St. Peter's Catholic Church was a massive stone architecture with small spires at the four cardinal points and a steepled roof. Even on a Wednesday, there were still many cars parked out back in the huge parking lot.

"Thought churches were going out of style," Dean grumbled behind the wheel. Sam heaved an exasperated sigh. They parked far away from the back entrance, in a fairly secluded patch of dead grass just under the eaves of a large tree.

"Gotta suit up," Dean said, getting out and taking his bag from the trunk. Sam got out as well, still gripping the shotgun tightly. He glanced at it, then tossed it down in the seat as Dean climbed in the back seat, starting to undress. Sam paced, willing himself not to look in one of the windows. He couldn't have imagined that being an issue any time before, and wondered why it was now.

His eyes betrayed him and he stole a brief glance to the back end of the car. He caught a glimpse of long, tanned legs before they slipped into a pair of dress slacks. Sam gulped and looked away quickly. What the hell?

Soon, Dean was emerging from the black car, looking like he stepped out of a Giorgio Armani photo shoot. "Your turn, Sasquatch," he tossed to a flustered Sam.

The younger Winchester grabbed his bag from the trunk, suddenly overly self-conscious, and climbed into the backseat. He laid down on the warm leather interior and had to pull up his legs due to the confining space. He first wrestled out of his jacket, then his pants. He had to be careful not to stretch the expensive fabric of his dress slacks. Once they were on, he pried off his shirts, sitting up slightly and grabbing for his undershirt. That's when he glanced out the window.

Dean was staring at him. Wide green eyes, the pupil almost swallowing the color. Sam was acutely aware that the top half of his body was completely naked as shivers wracked his whole frame. Then the moment was gone as Dean quickly looked away, scanning the area for anyone else. Sam couldn't control his breathing as he finished getting dressed.

He practically tumbled out of the Impala, straightening and fixing his tie sloppily as he pointedly did not look at his brother, who couldn't hide the tinge of pink on his cheeks. The air between them was as heavy and charged as the atmosphere before a huge storm. Sam ignored it for now as best he could, tossing Dean his fake ID and walking out of the clearing as quickly as possible. He didn't want to dwell on what just happened minutes before.

It didn't take the brothers long at all to get directions from easy churchgoers and find the pastor's office. The pastor turned out to be a fifty-something year old man with a manicured beard and a smile so wide it stretched across his face. He had salt and pepper hair and was wearing a navy blue suit and tie.

Once all three were seated in the office, Sam launched into the formalities, his silvertongue handy as he explained that they were from the FBI and that they had to "cover some bases". Through a series of routine questions, the two brothers learned that all of the victims had either been regular churchgoers or visited at least once.

"I remember young Annie," the pastor said, his face saddening. "She'd had her kids with her, all four of them rambunctious and… not the best behaved. I'd offered her help..."

While the pastor launched into a story, Dean tuned out and looked around the office. Framed pictures lined the wall behind the pastor's head, forming a short line. One picture in particular caught his eye, and he nudged Sam's shoulder, ignoring the tingle the action gave him and the soft grunt he received.

"Sorry, Father," Dean started, interrupting the pastor mid-speech. "But I'm a little curious. Who are all those people in the pictures up there?" He nodded to the row of framed pictures, and as Sam ran his eyes over them, his gaze caught on one and understanding bloomed on his features.

"Oh, those? They're all the previous pastors who ran this church," the pastor said, appraising the line of black and white, then colored photographs, the one on the end being a picture of himself. The picture before his was strikingly familiar. Salt white hair, no makeup, and the gaudy cross that the Winchesters had seen not an hour ago.

"Can you tell me about the pastor in charge before you?" Sam asked with a hint of urgency in his voice.

"Mother Mary Eunace," the Father told them, not at all phased by their impatience. "She became the head of the church some time in the forties, I think. Everyone loved her, including myself. I apprenticed under her for the last ten years of her life."

"What happened to her?" Dean asked.

"She met an awful end. My heart hurts just thinking about it..." The brothers shared a glance as the pastor went on.

"She was found on the very steps of the church, dead. Someone had shot her in cold blood."

"When we're done with this, I think I'd like to pay my respects to her. Do you know where she's buried, by any chance?" Sam asked.

The two all but ran out of the office after getting the location and thanking the pastor.

Sam yawned for probably the fifth time in two minutes. He was having trouble focusing on anything as he held the flashlight out in front of him. It was currently midnight, and he and Dean were scouring the burial grounds in search of one Mother Mary Eunace.

