
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1134025.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Wincest_-_Freeform, Underage_Sex, Established_Relationship, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, Explicit_Language, Violence, Torture, Domestic_Violence,
      Hurt/Comfort, Hurt_Dean_Winchester, Abusive_John_Winchester, Latin!kink,
      angsty_goodness, top!dean, Bottom!Sam, Porn_With_Plot, Demons, Art, Blow
      jobs_from_Dean_with_THOSE_LIPS
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-13 Completed: 2014-01-15 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 41397
****** Can't Rain All The Time ******
by 427-67Impala_(australis86)
Summary
     The clock is ticking on Dean's deal, and as if things weren't tense
     enough between the Winchester boys, he doesn't react well when Sam
     wants to revisit their secret teenage romance. True to form, they
     push on with their latest hunt while the elephant in the corner of
     the room turns into more of a woolly mammoth.
     Following the trail of a missing witch and her elusive patron demon
     gets them stranded together in an abandoned house in the Maryland
     wilderness, where they've got no choice but to sort out their drama -
     except that house isn't so abandoned, and that demon isn't staying
     hidden anymore.
     Angst, drama and physical and emotional hurt/comfort, liberally
     sprinkled with sex. Complete.
Notes
     Word count: 41, 397
     Setting: After Sin City
     Written for the 2013 SPN/J2_Big_Bang on LiveJournal
     Accompanying art and fanmix was done by the lovely and talented
     jennybliss.
***** Chapter 1 *****
                      ['Can't Rain All The Time' banner]
Boardman, Ohio
Wednesday night isn't exactly party night in Ohio. It was only 8pm but, besides
Sam, there were only a handful of people in the bar. When Dean finally turned
up, the number still wouldn't even make it into double figures.
The younger Winchester sat in a corner booth, slightly away from the other
patrons, a map of the northeast US and some associated weather reports in front
of him, some newspaper articles open on the laptop by his left arm, and a half-
empty pint glass by his right. His back was to the wall and he had as good a
view of the entrances and exits as he could get. When he sat down in his spot a
couple of hours earlier, he hadn't even given it a conscious thought - after a
lifetime of having it drilled into him, stuff like that was second nature.
Sam had wrinkled his nose when Dean said he'd meet him at Bridie's, expecting
another beer-stained, cigarette-singed, dusty old dive, but he had to admit,
Dean had chosen well this time.
The place had a vaguely 'Irish pub' kind of feel - warm lighting showed off the
rich walnut-toned bar and casually-arranged tables, with comfortable-looking
matching bar stools and chairs upholstered in burgundy leather. A couple of
well-used pool tables sat to one side of the room, the glass shelves of spirits
behind the bar shone, and he could even see out of the windows. Not that there
was much to look at on the random city street outside, but still.
Sam tapped his pen thoughtfully on the side of his glass, frowning down at the
map. He finally had a nice, quiet place to work with a good selection of rock
and pop songs filtering through the wall-mounted speakers, but he'd hardly
gotten any work done all night. He just couldn't concentrate. He was too busy
thinking about Dean, off wrapping up another one of his last-year-on-Earth
nights with yet another random girl from his past.
Sam sighed and took another long pull of his half-finished beer. His problem
wasn't that they were racking up massive miles traipsing all over the
countryside, or that he found himself doing all the research while Dean was off
enjoying himself, or even that smug, satisfied smile he got on his face for
days afterwards.
Honestly, he could understand this 'greatest hits tour' thing his brother had
going. That was fine. God knows the guy deserved a little fun. Sam's problem
was that he wasn't on his big brother's bucket list.
Sam swirled the remaining beer absently in the bottom of his glass, bottom lip
caught between his teeth. Maybe they'd had something when they were teenagers.
Maybe even something a little bit special.
But that was years ago, Sam reminded himself. As if that was going to make it
hurt less.
Sam's pity party was interrupted by the rumble of a familiar engine outside,
and he turned just in time to see the big, black outline of the Impala as it
cruised past. Apparently, Dean was done with whats-her-name. He had said her
name at some point, Sam was sure, but he had other things on his mind. Well,
one thing.
He'd been thinking about it ever since Dean had come to get him from Stanford,
but he just couldn't seem to work up the courage to say he wanted to try again.
And if the thought had crossed Dean's mind, he sure as hell wasn't letting on.
But now there was a ticking clock looming. Sam was running out of time, and
suddenly it was all he could think about. He was even dreaming about it lately
- revisiting some of the nights they'd spent together, in all their sweaty,
sticky Technicolor glory. Rather than making him feel better, though, they only
served to remind him what he was missing.
Dean sauntered in through the front door a couple of minutes later, smiling
that wide, lazy, satisfied smile he'd been sporting a lot lately, and went
straight over to the bar. Sam sighed, trying not to look as forlorn as he felt,
watching the way his big brother's jacket stretched across his broad shoulders
as he leaned over to rest his elbows on the bar, pulling up slightly to reveal
a little more of that perfect, round backside…
Sam forced himself to look away. It wasn't like he didn't know he was being
ridiculous - the last time he'd been with Dean was long before he even imagined
going away to Stanford, but it was still as fresh in his mind as if it happened
yesterday.
But it didn't happen yesterday, Sam sighed inwardly. Which was the whole
problem.
"Hey there, Sammy." Dean slid smiling into the opposite side of the booth. He
set one glass down by Sam's empty one, and took a long pull from the other. He
had that tell-tale grin and that tousled hair and that slightly-over-
caffeinated spring in his step, and absolutely no clue what his baby brother
was really thinking.
"In a hurry to get started?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow and trying to look
indifferent.
"I'm kinda thirsty." Dean winked. He had to take a second to clear a spot on
the table top before he could put his glass down. "So, what do we got?" he
asked, brighter than a condemned man had any right to be.
"Ugh." Sam groaned and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "I don't know, man. A few
weird deaths in southern PA. Maybe some demonic omens in Maryland." That wasn't
just a result of tonight's half-hearted research session, either. It was just
genuinely - annoyingly - quiet out there.
Typical. Just when I need a distraction, all the monsters take a frigging
holiday.
"'Maybe?'" Dean quirked an eyebrow. 'You need a break, little brother." He
pushed Sam's beer closer to him, but the younger Winchester only sighed
unenthusiastically. Alcohol did tend to be good for dulling the pain, but he
really didn't feel like putting on his "everything's fine" mask tonight. He
just wasn't in the mood.
"Actually, scratch that; you need to get lucky," Dean told him, eyes sparkling.
"Dean..." Sam grumbled. His lack of enthusiasm was in danger of turning into
full-blown apathy.
"I'm serious, Sam, " Dean told him. "You've gotta let off some steam."
"Why don't you let me worry about my own steam, Dean?" Sam bit back, more
harshly than was necessary. He winced as he heard the words coming out of his
mouth.
He hadn't intended to snap like that, but he was just so tired and frustrated,
and sick of pretending. It was exhausting. Knowing the love of his life was
going from one random girl to the next, who were doubtless falling all over
themselves to jump into bed just because he'd asked them, spending hours
wrapped around that lean, strong body and not appreciating how lucky they were-
Get it together, Sam. He gave himself a mental headslap, consciously putting
those thoughts out of his mind. It's not Dean's fault he's oblivious.
"Okay, okay." Dean held his hands up, palms out, in a placating gesture. He
could understand if Sam was touchy - he'd been hiding it well, but Dean knew he
had to be hurting. The older Winchester had absolutely no intention of opening
that can of worms and having a full-on chick-flick moment about it, but he was
aware. It didn't even occur to him that his demon deal might not be the main
cause of Sam's melancholy.
"Sorry, man," Sam sighed, conceding defeat and picking up his beer. He wanted
Dean so much it hurt, but being near him made things... well, not better. Less
terrible, maybe.
"Aw, it's okay." Dean grinned and reached out to ruffle Sam's hair, just like
he knew his little brother hated. Sam grunted and slapped his hand away,
bringing his glass to his lips to hide the involuntary little smile.
"Look, for once there's no monster in this town eating people's faces. We're
gonna carpe diem or whatever and have a night off, okay?" Dean gathered up the
maps and papers and stowed them under the closed laptop. "It's time for a
little R&R, dude."
"That would be carpe noctem, technically," Sam pointed out, smiling. Dean
rolled his eyes, but smiled back.
The Winchester boys spent the next few hours drinking, talking, and laughing -
just relaxing and having a good time, for once. Between all their recent family
drama and epic life-and-death battles, Sam had almost forgotten how nice it was
to just sit down and have a few beers with his big brother.
It was nearly midnight when the bartender finally called last drinks, and by
then it was becoming obvious to Dean that Sam had enjoyed the night a little
too much. He wasn't singing or anything - yet - but he'd definitely had one
pint too many when Dean shepherded him out the front door and down the street
towards the little carpark where the Impala waited.
"That was fun," Sam grinned, only slurring a little. He was finding it a little
tricky to walk in a straight line, and Dean got in between him and the street
and gave him a gentle elbow away from the curb when he strayed too close.
"It was," Dean agreed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as they ambled
down the deserted sidewalk. It was a cool, clear summer night with no clouds to
cover up the stars, but they were the only ones out walking. "You really took a
shine to that microbrew they had on tap, huh?"
Sam chuckled. "Yeah, 'lil bit."
"Well, I did say you needed to blow off some steam," Dean chuckled too. Sam
drifted into him again, and he gave his baby brother another good-natured
little shove.
"And you were right," Sam said, still grinning. He was pleasantly surprised to
realise that he actually felt pretty good. The alcohol had lifted the weight
off his shoulders, however temporarily, and he felt like he could breathe for
the first time in weeks. Just the lack of tension was an almost euphoric
feeling in itself.
"It was good, having a night off. We need to relax more often, Sammy," Dean
declared, stopping at a side street to let a car pass by. It was then that Sam
leaned in and kissed him, right on those soft, silky lips.
He heard his big brother make a surprised little noise, and after a couple of
shocked seconds Dean shoved him away, hard - really hard. Sam took a stumbling
step back and grunted as he slammed into the brick wall of the building behind
him, sharp pain radiating out from the back of his shoulder.
"What the hell was that?!" Dean demanded, glaring at Sam as he wiped the back
of his shaking hand across his lips. His heart was beating so hard against his
chest he thought it was going to punch through.
Sam blinked, still leaning against the cold brick wall, surprised and confused
at the raw anger in Dean's voice. He reached across to his shoulder with his
right hand, wincing as he touched the sore spot.
"I'm sorry, Dean - but it's not like it's the first time." Sam hadn't intended
to kiss him - it just sort of happened - but even so, he wouldn't ever have
expected this reaction.
"We've grown up since then, Sam!" Dean shot back, his voice still hard, and he
saw Sam actually flinch as the words stung him. He looked crestfallen, rubbing
his shoulder as he searched Dean's face for a clue to what was going on in his
head. Trying to understand why his brother was literally pushing him away.
There was a little pang of guilt in Dean's chest as his heart rate started to
drop, and he took a long, deep breath. "I don't want to go back there," he went
on, trying to soften his words but failing miserably.
Sam's eyes filled with tears and he turned his back, holding his left arm close
to his body, and started wordlessly back the way they'd come.
"Oh, come on Sam!" Dean called after him, but got no response. "You can't walk
all the way back to the motel!"
He took a couple of tentative steps after his baby brother, but that was all.
Sam could hear him, he knew, but the younger Winchester didn't even break
stride - he evidently wanted to be alone. Dean saw him lift one hand to his
face and wipe it roughly across his eyes, and that little pang of guilt stung
him again as he turned and started for the carpark.
 
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Hanover, Pennsylvania
"So talk to me about these weird deaths," Dean said, as he pulled on his FBI
suit jacket. It was the longest sentence either of them had said since they
left Boardman the day before.
It had been a very long, very quiet drive from Ohio to southern Pennsylvania.
They'd got into Hanover after dark, too late to do any serious digging into the
mysterious deaths that had brought them to town, so they'd spent a similarly
tense, quiet night in their motel room, which had then turned into this tense,
quiet morning.
Sam was over by the mirrored wardrobe door, and it took him a second to answer.
"Three people dead in a week," he replied, his tone neutral as he did up his
tie. He didn't look over at Dean. "Two men and a woman. All relatively young
and healthy, until they all dropped dead for no apparent reason."
Dean wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, that's weird. Any connection between them?"
"The two guys worked at the same office in town, but I don't know about the
woman yet." Sam's voice was so calm and impassive that he might have been
talking about the weather, not three unexplained deaths. As per usual, he was
covering the pain with detached professionalism while Dean's coping mechanism
of choice was to blatantly ignore all the emotion piling up in the space
between them.
"Okay," Dean said, with more enthusiasm than he felt. "We'll divide and conquer
- I'll drop you at the ME's and go check out the guys' office. Cool?"
Sam shrugged noncommittally. "Whatever you think."
Dean glanced over at him, but Sam was looking intently at the knot in his tie,
deliberately avoiding eye contact.
It was a ten minute drive to the Hanover coroner's office, but neither of them
said another word. Even when Dean stopped the Impala at the main entrance, the
only sound was the squeaking of the door hinges as Sam got out.
He could feel Dean's eyes on him as he went up the steps of the nondescript,
standard-Government-issue brick building, but he kept his eyes forward until he
pushed open the heavy glass doors. He heard the Impala's engine growl and threw
a quick glance over his shoulder just in time to see Dean peal away, re-joining
the relatively light late-morning traffic a bit more aggressively than was
necessary.
Sam winced as his left shoulder twinged, and let the door fall closed behind
him. He knew this silent treatment was making his brother uncomfortable, but he
just didn't have it in him to pretend everything was okay.
He took a deep, calming breath before he strode up to the reception desk, but
the receptionist barely glanced at his fake FBI ID before she handed him a
sign-in book and a visitor's badge and directed him to the bank of elevators in
the back of the lobby. That done, she immediately turned her attention back to
her computer, and Sam heard the keys clicking rapidly as she continued with her
typing.
Having signed in under the alias displayed on his ID, Sam clipped the
laminated, business-card-sized badge to his lapel and headed for the lifts. The
building itself was J. Edgar Hoover-era, but the interior had apparently been
updated relatively recently - the floor was a shining expanse of warm sandy-
coloured tiles, and the walls were clad in rich coffee-coloured wood panelling
that absorbed the echoes of his footsteps. Even the sandstone-coloured chairs
and low, walnut side tables looked new.
The morgue itself was in the basement of the building, only a couple of floors
below the lobby, and the elevator doors opened on a corridor that looked - and
smelled - like it belonged in a hospital. There was a small arrow-shaped sign
on the wall opposite the elevator that proclaimed the autopsy room to be down
the hall to the left, so Sam followed it.
This floor wasn't as well-lit as the lobby, but it wasn't dim either - there
were no windows, obviously, but there were fluorescent lights set into the
ceiling every eight or ten feet. The walls were painted a light blue, with wide
wooden rails running along at waist height, punctuated by the occasional door.
They were painted a darker blue with black room numbers emblazoned in the
middle at eye level, and those narrow, A4-sized windows set slightly off to the
left.
All in all, it was the nicest morgue he'd been to in a while. Despite all his
drama, the thought that he was at a point where it was normal to critique the
interior decor of morgues made Sam smile.
He was only walking for about 20 seconds before he came across a set of double
doors, with a long glass window in the wall next to them. The Venetian blind
was half-closed, but Sam could see the first in a row of stainless steel
tables, and the name plate on the doors read 'Autopsy'.
He straightened his jacket and knocked sharply on the door before he pushed it
open and stepped in. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of pine
disinfectant, which didn't quite cover the underlying odour of decomposing
flesh, and he reflexively wrinkled his nose as he looked around.
The space was bigger than a lot of autopsy rooms he'd seen. It ran another
fifteen metres along the side of the corridor, at least, and there was a row of
four stainless steel tables down the middle. The walls were bright white tiles
three-quarters of the way to the ceiling, with a strip of light blue painted
drywall above that, and the floor was a blue-grey linoleum that managed to
compliment the paint and all the stainless steel at the same time.
"Can I help you?"
Sam turned to his right to find a bespectacled, middle-aged man standing in the
doorway to a dim little office - evidently, this was the coroner. He was about
5'10", wearing an off-white lab coat over olive green scrubs and white cross
trainers, and he didn't look thrilled at this intrusion of a living soul into
his morgue.
"Agent Hammett, FBI," Sam told him, briefly flipping open his ID before tucking
it back into his jacket.
"You're here about the three DBs from that ad agency?" the coroner asked,
before Sam could get another word out.
"Uh - yeah," Sam replied, blinking. He hadn't known they were all from the same
agency, but still. "How did you know?"
The coroner grunted and went over to the wall opposite the entrance, where a
grid of three-foot-square stainless steel doors were set into the wall, three
high and five wide. "Three people, all dead for no apparent reason? Figured it
was just a matter of time before PD called you lot in," he sniffed, checking
the small white labels on a couple of doors before he opened three in the
bottom row.
"They all came in over four days last week," the coroner continued,
businesslike, pulling three trays out of the open fridges as Sam came over to
join him. "The woman was first, then male victim number one the following day,
and the second male a couple of days after that." He pointed out each body as
he spoke.
Sam leaned in for a closer look, and was immediately struck by the absence of
things to look at. The victims were all relatively young, barely into their
thirties, and looked to be in good physical shape - apart from the fact they
were dead.
"What killed them?" he asked. He was used to seeing an obvious cause of death,
but here he there was nothing. No lacerations, teeth marks or trauma of any
kind on the pale, dead flesh - not even a hangnail.
The coroner didn't answer right away, and when Sam looked up his mouth was set
in a hard line as he stared down the corpse of the young woman. It was obvious
he didn't have an answer for that.
"Doc?" Sam pressed, and the coroner threw him an annoyed glance.
"Well, Agent, apart from the fact they're dead, all three victims were in
perfect health: no heart attacks, no strokes - no pathology of any kind," he
said, his tone clipped. He evidently wasn't used to not saying 'I don't know',
and didn't enjoy it one little bit.
Sam asked a few more routine questions, but it was painfully obvious that
medical science wasn't going to help them solve this one, so he was happy to
get out of the morgue and leave the coroner to it. The guy seemed happier down
there by himself, anyway.
While he made his way back up to the land of the living, Sam mulled over what
could have killed three people and left no physical trace. Witchcraft was the
frontrunner, he figured, but beyond that he was no more enlightened than the
coroner.
He stifled a yawn as he walked out to stand on the steps of the building. He
checked his phone, but there was no news from Dean - it hadn't taken long to
get that non-information out of the coroner, though, and he was probably still
checking out the victims' office.
Sam sighed and looked around him. It was a mild, sunny summer day, but he
didn't particularly feel like killing time on the steps of the coroner's
office. That wasn't very FBI-like, anyway. So he sent Dean a text to let him
know he'd come up empty, and flagged down a passing cab for a ride back to the
motel.
It was nice to have the place to himself for a while, actually. He shrugged out
of his jacket and kicked off his shoes, then sat on the couch and flicked on
the TV. There wasn't much on, though, and it didn't take long for his eyelids
to start getting heavy.
Between John's death, Dean's deal and the demonic fallout from their monumental
fuck-up at the Devil's Gate in Wyoming, he had plenty to keep him up at night.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep…
Sam grabbed a spare pillow off the floor, still sitting where Dean had tossed
it last night, and settled down for a nap.
 
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Portland, Maine
February 1998
It was a cold, windy night outside, and the Winchester boys were languishing in
yet another random, unremarkable, two-decades-out-of-style motel room. They
were alone, as usual - John wasn't going to be back till the following day,
weather permitting. He was still two states away wrapping up the loose ends on
a poltergeist.
The motel wasn't far from the water, and Mother Nature was getting a head start
on the winter storm that was supposed to be coming in tomorrow. The wind was
bone-chilling cold and already blowing at a steady 50mph, so they were stuck
inside with the ancient heater cranked as high as it would go.
Despite the fact he was only just eighteen, Dean had managed to lay his hands
on a bottle of Jack Daniel's and was considerately sharing it with his baby
brother, who wasn't even fifteen. They'd been through about a third of the
bottle and were sprawled out on the couch with the TV on, but the weather
interfered with the signal so much the random 80s action movie was almost more
snow than film.
"You don't date, Sammy," Dean said suddenly, when the hero and his damsel in
distress disappeared into a blizzard of static again.
