Shifting Sands

by Nomelon

Setting: Mild spoilers for season 2. Nothing too specific.
Disclaimer: all belongs to CW & Kripke. No money is being made, yadda yadda.
Rating: R
Characters: Sam/Dean
Summary: The boys on the beach with the angst.
Author's notes: It appears that I'm rapidly developing an uncontrollable weakness for comment fic, but this one took on a life of its own.

britomart_is: They need to start putting that boy in fewer layers.
nomelon: Oh... they so need to do an episode on the beach. Shorts and lotion and tans and bare feet. Dean's total and complete inability to surf. Sam's hands rubbing on lotion. *droooool*
britomart_is: I LIKE this beach idea. Now, uh ... who exactly is Sam rubbing this lotion on? And where is he rubbing it?

And I began to think, hmmm...

~~~

They pull into town around nine, the Impala running on fumes, and it's everything Dean was hoping it wouldn't be. A kitchy little beach town, Seahaven or Shorehaven, and Dean's damned if he can remember which, because he gets it wrong every single time. It's all ice cream parlours and rinky-dink souvenir stores and sand blowing up into cute little drifts on the sidewalk and even an honest-to-god wooden boardwalk. Old school Americana, the type Dean wasn't sure they even made anymore. Happy families, holiday homes, and a thriving tourist industry merrily hoovering off the disposable income of vacationing out-of-towners. Dean's convinced there's a water sprite, or some kind of aquatic demon, or evil mermaids, or some godforsaken thing in this town that needs itself a good hunting. He's been piecing together newspaper articles for a while now. Too many stories about too many suspicious deaths over too many years for it to be coincidence. The victims have all been men, all young, from their teens to early thirties, mostly surfers or fishermen, people who were used to the sea, people who should have known better. Most of them were strong swimmers or seasoned sailors. All drowned in calm waters, within sight of land. All showing signs of hypothermia, even in the middle of summer. Enough that it adds up. Enough that Dean's more than convinced that it's their kind of gig.

He's kind of hoping for a ghost ship teeming with pirates, just because that would be cool and he's always wanted to have a sword fight, and has told Sam as much, but he knows that he's probably just watched too many movies. Whatever it turns out to be, it's another case, and god knows he and Sam could do with losing themselves in the immediacy of a hunt right about now.

It's out of season, so they're able to get themselves a rickety little beach hut, all warped wood and peeling paint, with a back door that opens out right onto the beach. They don't talk much, just about the case, who's taking first shower, who's going across the street to fetch dinner. Things have been awkward for a while now. Not that they show it in word or deed. Not so much that anyone on the outside looking in would be able to tell. But it's there. A constant vibration running back and forth between the Winchester boys. Ever since that innocuous-looking little talisman three states back and two jobs ago. Dean doesn't want to think about it. He keeps his expression carefully neutral as he sprawls out on one of the beds and snags the remote. He watches TV with grim concentration as he chews his way through a couple of packs of turkey jerky and sinks a six pack, leaving Sam to a little research on the laptop. Dean hits the hay good and early. Sleep is good. Sleep is respite. Sleep is... not forthcoming. He turns his head to the wall and listens to the sound of sporadic typing on the laptop. It's later, a couple of hours maybe, when he finally hears Sam shut it off and move around the room a little, getting ready for bed. The inside of Dean's eyelids turns from red to black at the flick of a switch, and there's the squeak of ancient mattress springs as Sam settles in for the night, miles separating them across the darkened room.

Dean keeps his muscles carefully lax. Sam isn't asleep either, Dean would bet his favourite hunting knife on it. He knows Sam, knows that big brain of his is still running hot, ticking over like the Impala's engine at the end of a long ride.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice is pitched low. Dean doesn't answer. He tries not to over-analyse all the things that he could have heard in that one single little question. Sam doesn't speak again. He tosses and turns for a while before his breathing settles in, and Dean finally exhales.

Next morning, they start out early. Out of the half a dozen deaths in the last couple of years, only three of the victims still have family in town. As far as the families are concerned the drownings were unfortunate accidents. They're as helpful as they can be, seeing as Dean and Sam are on a fact-finding mission to put together some new pro-safety literature for the Coast Guard's office, but there isn't much to tell. Their sons, brothers, husbands loved the sea. They lived by it, and died by it. End of story. So sorry we couldn't be of more help.

There's not much else to go on, no pattern other than the similarities they've already identified, so between them, Dean and Sam decide to infiltrate the local beach bum contingent. The day had started out hot, and just keeps on picking up the pace heading towards lunch. It's only mid-morning by the time they've had more than enough of sweating under too many layers and getting sand in their boots. It's a testament to Dean's discomfort that when Sam suggests they go pick up some beachwear, he doesn't even have to point out that it'll help them blend in before Dean is grudgingly agreeing. So Sam goes shopping and uses one of their three remaining credit cards to do it. Dean half-heartedly hits on the pretty waitress in the juice bar across the street, giving himself an ice cream headache sucking on an oversize blue Slurpee, until Sam comes back with the supplies.

They reappear out of the little beach hut they've rented wearing brand new multi-coloured shorts and flip flops, pale as milk and blinking in the bright sunshine. Air conditioning nothing more a distant dream behind them, the heat hits Dean like a slap to the chest, and he squints, the lines around his eyes crinkling deep.

"Man, I'm just not cut out for this kind of heat."

Sam glances over, already basking, damn him, and grins as he looks Dean up and down. "Why? You worried your freckles are going to join up?"

