Dean.

God damn Dean.

What kind of a selfish son of a bitch could… could… just leave Sam like this?

The world was ending, or at very least, his world was. How was Sam supposed to make this right?

He was alone.

He had never been alone before. Not really.

Even when he left for Stanford, even after he demanded that his big brother let him be, even in those two years when he was finally free of his family, he still knew they were out there somewhere. He knew that all he had to do was call his brother and there his brother would be. There Dean would always be.

But he was gone now, dragged down to the lowest, darkest, depths of hell- all for what? In exchange for Sam's life?

No one had ever asked Dean to do something so horrible. Sam wasn't worth it. What good was he to anyone now?

Dean was dead and Sam wasn't- and the only thing that the world had to show for that spectacular trade was one broken hunter who wasn't worth the dust on the feet of those who hang.

It had been two days and all he had been able to feel since putting Dean in the ground was this horrible blankness. A great and glorious nothing where he knew that all bad things should dwell inside him. But there was nothing.

It would be very difficult to drag Dean back to the land of the living if Sam were falling to pieces, and he thought that perhaps his brain was doing it damndest to keep him sane, to keep him going a little longer.

Bobby had let him alone in Illinois. Left him to bury his brother. The loose dirt had been easy to move with all the rain coming down and Sam hadn't minded. It suited his mood anyhow, bleak and grey.

There was only one thought crawling over him as he dug, looping again and again like a scratched record.

He would find a way to get his brother back.

He would raise hell, literally if that's what it took.

He would even sell his soul if anyone would buy it.

If Dean could do it, why couldn't Sam?

Sure, nothing the youngest Winchester had been able to come up with to this point had stood a chance at breaking the deal with that crossroad demon, and by the end of it all he had a horrible feeling that this was somehow what Dean had wanted. Maybe his brother had just gotten tired of it all, of the hunting, of the killing, of the monster of the week trying to tear them limb from limb.

Lord knew that Sam was tired of it too.

But Dean hadn't let him die and Sam had to return that one last favor.

He couldn't be alone.

He just couldn't.

So he drove, he drove for almost two days, and the Impala had never felt so unwelcoming before.

Looking back, he supposed that the aim was to make it to Sioux Falls, he had promised Bobby that he would catch up after he took care of his brother… that he just needed some time to get himself in order- but he never got all that far. Maybe it was the rain, or the fact that his eyes didn't seem to be working right- just freaking over active tear ducts or something (he might consider going to a doctor if it didn't clear up on its own) and the road kept blurring in and out of his vision.

The pale sunlight only served to make the clouds slightly less grey as the rain kept coming down and down in sheets. Sam didn't notice that the gas gage was so low; he had more important things to occupy his mind than how many miles ago he had filled up the tank.

It was an absolutely idiotic reason to break down on the side of the road- and all Sam could think was how mad Dean would be if he knew how Sam was treating his baby.

For almost an hour, it was all Sam did. Imagining his brother's disapproving tone, the familiar downward angle his mouth would take, the tired old name calling.

Something cold and awful coiled up in the nothing that resided deep in Sam, and for a heartbeat he felt crippled as he teetered on the edge before pulling himself back.

God, but he was coming apart at the seams.

There was no umbrella in the car, because why would there be an umbrella? So Sam pulled up the collar of his jacket and started walking along the shoulder of the road. The last gas station had been miles back and he had managed to breakdown somewhere seemingly between towns with only trees and mile markers to break up the wet landscape. Two miles into his fairly moist walk he started wonder why it was that he hadn't tried calling AAA or something else that would have kept him relatively out of the rain.

Hindsight was not his friend.

In the distance, through the misty grey, he saw a farm house. A little split level affair in need of a new coat of paint, surrounded by old trees and knee high grass bent down under the weight of the rain. It wasn't anything beautiful or special, but there were lights on and in this storm it was like a welcoming port, calling him into a last safe haven.

Maybe he could get a ride back into town. It was the middle of nowhere America, there had to be some gentle folk in the house who would take pity on the man who was soaked to the bone, shivering, broken down on the side of the road.

His sneakers sank into the unpaved drive and he made some vague effort to wipe the majority of the reddish brown mud off on the grass before walking up the steps to the relative shelter of the porch. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face and trying to find a sympathetic expression to wear. He knew he must look like an oversized drowned puppy at this point and he could work that into his favor. Big, nonthreatening man that he was.

It's difficult to say who was more surprised when the door opened to Sam's polite knocks, him or Nick.

They two of them stood staring at one another through the screen door while the rain came down in a relentless drizzle of white noise.

It was somewhere between two minutes and a week before one of them finally managed to say something.

"You've got glasses."

"Just for reading." Nick answered in a brittle voice, one hand self-consciously coming up to tug off a pair of black framed lenses.

Sam blinked, startled by the reply, only then realizing that he had said anything to begin with.

The silence returned, not any less awkward or strained.

"If I'm interrupting I can…"

"You can what- come back later?" Nick didn't sound like he was making a suggestion, he sounded like he was making a joke. A horrible joke that he didn't even find humor in. "It's raining like hell. You're coming inside." He pushed open the screen door, and Sam had to sidestep to get out of the way.

Before he knew it he was standing inside, dripping puddles on worn floorboards, while Nick helped him struggle out of his wet coat.

"going out in this kind of weather." The Marshal kept up a quiet tirade under his breath while he lay the coat over a little wooden table that was probably supposed to keep keys and other little things. Then he was back, working down the buttons of Sam's flannel, pulling it off his shoulders, tugging it down his arms, leaving him standing in just a tshirt which offered no protection or warmth of its own. "Didn't see your car, but you can't be dumb enough to walk". He huffed to himself, seemingly unaware that he was talking at all. "Middle of fuckin' nowhere, and here you are on my doorstep, don't have the sense you were born with-"

Nick left him standing there, walking off down a hall, muttering the whole while, only to return with a pale blue towel which he tossed over the hunter's head.

Sam hadn't moved. He wasn't even sure at what point that he had taken the steps needed to even get inside, but here he was, and here was Nick of all people, scrubbing the excess water from his hair with as much tenderness as a concerned mother.

It wasn't long before Sam had enough. He grabbed hold of Nick's arms and shook himself free of the towel.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was strained, begging. He needed some kind of sense and logic in the fallout shelter that his life had become.

