Warnings: Incest

Disclaimer: I am neither Kripke, nor Warner Brothers.

Beta: Frayen

Author�s Notes: My thanks to the reviewers who encouraged this continuation.

When his shotgun fired six times in a row without reloading, Dean thought he had this level of Hell figured out. Limitless ammo, limitless demons. They�d keep coming after him and Sam indefinitely, slavering and clawing, but Dean and Sam would never run out of ammunition and therefore, no one could really gain ground. Maybe it was Hell for the demons too, ravenous and stuck with two tasty human morsels within reach, but never getting close enough for a bite.

�Sam?!� Dean yelled. He risked a glance behind him to see how Sam was coming along, busting a hole through the floor by the far wall. He turned back around just in time to blast a blue fanged demon in the face before it got too strong a hold on his jacket.

�Almost there!� Sam shouted back. �There! There, I�m there! C�mon!�

A last shot fired point blank and Dean turned. �Go on! Get down!� With his free hand, Dean waved Sam on. After only a second�s hesitation, Sam obeyed, dropping through the hole and disappearing into blackness. Dean felt a claw slice across his side and leapt through right after his brother.

He hit the floor hard and wondered how much damage he was doing to his shins in this excursion. They might need to lay low and recoup for a few days after this, just until the splitting pain went away.

�Sorry, sorry!� The apologetic cry came before Dean could even get to his feet, shotgun ready, and it wasn�t Sam who said it.

In fact, Sam was gone. Dean felt rage and panic surge through his veins; he did not like this level of Hell at all.

�Sorry,� the voice said again, �I wanted to be done before you got here. It�ll only be a moment.�

Dean scanned the room, looking for the voice�s origin, and saw a figure dressed all in black. The figure stood. Dean trained the shotgun muzzle at its head and found himself sighting a wiry, large-nosed boy with black dyed hair and eye makeup. The classic suburban goth boy, in a brown and yellow apron. Dean�s aim faltered as he stared.

He steadied his shot again when he glanced down and saw that this nerdy little goth boy held an oven-hot cookie tray in his bare hands. �Where are they?� Dean demanded. Seemed a decent question to start with even though it was hardly the first one he had.

�They�re almost done,� the boy said. He set the tray down on a cooling rack over the linoleum counter.

Dean tsked impatiently, rolling his eyes. �Not the cookies, man! The kids. My � my � the guy I was with? Where are they?� Dean didn�t know why he concealed who Sam was. Most demons could read minds, so this guy probably already knew, but that lingering protectiveness remained. No need to reveal it was a brother bond to be manipulated, and no need to give a name to someone who could still go on the offensive in anonymity. Names held power.

�Oh, they�re just in the other room,� the boy replied.

Dean peered around, wary and aware of his surroundings, but he saw no other door; no other entrance at all, save the hole he�d left in the ceiling. He sidestepped to the left, never lowering his gun. He needed to case the room, find its weaknesses. He glanced around a corner to his left in the cavern and saw only what appeared to be a homey breakfast nook. Dean stared for too long a moment in confusion. Down, down, down, they�d gone, for the better part of an hour. This had to be the ninth or tenth level they�d been on, and he didn�t have Sam with him to tell him how many levels of Hell literature agreed there were. But Dean supposed this could be the center, or very near. However little it looked like it.

Dean turned back to the boy, wincing as the scratches on his side stretched. Over the stove hung a wooden placard that read, �If you can�t stand the heat, stay out of my kitchen.�

�Who the hell are you?� Dean asked.

The boy looked up at him, strikingly pretty green eyes on a plain face, and thick black eye shadow up to his too-thin brows. �Who do you think?�

�Oh, yeah?� Dean huffed out a laugh. �Well, you don�t exactly look the part.�

�Don�t I?� The boy frowned a moment, then cast a look down at his non-threatening adolescent body. �I�m wearing black,� he said with a shrug. The boy � the Devil, Dean figured � busied himself scooping up the hot cookies and placing them gently into the Tupperware container where they settled softly against one another and continued to steam. �So, what�s your name, young man?�

Dean ignored the strangeness of being called �young man� by someone who looked younger than Sam. �Shouldn�t you know?�

The boy looked up with green eyes shrewd and narrowed like an irritated librarian�s. �We can do it that way, Dean, but I was trying to be polite. It�s rude to take what isn�t offered to you. And speaking of rude, son, you can put that shotgun down any time. I�m not going to hurt you.�

�And I should believe that, why?�

�I don�t lie.�

Dean snorted and left his gun right where it was. �Now see, I heard you were the Father of Lies.�

The Devil seemed unfazed and breathed a cooling breath across the hot cookies. �Everyone changes.�

�So now you can�t lie?�

�I can. I don�t.�

�New leaf?�

�Competent groundwork.� He peered up from the cookies and winked a dark eye.