For a second, Dean really, really hates his life. When they were kids it was the same thing. Sam was always the one who turned golden brown in the summer, just like Dad, while Dean was the one who got fried bright pink, peeled like an orange, and ended up with a billion new freckles on every inch of exposed skin. Every. Goddamn. Year. Then he realises Sam's smiling at him, open and teasing, the first real smile he's worn in days, weeks maybe, and suddenly a couple of extra freckles don't seem like such a chore. Sam blinks a couple of times under Dean's scrutiny, and his expression doesn't change, but it's like a shutter goes down -- all the ease has gone out of it. He looks away, out over the sand, watching all the people with little more to worry about than their tans or catching the next wave. Dean sees Sam like this and it summons up the sense memory of being kids together, just being goofy, being kids, being brothers. Making the best of their strange lives because they didn't know any different. Sam always watched the people on the outside. The families in the station wagons, the dads with kids on their shoulders, moms who sat watchful along the benches that lined playgrounds, quick to scold squabbling children, or offer comfort to a grazed knee, always chasing it up with a smile. The people who were happy with normal. Happy with it because they didn't know how the world really worked.

Where Sam saw the world with a child's single-minded fixation, saw the galaxies of things he could never have, Dean was always facing inwards, much more concerned with his own insular little solar system of three.

Driving through the night, curled around each other in the backseat of the Impala. Spending a couple of months, maybe half a year if they were lucky, in some nameless town before it was time to move on. Tossing around a football in their yard if they had one or playing a little catch in the street if they didn't. Learning to fight, learning to shoot, learning when to run and when to stand tall. Always together. Sam always shadowing Dean. Dean always looking out for his little brother, because Dean knew what happened when you let your guard down. He remembered smoke and flames and the shock-jolt-terror of their Dad yelling at him, trusting him with little Sammy in his arms, even if Sam didn't. Back when it was always Dean and Sam. Sam and Dean.

All this in that distant hazy time before going hunting with Dad became standard. Before wordless, wrenching goodbyes and Stanford and going hunting without Dad and those long months when Dean was truly alone for the very first time in his life. Before reunions that went up in flames and Sam's freaky voyage of self-discovery. Before Yellow-Eyed Demons were even specks on their horizon. Back when Dean knew that so long as he had Sam with him, there was one good thing in this world that he hadn't completely screwed up. There was one good thing that was his.

He just hopes like hell that's still true.

They slide on their sunglasses and gamely go to work. Sam gets chatting to a young slip of a hot thing in a white string bikini that's almost startling against her tanned skin, while Dean is getting nowhere fast talking to a sun-bronzed surfer with white-blond dreadlocks, who's stoned out of his gourd and more interested in selling Dean a second-hand board than talking about anybody who may or may not have drowned nearby. Makes sense. Who wants to talk about drowning victims when your livelihood is the ocean? Bad for business.

So Dean buys himself an ice-cold coke and waits it out. With one eye, he watches Sam work. If you could call it work.

Bikini girl asks Sam what he's doing in town and he gives her the agreed story about a second cousin of his (one Jacob Spencer, chosen because he had no family in town, so there was no one to get suspicious at two brand new members of the family showing up, and because the guy was a surfer so more likely to have known people on the beach) who drowned a few months back and Sam's come to pay his respects.

"Oh, yeah. I knew him. I mean, not personally. He was around a little, you know? Nice guy."

Dean sips at his coke, ostensibly watching the waves as she makes the appropriate sympathetic noises and tells Sam that she had a friend drown here a few years back as well and, yes, I know, it's so sad how these things happen. Sam was always so good at getting people to trust him right off the bat. Dean can't help his faint little smile. He knows he doesn't always have the patience for it. He knows he's screwed up more than one hunt in the past, or at least made it a hell of a lot harder for himself, simply because his people skills aren't something he can turn on and off at the flick of a switch. Unless, he amends, there's a real pretty girl in his sights. That's different, and totally worth the extra effort.

Sam asks why people still come here after all the deaths and she smiles crookedly.

"They don't exactly advertise it in the brochures."

"No, but... so many people still come," Sam says. "There aren't even warning signs on the beach."

"Because it's beautiful," she says, like this is more than reason enough. "Look around you." Her expansive gesture covers the whole beach. "Because the surf's good. Because people have short memories and because you can't win against nature."

"So you think it was natural?"

"The way they died?" She frowns up at him. "Sure. They drowned. Probably got caught in the riptide. It's sad, but that's life." She looks at him a little sadly, a little uncomfortable, and holds up a tube of sun cream before the moment stretches on too long. Dean smirks, seeing the set up before the words are out of her mouth and knows that Sam probably hasn't got the first clue. "You want to give me a hand?" she asks, batting her eyes a little for good measure. "Those hard-to-reach spots are a bitch."

Sam flusters a little, glances up and catches Dean's eye over her shoulder. Quick as a flash, Dean grins and gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up. Sam doesn't move, so Dean gestures for him to get a damn move on. Opportunities like this don't come along every day. Make the most of it. Sam is... well, Sam, and all hesitant smiles and polite little gestures, but hey, cute girl in a teeny tiny bikini, so he does what he's told, maybe, Dean thinks, justifying it by putting it down to playing a part to get information, like he should even need a reason, as Dean watches from afar. She gathers her hair out of the way and offers him her back. Dean knows he shouldn't just be standing there watching, but it's a little hypnotic, Sam's hands moving carefully over her skin. And, yeah, the trio of girls watching them from ten feet away, giggling behind their hands isn't exactly hard on the eyes either. Sam's hand practically spans the width of her back, making her look even tinier than she already is. His fingers slip under the knotted string across her back and Dean can see her face, but Sam can't, so it's Dean who sees her delighted little smile and the way she glances up at her friends, just to make sure they've seen it too.

The friends grin in return, but they're distracted, yelling for her and already picking up their boards, running for the sea. Bikini girl looks torn for a second, but takes off running, tossing back a blinding grin and a quick thank you over her shoulder as she grabs her board and disappears, leaving Sam with his hands covered in lotion. So when Dean saunters over to watch the surfers rush into the water to hoping to catch that perfect wave, and mock Sam for being as useless as usual with women, he's not expecting Sam to rub the lotion off on his shoulders. Dean chokes on his coke and tries to bat Sam's hands away, but Sam perseveres.

"It's for your own good. You're looking mighty pink."

"Sammy, shut up."

The big hands on his shoulders stop moving for a moment and just rest there, a reassuring pressure. "Dude. Seriously. You'll peel off an entire layer of skin and then you'll be one giant freckle."