"I live here." Nick said slow and careful, his eyes watching every little tick of emotion that stirred through Sam. "But I could ask you the same question." He bunched the towel between his hands, hard, agitated little movements that said so much more than his words. "I should ask you the same question."

Sam found it strangely hard to not watch the other man's hands. They were rough hands, working hands, Sam knew how they would feel against his skin. It had been over a year and Sam still remembered exactly how those hands would feel running over the curve of his ribs. "My car broke down… about two miles up the road."

"That's the best story you could come up with?" Nick set the towel down on Sam's discarded jacket and flannel.

"It's the truth." Sam said weakly.

Nick watched him in silence for a painfully long moment. "Come on, I'll make you something hot to drink." He walked back off down the hall, not waiting to see if he was being followed.

After a few oddly painful breaths, Sam wiggled out of his wet shoes and socks and walked quietly after the other man.

It was a big kitchen, large enough that it should have belonged to a whole family, not just a single sleepy eyed blonde man. The table was big enough for a healthy heard of kids to sit around and Sam felt oddly small and out of place sitting there, watching Nick's back as he made a pot of coffee.

"You know," Nick's voice was so soft and low that you could hardly hear him over the drumming of rain against the siding. "I've never owned a coffee maker before. Figured if I didn't give myself easy access to it, it would help with the little addiction I've got." He sighed and drummed his fingers against the counter, not turning around to see the other man while he spoke to him. "But Sharon at the office, she ordered us a new one a while back and insisted that I take the old one home. It's horrible for me… these addictions that I have. And it might be paranoia, but it feels like the world is working against me sometimes. Just giving me all the things that I shouldn't have."

Sam managed to pry his eyes away from Nick's back, looking down at his own hands where they were splayed over the table top. "Are you comparing me to a coffee maker?"

Nick laughed.

It was the first good noise that Sam had heard in two days.

It almost made him smile, but he just didn't have it in him.

"Maybe." The Marshal retrieved two mugs from the dishwasher and poured them both full of the coffee that was scenting the whole room rich and warm. "You know… I don't know how you take your coffee. You've never stayed for breakfast."

Even though Nick had never once, not even for a second done or said anything cruel or spiteful in Sam's direction, there was something biting and sharp to his words.

Sam didn't answer, he was afraid if he opened his mouth it wouldn't be the words 'milk and a bit of sugar if you have it' that would come out of him.

Nick finally turned to look at him for the first time since leaving the hall, mug in each hand. His eyes were soft and the unspoken affection held there in cut at Sam.

He had to look away.

Dean knew how Sam liked his coffee.

How messed up was that? Sam was immediately back on the verge of that terrible tumbling feeling he had had back in the car, all because if Dean was still here he would have snidely answered for him. Sam would have given just about anything to hear his brother's voice right then.

Instead, Sam focused on the dirt beneath his fingernails.

Quietly a mug was placed in front of him, easily within arm's reach.

Nick about as far away as the table would allow, holding his own mug close to his chest like protection and some more of that well measured silence stretched out between them, it was becoming almost comfortable, familiar.

Sam didn't need to look up and see expression on the other man, just as Nick didn't need to actually say the words. A question hung, ugly and weighted in the air between them.

He ignored it as long as he could, watching the ribbons of steam curl up from the chipped mug. He didn't have to answer. No one would force it out of him. Nick would probably let it simply wither away if enough time passed.

Sam found he wasn't that strong.

"Dean's dead." He whispered to his coffee.

It was the first time he had said the words out loud. It made them more real somehow. More solid and irreversible.

He almost threw up.

And Nick was taking his coffee away.

And Nick was pulling him to his feet, leading him down the hall.

"You are going to take a hot shower." The Marshal instructed as he gently pushed Sam into the little bathroom. "Or a bath, if that's your thing. And when you are done there will be some dry clothes, mac'n'cheese, and a beer waiting for you."

Sam stood there numbly, looking at a round mirror over a sink, and clean white tiles. The tub was one of those old ones that stood on short, clawed feet. He didn't even know that they made those anymore.

"Come on." Nick urged softly, his hand sliding up Sam's arm to grip his shoulder. "You need to warm up."

He did. The cold from the rain had soaked into him, down in his bones. Nick's chilly hand on his shoulder wasn't helping matters. Still Sam stood, swaying just a little on his bare feet. Was he going into shock? He was almost forty-eight hours late to this party, but better late than never as the saying goes.

Nick sighed deeply and edged around Sam, turning on the water in the tub, letting it run at full blast until steam started to rise in a silver cloud, edging at the window and corners of the mirror. He put a little rubber stopper in, and apparently Sam was going to have a bath today.

He couldn't remember the last time he had a bath.

The room grew pleasantly warm as the tub filled. It did a good job accentuating just how cold Sam really was. Cold enough that he had started to shake.

He looked down at his hands and dimly knew that the cold had nothing to do with the trembling.

Nick watched Sam instead of the water, something far too close to pity in his eyes, and neither of them said anything.

That silence separated them, and disturbingly, Sam became aware that he was well and truly alone for the first time in his life. It felt like a hole had been carved in his chest, like he had been broken open and left out for the scavengers.

Sam was dying.

This is what his brother had done to him.

This is what his brother had done for him.

Dean really was the best kind of big brother.

"Oh, god." Sam bit down on a horrible groan that tapered off into something far too closely related to a sob for his own liking. "He's really dead." All the wind was knocked out of him, as good as if he had been sucker punched in the gut. "He's dead and I buried him." Horror. There was only absolute horror at what he had done.

The bottom gave out and Sam sort of went away for a bit, falling, drifting, utterly lost in the madness of a world that didn't include Dean. May never include Dean again.

He came to with his head resting on Nick's leg, which was not particularly notable in itself, except that Sam was also sitting naked in waist high bathwater, with the Marshal perched on the edge of the tub, close as he could be without actually joining Sam in the water.

Strong fingers moved through Sam's hair, stroking slowly. It was oddly soothing, much like the warm water, and the gentle notes that the Marshal was humming under his breath. Sam briefly entertained memories of something that happened roughly a lifetime ago. The two of them sitting quietly on an old lawn chair under a muggy Southern sun, while Nick's hands worked slowly over Sam's back.

There had not been near enough comfort in the whole of Sam's life if all he had was now and that one hazy afternoon so long ago.

"What song is that?" His voice was rough and his throat hurt oddly.

