
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/534757.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Bobby_Singer, Ellen_Harvelle
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-11 Words: 5037
****** asylum ******
by elfin
Summary
     He drives like a man possessed.....
Notes
     some mild horror
He drives like a man possessed. Sweaty hands sliding as he grips the steering
wheel, wet sheen on his bare arms, green surgical scrubs clinging to his body
where the blood's sticking it to the accompanying cuts in his chest. Underneath
he's naked but still too hot, feels like the scrubs are made of leather not
cotton. In the passenger seat, slumped against the door, Sam is out of it;
shock and blood loss dragging him deeper and deeper, blood seeping from the
edges of the makeshift dressing covering the worst of his wounds, colouring the
dirty white medical gown he's dressed in.
For the first few miles Dean thought he could hear the shrill cry of sirens and
see the bright flash of lights in the Impala's rear-view mirror. Now he's not
sure he didn't imagine it. Now, after what feels like a million miles and a
hundred years, all he can see is the road, and all he can hear is the rush of
blood through his ears, the hard, fast hammer of his heart and the laboured
sounds of Sam's uneven, irregular breaths.
Better than the voice, the voice whispering, taunting, commanding. 'Sick boy.
Where will the baby come out?'
Hanging on to the wheel with one hand, Dean leans across and pulls open the
glove compartment, hitting Sam's knees with the flap, getting no reaction to
the bump. He fishes around blindly amongst the papers, fake ids and weapons,
cutting his fingers on the sharp edges as he refuses to take his eyes off the
road - the last thing he needs to do is crash - until he finally touches the
cool plastic of his cell phone and almost yells his relief out loud.
Straightening the car, he flicks open the clamshell and presses '7', putting
the phone to his ear, listening as it speed-dials the stored number, hears it
connect, swears when it isn't answered on the first ring. Second… third…
fourth….
"Yeah?" The voice sounds like it's owner hasn't woken up yet.
"Bobby?"
"Dean?" Waking up now, "What time is it? Where are you?" What happened? The
unasked question hangs on the line.
"Listen, we're in trouble. I need your help." He hates to ask, he always hates
to ask, but he has no choice. He doesn't want to be alone with Sam any longer
than he has to be, not yet, not until he's sure he's… him, completely. That
stings more than the cuts on his chest.
"Where's Sam?" Fully awake now, the tired blur gone from Bobby's voice.
"Here. He's hurt, Bobby, and it's bad."
Dean doesn't need to say he's hurt too - somehow, in some way - if he was
fighting fit no way would he be making this call and Bobby knows it.
"I'm at the Roadhouse."
Damn. Fuck. Of all the places…. What the hell time is it anyway? No choice,
though, and he knows it as he glances across at Sam's still form and tries to
stop the exhaustion and horror from welling up as tears in his eyes.
"We're an hour out." He claps the phone closed, drops it into his lap as he
floors the accelerator. Help is at the Roadhouse, and despite disliking the
place as much as Sam likes it, that's where they're going. It isn't the
Roadhouse itself, even if it does give him the creeps - like that weird-ass bar
in 'From Dusk Till Dawn' - it's the way that Ellen is with them, acting like
she's their Mom, not that he's entirely sure how a mom would act but he guesses
it's the way she does. Like that time she flew out to California following Jo
and he had to drive them all back… it had felt wrong. They don't need a Mom -
got this far without one.
For so long it's just been him and Sam and the Impala - their sanctuary - and
even when Dad had been with them those few times it had felt… odd, like John
had somehow been intruding on something he wasn't a part of any longer. Dean
hates himself for thinking it. But the truth is he doesn't want anyone muscling
in on his relationship with his brother. He knows it and Sam knows it. Sam is
attracted to affection like a moth to a flame and whenever anyone shows him
any, Dean's can feel his manically possessive side kicking in to save Sam from
himself, from everyone else on the planet. From getting hurt, he always told
himself, and he was right. Isn't some stranger being kind to Sam the reason
they're driving away from hell covered in their own blood?
