“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!” Mort yelled, slamming his fists down on his desk, spilling a nearly empty can of Mountain Dew to the floor and over-turning his coffee mug of pencils.
Dean, who had been in the kitchen downstairs, glanced up towards the loft, stirring his cup of coffee curiously. “Mort?” he called up, walking out into the living room. From the front door he could see up into the loft above, and Mort hazardly throwing papers and various pieces of trash about the room.
“The fuck are you doing?” he asked just as calmly, sipping his coffee. Mort stared down at him from the rail, his hair falling in his flushed face, eyes wide and angry. “This SHIT. This STUPID, RETARDED SHIT!” he yelled, slamming his laptop closed and kicking his chair back so that it rolled and smacked loudly into the wall.
Dean watched his lover’s temper tantrum from the bottom of the stairs, content to ride it out. Mort got alittle… “emotional” sometimes. The blonde man stormed down the stairs, muttering various curses that including condemning everything from the lap top, to his yet uncompleted book, to the publisher, to the world and all the assholes in it in general.
Mort pulled his hair, as he did in great distress, passing Dean as he made his way down the stairs. He grabbed a stack of magazines that were lying on the end table next to the couch and proceeding to chuck them across the room or shred them, whichever was easier.
Finally, after he had torn TIME in half, he looked back at Dean, a flush of embarrassment crossing his already reddened face. “What?” he barked.
Dean smirked a little, taking another drink. He sat himself down neatly in the chair across from the couch, shaking his head. “Your being a little ridiculous, don’t you think?” he asked, his voice calm and even. “I mean…it’s only a book.”
A wounded look flashed across Mort’s dark eyes and his embarrassment became more apparent as he began chewing on his bottom lip. “That’s something, coming from YOU.” Mort snarked, rounding the couch.  
“Yes, but that’s a different matter.” Dean shrugged. “You just can’t get so worked up about this stuff, really, it’s not healthy.” he added.
Mort glared back at him over his shoulder, in a move that was distinctly cat like. “Oh what do you know? You don’t have a publisher breathing down your neck all day long, you aren’t trapped in this god damn cabin.” he muttered.
“I don’t see anyone keeping you here.” Dean shrugged. “If you wanna go out, go out.”
Mort hated the way he made everything seem so damn simplistic, so damn black and white. Like he had all the fucking answers. Perfectly put together Dean. Mort Rainey loved this man deeply, but in this moment, he was repulsed by him. And hurt.
“Oh fuck you.” Mort muttered, falling into the couch and hiding his face under one of the many well-worn pillows that littered it.
Dean snorted. He sat down his coffee and moved slowly to the couch, sitting at the edge of it. “Aw…did I hurt your feelings?” he teased, laying a hand on Mort’s back.
Mort slapped it away viciously.
Dean cocked an eyebrow. “My goodness.” he chuckled. He leaned over the blonde man, laying his chin on Mort’s shoulder. “Come on…” he nipped at his ear.
“NO!” Mort yelled, smacking him away again, and Dean could tell from the deep scowl on his face and the redness in his eyes that he meant it this time. Now Dean was feeling frustrated. He sighed in agitation and got up, making his way back towards the kitchen. “Fine, you big fucking baby.”
Mort hid his face in the pillow, feeling anxious and angry and a million other things. He hated fighting with Dean, he hated fighting at all, but damn it…he could have at least offered a kind word, some support. Why did he always have to be the stable one? Couldn’t he admit that he too, got fed up with things at time? No, Dean always had to be right.
But Mort wasn’t going to admit it right now.
He kept his face in the pillow, fighting back the childish urge to cry, but feeling the burning in his throat all the same. After awhile, he got warm and comfortable…and things began to matter less…and he was asleep.

Dean clicked away on his own laptop in the kitchen, waiting for Mort to finish his hissy-fit. He was going to lay into him later about anger management and being an adult, but that would probably be after they had some good make-up sex. Maybe.
He was browsing through a variety of unimportant sites when he felt a tap on his arm. “You know, you could be a bit more sensitive to him.” Mort’s voice said in a calm, but admonishing tone.