Nick stopped his gentle humming. "Welcome back. You feeling better?"

"It sounded nice." Sam pressed, leaning heavily into the other man's leg, smelling the clean soap scent of his jeans.

"I will take that as a 'no'." Nick huffed and let his fingers continue their slow dance over his scalp.

Sam closed his eyes, just breathing in the smell of Nick, trying not to let his thoughts settle too long on any one thing for fear of what it might do to him. "How did I get in the tub?"

"Carefully." Came the answer after some consideration. "You're a lot of man to move around, Sam, especially when you're half catatonic."

Startled, Sam glanced up at Nick. "I… ok." He didn't know how to feel about that one. Didn't know how to file away the knowledge that the Marshal had undressed him. "Why?"

Nick's hand slid from Sam's hair to brush unsteadily along his jaw, thumb wiping moisture from his cheek. "Because you needed to not be standing and you needed to be warm."

"You could have put me on the couch." Sam's voice cracked oddly, and it was only then that he realized he had been crying, that he still was.

The Marshal said nothing, just brushed his thumb back over Sam's cheek. So slow. So careful.

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his face back into Nick's leg, hiding from the light which was suddenly too bright for him. " 'm sorry." He whispered, not knowing exactly what he was trying to apologize for.

Seemingly not interested, Nick only shushed him and resumed petting. The Marshal's hand moved comfortably slow and steady like he was attempting to keep time with his stokes. Sam wished he could crawl up out of the water and into Nick's lap- despite that fact that he was far too tall, and long, and weak from emotions he didn't want to cope with right now. He would just have to settle for what he could get. Any comfort was welcome at this point.

The water grew tepid around the same time that the horrible tightness in Sam's chest loosened enough for him to breathe without dragging up any more of those odd little sobbing sounds. It was like the damn had finally broken open and let out two days worth of pent up misery. Sure, Sam would have to face Dean's death at some point, but right now was certainly not the most convenient time for it. Though not exactly bent on swallowing down all emotions, Sam was never the less against sharing ones like these with other people.

Nick was a good man, but they really didn't know each other all that well (except in the biblical sense, which didn't count for much in the grand scheme of things), at least not enough that Nick should be made to suffer through such a spectacular breakdown.

"How you feeling?" From the concerned way he spoke, it was obvious Nick didn't feel the same way that Sam did about this mess.

"Tired." He said once he was sure his voice would come out passably normal.

"And hungry?"

How long had it been since Sam had last eaten? He couldn't remember any breakfast today… or yesterday. No wonder he was a wreck. He would gladly blame this all on low blood sugar if he had the option.

"Maybe a little."

"I've been listening to this horrible growling for almost an hour. It's a relief to know it's your stomach and not a-"

"Not a werewolf?" Sam offered, trying to smile through the sick feeling that hadn't quite lifted.

"You and your werewolves." Nick curled down around him, kissing the top of his head, and then they both grew uncomfortably still.

It wasn't like the gesture was anything new or shocking. It was just… just not what was expected to come of this meeting. They had said their goodbyes a year ago- or Nick did at least. Sam had just sat there.

Sam was doing the same thing now. Looking up at Nick, wondering how he could make this stop.

Nick beat him to the punch line, thumb making that same dance down Sam's cheek as it had before, but this time detouring to trail over Sam's lip. That little touch. It wasn't much, but it was enough to let Sam know that he had the strength to get up.

Not enough to get out of the tub, but enough to sit up straight, slide a hand over Nick's shoulder and pull him down into a damning kiss.

Someone's breath hitched and someone else moaned and they were both of them lost.

It was by no means what Sam needed, but it was what he suddenly wanted, wanted with a violent hunger. The other man's mouth against his was nothing short of the world's greatest distraction from everything that had gone so very wrong in the last few days. Everything else could just fall away, fade to the background. The only thing that mattered was the way that Nick was leaning over him, clinging unsteadily to the edges of the tub for support while he answered each of Sam's slow kisses in kind.

That was up until Sam tried to lick into his mouth, greedy, covetous. Nick pulled away, breathing warmly over his lips, whispering some kind of nonsense that wasn't meant to be understood. It kept the distance between them, enough space for the hunter to watch the pupils of the other man's eyes devouring the icy blue. Sam bit at the air, teeth almost catching Nick's lip, but the space between them only widened.

"Sam, this-" he seemed to struggle with finding the right words, the same way he struggled to keep his eyes locked with Sam's. "This is a horrible coping mechanism."

To which Sam may have answered in something close to a growl. There was only one damn thing in the whole of the world that he wanted in this moment and there was only one person keeping him from it. For some reason, more than anything, this made him angry. (It hardly seemed to matter that the two were one in the same.)

"It's not going to make you feel better." Nick insisted with only a hint of conviction in his tone.

It was obvious that Nick didn't know him well enough, because this was exactly the kind of distraction that would make Sam feel intensely better. Anger and passion were too close to the surface, too similar to tell apart. "Fuck you." He said as something halfway between a curse and a demand.

"What did I just say?" Nick almost smiled while he expertly dodged what would have been a very convincing kiss and would have certainly stopped all this nonproductive stalling. "You are not fucking me. I am not fucking you or any combination or variation thereof. What you need is to eat and sleep, to be warm and maybe a little drunk. These things will help." He shifted his weight where he was perched, teetering dangerously. "This," his eyes flicked down Sam's chest and a smidge lower for just a second, "this won't."

Sam, who was not interested in this particular opinion, simply ignored it. Fingers curled in short blonde hair, pulling the Marshal back in.

But Nick had the higher ground, he had better leverage, and he kept those awful inches between their lips. "How did I ever forget how difficult you are?"

"Nick- it's not coping. It's just a distraction." His anger was ebbing, and he tightened his grip in Nick's hair, holding on to what he could. "I need a distraction."

"Let me help. Get you cleaned up, fed, place to sleep, whatever else you need. Just not-" Nick tried to readjust but he was already leaned too far over and almost slipped. "We can talk about this again in a few days if you're still interested." His words were uneven, and it was hard to say if it was out of concern for the perilous position he had let himself get pulled into or if it had more to do with Sam's words.

"Still interested?" He repeated like they were a foreign language, the syllables sounding wrong together.

"You're not…" Nick pursed his lips and looked away. "Now might not be the best time for you to …" He glanced back at Sam and there was a ghost of a smile on the edges of his lips. "I have no idea what to say right now."