 
"Katie asked me to take a look, that's all." That sheepish tone, the puppy-dog
eyes, the offering of the six-pack of his favourite beer. This wouldn't lead
anywhere good.
"It's an abandoned asylum, Sam! Remember the last one? Bad things always happen
in those places."
"It's an old maternity hospital, not an asylum! Besides, it's our job, Dean!
And I promised." That fucking irritating, annoying determination Sam got
whenever he wanted to do something for all the wrong reasons - wrong reasons in
this case being because some waitress at a restaurant had asked him to.
"Why did you promise? You barely know this woman, Sam! And she's like, forty-
five! Way too old for you."
"That has nothing to do with it, and you're sick, Dean. She's nice, as in she's
kind." They were back to sheepish, it wasn't a good sign. It was a sign that
Dean was going to lose the argument and that in a couple of hours' time instead
of rutting against one another in another too-narrow bed, they were going to be
creeping around a dark building with ghosts in the walls and a history so sick
it would put most demons to shame.
"Kind as in she fed you pancakes with ice cream and hot chocolate sauce and now
you're eatin' out of the palm of her hand?"
"Vanilla ice cream, not chocolate."
No point in delaying the inevitable. "Okay, Lassie, where is this place?"
 
He knows he's possessive and jealous when it comes to his brother, but Sam's
just the same, it just took Dean a longer time to figure it out. Sam's never
stands between him and affection, he's just always stood between Dean and sex -
sex with a girl. There's a term for it, one he learnt from a stranger in a bar.
Cock blocking. It was a term he doesn't like attaching to his brother, besides,
it's his own fault. That night, a millennia ago, a night in a strange motel
when Sam was twelve and Dean was everything to him. No one to blame for Sam's
behaviour but himself. Sure, he's improved better over the years, once he came
to understand that he and Dean were the exception to a whole raft of rules but
particularly that what they did in bed wasn't normal for two brothers. Sam's
life though has never been normal, but when Dean told him he could get his
brother and his father in trouble if he ever told anyway, it sealed Sam's mouth
shut for a lifetime.
Dean never minds Sam going with a girl in the few towns he hooks up. Sex with
women is just sex. Sam understands it, and he lets Dean get away with it
sometimes. Other times… Sam makes him put out to make up for it. So when Dean
steps between Sam and kindness, he has to make up for it too.
Love, affection, someone opening their arms and giving Sam a hug; that's so
much more dangerous than Dean spending a couple of hours in some strange girl's
bed. Offer the guy good food and a bed without semen stains and his loyalty
knows no bounds. And it's why Dean dislikes the Roadhouse - it almost purports
to be offering somewhere to belong, and the only place he wants to belong is
with Sam, in the car, in motel rooms, on the open road.
All this stuff rushes through his head as he drives, trying to keep his mind
away from the fucking freaky shit they've left behind and the sick spirit of an
insane, sadistic surgeon that for a while was inside him.
 
Limbs no longer under his control; watching himself, watching the grey fingers
of dead nurses holding Sam down, pressing into the flesh of his arms, the
scarlet flash of dirty light off the bloodstained scalpel and the terror in his
brother's eyes.
 
Still twenty minutes out it starts to rain, and not the gentle summer kind; the
hard, pelting storm kind that turns roads into skidpans and makes it impossible
to see further than the hood of the car, despite the full beam of his
headlights. He blinks to clear the blur from his vision, the windshield wipers
on full pelt, and for a few minutes he can't tell whether it's the rain or his
tears making visibility almost non-existent.
He hears a groan and honestly for a second thinks he's made the sound himself.
