after that - and your room is slated to receive double meals starting this afternoon. ”

Solitary?

Sam grabbed her wrist, and she seemed surprised. “Why was he in solitary?!” He hadn't known Dean was being punished - he'd thought they were merely being kept in separate rooms as a sort of slap on the wrist. So that orderly that mentioned solitary, he'd said it because he knew Dean was there and Sam was getting off with nothing. “The fight was practically all my fault!”

“Sammy,” she said quietly, “let go of my arm, honey.”

He did so, feeling confused being talked to like he was 5 and seeing the blonde nurse step back out of range almost pointedly. She rubbed at her wrist like it was hurt. Had he hurt her? Surely he hadn't gripped her wrist that hard. But he felt compelled to apologize. “Sorry, I didn't mean...”

“It's ok,” she said, her voice sort of clipped, though she put on a faint smile. It seemed strained. “I'll be back in 30 minutes to collect your tray.”

---

It was well past mid-morning when Dean was brought into the room. His muscled body was limp and unmoving in the arms of an insanely strong looking orderly who had piercing, pale eyes and curly dark hair pulled into a low ponytail.

The orderly dumped him on the other bed like a sack of potatoes.

“Enjoy,” he said in his deep voice, closing and locking the door behind him.

Sam scrambled to his brother's side. For a minute, he worried that Dean was unconscious or worse. “Dean, Dean,” he said, shaking him slightly.

“Quiet,” Dean whispered hoarsely, not opening his eyes. Sam noticed he had a small cloud of red pinpricks on the side of his neck.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, lowering his voice.

“Sure,” was the unconvincing answer. After a few moments of shallow breathing, he asked, “They medicate you?”

“No.”

“Good,” Dean said, then passed out.

---

Sam was occupying himself with a newspaper he'd begged off of a reluctant Bobby later that afternoon when a soft groan caught his attention. He glanced over at his brother's bed and saw signs of life.

Dean struggled to sit up, looking like he felt ill, and said in a scratchy voice, “What time is it? It's dark outside.”

“About 10 p.m.” Sam replied. “You hungry? I saved you something off of the dinner and lunch trays.”

Dean's eyes were a little bloodshot as they looked his way, making the green stand out so much it almost looked like his eyes were glowing. There was also a shadow of stubble upon his normally clean-shaven face. “What've you got?”

“Crackers from the soup at dinner, and a fruit cup from lunch.” He noticed Dean wince when he said `fruit cup' but he wasn't sure why. It was about all he could save that wouldn't have gone bad without refrigeration. Staff hadn't left meal trays for Dean while he'd been out. They probably figured they'd wait until he woke instead of wasting food on him.

“Crackers, I guess. Fruit cups remind me of being in that damn infirmary.”

Ah. Sam got up to get the crackers and handed them over along with a water bottle that had come with one of the meals.

“Thanks, man,” Dean said, taking them both in a shaky grip.

“So...” Sam trailed, taking up residence on the edge of Dean's bed, “what was solitary like?”

Dean opened the water bottle and took a drink before answering. “Sammy,” he said, “your tact knows no bounds.” He shook his head. “It's a hell hole.”

“But what is it like?” Sam persisted, an intense look accompanying the frown on his face. “What was it like?”

Dean looked at his younger brother and thought that even if he could remember much of anything, he probably wouldn't tell him. It was mostly a blur, and anyway, he knew Sam thought it was his fault he was in there in the first place, his fault for really starting the fight. “It's about as fun as you would expect. Don't worry about it.”

He bit into a cracker and wondered vaguely if he'd be able to keep it down. He wasn't sure when the last time he'd eaten was, but he felt weak like it had been a while. He decided to change the subject. “So, what's been happening while I've been gone?”

“Not a whole lot. This,” Sam gestured to the room, “is about it.”

Dean slowly chewed the bit of cracker, looking around the boring, sterile whiteness of the room. “Scintillating,” he said blandly.

“Excuse me?” Sam laughed a little with surprise.

“What?” Dean looked at him. “I didn't go to college, so I'm not allowed to know stuff?” Challenge shaded his eyes.

Sam knew that look. That mildly defensive, warning look. “No, that's not...” he said, shaking his head ruefully. He was trying to keep a straight face and tread lightly, really he was. “It's just - well, where did you even learn a word like that? You don't strike me as a reader, Dean.”

“Crossword puzzles,” Dean responded with an affirming nod and raised brows, green eyes daring him to say anything.