"Sam, over here," Dean's voice sounded from about fifty feet to his right. Sam guessed Dean found the grave. He started over toward his brother, but suddenly his breath ghosted out and goosebumps erupted all along his body. His sleep-deprived mind barely had the time to act as he whirled the shotgun and blasted a pissed off Mary Eunace into thin air. He ran over toward Dean, who was barking orders at him.

"Damn it! Sam, cover me as I dig this bitch up," he said hurriedly, then got to work, shoveling as fast as he could. Sam picked up an iron crowbar from Dean's bag and duel-wielded it with the shotgun. In the next ten minutes, he fought her off a couple more times, but his reflexes were slowing, his movements becoming sluggish. Each swing of the crowbar left him a little more drained, and he started panicking internally. He risked a glance at the grave. Dean was only halfway done.

"Damn it," he said tiredly. The ghost appeared right behind Dean, and Sam's muscles ached, threatening to give out as he swung the crowbar hard and fast, carving her in two sparking halves.

"C'mon, eyes open Sammy!" Dean yelled. His face was twisted into a scowl as he shoveled dirt as fast as he could, the muscles in his arms and back screaming painfully. He tried his damndest to ignore it, though, because his Sammy's life was on the line. With that thought in his head, and the shrieking insults of the ghost in his ears, he shoveled even harder, gasping and choking out curses.

Sam barely heard Dean's shout. He was focusing solely on the ghost, who had taken to appearing and disappearing randomly and calling him a murderer. He heard the unmistakable sound of a shovel hitting wood, and Dean's yelp of triumph, and he had a burst of renewed energy, fueled by the hope that they were going to get out of this alive.

Dean scooped out as much dirt as possible before cracking open the lid to the coffin. He heard Sam inching closer and closer, driven back by the ghost. He grabbed the salt, dumping it unceremoniously over the corpse and searching around for the lighter fluid. He found it and began squirting it on the musty bones.

Sam was tired, so tired. By this time, his vision had blurred and he was a staggering mess. The ghost had stopped calling him murderer, but was now whispering evil things about Jess into the air. Saying how she didn't need to die, that he had left her alone and she had died a meaningless, pointless death. Sam's eyes stung with either tears or sweat; he wasn't sure. Mother Mary Eunace was dancing around the air, rasping out how Sam had brought the evil to her and how she was utterly defenseless against it. Sam was so, so tired.

Suddenly, the ghost appeared and knocked Sam into the grave, right under the spray of lighter fluid Dean was soaking the bones with. The liquid splashed against his clothes and hair, soaking in and getting into his mouth. Dean stopped abruptly, shouting Sam's name and hauling him up while he gagged. The ghost was nowhere to be found.

"Help me up," he said tiredly as he scrabbled at the dirt walls surrounding them, wanting to get up and out. Dean helped him, wincing as his sore muscles were pushed to the limit again. Finally, Sam clawed at the grass surrounding the grave and managed to haul his tired body out. He staggered upright, snatching up the crowbar and breathing heavily, trying to get the spinning in his head to stop. When he did, he was flung against the nearest tree. White hot pain bloomed swiftly across his back as he connected with the trunk and crumpled to the ground.

Dean pawed at the ground frantically, looking for the lighter he knew should have been there…

Sam stared in dawning horror as Mary Eunace flicked open the lighter in her hand. That must have been her plan when she knocked him into the grave, Sam thought dumbly. The metallic stench of the lighter fluid on his body was burning his nostrils, just as the small flame that flickered out of the lighter seared into his retinas. Cold dread filled his stomach, coiling low until he thought he was going to be sick. Flashes of Jess' face loomed behind his eyes, of the red hot flames that consumed her whole. Fire. She was going to burn him.

"Look at it this way, Sam," Mary Eunace said, her raspy voice suddenly soft. "You always kind of wanted to die anyway." Her face was sad as she said this, almost as if she pitied him. Sam's chest heaved with fear and he frantically looked over to see Dean, frozen inside the grave, watching everything with a stricken look on his face. The sorrow and the fear Sam felt was etched into Dean's features.

"No," he mumbled softly, still staring at Dean. "I don't want to die." He looked up at the ghost, at the fury painted on her face. No, she was wrong. Sam wanted to live, because he had something to live for. He'd be letting down someone very important if he died. He watched the lighter fall almost amazingly fast, heard the ghost's satisfied sneer, and rolled with all he was worth to the side at the last minute. The lighter dropped to the grass inches from his waist, and his mind processed for a second that he wasn't in flames. He smiled and lunged for the lighter, grabbing it up and screaming Dean's name.