"When've I got time for that?" Sam sniffed. Between school and hunting and
training and sleep, there was precious little time for anything. "Plus, we only
move on anyway." He heaved a sigh and grabbed the bottle for another swig.
"True," Dean said thoughtfully, giving a conciliatory nod. "So, don't date.
Take it one night at a time."
Sam snorted. "What, like you do?"
"I'm a shining example of all the fun that can be had with no strings
attached."
"I've seen you crawl back in the morning after, and 'shining' is not the word
I'd use," Sam told him drily, looking back to the TV as Dean chuckled. He
couldn't argue with that. It took a few hours' sleep, a shower and a handful of
aspirin to even approach 'normal'.
There was a pause as a moment of clear picture came through the static, just
long enough to watch a building blow up, but then the movie disappeared into
snow again. "What do you tell them you do?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.
"There's not usually that much talking," Dean said pointedly, taking the bottle
back.
Sam shrugged, eyes still on the snowy screen. "I like to talk."
"God, don't I know it," Dean teased.
Sam glanced over, but resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at his big
brother. "Girls like to talk, too," he pointed out.
"Then give them something else to do with their mouth, Sammy!"
Now it was Sam's turn to chuckle and Dean looked over at him with a little
smile on his lips. "It is girls, right…?" he asked after a short pause,
eyebrows raised suggestively.
Sam frowned for a second, confused, and then his eyes suddenly widened as
realisation dawned on him. "Oh God - yes, Dean!" He grabbed the bottle, trying
not to blush. That was even true, mostly, but Sam didn't know what to worry
about first - the fact that it actually wasn't just girls, or that his social
life was so abysmal that his brother thought he might be gay.
"Cause, you know, I figured that might explain why you never seem to get
friendly with them," Dean went on. "It'd be okay, you know - if
it wasn't girls," he added, and took another drink. He was trying to keep his
voice light, but he was only half-joking. Sufficiently uninhibited by the
bourbon, he was actually seriously trying to ask the question.
Sam said nothing, just watching as Dean ran his tongue across those pouty, bee-
stung lips to catch a stray drop of bourbon. "Have you ever thought about it?"
he asked, before he knew he was speaking.
"What, another guy?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah," Sam replied. He heard his voice crack a little, and winced.
Dean paused, chewing on his bottom lip, and Sam turned a little further to
study him. He was staring at the snowy picture on the TV, brow furrowed and
gnawing so hard on that lip that it was getting rosy red.
"You have," Sam gasped, trying not to sound incredulous.
Dean stared at the TV for a couple of seconds longer. "Yeah. Couple of times,"
he admitted, with a shrug. "Was stoned the first time," he added, casually.
Just the first time? Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But you're
not…?" He waved his hand around in a vague 'you know' kind of gesture, hoping
Dean couldn't see the way it was trembling.
Dean shook his head with a chuckle. "Nah. Girls are my thing. It's just a
curse, being this pretty," he said, and smiled widely at Sam. "So what about
you, baby brother? Ever gone there?"
Sam shrugged, immediately looking away. It wouldn't change anything if he told
Dean he was interested in other guys - as evidenced by what his big brother had
just told him - but knowing that and actually saying the words were two
completely different things.
"Come on, Sammy - you're not allowed to start holding out on me now," Dean
admonished him good-naturedly. "I showed you mine, now you've gotta show me
yours."
"Well, there is one guy I'd like to get to know better…" Sam started, but
trailed off, avoiding Dean's eyes. "He has no clue I'm interested." He felt a
little pang in his chest. Every word of it was absolutely, painfully true.
"You sound disappointed." Dean sat up a little straighter. This was all news to
him.
Sam heaved a sigh as he stared out the window, watching the trees whipping
around in the wind and darkness outside. "It's just… I'm curious, you know?" he
said, with a shrug. It just so happened that most of that curiosity centred
around Dean, and had done for a while now, but there was no way in hell he was
going to say that out loud.
"Yeah, I know." Dean smiled. If there was one thing Sam was, it was curious.
They took another couple of silent drinks each, lost in their thoughts, and
suddenly most of the bottle was gone. Sam stole a look at Dean, sitting down
the other end of the couch from him, face unreadable as he stared at the TV
screen.
Now that he knew Dean had been with other guys, he just couldn't get the image
out of his head. He'd always imagined his brother being on top, and the thought
of Dean holding that other guy down - kissing his neck, massaging his back… if
he was honest, it made him jealous.
But brothers don't do that sort of thing, he reminded himself. Tell Dean you've
dreamed about him fucking you senseless and you'll probably wind up with a
black eye.
Sam sighed and settled into the corner of the couch, one slender leg hanging
over the edge and an arm thrown up behind his head, eyes on the snowy screen.
Somebody was shooting at someone else with some ridiculously oversized
automatic weapon, but the picture was so bad he couldn't quite tell who was
who.
Next thing he knew, Dean's unbelievably soft, silky lips were suddenly pressed
against his. And not just a quick peck - Dean was kissing him. Arms around him,
pushing him back into the couch, kissing him.
He made a pleased little sound in the back of his throat and let Dean push him
down into the corner of the couch, relishing the hot, wet, bourbon-soaked heat
of his mouth as he leaned in to press his hard, lean body against Sam's, his
hands-
There was a thump as the bottle of Jack fell out of Dean's hand and onto the
floor, and then, just as suddenly as it started, Dean pulled away.
Sam opened his eyes and blinked a few times, as if waking up from a dream, and
found Dean looking down at him. His eyes were wide, those lips parted in a gasp
of shock as if he'd only just realised what he was doing.
"Fuck, Sam - I'm sorry." Dean was on his feet before Sam could react. He sat in
the corner of the couch looking up at his big brother, standing a few feet away
and as white as a sheet, and Sam couldn't tell if he was more horrified at what
he'd just done or the fact that he obviously wanted to do it again.
"Dean-" Sam started to get up, but paused when Dean stepped back a couple of
paces, trying to keep the distance between them.
"Sam, you're my little brother. We can't." Then the older Winchester turned and
escaped into his bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.
Sam was on his feet and after him almost instantly. He was sure he wanted this
and, with the courage bestowed on him by half a bottle of Jack, he wasn't about
to let the moment pass him by. He opened the door to find Dean sitting on the
end of the bed in the dark, with his head in his hands.
"Dean?" Sam asked, and turned on the dim, grimy overhead light. Dean looked up
at him, but even then he didn't quite meet his baby brother's eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said, again, and looked away.
"Don't be," Sam said, but Dean didn't reply. "You want it as much as I do," Sam
told him, with a lot more conviction than he felt.
Dean considered that for a long moment, lower lip caught between his teeth.
"You're not even fifteen yet. You don't know what you want," he said, sharp
edges on his words. "You don't know what I want, either."
"You started this," Sam said, uncertainty creeping into his voice as a frown
creased his forehead. Had he read this wrong? He knew what he wanted, without a
doubt, and he was pretty sure about Dean. At least, kinda pretty sure…
"I know, I know," Dean groaned, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was
acutely aware that he was the one that opened Pandora's Box here, and he wanted
to dive in. So much. But Sam was his baby brother, and they couldn't.
"So what's the problem?" Sam asked, unable to hide his disappointment. Dean
didn't answer him - he didn't know what to say.
As he stood there in the silence, Sam started to think he'd made a mistake. His
eyes searched Dean's face for a clue as to what was going on in his head, but
he just sat there for what seemed like forever, absolutely still with his eyes
on the floor.
Sam turned to leave, tears stinging his eyes, but before he could take two
steps Dean reached out and caught him by the wrist. He wordlessly pulled Sam
down to sit over his lap, and the older Winchester's hands came to rest on his
hips like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Dean leaned in to give Sam a soft kiss on the cheek, lips slightly parted, only
closing them when they touched his skin. It was the gentlest, most feather-
light kiss Sam could imagine.
"I'm going to Hell for this," Dean sighed, and glanced apprehensively skyward.
Sam chuckled breathlessly, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.
"What's so funny?" Dean asked, a smile spreading across his face.
"Nothing," Sam told him softly, as Dean's arms wound around his back and hugged
him closer. "I just really thought you were going to let me leave."
"I should've," Dean sighed, one hand rubbing rhythmically up and down Sam's
back.
"So why didn't you?"
Dean shrugged a shoulder. "Just couldn't."
"I'm not stupid, Dean. I know we're not supposed to do this," Sam told him
softly.
Dean gave him another soft kiss, this time on the mouth, and he felt Dean's
hand move up under his shirt. It rubbed gently up and down the smooth,
sensitive skin of his left side, and his brother's hands were softer and
gentler than he expected. Dean paused to drag his t-shirt off, then pulled
Sam's up over his head and tossed it onto the floor too.
"You ever done this before?" Dean asked softly, stroking the back of his
knuckles gently up and down Sam's abdomen.
Sam shrugged a little. "Not all the way," he replied, slowly.
"Not even with a girl?" Dean raised his eyebrows, eyes sparkling just a little.
Sam shook his head. Now, half-naked and sitting astride his big brother, he was
suddenly feeling very self-conscious about it - he knew for a fact that Dean
hadn't been a virgin since Sam was in elementary school.
Dean leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss. "Don't worry, okay? It's really
not that hard."
A smile tugged at the corner of Sam's mouth, but he didn't say anything. He
just ran one hand over the crotch of Dean's jeans.
"Yeah, funny." Dean kissed him again and Sam felt the warmth of his skin
against his chest as his big brother pulled him in closer.
He reached a hand up to touch and it was all warm, smooth skin over hard ridges
of muscle that shifted under his fingers as Dean moved, deepening the kiss. He
tasted good, like bourbon and the cheeseburgers they had for dinner - just how
Sam thought he should.
Sam grunted in surprise when Dean suddenly pushed him gently down into the
pillows of the unmade bed. "If you wanna stop, just tell me," he breathed, and
reached down to undo Sam's jeans. They joined the t-shirts on the floor, and
then Dean set about stripping off his own jeans to reveal the slim, athletic
physique beneath.
He was a lot better-built and more defined than Sam expected, covered in layers
of lean muscle under expanses of smooth, fair skin, but his eyes only really
widened when Dean took off his boxers. He was hard - very hard - and although
it was gorgeous and maybe a little more generously proportioned than average,
like the rest of him, considering he was about to let Dean put that inside him
Sam thought it looked enormous.
Dean saw all that play out on his face, and knelt beside him to give him a
kiss. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he whispered, running a hand back over Sam's
hair and pushing stray strands out of his face. Sam murmured an
acknowledgement, and Dean gave him one last kiss on the lips before he placed a
few more on his jawline, down his neck and across his collarbone.
Sam felt the wet heat of Dean's mouth on his nipple, tongue flicking, and let
out a short gasp as Dean bit gently down. He laid a line of kisses down Sam's
sternum and then ran his tongue over the gentle definition of his abs, one hand
rubbing his baby brother's side as he laid a meandering line of long, slow
kisses below his navel.
Dean paused there, rubbing one hand gently over the soft, sensitive skin at the
top of Sam's right thigh and on up towards his hip, just watching, in case he
didn't want this as much as he thought he did. But that little smile stayed on
his lips and he stayed relaxed, just enjoying Dean's hands on him.
He kept his eyes on Sam's face as, still rubbing at his hip, he wrapped the
other hand gently around his little brother's cock. It was hot and hard and
velvety-smooth, and Sam's mouth dropped open in a breathy little gasp as he
felt Dean's hand close around him.
Even as Dean started to slowly work his hand up and back and Sam's eyes flicked
downwards to watch, neither of them could really believe they were actually
doing this. Sam hadn't ever expected Dean would want it, and Dean had never
expected Sam would let him.
Dean let one hand rest on Sam's thigh and laid the other flat on his pelvis,
right at the base of that hard, leaking cock. Then he leaned down and took Sam
into his mouth as deep as he could go, to the point where the hot, smooth head
touched the back of his throat...
 
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Sam."
Sam grunted and tried to turn over, away from the annoying voice, but there was
something in his way. He opened one bleary eye and came face-to-face with the
back of the couch.
"Sam," the voice said again. It was Dean's voice, and from the tone of it he
was repeating himself.
Sam reluctantly turned back towards him, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his
palms. He frowned slightly when he saw the undisguised amusement on Dean's
face.
"What-" Sam started to sit up, and immediately realised what Dean found so
humorous. He groaned and pulled the pillow over the obvious erection that
tented the front of his pants, and Dean dissolved into laughter.
"You really do need to let off some steam," Dean chuckled, as Sam sat there
staring daggers at him and trying not to blush.
"You done?" He tried to stay impassive, but it was hard with Dean smiling like
that, his whole face lit up and his eyes sparkling…
"For now." Dean smiled widely at him.
Sam sat up straighter and rubbed at his gritty eyes with one hand as he held
onto the pillow with the other. "So? Did you find out anything useful?" he
asked, pointedly changing the subject.
"All three vics worked at an advertising firm downtown called 'Kinnetic'." Dean
perched on the edge of the table, still looking far too amused for Sam's taste.
"The guys were Mad Men ad exec types, but victim number one, the woman, was a
secretary - specifically, victim number two's."
"I think they prefer 'administrative professional' these days," Sam told him,
drily.
"Yeah, whatever." Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Point is, all three worked in
the same office, literally down the hall from one another. The two execs were
involved in landing some big ad contract not long back. I got the impression
they really pulled that one out of thin air - like no-one ever expected it to
happen," he said, pointedly.
"Sounds witchy," Sam commented, interest piqued. Facts were starting to stack
up, and things were starting to make a little more sense.
"Does, doesn't it? And that's not even the good part." Dean's eyes were all but
glittering. Sam waited for him to continue, but he didn't - he was waiting for
Sam to ask the question.
"And what's the good part…?" he obliged, with a sigh.
Dean beamed at him. "Victim number three, the other ad exec - his secretary
hasn't been seen since her boss bit it."
A little smile touched the corners of Sam's mouth. "Well, that's not suspicious
at all."
Dean waved a scrap of paper grasped between two fingers. "Just so happens I
have Moneypenny's address." He glanced at the pillow in Sam's lap. "You wanna
go now, or do you need a minute to finish up…?"
Dean saw it coming, but still barely managed to avoid the pillow when Sam
abruptly hurled it at his head.
***** Chapter 2 *****
The apartment of Justine Taylor, secretary and suspected witch, was located in
downtown Hanover - in fact, only a ten minute walk from the ad agency.
"Nice place," Sam observed, adjusting his tie as they exited the elevator on
the sixth floor. Apparently there was good money in advertising - the place was
clean and modern, with wooden floors and brushed aluminium fixtures and lots of
natural light, thanks to what seemed like acres of windows and skylights. He
didn't feel at all out of place in his suit and tie.
"Doesn't seem like a witchy kind of building," Dean agreed. Although, as far as
he was concerned, witches should stick to damp cellars and ramshackle cottages
in the middle of the woods.
He checked the address on his slip of paper, then the small brushed aluminium
numbers on a couple of nearby doors. There were only a couple in view - the
apartments behind them must've been huge, judging by the space between doors.
"You've got some serious prejudice going on there, you know," Sam observed,
following him as he started down the hall to their left. Their shoes didn't
make a sound on the thick, slate-grey carpet.
"They're monsters, Sam," Dean sniffed, silently counting off apartment numbers
as they went. "When they stop sacrificing Thumper & Bambi and slipping people
hex bags, then we'll talk," he added, coming to a stop outside apartment number
607. He tucked the address into his pocket and rapped sharply on the door,
ignoring the smile on Sam's face.
There was no answer so Dean knocked again, harder this time. "FBI, Miss
Taylor!" he called for good measure, but there was still nothing. Dean looked
questioningly across at Sam, who shrugged.
"Maybe she's out shopping?" he suggested, keeping his voice low.
Dean gave him a dubious look and turned back to the door. He scanned the empty
hallway in both directions and was just getting his lockpick kit out of his
jacket when Sam reached across him and tried the doorknob - to their
considerable surprise, it yielded and the door swung open without a sound.
"Well that's never good," Dean whispered, drawing his gun at the same time Sam
did. The older Winchester went in first, with his little brother following
close behind.
As it turned out, Sam was right - the apartment was huge. Just the main living
space was the size of their entire motel room, with polished hardwood floors
and an expensive-looking leather lounge suite situated in front of a plasma
screen they would've been hard-pressed to shoehorn into the Impala's trunk.
There were a couple of doors to Sam's left, slightly ajar to reveal a small
laundry/storage room and what appeared to be a study. The kitchen sat gleaming
in one corner of the living space, all stainless steel appliances and black
stone benchtops, and two enormous windows in the back wall let in stacks of
natural light that bounced off the snow white walls. Even on an overcast day
like today, there was no need to turn on a light switch.
Dean broke off to clear the two rooms to the right of the main living space - a
bathroom and the master bedroom - while Sam cleared the laundry room and study
to the left. It was immediately obvious there was no-one (and nothing) there,
and he put away his gun with a sigh.
Now that he was sure there was nothing lying in wait to rip off his face, he
took a closer look at his surroundings. There were a few old, worn leather-
bound books on the shelves in the study that he recognised from Bobby's
collection. They had Latin titles that he couldn't read, but he remembered what
they contained - devil's traps, exorcisms, and anti-demon protection spells.
Sam was pretty sure he knew what was going on at this point, and he turned and
went back out into the main living space to take a fresh look around at the
details. It only took him a few seconds to confirm what he suspected. The
entire apartment was slathered in anti-demon wards. Covered in them.
There were various anti-demon and protection sigils from at least half a dozen
belief systems carved into the wooden window frames and drawn on the back of
the blinds, with 'wind chimes' made of cats-eye shells and animal bones and
anti-demon herbs in pots on the small balcony outside. When Sam pulled up the
decorative rug in the middle of the room, there was even a 5-foot-wide devil's
trap scrawled in black permanent marker on the polished floorboards.
"Well, Justine, you were obviously scared of something," Sam mused out loud,
frowning as he looked around at the witch's warding efforts.
Before he got a chance to poke around some more, there was a sigh from the
master bedroom. "Found Moneypenny," Dean called, and Sam left the demon-
proofing to join him.
Wrinkling his nose at the unmistakeable smell of decomposing flesh, Sam found
his brother standing at the foot of Justine Taylor's unmade bed. The alleged
witch was sprawled out across her comforter, on her back with arms and legs
poised as if she'd fallen backwards onto it, still in her work clothes -
scarlet blouse, with a black skirt and high heels. The dark colours contrasted
starkly with her deathly-pale skin.
"Looks like she's been here a couple of days," Dean observed, tucking his Colt
back into the waistband of his pants.
"Looks like very unnatural causes, too," Sam said, leaning over to examine the
body more closely. The dark, needle-prick bruising of petechial haemorrhaging
was visible on the whites of her wide, staring eyes as well as the skin around
them, and there were broad, dusky ligature marks on her throat.
"This is different from the other three bodies, Dean," Sam said, with a frown.
"Looks like she was strangled, but these bruises weren't made by someone's
hands. Maybe a wide, soft garrotte of some sort." He paused, thinking it over
as he glanced at the plastic water bottle sitting on the nightstand. It had a
crucifix hanging around it - holy water, he supposed.
"You know, I bet whatever forces a demon uses to choke you from a distance
don't leave sharp edges."
Dean sighed. "So, first it was witch thing, and now it's a demon thing too?" he
grumbled. "That's awesome."
Sam shrugged, straightening up. "She was actively trying to ward off demons,
Dean - there are charms and sigils all over this place. It didn't help her,
apparently, but she must've done it for a reason."
Dean went around the other side of the bed and pulled his sleeve down over his
hand before he cracked the door of the closet. He whistled, pulling both doors
wide open. "Well, there's definite witchcraft afoot at least," he confirmed. "I
guess we know how they pulled that deal out of thin air."
Sam left Justine's body and went around to see for himself. As he passed Dean
took a couple of steps away, under the guise of checking her nightstand, and
Sam frowned. The bedroom was big enough that there was plenty of room for him
and Dean between the bed and the wall - more than the width of the entire
double-door closet - but it didn't escape his notice that Dean made absolutely
sure to avoid any threat of physical contact.
Way to make it awkward, Sam.
The younger Winchester sighed and stepped up closer to the closet - there was
indeed an altar stored in there, sitting on the cream-carpeted floor. It was a
low, wooden table about two feet square, covered in your typical candles,
exotic-looking sigils, and what looked like various bits and pieces of
unfortunate furry critters.