�So, what, you gonna tell me you�re really a good guy?� Dean asked. �Or you gonna tell me it�s about the bureaucracy and you�re just doing a job? Or maybe that the world needs balance, so it needs all the bad, huh? Which is it?�

�Those are all viable theories.� The Devil sighed lowly as he continued to separate cookies from the sheet. �What do you believe, dear?�

�I think you�re an evil son of a bitch who hurts and kills people for your sick, twisted kicks, that�s what I think.�

The boy nodded and popped part of a broken cookie into his black-lined mouth. �Do you think I should make sandwiches too?� he asked. �I�m afraid the children will be so hungry and it can be a long walk.� The Devil turned to the breadbox on the counter.

Dean didn�t move. He kept his gun at the ready. �You don�t have anything to say to that, huh?�

The boy sighed again, skinny shoulders raising and lowering as he rifled through bags of bread. �Considering the information at your disposal, it�s a reasonable conclusion for you to have come to, and honestly, son, I know this is a big opportunity for you and you�ve got hundreds of questions you�d like answered, but I�m tired.� He turned from the bread and faced Dean with a politely weary expression. �I�m asked the same questions every time someone finds out who I am, and even if you did understand everything I said, there�s a good chance you�d never believe me � competent groundwork and all � so maybe we can just agree to get along until lunch is ready and I�ll send you on your way.� The Devil looked back to the breadbox and pulled out a fresh-looking loaf in a colorful bag.

Dean stared, jaw lax, and he had no idea, absolutely none whatsoever, what to make of this situation. Nothing in his father�s journal even came close to covering this. He tried to rally up the strength and indignation he thought he�d have when faced with the Devil. After all, this was the bastard behind everything evil that happened. But Dean could only stand there looking at him in confused shock. That was how it worked, he supposed; that was how the Devil tricked people. He became something that sparked no anger, no righteousness, and so standing before him, people just felt it would be rude to shout.

Slowly, Dean lowered his weapon. At any moment, this kid could become a wild, winged beast and chew through his spine, but Dean didn�t think he would. It would be impolite. �So, you�re just gonna let us take the kids?� he asked.

�Of course. I don�t need them anymore. They�re all just fine and ready to go home. They�ll be hungry, though, I reckon. You probably are too; you�ve been here quite a while. Here.� The boy grabbed up one of the perfectly round cookies and walked toward Dean.

Dean tensed and gripped his gun securely, even as he kept it lowered. The boy wore high, thick-heeled black boots with laces and buckles up to the knee that jutted out just beneath the cow and cornfield print of his apron. His shoulders were bare and sharply angular.

As he placed the steaming hot treat in Dean�s open palm, the boy grinned with awkwardly large teeth. He had the smile of a horse. The fresh gingersnap steamed against Dean�s skin and he hissed.

�Oh, I�m sorry,� the boy said. �I forget how hot they are.�

Without thinking, Dean shoved the cookie into his mouth to relieve his hand. It was hot on his tongue before it occurred to him that it was probably bad practice to eat cookies made in Hell.

But it was too late, so he chewed, and he had to bite back a moan at the flavor. He warily watched the boy as he returned to the kitchen counter, ready for any sudden movements, even as his eyes rolled back in his head in pleasure.

�How do they taste?� the boy asked hopefully.

Dean shrugged nonchalantly and hoped the look of ecstasy on his face didn�t translate.

�I hope they�re good.� The Devil smiled his wide, horsy smile again and continued with the bread. �I�ve been trying to get the recipe right for ages. All right. Sandwiches. Let me see what I�ve got.� The boy turned to the 50s-style refrigerator with a black swish. �Peanut butter and jelly is a classic, isn�t it?�

Dean tried to respond through a mouthful of cookie, but didn�t quite manage much beyond a vaguely affirmative mumble.

�What sort of jelly? Everyone has a different opinion on this.�

Dean licked the last of the ginger crumbs from his fingers and lips and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as he watched the Devil dig through his fridge.

�Red raspberry, strawberry, grape,� the Devil continued. �I even know someone who makes it with apple butter, but that seems too sweet to me. And I like sweet, believe you me.� The boy gestured casually as he shifted through the assorted jars and containers in the fridge. Then abruptly, he stood and turned his attention to Dean. �What did your mother use, dear?�

Dean felt struck still, tongue out to catch a bit of sugar at the corner of his mouth. �Uh � she � I don�t know.�

�You do.� The dark-lidded eyes watched him with compassion. �You can tell me. I won�t take it unless you want me to.�

Dean swallowed and wiped at his mouth again. �Grape. Just cheap grape jelly.�

The Devil smiled that alarmingly likeable smile and spun back to the refrigerator where he pulled out a plain little jar of shiny purple jelly. It was the exact sort of jar Dean�s mother had used, with the little cartoon grape on the label wearing sneakers and a big smile. As far as Dean knew, it was a generic brand only sold in Kansas.