Dean grumbles, but Sam raises a valid point. So he gives in; stands there with his head lowered and lets Sam get on with it. Sam kneads the muscle of Dean's shoulders, and for a minute Dean expects a joke, an easy comment about how tense Dean is, but there's only warm hands and a thumb pressing into the sweet spot right at the base of his neck that makes Dean want to arch into it. The warm brush of careful hands on hot skin. Sam's silent, diligent concentration. Breath on the back of Dean's neck. Sam finishes it off by running his hands down Dean's arms to his wrists and just holding on for a second. Dean shrugs him off and bats his hands away, so Sam just smiles, still with that seriousness around his eyes, and lifts Dean's sunglasses to swipe the last of the lotion over his nose and cheeks. Dean scowls and snatches his shades back, muttering about the freakish size of Sam's hands. He watches Sam grin at him, white teeth framed by dimples striking against skin that's already turning brown.

Dean hands Sam his coke and Sam raises it to his lips. He only looks away from Dean to tip his head back to get the last of the coke. They stand hip to hip and watch the distant surfers bobbing on the water.

Bikini girl comes back to Sam in a little while, dripping with water and buzzing with the joy of a good wave successfully surfed. She glances at Dean without acknowledging him, and it burns a little because Dean knows that although her eyes sparked with interest, he's just been appraised and dismissed. Chick must have a thing about freakishly tall guys or something. She tells Sam that one of Jacob's friends is around if Sam wants to talk to him. Dean lets him handle it. Figures maybe he'll do better without Dean there to shadow him, so he hangs back. Wonders if maybe they can get a little lunch after this. That diner across the street looks pretty good and they seem pretty lax about their "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy. He watches Sam walk, watches him talk to people, sees that he's grown up strong, which Dean knew anyway, but there's something about watching him in the sunshine, chatting with these people who he has more in common with than Dean can ever hope to figure out, and it catches in Dean's throat, swells his chest.

They go to the diner and get a table in the corner with a good view of the beach. Sunlight slants in across their table, warming a slice across each of Dean's forearms.

"So. What have we got?" Dean asks while he waits impatiently for their waitress to bring him his cheesesteak sandwich and home fries. Sam, the girl, has ordered a tuna melt and a green salad, claiming it was too hot to eat anything heavy. Dean knows from past experience that he'll eat the tuna and the melt and leave the bread behind, then probably start in on stealing Dean's fries, so Dean's planning on eating them first. The whole 'too hot to eat anything heavy' baloney just goes against everything Dean knows to be true about food. Hot weather or not, there's just no bad time for a cheesesteak sandwich. Or pie. There's always time for pie.

"Not much," Sam says with a sigh. "These people knew the sea. I mean, accidents happen, but it just seems a little weird, y'know?"

"So you think maybe something took them?"

"I don't know. A spirit maybe. They weren't maimed. No sign of attack. They just drowned. It's the hypothermia thing that doesn't fit."

Sam's toying with his glass of iced water, moving it around on the circle of condensation on the tabletop.

"Dean..."

Dean watches him, glancing from Sam's hands to his face and back again.

"Dean," Sam says again, but doesn't seem to be anywhere closer to finding the rest of his sentence.

"Sam," Dean says, injecting it with a little encouragement of the 'hurry up and spit it out already' variety, but inside his heart lurches and picks up the pace. The diner noises around them seem suddenly loud in his ears, the murmur of conversation, the hiss of the grill, the clatter of plates and clink of cutlery. If this is what he thinks it is, he can't have this conversation here. He doesn't know if he's ready. He doesn't think he'll ever be ready for this. He grabs a straw from the dispenser on their table and tears the end off the wrapper, just to give him something to do with his hands.

"Dean," Sam says again, and looks up real quick to give Dean a little smile, then goes back to his glass. "That girl was pretty hot, huh? You know her name is Sandy?"

Dean laughs and it feels good to just go with it. He waits 'til Sam looks up again and blows the straw wrapper across the table at him. Sam chuckles and flicks water at him. This is good. This is how it should be.

When their food comes, Dean lets Sam eat half of his fries and doesn't say a word about it.

They go back to their room after they've eaten and Dean cranks up the air conditioning and lies on his bed just soaking up the cool while Sam works his Google-fu.

"Look at this, man," he says after a while, just when Dean is dozing off. "I didn't see it at first because these two don't match the pattern."

Dean blinks a couple of times and stretches out his shoulders, taking the sheet of paper Sam is holding out to him. "What? You think these two were just regular drownings?"

Sam shrugs. "Could be. Law of averages. But the rest..." He grabs his phone and makes some calls. Good old Police Chief Phil Jones has a vested interest in the drownings and a wicked phone manner so soon Sam has a page full of notes. When he hangs up on the last call, Dean knows from the look on his face that he's got something.

"Time of death."

"What about it?" Dean asks.

"Hard to pinpoint it with bodies that have been in the water for a while, but their best guess is in and around evening time."

"Yeah? So?"

Sam widens his eyes. "Evening time? Sunset?"

The penny drops and Dean gets it. "You thinking Siren?"

"I'm thinking Siren."

"Of course," Dean says, going for their dad's journal. "Dude, that makes perfect sense. They way they died. And all the people that come here. They're drawn here." He shakes his head, annoyed that he hadn't thought of this already. "We're seriously retarded."

Sam tips his head. "At least half of us is."

"Shuddup. It's the heat. I can't think when I'm this hot." He pauses, rethinks this, and lets out a little "heh". "I'm surprised I can ever think."

Sam lets out a long, even sigh, conveying admirably how deluded he thinks Dean is.

Dean grins and goes back to the journal, reading over the half a page of sparse notes on Sirens, written in their dad's familiar scrawl. "There's no telling when they show up," he says after a minute, tapping the page. "We'll have to summon her."

"How do we do that?"

"I have no freakin' idea and neither did Dad. But I'm sure it's going to involve reading lots of musty old books to find out."