He pushed the doors shut with an elbow and turned to check out the only other
point of entry to the bedroom - the window. It was covered in demon-proofing,
scratched into the frame and drawn on the glass in red permanent marker, and
still locked with no sign of forced entry from the fire escape outside. He
glanced briefly back over at Dean, but he had the nightstand drawer open and
was picking through it.
Dean wrinkled his nose, poking at a bowl full of small, charred bones in the
drawer that he really, really hoped were from animals, then picked up a small
photo album shoved right in the back of the drawer. He opened it, being sure to
keep his sleeves between the album and his fingers, and his eyes widened as he
flicked through it.
"I wonder what made her turn on them," Sam mused into the silence, leaning down
to get a better look at the street below. It was a quiet, unremarkable little
one-way alley, and he knew no-one down there was likely to have noticed
anything. Even the building opposite was a dead end - it was an old warehouse
currently being renovated and turned into high-end apartments like the one he
stood in now, and all the windows were covered with black plastic.
"I think I can answer that." Dean held up the album to show Sam the photos
inside. All of them featured Justine, in bed, with a handful of different guys
- including one Dean recognised as her boss. The photos were all taken in her
bedroom, and the high angle suggested the camera was hidden in the bookshelf
between the window and the far wall.
"Maybe the other secretary found out about this, so Hermione here had to shut
her up," Dean offered, looking through some more of the pictures. "Maybe she
told victim number two, so he gets it in the neck. Then perhaps this one's boss
works out what's going on, and she has to take care of him too?"
"Yeah, sex complicates everything," Sam agreed casually, turning to the
bookcase. Dean narrowed his eyes, but Sam continued before he could get a word
out. "Hey, witches get their power from making deals with demons, right?" he
asked, scanning the upper shelves of the bookcase about a foot above his head,
looking for anything that could be concealing a camera. Maybe they'd get lucky
and find it was recording when Justine met her maker.
"Yeah." Dean ran a finger through a smudge of sulphur at the base of the
bedside lamp, frowning.
Sam reached up and pulled down a small wooden trinket box with a half-inch hole
drilled in the side, positioned to point down at the bed. It was just big
enough to hide a small video camera, but naturally, it was empty now. "Maybe
this witch's demon saw the trail of bodies she was leaving, knew someone would
come hunting, and decided to tie up the loose ends?" he suggested.
"It is hard for the witch to lead us to the demon if she's dead," Dean agreed
thoughtfully, rubbing the grainy sulphur powder between his thumb and
forefinger as a train of thought started to coalesce. "Hey, what was that you
said about demonic omens?"
"What?" Sam asked, as he wiped down the box and set it back up on the shelf.
"When we were in Broadman, looking for a job," Dean reminded him. "You said
'maybe some demonic omens in Maryland'. Where in Maryland?"
"Ummm… Gloucester, or Manchester, or something I think." Sam screwed up his
nose and thought for a second. "No, no, wait - Westminster."
A hard little smile spread across Dean's face and he held up his hand, showing
Sam the yellow sulphurous smudges on his fingertips. "Westminster's just across
the border. No more than half an hour from here."
Sam immediately grasped what he was saying. "Even with all the new demons
lurking out there, that's a pretty big coincidence."
Dean was already getting the car keys out of his pocket. "I don't believe in
coincidences, Sammy."
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Westminster, Maryland
There was a summer thunderstorm brewing when Dean pulled the Impala into a bar
on the outskirts of Westminster. There was no rain yet, just lightning that lit
up the whole bar every few minutes, but it promised to be a ripper - the
thunder was getting closer and more frequent, and the lights flickered every
few minutes. The bartender even had candles and matches sitting on the bar,
ready to go.
It was already late when they rolled into town, and between that and the
weather they should really have headed straight for a motel, but Dean really
wanted a drink and a burger. It was exhausting, this not-talking-about-what's-
really-going-on thing, and after all the driving they'd been doing the last few
days his patience was worn paper-thin. Honestly, he was almost glad when Sam
left him alone at their table to play a few games of pool.
The older Winchester wasn't very good company at the moment - Dean knew Sam was
dealing with a lot, but so was he, dammit. He was putting a good face on it,
but he could frigging hear the clock ticking on his deal and it was getting
hard to ignore the tension between him and his baby brother.
Dean wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what Sam wanted. He wasn't sure why the kid
had waited till now - they'd been on the road for ages already - but he knew.
Dean sighed, swirling the last couple of inches of beer around in the bottom of
his glass. He loved his brother more than life itself, but he didn't have a lot
of that life left. He didn't want to spend it tense and awkward and walking on
eggshells, and now he'd had his burger and a couple of beers, he had an idea
how he might let off some of that steam.
He had his eye on a pair of young women over the other side of the bar: one
blonde, one brunette. The brunette was leaning on the bar, her long, chestnut
hair falling down her back like a chocolate waterfall, and she had a truly
exceptional ass.
Stop thinking about your brother and go get yourself some of that.
He turned to glance at Sam just as the younger Winchester leaned over the pool
table. He took a second to get set, sucked in a slow, deep breath, and took his
shot on the exhale just as if he were firing a gun. There was a sharp crack as
the cue ball hit its target, and a blue ball shot off across the table and
dropped into the corner pocket diagonally opposite Sam.
Dean turned back, a smile touching his lips. The kid was hustling, by the looks
of it - Dean wasn't sure how exactly, considering the rate at which he'd been
ploughing through the bottle of Jack behind the bar. But hey, if he could make
a little cash…
Sam was indeed hustling pool and even winning a little, which was a minor
miracle - in between shots, all he wanted to do was watch Dean. His big brother
was watching the two women by the bar, he knew. Sam had noticed them too - the
brunette in particular had a spectacular ass - but his eyes kept going back to
Dean. His black jacket stretched tight across his broad shoulders, and the
curve of his denim-covered backside stood out maddeningly as he leaned forward
against the table.
Whether it was plain of fatigue or an excess of Jack, Sam wasn't covering well
and the young, blonde guy he was hustling noticed. "He your boyfriend or
something?" he drawled, lips drawn back into a smug little smile.
"No." Sam turned his gaze onto his opposition and seriously considered smacking
the expression off his face.
"'Cause you spend an awful lot of time staring at his ass."
Dean meanwhile, happy that Sam was gainfully occupied, downed the last of his
beer and settled his gaze on the women in the corner. He was just starting to
rise up from his chair when his phone rang.
"Oh, really?" he groaned, and pulled his phone out of the front pocket of his
jeans. He glanced at the caller ID, and sighed when he saw the name. No matter
how good that brunette's ass was, he couldn't hit the 'ignore' button on Bobby.
He hit 'answer' instead and brought the phone to his ear. "Hey, Bobby."
"Dean. How you boys doing?"
Dean looked wistfully across the bar the two women by the bar and sighed.
"Yeah, we're good," he lied. "You?"
"Peachy," Bobby replied, his voice as dry as the Sahara. If he sensed Dean was
lying, he didn't let on.
"Still burning the candle at both ends?" Dean asked. When they'd left Bobby, he
was spending every spare second he had with his nose buried in any book he
could find, trying to get a handle on exactly what they'd let out of the
Devil's Gate in Wyoming.
"Not like anyone else's gonna do it. Speaking of, you boys run into anything
with black eyes lately?"
"This new job of ours is starting to head off down kind of a demonic tangent,
but other than that-"
Bobby interrupted as if Dean hadn't been speaking. "What new job?"
"Started off as a few suspicious deaths in south PA - witchy-looking stuff. But
turns out the witch got ganked too, and me and Sam are thinking her demon had
something to do with it. We're in Westminster, Maryland tracking it."
"Damn demons." Dean could hear the concern in Bobby's voice. "You two be
careful."
"We're always careful," Dean assured him.
"Sam is always careful," Bobby corrected. "Lately, you're just itching to
sacrifice yourself."
Dean sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "Bobby-" he started, but he was
interrupted by a yell and an almighty crash from amongst the pool tables behind
him. Dean stopped and turned to look instinctively, as did every other patron
in the bar.
There was a guy laid out on one of the tables, the remains of its long, glass-
panelled lightshade scattered on the green felt around him as if he'd been
lifted up and thrown through the light to land on the concrete slab of the
table. Dean knew - from experience - that sort of thing hurt.
From the shadows left by the busted light, there was another yell and
the whoosh of a pool cue being swung, but no corresponding thwack of it finding
its target. Instead there came the distinctive sound of a fist hitting flesh,
followed immediately by a yelp of pain, and the clatter of a pool cue falling
to the floorboards. That was closely followed by the heavy thump of a body
following suit.
The guy on the table started to stir, and actually got to sit up before he was
pole-axed again by a vicious right hook from the unidentified assailant in the
shadows. He fell back onto the table with a grunt of pain, bleeding from a
split lip and a few other cuts most likely made by the broken glass he was
laying in, and Dean could see growing dark spots on the grass-green felt under
him. The guy was clearly hurt pretty badly.
"Dean!" Bobby was shouting into his end of the phone - he could evidently hear
the action in the background.
"Um - sorry, Bobby, a fight just broke out in this bar here," Dean told him,
eyes still on the fracas in front of him when he was nearly blinded by a flash
of white lightning that lit up the entire bar. For half a second, he saw the
shadowy scene in front of him illuminated like it was daylight.
There was one guy laying prone on the floor, out cold and bleeding from a cut
under his rapidly-swelling left eye. He was maybe in his early thirties and
with short dark hair, and there was a pool cue lying next to him - evidently,
he was the one that had been swinging it around like a baseball bat.
The unfortunate guy on the pool table looked to be a few years younger, with
longer blonde hair and a lily-white complexion - under all the blood, anyway.
He had a nasty black eye, cuts of various sizes all over his face and arms, and
that split lip. He was only semi-conscious by the looks of it, but that wasn't
stopping the third guy - the one doing all the damage - from whaling on him
some more.
It took Dean a second to register that the third guy was Sam. He stood at the
edge of the pool table with a fistful of his victim's straw-coloured locks,
actually holding the guy's upper body off the table so he could keep landing
those full-blooded, hammering right crosses.
"I'm gonna have to call you back." Dean mashed at the 'end' button on his phone
as he was shoving it into his pocket and made a beeline for Sam, but he hit the
guy another three times before he could get there.
"Sam!" Dean hissed, blocking Sam's next punch with his arm. He growled and
tried to pull it free, but Dean locked his elbow around Sam's and held him. Up
close and personal like this, the smell of bourbon all over his baby brother
hit him like a sledgehammer.
"Sam! Let him go!" Dean grabbed Sam's left wrist with his free hand and pulled
him free of his death-grip on the blonde guy's hair.
"Let me go, Dean!" Sam shoved him and made another grab for the guy, but Dean
put his body between them and caught him in a literal bear hug.
"Stop it! We gotta go," Dean told him, in an urgent whisper. Over Sam's right
shoulder, he could see the bartender picking up the phone. "Out! Go!" he
repeated, and gave Sam another hard shove towards the door. He didn't want to,
and kept glaring daggers at the blonde guy over his shoulder, but he went.
"No need to call the cops. I'm getting him outta here," Dean called hopefully
as he grabbed a handful of Sam's jacket and dragged him outside into the warm,
humid night. He yanked the door shut behind them and Sam stumbled as they made
for the Impala, but Dean caught him by the sleeve before he could actually
trip.
"What's wrong with you?" Dean demanded, shoving Sam in the shoulder and almost
sending him sprawling again.
Sam shrugged, leaning heavily against the rear quarter panel of the Impala.
"Seemed like a good idea at the time." He grimaced, touching his hand gingerly
to a rapidly-coalescing bruise over his left cheekbone.
"For God's sake, are you still pissed about Ohio?" Dean pulled the keys from
his pocket and opened the passenger side rear door, glancing nervously across
the roof to the front door of the bar. It remained shut - no avenging drunks
were following. Yet.
"What, when you said you didn't want me?"
Dean could hear the hurt in Sam's voice, and it stung him. "I never said that,"
he protested, but he didn't sound convincing even to his own ears and it was
met with a derisive snort from Sam. He ignored that wrenched the door open,
giving Sam a shove in that direction.
"Yeah, well, whatever you said sure sounded a helluva lot like 'I don't want
you'," he shot back, but let Dean shepherd him into the back seat.
Dean slammed the door and stalked around to the driver's side, fuming silently.
He wanted to set Sam straight, but anything else he had to say right now would
probably only make this mess worse, so he kept his mouth firmly shut.
They drove wordlessly around town as Dean searched for a motel with a vacancy,
Sam sprawled out across the back seat with one arm thrown over his eyes. The
bourbon was starting to catch up with him, and the punch he'd taken from the
blonde guy at the very beginning had kicked off a headache. He was so out of it
he almost didn't hear the rumbling thunder outside.
There was one helluva thunderstorm closing in on Westminster, and although Dean
didn't really want to be driving around town in the dark and the imminent
pouring rain, there wasn't much of a choice - it was too hard to sleep in the
Impala with rain pounding on the metal body. But apparently nobody else wanted
to be on the road in the approaching weather either, because everything was
booked out.
After fifteen minutes of driving in ever-increasing circles, Dean finally came
across what felt like the only motel in town with a vacancy. It wasn't exactly
the Ritz - in fact, it charged by the hour - but beggars can't be choosers. He
parked the Impala and wordlessly left Sam laying in the back seat while he went
in to rent a room.
Sam listened to Dean's footfalls fading on the asphalt, wondering how the night
had gone so completely and utterly wrong. "What the hell was I thinking?" he
groaned, staring out the window at the clouds that obscured the moon and stars.
Every few breaths, they lit up with internal lightning and he could hear not-
so-distant rumbling thunder.
"God, what possessed you to kiss him now, after all these years?" he berated
himself, and kicked half-heartedly at the door trim in frustration. He'd had a
bit to drink, sure, but it wasn't like he was so drunk he didn't know what he
was doing…
If Sam was honest, he knew exactly why he'd done it. He didn't have years to
waste watching Dean from a distance. Not anymore. Unless something changed
drastically, he had about ten months until he was going to have to watch
Hellhounds drag his brother down into the Pit, and just the thought made his
stomach start tying itself in knots.
Sam's train of thought was interrupted by Dean yanking the Impala's door open.
He got in and shoved the key into the ignition, almost-tangible waves of anger
pouring off him. Sam frowned, but didn't say anything - he hadn't exactly been
in a good mood when he left, but his outlook had apparently deteriorated.
The younger Winchester kept playing possum while Dean made the short (and
rather aggressive) drive across the carpark to their room, but didn't make a
move until the car had come to a stop and Dean set the handbrake. He shoved his
door open and got out, going around to the trunk, and Sam got out to check out
their surroundings.
The rooms in this particular motel were in need of some work - Sam knew that
before they even got to their door. The doors and window frames were painted
Prussian blue, or at least they had been a decade or so earlier. It had
weathered badly though, and faded a few shades. When he looked up and down the
row of doors around them, about a third of the exterior lights were out. Add
that to the rampant cobwebs and the cigarette butts and snack wrappers that
littered the concrete floor, and he didn't hold out much hope for the interior.
Dean unlocked the door, and swore under his breath as he had to all but
shoulder-block it open. He left his brother standing at the threshold and
stalked inside, but it wasn't until he hit the lights that Sam understood the
sudden downward spiral in his mood. Dean threw the key onto the coffee table,
then went to dump his duffel on the bed - the one double bed.
Sam sighed. Yeah, this isn't going to be awkward at all.
"Just so you know, before I took the room I seriously considered sleeping in
the car," Dean told him, without turning around.
"You still can," Sam bit back, shoving the door closed behind him. It scraped
and squeaked into the out-of-square frame, and it took him a couple of shots to
get the lock to engage.
There was a snort of derision from Dean as he unscrewed the top of the salt
can. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't be going alone and it's not like I'm going to let
you sleep in the car after your Rocky impersonation back there."
"I was winning, you know." Honestly, Sam thought his big brother was being
somewhat overdramatic. He sat heavily in one of the two overly-soft armchairs
and watched Dean lay down salt lines at all the doors and windows - standard
procedure when they were dealing with demons.
"Oh, I know," Dean told him. "And you were about to do some serious damage to
the other guy. We didn't need you getting nicked for assault after you turned
Joe Random's lights out." That was a nice pun, and Dean couldn't help but smile
briefly to himself. "What did that guy do to you, anyway?"
Sam stayed quiet. He looked down at his hands and frowned, flexing his fingers.
The knuckles were skinned and bruised, some of them still slowly leaking blood.
He didn't remember giving out that much of a beating…
Dean paused and turned to look at Sam. "Sam, you don't get to lose it like that
and then not tell me why."
"He was an ass, okay?" Sam didn't look up from his hands. "He was running his
mouth, and I shut it for him."
Dean didn't for a second believe that was all there was to it, but he was too
tired to press. "Fine." He dropped the salt can by the door with a clang and
grabbed some things from his duffel, then went wordlessly into the bathroom and
shut the door.
The bathroom lit up occasionally with a bolt of lightning, followed by faint
rumbles of distant thunder - the storm was moving incredibly slowly outside,
lumbering along to eventually run right over the top of them. Dean started the
shower, but didn't get undressed. He stood in front of the mirror instead,
hands on the edge of the cold porcelain sink, and stared pensively at his
reflection. It looked about as worn out as he felt.
There was another flash, and Dean thought about that bolt of lightning
illuminating the fight in the bar. Sam beating on that guy with no mercy,
taking full-blooded swings and really doing damage. Meaning it.
Dean sighed and shrugged out of his jacket as his reflection started to
disappear under a layer of condensation. Sam was a peaceful guy, generally -
that much bourbon and the fight that followed were both totally out of
character for him. He must be really hurting to drink like that and to have so
short a fuse. And, despite his earlier lies, Dean knew exactly what was eating
at him. He solved mysteries for a living - it wasn't like he didn't know Sam
wanted to revisit their teenage fling.
That wasn't just a fling, he reminded himself, undoing his shirt and hanging it
on the doorknob with his jacket. It had been more than that. Of all the girls
(and the few boys) he'd slept with, it brought a wry little smile to Dean's
lips that Sam was the only one he'd ever been able to be absolutely, completely
honest with.
He stripped off his jeans and underwear and climbed into the shower,
considering his options as he looked down the taps. He could take a short, cold
shower and be freezing cold when he got into bed, or he could have a long, hot
shower and spend a little time 'cleaning the pipes'…
The longer you leave it, the more likely it is all that bourbon will've knocked
Sammy out...
Dean sighed and turned up the hot water.
Fifteen minutes later - clean, warm and suitably relieved - Dean crept out of
the bathroom and over to the bed and climbed in gingerly beside Sam's still
form. The younger Winchester was laying on his side facing the wall, wearing
only a pair of boxer shorts under the sheet and light blanket. It was a warm
enough night that he'd thrown the rest of the bedcovers onto the floor.
Dean wasn't sure if he was actually asleep or just playing possum, but Sam
didn't stir. Even in the near-darkness, Dean could see the purpling bruise on
the back of his left shoulder from the other night in Ohio. He didn't mean to
shove him that hard - really, he hadn't meant to shove him at all. It was a
reflex, but he still felt bad about it. He'd never pushed Sam away, ever, and
the wounded look on his face had hurt Dean just as much.
He lay there in the dark, staring at Sam's tense shoulders and chewing on his
bottom lip. The kid didn't understand what he'd done wrong, he knew, and Dean
was getting pretty sure he'd fucked this up. Badly. But chances were the truth
would fuck the kid up even more, so Dean planned on keeping it to himself.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Sam was already up by the time Dean woke. In fact, when he opened his eyes at
about 8:30am, after about four hours' sleep, Dean couldn't see his baby brother
anywhere.
He pushed himself up with a groan, vertical enough that he could see the little
kitchen table - just as he suspected, his keys were gone. There was no
coffeemaker in this blue-tinged Hell of a motel, and he hoped that wherever Sam
was he was getting coffee. Despite yesterday's drama, he was confident the kid
would bring some back.
"At least he will if he knows what's good for him," Dean grumbled as he hauled
himself out of bed. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand and shambled over to
his duffel, by the front door where he'd dumped it last night, to get something
to wear. He pulled on a fresh tee, followed by yesterday's flannel shirt - he'd
only been wearing it since Ohio, and in Dean's opinion that still made it
clean.
