AN: Yeah, I did one. I saw all those new fanfics about that last scene in the last episode, and said I wasn't going to do it, then I thought of something, and then I had to. Doncha just hate it when that happens? I mean, I've got other stuff that I wanna write (like that one unfinished fic, and the other one, and the other one, and…) so this was very inconvenient. Anyway, enjoy.

Fatal Curiosity

He can't help it.

He's Pandora, holding the box filled with earthly evils, looking at it with curious eyes; he's Eve, reaching for the forbidden apple, red and luscious; he's Lot's wife, about to turn back to look behind her at the Kingdom of Sodom, the taste of salt already touching her lips…

Hold it. Wait a minute—he's not a woman (no matter what his asinine big brother says). Let's try another (more masculine) set of literary metaphors.

Here we go.

He's Orpheus, warned against looking back to see if his beloved is following him out of Tartarus; he's Dorian Gray, afraid to look at his own portrait because of what he might see there but tempted all the same…

Anyway, long story short: He scratches.

Dean had told him not to scratch, over and over again. It used to be, he had chicken pox and Dean would tell him not to scratch, or he'd walk into a patch of poison ivy and Dean would tell him not to scratch, or he'd develop a rash in an unmentionable place and Dean would tell him not to scratch. But he would anyway, and Dean would roll his eyes and slap calamine lotion on him (or in the last case, toss him the tube of special prescription-strength cream with a stupid smirk on his stupid face, the stupid jerk), and tell him again not to scratch, dickwad.

This time, it's not so easy. This time, there's no lotion on earth that can cure the itch that's lodged in his brain, there's no cure for the damage his metaphorical fingernails can do to the flimsy wall, the tissue paper wall keeping his memories of Hell (a hundred and eighty years' worth) from driving him catatonic.

Except there is.

There's an odd buzz underneath the crackling of Hell's fire, the screams of souls being tortured, the booming laughs of the two archangels as they tear him apart between them. It's a strange sound, yet it grows steadily familiar as he tries harder to ignore the roaring cacophony of Hell. He concentrates on the low hum, the ups and downs of it, and finally recognizes it as music, as a song as familiar to him as a certain weatherworn leather jacket, as Fade to Black by…by Metallica, and his vision fades to white…

He blinks his eyes open, feels strong arms around him, hears the humming coming not from his brother's mouth, but rather vibrating in his chest instead, deep and warm. He's smashed up against it like he belongs there. But, of course he does; that's his place, that's where he always goes when he's in need of comforting, and damn, he needs his brother bad, oh so bad this time.

This time he's really screwed up and he scratched, and he needs, he needs, he needs…

"Sammy? You with me?" His brother sounds quiet and worried, more worried than he's sounded in a long time, it's been a long time, almost two hundred years, and it's been too long, and it hurt, it hurts…

"Sammy? It's okay. It's okay. I gotcha. I told you not to scratch, didn't I? I told you." He's not scolding, he's just worried, why's he worried?

Oh. Right.

"Deeeeean." There. That wasn't so hard, now, was it? How about a two-syllable word next?

"Hey man. You with me now?" That's better. Dean sounds better. Not so worried, shouldn't worry so much, he'll worry himself into a heart attack or a stroke one day.

"You're Orpheus. Not me. You're Orpheus." Brought me out of Hell.

Come on, don't blame him for being a little disoriented after remembering Hell. Well, he only remembered because he scratched, but give him a break. It was only a little scratch, a mere graze. But it was, as Mercutio said, "not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but 'tis enough."

He can practically hear Dean's eye-roll. He can see it too. He's finally got his eyes open and functioning.

"Okay, kiddo, that's enough storytime for you. How many times did I tell you not to scratch, dude?"

"Five thousand, seven hundred and twenty-three times total over my entire life."

"Smartass." Dean shifts under Sam's weight and ruffles the too-long hair, but gently, gently. "You know that makes you the girl, Sam? You're the ghost chick, and I'm the awesome music dude."

"Whatever." Sam shuffles his body closer to his brother and uh, snuggles. Dean uh, well, cuddles him back. 'Course, neither of them is gonna ever admit to it. Sam's perfectly content, except…

Wait for it, wait for it…

Here it comes…

"And don't scratch, dickwad."