A lump started to form in Dean�s throat; he hadn�t even known he remembered that jar until he saw it, and when he did, he suddenly recalled sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich and having a silly conversation with that stupid little cartoon grape while his mother washed the dishes at the sink behind him. It was at their house in Lawrence. Her movements cast shifting patterns of sun and shade across the Formica tabletop as she stood in front of the window in the morning sun. It was a memory Dean could never have gotten on his own. He could only have been three years old when it happened. And seeing it, feeling it so boldly in his chest, it felt like a gift.

�What the hell are you?� Dean whispered. His heart ached beneath his ribcage.

The boy smiled gently, enigmatically, but he didn�t say anything in reply. His eyes were kind. �White or wheat?� he said. �What�s your preference?�

�Uh, white.� Dean cleared his throat. �But wheat�s healthier.�

�Hmm.� The boy stood over the counter, a black-tipped fingernail to his full lips. �Good point. Perhaps some of each, then.� He pulled another loaf of wrapped bread from the breadbox. �Would you like to help me with the sandwiches? It will go much faster with both of us.�

Dean stared for a few seconds, feeling deflated down to his soul, not even able to muster the anger to be angry with himself for not being angry, for not being more guarded and suspicious. He walked over to the counter and awkwardly leaned his gun against it, holding it in place with his leg. He reached for the simple package of Wonder Bread only to have his hand batted away with a gentle slap.

�Wash your hands first,� the Devil said. �You�ve been carting that gun around and I really don�t think it�s clean.�

�It�s clean,� Dean said, affronted.

The Devil pursed his lips. �Clean for a gun is not clean enough for a sandwich.�

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but decided the boy had a point and turned to the sink. He set his gun on top of the counter by the dish drainer and scrubbed his hands with the citrus scented dish soap. He felt a bit sheepish to see the suds turn grey and dirty on his skin before the water washed them clean.

Taking position beside the Devil, Dean opened the jar of jam with a pop, picked up a spoon, and started liberally applying the fruity stuff to a piece of white bread. The smell reminded him madly of his mother.

�So, tell me what you�ve seen while you�ve been here. I�d love to hear,� the Devil said conversationally.

Dean glanced over at him and decided that he was going to think this was weird one last time and then be done with it. �Yeah, about that,� he said. �I gotta say, not real impressed with Hell here, Beelzebub.�

�You�re not experiencing it in its proper context. You have a reasonable hope of leaving. It�s the endlessness of it, son.�

�Yeah, well.� Dean breathed out a laugh. �We saw the girly pink cavern you have here. That didn�t seem too terrifying, endless or not.� He lost himself in his chuckle.

The Devil looked over at him. �You can make fun of that all you want; if that was here, it was here because of you.� Dean stopped laughing and let his mocking smile slowly fade as the boy continued, �This place is sort of like the Holodeck on Star Trek. Or the Matrix, if that�s more to your liking, and you have no idea how delighted I was when Hollywood imagined those two. It makes it so much easier to explain.�

�So Hell is, what, personalized?�

The Devil nodded. �It wouldn�t work any other way, would it? Think about it.�

Dean turned his attention to the bread in his hand, coating each slice with jelly before placing it atop one the Devil had spread with peanut butter. He remembered too clearly the Turkish Bath part of Hell. And he knew, he knew, the Devil was telling the truth on that score: what hell he saw had been decided by him.

He�d deny it left and right, up and down, but sometimes the urge to hug and kiss Sammy was so overwhelming, Dean would have to step away, drive off, do whatever he had to to not do it. And it had only gotten worse in the last few weeks, during these last, great losses when it seemed Dean and Sam were just two small figures standing against an enormous wave of nothing but evil and pain. The desire could fall right on the heels of an argument or something truly annoying that Sam had just done, and it would suddenly be there as an ache in Dean�s chest, a phantom touch along his arms that told him how it would feel to hold his brother close and how badly he wanted to do it. The latter bit he could handle. That he wanted to bodily protect Sammy he could understand; he�d been doing it since he was a kid, was nearly raised to do little else in this life; but the kissing he couldn�t fathom. Sam was his kid brother, he was irritating and frustrating and a thousand other unalluring things besides, even if Dean could admit, clinically, Sam had grown up to at least bring no shame to the Winchester name with his looks.

But those good looks didn�t hit Dean physically the way Cassie�s did, or the way a dozen hot waitresses and truck stop duchesses� did; when he looked at those bodies, he felt flat-out carnal heat and desire. He didn�t feel that when he looked at Sam. Not the same sort at any rate. He felt fervent when he looked at Sam, energized and ready at any moment to run into a burning building � or the jaws of Hell � to keep him safe. He felt utterly capable of dying for Sam no matter the circumstances, which was something he�d not felt for Cassie or any of those waitresses, no matter how much he might have wanted to.