Dean was scrambling up out of the grave when he heard his name. He looked up to see Sam not burning. His chest constricted painfully, and he barely caught the lighter as it was thrown his way. Immediately, he flicked it open and as the ghost charged at him in a deadly rage, he dropped the lighter into the grave. There was a second when the flames caught that Mary's face softened, and then she burst into supernatural flames.

Mother Mary Eunace was no more.

Sam peeled off his damp clothes, tossing the lighter fluid soaked cloth into the garbage. His back ached painfully as he moved it, and he winced. He stepped under the hot spray, replaying the night in his head. After the hunt, they'd driven back to the motel in complete silence. Sam remembered the white knuckle grip Dean had on the steering wheel, and the way he would glance every so often at Sam, as if wanting to make sure he was still there.

Sam began lathering down his body, getting off as much of the lighter fluid stink as possible. He already knew he was going to be getting a headache something fierce. As he was washing his hair, thoughts of Jess began swirling, making sick little butterflies in his stomach. He couldn't go there, not now, not ever. The things he heard from Mary Eunace shouldn't have bothered him, but the thing was that she was right. And Sam had known it all along, but someone saying it out loud had solidified the truth and there was no running away from the guilt.

His thoughts terrified him, and he scrubbed at his hair with more force than necessary.

Once out of the shower and into a fresh pair of boxers, pants, and a thin cotton shirt, he made his way out of the bathroom. "Shower's open," he said. It was the first thing he'd said to Dean since they'd burned the ghost. Dean was at the table, downing a shot of what looked like whiskey.

"We're gonna talk first," he said, completely sober. He leveled his eyes with Sam's, and for once the younger of the two obeyed without resisting. He sat down gingerly in the chair, mindful of his back.

"...Yeah?"

Dean looked down into his empty shot glass for a few moments, organizing in his mind what it was he wanted to say. Finally, he opted for the direct approach.

"You need to get over her."

"Easy for you to say," Sam said automatically, and acid ate at the edges of the statement. It took him not even a second to guess who "her" was. She was the one he was trying his absolute hardest to not think about, especially right now. He didn't want to have this conversation. He found it unfair that whenever Dean didn't want to talk about something, he could clam up and ignore it until it went away.

"I'm serious, Sam." Dean's voice held an edge of impatience. "You almost got yourself killed tonight! Is that even hitting home for you?"

It wasn't, not really, but Sam figured eventually the post-hunt endorphins would wear off and he'd be left facing even more guilt than ever before. At Sam's blank look Dean scowled and poured himself another shot. He paused before downing it, and Sam had the fleeting thought that maybe he was getting buzzed so he'd have the strength to have this conversation. Then the thought vanished. Dean was a damn pillar of strength. He didn't have to rely on anyone or anything.

"Look, I know you feel guilty about Jess' death, but come on, man. It's eating you alive." And this time, his voice didn't hold impatience. It held desperation. Sam looked at Dean full on. His older brother had his expression carefully schooled so as to not give any emotion away, but his eyes betrayed him. Dean was scared.

Dean was scared. And it was all Sam's fault.

Sam buried his face in his hands. His gut was wrenching uncomfortably and he really didn't want to have this conversation. If you could call this one-sided lecture a conversation. He huffed a breath, and tried to get something out, to try and convey at least partially what he was feeling.

"I'll try," Sam said softly. "But Dean, I did kill her. Let's leave it at that. I don't-" He cut off his own sentence. I don't want to think about it.

Dean nodded, not satisfied but confident this whole situation will get better over time. But then he looked at Sam's face. The shadows under those brilliant hazel eyes were more pronounced than ever, and his face looked gaunt, even though he was eating just fine. He was still beautiful, no doubt about it, but Sam was always beautiful. Now, he looked wrung out.

"Come on," he said, getting up from the table and putting a hand on Sam's back. He'd meant to steer Sam to one of the beds, but Sam whirled, and was up in Dean's personal space in a heartbeat. Dean saw Sam's head bending forward, hazel eyes coming closer and closer, and then a pair of searing hot lips attached themselves to Dean's. The world bottomed out.

Sam was kissing him. What-

The kiss only lasted for a second, and Sam pulled away.

"I'm so sorry, Dean, I'm sorry-" Then he leaned back in and pressed his lips against Dean's again, and Dean's mind was whirling. Something clenched and roiled low in his belly, and this was wrong, but maybe Sam was so out of it he didn't know what he was doing…

Sam muttered a litany of I'm sorry into Dean's pliant lips and wondered why Dean wasn't pulling away. He pulled back and stared fearfully at Dean, waiting for his disgust to show itself. He totally deserved it, he knew, that and more because of Jess, and his dream this morning, and peeking in the Impala's windows, and the butterflies he was having…

But Dean was looking at him a totally different way. He looked more confused than Sam had ever seen him before in his life. He looked unsure of himself. And it was Sam's fault again.