Then Sam shifts in the seat beside him, Dean glances over, scared to take his
eyes from the road for too long, and sees his little brother clutch at his
abdomen and bite back a cry. Dean reaches over, cautiously like he isn't sure
he's welcome now, tentatively rubs one shoulder because like it or not he's
still all Sam has. "Easy, Sammy. Almost there." He hopes his voice sounds
steadier out loud than it sounds in his own head and Sam turns away from him,
awkwardly towards the door and drops back into sleep. At least Dean hopes
that's what it is. He presses two clammy fingers to the burning throat, finds
the irregular pulse and breathes out, willing his own heart to stop pounding.
"Stay with me, Sam. It'll be okay, just stay with me."
 
The rain has eased by the time he slides the Impala to a stop in the mud
outside the Roadhouse. The place is ominously dark but by the time he's killed
the engine the door is opening and there are lights burning inside. Bobby is an
incredible sight for sore, exhausted eyes. As much as he hates to need anyone
except for Sam, hates for Sam to need anyone but him, he knows his own limits
and knows he's not only reached them this time but has carried on over them
into unfamiliar and dangerous territory.
He pushes his door open, reaches to squeeze his brother's shoulder, and for a
moment he isn't certain he can actually move from the car. Then Sam's door is
being yanked open and pure instinct gets him moving in sheer panic. "Don't! ...
Bobby!"
"It's okay, Dean," Bobby's voice reassures him, before, "Jesus, son, what the
fuck happened?"
Dean guesses he doesn't really want an answer right there and then and moves
around the car to helplessly watch Sam being lifted bodily out of the seat. He
sees his brother's head loll forward and eases it back with heartbreaking
tenderness against Bobby's shoulder, rubbing his thumb against San's temple
once before locking the car and following them inside.
Ellen's waiting for them. Bobby carries Sam over to the pool table and lays him
carefully down, Dean's hand going under his head to stop his skull hitting the
green baize. He doesn't wake up and immediately Ellen gets to work, cutting the
white gown away around the bloodied patch over Sam's abdomen, eyes questioning
Dean over the patch of green material stuck there. Dean flinches as she eases
the soaked material from the wound clinging to it - the gaping tear out of
which Sam's intestines had shown themselves before Dean had tucked them back
inside.
"What did that?" Bobby demands while Ellen fetches water and dressings. For a
few long minutes Dean doesn't answer - can't find the words, can't locate his
own voice amongst the memory of the one not his in his head. He stares at the
pale face of his brother,lying still as his wound is cleaned, sterilised and
stitched, and all he can think is that he was the cause of it; he did it. He
cut the person he loves most in the whole world. Dad always said they were
stronger together, but lately demons have been using one to get to the other,
and Dean doesn't want to be the cause of his brother's pain any longer. He
wishes he could walk away - get in the car and drive. But like he always finds
Sam, Sam would find him, and he would have done more damage than any demon ever
could.
Finally two words make it passed Dean's lips - "The dead," - like that explains
everything.
He watches as the adults strip the rest of the medical gown from his little
brother's body and suddenly he's six years old again, standing by helplessly as
Dad removes Sam's torn trousers and shredded T-shirt to treat the wicked claw
marks the wolf inflicted - just a side swipe in the final throes of dying, Dean
was supposed to keep Sam away, but he'd been too curious, too fascinated not to
get close enough to see a werewolf for himself, and Sam always did follow his
big brother everywhere.
His tears don't surprise him but they do embarrass him and he bites them back
viciously before Dad… before Bobby - sees.
"…Dean…. Dean!" His head snaps up and he focuses with difficulty on Ellen's
face, "Are there any more wounds?"
And Dead nods.
 
Minutes pass, hours, maybe days - he isn't certain he would notice. Eventually
they settle Sam, as patched up as he is going to be by them and drugged to the
eyeballs with pink pills Ellen assures will keep the pain away, into Ash's bed,
kicking the poor guy - who seems genuinely surprised to see the Winchesters
outside his bedroom door - out to sleep on the pool table with its fresh dark
blood stains.
Sam has stitches where Dean can't imagine putting a needle, and only when he's
peaceful under the grey, musty duvet does Ellen set her attention firmly on
Dean. "Are you injured?"