"There's a university next town over. We could check out their library."

"Okay," Dean sighs, ready for action, even if it's the boring ass library kind of action. "And if that doesn't work, we'll have to find out who she is and why she's haunting this particular stretch of coast. Let's go."

"It's Sunday."

"Oh," Dean says. "Right. Let's go tomorrow."

Sam's lips twitch. "So we, uh, can just hang out on the beach all afternoon?"

"Yes," Dean says, with an indulgent little roll of his eyes. "And you can go find Sandy and see if you can't get her out of that bikini," he says, throwing in a leer for good measure.

"Yeah," Sam says, like the idea hadn't occurred to him. "Yeah," he says again, more decisively, and stands up. "Sounds good."

He starts powering down the laptop and shuffling his notes around in preparation to leave, and Dean watches him do it, already lamenting the loss of the air con.

They go back to the beach, wandering a little further along until they find a little bar perched on right the edge of the sand, tables set up outside. Deciding that he's had enough sun for one day, Dean sits at a little table under the shade of a huge beach umbrella, sipping on a Corona that comes with one of those foam holders to keep it cold. Sam's in the water, having told Dean that he's going to swim out to the nearest buoy and back again. Dean keeps him in sight, not losing track of that dark head cutting through the water. Sandy's not around, but Sam hasn't mentioned her, so maybe he's not all that bothered after all. Dean's all for Sam getting his rocks off, but it's Sam who seems less than enamoured with the women that Dean pushes him at from time to time. Dean gets it. He does. Sam's track record with women and the subsequent tragedies he's suffered through would be enough to put anyone off the fairer sex, but come on. Everybody's got to get laid once in a while. It's only natural.

Sam comes back to the table, wearing a breathless smile and dripping water all over Dean. He steals a slug of the Corona and sits down, pushing wet hair back out of his face.

"I can hardly see you under here," he says, squinting. "I'm blind from the sun." Dean immediately sticks his tongue out and Sam laughs and smacks him upside the head. "Jackass. I'm not that blind."

They hang out for a while; sipping beers and watching the world go by. The sun slips slowly across the sky and is thinking about setting by the time they're ready to move. The little bar is closing up anyway, and the last of the crowds are trailing off the beach, on their way home, but the evening is still warm so Sam offers to go and get some more beers to take back with them. Dean readily agrees and so Sam darts across the main strip and disappears into the little town while Dean waits on the beach, enjoying the peace and quiet of the empty beach after the bustle of the day.

It's getting cooler. He thinks maybe he can breathe again.

He's been standing there, lost in his own thoughts and watching the sun sink into the sea, spreading red and gold and rich orange all across the sky, when he realises that he's not entirely alone on the sand. There's a girl a little way off, just standing looking out at the waves, a surfboard tucked under one arm. She's wearing a black bikini, and long, thick hair falls to halfway down her back. She's so incredibly beautiful that Dean's stomach clenches suddenly with want. She feels his eyes on her, looks up and smiles at him, but Dean can't help think that she looks sad. He smiles back, ducking his head a little against the cooler breeze that's started to come in from the ocean.

"Hey," he says, with his most charming smile. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

She looks back out over the water by way of reply, her faraway little smile testament to how much she agrees.

"I'm Dean," he says, ambling over. "Just arrived in town today. You local?"

"I'm from near here," she says. "You surf?"

"Me? Nah. I'm from Kansas," he says with a little grin, surprised at how the truth just rolls off his tongue. "We don't get much in the way of surf there."

Dean can't help but feel a little dorky because she's not biting. She just standing there, humming a little, entranced by the waves, and the sound blends with the constant rush and churn of the water, weaves with it, until the two run together. The wind is still picking up and the waves look rougher and it occurs to Dean that maybe solitary night-surfing isn't exactly the best idea on the planet.

"Hey. You really think you should be going out there alone?"

She glances at him before starting to walk towards the ocean. "I'll be fine," she says, over her shoulder. "I do this all the time." She stops. Stands there for a moment. "Do you want to come with me?"

Dean takes a couple of steps towards her before he even realises that he's moving. He stops, shakes his head to clear it. "No. No, I... I just... I mean, my brother. He'll be..."

"Come with me, Dean," she says, walking towards the waves again.

"Wait," he calls, his arm outstretched. "I don't think you should go in."

She does anyway, with little or no regard to what he's saying, and he follows, can't seem to help himself. The water is icy cold around his ankles, rising quickly to his calves, knees, thighs with every step. Jesus Christ, it's cold, how the hell Sam managed to swim in this shit is completely beyond him. He's chest deep in freezing water when a waves knocks him off his feet and he goes under, struggling and spluttering before he finds his feet again. This seems like a pretty stupid idea, but he can't not follow her. She might be in trouble. She might need him.

She's a little way out from him, sitting on her board, waiting for him. Dean takes another couple of steps, but she floats away, always a little further out, always just out of his grasp.

He looks back at the beach and sees Sam coming, only recognising him in the dark because of those stupid day-glo shorts. Sam's got a brown paper bag in his hand, looking around for Dean. He sees Dean in the water and drops the bag in the sand. Dean sees him coming and calls out weakly, shivering with cold and choking on seawater. Sam starts sprinting down the beach, but skids to a halt when he sees the girl sitting on her board in the waves, waiting for Dean. Sam yells his name. He sounds angry, terrified even. More than a little frantic. Dean calls his name again, wants to go back, but he can't. The girl. She's... She needs him.

Sam raises his hand in the air, trying to say... what? Wait? Stop? Hold on? Goodbye? Dean isn't sure. With a pained look on his face, Sam takes off running in the other direction. Dean watches him go, tries to call his name again, but his teeth are chattering and his strength is gone.

The girl sitting on her board in the waves calls Dean's name and he has to go to her. He can't remember telling her his name, but she's so pretty, and he's hurting but she shouldn't be out there alone. She needs him.

Crystals of ice form in the water around him, sucking the air from his lungs, burning skin that's been toasted by the sun all day long.