Sam held up his hands in defense, another laugh trying to weasel its way out of him. “Okay, I can dig that,” he coughed. “Just a way to pass some time.”

“Oh, shut up. You obviously haven't been here long enough.” He leaned his head back on the pillows, far enough that he could look at the ceiling. “Just try and find something worth reading in that so-called library of theirs.”

“I would, but I haven't exactly had the freedom to explore the place.”

“Waste of time,” Dean assured him.

“Will you take me there sometime?”

“To the library?” Dean gave him a disbelieving look. “What for? Bobby's been spoiling you rotten with finding you decent stuff to read. Unless, of course....” Dean continued, sizing him up with a raised eyebrow, “you've been harboring a habit for tasteless chick romance novels. If so, bro, you'll be in absolute heaven.”

“So you've read them?” Sam countered.

“No,” Dean denied. “Why would I read trash like that?”

“Then how do you know they're tasteless?”

“What are you, the connoisseur of crap reading? Of course they're awful, they're all awful, by the very definition of the category `romance novel'. But if you feel compelled to catalog the levels and nuances of `shit', then be my guest.”

Sam sat there, giving him a reserved, amused smile and said nothing.

“What??” Dean said with irritation.

“You've totally read them or you wouldn't be so defensive,” Sam said smugly.

Dean gave him a stony look, trying to intimidate him into backing down. Sam just looked back, the smugness in his dark grey eyes increasing. Dean gave up, shrugging it off gruffly. “I was bored. Now shut up.”

“By the way,” Sam said, allowing him to regain some dignity by changing the subject, “Bobby said he'd be by tomorrow so he could give you a piece of his mind.”

“Ugh,” Dean sighed. “He had to wait till I was awake for that?”

“For some reason he's under the impression that you'll listen better that way.”

“Shows what he knows,” Dean said, tilting his head from side to side to stretch his neck. He brought his hand up to massage his left shoulder, and then his right. He felt stiff all over. Not to mention the state of his head, or the hunger-nausea, or any number of little things he felt plaguing him at the moment. He also couldn't decide if he felt tired or rested.

“Your back bothering you?” Sam asked, giving him one of those concerned looks that also seemed to radiate, Are you okay? How are you feeling? as easily as if he spoke it.

“What isn't?” he muttered. Between the meds and the self-hug jacket, not to mention the abysmal room he'd had the luxury of the past few days, he was in rough shape. He probably looked about as good as he felt. No wonder Sam was worried. It was kind of weird though, this was the first time someone was with him after one of these little vacations, especially someone who cared. He usually just suffered through them, recuperated, then put them right out of his mind, but Sam was making him think they might be even worse than he'd thought.

Sam moved further to the side of the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Here, sit up. I can work the knots out for you.”

“I'm fine,” Dean said, continuing to rub at his shoulder. “You don't have to.” He had a feeling Sam was feeling obligated. He shouldn't.

Sam gave him an annoyed look. “I know. But I want to do something. After all, it's my fault you-”

“Sam,” Dean warned, holding up a hand. “Don't you dare spout some crap to me about everything being your fault. Just don't.”

“But-”

“Neither of us started it,” he said harshly, looking aside. “They did. They threw first punches and everything. So just drop it, okay?”

He glanced at Sam covertly, just to see how his order was being taken, and saw that his jaw was starting to set in a stubborn fashion. There was also a trace of that angry pout about his lips.

Dean realized he was staring at them when Sam started speaking, lips forming words, and he found himself nodding in agreement, having absolutely no idea what was being said. “What?”

“I said, move, so I can get at your back. I can't massage it from the front.”

Massage from the front. Dean's mind supplied some wonderful scenarios to that, none of which he'd be allowing himself to think about. Especially not with Sam right there. He could only hope the torrent of lewd thoughts milling about in his head were confined there and were not evident on his face. He sat up and slid forward, as asked, turning his back to Sam and wondering if a massage was really such a good idea.

Try as he might, he was still not doing a very good job of seeing Sam as merely his little brother. At all. But it was imperative that he do so.

Firm hands slid over his shoulders, thumbs rolling into the tenseness of muscle and Dean felt his belly tighten in response. Sam's hands kneaded his shoulders and back unrelentingly, forcing a sigh from his lips as the pressure and strength of them created a sweet sort of pain that he was just melting into. God, that feels good. Tension was slipping from him in waves. When was the last time he'd had a massage? Nothing came to mind.