Outside, the threat of last night's clouds had finally come to pass. It was
raining so hard it sounded more like hail on the corrugated iron porch outside,
punctuated with regular flashes of lightning and deep, rumbling thunder. He
hated this kind of weather. It was dark and claustrophobic and depressing, and
the comfortable heat of the day before had transformed into a pervasive chill.
"As if I don't have enough things in my life to be bummed-out about," he
complained, to no-one in particular. He pulled on his jeans, followed by some
thick, warm socks, and looked wistfully over at the kitchen bench. Or, more
accurately, at the lack of a coffeemaker.
There was another clap of thunder right over the top of the motel that rattled
the single, solitary picture on the wall, and he sighed. He needed something to
occupy his mind, but it was too early to drink. Even for him.
He bent down to grab his shoes, but paused when he saw the corner of a small
black book sticking out of his duffel. As soon as they got clear of
Elizabethville he'd replaced the little red book that 'Casey' buried under tons
of stonework with a new, black one. He'd knocked it loose while he'd been bad-
temperedly rifling through it for fresh clothes, and it gave him an idea.
When Sam got back to the motel room shortly thereafter - with
coffee and breakfast - he found Dean sitting at the green Formica kitchen table
with some papers and the small black book in front of him. It was currently
open to the pages that contained the Winchesters' exorcism of choice: the
Rituale Romanum.
"Hey," Sam said, somewhat stiffly, shoving the door shut behind him.
"Hey," Dean replied, but he didn't look up. He was bent over a collection of
little pieces of white paper, which Sam recognised as palm-sized cue cards;
there was a black ballpoint pen in his hand, and he was covering them slowly
and deliberately with clear block letters.
Sam put a tall cardboard cup of coffee and a white paper bag - containing,
predictably, some God-awful breakfast burrito monstrosity - on the table on
Dean's left and watched over his shoulder as he wrote.
"What are you doing?" he asked, after a few seconds. He could see perfectly
well what Dean was doing, but he was a little unclear as to why.
"Well, we're neck-deep in demons again and I'm sick of carrying the book
around," Dean replied evenly, without looking up. Apparently Sam was going for
the 'pretend nothing happened' coping strategy, and Dean was fine with that. He
could play that game till the Hellhounds came home.
"And cue cards are better...?" Sam arched an eyebrow, sitting across from his
brother with his own coffee and paper bag. The only difference was that his
held a whole-wheat breakfast bagel with egg, tomato and avocado. You know,
actual food.
"Yes, Sam, cue cards are better." Dean frowned, finishing the sentence and
placing the card on top of a few other completed cards. "At least for those of
us that haven't memorised the entire Rituale Romanum," he added, under his
breath. Sam ignored the jibe and concentrated on his bagel, watching as Dean
stacked his cue cards off to the side of the table and pulled his paper bag
across in front of him.
"You know, cue cards aren't going to help with your pronunciation," Sam pointed
out, and Dean glared at him. But, mollified by the aroma of egg and bacon that
wafted from the open bag in front of him, the older Winchester didn't bite
back.
"So, while you were doing your homework, I actually found out something kind of
interesting," Sam said conversationally, as Dean took a monstrous bite of his
burrito. "I was talking to a Neighbourhood Watch type in the diner, and it
turns out there's an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Owners were
foreclosed on, and it's been empty for months, but lately there's been lights
on and music playing."
"So let's check it out," Dean said - or at least, attempted to, around a
mouthful of burrito.
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
It had been raining hard all night, and on the way out to the not-so-abandoned
house they crossed a couple of creeks that were now raging torrents, doing
their best Colorado River impersonation. The second one was actually lapping at
the beams of the steel bridge, barely a foot from the Impala's tyres.
"I thought you were just supposed to get electrical storms with demons," Dean
grumbled, wiping at the condensation on the inside of the Impala's windscreen
with his sleeve. The short run from the room to the car got them just wet
enough to fog up the windows, and the Impala's demister just wasn't quite up to
the task.
"This isn't a localised random storm, Dean. This front has been moving through
the state for days, dumping tons of rain." Sam paused, peering out his window
at the raging torrent below. The muddy brown water was flowing fast, bringing
sticks, branches and myriad varieties of other rubbish and debris with it.
"You know, if it keeps raining like this, we're not going to be able to get
back," he pointed out.
"Well I guess we'd better make it quick, then," Dean told him. "If this demon
knows we're onto it, it's not going to just wait around for a break in the
weather, Sam."
Sam shrugged and sat back in his seat. Dean was right, he knew - they couldn't
just let the demon run around loose while they waited for the weather to clear,
but the Impala was not an off-road vehicle. If the creek below got up over the
road, they weren't going anywhere.
After the bridge the house wasn't much further down the road, and they saw it
before they even got close. It was an old, WWI-era mansion set on the highest
ground for miles - a double-storey weatherboard building that had once been
painted white, but was now more of a dirty cream. A porch spanned the width of
the façade, with a balcony above that was just as big, all sprinkled liberally
with art deco detailing and gables dotted along the shingled roof.
Dean rolled through the derelict wrought-iron gates with the engine off,
coasting to a stop at the bottom of the hill in a bend of the serpentine
driveway where the unkempt, overgrown gardens would hide them from the house.
Rivulets of rainwater cut channels through the weed-infested gravel as they sat
in silence for a minute, listening to the Impala's engine ticking and the rain
falling on the body.
When he was sure there wasn't a demonic welcoming party about to descend on
them, Dean leaned over and pulled two guns out of the glove box - his own
stainless steel Colt M1911A1 with engraved slide and ivory grips, and the older
Colt revolver. He shoved the revolver into Sam's hand, ignoring the look his
baby brother gave him.
"Dean-" Sam started, but his big brother interrupted.
"They probably think you were in with Yellow Eyes. Take the damn gun." Dean
pressed it harder into his palm, and Sam took it wordlessly. This wasn't the
time or place to have an argument.
"You go 'round the back and I'll go through the front," Dean went on, eyes on
his own weapon and the worked the slide and checked the chamber. He put the
safety on and both Winchesters climbed out of the car, pressing the doors
gently shut behind them so as not to make a sound.
From the Impala's parking spot the house was just a 20-second jog up the
driveway, and they were hidden almost the whole way by the rain and overgrown
brush. They moved almost silently, the wet, compacted gravel hardly making a
sound under their feet. When they got to the top of the driveway Sam broke off
to go around the back, just as he was told, while Dean continued right up to
the front door.
He slowed down a little when he got close to the foot of the stairs, keeping
his eyes open as he went carefully up the old, worn wooden steps and onto the
porch, avoiding anything that looked like it might squeak. He paused for a
second for a deep, calming breath, then brought his gun up and tried the knob
on the huge old front door - to his surprise, it turned easily and the door
swung inward on surprisingly well-oiled hinges, barely making a sound.
Dean winced. A mysteriously-open door, like at the beginning of every horror
movie ever. Awesome.
There was still no sign of that demonic welcoming party, so he tried put horror
movies out of his mind and crept inside into the entrance hall. It was a huge,
square space almost the size of their entire motel room, with red-brown
polished floorboards and pale, geometrically-patterned wallpaper. The room rose
the full two storeys above him with a big, ornate window over the door, a
grand, curving staircase in front of him leading up to the second floor, and
two big, arched doorways on either side that led into adjoining rooms.
Dean picked the right-hand doorway, which took him through into what looked
like a sitting room. There was an impressive stone fireplace in the wall
opposite the doorway, a picture window opening up out onto the porch, and
comfortable, vintage furniture set out on a couple of authentic-looking Persian
rugs. That and the warm-toned and slightly floral wallpaper gave the room a
kind of cosy, homely feel that Dean actually kind of liked.
The hardwood floor continued under his feet and he trod carefully, trying to
minimise the noise of his footfalls. He heard only the odd scraping noise from
the back of the house, right where Sam should have been, and he was just
starting to relax and think no-one else was home when there was a feminine
chuckle from the doorway behind him.
Shit.
Dean closed his eyes briefly, suddenly wishing he hadn't been all selfless and
valiant and given the Colt to Sam. He took a breath and spun, raising his
automatic in front of him and found two young women standing just inside the
doorway from the entrance hall.
"You're looking for us, huh?" The brunette smiled, looking at him like a cat
looks at a mouse. They took a few steps closer, one either side of him, their
eyes slowly turning inky black.
It took Dean a second to recognise them. He hadn't spent a lot of time looking
at their faces, exactly, but he was sure: these were the blonde and the
brunette he'd been admiring the night before in the bar.
Dean let out a disappointed sigh. This was a shame, because the girls those two
hell-bitches were wearing were gorgeous. Blondie was about 5'8", maybe, but
Brownie was a few inches taller and they both looked amazing in their skinny
jeans, heels and figure-hugging tops. Dean had to admit, demons generally had
pretty good taste in meatsuits.
The blonde smirked as they flanked him, her glossy black boots clicking
hollowly on the floorboards. "The famous Dean Winchester, up close and
personal," she drawled, evidently not impressed.
"I thought he'd be taller," the brunette agreed, wearing a sneer of her own as
she looked him up and down.
With their attention fixed on Dean, they didn't notice Sam appear in the
doorway behind them. Dean saw his baby brother immediately, but he kept his
gaze firmly on Blondie and Brownie. If he let himself focus on Sam, he'd give
the game away and they'd both be dead before they knew what had happened. If
they were lucky.
Dean flashed his teeth in a tense smile, trying to keep an eye on both of them
at once. "Wish I could say you two skanks were something special. Anything with
black eyes seems to have the impression it's sex on a stick."
"I saw the way you were looking at us last night, Dean." The blonde gave him a
knowing little smile, and Dean did his best to keep his poker face. Blondie
there wasn't wrong - he had, in fact, been just seconds away from sauntering
over and trying to get one (or, preferably, both) of them back to a motel room
when Bobby called. But he wasn't about to tell them that.
"Would've been quite a night, too." Brownie shook her head in mock sadness.
"You know, before we slowly ripped you up into red confetti." Her glossy red
lips turned up in a sharp smile, revealing a mouthful of very white teeth.
Behind the two black-eyed women, Sam was almost in position. He held the Colt
in his right hand, and it was trained on Blondie. He was trying to edge around
behind them to get a clear angle where he wouldn't hit his big brother - the
gun would kill Dean as effectively as it would the two demons.
"So do women still interest you, then?" Blondie asked impishly, perfectly
shaped eyebrows slightly raised. Beside her, Brownie let out a delighted little
gasp.
"Oh, that's right! I almost forgot! You'd prefer to be screwing that Sasquatch
little brother of yours again, wouldn't you?" she grinned, and Blondie laughed.
"You could have brought him with you!" she trilled, and Brownie dissolved into
giggles too.
Dean just stared at them. He didn't have a retort ready for that one. He'd
never come across a demon that knew about him and Sam before, and he wasn't
sure how to respond.
"Well, I guess we can't blame you. After Daddy's little meltdown, anyone would
be gun-shy." Brownie grinned again. It looked more like an expression you might
see on a shark.
That sent Dean's heart rate up through the roof, and it was taking all his
concentration not to look at Sam with the Colt pointed at Blondie. Dean wished
he'd hurry the fuck up and shoot them - preferably, starting with Brownie. She
seemed like she might actually tear him limb from limb if she got the chance.
Plus, she was mouthy.
It seemed to take him an eternity, but when Sam eventually fired, it sounded
like a crack of thunder right there in the room with them. There was white
muzzle flash that briefly illuminated the dim room, a bloodcurdling scream from
Brownie, and Dean threw himself to his right, getting out of Sam's line of
fire. He hit the floor behind the couch, just catching the edge of a Persian
rug that cushioned his fall ever so slightly, but as it turned out he needn't
have bothered.
Sam had only winged Brownie with the bullet, and before he could get another
shot off, Blondie flicked a wrist and knocked him back into the wall beside the
doorway. The Colt went flying, skittering across the floor towards the picture
window, well out of reach of both Winchesters. Not that Sam was in any state to
make a grab at it anyway - he lay in a heap at the foot of the wall, semi-
conscious, with an actual, visible dent in the floral wall above him where he'd
hit it.
Blondie and Brownie paused to check out her wound, a bloody, ragged tear in the
flesh high on her left upper arm, and Dean took that opportunity to whip out
his brand new cue cards. He jumped back to his feet and held them up in front
of him, where he could see the two demons in his peripheral vision, and started
to read.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus; omnis satanica potest-"
He was cut off mid-sentence by Blondie letting out an enraged scream and
flinging him into the wall. His shoulder slammed painfully into the edge of a
window frame and his gun and cue cards went flying as he slid down to sit on
the floor. Dean watched the small pieces of paper flutter down to rest on the
floorboards a few feet away - face down, naturally - but he glared defiantly at
the demons and continued.
"- potestas, omnis incur... incursion infern... infernal..."
Shit.
Dean closed his eyes, wracking his brain for the next part of the ritual, but
he felt it slipping through his fingers. It was like trying to hold onto a
handful of Jell-O - the more he grabbed at it, the less he could grasp.
Come on, Dean - before this hell-bitch rips your liver out through your nose…!
He swore quietly under his breath and sagged back against the wall. He had no
idea what was supposed to be next.
"Cue cards? Really?" The brunette demon laughed. Dean glanced over at Sam,
willing his baby brother to get up and get the Colt or finish the exorcism
or something. But Sam still wasn't moving.
Dean forced a little smile and looked back at the demons, trying to hide the
rising fear as he struggled to his feet. "What can I say? I'm a terrible
student." He glanced wistfully at the cards scattered on the floor. "Although
I'm starting to think Sam was right - I really do need to memorise that."
"Oh, you're not gonna get the chance, sugar." Blondie smiled coldly and curled
her hand slowly into a fist, slamming Dean back into the wall and cutting off
his air as effectively as if she had her hands wrapped around his throat. He
clutched reflexively at the invisible force wrapped around his neck as he
struggled for breath, dark spots beginning to dance around his vision and his
heartbeat pounding in his ears so loudly that he almost couldn't hear her
gloating.
"I mean, think about it," she crowed. "Because you couldn't say a few dozen
words of Latin, I'm gonna-"
There was another flash of light and crack of thunder and she stopped mid-
sentence, eyes going impossibly wide as her mouth formed a little 'O' of
surprise. Her invisible hold on Dean evaporated as orange internal lightning
reverberated through her body and she fell to the ground, twitching.
Dean took a long, gasping breath and sank to the floor, clutching at his neck.
Just because the hellspawn hadn't actually physically touched him didn't mean
he wasn't going to have bruises.
He looked up to see Sam standing behind the dead demon, just off to her left,
with the Colt held in his outstretched hand and a wisp of grey smoke curling up
from the barrel. He'd hit Blondie in the upper back, leaving a neat hole in her
blue halter top just left of her spine, but before he could turn and aim the
weapon at Brownie she screeched like a banshee and took off through the
entryway and out the front door.
"Took you long enough!" Dean gasped, and Sam grasped his outstretched hand and
dragged him to his feet without bothering to reply. He headed straight off
after the demon, disappearing through the arched doorway into the front
entrance hall. Dean took a moment to collect his wits, plus his cue cards and
his gun, and then followed suit.
When he got out onto the porch Sam was waiting for him at the top of the steps,
hands shoved into his pockets and looking out into the wind-blown, misting rain
at the tree-line of the nearby woods. The implication was obvious - the demon
had vanished, and the older Winchester swore under his breath and set the
safety on his gun before he tucked it back into the waistband of his jeans.
"One is better than none," Sam offered, noticing his big brother's displeasure
and attempting to point out a silver lining.
"Yeah, but all of them is better than that," Dean sniffed, as he stepped past
Sam and started down the stairs.
Sam caught up with a few jogging steps, but Dean didn't say anything further
and the Winchester boys walked back down the driveway to the car under a cloud
of heavy, oppressive silence. The only noise was the slight crunch of their
boots on the wet gravel. Sam snuck a sideways look at his brother, but Dean was
walking ahead slightly, hands shoved into his pockets and his eyes fixed firmly
on the ground.
"So, is there anything you want to tell me?" Sam asked, about halfway down the
hill. Dean stayed pointedly quiet.
"I heard what that demon said," Sam continued, regardless. The fact that Dean
didn't want to start a conversation made him think that was exactly what he
needed to do. There was something here - he just knew it.
Dean ignored him, searching through his jacket pockets for the car keys.
"Dean, stop. Look at me." There was a jingling noise, and Dean looked back to
see Sam standing there with the keys in his hand.
"How the-" Dean started, but stopped himself. He sighed, throwing a brief glare
at his baby brother. "I swear, I don't know how you're so good at the whole
pickpocket thing. I mean, your fingers are the size of frigging bananas."
"Dean." Sam just stood there, feet planted in the wet gravel, and looked back
at him. "What did she mean, Dad had a meltdown? You always told me he never
knew."
Dean took a long, slow breath and looked up at the sky. It was still grey and
ominous, if not pelting rain just then, but no obliging bolt of lightning
appeared to smite him and end this nightmare of a conversation.
"What do you want me to say, Sam? Demons lie." He snatched the keys from Sam,
quick as a snake, then turned his back and headed for the driver's door of the
Impala.
Sam didn't try to stop him. He sighed and took a long look skywards himself,
then went around to the passenger side as Dean slid in behind the wheel. He was
just doing up his seatbelt when Dean turned the key in the ignition, but
instead of the smooth, throaty purr of the Impala's V8, there was only the
harsh cranking of the starter motor. The engine didn't even try to turn over.
"What the…" Dean frowned and tried the key again. He gave the accelerator pedal
a couple of pumps for good measure, but there wasn't a breath of life from the
engine.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean muttered as he yanked the Impala's hood release and
shoved the door open, and Sam watched through the windscreen as he stalked
around to the front end and pulled the hood up. There was a pause, then an
impressive string of curses and a spray of gravel as Dean kicked a divot into
the driveway.
Sam couldn't see what the drama was, but when he got out and went cautiously up
front the problem was immediately obvious even to his untrained eye. The
distributor cap was broken into pieces, and the eight leads that usually ran
from it to the spark plugs hung down in a tangled, frayed mess. No amount of
Dean's usual MacGyver-ing was going to help that. The Impala was dead in the
water.
Dean took a step back from the car and ran his hands back through his hair,
lacing them behind his head, and his gaze moved from the engine bay up to Sam.
There was murder in his eyes.
"I'm gonna kill that bitch," he said, simply. There was a poignant rumble of
distant thunder just then, but Dean evidently didn't appreciate the humour and
Sam valued his life too much to point it out.
While Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and set about getting a tow truck
to haul his baby back into town, Sam just sat on the front end of the car with
his arms crossed over his chest and watched. He was still preoccupied with what
the brunette demon said about John's 'little meltdown', and he was sure Dean
was hiding something - a lot, he suspected. A lot more than "demons lie",
anyway.
He frowned, watching as Dean paced back and forth along a six-foot stretch of
the driveway like a caged lion, occasionally running an irritated hand back
over his hair. There must be some serious trauma there, for Dean to keep the
secret like this even when he knew Sam knew there was one. It was obvious, just
from the look on his face when the brunette demon had been talking. It was the
same one he had when they talked about Mary in any depth, or when anyone
mentioned John. The look he got when he was trying not to let the world see he
was hurting.
But what could be hurting him about their relationship - or, rather, lack of
one?
Yeah, what could Dean possibly have to be tense about? Sam sighed. Apart from
all the obvious drama that comes from one brother selling his soul for the
other, after having been saved himself when their father fell on Yellow Eyes'
sword…
He's already got so much trauma rattling around in there. What could be worse
than all the stuff he's already told me?
Sam's depressing little train of thought was interrupted when Dean stalked back
over to the car. "It's gonna be at least an hour, even if the road doesn't
flood," he grumbled, shoving his phone in his pocket. "And if it rains again,
they won't be able to get out here at all till the creek drops and that last
bridge is clear."
"I hope those demons did some grocery shopping." Sam glanced up at the sky with
what he figured was a reasonable amount of trepidation. He wasn't looking
forward to spending any length of time with Dean in this mood.
Dean ignored that and stood beside him, leaning in to remove the remains of the
black Bakelite distributor cap and wantonly flinging the pieces out onto the
driveway behind him. His shirt and jacket pulled up at the back, revealing some
of that lean, muscular lower back above the waistband of his jeans and just a
hint of the black boxers he wore underneath, and Sam couldn't help but notice.
"You right there, Sam?"