"Dean..." she whispers, her voice rising with the swell then fraying against the breaking waves, half lost in the sea breeze. "Dean, come to me. Save me. I need you. I need you, Dean."

She leans forward on her board, reaching out her hand to him, and she's so close. So close. Dean reaches for her, takes another step, and his toes leave the bottom. The girl smiles, wide and welcoming and she doesn't look sad anymore. She spreads her arms wide like she's looking for a hug, like she's welcoming him home, and Dean has to get to her. He struggles against the swell. Just a couple more feet. That's all he needs. A wave closes over his head and he's lost for a minute, blind and deaf and alone and it's awful. He's so tired. But he can't stop now. Can't...

Arms close around his waist and something's pulling him. Dean wonders if it's her, if she's found him, but as he gets his head back above water and his feet hit the ocean floor, he blinks water out of his eyes, coughs it out of his mouth, and it's Sam. Sam is there. Sam is pulling him back to shore.

But that means... "No! Sammy, no." Dean starts to struggle in his arms, and they fall in the breaking waves, Dean going to his hands and knees. He's already trying to get back up, trying to get back in the water. He can't see her. There's only the churning black water. She could be gone. She could be in trouble. Dean can't let that happen. "She needs... I have to..."

"Dean. Dean!" Sam's big hands are on his face, grounding him, keeping him there. "Dean, look at me, man. She's the Siren. Come on, stay with me."

Dean's caught in his eyes, trapped by all that concern. This doesn't make any sense. She wasn't... She wouldn't... But Sam wouldn't lie to him, right?

Sam drags him out of the water, half carries him further up the beach. Out of the water, Dean's body suddenly weighs several tonnes, and he stumbles again, ends up face first on the sand, his body curled in on itself, bowed with the awful clench of his muscles.

"S-s-stupid. S-s-shouldn't have..."

Sam's shaking his head, pulling Dean to his feet. "It's okay. You're with me now. Don't worry. They get inside your head. You couldn't have known."

"Should've. Should've kn-known." It actually hurts to try and talk, it's too hard to push the words out from behind his clenched jaw, so Dean puts all his pitiful energy into just trying to keep up with Sam. For one horrible moment, he thinks that Sam is going to pick him up and bodily carry him, but he manages to make it back to their room on his own two feet. Sam gets the lights on and kicks the door shut behind them all without letting go of Dean.

"How d-did you... How d-did..."

"Hold on," Sam says, and pulls a pair of earplugs from his ears. "What?"

"How d-did you..."

"How did I know?" Sam asks, walking Dean to the bathroom with an arm around his waist. "Because you're not big on the night-swimming?"

Dean knows there's more to it, so he waits Sam out. Besides which, that whole trying to talk thing? Still sucks.

"Because didn't come back when I yelled to you," Sam says.

"That's... all?"

Sam gives a little shrug. "You always come for me."

"Not a... freakin' Labrador."

Sam grins. 'More like a Bulldog."

"B-bitch."

Sam grabs a towel and turns on the heat in room even though he's already sweating.

"How did you..."

"The earplugs? Drug store on the corner. I stole them."

"S-s-stole them?"

"Didn't really have time to stand in line." Sam shrugs. "I owe them two thirty-nine."

"F-ferris Bueller, you're my h-hero."

"Shut up, you incredible dork."

Dean grins, but it doesn't last long, because this? Is a serious amount of not fun in the slightest. He stumbles over to the shower, trying to slide the door open, but his hands are numb claws and nothing's working like it should.

"No. Dean. You gotta warm up slow. From the inside."

Sam rubs over Dean's skin, brushes sand off him, which is good, but it's pretty jarring, and actually kind of hurts.

"I'm o-okay," Dean says, trying to stop him. "Go b-back. You should go b-back and finish... finish her."

"No way, man. We'll take care of it tomorrow."

"Sam. Sh-she's out there. She could be... fucking... luring someone... someone else to their death r-right this second."

"I'm not going anywhere. We'll take care of it tomorrow. Together."

"Sam--"

"Dean. I'm not going. Not tonight. Okay?"

Dean's about to argue, but then he thinks about Sam taking this on alone. Thinks about curling up here alone and frozen and having to wait it out to see if Sam gets back safely. He decides that maybe tomorrow will do. Tomorrow they know what they'll be facing. Tomorrow Sam won't have to go out alone. Besides, he's got a score to settle with that bitch.

"Okay," he says. "Okay." His words dissolve into a fit of coughing.

"You okay?" Sam asks, concerned.

Dean nods. "Hurts," he croaks.

"I know," Sam says, rubbing over Dean's arms and back with the threadbare towel.

"No," Dean says, and leans into him like neither of them have any choice in the matter. "Hurts."

Dean's skin is icy cold against Sam's, and when they touch Sam sucks in a lungful of air.

"Sam. I didn't... didn't mean to..."

"Dean. What?"

Dean's voice is so quiet that he doesn't know if Sam can hear him at first. "I didn't m-mean to tell you."

"Dean?"

"D-delaware. Man. That fucking job in f-fucking Delaware. I didn't mean to... To tell you th-those things."

Delaware. Stupid, boring Delaware and the stupid, awful talisman. The one that piqued Dean's interest. The one that he'd strung around his neck and then resulted in his temporary inability to tell a lie. Or, for that matter, to avoid answering a direct question. A lie by omission is still a lie, or so the story goes.

They'd been working a case when found the talisman -- a simple silver pendant tied to a loop of cord -- in a basement, surrounded by church candles, jars filled with dubious-looking things, all manner of books on demons and magic. Dean had picked it up, held it to the light of his flashlight, and without further thought, he'd put it on. Then discovered that when he tried to take it off, there was a whole new world of excruciating pain waiting for him.

"Dude, what were you thinking?"

"Well I wasn't thinking that this would happen!" Dean had spat. "I was thinking that it would make a nice necklace because I really like jewellery. It makes me feel pretty." His eyes had widened in horror. Sam, the little bastard, had collapsed in laughter.