Dean looks up at her. He's already half on the floor where he plans to hold
vigil over his brother. She's standing in the doorway with her hands on her
hips and she reminds him momentarily of Jo. He shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
"Like hell it doesn't. If Sam wakes up to find you dead we'll have a maelstrom
on our hands."
He snorts. "Not gonna die." He's certain of it - and he's certain now that he's
himself and alone in his head - the darkness pulling at the edges of his
consciousness is just exhaustion. Seventy-two hours? Eighty since he's slept?
And not exactly low stress hours. His brain hurts more than his body and it
feels as if it's already shutting down. "I'm fine. Nothing's bleeding." Not any
more. "I just need some rest." She regards him like she doesn't believe him but
relents in the end.
"I'll find you some clothes."
"Bag's in the car."
"Then toss me the keys and I'll get 'em for you."
Any other time… but he's too tired, and it's gonna be a long time before he
lets Sammy out of his sight again. For a moment he's got no idea where the keys
actually are. "On the pool bar," he finally remembers.
The next thing he knows, quite literally, Ellen is pressing the keys of his
beloved baby into his hand and dropping a back pack on to the hard floor next
to him. He's on the floor on his knees with his forehead against the mattress,
drool on his lips, one arm bent at an awkward angle and Sam's hand clutched in
his own.
"Thanks."
"Get some sleep. You're both safe here."
Not welcome, but safe. It's enough for now, until the morning and then they'll
be out of here. His own injuries aren't visible as long as Ellen lets him strip
alone… and for a second he doesn't think she's going to. But with a small nod
she eventually leaves, closing the door behind her, and it's the morning before
Dean realises he didn't asked if Jo was around.
He makes it to his feet and throws the rusty bolt on the heavy door, relieved
to finally be able to peel the hot, damp scrubs from his body which they're
clinging to like a macabre second skin. The straight cuts on his chest are
still angry and red, and he unzips the bag to find his first aid kit and the
bottle of Jack Daniels he keeps in the bottom of it. But it isn't his bag he
realises belatedly, it's Sam's. And although Sam has his own kit, he doesn't
have the liquor. Adequately sums up his life he thinks morbidly, before he
pulls himself together.
He cleans and dresses his own wounds, pulls some clothes out of the pack. The
jeans are too long, the warm, fleecy hoody too big. But he pulls them on anyway
and breathes in Sam's scent - these thoughts are so strong! Your brother and
you think I'm the evil one!- Sam's sweat on the hoody and the faint odour of
stale urine in the crotch of the jeans; they seriously needed to visit a
Laundromat pretty soon and he wonders if Ellen has a washer.
Throwing the scrubs into a corner, Dean crawls onto the bed between Sam's back
and the wall. Cautiously, carefully, needing the closeness, he moulds himself
to his brother, one arm over his bare narrow hip the hand resting on Sam's
thigh while the other he pushes under the pillow, under the crook of Sam's
neck, and clutches one large hand in his own. Only then, certain Sammy can't
move without waking him, does he close his eyes and finally, unwillingly
succumb to sleep. He knows his nightmares are gonna be the worst ones yet.
 
"Dean! Please… don't!"
Oh God. God, no…he feels the cold metal of the rusted scalpel in the fingers of
his right hand, the warm denim - the waistband of Sam's jeans in the other,
clutched, twisting, roughly pulling the clothing from his brother's body as the
rotting corpses dressed in nurses' uniforms - some sick twist on one of his
favourite fantasies - struggle to get Sammy's T-shirt off over his head. He
hears words spoken - his own voice coming from his own mouth - but it's not
what he's screaming inside his own head and the other voice he can hear,
taunting, teasing, calling him a sick fuck while all the time pushing the
memories forward, insinuating other meanings, imposing its own interpretation.
All the while he's fighting for control, trying to find a way to the area of
his own brain that controls motor functions - Sam would be so proud, he'd make
Sam so proud if Doctor Death - Abraham by his given name - didn't kill him
first. Not Sam… anyone but Sammy! Hurt me! Cut me!