Sam snapped out of his reverie to find Dean looking pointedly at him. Now it
was his turn to avoid eye contact - he coughed and looked away, pushing his
hair back as a sudden gust of cold wind whipped it into his face.
"Yeah, whatever." Dean sighed and squinted up at the sky, feeling a few small,
beginner raindrops falling on his face. "Looks like we better get inside." He
got up and barely waited for Sam to do the same before he shut the hood of the
Impala.
Dean jogged back up the driveway to the front porch of the house and Sam
hustled after him, getting undercover just as the rain really started to pelt
down. They stood silently under the porch, and Dean winced as the rain started
coming down in windblown sheets. If it kept on like this for much longer they
weren't going anywhere, distributor cap or not, and he did not want to spend
God-knows how long cooped up in this house with Sam and their drama.
Sam could see it written all over his face. Deep-and-meaningfuls were never
Dean's strong suit, but the elephant in the room was starting to turn into more
of a mammoth, and there just wasn't room for that if they were going to be
stuck in this house together.
"Dean, I really think we need to talk about this." Sam tried again, but the
older Winchester didn't reply - he just stared out at the rain, completely
ignoring what his little brother was saying.
"We should search this place and see if we can find out where that hell-bitch
is going. She's probably got other witches." Dean abruptly turned and went back
inside, leaving Sam on the porch by himself.
"Dean…!" Sam watched him go, exasperated. It never ceased to amaze him how Dean
could just cut off a conversation like that, but he got reluctantly to his feet
and went inside out of the wind.
Dean all but tore the upper storey of the house apart searching for any clue as
to where the demon might have gone, while Sam poked around half-heartedly
downstairs. He found some basic food in the kitchen, plus magazines and
newspapers and a whole stack of mail addressed to the previous owners, but that
was about all.
It looked like whoever's house this was had been about halfway through moving -
they'd taken all the important stuff with them, but left the rest for later.
All the furniture was still here, but most of the knick-knacks, pictures, books
and things were missing.
When Dean was done with his search, he found Sam waiting on the bench seat in
the picture window of the sitting room. He gave his little brother a glance,
but went straight past him and back out onto the porch. He grimaced when he saw
the pouring rain - it was worse now, if that was possible.
"No maps of the Pacific north-east with red crosses marking the locations of
other witches?" Sam asked, appearing in the front doorway. Dean threw a glare
at him, but bit back the smartass comment on the tip of his tongue.
"We're not going anywhere," Sam observed, coming to stand beside his big
brother. His whole posture was tense, but Dean pretended not to notice.
"Yeah," he admitted, gruffly. "We should probably get the stuff out of the
car."
Sam nodded and produced two golf umbrellas. "Found these in a closet."
"That's literally the first thing that's gone our way today," Dean said,
without a trace of a smile.
Sam didn't even try to hide his annoyance as he shoved an umbrella into Dean's
outstretched hand and stomped down the stairs. "I did kill a demon earlier,
remember."
"I'm aware," Dean said tersely, as he glared at Sam's back, "but it's cancelled
out by the one that got away and tore apart my fucking car!" He grabbed the
umbrella and stalked out into the storm after his baby brother.
The Winchester boys ransacked the Impala, grabbing their duffels and most of
the contents of the trunk, and then set about sealing up the ground floor of
the house. Sam went around and sprayed devil's traps at all the external doors
and under all the windows, and on the landing at the top of the stairs to seal
off the top storey, while Dean laid down salt lines.
The demons had managed to keep the water and electricity on, so when he was
done Sam made some coffee. By the time it was ready, Dean had a nice tinder
fire going in the sitting room and the place was starting to warm up. He was
kneeling at the hearth, slowly feeding the fire bigger and bigger pieces of
wood, and he didn't look up when Sam came to stand next to him.
"Can we not fight while we're trapped in a demon's house overnight?" Sam said,
simply, and held out a cup of steaming, fragrant black coffee.
Dean hesitated for a second, but he took the coffee. He took a tentative sip,
and a look of surprise came over his face - the coffee was good. "The hellspawn
had good taste," he commented, and took another, longer drink.
"There's also some cereal, kettle chips, M&M's… all sorts of stuff, actually,"
Sam told him, taking a seat at the table by the front window - or at least,
that used to be by the front window. It now sat more towards the centre of the
room, almost by the end of the couch, having been moved to make room for a
devil's trap.
"Kettle chips, huh? Original?" Dean asked, feeding the fire some more wood.
There was a flash of lightning that lit up the entire room, followed only
seconds later by a clap of thunder that reverberated through the very
foundations of the house and rattled the pictures on the walls.
"Yeah. Why?" Sam asked, when the thunder died away.
"How can demons even eat salt?"
Sam blinked, furrowing his brow. "I've wondered a lot of things about demons,
Dean, but never that…"
"I think when I find that sabotaging whore, I'm going to ask," Dean said
evenly, sitting back on his heels and stretching his hands palm-out towards the
fire.
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
As the sun went down behind the storm clouds, Sam sat at the table doing a
newspaper crossword - in pen. Dean was sitting on the floor by the fire,
leaning against the couch with his little black exorcism book in front of him,
reciting the Rituale for the twenty-something-th time that evening.
"Exorcizamus te, omnus immundis spiritus -"
"Omnis immundus spiritus," Sam corrected, absently, not looking up from the
paper.
"- omnis immundus spiritus; omnis satanica protestas -"
"Potestas."
"- potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversary -"
"Adversari-i."
Dean sighed. "- infernalis adversarii; omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta
diabolica." He glanced up at Sam, but there was apparently nothing wrong with
the end of that passage, so he continued.
"Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias liberate -"
"Libertate. There's another 't' in there."
Dean rubbed wearily at the bridge of his nose. "- libertate servire; te
rogamus, adios."
"Audi nos," Sam told him.
"What?"
"It's audi nos, not 'adios'."
Dean paused to think about that. "Yeah, well, adios makes more sense."
"This is Latin, Dean, not Spanish. You're not Clint Eastwood, and this
isn't Bronco Billy - if you can't say this next time a demon knocks the cue
cards out of your hands…!" Despite his best efforts, Sam was starting to get
exasperated. They'd gone over and over it, but it just wasn't sinking in and
Dean's repeated massacres of the language were getting on his little brother's
nerves.
He took a couple of deep, calming breaths and put down his crossword. "Why are
you so keen to learn it all of a sudden, anyway?" he asked.
"So that when I find her, I can send that black-eyed, sabotaging whore back to
Hell!" Dean snapped, and hurled the book at the wall in a fit of frustration
not entirely rooted in the Latin. He winced as his bruised shoulder protested,
but the bottom of the book's spine still left a triangular indentation in the
wallpaper and the plaster below, before gravity took over and the little black
book smacked into the hardwood floorboards.
Dean threw himself down on the couch with a frustrated groan, draping an arm
across his eyes. Sam went over and picked the book up, smoothing out the
crushed spine as best he could, and set it down on the table by his newspaper.
"I need that," Dean grumbled, without moving his arm.
"No you don't," Sam told him.
"Yeah, Sammy, I do."
Sam sighed, throwing a pleading glance up towards the heavens. "Look, just
forget the book, will you?"
That got Dean's attention, and he moved his arm away from his face to look at
Sam. "Forget the book?"
"Forget the book," Sam confirmed. "You don't learn by reading, Dean. Your
academic record tells us that. Chances are you're not going to learn the
Rituale Romanum by reading it from a book before you drive one or both of us
insane," he continued, his voice dry.
Dean allowed himself a little smile - that was probably true. His horrendous
pronunciation was already obviously driving Sam up the wall. "How am I going to
learn it if I don't read it?" he asked.
"We're going to do it together. I'm going to teach you one line at a time until
you get it perfect, then move on to the next," Sam said, and Dean sat up.
"Sort of a 'repeat after me' kind of thing?" he said slowly.
Sam nodded, sitting back down at his crossword. "Exactly. Like learning a
foreign language from those tapes," he replied, and Dean creased his brow as he
thought about that. It had to be better than reading it from a book, right?
Before he could reply, there was another flash of lightning and the house was
suddenly plunged into near-darkness. Sam and Dean both looked up and around,
like you do when it goes dark, but the power didn't come back on. There was
very little ambient light from the dusk outside as it was, and the fireplace
didn't do a lot to light the huge room, and suddenly the house was full of
shadows.
"Awesome," Dean groaned.
"I think I saw some candles in the kitchen," Sam sighed, and hauled himself to
his feet.
Dean threw another log on the fire while Sam retrieved a few candles, complete
with old-time metal holders with handles and wide, flared bases to catch the
melted wax. He set one on his table so he could see his crossword, and put the
other on the coffee table by Dean. The warm, golden light they threw off
dissipated the shadows and brought out the cosy, homely feel of the sitting
room.
Sam sat back down at the table, but Dean picked his candle up and disappeared
wordlessly down the hall - he was back a minute later, with an expensive-
looking bottle of bourbon and two tumblers. He poured one for Sam, setting it
down by his candle, and then one for himself.
"Where'd you find this?" Sam asked, eyeing the amber liquid suspiciously.
"There's a study or something down the hallway, and it's got a liquor cabinet."
Sam frowned. "I saw that, but I thought it was locked."
Dean gave him a winning smile. "It was."
Sam raised the glass to his lips to hide the smile, and it was his turn to take
a sip and raise his eyebrows in surprise. "Huh. That's actually really good."
"We'll have to invade more demon nests," Dean said drily, taking a sip of his
own. Sam chuckled at that, and Dean sat down opposite him and the table and
pulled out a deck of tattered old playing cards, which he set about shuffling.
"What're you doing?" Sam asked, when Dean started dealing the cards.
"If you don't know, then I've failed as a big brother," Dean told him. "We're
gonna play a little five-card stud."
Sam shrugged and put down his crossword - it was mostly done anyway, and Dean
took a look as he shuffled. Rows of little squares filled in with blue ink,
Sam's neat capital letters unmarred by any corrections. That kid was meant for
more than ganking things that go bump in the night.
"What're we playing for?" Sam asked. Dean opened a bag of cashew nuts and
dropped a handful onto the table by way of reply. Sam smiled, and snagged half
the pile.
After a few hands and a couple of helpings of smooth, well-aged Kentucky
bourbon, Sam started whistling softly. Dean peered at him across the table,
brow furrowed - he knew that tune, he was sure. Sam repeated the same parts
over and over again for a minute, and it was the chorus that eventually gave it
away.
Seems to me
You don't wanna talk about it
Seems to me
 You just turn your pretty head and walk away…
"Really, Sam?" Dean asked flatly, eyes narrowed.
"What?" Sam asked innocently, looking at him over the top of his fan of cards.
He knew very well what he was doing. Dean just looked back.
"Well, you are pretty." Sam put two cards down on the table and took two from
the top of the deck.
"And I also don't wanna talk about it." Dean could not believe Sam had turned
The James Gang against him.
"The demon wasn't lying, was she?" Sam went on anyway, trying to keep his voice
calm and even.
"Sam…" Dean groaned. "I told you - they lie. They like to mess with your head.
This one's no different."
Sam shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Not this time, anyway. You went
white as a sheet - there's something you're not telling me."
Dean dropped his cards, picked up his glass, and went to stand in front of the
fire. He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, but didn't say
anything.
"Whatever that demon was talking about, I think it has to have something to do
with what happened in Ohio, right?" Sam pressed, undeterred. "There's obviously
something wrong here, Dean, and I just want you to talk to me."
"Be careful what you wish for," Dean warned. The kid was putting the pieces
together, damn him, but Dean did not want to have this conversation. It hurt
too Goddamn much, and it was going to hurt Sam, too.
There was a frustrated sigh from Sam, but when he spoke his voice was softer.
"You know what my worst nightmare is, Dean? The worst thing I can imagine?"
Dean stared down at the vaguely floral patterns on the scarlet Persian rug
under his feet, swirling the bourbon in the bottom of his glass. He didn't
know, and he had a feeling he didn't want to.
"That when those Hellhounds come for you, we've spent our last year together
trying not to get close. That you wouldn't let me," Sam said, his voice thick.
"That when I'm alone at night, this is the memory I'm going to have to hold on
to."
Dean winced. That hit a nerve, just like he knew Sam had intended it to. "Sam,
there's nothing I wouldn't do for you-" he started, but Sam cut him off in mid-
sentence.
"Well, clearly there is."
That stung Dean, and when he glanced over at Sam he found his little brother
watching him intensely, eyes shining with tears. He looked away and knocked
back the rest of his drink, chewing absently on his bottom lip as he stared
into the flames.
"You weren't supposed to know this, okay? Ever." The words were out of his
mouth before he even knew he was talking, and he dropped down onto the couch
with a resigned sigh.
Sam came wordlessly over and took a seat in the easy chair opposite. Dean sat
in silence for a long moment, turning the glass around and around in his hands,
trying to find the words.
"I always told you Dad never knew about us," he began, eventually. "But do you
remember that day at Bobby's, when he really went off at you about blowing off
target practice for that soccer game a few days earlier? You were, like,
fifteen?"
Sam nodded. It had been only a few months after his fifteenth birthday. "It was
the county final, but Dad didn't care that we won - only that I hadn't been
practising. He really blew a gasket."
"I found you hiding out in the salvage yard, throwing rocks at a stack of old
wrecks," Dean continued.
Sam nodded - he remembered that, too. Dean knew exactly where to find him, and
he'd pried the rough chunk of broken cement from his little brother's hand and
wrapped him in a hug. They'd spent a few minutes hugging and kissing, Dean
trying to make him feel a little better-
"Oh fuck," Sam breathed, as the realisation dawned on him.
"Yeah. He saw us." Dean reached for the bottle to pour himself another drink
and tried to ignore the way his hand was shaking.
"If he saw us, why didn't he say anything?" Sam asked, confused. He didn't
imagine John had been exactly thrilled to see his sons kissing amongst the
wrecks in Bobby's yard, and he definitely wouldn't have kept something like
that to himself.
"Oh, he said something all right." Dean smiled bitterly. "After you were in
bed, he took me out to the workshop and laid it all out. He didn't know all the
things we were doing, I don't think, but he said if he ever saw me do anything
like that to you again he was going to…" Dean trailed off with an involuntary
shudder.
"'If you ever did that to me'?" Sam asked, frowning. "You didn't do
anything to me, Dean."
Dean let out a short bark of laughter. "I know, but do you think I was going to
tell him that?! My responses consisted of "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" and I didn't
look up from the floor the whole time!"
"I remember you had a black eye the next day," Sam said, slowly. He remembered
that cold, intense stare the man had when he was angry, and it was bad enough
when you'd only skipped target practice or something. He couldn't imagine what
it must have been like to be Dean that night.
Dean shrugged, but didn't meet his eyes. "Plus some other bruises you couldn't
see," he admitted, and paused for a long, slow breath, absently rubbing at his
left side. He didn't elaborate, and Sam didn't need him to. Evidently, John
hadn't kept his anger to himself.
"He never looked at me the same after that, you know? Like… I don't know, like
he thought there was something wrong with me." That hurt at the time, just as
John intended it to, and it still stung now. Dean never said it out loud, but
he'd wondered that himself, actually - what was going on in his head made it
okay for him to fuck his little brother.
"You never said anything. Dad, either," Sam said, pausing to think for a
second. "And that wasn't the last time we were together."
"No." Dean smiled wryly for half a second. "No, it wasn't."
Sam stared off into the middle distance for a few seconds, thinking it through.
"We snuck around for another year after that. You defied Dad for a whole year,
after he…" Sam trailed off. He was only now realising how much Dean must have
wanted to be with him, to disobey their father like that. How much he'd been
risking.
"Even after he knew, I thought we could get away with it, you know? If we only
did it when he wasn't around." Dean sucked in a breath and looked up at the
ceiling, eyes welling up despite his best efforts to blink the tears away.
"Turns out that wasn't so smart."
Sam watched him silently, his stomach tying itself up into knots. He was
starting to think this was going to be one of those things he wished he didn't
have to know.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Roseburg, Oregon
 October 1999
The sound of tyres on the driveway was the first clue someone was there. But
from his vantage point, face down on the old Skylark's trunk with his jeans
down around his ankles, Sam couldn't see who it was.
"Looks like your buddies are here," Dean observed, between thrusts, but he
didn't let up the pressure on the back of Sam's neck as he drove into him. He
could see them out the garage window, and they were busy repacking all the bags
in the back of the navy blue Cadillac station wagon.
"Ugh, you're not helping, Dean!" Sam groaned, but didn't stop working his right
hand up and down his cock. He really wanted this orgasm before he had to leave
on his week-long road trip to California, and he didn't need Dean telling him
his friends were only 30 yards away.
Dean chuckled and laid a kiss on the back of Sam's neck. It was a clear, chilly
morning, and the corrugated iron of the garage didn't offer much insulation,
but his skin was warm and covered in a thin, salty sheen of sweat.
"You're sixteen, Sammy," he teased. "You're supposed to be able to cum at the
drop of a hat."
"And aren't you supposed to be able do things that make me go weak at the
knees?" Sam shot back, breathlessly.
No sooner had he spoken than Dean grasped him by the hips and changed the angle
slightly - the older Winchester's next thrust caught his prostate, just as he
intended, and Sam bit down on an involuntary cry of pleasure. Dean grinned, and
hit the same sweet spot mercilessly with his next few thrusts.
Sam shifted under him as his knees actually did go to jelly, and one hand
reached out and closed on the bottom of the gap in the car's body where the
rear window should have been while the other kept working on his cock. He was
close now, Dean could tell - his shoulders were tense under his t-shirt and his
breath was coming in short gasps, every exhalation a little moan of pleasure.
Dean closed his eyes and let his head fall back, concentrating on those moans
and the way his little brother's body was pressed in tight all around him,
slick and hot and just divine…
He came before Sam, but not by much. He wrapped his arms around Sam's
midsection and leaned forward to place a series of long, soft kisses on the
back of the kid's neck, eyes shut and breathing hard. Sam was relaxing beneath
him, the tension flowing out of him after his release as he sucked in some deep
breaths of his own. His hand worked lazily up and down his cock now, in much
the same way Dean was still slowly moving back and forth inside him as he came
down.
"This doesn't count as christening the car, you know," Sam breathed. Dean
chuckled at that - the Skylark was going to be Sam's, when he was done fixing
it up. The only reason he'd been fucking him against the trunk was that the car
didn't actually currently have a backseat.
Before Dean could reply, there was an impatient honk from the Caddy in the
driveway. Sam groaned and stood up, and Dean took a few steps back to let him
get dressed. He watched as Sam hurriedly pulled his jeans back up over that
tight, toned backside and ran a hand back through his hair, trying to get rid
of the post-sex tousled look.
Dean was still doing up his own jeans when Sam wrapped him in a hug and gave
him a long, deep kiss. "Have I told you lately that I love you?" he smiled, and
Dean gave him a quick kiss of his own by way of reply.
"Have fun." He grinned and ruffled Sam's hair, tousling it all over again. "And
don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Sam chuckled, running his hand over his hair again as he grabbed his bag from
the floor where he'd dropped it. "There's nothing you wouldn't do," he shot
back, and pulled open the garage's small side door. "See you in a week!"
Dean watched his baby brother jog down the driveway to the waiting Cadillac,
where he threw his bag in through the tailgate before he jumped into the back
seat. The big old boat of a car rumbled to life and wallowed slowly out onto
the street, bound for California.
They were going to check out colleges, Dean knew. No-one was telling their
father that, but Sam had his heart set on going after he finished high school
and Dean was quite sure he was going to get the scores to make it happen.
Hell, he'll probably go in the frigging Skylark.
He sighed and turned back to the car. "Right," he said to no-one in particular,
as he pulled up the hood and positioned the broomstick that served as a
makeshift prop rod. "Let's sort this master cylinder so I can take you for a
spin and find all your other little faults."
Dean, whistling to himself with his head under the hood, didn't hear John open
the side door. He didn't even notice his father was there until he stepped
inside and shut it behind him.
"Hey, Dad." Dean poked his head out briefly from under the Skylark's hood. "You
just missed Sam. How was the-" he began, but didn't get to finish the sentence.
John took three quick steps and backhanded him so hard he actually lost his
balance, took a few stumbling steps, and crashed back into the steel-framed,
corrugated iron wall.