And things just got worse from there. Research wasn't going well, so they'd given up. Declared the day a total loss, in more ways than one, and decided to get back to it in the morning.

Sam had sat back in his chair, thrown down his pen and laced his fingers behind his head. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"Get laid," Dean had said without thought. "And you know the rule about questions."

Sam had laughed. "But you always want to get laid. How is that any different to usual?"

"Because I've had a boner that won't quit for about an hour and I could go jerk off in the bathroom but you'd be able to hear me, which is fine, but I don't think it's worth all the shit you'd give me about it afterwards."

There was a moment of silence after this little revelation, which Sam had put to good use by being horrified, and Dean had used to clench his teeth and generally try and hold on to the last remaining shreds of his temper.

"Sammy," he said, like he was a man trying to be reasonable, but come on, there were limits. "I want you to start thinking before you speak, okay? No more questions until this goes away."

"Then how'll we... I mean, um, then we won't know if it has gone away."

Dean pouted, thinking this through. "So we test it every so often. You can ask me something like 'what's your name?' or 'how old are you?' and I'll try and lie. Simple. But in the meantime? No more questions. Period. We clear?"

"Crystal."

And that should have been it. Of course, things didn't run smoothly. Sam slipped up from time to time, that much was to be expected, but generally he held up his part of the bargain pretty well. But it didn't last. They'd argued about something stupid to do with the case, Dean can't even remember what the hell it was that set them off now. A little sniping at one another that ordinarily wouldn't have meant much in the grand scheme of things, a couple of ambiguous questions Sam had snapped out when he meant another thing entirely, or maybe meant nothing at all. Dean had tried to get him to shut up, tried to yell over the top of him that Sam was the one being an asshole and he knew the rule about direct questions, but it was too late.

"You want to tell me what your goddamn problem is?"

"Hell, no I don't. Sammy, shut up right now. Just shut your mouth."

"No. No, fuck that."

"Fuck that? Fuck you. Don't start being a prissy bitch just because I'm not dancing to your fucking tune."

"What is your prob--"

"Sam! You know the rule about direct questions."

"Yeah? You want a direct question?"

"Yeah. And no, I don't."

"Tough. Try this for size. What the hell is your problem, Dean? Why are you being such an asshole? Seriously. Is there something you're not telling me? 'Cause I'm standing right here, man. In fact, yeah, direct question: what is it you're not telling me? Why don't you just let it all out, huh?"

That wasn't fair. There were so many ways on so many levels as to how a question like that wasn't fair right now, and Sam should have known that. In fact, it was stupid and maybe a little dangerous, too. People are entitled to their secrets. They're usually secrets for a damn good reason. Dean had opened his mouth to argue right the hell back, but with a rush of cold horror, he knew that he was going to answer Sam's question instead, because he couldn't not answer. Dean's problem? Dean's real problem? The one that kept him awake nights? The one that tore him up inside? That problem? The something that he wasn't telling Sam? The something that he'd been diligently, meticulously not telling Sam for a long time now?

That was all it took, a couple of stupid, meaningless questions spat in the heat of a argument, and it all came out. Laid bare and ugly. Dean had tried to hold back, he honestly had, Sam had to have seen that. He'd clenched his jaw 'til it hurt and actually clamped his hands over his mouth, like that was going to do a damned bit of good. He'd twisted himself up in knots trying not to answer, but in the end, you can't fight the magic or it'll tear you up inside. So it all came tumbling out. Enough to stop both of them in their tracks. And once he'd started, there was nothing Dean could do to stop it. Nothing he could do to stop the miserable flow of words laying out exactly what Dean wants and what he remembers. About what needles at him in his quiet moments. What can sometimes surge up out of control, all mixed up with duty, and fear, and possession, and love, always love, and the overwhelmed urge to protect and keep safe and near, grabbing him around the throat and choking him in the heat of the moment. About the things he'd do. The sacrifices he'd make.

About what Sam and Dean had been headed towards right up until Sam took off for Stanford. Quiet rooms, dark nights, unspoken things, until Dean doesn't have the first clue about where it all began or if there was ever a time that it wasn't there. Not really. Before Sam left, headed toward his long sought after so-called 'normal life', when it was terrifying and sickening and too awful to even think of. And after, when Dean was alone and miserable and trying let Sam have the freedom he needed while to hold the remnants of his family together.

All of it came out. Every last bit.

The way Dean's heart had broken just a little bit when he'd reached for Sam that last time and Sam had taken a step away and said, "No." He'd said, "I don't want this anymore."

He hadn't said, "I'm leaving. Leaving you with Dad. Leaving you to this life. I'm going to college. I'm going to be normal. I'm going to have all the things you never could. And I don't want you anymore. Not in my life, and not like this." But then, he didn't have to say it. Because Dean had known that this was his fault. He'd always known. He was the one who'd started it. He was the one who'd let it go on. He was the one who'd corrupted Sam. Now he was the one who was being left behind. And he deserved it all.

How could he still want that? How fucked up was he? Kids fooled around before they really understood what it was they were doing? Sure. Horny teenagers? Maybe, maybe you could explain that away, put it down to rampaging hormones. But now? The way they were right now and Dean still couldn't stop thinking about it? What was wrong with him that he couldn't let it go? That he still thought about his brother like that? His brother? That he loved him more than any other person on this planet and it was twisting him up inside because he wanted him more than any one else too. Wanted to touch him, possess him. Wanted to cross all the lines, blur all the boundaries, damn them both in the process.

All of it.

Sam had gone white in the face, all the colour just leeching right out of him, and for a second Dean had thought that maybe he'd been about to throw up. He'd expected more arguing, maybe for Sam to throw a punch at him, something, but Sam only stood there, breathing heavy and shocked, his hands shaking, staring at Dean. And Dean... he couldn't say anymore. There was nothing left to say. He'd taken a step towards Sam, his hand outstretched, automatic urge to make things better, to take back all the damning things he'd said, but Sam had turned tail and bolted out of the room. He hadn't come back until the next morning, looking pale and haggard, and silently handed Dean a translation of a passage they needed to recite to break the talisman's hold over Dean. Dean didn't know how Sam had found it. He hadn't asked.

