This story first appeared in the zine Rooftop Confessions 3 (2008), from GriffinSong Press

Stuck
K Hanna Korossy

"Well," Dean drawled. "Exciting place like this, I can see why people checked in but never checked out."

Sam, sitting next to him, was craning just as much as he was, trying to see the extent of the very empty, very dead town sprawled before them. Everywhere were signs of abandonment and disuse: roofs sagged on empty-windowed houses; weeds choked every yard and swarmed out into the road; the stores were silent and broken-down. A hilltop of larger houses on their right, clearly the richer section of town, overlooked the main strip with equally lifeless disdain.

Dean sighed. "You sure this is the place, Sam?"

Sam sat back and shuffled through the pile of printouts in his lap. "It's like Burkittsville—nothing shady about the town itself, people just don't seem to make it out again. Everyone who lived here plus a couple more just passing through: the Timmons', Rick Everston, Brian George and his five-year-old son Mikey, Jules Reister. A lot more possibles. Abydon's the one place they all had in common. Which, by the way," he cast Dean a significant look, "is one of the many historical names for Hell."

Dean made a face. "Thank you, Alex Trebek."

"I'm just sayin' . . ."

"I know." He paused, half grinning at Sam. "Good work, finding this place. Dad woulda . . ." The grin disappeared, and he angled his eyes away.

"Dean." It was said very quietly, not a question, not even a nudge, just empathy. And it did help, the knowledge Sam was feeling the loss—the amputation—too, even if he didn't understand Dean's burden as fully as he thought he did. It just wasn't enough.

Dean cleared his throat, pushing past the moment. "It kinda makes sense, too."

Sam's brow furrowed. "What does?"

"Look at this place." Dean chewed on his lip while Sam did. "Notice anything strange?"

"Uh . . . it's deserted?"

"Dude, none of the windows are boarded up, most of the houses still have cars in the driveways, the stores aren't cleaned out. This isn't deserted, this is . . ." Actually, he wasn't sure what it was. But it was officially creeping him out.

Sam huh-ed next to him. "So whatever happened here happened fast."

"And if people are disappearing, maybe it's still happening."

Sam's jaw bunched and he nodded. "All right. So, nothing came up in research. Guess we have to check it out."

"Yeah. And we stick together on this one."

"No arguments from me, man."

The Impala glided down the hill into the empty town, and Dean pulled up in front of the row of shops that lined the main street. A CVS, a Kmart, and a McDonald's were nestled amidst the smaller mom-n-pop stores; it wasn't remotely the smallest town they'd been in. But even as Dean climbed out of his car, the sense of emptiness, of no one else around for miles, crept down the back of his collar and shivered along his spine. That, and the feeling that something else was there, something from their side of the tracks. "Sam," he muttered.

Sam's gaze was sweeping down the dirty sidewalk. "Yeah, I feel it, too."

Nodding, Dean went around to the trunk to see about arming them heavily. With no idea what they were facing, they were taking along every weapon they might need, either on them or in the duffel Dean hefted in one hand, shotgun in the other.

They started at the drugstore and worked their way down the strip. Nearly full shelves held dusty, sometimes rusted or moldy items. The perishables in the McDonald's had long rotted away, leaving the place just smelling moldy. Dean wrinkled his nose and resolved not to eat fast food for at least the next few days. Curlers were set out on counters in the hair salon, ready for use, a dried-solid open bottle of nail polish on the table beside them.

"Your research turn up anything about when this place cleared out?"

"Sometime mid-80s," Sam answered, as hushed as Dean had spoken. There was something about quiet this deep that demanded respect. "The neighboring towns just stopped hearing from them. Feds poked around a little but didn't find any signs of foul play, and nobody can prove anyone actually disappeared so they can't rebuild, not that people usually want to move into a ghost town like this. So it kinda just…died."