Sam realized one of them had made a misstep at some point, but he couldn't say who. He let his hand slip down to the back of Nick's neck, resting against him instead of holding him in place, looking up at the other man and it was an unfamiliar posture for him. He hadn't had to look up at anyone in years.

"Are you really going to make mac n' cheese?"

That smile grew a fraction until it almost reached his eyes. "I've got a box of Kraft I might be willing to part with."

"My brother used to make that for us when we were kids." The words didn't hurt as much as he expected them to, which was to say that instead of the mention of Dean being accompanied by a horrible stabbing pain, all Sam got was this awful wrenching feeling that left him short of breath and his eyes stinging.

Nick winced visibly. "I can make something else."

"I'd love some Kraft."

"Then Kraft is what you will have." Nick assured.

About an hour later Sam had a pleasantly full stomach and a pleasantly comfortable beer buzz. The Marshal had made good on his word. There had been cheep and cheesy noodles, a few bottles of lager, and one of the warmest, softest blankets that Sam had ever had the pleasure of meeting. He wasn't sure when it happened, but he was half laying on top of Nick, the two of them sprawled out on a lumpy couch. The rain was still coming down outside and it was a nice counterpoint to the rise and fall of Nick's voice as he softly read Asimov. Sam wasn't all that interested in robots, not even academically, but he did enjoy the sound of Nick speaking, long slow words and it didn't matter what they were or what they meant.

He had been right. Nick, not Sam. Everything was still awful, but somehow considerably less so now that the brunt of his basic human needs had been cared for. The world was golden tinged with alcohol, this horrible Dean-less world that Sam had found himself in, but he wasn't alone in it. Not for right now. Right now he could hear the steady beating of Nick's heart from where he had his head resting on the man's chest, rising and falling with each breath. Sam was too long for the couch, his legs splayed out at weird angles, one foot out in empty air, one on the floor, his borrowed sweatpants too short to keep his pale ankles covered. It was awkward and good at the same time.

"I like the glasses." He slurred softly.

Nick glanced up over the top of his book, his eyes a bit brighter than usual behind the slight magnification, but he didn't miss a beat, the story running sweetly from his lips.

"They make you look older."

Nick frowned and held the book a bit higher, hiding his glasses. "Now that's just mean."

Sam closed his eyes, feeling a bit drowsy, and he didn't know if he had slept since he put his brother in the ground. That had to be over forty-eight hours ago. He didn't have a whole lot to offer at this point, just a few soft words of his own. "It's a good older. Dignified."

"Hey now." Nick set his book down so he could glair properly at Sam. "I am not dignified. I don't come into your house and insult you."

"Ha. You can't. I don't have a house." He clumsily reached for his beer on the coffee table, but the only bottle he found was empty.

Nick's hand slid along his arm until he found Sam's wrist and gently pulled him back beneath the blanket. "Hush." His touch lingered a little too long as he tucked the hunter in, touching his shoulder and his then his hair. "You want more beer or robots?"

Sam blinked slowly, considering these options. "I think I need to sleep. I might be a little drunk."

"Robots it is." Nick declared and picked back up his book.

"Nick," Sam started before the Marshal could start reading again.

"Hmm?"

"Why am I here?"

Nick didn't look at him, wouldn't meet his eye as he thumbed the yellowed pages of his book. "You can probably answer that one better than I can. I honestly don't know how you found me."

"I didn't find you. Not on purpose. The car ran out of gas and I just walked to the nearest house." Sam found his thoughts to be nicely muddy and it made it difficult to get everything in order. "I mean… I meant why did you let me in?"

Nick finally looked at him, and it was a look of pure confusion. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because… you said goodbye."

Pain passed over Nick's face, fast as a guitar string snapping, gone before Sam was even sure if he had seen it. "Sam, I will always let you in." He took a measured breath before continuing. "Now get some sleep. You look like hell."

Sam looked up at him, knowing that if he was sober and in his right mind that there was something that he should be saying right now. Instead he closed his eyes, snuggling deeper between the blanket and Nick, fidgeting until he managed to weasel his arms around the man's midsection, holding him close. Sam would take anything he could get. Anything at all. Any touch or taste or caress that meant that he wasn't alone.

Just as long as he wasn't alone.

Long moments passed before Nick started reading again, soft words that were lost to Sam as he slipped off into unconsciousness, only echoes reaching him, little pieces to remember with confusion when he woke.

"It is the obvious which is so difficult to see most of the time. People say 'It's as plain as the nose on your face.' But how much of the nose on your face can you see, unless someone holds a mirror up to you."

.:.

At some point during the night, or in the morning's worth of sleeping, Nick had made a point to cocoon Sam into this plush blankety-couch burrito of immobility. It was an oddly comfortable way of waking up so he wasn't complaining. It certainly beat a lumpy motel mattress. He tried to stretch out only to realize that Nick had not just wrapped him up, he had tucked Sam into the couch, very, very firmly.

He opened his eyes and looked around the sunny living room. The curtain had been drawn, but the edges glowed with warm afternoon sunlight.

"Nick?"

"In the kitchen." Came the call from the other side of the house.

"Why am I stuck to the couch?" He finally got an arm free and started untucking himself.

"Because you are going to let me make you some god damned French toast." The blonde man appeared beside Sam's feet, a stern look on his face. "No booze today. Today you are letting me make you a solid breakfast."

Sam sat up on his elbows, shaking hair from his eyes. His head throbbed a bit with the threat of a hangover and he thought Nick wise in his insistence of sobriety. "French toast?" He had never actually had French toast before. Ever since he was a little kid it was cold cereal up until he graduated to doughnuts and coffee. Living on the road the majority of his life didn't lead to many exciting culinary opportunities.

"I'm an awful cook," Nick confessed. "So don't expect anything too great." There was a bit of a smile and it softened his words. "I moved your car to the garage this morning. Wasn't sure it should stay out in this weather."

"Did you get it towed here?"

He didn't answer right away and when he spoke it was slow and careful. "Had the AAA guy bring it in, put a few gallons of gas in the tank."

"I told you I ran out of gas." He had no idea why Nick hadn't believed him last night- though Sam supposed that as coincidences went, running into Nick in the middle of nowhere like he had really sounded too contrived to be true. It was more like a bad plot twist in a poorly written story than something that could actually happen.