The nurses have the white gown tied around Sam's struggling, straining body -
Dean has no idea what his brother can see, but he can see the fight is futile -
the dead are two deep around the operating table. They once worked here under
the surgeon in Dean's mind - he raped each one of them and made them believe he
treasured them. He carved up babies before they were out of the womb and
started on their mothers as soon as the screaming started. And the nurses
watched. They fastened the women into the restraints and passed the surgeon his
instruments.
Even in death they were loyal to him.
Sam's jeans are on the floor, boxers following, and Dean stares in horror at
the blunted blade in his own hand, passing over the head of Sam's cock,
scraping vulnerable, sensitive flesh as Sam suddenly goes very, very still.
There's no place for the baby to come out!
Dean wants to laugh, because the other voice in his head is so deadly serious,
but he can't laugh as he feels his own hands push apart his brother's legs in a
perversion of how he's done it before and his own fingers are used to hold the
flaccid cock out of the way. He's touched Sammy like this before. But not like
this. With love, not violence.
No.
You sick boy. Your own brother! He looked to you for protection and you made
him suck you off then fucked him. Even when he was too young to know what it
meant that you had his hand around you, jerking you off. Sick fuck.
Dean recognises the words. They don't belong to a clinically insane surgeon who
tortured his victims in this place a hundred years before the Winchester sons
were even born. They belong to him - words that have played through his own
mind a million times over the years, regrets for ever putting the brothers on a
path they couldn't ever turn from. Why did Sam never stop him? Why didn't Dad…?
Not that he ever wanted to stop. He loves Sam, so much, drawn to him in a way
no one had ever drawn him. And that… that had just manifested itself in a way
it was always going to between two boys who had always shared a bed, always
shared everything. Nightmares. Even dreams.
Everyone is to blame but you!
He hears Sam's scream before he even knows what is happening, what he's doing.
The blade is slicing through the soft skin at Sam's perineum. Somewhere for the
baby to come out of….
Dean screams too - silent outside his own body - stops fighting and
concentrates on the hand holding the blade. Focuses on it, blots out the hot
slick of Sam's blood, the heart shattering sounds of his un-dulled pain, the
warmth of skin he loves, skin he's kissed and now he's cutting …. NO! STOP!
His right arm swings up suddenly - he feels the spirit within him, surprised,
shocked, and the sharp sting as the blade slices into his own chest. The
surgeon screams, out loud and into Dean's mind, deafening, shocking, raging.
Dean loses control and the scalpel is taken to the base of Sam's cock.
I'll cut it off! Is that what you want? Would you like me to cut off your
brother's manhood? No more taking him into your hand as you drive, no more
sucking him as he does. You could keep it then, keep it safe. He'd never have
anyone else, Dean… would always be yours.
Sam's eyes are wide, somewhere beyond terror as the blade bites into sensitive
softness. He makes a sound in his throat, a sound Dean never, never wants to
hear again as long as he lives so he centres himself, focuses again and with an
effort he lifts his hand away from Sam's groin.
Mine!
Abraham fights back, gripping Dean's right wrist with his left, but Dean takes
that back too, everything he is focusing on just two parts of his own body. The
blade comes up, Sam shifts quickly, turns against the grey hands holding him
down, and the scalpel catches in his gut, slicing through him, through skin and
muscle and thin layer of fat to graze his intestines. Dean's shout in his own
head overwhelms Sam's cry of blazing agony. He brings the blade across his
chest, cutting himself deep before finally getting it to his throat.
I'll kill us both! I'll send us both to hell if you don't stop.
You won't….
Try me, asshole! You think I wouldn't die rather than kill my own brother?
You're the SICK FUCK around here.
Pressing the blade in so that it bites into the hollow between his throat and
collarbone.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
The nurses have backed off, aware of their master's struggle. Sam is half
sitting up, mouth an 'O' of horror as he watches his own guts start to push out
through the split in his abdomen.