"Yeah. Literally," Dean grunted, jabbing the barrel of his shotgun at the pizza parlor's freezer door. It swung open freely, the interior bare and unfrozen. Electricity was out, and Dean was willing to bet that anyplace not on a well system had also lost running water decades before. He wondered idly why the chain stores hadn't at least sent people to clean out their locations. "So, any ideas yet?"

"Well, there have been cases of a town just vanishing. The Roanoke colony, for example. But while there have been theories—mass delusions, fevers, attacks—no one's ever been able to find proof of anything."

"Okay, creepy." They headed back out into the sunlight, and even that felt faded as Dean squinted up at it. The hill with its looming Victorian houses caught his eye again, and he nodded toward it. "I don't think there's anything down here. Wanna check out some of the homes?"

Sam was looking up and down the main strip thoughtfully, and Dean felt his impatience rise, quashing it again almost as fast. This was what he'd asked for; this was what he needed, Sam slowing him down, making some of the decisions for a while. Dean's perspective had burned to ashes along with John Winchester's body, and trusting Sam was all he had left sometimes between himself and a slow self-destruct.

On the other hand, his little brother could, on occasion, ponder eternally. "Sam? Any day now."

"All right." Sam nodded. "Might as well. You wanna drive?"

"Naw, let's hike it. Might see something on the way."

They fell into an easy pace up the empty street, climbing the winding, rising road without much effort. Thank God it was just edging out of winter, because the hot Missouri sun would have been merciless otherwise. As it was, Dean was glad he'd left his jacket in the car by the time they reached the top, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

"Getting out of shape there, Dean?" came his amused little brother's tease from next to him.

"Still can beat you any day," Dean growled back automatically, then hitched a breath at the words. Sam didn't flinch, but the too-recent memory of Dean's fist meeting Sam's jaw was fresh for the older Winchester. Sam had never brought it up again, but Dean's conscience wasn't nearly as kind.

"I don't like to beat up old people," Sam scoffed back, and Dean just tossed him a withering look and left it at that.

The road that unspooled in front of them was more shaded and developed than the section that ran through town. Tall wrought-iron streetlights lined it on either side, and thick-foliaged trees leaned in from either side to practically turn the road into a tunnel. It was actually kind of peaceful, and Dean didn't trust it for a second. It wouldn't be the first time they'd chased wild geese, but something still felt off, wrong about the place. And he usually trusted his gut.

Lately, though . . . "Sam?"

There was a pause, then his brother's firm voice. "That one."

Dean followed his point to a grey two-story on their right. White shutters framed bleak windows like ghostly eyes, and the shiver was back along his spine. "Right," he said in defiance of it, and hefted the shotgun. "Let's do it. Sooner we check this place out, sooner we can hit that diner we passed a few miles back."

"Bottomless pit," Sam said with a laugh in the words.

"Anorexic chick," Dean shot back just as easily, and felt his gut settle. They were on an interesting case. He had the Impala back. Sam was at his side. Things could have been much worse.

They set out for the house, falling into rhythm as they walked.

"Car in the driveway," Sam observed as they grew closer, and Dean noted the silver Beemer approvingly. Classy but fast, if a pain on the upkeep. Kinda like him, and he suppressed a smile.

Then something else caught his eye, and he jerked his chin, and the shotgun, up. "Open door."

They proceeded with caution, flattening themselves on either side of the ajar front door as if they were in some kind of cop show, then slipping inside, going low. Sam immediately peeled off to the left, Dean to the right.

But there was nothing there. A furnished and dusty room, cobwebs heavy in every corner. But otherwise empty, musty with disuse.

"It's not even looted," Sam mused softly, and Dean had found himself just thinking the same thing. Weird enough the car hadn't been touched, but not boosting the antique furniture or the expensive electronics in the next room or the jewelry that they'd probably find upstairs? That really didn't make sense.

Dean's eyes swung up to the second floor, and he caught Sam's eye and tilted his head up. His brother nodded once. Sam gripped the heavy Mag-Lite and his blade, and fell firmly into step right behind Dean.