�So we make our own levels of Hell, right?� Dean asked, unaware of how long the silence had really stretched, but there were nearly a dozen finished sandwiches on the plate in front of them. The Devil had opened a new bag of bread.

�Mm-hmm.�

�If there were two people, would it, like � how would it choose which person? How would it know what hell to make up?�

�The hells you saw were shared,� the Devil said simply.

�They were � what?� Dean turned an accusing eye on the scrawny boy next to him. �I thought you didn�t take what wasn�t offered.�

�You�re standing right next to me and thinking very loudly.� The boy flopped down a piece of peanut buttered bread in frustration. �Can you really steal from someone if they shove their money in your pockets?�

�Sorry.� Dean placed a slice of bread atop the Devil�s tossed piece, absently lining up the perfect dips in the bread�s crust. He recalled too vividly seeing men with brotherly resemblances touching one another, kissing with their hands trailing wildly, passionately over each other�s bodies. The image settled heavily in his gut. �So what we saw, that � that one part � that was for both of us?�

�Yes, though it was rather mild. Only the third level.� The boy scooped out the last of his peanut butter and spread it across the piece of bread in his palm. �I think I need another jar.�

�You�re putting it on too thick.�

The Devil stopped mid-turn. �Am I?

�Yeah.� Dean gestured toward the sandwiches. �It�ll overpower the jelly.�

�Oh.� The Devil looked over the already finished sandwiches. �Well, I�ll try to use it more sparingly. Should we remake the others?�

�Nah, don�t worry about it. I�ll make sure they get to the kids who really like peanut butter.�

�Thank you.� The Devil returned to the counter and began coating another slice of bread. Dean glanced over and smirked to see he was spreading it much thinner this time.

His smirk faded when he remembered the course of their conversation. He coughed a bit. He wanted answers, information, and surely this wasn�t the Devil�s usual course of questioning. �So third level, that�s not a big deal?�

The Devil smiled like he knew something Dean didn�t. Which he probably did. �Not really. Minor sins.�

Dean snorted. �You�re kidding.�

�That would be a bit like lying, now, wouldn�t it?� The Devil smirked and Dean couldn�t help but return the expression.

Dean focused his attention back on the bread slice in his palm, smoothing the purple jelly over the surface, careful to paint it to every edge. �Wait, so � I don�t � I don�t get that. How can that not be a big sin? I thought there was all sorts of stuff against...it.�

The Devil let out a soft sigh and lifted his eyes from the sandwiches. Wounded frustration shown in the green and Dean suddenly realized that this guy looked a little like the sort of person they�d help; he looked helpless and very close to hopeless. He looked exhausted to his bones. With a composing sniffle, the Devil returned his attention to the sandwiches. �Everything is so much more complex than I can ever explain to you, Dean. And you don�t live long enough to dawdle in giving thanks for one another.�

�I get that,� Dean said softly, not wanting to upset the boy more than necessary. �I mean, I just thought...well...it�s � it�s kinda...sick.�

�Are you sure it�s what you think it is?�

Dean dared a glance over at the Devil next to him. He didn�t like the vulnerability in his own gaze, so he looked away again, digging the spoon into the jelly. �What else could it be? I don�t think about � you know � very often unless I want to � humhm,� Dean coughed, �follow through.�

The boy smiled warmly through a wet sheen in his eyes, highly amused. �You see everything in black and white, don�t you?�

Dean shrugged in reply.

�Ah,� the Devil said fondly. �You see everything in black and white and yet, there you are, living knee-deep in the grey. It�s very cute.�

�It�s not cute.�

�Think of your motives, young man. What do you really think of doing?�

�I don�t know.� Dean�s hand was sticky with jam and he turned the spoon idly in the purple goo. �It�s not like I wanna...� he trailed off, letting his reluctance to speak say volumes.

�Make love to him?� the Devil supplied and Dean snorted uncomfortably. His stomach spun.

�Definitely not.� He didn�t want to go down that path with Sammy and it grossed him out to even contemplate it. He knew too much about Sam. He�d helped potty-train him, for god�s sake, and that sort of information didn�t lend itself well to sexual thoughts. Yet, Dean couldn�t deny the overtones that came from living so closely with someone, bandaging them, bathing them to help keep the bandages dry, but it didn�t feel sexual to him. He hadn�t thought it was until the desire to kiss had sprung up on him. �Sometimes I�m just � I�m happy he�s okay. I�m crazy about him being okay, and I have these...instincts. He annoys me, you know. He�s the most annoying person I know, but if he weren�t around � well, there�s just not much point to me without him, is there?�

The Devil went still, and when Dean�s eyes flickered up, he had to look away immediately from the compassion and understanding he saw there. He was not going to have a chick-flick moment with Satan. But his mother�s shadow flickered in his mind�s-eye and a sob formed in his throat. He could remember the way their living room looked from the perch of his father�s shoulders, the way the man�s big hands held onto his knees and he would duck under the doorways so Dean wouldn�t bump his head.