Dean pushes the scalpel and feels Abraham too backing off; feels more of his
body come under his control.
GO!
He almost collapses when he's freed. The fire in his chest from the two cuts he
made to himself takes the breath from him for an instant, then he's dropping
the scalpel and reaching for Sam, pressing his hand over the long open wound
before Sam can pull away from him.
"I'm sorry," he babbles, "so sorry, Sammy, so fucking sorry…."
"Dean? God..." his words snag on the rise of a sob in his throat and Dean feels
like sobbing a little too.
"Lie back."
"Fuck you!" Almost hysterical. "I'm not lying on this thing! Get me outta
here!"
"Just do it, Sam! I gotta get you patched up, Bro, else when you stand up your
guts'll fall out all over the floor." Laughter that feels insane bubbles up in
his throat, bile behind it.
There's nothing in the room of any use, just rusted instruments, their own
torches hanging from the ceiling on meat hooks, swinging back and forth in slow
arcs, providing the only light. Reaching down, Dean tears a wide strip of green
material from the base of the scrubs Abraham had dressed him in before he'd
woken to find himself a prisoner in his own head. He push Sam's guts back
inside him, a slippery rope of intestine against his sweaty hands, before
closing the wound and pressing the green material to it. Then he turns his head
and still holding the makeshift dressing in place he vomits hard, throwing up
all over the filthy floor.
"Dean…." Sammy's voice sounds smaller than it has done in so many years and
Dean has a flash of that night in their shared motel bed, when he took his
little brother's, hard cock into his hand for the first time.
"It's okay, Sam." Dean spits out the vile bits stuck against his teeth before
helping Sam up off the table. The blood is drying, forming the glue that he
hopes will stick the green material to the wound. It's a gruesome solution, but
the only one he can think of. There's blood running down Sam's thighs but Dean
is loath to check that other cut. "We need to get out of here."
Sam nods, one arm around Dean's shoulders for support - a gesture of trust that
almost makes him howl with relief - and walks with his legs together, shuffling
along as quickly as he can as Dean can only imagine the agony of his injuries.
"Dean…."
"Not now, okay?"
"Are you all right?"
"Jesus Christ, Sammy…." He wants to cry or scream. "I almost kill you and
you're asking me if I'm all right." They're at the bottom of the stairs now,
the ones that lead up to the main doors. He feels his brother tense as the
first step pulls at his wounds.
"Not you… you'd never hurt me…."
"You're so sure?" But now isn't the time for that conversation. "You're right,"
he reassures, "you're right." He mutters the words as he tightens his arm
around Sam's waist, helping him as much as he dares, trying his best to carry
most of his brother's weight. "Wouldn't hurt you. Love you, Bro, so fucking
much…."
Dean wakes with the same words on his lips, tears in his eyes, on his cheeks,
and Sam's uneven gaze staring straight at him, gentle fingers in his hair.
"Nightmare?" Sam whispers, and the urge to laugh is almost unbearable.
"Jeez, of course it was a nightmare, Sammy…. I hurt you…."
"No, you didn't. Doctor Abraham hurt me, used you to do it and that isn't your
fault." His words are as heartfelt as every other word of absolution he's ever
spoken to Dean, only slightly slurred by the chemicals in his bloodstream and
the exhaustion tempting him back to sleep. You didn't wreck my life, you didn't
kill Dad, you didn't turn me into an incestuous bastard who's automatically
going to hell for blowing his older brother. "You fought him, Dean. And don't
think I don't know how you got him to let go."
Dean tries for a smile. "We're gonna have to talk about it, aren't we?"
"Yeah, but later. No'tonight."
Just fine by him. One arm's still under the pillow under Sam's head, he's lost
all feeling in it but he doesn't care. "You're gonna be so sore in the morning,
Dude." He brings his other hand up to cup gently around the side of Sam's
throat, thumb brushing the rough cheek and jaw. "I'm so sorry…."