The elder—eldest, now—Winchester always moved with more confidence when he had someone at his back. His steps were silent but sure as he slipped up the stairway, gaze intent on the hallway that slowly curved into view. It was nearly dark at the end, and open doors lined either side along the way, letting in faded sunlight. They probably wouldn't find anything up here, but they still had to look.

Dean turned back to his brother. "Left or right?"

A shrug. "Right."

They took opposing rooms, Dean calling out a "clear" when he checked it out, down to the tub in the adjoining bathroom. Sam echoed him a moment later, then they met in the hallway and headed into the next set of rooms.

All the bedrooms looked the same, decorated lavishly but impersonally. Dean wondered again at the quirks of the rich, wanting all this space for nothing in particular, and called another "clear" when it was obvious nothing lurked under the dingy canopied bed.

Sam didn't answer.

Dean gave it a few beats, then frowned. "Sam!" He headed back to the hallway, then continued on into the room his brother had disappeared into.

Disappeared being the operative word. The room was empty, only Sam's axe and flashlight lying on the floor.

"Sammy!" Dean called more urgently, checking the closet, behind the bed, even in the heavy wardrobe. The carpet was too thick and patterned to tell how and where the dust had been disturbed. Dean tried the window, found it painted shut, and cast a desperate glance over the room once more. "Sam!" he bellowed to the house at large.

Nothing, not a sound.

Sam was gone.

00000

He wasn't sure, even during the dizzying trip, what had hit him.

One minute he was checking out the room, hearing Dean doing the same across the hall, his brother's boots a hard, reassuring thud against the wood floors. The next, something sharp and searingly painful stabbed into the back of his calf, and things . . . shifted.

He'd started to fall, opened his mouth to yell. And instead found himself yanked out of the room and down the hall at literally inhuman speed, everything blurring past, their passage silent. By the time Sam gathered enough air into his lungs to call for Dean, they weren't even in the house anymore.

Greenery and cracked asphalt sped by. Something was pulling him along by what felt like a powerful grip on the back of his jacket. His legs, lifted above the ground, bumped the road once as they went, and Sam thought he gave a choked cry, but the wind whipped it from his throat. He had a brief glimpse of a large red structure, and then he was inside. There, he was dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

He finally tried to move then, gasping and coughing his distress. But his arms only flailed, his legs twisting uncoordinatedly. Lassitude was creeping up from his leg like a slow wave of heat, and it left useless limbs in its wake, unresponsive, heavy slabs of meat. Sam flopped over like a dying goldfish, cheek burning against the rough carpet, and felt tears of helplessness well up.

Dark, horrible eyes, at least a dozen, peered at him a moment. Then leaving behind the vague impression of big and black, it scuttled out of sight.

Sam swallowed a sob. The slow spread of paralysis was halfway up his torso, and soon it would have him completely at the mercy of . . . whatever it was. The thought made his throat close, a rush of pure terror dragging a few more inhuman sounds from his mouth.

He had to do something, now.

It took all his concentration to make his arm move in jerky, thick motions. His fingers refused to curl properly, and they dragged more than pulled his phone out of his pocket. Sam blinked back the horror of the molasses feeling that was almost to his heart, and focused instead on pushing buttons. Just three to bring up Dean; his brother had headed Sam's speed dial list even when he'd been at school and they hadn't been talking.

His hand was succumbing to whatever poison was spreading through his body, the phone sliding out of nerveless fingers to land next to his head. Sam turned toward it, listened to the tinny ring.

Half-ring, at any rate. Dean's breathless voice cut in almost immediately. "Sam?"

His chest hitched, lungs working laboriously. "Deeean." His jaw was slow, his tongue heavy.

"Sammy, where are you? You okay?"

His jaw flexed. He had maybe one word left in him, and he chose frantically. "Rrrred."

"What? Red? Sammy, what's going on?"