�Stop it.� Dean�s jaw tightened and he would not cry. �Why are you doing that?�

�Those are yours,� the boy said, almost in a whisper. �I�m not doing anything.�

Maybe it was the smell of the jelly or maybe the Devil really was putting the whammy on him, but a dozen memories stirred in Dean�s mind. He recognized them as his own, as the ones that occurred to him from time to time and he pushed aside, too busy or in danger to deal with the grief. Maybe this was the level of Hell where he couldn�t hold anything back.

At the strangest moments in his adult life, Dean would remember one gas station in Minnesota and the way Sammy�s small hand felt on his shoulder as he had touched Dean for support, lifting one leg then the other to slip into his underwear and jeans as Dean held them. They were warm and a bit damp from the crude washing Dean had given them after Sammy had had an accident in the car. Dean had retied his shoes and helped him tuck his shirt in. With the little change Dean had in his pocket, he had purchased a small bag of candy for him and Sam to share, and to serve as their alibi when Dad asked what took them so long. Sam clung to Dean�s pocket as they walked back out to the car, a big boy trying not to want to hold his big brother�s hand. Even at the time, Dean had felt a twinge of emotion in his heart. Now, years later, the memory stabbed.

�I hate it,� Dean gasped. He wiped a hand messily across his eyes, trying to hide that they were wet at all. �I hate it that people can die and I can�t do anything about it.� His voice was nearly a growl and he gritted his teeth. �I hate it that I can�t keep him safe. I � I can�t, I want to die if I have to lose him. Anything.� Dean pulled the back of his hand across his eyes and felt his lashes turn sticky with jelly. �Oh, great,� he muttered, and pulled in a thick, wet sniffle. �That�s just great.� He coughed to clear the sob from his throat and finally noticed the gentle hand against his shoulder blades. The Devil stood patiently by, listening to him with a gaze that looked almost caring. Dean shook his head. �I don�t get you,� he said. �You�re a lousy Devil.�

The boy smiled his kind black-lipped smile. �I think we only need two more sandwiches. You up for it?�

Dean nodded. �Yeah, �course.� With a last sniffle, he began spreading jelly again.

The Devil picked up a slice of wheat bread and lightly spread the peanut butter. After a few silent moments, he casually asked, �How comfortable are you with the word �love�?�

Dean�s shoulders tensed so subtly, he didn�t even notice, but the Devil did. �I�m fine with it,� he said. �Why?� He sniffed again and wiped his nose against his sleeve.

�How comfortable are you saying, �Little brother, I love you, and I�m so happy to have you in my life�?�

�I could do that.�

�Could you?�

�I could,� Dean answered impatiently.

�Would you?�

�...Sure.�

�Or,� the Devil said slowly, �would it perhaps be easier for you to simply kiss him and hold him close?�

Dean peered at the Devil out of the corner of his eye. Something inside him shifted and clicked into place and he got the feeling he�d been tricked, but he couldn�t figure out where.

�And might that be more fulfilling besides? Assuring it with hands rather than words. You are a man of action, after all,� the boy said. �Aren�t you.� And it wasn�t a question. Hands settled on the counter, the boy surveyed the finished sandwiches, stacked one atop the other in four piles. �Okay. I think that�s the last of them. Can�t imagine we need more, can you?�

Dazed, Dean shook his head no; even though he wasn�t sure he heard the question.

�I�ll get you a box to carry these and then you�ll be on your way.� The boy grinned and turned away.

Dean stood, silent and stunned, as the Devil loaded up a cardboard shirt box with sandwiches, milk, and the full container of warm cookies. The box was red and said Macy�s on the side; Dean couldn�t stop staring at it. He thought maybe he was trying to wake up. Instead, he reached out and helped the Devil pack a picnic lunch.

With all the sandwiches carefully sealed in plastic bags and laid out in rows in the box, the boy smiled at him. �Can you get both?�

�What?� Dean asked.

�Your gun and the sandwiches. Can you carry both?�

Dean held the boy�s vivid green eyes. �Yeah,� he said. �I can.� He hefted the sandwich box under one arm and held his gun in the other hand.

The Devil gave him that gawky, horse grin once more. �Do me a favor, Dean.�

�Yeah, okay.�

�Go out for a drink. You and the guy you�re with.� He winked one eye. �Go out, have a few drinks tonight.�

Dean smirked. �Figures you�d be for excessive drinking.�

�I said a few! I didn�t say to get smashed,� the Devil balked. �I want you to celebrate this one.�

�Why?�

�Because you deserve it, dear.� The boy reached across the counter and patted Dean�s cheek with a pale hand. His skin felt pleasantly cool to the touch.

Dean smiled oddly, feeling awkward and strange in his skin, and followed the Devil toward a door in the far wall beside the stove. It hadn�t been there before, but with a bare raise of his eyebrows, Dean let that go. The boy flicked the lock and grasped the handle. �And one last thing, son,� he said.