Sam said the words, "It's okay. Forget about it. It wasn't your fault." It, it, it. His voice had been all decent, earnest, sincere Sam, but it had fallen flat to Dean's ears, and they hadn't talked about it since.

So it's been there all the time. Between them. Being studiously ignored. Not even Sam had wanted to talk about this one. Dean has been watching him, waiting for him to insist that they talk about their feelings, that they deal with things, because that's what healthy people do. They deal and move on. He had been waiting for Sam to dissect what happened into tiny little pieces until they were small enough to be dealt with in bite-sized chunks, swept away and forgotten about. But there was nothing. Just Sam. Just his little brother. His wingman. And that's okay. At least, that should have been okay, but Dean doesn't trust it. Not now. Not after... everything.

"Oh," Sam says. "Delaware."

Dean can only nod miserably.

Sam hesitates, but his arms go around Dean, pulling him in close so they're flush against one another, Dean's face resting in the curve of Sam's throat, still trembling and twitching with the cold.

"Dean, this is--"

"Don't."

Sam looks down just as Dean looks up. There's a moment, a lifetime. Their lips meet, soft and unsure, Sam's lips burning his, and Dean twitches into it, a full body shudder because his muscles are still contracting with the cold, not so bad now but still enough that he doesn't think he could make a fist worth shit, all he can do is set his numb hands on Sam's hips, soaking up more of that endless heat, and just hold on. They're almost still, but the press of lips is insistent. It's alarmingly, terrifyingly wonderful, and Dean lets out this sound that's damningly close to a whimper. Sam is all strong hands and coconut milk, and he's warm like the sun's still soaking into his skin, and careful, and just as freaked as Dean is, but he's not pulling back. He's right there, keeping Dean close, one of those big hands on Dean's face, heat seeping into his bones and slowly bringing him back to life.

Dean gulps down the taste of him, like there won't be a second chance at this.

Kissing. This is new. Brand new. Something they never did before. Not when they were... Not before. When they were kids. When they were fucking around or getting each other off or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. So this is new.

He can taste seawater and Sam, and the more Sam kisses him, the less salt there is from their skin. Soon it's just Sam and Dean. Dean and Sam.

Sam disappears, moving faster than Dean can keep up with right now, and starts pulling off Dean's shorts.

"Dude," Dean says, struggling weakly.

Sam ignores him. Sam actually chuckles, damn him, and pats Dean's hip as the shorts hit the floor with a splat. "Easy there, Romeo." Props him against the wall with the towel around his shoulders. "Here," he says, coming back with his biggest hoody and his ratty old sweatpants, the ones he uses to go for those freakishly early morning runs. "Put these on."

"I hate you," Dean says.

Sam just smiles.

It takes a little manhandling, but between them they get Dean into the pants. He lifts his arms for the hoody, feeling like a child, remembering how he used to do this for Sam, and Sam guides it over his arms, tugs it down his body and even that baby soft fabric feels like sandpaper on his over-sensitised skin. Dean is instantly swamped. Sam gives a distracted little smile as he lifts the hood back off Dean's face.

"Come on," Sam says, leading him back out into the other room.

Sam puts him in bed, piles all the blankets on top, quickly ditches his own damp shorts and pulls on a pair of boxers, and climbs right in with him. Dean tries to pull away, but Sam won't let him. He gets in close, sharing body heat, and keeps on rubbing Dean's skin, his arms, his back, wherever he can reach. It takes a while for the tremors to subside, so Dean finally gives in and just clings for a while. He's man enough to admit it. He's colder than he's ever been in his life and Sam is like a human generator, so Dean laps it up. But the warmer he gets, the more he thinks he should move away. The more space he tries to put between them. But Sam seems to counter every move. So they've been restless for a while, playing a futile little game of cat and mouse, because, come on, neither of them are going anywhere and Dean knows it. The hoody ends up pushed up and out of the way, skin on skin, and Dean gives up on pretending and goes looking for more kisses. Sam looks surprised when he does it, like this is their first kiss, like all of this is brand new to him, although like this it sort of, kind of is.

Sam kisses like he's got all the time in the world, his hand on Dean's face, stroking his jaw, moving down to press over Dean's rapidly beating heart. Their legs tangle together. Sam hisses when Dean presses a freezing foot to his calf but doesn't complain. Just smiles and traps Dean's foot between his legs and pulls him in closer, starts up rubbing his palms over Dean's arms again, down his back, constantly moving, reassuring both of them.

Dean can't seem to stop his hands from stroking Sam's chest. It's automatic and it's weird because, yeah, obviously not a girl, and it's been such a long time since he got to touch Sam like this and Sam's whole body has changed. He's grown up and filled out and there's all this solid muscle under that broad chest and Dean thinks maybe he could just lay his head down there and sleep for a hundred years. Thinks maybe Sam would let him.

He hooks two fingers over the waistband of Sam's shorts and apparently that's a line drawn in the sand that he didn't see, one he's just crossed, because Sam jerks his hips away like he's been burned.

"Sammy, I didn't--"

Sam swoops in, kisses him again, effectively shutting him up. "It's okay, just... It's a lot, y'know?"

Dean's eyes are still closed when he says, "You're right. This is fucked up. We shouldn't even--"

"Don't put words in my mouth. I'm okay here. Just..." Sam touches his thumb to Dean's bottom lip, moves it up and strokes the dip above his top lip a few times. "Just gonna need some time with this."

"Don't think that you have to... I mean, this is my shit. I would never have said those things if it hadn't been for that stupid talisman. I didn't... I didn't want to lay all this on you. You know that, right?"