His mouth froze half-open. He couldn't even roll his head anymore, and although his heart showed no signs of stopping and his lungs still filled, the terror of being utterly trapped in his body was overwhelming. Sam could hear his heart and respirations speed up, felt the puffs of air push out of his mouth. His eyes rolled wildly, trying to see something, anything.

Dean's voice distantly pleaded on.

Something in the gloomy edges of the room caught Sam's eye, and he tried to focus on it. It was a greyish blob, long and rounded. Beyond it he could see another, and his gaze flicked the other way to confirm at least a third on his far side. What the—?

The whisper of movement ratcheted up Sam's panic, cresting beyond coherent thought. The creature had returned, all shadow and eyes. And then something cold and sharp and oddly careful slid up Sam's pants leg, slicing away material. Gooseflesh sprang up the length of his skin, and the air was cool as it brushed against his bare legs, then arms and chest.

He couldn't breathe, and it wasn't because his body was frozen, naked and helpless and at the mercy of this . . . thing.

And then the black, shining eyes bent over him again as he felt himself being lifted, and Sam's thoughts shut down altogether.

00000

Red. A color. Sam was missing, hurt, by the sound of his slurred, shaking voice, and Dean had a friggin' color to go on.

Okay, okay, he could do this, he thought as he raced back down the stairs. If that was all Sam could get out, that meant it was important. A clue to his attacker? Dean shuffled through his mental card file even as he strode back out of the house, trying out everything that had red in its name or was red. Red-eyed demons, a variety of fire spirits and elementals, oni, some wildmen: there were a lot of possibilities but nothing that seemed to fit.

Dean slammed out of the front door, weapons at ready against an invisible enemy. Maybe it was a place? Something they'd faced in Red Lodge, or at Red Cliffs? No, neither a thought form nor a shapeshifter fit the situation. Baton Rouge? That was stretching it. Red. Dean swallowed and tried not to think of blood. Red, red . . .

House. He startled, gaze drawn to the deep brick-hued house standing at the end of the lane. Not a thing or a memory. Sam was telling him where he was. Dean, come get me.

He clutched his shotgun a little tighter and started running. On my way, Sammy.

The house was a little offset from the rest, a two-story like the others but more opulent somehow, the trim a little fancier, the yard bigger. Blood-red roses grew wildly along either side, and thorns tugged at Dean's jeans as he turned in the front iron gate.

That was when he saw the path that led in through the side, free of brush and apparently well-traveled.

He flew around the house, eyes in constant motion, looking for the threat. Sam had always been a skilled hunter, even when he'd hated the life, and he was scary-good now that he'd thrown himself into it. Nothing run-of-the-mill would have taken him out that quickly and silently. It was probably something invisible, incorporeal, or fast. Possibly even all three.

The side door was shut. And while surprise was a good tactic, Dean didn't have time for it. The door splintered open with one hard kick of his boot.

Sam lay on the floor in the middle of the room.

Not that Dean realized it immediately. It took a few moments to recognize his brother. If the form hadn't been roughly the right shape and size, and smack in Dean's path, he might have given it only a cursory look.

Of course, those terrified eyes would have brought him up short just as fast.

Because they were the only part of Sam that was clearly visible. The rest of him was covered in…something. Greyish, waxy, and translucent, it let Dean see just enough of his brother to know that Sam was naked and all there. Other than that, he was coated in the stuff, trapped with only his eyes betraying any life or movement.

"What the…? God," Dean breathed, an honest prayer, and dropped to his knees beside his brother. "Sam."

Sam was breathing hard, almost panting, through his thankfully unblocked nose, the only sign of life besides his moving eyes. The blown hazel locked onto him as hard as any steel grasp, and Dean's heart clenched when he saw them water.

"Okay." He reached out to touch, recoiled at the slippery feel of the wax or whatever this was. Was that what had Sam so frozen, too? "Okay, I'm…I'm gonna get you out of this, okay? Just give me a minute."

Sam's eyes were pleading with him, begging, and Dean made himself look away because he couldn't bear it.