�What�s that?� Dean shifted the box under his arm.

�Nothing on Earth is indestructible,� the Devil said. He tilted his head, gaze narrowed meaningfully. �Everything has a weakness.�

The words sunk in and Dean nodded once, the reply of a soldier, and waited for the door to be opened.

When it was, Dean was nearly slammed in the face with the butt of a shotgun. �Whoa, hey!�

�Dean?!� Sam lowered the gun from its impact trajectory and stared at his brother. He tugged him forward by his jacket, patting his chest once, twice, as if checking for wounds. �Where�d you come from? I�ve been hitting this wall forever.�

Dean turned around to see that the Devil, the kitchen, and the door had vanished. The only evidence left sat in a box under his arm. The cavern wall was crumbled and cracked where Sam had been striking it. Dean peered at it a moment, then turned to his little brother. �Why sideways?�

Sam shrugged. �Can�t go up, down goes deeper into Hell. Sideways seemed the best plan.�

�Fair enough.� Dean turned his attention to the dozen or so children huddled against the far wall. All appeared uninjured, but stared at him with big, worried eyes.

�This is my brother, guys,� Sam said, by way of introduction. �Dean.�

One little girl toward the front piped up with a �Hi, Dean.�

�Hello, little girl,� Dean answered, and looked back to Sam. �They�re all here and okay?�

Sam looked bewildered. �They�re all fine. Mostly they�re just bored. I landed here last time we jumped and found them. They said nothing�s really happened, they�ve just been sitting here, but sometimes a skinny guy in black brings them food.�

�Yeah.� Dean handed his shotgun to Sam and hefted the box of food. �He sent more.�

�Who did? Where were you?�

�I think he was the Devil. He didn�t want the kids to be hungry.�

Dean thought that the look on Sam�s face was worth every single shin splint he got in this place.

�You were with the Devil?� Sam asked slowly and Dean nodded. �And you made sandwiches?�

�Yeah. Peanut butter and jelly. Don�t think any of these kids are allergic, do you?�

�You made sandwiches with the Devil?�

�Oh.� Dean jostled around until he could get the Tupperware of cookies in one hand. �He also made gingersnaps. You gotta try one, Sam. They�re awesome.�

�You had one?� Sam�s eyes widened comically and he spoke in a harsh whisper, voice lowered for the sake of the children. �You ate Satan�s gingersnaps? Are you nuts!?�

�C�mon, Sam, the kid coulda probably killed me an eyelash. You think he�s gonna poison me with a gingersnap?� Dean started sorting through the sandwiches in the box. �Let�s feed these kids and get out of here.�

�We can�t give these kids sandwiches made by the Devil, Dean.�

�Sam, look, the guy didn�t do anything to the kids. You said so yourself, right?� Dean watched his brother�s face, knowing the signs when he was convincing him. �I really don�t think this is his game. I think these are just sandwiches and we can just go and take the kids with us. They�re hungry, right? So let�s have a picnic on the move and get these kids back to their parents topside.�

Sam�s expression showed his acquiescence long before he said, �Okay,� and reached into the box to pull out a few sandwiches to hand around. �But if one of these kids ends up possessed because of evil peanut butter, it�s your ass, man.�

�Deal.� Dean turned to the kids. �Okay, who really likes peanut butter?�

One by one, they passed out the sandwiches, fortunately finding that the Devil hadn�t abducted a single child with a peanut allergy. Each child munching happily on their peanut butter and jelly, washing it down with cold milk, Sam and Dean led the way out of Hell, modern day pied pipers. The cavern wall collapsed after one more good strike � by Dean, thereby, in his mind, asserting that Sam had just been too much of a pansy to manage it � and the path was clear and open the rest of the way, the homey kitchen nowhere to be seen. It was a long walk, but not strenuous or hazardous.

�Would you stop eating those?� Sam asked irritably as Dean popped a third cookie in his mouth.

�What?� Dean asked, voice muffled by crumbs. �I�m saving plenty for the kiddies.�

�They�re probably evil.�

�I dare you to eat one.� As they walked, Dean held out the Tupperware, shaking it at his brother so the gingersnaps shifted and stirred up their deliciously sharp scent. �They�re really good.�

�Satan has Tupperware?�

�Yes, Sam. Stop being shocked by this stuff. Jeez. Just eat a damn � darn � cookie.� Dean glanced back at the kids, but it didn�t seem they�d heard him swear. Except for that little girl at the front who stared at him with big blue eyes. Dean smiled back uncomfortably and returned to tempting Sam.

After a moment�s hesitation, Sam took one and cautiously nibbled the edge. His eyebrows leapt over his eyes as the first flavor hit his tongue. Dean smiled smugly as Sam took a ravenous full-mouthed bite.