Sam smiles, one of those all-knowing Sam smiles when he's figured out exactly how the world works, and pulls Dean in close. "I'm glad you did," he whispers in close and private, just for the two of them. Speaks the words with his lips against Dean's ear, their cheeks pressed together so that he doesn't have to look Dean in the eye to do it. Maybe he's trying to be brave, Dean figures, like if they were looking at each other he wouldn't be able to get the words out.

"I missed it," Sam says, and Dean goes very still. "Missed you so much. All the time. I used to pick up the phone to call you, but I couldn't do it. Bought a bus ticket once when you sent me that stupid postcard from El Paso. The one with the naked dancing girls on it, remember? But I just stood in the bus station and watched the bus pull away." Dean can feel Sam's lips curve into a smile against his cheek. "Man, I was so broke after I bought that ticket. Had to survive on cornflakes and tuna fish for a whole week."

His words tie a ribbon around Dean's heart and pull the knot tight. "Sammy..."

"I'm okay here," Sam says, slow and easy, pulling back to look at him. "Right here."

Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and hopes he doesn't look as stunned as he feels. "You're such a girl."

"You're the one trembling in my manly embrace."

"I'm not trembling. I'm shivering. Nearly got freakin' hypothermia over here."

"Potato, potahto."

Dean smirks, but it doesn't stay on his face for long. He clenches his teeth over the question that's burning in his throat. He doesn't want to ask, scared of the response, but he has to know. He closes his eyes, knowing he won't be brave enough to ask if he's looking in Sam's eyes.

"If you... If it's okay, then why did you freak out? Why didn't you... I dunno, tell me or something?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean opens his eyes. "You're sorry? What for?"

"For all those things you said. For not..." Sam swallows, muscles clenched in stark relief in his cheeks. He glances up, can't quite hold Dean's gaze. "For leaving."

"That's it? You thought I..." Sam's sad expression says it all. "Sam, I wanted you with me, you know that, but you gotta live your life. A man's gotta do, right? I know that," he says with a shaky little grin. "It's just... It's..." He spreads his palms over Sam's chest, looks at them resting there, almost wishing that Sam was wearing a shirt so he could clench his fists in the material, hold on tight and not let go. "It's just that when you're not around... When you're not with me... It's like... It breaks me up inside. It's always been like that."

Sam makes this sound. This needy, sad little sound, and kisses Dean hard. Hard enough that Dean's lips feel bruised. Hard enough that it steals his breath with the surprise of it.

Sam breaks away, his voice rough when he presses their foreheads together and says, "I'm here now."

"Yeah," Dean says, touching Sam's face. "Yeah."

When Dean finally warms up, finally stops shivering, he trails his fingertips over the small of Sam's back and realises Sam is burning up, sweating with the heat, that he has been for a while. So he kicks off some of the covers and gets up on wobbly legs to shut off the heating. Sam lies on top of the covers, legs spread, hands tucked under his pillow, eyes closed as he licks sweat off his top lip. Dean smiles at the sight, feels greedy, feels that yes now right wrong urge that he gets whenever he lets himself think about Sam for too long, and swallows heavily when he sees that Sam is hard. He gets back on the bed, pressing in close along Sam's side. Sam chuckles so Dean nips at the soft skin under his jaw, not missing the way Sam's breath catches and he lifts his chin to give Dean better access.

"One word about cuddling and I'll break every bone in your body," Dean warns.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"That's right. I'm just using you for your heat."

"Would it be weird if you get hypothermia and I get heat exhaustion in the same day?"

"Pretty fuckin' weird."

Sam turns his head to study Dean's face, his eyes wide and concerned, his pupils huge. "We're gonna be okay, right?"

"Depends on your definition of okay," Dean says seriously. "But yeah, I think so."

There's more kissing. Lots of smiling. Less endearments now, because they may be hot for each other, but they're not girls. They're both hard, sweatpants with no underwear and Sam's boxer shorts leave little to the imagination, but neither of them makes a move. It's too much, too soon, too weird, too many maybes.

Dean ends up on his back, this time with Sam pressed along his side. Sam is hard against his hip and Dean's fingers twitch. He doesn't miss it when Sam rocks his hips, just a little, back and forth.

"I think you need new sweatpants, Sammy. These ones have holes in them."

"They're comfy."

"They're falling apart."

"They look good on you."

That's... not what Dean was expecting. "They're nearly falling off me."

"Yeah," Sam says, and flicks his gaze down to stare at Dean's chest and actually blushes right before he admits, "I like how they look on your hips." He runs his thumb over the exposed line of muscle disappearing into the waistband of the sweatpants.

Dean's stomach tightens and the quick little in-out breath he takes catches him off guard. "I'm keeping them," he says immediately and Sam grins.

"I also like your shorts."

"Those I'm not keeping. What did you do? Ask for the ones with the most pineapples on them?"

Sam chuckles. "Something like that."

"I don't do shorts."

"That's 'cause you've got bowlegs, Shorty."

Dean punches him on the shoulder. Sam punches him right back, but before they can descend into roughhousing, Sam wraps one arm around Dean's shoulders, the other around his waist, and just pulls him in close so that Dean's head ends up tucked under Sam's chin. Dean doesn't fight it, just goes with it, relaxes into it and falls asleep like that, wrapped up in all that warmth and familiar and Sam and thinking that maybe -- maybe, maybe, maybe -- they'll be okay. So long as they're in it together. Truthfully, that's all he ever wanted anyway.

He wakes up half way through the night at the feel of Sam's hand on his skin, underneath the hoody, stroking the bumps of his spine. Dean's whole body is heavy with sleep, and his eyes feel gritty, but he manages to raise his head a little and lick his lips to say Sam's name.

"Right here, Dean," Sam whispers, lips against his temple, and the hand flattens on his back, thumb stroking, always stroking. "I'm right here."

There's sand in their bed and outside the waves lick the shore, ceaselessly advancing and retreating, giving and taking, world without end. Tomorrow there's work to be done and a Siren to hunt. Tonight there's Dean and Sam and Sam and Dean and that's more than enough.

The end.