All right, well, if it was anything like wax, it could peel, right? "Try to relax, Sam," Dean said more reassuringly than he felt. "I'm gonna try something." He hesitated over picking a spot, finally tried the nearest arm. A scratch didn't do anything; digging in managed to gouge off a small patch of the stuff.

Blood welled in its wake, and Sam gurgled.

Dean cursed violently. "I'm sorry. I'm . . . God. Okay, I'm gonna need to get some help, okay? But I'll get you out of this, Sammy, I swear—"

He rolled to a stop as Sam's eyes went impossibly wide, another sound caught deep in his throat.

And Dean knew. He threw himself to one side, something slashing through the space where he'd just been.

Black bulk and berry-round eyes faced him.

Thank God, something to hunt, hurt, kill for doing this to Sam. Dean let the bloodlust sing through his veins, steadying his grip and sharpening his senses. Then with a low growl, he lunged.

The thing fled.

"I'll be back," he barked over his shoulder and went in pursuit.

The creature moved with incredible speed, and it had the advantage of home turf.

But Dean . . . Dean was mad.

00000

Sam was trying to pray, and couldn't seem to get past, Please, God.

Pastor Jim had told him once that if he was scared, he should pray. Sam had been a lot more certain of God back then, but he hadn't forgotten or abandoned the lesson. He was praying more these days than he ever had. But every attempt now was just, Please, God. Please let Dean be okay. Please send him back to get me out of this. Please don't let me lose it completely.

The swings from full-blown terror to just as desperate relief were hard enough without Dean having then taken off after Sam's attacker. There was an occasional thump in the periphery of Sam's hearing, the sound of running and, once, Dean swearing. Otherwise, silence.

Suffocating, maddening, terrifying silence.

His arm ached a little from where Dean had tried to get the wax off, but it was nothing compared to the tight, hot feeling of being sealed inside the skin-tight coating. Sam's leg still stabbed with pain, too, and he sucked in air desperately through his nose, trying not to hyperventilate. But he couldn't stand this much longer. Not with his sanity intact.

He swallowed back a sob, waited, and repeated his two-word mantra in lieu of screaming in his head. Please, God. Please, please . . .

And then Dean was suddenly there again, breathing hard and brushing something black off his face and shirt, but there and real and about as close to an angel as Sam seemed likely to get.

He couldn't feel the hand on his forehead except for its weight, but closed his eyes anyway under it, trying not to bawl like a baby.

"Easy, Sammy," his big brother soothed. "It's dead, you're okay. Try to calm down, all right? I left the paper bag in my other jacket."

He couldn't even nod. Sam concentrated on slowing his gasping breaths, then opened his eyes and blinked past tears to say what he couldn't in words. Thankfully, a look had always been enough between them.

Dean's concerned look retreated a little, and his mouth curved up. "Dude, you know how kinky this looks?"

And Sam would have laughed if he'd been able. He was naked and paralyzed and covered in some kind of funky wax, and compared to the past few months, this was practically normal for them.

He kept focusing on his breathing while he listened to Dean call for help. Sam refused to think about the strangers who would see him this way, or what it would take to get the wax off. All that mattered right now was that Dean was there and he would help. It eased the worst of Sam's panic, until his breathing was down to a blunted wheeze.

"Attaboy," Dean said warmly, hovering now in his line of sight. "Help's on the way, you're gonna be fine."

The pressure relocated to his arm, then the world rolled disconcertingly as Dean turned him onto his side. Huh, he'd thought he was stuck to the floor, and Sam was even more surprised to feel his arm flop with the movement. Paralysis didn't mean frozen in place. The waxy stuff was a coating that flexed with him, not a stiff cast, and that eased a little of his fear, too. Now if he could just move and get it off…

He was gently rolled back, then Dean returned to his line of sight. "Looks like it pulled a Shelob on your leg, dude." At Sam's look, his eyebrow went up. "Lord of the Rings? The freakin' huge spider? Paralyzed Frodo and then wrapped him up. Except you got the wax treatment." A terse laugh. "Trust you to find a spider-bee freak of nature."