�They�re probably charmed to make you crave them all the time,� Sam said, his mouth full. �And then you can�t find anymore, so you eventually go insane over a gingersnap.�

�Probably,� Dean agreed, licking his fingers clean of ginger crumbs.

The caves of Hell lead seamlessly � and Dean suspected invisibly � into those of a local and well-explored cave, joining together right beside a tall Stalactite formation labeled �Devil�s Fork�. Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean and they kept walking. The children marched after, chatting happily with one another as though this were the most exciting field trip of their lives.

After another five minutes of walking, they came upon a tour group lead by a guide in a brown National Parks hat. �And this cavern,� the man said, looking over the heads of his summer-wear posse, �was discovered in 1842 by Geoff...� His words died and his eyes widened when he saw the Pied Pipers approaching with their gang of happy children.

The parents and the entire community were ecstatic and grateful almost to the point of insanity, offering money, guest rooms, free plane trips to anywhere in the continental United States. Sam deferred everything Dean attempted to accept, save money enough for gas and dinner, which Dean insisted was only practical, and really, ten bucks each wasn�t a lot to ask for rescuing their children from certain boredom in the weirdest pits of Hell.

They refused to be interviewed by the local newspaper, dodged as many photographers as they could, and got on the road within the hour. Dozens of people lined the sidewalks, waving as Dean steered the Impala down the quaint little Main Street. In the passenger seat, Sam waved awkwardly back. They got on the highway and drove until dark before pulling off and finding a motel in close proximity to a decent-looking bar.

Then, they took the night off and got drunk.

Leaning bonelessly against the bar after three shots each, Dean mentally ticked off the number of their life-long rules they were violating in one fell swoop: making oneself unfit for combat, losing track of one�s surroundings, enjoying oneself far, far too much. His face ached from smiling; when he was drunk, Sam was one hilarious son of a bitch, whether he meant to be or not.

Dean chose not to notice how the more inebriated he got, the closer his stool grew to Sam�s and the less he flirted with the sexy barkeep in her pink halter and low rise jeans. It�d been a damn long time since they�d kicked back and just downed a few as brothers. In fact, Dean was pretty sure they�d never done that before.

Sam tossed his arm around Dean and chuckled hard against his shoulder. Dean wiped his eyes, nearly weeping with laughter, and turned toward Sam, resting his head against the top of his brother�s. �Ah, damn,� Dean whimpered. His chest hurt from all the laughing. He could sprint after a demon for fifty yards without trouble, but this made his lungs burn. �God, that�s hilarious. Man. What�d she say?�

�She said - � Sam snorted ungracefully into his beer. �She said, �Whatever! I don�t even like carrots.��

Dean snorted as the laughs burst out of him. The heat rose in his face and laughter drove his blood. His eyes watered again and he turned his head into Sam�s, his mouth just touching soft hair.

An hour later, they stumbled out the door, holding onto one another and any doorjamb, wall, or steady person on their way out. A short trot down the alley and they would be at their hotel, ready to fall into bed. Already, though his mind was clouded with alcohol, Dean planned for a day of recuperation and re-hydrating before they moved on; the recovery time could be spent researching and planning the route, recovering from shin splints and handling claw scratches, if necessary. All of that could wait right now, though.

Dean turned left into the alley and tugged Sam beside him. Sam�s long legs caught on a lip in the pavement and he slammed hard against Dean, and Dean slammed against the wall. Only one chuckle broke from him before Dean realized just how hot Sam�s breath felt against his face. Shadow hid them, and they breathed against one another, humid and heated. Dean�s hands slid mindlessly to Sam�s waist and his eyes closed. Breathe in, breathe out, and he could hear nothing � nothing � but Sam�s breaths matching his. Sam�s hands glided up his arms and rose to Dean�s shoulders, gripping and tense. They swayed against one another and they came so close. Dean felt them get close; felt himself tilt his face up as Sam lowered his down.

Dean flipped them and threw Sam hard against the wall with two fistfuls of his worn fabric jacket. Shock barely registered in Sam�s eyes before Dean stepped close again. Sam�s fingers found his waist beneath his coat. Dean�s gaze lowered. Sam�s mouth looked wet, parted slightly to release those warm, aching breaths. Dean�s hand rose, closing around Sam�s jaw. He dropped his head, and turned away, putting out a hand to keep himself upright as he bumbled down the last few feet of the alley and to the hotel.

Sam followed a few seconds later. Once inside the room, they both stripped off what clothing they could and collapsed into separate beds.

Dean slept for only a few minutes before he awoke behind closed eyes. He could hear Sam breathing in the bed next to him and the dull sounds of night traffic outside. He felt still and safe, and his heart pounded frantically in his chest. His thoughts spun madly in his head.