Nick was looking at Sam oddly. "I took the liberty of throwing your duffle bag of clothes through the wash. Figured that if I keep you too drunk to drive away I can hold onto you for a few more days and you might want some clothes that actually fit you during that time." He sort of smiled then, more worry than cheer in the expression. "You stay there, alright? French toast, coffee. A nice sober breakfast."

Sam watched the Marshal, too tired to say much of anything contrary. He wasn't used to letting people take care of him, but at the same time he was so grateful for the gesture that he wanted to cry.

"Are you going to stay put on your own or do I need to get out my handcuffs?"

The hunter lay back on the couch, settling against the arm rest, not entirely sure if the other man was teasing him or not. He decided it wasn't worth the risk. "I'll stay put."

"Pity." Nick said with a shrug and wandered back off to the kitchen to clang around and make odd noises and good smells.

Sam watched him go, well worn tshirt and well fitting jeans. He remembered last night, resting against that body, falling asleep against his chest- then he remembered before the couch, he remembered the bathtub, and he was suddenly stricken with embarrassment.

"Nick?"

"Yes?" He called back.

"I'm sorry about last night. How I acted- I shouldn't have… I just shouldn't have."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Last night you were a perfect gentleman." Nick said easily, but not convincingly. It meant that this wasn't a talk that they were going to have.

And today, in light of everything else, the hunter would take his pardon with grace.

Sam rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up almost to his eyes. If he tried hard enough he could almost believe that nothing was wrong with the world. He could pretend that he was on some kind of vacation, just taking a little break between hunts to visit an old friend.

Except it was a giant lie. This wasn't a vacation, it was an asylum. Somewhere he could fall apart in peace. Somewhere where he could wait for his mind to finish unraveling before he pulled himself back together and got back on the road. He had a whole shopping list of demons that needed killing, as well as a brother that he needed to barter for, or summon, or make a blood sacrifice to… or whatever the universe wanted from him to set things right.

But he couldn't do it now. He couldn't even think about his brother without feeling like he was drowning, left panic and gasping for air.

He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

He just needed a few days to pull all his raying edges back together. If he went out like he was now he was liable to get himself killed.

Dean wouldn't hold it against him.

Dean would understand.

When he was back topside he would forgive Sam for the few days of mourning.

Keys rattled outside on the porch. Just a hushed, unassuming sound- but it set Sam on edge.

Then the door opened and that was worse somehow.

The man was tall, probably only a few inches shorter than Sam, dark hair and pale eyes. With his strong jaw and olive skin, calling him handsome would have been an understatement and suddenly Sam realized why Nick shot him down last night.

The Marshal had never told Sam 'no' before, at least not with any real force behind it. But seeing this man letting himself into the house like he owned the place, easily carrying an arm full of groceries, wearing a soft smile, it was all a little obvious.

Nick had a boyfriend.

Sam had never even considered this contingency and he suddenly had no idea whatsoever as to what this meant for him.

"Nick?" The man had a pleasantly low voice. He was busying himself with setting his paper bag of food on the little table beside the door and shrugging out of his jacket. He hadn't noticed the ample amount of man huddled on the couch. Not yet.

There was a small crashing sound of metal against tile from the kitchen. "Mike?" Nick emerged from the kitchen, eyes a little wide. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you I would come back to check on you Wednesday."

"Is it Wednesday?"

"I'm here aren't I?" The man, Mike apparently, looked more exasperated than anything else as he walked over to Nick, pushing the bag into his arms, and kissing the Marshal lightly on the cheek.

Sam was horribly uncomfortable watching the innocent exchange. He felt like he should make a noise or something, to let them both know that he was still laying there, just half a room away. Nick apparently didn't need the reminder and he glanced sideways at Sam with a completely unreadable expression before looking back at the man who was standing oh so close to him.

"I guess I lost track of what day it was."

"Not surprising with all the meds they've got you on." He was painfully close to Nick, close enough that he didn't have to reach very far to run a hand up Nick's chest. It was such a tender, intimate gesture. "You've been sleeping ok then?"

"I'm fine." Nick batted the man's hand away, face a little red.

"You don't look fine. Why don't you go sit down, I'll make us breakfast."

"I'm already making breakfast." Nick sounded more frustrated than anything else.

"You shouldn't strain yourself. Go. Sit." The man insisted firmly, taking back the bag and pushing Nick towards the living room. "I can take care of-" He saw Sam for the first time, or at least the notable lump of blanket and legs that was Sam. His face went through a blitz of emotions, surprise, confusion, suspicion, before finally setting on an expertly constructed smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hello."

Sam sat up, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders, knowing he must look at least half as awful as he felt. He wasn't completely thrilled with the idea of meeting Nick's boyfriend, or thrilled at all really, but he could at least get up for it and put on an equally unconvincing smile.

"Good morning." He offered, pleased at how normal his voice sounded.

The dark haired man nodded before turning to Nick, his smile going brittle. "You didn't tell me you had a… friend staying over."

"I didn't know I needed to run it by you." Nick had found that particular tone that Dean always managed when Sam was being particularly difficult. "I will call you next time I want to have a sleep over. Make sure you approve of all the other kids first."

"Did he sleep in your bed?"

"Yes." Which was a lie, but by the amount of sarcasm Nick put in that single word it was obvious that he wasn't hoping to be believed. "That's why he's out here, still half asleep, on the couch."

Sam wasn't used to people talking about him like he wasn't there. He found he didn't like it. He got up, knowing that he was wearing borrowed clothes that were too short in a few different direction, but also knowing how to use his height when he needed it. He wouldn't be intimidated by the new guy.

"My name is Sam." He held out a hand to shake, he could be polite. He had almost gotten a degree from Stanford in it.

"I'm Michael." He shook Sam's hand firmly, making professional levels of eye contact. It was like he was taking in the entire hunter, cataloging every bump and scrape on him, his too long hair, his borrowed clothes, assessing the sort of man who stood before him. He let go of Sam a little after the point where social norms said that he should have, before turning to look at the Marshal. "Nick, kitchen, now. I need to talk to you."

Sam found himself sitting on the couch alone, smelling slightly burnt breakfast, and listening to snatches of a conversation not meant for his ears.

Any other day and he would have known how to deal with this- but Nick moving on wasn't all that important any more. He supposed that it was all a matter of perspective.