His smile suddenly vanished, eyes widening at some thought, and before Sam could even offer an inquiring look, Dean moved down his body, out of sight. Sam could feel the compressions of a few touches, and then…contact. Warm, callused hands rubbing the uncoated bottoms of his feet.

Even as Sam tried to process the ridiculously giddy joy of having his feet massaged, his brother's relieved sigh gusted back to him. "Thank God. Thought for a second you were like that chick in Goldfinger who died 'cause her skin was all covered. Smart spider-bee, I'll give it that." Sam could feel his leg bend, and then Dean stretching, one hand still gripping Sam's foot—did Dean know how desperate he was for touch?—while he slid up as far as he could to stay in Sam's sight.

Sam swallowed, staring past him, eyes sliding shut once more when he felt Dean's hand on his forehead again.

"Try to relax, but don't go to sleep, all right? We don't know what that thing shot you up with. Stay with me, Sammy."

He opened his eyes, looked a message at Dean.

His brother's face, so hard and broken lately, softened with feeling. "Yeah, I know, our kinda awesome luck. It sucks, man, but we'll get through it. And then we'll take some time and regroup, I promise. It's gonna be okay."

It was the first thing Dean said that Sam didn't one hundred-percent believe. But it was also the most reassuring, and he replayed it in his head over and over while help arrived and they whisked him and Dean away.

00000

The doctors were taken aback, to put it mildly.

Dean had tried, he really had, to concoct a story that would explain bringing his little brother in looking like a Madame Tussaud's reject. Shouldn't have been any harder than explaining hoofprints on his own back that one time, or Dad coming in with serious internal injuries and not a mark on him. But considering Dean had called an ambulance out to an abandoned house in a deserted town, and that he had a bad feeling he knew what those weird waxy oblongs scattered around the house were, truth seemed like the best policy for once. They'd just been looking around, got separated, and he'd found Sam that way. Well, sort of the truth. He'd stashed their weapons and gear where no one would find it.

But beyond that, Dean didn't really care about anything except getting this weirdo gunk off Sam and wiping the freaked-out look from his eyes. And thankfully, after some consultation, tests, and oh-so-fun drawing of blood from the sole of Sam's foot, during which he'd nearly started hyperventilating again, the stunned doctors pulled themselves together and dug in. Literally.

"Okay, so the gazillion chemicals they tried that usually work on wax didn't even touch this stuff, and we already know picking at it's a bad idea. New plan is, the hot water's gonna soften up the wax so they can get it off you, okay? They tried a little on your hair—you could feel that, right?—and it looked like it worked."

Dean crept up a little further on the edge of his chair, gaze intent on Sam, who stared at him with tired misery. Dean wasn't sure how much of his touch Sam felt, but he always seemed more frantic without it, so Dean left a hand on his brother's upper arm, squeezing lightly. The wax, or whatever it was, was disgustingly slick against his skin.

"They'll be as careful as they can, but it's probably gonna hurt some. They can't give you painkillers because they don't know what that thing pumped into you, but they'll take it slow, and if you need a break, you let me know, okay?"

A slow blink. Sam looked exhausted, drugged with fatigue and fear, but his eyes tracked Dean's every movement and held a silent plea.

Dean squeezed a little harder. "I'm gonna be here the whole time, Sam. I'm not leaving you alone."

Sam's eyes sagged shut, a soft noise strangling in his throat.

Dean winced. Hate wasn't a strong enough word for what he felt about Sammy going through this, but there was nothing else he could do. If sitting there with him and trying to distract him from this painful humiliation helped, so be it. Dean had done more for less before.

"We're ready," a nurse said softly behind him.

Dean nodded without turning. "Okay, Sammy, you ready for the full body wax treatment?" He mustered a grin, got a near eye roll in return. Not bad.