Dean suspected that Hell hadn�t affected him and Sam like it should because they�d lived in it since they were kids, and the Devil was right: It was the endlessness that killed. It was the fact that they�d never stop; that they would be hunted even after they stopped hunting. That they�d never sleep peacefully and that Dean would never trust that Sam was safe unless he could see it with his own eyes, and sometimes not even then. The tension in his chest would never ease and he would never know peace. And he knew they couldn�t live forever, so someday, one of them would have to watch the other die. That�s what killed � all of it � and the fact that Sam didn�t know how much he mattered to Dean, not really. Dean got none of the relief that came from Sam�s eyes lighting with true understanding, warming because he felt how deeply someone loved him. Dean had no way to tell him because he wasn�t good with words and words weren�t good enough anyway. Language didn�t even cover the way he felt about Sam.

Dean opened his eyes and sloppily rolled himself over. He slid off the bed, the cheap bedspread sliding with him, and lowered himself to his knees on the floor. Slowly in the darkness, he crawled over to kneel by Sam�s bed.

His brother�s eyes had opened glassily as soon as Dean moved and Sam watched through lowered lids as Dean leaned closer.

�Don�t hate me for this tomorrow,� Dean whispered.

�I won�t,� Sam said, and slipped his hand behind Dean�s neck as their lips met.

They kissed furiously, hot and wet, and it felt like an argument, the ones they had that could be boiled down to both of them saying, �I couldn�t stand it if you got hurt.� Sam tugged on Dean�s t-shirt to pull him from the floor and onto the bed.

Dean collapsed onto the covers beside Sam, his brother turning to stay connected to him, to keep kissing. After long moments of tongue and teeth, Dean broke away first with a frantic pull of air, and the desperation of their kissing transferred to how they clung to one another. Jostling and pushing to fit, they gripped one another close. Dean hugged Sam so hard his arms shook and he still couldn�t get him close enough. He hoped it was enough to say words that were so pathetically weak compared to the emotion in his heart. He pulled Sam close, burying his face in the bare skin of Sam�s shoulder and trembled. I love you, he thought. I love you, I love you, I love you more than I can even understand. He held his Sammy tightly to him, his Sammy who wanted a life he could never have and one that Dean desperately wanted to give to him � almost as desperately as he wanted to keep Sam with him, knowing that he could never do both.

Gripping Dean just as close, Sam awkwardly kissed his brother�s neck, right at the nape beneath his hair. Dean felt the soft brush of a mouth and tears burned behind his eyes. He�d needed this, and until he had it here in his arms, he�d not realized how much. To think the last several years of discord could have been solved just with this, in a matter of seconds with mouths and arms telling the truth without words rather than making things worse with them.

Dean breathed against Sam�s shoulder until Sam�s hand gripped his chin, turned his face up for another kiss. He received a mouthful of Dean�s relieved sigh before their lips at last touched again. That Sam wanted this too, that Sam needed to hold him and kiss him too; some of the tension in Dean�s chest eased in a way he never thought it would and never expected it to. He�d needed to show Sammy how much he loved him. He�d never thought how it would feel to know how much Sammy loved him back.

Sam pressed his mouth softly against Dean�s again, tongue just smoothing over the bottom lip, and he let out a breath that sounded bone-deep and ancient. He reached over Dean, grabbing the loose edge of the comforter and tugging it over both of them, enveloping them. His forehead pressed to Dean�s and they shifted against one another, aligning legs, easing the burden on shoulders, sliding arms over arms or waists; finding a comfortable embrace. And slowly, silently, they let themselves fall asleep.

Dean awoke, not in the position in which he�d fallen asleep, but with his hands tucked against his chest and his nose breathing in deeply against the skin of Sam�s back. Sam had rolled over during the night, curling onto his side. Dean blinked once, twice, and then the night before came back to him. Wet, desperate kisses and frantic embraces.

This had the potential to be very, very awkward.

Oh, that tricky Devil.

Sam�s body moved with a deep inhalation, and though he didn�t roll over, Dean knew his brother was awake.

Dean�s bladder made him get up first. He yawned, scratched his belly, and resolved to behave as though nothing unusual had happened. He came out of the bathroom, ready to greet his brother with his usual, deliberately obnoxious �Good morning!�, but Sam was waiting for him and instantly folded Dean into a hug, preventing him from get a real foothold on pretending. Sam squeezed him tightly, punctuating it with a hummed �Mmmhmm,� like he was hugging a toddler. Dean grinned over Sam�s shoulder and hugged him back, full body, and even let his head fall a bit against Sam�s shoulder since Sammy had decided to grow so damn tall.

When he pulled back, Sam smiled at him, all dimples, and walked past him to his duffel bag. Dean discreetly wiped his eyes and followed suit, sorting through his for clean clothing.

�So what�s the word?� Dean asked, shrugging into a t-shirt. �Now what do we do?� He hoped Sam hadn�t heard the waver in his voice, but he was sure he had.

Sam pulled on his jeans and ran a hand through his hair. He paused with a sigh, then turned to Dean and shrugged. �We keep going,� he said simply, and stuck his feet into his shoes without untying them.