Sure, it hurt like hell, and he supposed that he would never really get over his first… his first whatever Nick was to him. But Sam was here because he had run out of gas, and he had stayed because one place to sleep was as good as any. The only thing that changed with this new revelation was that Sam's visit might be a little shorter.

If Michael's few raised words were any indication, then it might be particularly short.

It felt too much like sitting and waiting for a sentencing.

A while later Michael was back out where Sam could see him, pulling his jacket on with quick, angry jerks. The lines of his face had settled into deep irritation- and he looked like he was about to stomp his way outside but he took a moment to turn back to Sam and find a little, bland perjury of a smile.

"It's nice to finally put a face with your name, Sam. He used to talk about you." Michael zipped up his jacket. "If my brother gets out of line, feel free to call me. I'm on his speed dial." With that he left, and Sam found himself laughing into the stunned silence before it had a chance to grow too unruly.

Nick came and cautiously sat on the arm of the couch. "I've never found his jokes all that funny myself."

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to rid himself of a smile that felt grossly inappropriate. "That was Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Your brother Michael? The one you used to tell me about? Who you threw dead mice at when he tried to follow you up into your tree house- who would make you fold all your socks and sort them by color?" Sam remembered those little stories that Nick had told him through texts during long car rides. For whatever reason Sam had never pictured Michael quite so… grumpy faced.

"I've only got the one brother." Nick sill sounded cautious, like he couldn't anticipate where the hunter was going with this new line of questions.

"I thought he was your boyfriend." Sam started laughing again, horribly inappropriate noise rioting through his chest.

Nick's eye narrowed slightly.

"He had a key and let himself in." Sam had to look away. He couldn't keep the slightly manic laughter under control with Nick pouting at him. "Then he was getting all handsy- what was I suppose to think?"

Nick sighed and tugged at his lower lip. "You should think pretty much anything other than that I might be dating my brother."

"In my defense, you two don't look that much alike. He was just a handsome guy who was petting you."

He shrugged in an aggressive way if such a thing was possible. "So now he gets to be the handsome twin? You've been picking on me since last night and I don't know why."

"You two are… twins?" Sam glanced over, surprised right back out of his laughter.

"That's what the doctors said at least." He tugged at his lip again. "He fusses over me more like a mom than a brother - or a boyfriend for that matter.

Sam smiled faintly, because he knew that feeling. "I think maybe all big brothers are like that, even ones who aren't all that much older."

Nick sighed again, still looking slightly agitated. "I just don't see how you could think I would date an ass like him."

"He didn't seem like an ass." Sam started folding his blanket, carefully lining up the corners. "He brought you groceries."

"Yeah well, he likes taking care of me. It gives him a chance to feel charitable and superior all in one go." He stood, looking down at Sam, gently taking the blanket from him and tossing it recklessly over the back of the couch, undoing all Sam's work. "Come on, your breakfast is probably cold by now."

Sam followed him to the kitchen, limbs feeling stiff from having to sleep in such an odd position just so he could fit on the couch. Maybe he should have tried to sleep in Nick's bed with him. It might have been more comfortable.

There was a nice little breakfast laid out for two on the table. Nothing fancy, but appetizing all the same.

As it turned out, cold French toast wasn't bad at all.

Nick sat beside him, an improvement over yesterday, but Sam supposed that they had reestablished some of their boundaries since then. The nearness was more welcome than uncomfortable.

The Marshal had a handful of colorful pills with his breakfast and Sam didn't ask, he didn't feel like it was any of his business.

"This one's a vitamin." Nick held up a long grey-blue pill for Sam's inspection. "I've officially become old enough that I'm supposed to be taking them."

Sam looked at the pill, then the man holding it, then at the little pile of medication still on the table.

"I thought it might be best to explain." Nick said as if to clarify.

"You don't have to-"

"Apparently I do." He shook the pill at Sam before popping it into his mouth and swallowing. "Because when I didn't earlier you thought I was dating my brother." Nick gave him a pointed look before holding up a yellow pill with thin black stripes on one end. "And this one is an antibiotic." He took it in turn. "And these little beauties are for the pain." He threw back two little bright colored ones.

Despite still feeling slightly numb with the shock of the last few days, Sam managed to get his thoughts in roughly the right order, enough to ask the logical question that needed to follow.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm getting there." Nick took a sip of his coffee while his eyes grew distant. "I was shot about a month ago. Two bullets went straight through- one hit bone and broke apart. I've still got some shrapnel in me and it hurts like a son of a bitch."

For a moment Sam struggled to find the right thing to say to that. 'I'm sorry' didn't seem strong enough, and 'are you ok' was already asked and answered.

"Where'd you get shot?" He finally managed.

Nick slouched in his chair, getting even lower so as to better look up at Sam with eyes the color of faded robin's eggs. "Out in Texas. South of Forth Worth."

"No, no. I mean-"

"I knew what you meant." Nick took another sip of his coffee then held the mug to his stomach, hands curling around it, holding on to the warmth. "I'm just being difficult." He graced Sam with a little wry curve of a smile. "Two through the chest, one in the left shoulder."

Because it seemed like the only thing to do, Sam reached out to the other man- but he stopped himself before he touched skin or clothes. "Through the chest?"

"Yup." He raised his coffee to his mouth but aborted the movement halfway and set the mug on the table instead. "Work hazard. It's not the first time I've been shot- but it's the first time someone did such a good job of it. They've had me out on medical leave since I was discharged from the hospital and it's driving me slowly crazy. No job to go to and too doped up on pain pills to drive myself anywhere. I'm not used to being stuck for so long in one place with nothing to do."

"I know that feeling." Sam said with deep empathy. "Me and… Dean, we never stayed anywhere for too long." And just like that he lost his appetite, most of his food left untouched. He hoped that this sickness would fade eventually, there was no telling how long he could live if every time he thought of his brother he was overtaken with a crippling sense of sorrow and guilt.

Nick was oddly good at reading the little shift in Sam and he immediately put on a wide smile, which looked very out of place on his usually sober face. "Want to see?"

Sam blinked, startled and thrown off, which was in truth the Marshal's plan. "See…?"

"My new scars. I would say I'll show you mine if you show me yours, but I've had the pleasure of helping you undress recently. I've seen all you have to offer." Nick's smile turned a little cheeky and Sam found himself completely lost. It was like being caught in high beams.