The whole building rang when he hit it, and he leaned against the wall with his
hand pressed to his jaw as John closed on him. He was too shocked to move at
first, but his eyes opened wide as saucers when he saw the blade glinting in
John's hand. Dean tried to dodge, but he wasn't nearly quick enough and the
keen edge drew a hot line of pain across the fleshy part of his forearm just
below the elbow.
Dean let out a yelp of pain, but John didn't miss a beat. He grabbed a small
flask from his pocket, made of silver and embossed with a Christian cross, and
flung the contents at Dean. He instinctively threw his hand up to shield his
face, and the water stung the bleeding wound on his forearm.
"Dad! What the hell are you doing?" Dean backed away down the wall, towards the
rear of the car and the big main garage door, wide eyes on his father.
John sighed, running a hand back over his hair. He looked distressed, like he
didn't quite know where to go from here. "God, I hoped you were a shapeshifter,
demon - something," he said, more to himself than anything else.
Dean blinked. Shapeshifters and demons? Well, that explained the knife -
evidently silver - and the liquid. That had been holy water.
"Christ, Dad, I'm not a frigging monster!" Dean took a couple more steps back,
but stopped when his back touched the end of the garage. His arm was still
stinging, his head throbbed in time with his hammering heart, and he had no
idea what the fuck was going on.
"Dad, what-" Dean started, but stopped himself. The bottom dropped out of his
stomach, and all the colour drained from his face. He suddenly understood what
this was about.
John didn't say anything. He just came a few steps closer, bending down briefly
to pick up an old, splintered pickaxe handle that leaned against the garage
wall, and his eyes were hard and cold as they settled on Dean.
Dean's heart rate shoot through the roof, and he instinctively glanced around
for the nearest exit. The wall he was leaning against was actually the big main
door to the garage, and although the latch was within reach, he'd locked it up
when he first brought the Skylark in. He wasn't getting out that way. He took a
look over towards the door in the wall diagonally opposite him that John had
come in through, all the way on the other side of the car - it was shut, but
not locked. The padlock was hanging open from the latch.
"I hoped it wasn't you, Dean," John told him, his voice low, and Dean's eyes
snapped back to his father. He knew John had seen him looking for an escape
route - he'd seen it coming even before Dean twigged to what was going on. That
was why he was standing between his eldest son and the only way out.
Dean stood in the corner of this big, metal box like a trapped rat, watching
his father warily. He paced beside the car a few times, his jaw set in a hard
line and that big, heavy chunk of wood grasped in one fist, and anger radiated
from him in almost-tangible waves.
"I hoped it was something else, because that would mean you weren't fucking
your sixteen-year-old baby brother!" John growled. He was furious, and Dean
couldn't help but cringe slightly. John saw it, and pressed harder.
He took another step closer, tightening his grip on the pickaxe handle. "Did
you reallythink I wouldn't notice?" he demanded. "Did you really think you
could get away with it?!"
Dean was silent for a long moment, his eyes on the chunk of wood in his
father's hand. He was gripping it so tight his knuckles had gone white, and he
was all but shaking with rage.
"Not really, no," he admitted, and was surprised to hear his voice come out low
and flat. He didn't sound nearly as afraid as he felt. John was probably going
to hurt him anyway, no matter what he said - might as well tell the truth.
John's face twisted into a snarl and he raised the pickaxe handle. Dean
flinched, but instead of swinging it at him, John hurled it across the garage
in a fit of rage. It hit the wall just beside the unlocked door with a clang,
putting a dent in the corrugated iron. Then, without warning, he turned and
launched a vicious right cross that caught Dean on the jaw and made him see
stars. He lost his footing and landed hard on the cold concrete floor, his head
spinning.
"What's wrong with you?" John demanded, standing over him. "What's wrong with
you that made you think this was okay?!"
"He wanted to," Dean groaned. When he touched his hand to his mouth, it came
away bloody - the punch had split his bottom lip. "He wanted me to-"
Dean barely had time to realise that probably wasn't the smartest thing to say
before John's hand closed like a vice on his upper arm and jerked him to his
feet.
"Don't you dare tell me he wanted it. Don't you dare!" John grabbed a handful
of his hair and slammed Dean's head repeatedly into the tin wall of the shed,
vicious shots to his face that cracked his left cheekbone and eye socket, and
then hit him in the face with another full-blooded punch.
Dean staggered back into the rear end of the Skylark, half-blinded by a cut
over his rapidly-swelling left eye that was pouring blood, but his mildly-
concussed brain still managed to tell him he was now between John and the
unlocked side door.
He turned and made an unsteady run for it, but John scooped up a length of
heavy chain from the floor and whipped it at him, catching him in the side, and
Dean howled in pain. The chain wrapped around his body a little, following the
curve of his ribcage and leaving a foot-long bruise on the tender skin as it
knocked the breath out of him. Dean didn't actually hear it crack, but the
explosion of hot pain in his side told him John had just broken a rib.
He collapsed against the rear quarter panel of the car, arm pressed to his
injured right side, and John swung the chain again. Dean instinctively turned
away and the chain slammed into his back, across the bottom of his shoulder
blades. It drove whatever breath he had left right out of his lungs, and he
slid down the side of the car until he was sitting on the floor, gasping and
struggling to breathe.
John appeared in the peripheral vision of his one good eye, standing over him,
and he kicked out - on reflex more than anything. He connected with something
solid and there was a grunt of pain, but that was followed by an explosion of
stars in his vision as John bent down hit him across the face again. He
straightened up and kicked Dean hard in the side a couple of times, each blow
accompanied by a frustrated, angry yell.
"Dad, please. You don't have to do this," Dean pleaded breathlessly.
"You didn't have to touch your brother." John's voice was hard as he hauled
Dean to his feet again. Then, before he could even get his hands up in front of
his face, John clamped a hand on the back of Dean's neck and drove his head at
the Skylark's rear driver's side window.
The window shattered, sprinkling the floor with angular marbles of safety
glass. John released his grip, and Dean landed right in the middle of it when
his legs went out from under him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
He put his hands out to break his fall, but he wasn't quick enough. He landed
mostly on his forearms, the razor-sharp fragments tearing into his arms and the
heels of his hands. A few pieces got stuck in his knees, too, and that hurt
like a motherfucker, but he didn't have enough breath to scream.
Dean rolled away from the Skylark and the broken glass, grimacing as his broken
rib protested savagely, and came to rest on his back. He held his hands in
front of his body, looking up at the pitched roof of the garage and trying to
breathe through the pain of his broken rib as the blood ran down his arms. He
could feel it pooling in a warm, wet spot on his shirt, just above his navel.
He couldn't believe how fast this day had gone to hell. Not even ten minutes
ago he'd been with Sam, having some pretty awesome goodbye sex right on this
spot - they'd figured they were safe, given that John got back from his latest
hunt after midnight the night before. They'd been wrong, apparently.
Even after the warning in Sioux Falls, Dean was still surprised how ruthless
his father was being. He was going to come out of this with some significant
injuries, and as he lay on the floor bleeding, Dean wondered briefly how they
were going to explain this to Sam. The kid was only going to be gone a week,
and when he got back he was going to notice that his big brother looked like
he'd been run over by a truck…
Dean's rambling train of thought was interrupted by the sound of boots on
concrete, and a blurry face came into view as the John glared down at him.
"Dad -" Dean rasped, but John gave him a cold look that shut him up
midsentence.
"I told you, boy. You get one warning. One pass."
Dean couldn't help it. He let out a harsh bark of bitter laughter, but his rib
protested and he winced. "A free pass?" he croaked. "You beat me so hard it
hurt to breathe."
John bared his teeth in a hard, mirthless smile and kicked Dean's right hand
out to the side, stepping on his wrist and pinning it to the floor. Dean bit
down on a cry of pain as the shattered glass bit into his skin, and he turned
his head to see a trickle of blood run out from under the back of his hand to
pool around the flat rear tyre of the Skylark.
"I told you that night in Sioux Falls. Leave your baby brother alone, or there
would be consequences." John came down hard with his boot on Dean's hand, and
the pain took his breath away. His vision exploded into little pinpricks of
light as dozens of little fragments of glass embedded themselves deep in the
back of his hand, and he heard bones snap like dry twigs.
John released his hold on Dean's wrist, and he rolled over onto his side with a
strangled groan of pain, curling up around his injured hand. He struggled to
suck in any air, and his vision was blurred with involuntary tears - so much so
that it took him a second to make out the pickaxe handle John had thrown
earlier, sitting almost within reach at the base of the corrugated iron wall.
Dean reached for the pick handle with his undamaged left hand, more out of
instinct than anything else, but John's hand materialised in front of him and
he picked it up instead. Dean rolled onto his back with a groan and saw John
looking down at him. He didn't look like he was feeling any remorse at all
about beating up his eldest son.
"I know how sneaky you are, Dean - I taught you," he said, twirling the handle
like a baseball player about to step up to bat. Then he brought it down hard on
Dean's midsection, knocking the breath from his lungs and cracking a couple of
his bottom ribs.
While he was still gasping for air, John hauled him back up to his feet and
shoved him hard back against the car. "You were supposed to look after him!" he
grunted, and punched Dean hard in the stomach, ribs and sides, first with his
right hand and then his left, over and over, like he was working a heavy bag.
He gave Dean one last, hard punch right in the stomach that doubled him over.
"I would never hurt him," Dean gasped, and John grabbed him by the throat and
pushed him hard against the car, the door handle digging painfully into his
lower back.
"What did you say?!" he demanded.
"I would never hurt him!" Dean screamed he words this time, ignoring the pain
that flared in his chest.
"'You would never hurt him'." John repeated, like he'd never heard the words
before. "You'd never hurt your baby brother, and yet you thought it was okay
to hold him down and fuck him?"
"I didn't have to hold him down." Dean forced himself to suck in a long,
shuddering breath and glared at John, blinking blood and tears out of his eyes.
"And if he didn't want it, Sam would tell me. He would fight back."
"You're fighting back now," John pointed out coldly. "Is it doing you any
good?"
Dean growled and kicked out, but John avoided it easily. He hit Dean again, and
he collapsed back against the Skylark, his head spinning.
"Do whatever you want to me," he rasped, struggling to hold himself vertical
with his uninjured left arm as he held his right close to his body, "but I love
that kid, and I never did anything he didn't want." His left eye was all but
swollen shut, but he still managed to glare at his father.
"And, now that we're getting all this out in the open, you should know
something," he continued, a defiant little gleam in his eye. Anything worth
doing was worth overdoing, right?
"We've been sleeping together for about eighteen months, all told, and I was
the one that popped his cherry."
That seemed to break the last shred of John's self-control. He picked up the
pickaxe handle and swung it at Dean, over and over, as hard as he could. Dean
instinctively threw his arms up and managed to block some blows, but he
couldn't stop all of them - he eventually sank to the floor under the
onslaught, semi-conscious, after a couple of good knocks got through his
defences.
John gave him one last bruising shot to the shoulder, and only then did he stop
swinging the splintered chunk of wood. He tossed it away into the wall and Dean
heard footsteps as John walked off towards the back of the garage. That left
his original escape route free, but he was in no shape to do anything about it.
He tried to push himself up off the floor, but everything hurt and things
weren't working the way they should be.
His right arm hurt when he put pressure on it, and there was some fairly wicked
bruising and a goose egg over the midway point of his ulna - probably broken,
he figured. A few of his fingers didn't look quite straight anymore, either,
and when he coughed he saw specks of blood landing on the concrete in front of
him. That wasn't good, he knew - especially considering how hard it was getting
to breathe…
Dean lay there, bleeding and gasping for breath, and it wasn't long before he
heard the footsteps coming back towards him. He looked up through his one good
eye, with some considerable effort, and saw John standing a few feet away. He
had a length of electrical cord in his hands, and a pair of pliers or something
in the other, and he was…
Dean's heart skipped a beat when he realised what was happening. John had
snipped one plug end off a long extension cord, and he had pliers or something
in one hand that he was using to strip the plastic insulation from the bare
copper wire. He wasn't being careful about it and Dean could see the sharp,
frayed ends of broken wires coming loose from the bundle as John stripped away
chunk after chunk of insulation from over the top of them.
"I told you, Dean," John said, as he set the pliers down on the Skylark's roof
and wrapped the last foot of insulated wire around his right hand. "I told you
there were going to be consequences!" He grunted the last word as he kicked
Dean hard in the side, turning him over onto his stomach, and then swung the
bare wire down on his back.
Dean's thin cotton t-shirt offered no protection. It split upon contact and the
stripped cord sliced into the tender skin below, the sharp ends of broken wires
digging into the flesh across the back of his shoulders. Dean
couldn't believe the pain, and he let out a rasping scream with whatever breath
he had left in his lungs.
"For God's sake, he's a kid, Dean!" John yelled, and then paused. When he spoke
again, he sounded resigned. "I should've done this in Sioux Falls last year
when I first found out how broken you are."
As Dean lay there bleeding and unable to breathe properly, his whole body
hurting and his back a mass of fresh, hot pain, it almost hurt more that his
father thought he was a monster. Then John brought the cord down on Dean's back
again with every ounce of strength he had, opening up a new wound diagonally
across the first and drawing another cry of agony, and he lost the world in a
white haze of pain.
 
 
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Sam stayed quiet while Dean told him the whole, twisted story. He didn't make
eye contact the entire time, preferring to look down at the floor or at the
fire, or even at the wallpaper on the wall behind his little brother. That
suited Sam just fine, because it meant Dean didn't see the tears in his eyes.
"I woke up in the hospital with Dad standing over me, and I thought for sure I
was dead - and probably in Hell to boot," Dean said softly, a bitter little
smile briefly touching his lips. "You know what his first words to me were?"
Sam shook his head. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, but his gaze never
left Dean's pale, tear-stained face. He didn't know if Dean realised it, but
tears had been rolling down his cheeks since he was halfway through his story.
"He didn't want to know if I was feeling okay. He didn't tell me if I was going
to live or die. The bastard just wanted to get our fucking stories straight. He
told me that…" Dean paused, fretting at his bottom lip. It looked like he was
struggling to make his mouth form the words.
"He told me that if I told anyone what had actually happened, he would kill
me." Dean took a long breath and exhaled slowly, briefly meeting Sam's eyes. He
saw them full of tears and immediately looked away again, reaching for the
bourbon and his glass and downing another quick shot.
"The story was that I got drunk, got into a fight, then stole his car and
crashed it. That was the truth. That was what happened," Dean said, his voice
low and a little husky from the bourbon. He remembered the cold look on his
father's face as he said those words, and shuddered. He'd been so cool, looking
at Dean lying in the hospital bed, all the while knowing he was the one that
put him there.
"You know, that's the first time I've ever told anyone that story. I've been
telling Dad's lie for ten fucking years," he spat, and grabbed the bourbon for
another drink. This time he didn't bother with the glass - he just took a long
pull directly from the bottle.
"I always believed it," Sam breathed. It made him sick to think of how many
times John had lied to him, and made Dean lie. And the truly scary part: how
well the pair of them had done it. From the moment John called to say Dean had
been in an accident, he'd never suspected there was more to it.
Sam's brain started ticking over, connecting all the dots, and Dean was happy
to just sit and let him. He was going to work it all out anyway, and it was
easier than having to tell the story.
A lot of things were suddenly making sense to Sam. He hadn't given it much
thought at the time, but he and Dean actually got precious little alone time
after he got out of hospital. Dean had spent a couple of months convalescing
with Pastor Jim while John took his youngest son hunting, and had -
conveniently - been well enough to go back on the road about the time Sam had
gone back to school for his second-last year. For which John had sent him to
stay with Jim in Minnesota…
"Dad didn't leave me to finish high school in Blue Earth out of the goodness of
his heart, did he?" Sam asked the question anyway, despite the fact he was
pretty sure he already knew the answer. Dean just shook his head.
"He wanted to keep you away from me, and the best way to do that without me
asking questions was to leave me in one school for more than four weeks at a
time," Sam said bitterly. He'd been so happy when John had sent him to Blue
Earth - he didn't know how he could've been so blind.
He looked over at Dean, and his big brother was staring into the fire, eyes
unfocused. "I wanted you to come with me," Sam told him, softly. "I asked Dad
to let you stay with me in Blue Earth for a while, but he told me he needed you
on the road with him. He said he needed the backup."
"You couldn't have known." Dean tried to look nonchalant as he sat back against
the couch. If it weren't for the haunted look in his eyes, he might have pulled
it off.
"Why did you stay with him all those years?" Sam asked, his voice low and raw.
The more he thought about it, the more he was amazed how well Dean and John had
kept the secret. He'd never seen a hint of any of this - not before he left for
Stanford, or even after Dean came to get him when John went missing a couple of
Halloweens ago. They'd worked so well together on the vampire hunt where they'd
found the Colt, and even when John was possessed and he'd had every reason in
the world to do it, Dean had refused to shoot him…
"Where else was I gonna go?" Dean said simply, and shrugged a shoulder. "Plus,
he was hunting the thing that killed Mom and I had to see that through. And
before you ask," he added quickly, "the answer is 'no'. He never spoke about it
again, unless he was beating on me for daring to mention your name, and I sure
as hell didn't bring it up."
Sam felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. He understood a lot more now. Why
Dean never dared to stand up to their father, and blindly obeyed every word the
man said - it was beaten into him. He didn't believe he was worth anything
because John told him so, and there was no-one around to help him climb out of
that hell. Including his brother.
"Stop looking at me like that," Dean told him sharply. He could see what Sam
was thinking. It was written all over his face.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said anyway, and wiped at his eyes. "Oh God. You know,
when I finally went off to Stanford, I almost asked you to come with me?"
Dean blinked, surprised. He didn't know that, actually.
"But it had been so long since we'd been together, and we never really got to
talk so I wasn't sure if you still wanted that…" Sam went on. Between Dean's
recovery, Sam's extended stay at school, and that brief slice of Hell spent
together on the road as a 'family' before he'd left for Stanford early in the
summer after graduation… they never really got another chance to be together,
or even to really talk.
Not that he thought Dean would have told him the truth anyway, but it made Sam
sick to think that while he'd been making friends, going to prom and thinking
about prospective colleges, Dean had been stuck with the man who had very
nearly beaten him to death.
"Christ, maybe if I'd just said something-"
"Sam, don't." Dean interrupted him mid-sentence.
Sam looked confused. "Don't what?"
"Don't put this on yourself," Dean told him firmly. This was what he'd been
afraid of - that Sam would immediately assume all the blame for what had
happened to his big brother, even though Dean had gone in with his eyes wide
open.
"But you're still-"
"It's not your fault, okay? None of this is," Dean interrupted him again,
looking directly into Sam's eyes, and the younger Winchester's brow creased
into a frown.
"So this bruise on the back of my shoulder is completely unrelated to all of
this?" he asked. He didn't look even a little bit convinced.
Dean sighed, throwing a pleading glance up towards the heavens. "Look, you were
right, okay? What that demon said about Dad's 'meltdown' is connected to that
other night in Hanover when I freaked out and shoved you, but that had nothing
to do with you."
He wanted desperately for Sam to understand, but Dean knew even as the words
were coming out of his mouth that he wasn't saying it right. He could tell just
by looking at the expression on his face that Sam didn't believe him. He was
sure he was the root cause of all this.
"Look, when you kissed me, it was like…" Dean trailed off, frustration
darkening his features. He wasn't good at this touchy-feely stuff - he just
didn't have the right words.
"I don't know how else to explain it except that it was like warning bells went
off all through my nervous system. It tied my stomach up in knots and my heart
started trying to pound its way out of my chest, because the last time I
touched you it nearly killed me." Dean's hand went absently to rest over his
heart, fingertips pressed to his shirt, like he could still feel it.
"And that really sucked, because all I've wanted to do since I got out of the
hospital was touch you," he continued, and Sam's eyes widened.
"I never stopped wanting you. Ever. But whenever I think I might do something
about it, every fibre of my being literally screams at me that it's wrong and I
shouldn't, and then I need a bottle of whisky to shut it up." Dean looked away,
trying to blink back tears. "So do you get it now? That it's not that I
don't want you?"
It took Sam a second to respond. "Yeah. I understand," he said, voice soft and
thick. He understood all right.
All the time he spent thinking Dean didn't want to be with him - it wasn't that
he didn't want to. He just couldn't. In Dean's head, his feelings for his
brother were caught up in that web of trauma and scar tissue from what their
father did, and he could understand why Dean hadn't ever wanted to try again -
if it were him, he probably wouldn't want to try again now.