Dean rolled his eyes, looking back to see Mort standing behind him. To his surprise, Mort was suddenly dressed far more neatly then when Dean left him, his hair was combed and straight. He looked perfectly calm. Almost unnaturally so.
“He’s having a rough time, after all. You ARE his like…boyfriend, aren’t you? That means your supposed to understand these things.” Mort said, folding his arms across his chest.
Dean stared at him behind his glasses. “Why are you talkin’ like that?” he asked.
“Like what?” the man in front of his asked.
“In third person.” Dean corrected. This game was possibly more stupid than Mort’s hissy-fit.
“I’m not.” the blonde shrugged.
“Mort, what--”
“Morton.” the blonde corrected. Dean blinked. Mort had never, ever in all the time that Dean had known him and been with him (which was, granted, only a few short months) called himself “Morton.” It had always, and strictly been “Mort.”
“Since when?” Dean grunted.
“Since that’s my name.” The blonde answered, calmly. “Why would I want to be called Mort too?” he shrugged, the idea seeming ridiculous to him. Dean shook his head. “Too?” he asked.
It was then he noticed that there was still someone lying on the couch. Indeed…the very same someone who standing right in front of him. Dean said nothing for a full minute, blinking back and forth between the man in front of him, and the foot of the same man he could see dangling over the arm of the couch.
Slowly he got up, padding his way towards the couch and looking over the back. Mort was just as he’d left him, huddled up, face down in a pillow, sleeping. Dean Corso turned his head quickly to see the same man standing behind him, watching him from the kitchen.
In two places at once.
Dean took a long steadying breath, putting his hands on the back of the couch. He closed his eyes, wondering if he was dreaming, or maybe he’d had a stroke and his brain was playing tricks on him.
“You’re not dreaming.” ‘Morton’ said from the kitchen. Dean opened his eyes, and then yelled in surprise, jumping back from the couch.
Another Mort stood in front of the couch, next to the sleeping, seemingly lifeless one upon it. Only this Mort was yet more distinctly different from the one of the couch. He wore a wide, black rimmed hat that reminded Dean of some back-water farmer from the boonies.
“Nope, not dreamin, son.” this Mort said. He spoke with a particularly stark southern drawl that made Dean cringe.
Dean stared from his lover on the couch, to the one standing in front of him with the hat, to the one who was now coming to join him from the kitchen.
“Don’t startle him like that, Shooter.” Morton scolded, stepping near Dean. Dean jumped away from him, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.
“I can see he startles easily.” the Mort named “Shooter” chuckled softly.
Dean moved slowly around the couch, surprisingly towards Shooter, but he was actually making for Mort who was still sleeping soundly. Shooter and Morton watched this with quiet amusement and curiosity.
Dean knelt on the couch next to his lover, rolling Mort over, shaking him. “Mort, wake up.” he said trying to sound calm but only succeeding in sounding more nervous. Mort was utterly limp, his head fell back against the pillow, unmoving. He didn’t so much as twitch when Dean shook him.
“Don’t do that,” Shooter warned. “Let the poor man, sleep. I think you’ve done enough harm already, haven’t you?” he asked, moving closer to Dean.
“Mort! MORT WAKE UP!” Dean yelled, but his partner was utterly lifeless. This was no normal sleep, it was almost as though Mort was in a coma of some kind.
“That’s enough now,” Morton said, trying to lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder. The tan man yelped and leapt away, for a moment panicking at the thought of Mort lying there helpless and alone.
“What, you think we’d hurt him?” Shooter asked, bending down beside Mort’s lifeless form. “Never, ever.” Shooter ran his hand through Mort’s hair, and Dean shivered. It was like…some demented house of mirrors, staring Mort Rainey.
“We’d never hurt, Mort. We’re here to protect him.” the one called Morton answered. “It’s our whole purpose for being.”
“But--you’re in his head!” Dean yelled at the two of them. “You’re not REAL!”
“That’s what they keep telling us, but we beg to differ, you see.” Shooter answered. He was up suddenly and cuffed Dean across the face. Corso staggered backwards, holding his chin. “Bet that felt real, didn’t it?”