He helped them lift Sam into the prepared tub, body immersed to his neck and his back propped on an incline. While Sam couldn't tense, his eyes crinkled.

"Too hot?" Dean asked worriedly.

The fine lines eased. No, he read in the hazel.

"Okay, but you tell me if it is. I won't even call you a wuss."

"We're going to start with his face," the same nurse said, and this time Dean did look up.

"No. Start with one of his hands."

"But—"

"Trust me, sweetheart. He needs one of his hands free." Then it was back to Sam, who blinked dully at him. He was looking a little overwhelmed, and Dean's other hand strayed down to the bare, submerged skin of his foot, rubbing his knuckles down its length. Sam's eyes brightened a little, and as the nurses moved in to start peeling, Dean kept up the motion and started in on a story about a Mexican cantina he'd visited while Sam was at school.

He stole oblique glances while the three women who were tasked with de-waxing Sam worked, trying not to wince at the sight. The wax was coming off, but this was like nothing anyone had ever seen before, as the doctors had been quick to point out. It had adhered to the skin more than candle or beeswax, and was taking the top layer with it, leaving behind raw, sunburned-looking dermis behind it.

Sam was actually pretty stoic when it got to pain, but his eyes had always been eloquent. Now, they grew more pinched every minute, and Dean wasn't all that surprised when tears finally broke free to roll down waxen cheeks. He couldn't blame the kid; the pain was just the last straw in what had been an incredibly lousy day. Dean didn't break his narrative, just reached up to thumb the tears away even if Sam probably couldn't feel them.

When one hand was finally bared, Dean hesitated to touch it. "Seriously, Sam, it looks pretty sore."

Please. It couldn't have been clearer. Dean tightened his jaw and took the hand gingerly, wrapping the still-paralyzed fingers around his own. Sam's eyes watered their gratitude, and Dean had to clear his throat before he could tell the nurses they could move on to the face.

The wax there was softened with hot towels, and Dean talked through the process, gaze firmly stuck on Sam's pained eyes. When they finally winced shut, Dean called a stop, waited until Sam was ready again. Then he kept talking.

When the nurses were done with it, Sam's face looked like it had been scoured. His other hand had an area on the back that was so stuck, it bled when they peeled it. His arms fared a little better but still were that rough red, and the mop on his head, while thankfully salvageable, looked like it had the worst case of dandruff ever. The nurses just wanted to cut it, but Dean didn't even need to look at Sam before he said no. The weather was still cool enough for Sam to wear those stupid knit hats he liked while the wax residue wore away.

The rest of his body hair . . . well, Sam would be hearing about that one when he was up for it.

Dean went through every amusing hunt and memory he could think of, hit a few of his sexual triumphs that were fit for mixed company, and had started in on favorite lines of little Sammy by the time the nurses were halfway down his chest.

Sam's hand twitched in his own.

Dean's words tumbled to a stop, and he stared first at the hand, then at Sam. "Do it again," he ordered.

It was a little more controlled this time, pressure as if Sam were trying to grip Dean's hand in return. His grasp grew tighter every minute, and Dean finally broke out in a grin.

"Dude, you're holding my hand!"

Sam's eyes rolled. "Je-erk," he whispered, the word stretched by the bare movement of his lips and throat.

"That any way to talk to your awesome big brother who saved you from becoming a spidey-snack?"

Sam flinched minutely.

Right, Dean thought with immediate contrition. A little too soon for the bug jokes. He smiled warmly instead, leaning in to speak for Sam's ears alone. "You're welcome. Bitch."

If Sam's gaze got any softer, he'd turn into a marshmallow. A really pink, chapped marshmallow.

The tox screens took forever; whatever Sam had been dosed with was probably as alien as the wax. But Dean waited until the doctor finally gave an okay for a sedative, until Sam's wide eyes fluttered shut and he could squirm in discomfort as he slept and the nurses kept working, until his clutch on Dean loosened and slipped free. Then Dean finally climbed up on Sam's clean, dry, unused bed, and stretched a hand across to curl around the inside of his brother's elbow in the water so he'd know if he was needed. And hoping he wouldn't wake up to find he'd wet the bed, Dean let himself doze.

