On the worst nights he dreams of blood; one might think the mainstay of his nightmares would be fire, but that was a long time ago. By now the scars have disappeared, the only wounds remaining those he's inflicted on others. He's good at hurting people; he even likes it… which is the problem.

It's his fault, he knows, that the mortuary burned when they were children, that their parents died. When they first met, it was his bad blood that sent the Undertaker back to the Darkside for so long. Even X-Pac, who'd taught him to speak, ran afoul eventually of his wrath. Commentators, Superstars, Legends, Lita - all had fallen. And their screams tormented him.

Hellfire he could deal with, but not the memories of those he'd damned. Their whispers drove him to madness, further destruction to silence the murmuring of their voices in his head; in the darkness of his dreams he could taste their blood.

Only to wake, shaking and covered in sweat, ready to scream himself to drown out the nightmares.

Then Mark would come to him.

He never understood how his older brother knew; may be it was a power he'd adopted from the Dark in the years when Bearer led him or some sort of subconscious connection they shared - now they'd stopped beating the Hell out of eachother regularly.

However he did it though, the Deadman always knew, and as soon as Kane woke, he'd find himself encircled in strong arms, Big Evil's mellow cologne filling his nostrils, the strong soft beat of his brother's heart against his cheek as Mark pulled him to his chest.

Neither would say anything; so many times in their relationship - both as enemies and allied - they could read eachother with a glance, Kane's mismatched eyes always hiding just a little, Mark's sharp and clear as St. Elmo's fire. Always when he had bad dreams it was the same.

First they'd sit close, only their breaths disturbing the silence; then the Deadman would lean forward till his forehead could rest against his baby brother's. Sometimes being nearly the same height was nice. After that there'd be a long slow kiss, neither in any hurry…

That is, until Kane would snag Mark's lip with his teeth, pulling gently, and his brother would retaliate by pushing him back on their bed, laying his strong lean frame full across the Big Red Machine's. After that it would be a short struggle to get naked, neither willing to let the other escape, mouths and hips clashing - a mockery of their previous battles.

Pale skin pressed close, they'd wrestle into position, Mark somehow always knowing what Kane needed, willing to dominate or submit without a word; by now they'd learned to trust eachother, and only the love they showed in moments like these could heal the heartaches of their past.

Tonight he wanted it hard, wanted to be held down, pierced, and forget, the world narrowing to the tight corridor made by the Deadman's arms on either side of him, Mark's cool breath against his throat, the sweep of his brother's soft ginger-dark hair tickling his chest - making them move together, the bed groaning beneath their weight and motion, until Kane's pupils bled wide, his mouth open in a primal cry, heat spreading like the sweetest fire between them.

Mark would hold out till he had, always his brother's keeper, letting himself go only when Kane lay trembling beneath him, momentarily overwhelmed; for just a moment their would be perfect clarity, the memories and voices kept at bay by Big Evil's affection - a strange title for him to think of at that moment, what with this mission of mercy. With no one else would he have let himself be so vulnerable.

Then the Deadman would pull gently away, laying beside him, and draw his baby brother against his side, their heartbeats slowing to fall into rhythm with one another, sleep settling back in unhindered. It would be a better night now, dreams without blood - except that shared in their veins, binding them together as surely as Mark's love.