“You’ve been awfully cruel to our poor Mr. Rainey, Mr. Corso. We don’t like that. We don’t like it when he’s upset.” Morton explained. “We don’t like it at all.”
“I…I would never…” Dean stuttered, his mouth going dry. If he hadn’t already had a stroke, it was impending.
“We know you don’t MEAN it, “ Morton continued, following behind Shooter as they continued towards the other man. They were backing him into the kitchen, where Dean scrambled to put the table between him and them. “But pain is pain, none the less. Maybe it’s even worse when it comes from someone you love.” he added.
Dean realized that the one called “Morton” was the more rational, perhaps more understanding of the personalities. He didn’t seem eager to hurt him in anyway. Dean imagined he only want to explain the situation as only he could. But the other…the one in the hat…he wanted something else.
Seeing that twisted, hungry smile on what was essentially his lover’s face made Dean’s guts twist.
“And speaking of pain…” he purred. “I think you deserve a taste of your own medicine, Mr. Corso.”
Shooter lunged and Corso simultaneously fled, catapulting himself out the back door. He was rounding the house, digging frantically in his pocket for his car keys.
“Keys! Keys! Where the fuck are--?” he yelled as he slammed into this driver side door.
“Oh Mr. Corso!” Mort’s voice with the southern drawl called back to him.
Dean turned his head slowly. Shooter was standing on the front porch, the sunlight reflecting off his glasses. In his hand he held a small object on a ring, which made a jingling sound when shook.
“Looking for these?” he asked.
Dean darted away from the car, now rounding the other side of the cabin. Shooter followed unhurriedly after, pausing to pick up the shovel that sat next to the porch steps. “Oh Deeeeeeeeeaaaan!” he called after him, nearly singing his name.
Dean was now tumbling through the garden into the corn field that Mort had planted. He hoped between the tall full stocks he could disappear, regroup, and try to think of some way out of this. He was still not convinced he wasn’t going crazy however. He stood very still, glad it was summer and the corn had grown over eight feet, certainly large enough to cover a full grown man.
He waited and listened, not daring to move.  He heard nothing.
He stood for a full five minutes, and when he heard no sound or saw any sign of “Shooter” following him, he breathed out heavily. He had just started to turn…
The sun caught his glasses.
“Boo.” Shooter grinned.
Dean would have screamed if the wind hadn’t been knocked out of him in the next second as Shooter threw him to the ground and pinned him there, the shovel handle across his throat.
“You like games, huh Dean?” Shooter asked as Dean choked and tried to kick him off him. No luck however, this new Mort was straddling his thighs, keeping him pinned. He seemed…stronger.
Shooter looked thoughtfully from the shovel handle to Dean, and Corso did not like what he saw in those dark meancing eyes.  “I can think of a good game to play…” Shooter chuckled. To Dean’s utter surprise, the man in the hat bent lower over him, kissing him hard.
It had the same feel as Mort’s mouth, the same taste even, and Dean’s mind was racing. What to think, what to do, and then suddenly….Shooter’s hands were on his crouch, gripping him hard. Dean yelped. Shooter laughed.
He removed the shovel handle from Dean’s throat, but kept him pinned effectively all the same with his free hand. He moved, allowing himself to slide down off of Dean’s legs, which he forced apart.
Shooter ran the handle of the shovel across Dean’s thigh. It was all the hint that he needed.
“Oh GOD!” Dean yelled, squirming.
“What’s the matter, Corso, I thought you liked rough sex?” Shooter cooed, smacking Dean with the shovel handle.
“I’m gonna make you squeal like a pig, boy.” Shooter grinned.
“SHOOTER!”
The other Mort, “Morton” was suddenly there in the corn with them. He grabbed Shooter by the shirt and drug him up, but Dean was too stunned to move.
“What the FUCK do you think you’re doing?” Mort growled. Shooter just grinned that creepy grin of his. The twin images glared at each other.
“I was just having a little fun with him,” Shooter began.
“Oh is that all?” Morton asked, still holding him firmly. “Just a bit of fun? Hmmm? You kill him, and it will destroy Mort. Do you want that? Do you know what Mort will do, if he thinks HE’S the one who did this to him, and he will think that, what else can the poor thing think? It will DESTROY him, and when it does SHOOTER, I will destroy YOU.”