There was virtually no way to mourn properly with all that smile coming at him. All he could do was blink and nod. Not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.

The Marshal tugged down the collar of his tshirt showing two angry red scars dimpling the muscle of his chest, cutting into the edges of one of his tattoos. They were bigger than they should have been for simple bullet holes, messy and as slick as melted wax.

"These are exit wounds." Sam looked up from the scars to see that Nick's smile had all but left, leaving a far more familiar tired expressing in its wake. "You were shot in the back?"

"That I was." He let go of his shirt, letting it resettle and hide the ugly marks. "Doctor said that the last bullet missed my heart by about two centimeters. Michael declared it some kind of miracle, a second chance to repent of my heathen ways. I think that the guy was just a lousy shot."

For a moment, Sam considered where he would be right now if the man in Texas had slightly better aim. No one would have opened the door for him. Sam would have kept walking. Would have got some gas for the Impala. Would have been back on the road plotting ways to pulls his big brother back up from hell. Slowly ruining himself with all consuming thoughts of revenge and destruction.

But Nick was alive, and Sam was warm, and fed, and edging ever closer to the borders of sanity. He was a mess, still felt more like a fallout shelter than a man- but it would pass. Nick was alive and Sam had been given a chance to heal before he took the opportunity to tear himself apart.

Miracle or lousy shot.

Either way.

.:.

Sam woke from a nap on the couch. The living room was dark and as he pulled the blankets tighter around himself he remembered that it hadn't been a nap. It was nighttime and there was no reason to be awake. Except he was alone, and cold… and most of all alone. He didn't know when Nick left, sometime between now and when Sam had fallen asleep. He had left the same way the past few nights. It was a horrible habit that he had, leaving the too small couch to Sam's long body. There when the hunter fell asleep, then off in the kitchen when the hunter woke.

Over an hour later Sam was still awake.

It was a fresh, new hell that he found.

After only a few days worth of conditioning he couldn't fall asleep without Nick.

He wore the blanket, which had quickly become his blanker, wrapped around his shoulders like a cape as he wandered the downstairs looking for Nick. In the few days that he had stayed here, he had never really gone anywhere other than the kitchen, the bathroom and the living room couch.

Turning on and off lights as he went, Sam discovered an office cluttered with banker boxes stacked high on a desk beside a computer that didn't look like it had been used in the last fifteen years. He also found a gaping hole around the bend at the end of the hallway, and it took him many long seconds of staring down into the sudden abyss to realize that it was a doorway down into the basement- just without the safety of a door.

He went back through the living room, down the other hall and carefully climbed the stairs.

It wasn't like Sam to systematically search people's homes, but he needed Nick. The need lead him up the well worn stairs that creaked softly under his weight, then down a hall that he had never traveled before.

Two room and a second bath. One bedroom had a queen sized bed, cozy and clean with delicate lacy curtains and other uncomfortably feminine touches. The second bedroom had bunk beds, and the restlessly sleeping body of a US Marshal on the bottom bunk.

"Nick?" Sam asked barely above a whisper, not sure if he should actually wake the man now that he found him. The stacked beds were really throwing him off for some reason. This was not the house of a slightly alcoholic policeman. This was the home of a family. It didn't feel wrong, so much as simply not right. He called the other man's name again, a little louder, watching as the Marshal turned his face towards the warm yellow glow of the hall light.

"Sam… what is it?" His voice was low and graveled.

"I couldn't sleep." And Sam was suddenly six years old again, standing there wrapped in a blanket, confessing that there was still something in the dark that scared him.

Nick didn't tease Sam, he just held and arm open to him, beckoning. Honestly, Sam didn't even need that much encouragement.

The two of there were really too much for the little bed, but they made it work, settling into a tangle of limbs, Nick half lying on top of Sam for the sake of variation.

"Are you warm enough?" He asked Sam's neck, warm breath ghosting over him, tickling just a little.

"Yes… why are we in a bunk bed?" The hall light was still on, casting long shadows, making the slats and the underside of the mattress above them look like a confusion of geometric shapes.

"I'm here because it's my bed. We're here because you just can't seem to get enough of me." Nick gently teased, smoothing a hand over Sam's chest, sleepy and gentle.

Sam settled a hand over Nick's. "I don't know if I can sleep on Star Wars sheets."

"You're in luck, those are in the laundry. These ones have dinosaurs. Now go back to sleep."

Wind blew outside and tree branches scratched against the siding. "Do you have kids?" Sam didn't know that his voice could go so quiet.

"Hmm?" Nick yawned before touching his lips against Sam's throat. "Kids? Oh, god. I hope not."

"Then why do you have a kid's room in your house?"

"Ah, I can see your confusion." Nick's fingers tightened around Sam's. "This isn't my house."

The hunter grew still, listening to the wind, listening to the Marshal breathing.

"Nick?"

"It's my parent's house." He chuckled like it was a joke, teasing Sam. "They moved out to Florida about a year ago, but they didn't want to sell, and it seemed as good as any a place for me to mend."

Sam instantly relaxed, settling comfortably into the idea of sleeping in Nick's bed. Warm and safe and so very much like two kids huddled together against the night. It was hard to fight the idea from where he lay, looking at a Scooby Doo alarm clock and a David Bowie poster. It was definitely the room of a young teen, but not one from this decade.

"You haven't lived here in a long time, have you?"

"No."

"I like the decorations."

"Less awe for the room, more sleep." Nick demanded with a pointed yawn.

Sam had never been all that good at following orders, but less than a minute later he was asleep.

He woke again when the weak morning sun started to mingle with the hall light that he had left on hours ago. And for once, just once, Nick was still there with him. The Marshal was half asleep, eyes partially opened, curled around Sam, holding him close like a favorite teddy bear.

It was pleasant company to wake to, and for the first time since he had put Dean in the ground, Sam felt like eventually things might be ok again. Not today, not next week, but somewhere down the line when he found a way to reclaim his brother from the damnation of self sacrifice and bad decisions.

Instead of knowing that one day it would be ok, Sam actually believed it.

Nick kissed the soft pulse in his throat- which for the record, was a beautiful way to announce that he had woken up.

"Morning."

"Mfng." Nick grunted happily against his skin.

"I think it's raining again."

"Mmnhm." His stubble was scratchy on the soft skin of Sam's neck. "It is what they call… the rainy season."