"Stop apologising." Sam closes his eyes for a moment, leans into the intimate
touch. "Sore now. Bet you are too."
"I'm fine." He's lying, Sam knows he's lying but for once he doesn't push it.
"We're at the Roadhouse, aren't we?"
"Yeah."
"You don't like it here."
He leans in closer, touching first his lips to Sam's forehead then dropping his
head to bring them eye to eye. "No choice, Sammy. I was… scared. Wasn't sure if
he'd gone or not, not completely."
"I'm sure."
That unfailing trust again. One day it would break his heart. "I know. Me too.
Wouldn't have let me be alone with you otherwise."
Gentle, warm lips touch the tip of his nose. "I love you too." Sam's words
really are slurring now, one into the next; the drugs pulling him under.
"Go back to sleep."
The last thing he hears before Sam's soft snores is, "Dean, 'is Ash's bed?"
"How did you guess?"
"Think I'm sleepin' ona jack plug."
"Sorry, man. Motel in the mornin', I promise. A nice one too, no cheap stinkin'
place with dead roaches in the pool and rats in the shower." Sam's already
asleep and Dean knows it. "A big, Kingsized bed - screw the expression on the
manager's face - and a shower that'll blast us into next week. And I'm gonna
buy you the best breakfast you've ever tasted - pancakes with maple syrup,
blueberries and thick bacon cooked to a crisp just as you like it, good coffee
and ice cream milkshakes. And I'm gagging you, Sammy, just so you don't make
friends with the waitress…."
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 up toward
the head, knowing he was close, his breathing raspy in his throat as he reached
down and rolled his balls in his other hand, squeezing gently.  He bucked up
into his hand then, crying out wordlessly as he came, stars sparking behind his
closed eyelids.  He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, until he heard
O’Reily moan.  Then he shivered all over, opening his eyes to stare at the
ceiling.
“Oh, man, Beecher.  That was a good one.  Shit, that felt so good!” 
Beecher grinned at O’Reily’s words, like a kid that pulled one over on his
parent.  Yeah he thought, that had felt pretty goddam good, hadn‘t it?  Fuck
you, Schillinger.  Just - fuck you.    
“Man, I got come all over my shirt!”
The indignity in O’Reily’s voice surprised him for a second, and suddenly, the
bizarreness of the whole thing overtook Beecher, and he looked over at O’Reily,
who was sitting up, trying to wipe come off his clothing and just spreading it
more.  He started giggling again, and O’Reily looked over at him, grinning.  He
knew he must look crazy, lying on the floor with his spent cock in his hand,
and come all over his pants, laughing like he belonged in an asylum.  And maybe
he did, he thought but he couldn’t be bothered to care about that at the
moment.  So he just kept laughing.
O’Reily started laughing, too, as he got up, crossed over to the sink and
grabbed the roll of paper towels, pulling some off and tossing the roll at the
still giggling Beecher, who ducked and grabbed it as it bounced off the wall
behind him.   He cleaned up his mess, then got up and tucked himself back in
his pants.  Still trying to catch his breath, he leaned against the wall, and
watched O‘Reily splash water over his face.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel better, now.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.  That was a good idea, O’Reily.  Thanks.” 
“For what?  Jerking off?  Hey, I did that for me, man, not for you.”
“I know.  But I needed that.  I realized just now, that’s only the second time
since I’ve been here that I’ve had an orgasm.”
“No way!”
“Really, it’s true.  I mean, hell, would you want to come with Schillinger -”
O’Reily interrupts him, “Don’t say it, man, I don’t even want to think about
it, okay?  I see what you mean.  Yeah, I don’t blame you at all.  The other
time, it was your conjugal visit, right?  Before they stopped them?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Wow.”
“So I needed this.  For me.  So thanks for encouraging me to let go.”
“Hey, no problem, man. Glad I could help.  So,” O‘Reily said, as he made
himself comfortable on the floor, ”you ready for a rousing game of I Spy?”
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