"Even after all the shit he put me through, I didn't want you to know that
about Dad. He only wanted to protect you," Dean said, but didn't look up as Sam
came to sit beside him. He didn't touch his big brother, he just sat with him.
"You didn't deserve that." Sam knew Dean had only ever been interested in
making him feel good, and he hated the thought that John punished him for it.
Dean sniffed. "Yeah, maybe so, but I knew what I was letting myself in for
after that warning in the workshop in Sioux Falls." Maybe he hadn't expected to
land in hospital, exactly, but he knew what he was getting into.
"I'm just glad he didn't do it to you," he said, softer, and Sam reached out
and put a hand over his. But Dean pulled it away and got to his feet, back
turned to Sam while he wiped roughly at his eyes, shoulders rising and falling
as he took some long, deep breaths.
"Will you just let me help you?" Sam asked. Right now, all he wanted to do was
give Dean a big bear hug.
"What, did you swipe a neuralyser from the Men in Black when I wasn't looking?"
Dean tried to keep his voice light, but it cracked as the emotion broke
through.
"Dad's not around to disapprove anymore, okay? It's just you and me. No-one
else for miles." Sam stood and went around to face him, but he had to get right
in front of his big brother before Dean would meet his eyes. After a moment's
hesitation, he put one hand on Dean's hip and the older Winchester let Sam draw
him in closer. He was tense, but he didn't pull away.
"Haven't we wasted enough time?" Sam brought one hand up to touch Dean's cheek,
and placed two fingers over the pulse just below his jaw - he could feel his
big brother's heart hammering away, his blood pressure suddenly sky-high. Dean
reached up and pushed Sam's fingers back from his neck, and he could feel his
big brother's hand trembling.
"Wow, you weren't kidding about the physical reaction," Sam breathed. He'd
never known Dean to shake like this, ever - even in the face of ravening
monsters trying to eat his face, his hand was always rock steady. And that,
more than anything, really drove it home to him that the sudden end to their
relationship and the incident in Hanover really weren't his fault. Dean had no
control over it.
"Sam…"
"Shut up." Sam laid a gentle kiss on his left cheek, closing his lips just as
they came into contact with the smooth, tanned skin - one of the first things
Dean taught him when they were teenagers.
"You're not playing fair." Dean managed to make the whisper sound accusing, but
he didn't pull away.
"Just tell me you don't want to and that'll be the end of it," Sam murmured,
placing a few more kisses on the soft, tear-stained skin. He felt a hand on the
back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he wound his arms around Dean's lower
back. His big brother's chest pressed hard up against his and he smiled as he
felt a hand slide up under his shirt, just resting on his side.
Dean exhaled slowly, then pressed his lips to Sam's in a gentle kiss, that hand
moving slowly over the smooth, soft skin of his side.
The way the kid's body moulded itself to his brought back all kinds of warm,
fuzzy memories of long evenings spent in each other's arms, and before he knew
it he was undoing jackets and shirts and tossing them away. He dimly noticed
the sound of tearing stitching as he pulled his own black tee off over his
head, but he ignored it and pulled Sam in close and crushed his mouth against
his with a low growl.
Sam made a pleased little sound in the back of his throat as Dean's bare chest
pressed against his, and wrapped his arms around the older Winchester's lower
back as he unconsciously ground his hips against Dean's. Dean let out a small
groan and kissed him harder, reaching down between them to undo various studs
and zippers in an effort to get the rapidly-tightening denim out of the way.
Sam felt it when Dean got his jeans undone, and he couldn't help the little
sigh of relief when the constricting pressure was released on his growing
erection. He pushed Dean back onto the couch, and the older Winchester leaned
back into the corner and let Sam pull his jeans off, then watched as he
shimmied out of his own.
"One day you're gonna have to do that again," he said, smiling, as Sam sat
across his lap. "Just a lot slower."
Before Sam could answer, Dean locked a hand on the back of his neck and pulled
him in close, crushing his lips against his baby brother's. Sam let out a
little grunt of surprise, but he went with it, and Dean wound an arm around
that muscular lower back to keep him pressed close.
He felt Sam's hands on him, exploring the ridges and valleys of muscle in his
chest, then down onto his stomach, fingertips skipping over his washboard abs.
Hands rubbed up and down his side, reaching around to his back, like a soothing
massage.
Dean wanted to stay locked in that kiss forever, but the way Sam was subtly
moving his hips, grinding his crotch against Dean's with only a couple of
flimsy layers of boxer shorts between them was starting to drive him insane.
He reached down between them, and felt Sam falter briefly in the kiss when he
ran a hand slowly over the hot, hard bulge in the front of his boxers. He
smiled against Sam's lips, and slid his hand beneath the waistband.
Sam was just as hard as he was, and the smooth, velvety skin was hot to the
touch as Dean wrapped his hand around him. There was a small groan as he
started to pump it up and down, slowly but steadily.
Sam broke the kiss and let his forehead rest against Dean's, eyes closed and
each breath coming as more of a short moan. Dean pressed forward and placed a
series of short kisses on and around his lips as he worked his cock, but Sam
couldn't seem to make his lips work to return the favour - Dean took that as a
compliment.
He felt his own bulge throbbing and straining against the fabric of his boxers,
but he pushed Sam's hand away when he reached for it. "That's not how this is
gonna end," he breathed.
Sam smiled and let Dean push him back into the opposite corner of the couch and
pull off his boxers. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he watched
Dean stand up to remove his own - he could clearly see the outline of Dean's
hard-on as it strained against the faded black boxers, held flat against his
left hip with a distinct dark spot just at the tip…
Dean knelt on the couch, in between Sam's knees, and leaned over to kiss him
again. Sam rested one leg over Dean's thigh and let the other hang off the side
of the couch, and shivered when he felt something hot and hard touch him.
"Dean…" Sam murmured against his lips. There was no lube in the duffels, but he
didn't make a habit of sleeping with other guys - if they were going to do
this, they were going to need something more than spit and precum.
"I know," Dean whispered back. He had already considered that. He gave Sam one
more quick kiss and reached down into his bag, sitting on the floor at the end
of the couch, and pulled out a small bottle. When he saw what it was, Sam
couldn't help but smile. They'd never used gun oil before, but he figured it
was appropriate for a couple of Winchesters.
"No condoms either," Dean added, apologetically, and flicked the top off the
bottle of oil.
"'s fine. I already know you're a slut and I'm okay with it," Sam whispered,
his eyes sparkling. He gasped when Dean pinched him.
Dean smiled and pressed his lips briefly against Sam's, reaching down to stroke
an oiled finger between his ass cheeks. Sam sucked in a quick breath, and a
slow smile spread across his lips as Dean did it again. He started to say
something, but Dean silenced him with a kiss and kept gently rubbing that
finger back and forth.
Sam's breath started coming in low, gasping moans and Dean watched his little
brother's eyes fall slowly closed, feeling his whole body relaxing beneath him.
Dean leaned in to kiss him again and Sam reached up to wind his arms around his
big brother's neck and pull him in closer, deepening the kiss.
"Do it," he breathed, his lips still touching Dean's.
His heart rate jumped as he felt that hot, slick hardness press against him,
but before he could even form the thought that he should try and stay relaxed,
Dean shifted his hips slightly and let out a low groan as he suddenly slipped
inside.
Sam couldn't help it. He broke the kiss with small gasp of pain, and Dean felt
him tense as he arched his back slightly.
"You good?" Dean asked, placing a couple of slow, soft kisses on Sam's cheek.
His nose was full of Sam's musky scent, mixed with bourbon and gun oil, and he
paused to savour the sensation while he gave Sam a chance to adjust.
"Mmm." Sam exhaled slowly and kissed his silky lips, but still shifted a little
beneath him. He wasn't comfortable yet. "I forgot how much it hurts at first."
"Nice to know you haven't been screwing around on me," Dean breathed, smiling,
but Sam just rolled his eyes.
"And now it's exactly the way I remember it," he shot back, slightly
breathless, and nipped gently at Dean's lower lip. Dean pressed forward and
turned it into a kiss, enjoying the low groan from Sam as he shifted his hips
at the same time, pushing in as deep as he could go.
"God, it's good to be with you again," Dean murmured against his mouth, drawing
his hips back slowly. Sam sucked in a deep breath, catching Dean's lower lip
between his teeth as he pushed gently back in, arching his back and exhaling a
little moan of pleasure.
Dean took it slow, with long, deep strokes. Sam held him close, one hand on the
back of his neck and the other pressing down on the middle of his back. The kid
had a lot more muscle now, and Dean could feel it when he grasped Sam by the
waist - the big muscles in his stomach and lower back moved with every thrust,
pushing back against him.
It didn't take as long as Dean would've liked, but by the time he was close to
the end, they were both still panting and covered in a sheen of sweat that had
nothing to do with the roaring fire.
He drove harder into Sam as he got close, and even after all this time Sam
recognised the signals. He already had one hand down between them, working up
and down his own cock, and he got there just after Dean.
Dean flaked out in the opposite corner of the couch, chest heaving and still
absently stroking a hand up and down his disappearing erection. He held a hand
out to Sam, who was wiping himself down with a handy t-shirt, and pulled him
across to lay in front of him. Dean cuddled right up to him, chest pressed
against his baby brother's back just like he used to when they were younger.
Sam felt an arm wrap around his waist as soft lips pressed to the back of his
neck, and he closed his eyes with a sigh.
"This is what I wanted when I kissed you," he murmured softly.
Dean winced. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered as his hand rubbed slowly up and
down Sam's right side in an unconscious soothing motion. "I didn't handle this
all that well, did I?"
"No, you didn't."
"I don't want you to remember that - hell, I don't want to remember that." Dean
kissed the back of Sam's neck, inhaling the scent of his hair. "I just don't
want it to hurt you any more than it's already going to." His breath tickled,
and Sam shivered. Laying here in Dean's arms, he didn't want to think about
that.
"So, does this mean we can start renting rooms with just one bed?" he asked.
"We'll have to get out of this house first," Dean pointed out, smiling. He saw
the change of subject for what it was, but didn't press it. He didn't
particularly want to think about it either.
"We could just stay here," Sam suggested. "I mean, I like this whole sex-in-
front-of-an-open-fire thing."
Dean chuckled. "I'm not so keen on roasted nuts," he quipped, and moved to get
up. Sam gave a disappointed groan and turned to look at him.
"Time for a shower," Dean said, like it should be obvious.
"Why…?"
"Well, you didn't expect me to fuck you raw and blow my load balls-deep inside
you, did you…?" Dean said, without putting too fine a point on it.
Sam thought it through and wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, it's time for a shower,"
he agreed, and let Dean pull him to his feet. "You've got such a way with
words," he added, and Dean chuckled as he grabbed the candle off the coffee
table.
He led his baby brother by the wrist down the dark hallway to the downstairs
bathroom, their bare feet whispering on the hardwood floor. There were the
ghosts of framed pictures on the walls, taken with their owners when they left,
but the tables and bookcases and other random furniture along the way was still
in place.
"Well, at least they kept the place clean," Sam observed, standing in the
doorway of the bathroom. Even by candlelight, the white tiles, chrome fixtures
and old white-enamelled, claw-foot cast iron tub sparkled. It was a helluva lot
nicer than the motel bathrooms they were used to.
"No towels, though," Dean pointed out, nodding towards the empty rack on the
wall.
"I saw a linen press down the hall. You start the shower and I'll see what I
can find," Sam told him.
Dean gave him a flat look. "It makes me sad that you use the phrase 'linen
press'," he said, feigning disappointment. Sam swatted him playfully on the
shoulder and padded off back down the hall.
Dean chuckled to himself, watching Sam and his firm, smooth backside disappear
into the shadows, then set the candle on the vanity. He opened the door on the
chrome-and-glass shower, smiling as he leaned in and turned on the water - the
thing had to be big enough to fit three people in. With the water running and
his back turned, he didn't hear Sam come back into the room.
"Hey, I found some…" Sam started, but trailed off.
Dean swore under his breath and turned to find Sam standing in the doorway, two
white, fluffy-looking towels in his hands and eyes wide with shock. The towels
fell from his hands and he left them in a pile on the floor to come straight
over to Dean.
"Sam…" he sighed, but the younger Winchester put a hand on his shoulder and
turned him back around. Dean tensed as he felt him gently run a finger across
his back, over one of the long ridges of pale scar tissue that marred the
otherwise smooth skin.
"How have I never seen these?" Sam whispered.
"I told you what he did," Dean said, his voice low and raw. He fought the urge
to pull away as Sam softly traced each of the half-dozen scars with his
fingertip.
"I didn't think he did this."
"He wanted to make a point." Dean turned back to face Sam, and the younger
Winchester let him wrap him in a hug.
"They're from the extension cord, aren't they?" Sam asked softly, looping his
arms around Dean's lower back.
"Mm-hmm," Dean sighed, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on Sam's
warm, firm body pressed against his instead of the memories pounding on the
wall he'd put up to keep them at bay. "He only stopped at six because I passed
out and he couldn't wake me up."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Dean told him, and pressed his lips against the pulse under
his little brother's jawline. "You were worth it," he whispered, his lips
brushing the sensitive skin, and Sam couldn't help but smile a little at that
thought.
"Let's not talk about Dad, okay?" Dean murmured, and kept kissing. Sam let his
head fall to the side to give him better access to the soft, smooth skin of his
throat. "Now come and have a shower with me and get cleaned up so I can fuck
your brains out again later."
Sam laughed breathlessly and let Dean shepherd him into the shower. He stood
under the streaming water and let Dean suck a couple more bruises into his
neck, because he knew it made him feel better to make someone else feel good.
***** Chapter 5 *****
It was still raining outside when they were done with their shower, and the
power showed no signs of coming back on. Dean checked the fuse box, just in
case the lightning had tripped a circuit breaker or blown a fuse or something,
but everything was as it should be. The house just wasn't getting any juice,
probably due to storm damage somewhere in the supply chain, so they were stuck
with candles for the time being.
So, with no power and nothing better to do, the Winchester boys were sitting on
the couch in front of the fire eating cereal. It wasn't exactly dinner food,
but they were starving and it was all the demons had in the pantry.
"Exorcizamus te," Sam said, out of the blue.
"What?" Dean asked, around the last of his Rice Krispies.
"Repeat it."
"Right now?"
"You got something better to do…?"
Dean pursed his lips. He didn't. "Exorcizamus te," he said, slowly.
"Omnis immundus spiritus," Sam prompted and Dean looked over at him, eyes
glittering.
"You know, when this happened to Billy Madison, his teacher had an outfit on."
A smile touched his lips, but Sam didn't look up from his cornflakes.
"I'm not wearing an outfit, Dean."
"You sure?"
"So very sure."
Dean shrugged, still smiling. It was worth a try.
"Omnis immundus spiritus," Sam pressed, twirling his spoon in the air in a
'hurry up' gesture.
"Omnus immundus spiritus," Dean repeated - well, kind of, anyway.
Sam shook his head. "Omnis. Not omnus."
"Omnis immundus spiritus," Dean said again, enunciating the hell out of each
syllable.
"Right," Sam smiled. His pronunciation wasn't stellar, but it would get the job
done. "Now the whole line."
Dean took a deep breath, concentrating. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus
spiritus."
It wasn't pretty, but it was technically correct. Sam set him empty bowl on the
coffee table, then leaned over and kissed him. His big brother's lips were
covered in a thin layer of sugar - Dean liked to dump half the sugar bowl on
his cereal - so he tasted vaguely sweet.
"I don't know how you're not in a sugar coma," Sam chided him.
"You once told me I had marshmallow lips. Why shouldn't they be sweet?" Dean
grinned. Sam rolled his eyes, but he leaned in for another kiss and sucked all
the remaining sugar off his lips before they moved onto the next line.
The kissing at the end of every successfully-completed line of the exorcism
helped keep Dean relaxed, and before long it started to flow. He had the first
verse down in ten minutes, and the second one even faster. Sam loved hearing
the words - pronounced correctly - coming out of Dean's mouth, and the 'reward'
at the end of each line was starting to get deeper and longer.
"Me saying this Latin over and over gets you hot, doesn't it?" Dean said
knowingly, when Sam pulled back from yet another long kiss.
Sam shrugged, running a hand back over his hair and pushing it out of his face.
"I like the way the words sound when they come out of your mouth."
"You just like my mouth, Sammy."
"So say it again." Sam smiled, not even bothering to try and deny it. He took
his brother's almost-empty cereal bowl and set it on the coffee table, then
straddled Dean's thighs right up high on his quads, hips almost touching his
big brother's. "Well? What are you waiting for?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"Not that I don't enjoy this, but Rituale Romanum 101 doesn't work so well if
I'm distracted," Dean pointed out, settling his hands on his baby brother's
hips. Sam sitting across him like this was not likely to improve blood flow to
his brain.
"You've gotta be able to do it under pressure," Sam told him. If Dean could
remember the Rituale while most of the blood in his body was trying to dive
down below his belt, then Sam's work here was done.
"Yeah, something's gonna be under pressure all right," Dean chuckled, adjusting
his position on the couch a little. "You know, if I'd known a little Latin had
this effect on you, I would've learned it years ago!" He hadn't gotten it
perfect front-to-back yet, but Christ, he wanted to. He could guess what the
reward at the end was going to be.
"So show me. Say it." Sam wound his arms around Dean's neck and looked at him
expectantly.
Dean took a deep breath and gave it a shot - his pronunciation still wasn't
awesome, but it was getting better, and he only stumbled a couple of times.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,
Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,
Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.
Ergo, draco maledicte.
Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire,
Te rogamus, audi nos."
"Not bad." Sam leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, but pushed Dean
back into the couch when he tried to deepen it. "Once more," he added, hands
resting palm-down on Dean's pecs.
"Sam…!" Dean groaned, but the look Sam gave him made it clear he wasn't getting
anything until he said it again, so he did - all the way through, perfectly,
and with decent pronunciation to boot.
Sam smiled and gave him another kiss. "Now was that so hard?"
"No, but I've got something that is."
Dean planted both hands on his chest and shoved Sam off him. He was on his feet
in a second and immediately pushed him back against the nearest wall, pressing
his body hard up against Sam's as he kissed him.
He felt Sam's lips part under his, letting his tongue past. He held Sam against
the wall, his hips unconsciously grinding against his brother's - he was hard,
Dean could feel it, but his jeans were in the way and it took him a couple of
seconds to get them undone.
Dean suddenly turned Sam around and shoved him against the wall, pushing his
cheek against the textured wallpaper as he pulled the offending jeans down. Sam
kicked them away as Dean tore his own off, briefly kissing the back of his baby
brother's neck as he and pressed up close behind him.
"Is this because I called you a slut earlier?" Sam panted. He felt something
hot and hard brush against him, and Dean sucked in a quick breath as he pushed
his hips back to trap it between them.
"Lil bit, yeah," Dean breathed, and the younger Winchester's lips turned up in
a smile. That was fine with him.
He heard Dean spit into his palm, then sucked in a quick breath of his own as
he felt the smooth, hard head of his cock rub up and down between his ass
cheeks a few times. Then, slick with saliva and precum and without a word of
warning, he pushed inside.
It was easier this time, but there was still an initial flash of hot, stinging
pain as he slipped in, and Sam couldn't help but groan. Eyes closed, he let his
forehead rest against the wall and took some long, slow breaths while he waited
for the pain to fade.
Dean laid a hand on Sam's side, watching the big muscles moving in his
shoulders as he sucked in those deep breaths, absently rubbing a soothing hand
rhythmically up and down his lower back. It took every shred of his self-
control not to bury his entire length as deep and hard as he possibly could
into the hot, velvety heat of Sam's body right the fuck then, but he resisted -
Sam loved being on the bottom, and he enjoyed it rougher than Dean would ever
tolerate, but he always gave him a minute to adjust before he got down to
business. It was no fun if Sam was in pain.
He kept up that soothing lower back massage until he felt Sam relax, then
pushed forward with his hips until he was buried literally balls-deep in his
baby brother and he could feel the smooth, soft skin of Sam's backside pressed
against his pelvis. He drew back slowly and smiled as Sam let out a low moan,
his nails leaving gouges in the wallpaper as his hands curled into fists.
Dean looped one arm around his midsection and with the other hand grasped Sam
by the jaw and turned his head to kiss him. He held Sam's back hard against his
chest as he began to thrust into him, plundering his mouth with his tongue like
he was trying to touch his soul, muffling his baby brother's cries of pleasure.