"Smart ass." Sam replied affectionately.

"Oh, I was when I was young." Nick was smiling, it could be heard in his voice, even if he had hidden his face where it was impossible to read. "I'm lucky you didn't meet me back then. I was an insufferable little prick for years."

Sam found himself smiling back, just a soft memory of humor, of how this sort of exchange was supposed to be handled. "You still are."

"No. Now I'm charming." He fumbled at the blankets and pulled them higher, almost completely vanishing beneath them.

"Distinguished?"

Nick responded to such name calling by biting Sam. Not particularly hard, but hard enough to leave no question as to how he felt about being called such a horrible thing. "Here I am, taking care of you for weeks, out of the goodness of my heart, and you're still picking on me."

"I've been here like four days." Sam rolled his eyes, too tired for such dramatic declarations.

Nick rose up on his right elbow, keeping the weight off his bad side. "Sam?"

He frowned, not liking the way the Marshal was looking at him. "What is it?"

"You've been here over two weeks."

Such a ridiculous idea, Sam didn't even have a reply.

"Granted, you spent the first week and a half blind drunk so it's not surprising that you don't remember."

The pleasant early morning glow vanished as Sam pressed a hand over his eyes. Two weeks? He only really remembered one night of drinking, not a week's worth.

"Now, I prefer you sober, personally, but drunk-Sam does tell some fairly interesting stories."

"Did I?"

"Oh, you did." He assured. "You also get real handsy… and mouthy."

Sam peered out from between his fingers, looking up at the man leaning over him. Every angle of Nick looked sincere and Sam had no doubts that he had made a right ass out of himself.

"I'm so sorry." Sam whispered, feeling well enough to be absolutely mortified at the thought of all the things that drunk him might have said or done. "I don't usually…"

"Get black out drunk for days on end?" Nick easily filled the pause that Sam left. "You were coping. It's healthy."

"Healthy?"

"I'm sure that your liver didn't appreciate it, but you did a lot of yelling and lamenting, gnashing of teeth and all that- and it's good to get it out of your system."

Sam hid back behind his hand. "I can leave this afternoon."

Nick hit him firmly in the center of his chest, an angry swat meant to get his attention more than anything else. "Don't be dramatic. I'm not kicking you out, you big pathetic moose of a man."

"Moose?"

"You can stay. I want you to stay." And despite the fact that Sam was still hiding behind his hand like a little kid, Nick kissed him. A slow, tender kiss. "For another few days." A second kiss. "Or a month." A third, longer kiss. "Or just forever."

Sam was expecting one more kiss to even things out, but he was disappointed. He opened his eyes and let his hand fall away to look up at the Marshal still leaning over him. There was a look of fear to him, shock making his eyes wide and even paler than usual. Sam had the distinct feeling that those last words were an equal surprise for both of them.

When Nick found his voice again it sounded more like an apology than anything else. "I just… feel like you should be made aware of your options."

Sam couldn't answer. It was too terrible, too beautiful of an offer. He kissed Nick instead, which could have been taken for an answer on its own, though not a definitive one. Soft kisses quickly turned to slow, opened mouthed ones, hungry like they were both starving.

Nick pulled away first, because Nick always pulled away first. "You know," his voice was strained on an uneven laugh. "I've never had a boy up here in my room before."

"I won't tell anyone." Sam promised with a little, unwilling chuckle.

Nick was settling against him, one thigh brushing up against Sam's hip. "Who would you tell? My father, the Reverend, is a half senile, half deaf old man who doesn't believe in homosexuality- and my mom would just find you adorable and try to feed you something. Also, both are still in Florida."

"I won't tell your brother then." Sam relented, gazing up at Nick, trying to maintain the banter while keeping the adoration off his face.

"You know," Nick slowly ran a hand through Sam's hair, "he was never all that bothered by who I was touching. He says that I am just a prodigal son who will repent once I tire of my heathen ways."

"Heathen ways?" Sam found his eyes drifting close at the caress.

"He was much more upset by me falling in love with a guy instead of the idea of me sleeping with one."

Sam was sure he made a noise then, something dreadful and condemning and all he could do was look up at Nick, so lost. Worst than the night that they met.

And for the first time, he didn't want to be found.

"That was… a little too honest, wasn't it?" Nick averted his eyes, sort of smiling, almost embarrassed. "I always seem to say the most asinine things when I'm around you."

"Say it again?" Sam felt breathless and he couldn't say why.

Nick looked startled by the sudden demand, propping himself back up on his elbows, giving himself the proper distance needed to stare at him. "I wish you could see the way you look at me, Sam. Like I'm the ocean and you're desperate to drown."

"Please. I just need to hear it one more time."

"You know, you never struck me as the romantic type."

"I'm not. Not really. I just…"

Nick kissed him, silencing those aimless words. He didn't say it again because talk is cheap and other such clichés. Instead they kissed like it was the end of all things.

Like the last kiss that would go on record as the world died, and they wanted to make it a good one.

They made love on a narrow bed, on sheets printed with red and blue dinosaurs of all things. It wasn't sex, or anything so carnal or sinful. It was… romantic, and perfect, and everything that books and movies like make such things out to be. Slow touches and soft sighs, and Sam didn't think that Nick's mouth ever left his for longer than it took to whisper his name.

There were worst things that could happen.

Dinosaurs aside.

The rain drummed on outside, the sunlight coming and diming in waves as great grey clouds passed over the house and the two lay in each other's arms. Not speaking. Not needing to. Simply being. And for that morning, it was enough.

Maybe Sam would stay a few more days, long enough that he started to feel happy again. Long enough that he would start to feel guilty for feeling happy. Maybe there would come a time when he would leave in the middle of the night, weeks later, with only a note pinned to the door as explanation. As a goodbye.

Perhaps it all still had a chance of a happy ending though, with Dean being dragged back to earth by independently divine forces completely beyond Sam's scope of control. Stranger things had happened, surely. Stranger, but few as wonderful.

And maybe, just maybe, by one more lightning strike of bizarre circumstance and coincidence, Sam would get to see Nick again, somewhere out in Detroit- and maybe one last time, he would tell Nick 'yes', because Sam had never really be able to tell him no.

But those are different stories, with different ends, dark and light paths as yet not tread.

This story instead ends the same way it started. With Sam looking for and finding a place to hide from the storm.