"God, Dean, I'm so sorry," he said, half pleading, and ran both hands through his hair. Dean was staring at his face the whole time, not really seeing anything, sorting out his feelings, his thoughts.

Dean had come to a decision. It was a shaky decision, but his Sammy was a wreck, and he obviously needed this, they both did. He looked into Sam's face, seeing the turmoil there, and suddenly felt the need to do anything to wipe that look from his face. Sam didn't deserve to feel this bad over Jess, over a kiss, over anything, really.

Lightning sparks erupted from where Dean grasped Sam by the back of the neck, bringing their lips together again. The fact that he was able to do this, that Sam wasn't a piece of charcoal right now, fueled Dean's desperation as he tried to kiss all of Sam's troubles away. Sam was alive, and he was Dean's.

Sam made a small noise in the back of his throat as he kissed back, molding his body to Dean's in an effort to get closer. The fact that they were brothers, that this was dirtybadwrongincest escaped his mind the moment Dean threaded his thick fingers through his hair. Dean's tongue pushed its way into his mouth and he tasted the whiskey that was probably making this easier on Dean.

Dean was always in control. So when Sam was pushed back against the counter in the kitchen, he wasn't half surprised. Large hands raked across his lower back and ass and a low groan bubbled up from his chest. Dean pulled back from Sam's lips with a dirty suckling noise and froze, still not quite comprehending why he was doing this, and why the hell he was okay with it.

Sam's pupils were huge, the black almost blocking out the gorgeous hazel. He was breathing raggedly, still pressed flush to the counter and gripping the edges for dear life. And Dean still had his hands on his little brother's firm ass. He slid a hand around a jutting hipbone, and up and under his shirt to feel the compact muscles there, experimentally.

"Dean..." Sam said brokenly, and a wave of white hot arousal swamped him. He crowded into Sam's space again, dipping to press his lips to an exposed collarbone and heard Sam's stilted intake of breath. He moved up to his neck and felt Sam's pulse thundering away. And damn if his heart wasn't working overtime too.

Unsure of his own movements, he brought a hand down to cup the growing bulge in the front of Sam's jeans, feeling heat and hardness there. Sam gasped and jerked his hips up into Dean's hand, grinding and moaning filthy low in Dean's ear. The sound seemed to break something in Dean, and he grabbed his brother's hips and pressed them flush against his own. Dean's clothed erection rubbed against Sam's, and sent shocks of pleasure racing up his spine and coiling low in his belly.

Dean started really grinding against Sam, and suddenly all thoughts fled either brother's head. There was no Jess, or taboo, or vengeful ghosts. It was all need and lust and carnal desire, and the friction felt so good…

Sam was making noises in Dean's ear, little moans and thready pleas, and his hands fought to find purchase in Dean's short hair. Dean picked up the pace, rolling his hips filthily and muttering curses into Sam's throat. If he was capable of any coherent thought, he'd know he was leaving bruises on Sam's hips, but neither one of them cared. He sneaked a hand back behind and into Sam's loose pants, fingers sneaking past boxers and down into the crease between his ass cheeks. Sam let loose a moan that filled the small kitchenette and coiled painfully between Dean's hips.

Sam's body was on fire. He felt his orgasm coming all too soon, pooling down between his hips and making precum soak through his boxers. Then Dean's fingers found their way to his hole, rubbing the tight ring of flesh, and he hurtled over the edge. His eyes slammed shut as he came, gasping Dean's name desperately and clinging to him to keep from sliding to the floor. Dean followed soon after, shuddering violently and letting a filthy moan slip from his throat as his rhythm faded out.

The two were left breathless and boneless, leaning against each other for support for a long minute. Sam was almost content for them to just stand there, breathing the same air, but then Dean straightened up and escorted Sam on wobbling legs to one of the beds.

Sam collapsed onto the bed, sated and so very tired. His mind wanted to stay awake, to ponder what just happened, and what happened during the hunt, and what happened when Jess died, but his mind and his body were fucked out. He expected Dean to go over to the other bed, but he plopped down next to Sam, the both of them crowding together on the tiny motel bed.

Dean sighed tiredly, and wound a hand through Sam's hair. He still had his boots and jacket on, smelled like dirt and sweat, and the front of his jeans were sticky with cum, but he just didn't care. He could take care of it all tomorrow.

Because right then he saw Sam pass out almost instantly into a blissful sleep, and for the first time since Jess' death, his face was completely peaceful.