00000

"Vincent Price is friggin' awesome, but Elisha Cuthbert? Dude."

Even though Dean had carefully kept newspapers, TV, and reporters away from him, it didn't take long for Sam to find out they were calling it the House of Wax Killer.

Which, Dean had grumbled when Sam kept asking about it, was stupid because the police had found the body of the creature he'd killed. The cops and scientists had their explanation right there for the dozens of wax-coated, drained husks of bodies that were scattered around the house, and it wasn't a deranged human. Not that the Winchesters knew what it was, either—although Dean was voting for "spider-bee"—but it wasn't invulnerable to Dean's blade and that was all that really mattered. People liked to hang on to their innocence, however, and saw what they wanted to.

But it didn't take Sam long to figure out what the grey objects in the room with him had been, despite Dean's efforts to shield him. The realization of what his own fate would have been soon had him bent over an emesis basin, puking his guts out, Dean's hand contritely, lightly, on his neck. After that, his brother swiftly changed the subject every time it came up.

"Elisha's brother in the movie came after her, too, Dean," Sam had murmured.

It took three days before just lying on the bed in a simple hospital gown wasn't painful and Dean could touch him without making him wince. Not that that had stopped Sam; after feeling nothing but that hard second skin for forever, he craved human contact more than he did lack of pain. Dean seemed to understand, hardly teasing him at all about his newfound touchy-feelyness—although the word "sensitive" had taken on a whole new meaning for them both—and stayed close, grimacing every time Sam did. But Sam mostly slept through the worst of it, through what he suspected were some pretty nasty exfoliations and ice applications and embarrassing cream rubs, his dreams a Freudian nightmare-fest of entrapment symbolism. When he said as much, Dean proceeded to make fun of him for sounding like a geek. But Sam noticed Dean was always in his line of sight when he woke, even when his brother looked as exhausted as Sam felt, and roused with him every single time.

"Chad Michael Murray came after Elisha because they were sleeping together," Dean pointed out in response to Sam's mushiness.

When Sam could stand to wear real clothes, Dean broke him out and took him to one of the nicer motels they'd ever stayed in, with an almost decent bed. He was itchy and sore and still so friggin' tired, it was another few days before Sam was aware enough to realize how relatively comfortable he was. It took even longer to coax out that Dean had gone through a whole linen store by feel, picking the softest blankets and sheets he could find, then checking out two motels before he found one with beds that weren't boards.

"They were not sleeping together."

"Dude, did you see the way they looked at each other? They so were."

Sam let his brother trim his hair—just the most stubbornly waxy parts—as Dean had been itching to do, and knew that would be taken as the thanks it was meant to be. The haircut even looked fairly decent, reminding him of their childhood when Dean had been his barber.

"If that's a hint or something, forget it, man. I don't do incest."

Dean had grinned at him. "Hey, I've already seen you naked, remember? And waxed. I've got enough to try to scour out of my brain."

"Don't remind me," Sam groaned. Sometimes it was the most annoying thing ever, being the little brother.

And sometimes it was pretty nice to be looked after.

Dean didn't remind him. Bought him wax bottles and wax lips and scented candles and honeycombs, leaving them in Sam's duffel to be unsuspectingly found later on, but didn't say another word about it unless Sam brought it up.

And then there were moments when he thought Dean needed this more than he did. Taking care of Sam had given Dean a purpose again, distraction from the grief that choked both of them when they had too much time to think. It was delay, not dealing, but it was a break they both needed, and if Sam leaned a little harder on his big brother for the week or so while he healed up, well, Dean seemed up for the job.

Because some things, even after all they'd been through, maybe because of all they'd been through, hadn't changed at all.

The End