Morton shoved Shooter back and the man in the black hat blinked back at him, looking angry and unnerved.  Dean was impressed. This calmer, perhaps more nerdy version of Mort, did in fact have balls. Big ones.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Shooter hissed. “I was only teasing.”
“THAT’S not how you TEASE, someone.” Morton said then, a sly smile creeping across his identical face. Dean suddenly remembered he hadn’t moved. He was deeply regretting it. Morton was straddling him, just the same way Shooter had moments ago, but there was nothing menacing about it. He ran his hand smoothly across Dean’s groin and Dean couldn’t help but gasp.
Shooter and Dean both watched, entranced by the movement of Morton’s hands across Dean’s crotch and the way the dark-haired man responded to it so quickly. After all these were the hands of his lover, the man who’s touch he craved day and night.
Morton leaned over and kissed Dean’s gaping mouth, sliding his free hand under his shirt to run across his chest. Morton knew every spot that Mort knew on Dean’s body and mimicked the way he liked to be touched.  Dean was breathless and feeling more confused by the minute.
Morton slowly pulled away from the kiss, smiling at Dean. He looked quiet pleased himself as he sat back, pulling down Dean’s jeans. Then, to the tan man’s terror, he looked back at the man in the black hat. “I’ve got him all warmed up for you.”
Shooter didn’t have to be told twice. Dean tried to yell and back away but Shooter was too fast, too strong. He managed to flip him over onto his stomach and pushed him up on his hands and knees. Dean barely had time to brace himself before Shooter was inside him. He yelled, digging his hands into the dirt and the now broken stalks of corn that laid around them.
“UNH! UNGH!” Dean yelped as Shooter thrust into him again and again, hard enough to cause some pain, but not enough to really hurt him. It was over in under fifteen minutes, but to Dean it felt like entirety.
He collapsed in the dirt, shaking and moaning. Shooter spread his hands along Dean’s back, kissing down his spine. “I can see why Mort likes you so much, Mr. Corso….” he purred.
“Enough!” Morton grumbled then. He knocked Shooter away, looking down as Dean tried to steady himself. “I think he gets the point, don’t you Dean?”
Dean blinked back at them. If this was Mort’s way of telling him to be a bit more understanding, Dean would bend over backwards to see that the writer was never so much as mildly miffed at him again. He nodded shakily.
“I thought so.” Morton nodded. They were gone without another word. Dean laid there in the corn for a long time, closing his eyes. He must have passed out for a moment or two, because he was suddenly opening them again to find that the sun had changed positions and that ants were now trailing up his leg.
He smacked them all away, pulling up his wrinkled clothing. He got his feet, pushing his way out corn. As he remerged into the yard, he heard Mort calling his name. For a moment he froze.
“Dean? Dean!”
The writer appeared from around the corner of the house, looking frantic. Dean didn’t move, he stood there like a deer in the headlights.
“Dean!” Mort yelled. He was in front of him in the next moment, looking confused. “Why…why didn’t you answer me?” he huffed, catching his breath.
“Mort?” Dean blinked looking at him closely.
“Yes?” Mort answered. He peered more closely at his lover, seeming to stare at his chin. “You have a bruise…what did you do? Why are you all dirty?” he asked, looking him over.
He glanced behind him then. “And what the hell did you do to the corn?” he added. Dean glanced behind him, seeing that a small path seemed to have been cleaved through the long green stocks where he had been cornered.
Dean said nothing, put his arms around the writer, kissing his forehead. “I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to be such an ass.” he said.
Mort blinked at him. “What?”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Dean asked, holding his face between his hands. Mort Rainey wasn’t certain he’d ever seen Dean look so serious. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you. Okay? You know that right?”
Mort shook his head. “I love you too.” he answered.
Dean kissed him quickly, hugging him again. “Okay…” he let go of Mort then and started off towards the cabin at a distinct limp, holding his lower back.
“Did you hurt yourself or something?” Mort called after him.
“I’m going to take a long…hot…shower.” Dean grunted. He glanced back at Mort one last time before entering the house, just to make sure there was only one of him.