The only problem with this was that he was that the more relaxed he became, the more aware he was that it was Sam's hands smoothing down his arms, over his shoulders and all the way up his spine. Sam's hands that were so gentle on his neck, rubbing light circles, and soothing with the trail of fingertips. Dean's eyes drifted closed as they slid higher, ruffling his hair as they massaged lightly over his skull. He found himself reminded of the way Sam's hands had felt in his hair as he'd kissed him, how erotic that had been, and how perfect, as Sam's mouth had grazed and joined with his.

This was probably a bad idea. His imagination was getting the better of him with fuel like this - the feel of Sam so close to him. Desire was a razor-blade that was sharpening itself with every movement of those hands upon his body.

He could feel pleasure beating through him languidly, pulsing. Hungry but patient, for the moment.

“Better?” Sam murmured.

Dean felt his head spin a little at the voice in his ear, lust rising like the shifting swell of a wave, then easing back again as it danced with reason. “Yeah,” he said, knowing his voice sounded too deep.

He laid down on his side, without looking at Sam, keeping his back turned, and tried to soothe the beast in him. It wanted Sam, and Sam was about the last person in the world that it should ever have.

The bed shifted as Sam got up and he heard the light click off. He breathed a sigh of relief, no longer having to worry about the expressions on his face. He could probably sleep this off. No way he was getting caught taking care of himself.

Again the bed shifted under Sam's weight and Dean realized with a start that Sam was going to stay with him.

“Hey,” he said in what he hoped was a drowsy sounding voice. “What're you doing?”

“Keeping you company,” was the softly husky reply. “You were by yourself for days.”

“Mmn.” Dean jammed his hands under his pillow and pretended to settle more comfortably onto his side, curling up a bit. He was so wide awake right now, it wasn't even funny. “Bed's kinda small, dontcha think?” He could feel the heat of Sam's side against his back.

“Guess so.” He felt Sam shift and then was aware of the full length of his body aligned with his own. Legs brushed his, a thigh resting just below his ass, and Sam's head was tipped against his back. “...but maybe I kinda wanted company, too.”

Dean bit his lip; he was fighting so hard with himself right now.

Goddamnit, what was Sam trying to do to him? Why did he have to be so damn innocent? The urge to roll over and pull Sam's mouth to his, to hike a leg up between his and feel the press of his body was brutal.

They weren't kids anymore. Sam couldn't just climb into his bed like he used to, looking for comfort. He couldn't just fall asleep safe and sound. Things were different now. He was different.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You mind if I stay here?”

“Nah.” Dean didn't have the heart to tell him. Didn't have the heart to explain just how different and messed up things had actually become. Nostalgia for the old days was sharp and bitter within him. How much easier it had been back then, back when they were kids and their dad expected him to put Sammy firmly at the center of his universe and protect him from everything that went bump in the night.

But now they were older, and no one was telling him to do that anymore.

Sam was his whole world, but he was no longer supposed to be.

---
TBC

A/N: Chapter title from the below song. (Picked pertaining to Doc Walter and also Miles, the two less-than-gentle gents from this installment, but also for mood. The frantic-ness of it makes me think of the medication scene in solitary.)

This is one of those mostly instrumental tracks, but it is so good and has some parts that I just think are amazing with how they build on each other, swell, and create such a frantic pace at times, even as there is an ethereal thread haunting it in the background. There were no `lyrics' posted online, so I tried my hand at capturing the song. My favorite part aside from the vocal harmonies they do in this, is the instrumental bit near the end - before the part where I note a music `break'. Ah, so good.

Infected Mushroom - “Vicious Delicious”

[music, gritty, beats, building]

BOOM
(ahhhahhh)
ba-BOOM
(eyYEAahhh)

BOOM
(aahhAAaahh AAahhh)
(OoooOooh)
ba-BOOM
(eyYEAahhh)

BOOM
(ahhhahhh)
ba-BOOM
(eyYEAahhh)

BOOM
(aahhAAaahh AAahhh)
ba-BOOM
(eyYEAahhh)

[music, voice distortions, beats, building]

BOOM
ka-BOOM
[x4]

[music, swelling, frantic]

[music -break-]

[calmer instrumental]

laaaaEeeeAhhhh

laaaaEeeeAhhhhaaaa

laaaaEeeeAhhhhAaaaaaaah

laaaaEEeeeeeAhhhhhhhhAaaaaaaahh