Sam stretched back to tug on Dean's hamstring, trying to get him to go harder,
but his big brother was holding him so tight he couldn't reach it.
"Dean," he breathed, when there was a momentary break in the kiss.
"Mmm?" Dean murmured, without interrupting his rhythm.
"Harder."
Dean chuckled and laid a couple of soft love bites on the sensitive skin of his
neck, drawing a few small, gasping moans. "Now who's the slut?" he whispered,
close to Sam's ear - he could hear the smile in his big brother's voice.
"Then treat me like one," he whispered back, "and fuck me harder."
Dean released his grip and Sam leaned forward with his hands spread on the
rough wallpaper, arching his back and grinding his ass against Dean's hips with
a low, throaty growl, pushing him in as deep as he could go. So, Dean gripped
the younger Winchester's hips like a vice, kissed the back of his neck, and
went for it.
He thrust into Sam as hard, deep and fast as he wanted, forcing the younger
Winchester to brace himself against the wall. At some point Dean managed to
find just the right angle and hit that sweet spot deep inside his baby brother,
over and over.
He dimly noticed Sam swaying a little as his legs went to jelly, but he didn't
stop. Wild horses couldn't make him stop while Sam was making those little
keening, moaning noises and arching his back like that, the big muscles moving
under skin covered in fine droplets of sweat that glittered gold in the
firelight, making the lines of his back and the firm, round globes of his ass
stand out...
Dean leaned in, intending to give him a little love bite where his neck met his
shoulder, but bit down hard enough to hurt. Sam let out a little cry and
tensed, his body pulling in tight around Dean, and that was enough to send him
over the edge.
Every muscle in his body went taut, his breath caught in his throat, and he
buried himself as deep inside his baby brother as he physically could just as
he came. Sam felt Dean's fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise,
and heard the series of short groans that told him it was all over.
Dean rubbed one hand up and down Sam's lower back as he slowed his pace right
down, breathing hard. He leaned in and rested his forehead against the back of
Sam's neck, placing soft kisses on the flushed, wet skin and enjoying the way
his hair tickled as it brushed his face.
Sam turned around, the hot skin of his back resting against the cool wallpaper,
and Dean kissed him gently, letting Sam hold him close with hands on his hips.
He rested his forehead against his little brother's, pausing the kiss to take a
few deep, panting breaths.
"Sorry I bit you," he breathed.
Sam chuckled. "Hey, it's a compliment, right?"
Dean laughed, and pressed his lips briefly against Sam's. "Yeah, I couldn't
help myself," he teased.
"You've got a long history of not being able to help yourself where I'm
concerned," Sam shot back good-naturedly.
Dean chuckled and nipped gently at his lower lip. "You're always the one that
starts it," he pointed out.
"I'd like to finish it," Sam whispered, grinding his hard, leaking cock against
Dean's hip.
"Would you now." Dean didn't sound enthusiastic, but he let Sam push him gently
back towards the thick, soft rug in front of the fireplace.
"I think it's my turn - don't you?" Sam gave him another kiss and then one last
push down onto the floor. The rug was some kind of long-pile natural fibre that
actually felt quite nice on his knees.
"Okay." Dean exhaled slowly. He wouldn't ever bottom for anyone besides Sam,
and even then it wasn't his favourite thing, but he could do it. It was
probably his turn, after all…
He waited, but instead of getting down onto the floor, Sam stayed standing in
front of him. "You're not gonna…?" Dean looked up at him, confused.
"Look, I know you don't love bottoming, and I can wait for that." Sam smiled
and reached down to run a fingertip along Dean's deliciously pouty, bee-stung
lower lip. "But I dream about that mouth of yours," he said, his voice lower
and breathier.
"Do you just." Dean's lips turned up into a smile as he reached up to stroke
the sensitive skin at the top of Sam's left thigh. He liked that
idea much better. "Gotta warn you, I'm a little rusty on the deep-throat," he
chuckled, settling down to sit on his heels.
"Well you'll just have to practice," Sam replied, without missing a beat. He
put a hand on the back of Dean's head and held him still while he ran the hot,
hard tip of his cock along his lips, leaving a gleaming trail of precum. Dean
smiled, running his tongue slowly and sensually across his lips and licking
them clean, enjoying the way Sam exhaled in a breathy little moan as he
watched.
Dean started slow, wrapping a hand around Sam's hot, hard cock and working it
slowly back and forth a few times before he pulled all the soft, loose skin
back from the smooth head so he could run his tongue slowly all the way around.
Dean looked up at Sam from under his eyelashes, swirling his tongue around it
like he was licking an ice cream cone, and watched his reaction. If he
could've, Dean would have smiled. Judging from that half-lidded gaze and the
expression of bliss on Sam's face, he was doing fine.
A strangled little moan fell from Sam's lips and he let his head fall back as
he felt the wet heat of Dean's mouth all around him, his soft lips eventually
closing just behind the head. Dean pulled back slowly, making sure to touch
every square millimetre, and Sam reached down and grabbed a handful of his
short hair as he started to work back and forth up and down his length.
Dean laid one hand on his backside to keep him close and reached up with the
other to stroke a finger along the seam behind Sam's balls. He was rewarded
with a groan as Sam reflexively thrust his cock deeper, almost down into his
throat.
Dean wasn't prepared for that, and almost choked at first. Sam grunted and
attempted to pull back, but Dean locked his hand on that tight, toned ass and
pressed forward instead, taking Sam's entire length into his mouth and down on
into his throat. His baby brother wasn't small, and it stretched his jaw and
his throat wide open, but he did it - he only stopped pushing forward when his
nose touched the soft, smooth skin of Sam's abdomen.
Dean swallowed reflexively around him a couple of times, and felt Sam shudder
as he literally went weak at the knees. He moaned something that sounded like
"God, that's good", followed by a few more breathy words that Dean couldn't
make out. He knew how good this felt and he would have loved to hold it there
longer, but his lungs were starting to burn and he pulled back slowly, keeping
a firm grip on Sam's backside, listening to him groan as he slid free.
After his deep-throat performance it didn't take long, and Sam groaned and
wound a hand into Dean's short hair as he came. Dean swallowed every last
musky, salty drop and barely had time to suck his baby brother clean before he
collapsed onto the floor, sprawled out on the rug in front of the fire with a
lazy, satisfied smile. His chest was heaving, and there were rosy red patches
high on his cheeks - he looked exhausted, like he'd been the one doing all the
hard work.
"It's getting late. We should probably set up the sofa bed," Dean said,
watching on with an amused expression on his face. Sam looked like he'd just
run a marathon.
Sam laughed breathlessly, stretching out and folding his hands behind his head.
The golden firelight created all sorts of intriguing shadows on his hard,
glistening body. "You're welcome to start," he offered. "I'll help as soon as
my legs stop feeling like they're made of Jell-O."
Dean smiled and reached out to brush a few stray hairs from his face. "Sammy,
if you can stand, then I didn't do it right."
 
 
            o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The first rays of dawn were just touching the horizon when Sam woke up the
following morning. He was laying on the sofa bed under a blanket, wrapped up in
Dean's arms with his brother's head nestled into the nape of his neck by his
shoulder. And he could smell smoke.
Sam started and sat up, and immediately started coughing. His throat was
burning, and he grabbed a t-shirt lying over the back of the couch and slapped
it over his mouth and nose. He looked around, and his eyes widened when he saw
an ominous orange glow coming from the kitchen and the hallway.
Still coughing, he turned his attention back to Dean and shook him roughly by
the shoulder. He stirred, but didn't wake - the air was rapidly thickening with
smoke, and his breathing was strained and shallow. He was suffocating.
Sam didn't waste any time. He took a couple of deep breaths through the t-shirt
then pulled Dean up into a sitting position and, with some considerable effort,
slung him and the blanket over his shoulder and staggered through the smoky
haze to the front door. He kicked it open, wincing at the shock on his bare
foot, and it swung outwards so hard it smashed the decorative frosted glass
window in the wall beside it.
His knees almost buckled as he stepped outside, and it was a struggle to get
Dean down the steps to the safety of the driveway. It was just starting to get
light, and the ever-present grey thunderclouds were still hovering overhead,
but it wasn't raining.
Sam set Dean down on the wet gravel as gently as he could and turned him onto
his side, wrapping him in the blanket before he checked his vital signs. His
pulse and heart rate were good, and although there were black smears around his
mouth and nose where he'd been breathing the smoky air, his lips and nail beds
were a pretty normal colour and he was starting to breathe more normally.
Satisfied Dean wasn't in any immediate danger, he leaned forward, hands on his
knees, sucking in deep breaths of clean, rain-washed air. He was a bit chilly,
seeing as he was only wearing sweatpants, but he wasn't coughing so much now
and his brain was starting to work again now he was out of mortal danger.
In front of them, the house wasn't completely engulfed yet. It was throwing off
some serious heat, with the back and sides pretty well alight and the second
storey getting that way, but the sitting room at the front where they'd been
sleeping was still mostly just smoke.
Too bad all our stuff was in there. He winced as he thought about the duffels
full of clothes, the laptop, their weapons…
"Fuck!" Sam exclaimed out loud, suddenly standing up straight. The
fucking Colt was in there…!
He only considered it for about half a second. It wasn't even a choice, really
- the Colt was the only card they had to play against the demons. If he was
going to save Dean, he was going to need that gun.
He sprinted back up the stairs and in through the splintered front door,
ignoring the plume of black smoke that was pouring out, and ran headlong into
Hell.
The fire wasn't just an abstract glow in the distance anymore. The sitting room
was well alight now, the back wall covered in bright orange flame, and the
smoke was so thick he could barely see his hand in front of his face. If he
didn't know exactly where he'd left the revolver the night before, he would
never have been able to find it.
Sam made a beeline for the coffee table, and after a couple of half-blind grabs
his hand grasped the cold metal of the Colt. He reached out and found a duffel
bag at the end of the couch, threw the gun in, followed by John's journal, the
Impala's keys and whatever else was within arm's reach, then slung it across
his shoulder with a grunt of effort and turned to sprint back out.
He ran for the front door, a bright rectangle of early dawn light through the
smoke, and almost made it. He just had enough time to focus on the demon in the
doorway before he ran straight into the invisible wall she put up in front of
him.
Sam ran into the unseen barrier with his left shoulder, and it exploded in pain
as he fell back onto the cold tiles of the entrance hall. He lay there, winded
and gasping for breath, still clutching the duffel as the brunette demon from
yesterday peered down at him.
"Hi, Sam," she smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it. Sam just glared up
at her - he didn't have the breath to speak.
"I'm gonna make this quick, 'cause I don't want this meatsuit char-grilled."
She looked past him towards the lounge, where he'd been sleeping two minutes
ago. It was completely engulfed now, and the flames were licking at the
entrance hall.
"I'm not a Yellow Eyes loyalist, Sam," she said, almost regretfully. "I'm not
interested in following you, even if you were inclined to lead - there's a new
golden child now, and I'm hitching my wagon to hers. We were hitching our wagon
to hers." She smiled bitterly and kicked him in the side, hard.
"You boys took something from me, so now I'm going to take something from you."
She sat on her haunches beside him, and when she continued her voice was so low
he could barely hear it over the flames.
"Your brother is outside, right where you left him." She glanced pointedly at
the front door, where the first rays of dawn were streaking in through the
smoke. "And I just wanted you to know that when you've burned alive in here,
I'm going to spend the foreseeable future torturing him to death before drag
him into Hell myself. Think about that while you listen to the flesh sizzle off
your bones."
Then she stood up, turned, and left him.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Dean woke up cold and alone. He was wearing only the boxer shorts he'd gone to
sleep in, and he was tied to an old single bed frame that leaned up against a
wall, wrists and ankles bound to the four corners. He coughed a few times,
wondering briefly why his throat felt so raw, and peered out at his
surroundings with bleary eyes. They were dry and gritty, and he had to blink a
few times before he could see anything.
It was an anonymous abandoned building that looked like a warehouse of some
kind - a vast concrete floor, regularly spaced metal I-beams holding up a
pitched corrugated iron roof, with sections of translucent polycarbonate that
lit up occasionally with flashes of lightning outside.
He was in a corner, with cinderblock walls to either side, including a four-
foot square window in the adjacent wall to his right. He could hear the
regular drip drip drip off in that direction, once every few seconds, like the
roof had sprung a leak. The whole place smelled damp and musty, but he could
also smell a faint tinge of wood smoke on the air. He looked around, wincing as
his mind ran off down a tangent where the torture required an open flame, but
there were no fires to be seen.
Even with the skylights, the place was incredibly dim. He couldn't even see the
opposite wall in the gloom. The big banks of fluorescent lights hanging from
the rafters were dark, and the only illumination was the wan ambient light that
made it through the clouds outside - it was still daylight, at least, but
beyond that he couldn't tell what time it was.
Dean exhaled slowly and turned his attention to his own situation. He tested
his bonds, but there was no joy there - they were only rope, but they were
secure. Even the bedframe seemed to be lashed to the wall, because all the
movement he got when he pulled at the corners was a little flex and some
rattling of old bolts. It felt like a few of the old wooden slats were missing,
but that was about all.
Overkill, really, he thought. None of our usual playmates are ever this
thorough.
"Well look at that - he's awake." A pleased-sounding female voice came from the
shadows to his left, low and sensual, smooth as butter.
Dean stiffened and fought the urge to look in that direction, keeping his gaze
firmly ahead of him. He didn't need to look to identify the speaker, anyway.
"You," he sneered, as the brunette demon stepped smiling into the light.
"You're the one that sabotaged my car."
She gave him an amused look, sauntering over to stand beside him, high heels
clicking on the concrete. "Oh, come on. Really? That's what's eating at you?"
"Nobody touches my car, you black-eyed-"
Without warning she backhanded him, hard, snapping his head to the side. She
grabbed him by the jaw, her hand gripping like a vice, and leaned in close
enough that he could smell her perfume. Something rich and exotic that would
ordinarily have enticed him in like a moth to a flame.
"Now, now, now. Don't say something I'm going to make you regret," she purred,
her deep brown eyes burning into his. "And besides, you shot me." She abruptly
let go of his jaw, shoving his head back into one of the slats. Dean glared
back at her, but stayed quiet. He could taste blood, probably from a cut lip.
The demon stalked over to a battered old wooden desk that sat about seven or
eight feet in front of him. There were a variety of objects and tools on its
surface that Dean forced himself not to inspect too closely, but she bypassed
all of those and instead went for a half-empty bottle of bourbon.
"You know, even after everything, I don't believe we've been properly
introduced." She sat on the edge of the desk and took a casual swig, keeping
her gaze on him, leaving red lipstick prints on the neck.
"Don't worry yourself. I'm okay with that," Dean interjected.
"I'm Tara," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken.
"Is that your name, or the name of the poor girl you're wearing?" Dean asked,
before he could stop himself. The demon's gaze turned hard and cold, but at
least she didn't get up and hit him again.
"So it was your witch we were tracking in Hanover, right?" he went on, making a
conscious effort to be civil. She was going to hurt him anyway, probably, but
there was no reason to send her off the deep end right at the beginning. He had
to be able to get away when he worked out an escape plan, and she seemed like
the type to cut off something he might need.
"It was," Tara replied, taking another drink.
"You killed her to cover your tracks?"
She nodded, swirling what remained of the bourbon around in the bottom of the
bottle. "For all the good it did me. She was… emotional. Unstable. Killing
three of your workmates is the kind of thing that draws attention, but she just
couldn't grasp that."
Dean shifted uncomfortably in his bonds. "I don't mean to put ideas in your
head, but why didn't you just kill me?"
That cold little smile touched the demon's glossy red lips again. "Oh, you
don't get off that easy, honey. You boys took something from me and you're
gonna pay for it."
Dean frowned slightly. "Well why am I here then?" he complained. "Sam's the one
that killed your buddy."
She thumped the bottle back down onto the table, making the tools rattle, and
Dean tried not to jump. "Her name was Rachel, and she was more than my buddy,"
Tara spat, all traces of her smile gone. Dean got the distinct impression he'd
hit a nerve, but it took him a second to work it out.
"Oh, you're poking fun at me and Sam, but you two…?" he asked, incredulous.
Blondie - Rachel, whatever - had evidently been something more than a buddy.
"Yeah. We were." The demon's voice was low and intense, and her eyes clouded
over black even as she stared back at him, like someone had just poured a pot
of dark ink into clear water. It was creepy.
Dean let out a slow breath. This wasn't good. They'd pissed her off personally.
This wasn't just the normal demon bloodlust, this was vengeance - and vengeance
tended to hurt a lot more.
Dean's eyes tracked the demon as she turned back to the desk, his brain ticking
over trying to figure a way out of here. She picked up the bourbon and took
another long swig as a thunderclap rattled the windows of the warehouse, and
Dean saw his chance. He whispered under his breath as softly as he could,
praying the racket from the storm outside would give him the head-start he
needed.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"
He didn't even get the first line out before Tara gave a Jedi-like wave of her
hand. That was followed by a sharp snap,and he was cut off by a piercing pain
in his chest that stole the breath from his lungs. He tried to suck in more air
to start again, but winced as his left side exploded in a fireball of pain. The
hell-bitch had broken two of his ribs.
"How stupid do you think I am?" Dean could hear the smile in her voice before
she even turned around. She came back towards him and he gave her a hard
grimace of a smile, showing bloody teeth.
"You really want an answer to that?"
The demon smiled and leaned in, stroking his cheek gently with the tip of one
long, red fingernail. "Try that again, sweetheart, and I'll rip out your
tongue. We'll see how snarky you are then."
Dean glared, but shut his mouth. She might just do it to spite him.
"I guess it's time we get down to business, then." She pulled something out
from behind her back and held it up so Dean could see - a pair of slightly
rusted medieval-looking pincers that looked like they'd be more at home in a
blacksmith's shop. Dean felt his heart skip a beat, but managed to keep his
face impassive.
"It's clichéd, I know," Tara lamented, opening and closing the tool a few
times. She did it one-handed, like she'd had practice. "Unfortunately, good
quality instruments are hard to find these days." She locked one vice-like hand
around his left wrist and pulled, breaking the rope, but not before it tore
through a few layers of skin and gave Dean some fairly nasty rope-burn.
"I don't suppose there's anything I can do to change your mind?" Dean asked,
his voice tense as he tried and failed to pull his hand back out of her grip.
It was easy to forget just how strong demons were when they were wearing cute
little brunette girls - he might as well have been locked down in irons.
"There's really only one thing you can do, sweetheart," she said, lining up the
pincers with the tip of the fingernail on his little finger.
"What's that?" There was nothing Dean could do to stop this, so he steeled
himself and looked away.
"Scream." She grabbed hold of his nail and pulled, but not quickly. She did
it agonisingly slowly, pulling the distal end up first, followed by the root a
few long, torturous seconds later. The nail tore free of its bed with a long,
wet ripping sound, and Dean managed to half-stifle his cry of pain.
He turned his head back to glare at the demon, deliberately keeping his eyes
away from his left hand, each breath coming in a short, sharp gasp. "You evil,
vindictive, Satan-fucking whore of a-" he growled, but the demon ignored him.
"Nice nails you've got," she observed, holding up the pincers so Dean could see
them. They still grasped his left pinkie nail, complete with scarlet blood
droplets and even a few clinging fragments of skin and nail bed.
Dean growled again and tried pulling his hand away. Without even a hint of
effort, the demon tightened her grip and there was an audible crack as one of
his metacarpals snapped. Dean let out a yelp, but the demon didn't release the
pressure.
"I can crush your hand if you'd prefer," she said, intensely. Dean got the
point and stopped struggling.
"There's a good boy." She opened the pincers and let his nail drop to the
concrete floor, and the small clicking noise when it hit made Dean shudder.
As the demon lined up the pincers on the next nail, Dean had just enough time
to wonder how this had gone so pear-shaped. Only hours ago, he'd been fucking
Sam in front of an open fire - now he was tied up in a warehouse in the middle
of God-knows where, with a demon pulling his fingernails off one by one, and he
got the distinct impression that if his baby brother didn't turn up soon he was
going to be punching Satan's time card a few months early.
Ten minutes later, all the fingernails from Dean's left hand lay on the floor
in a small, bloody pile beside Tara's left boot. She stood in front of him
wiping her pincers with a scrap of cloth, while Dean breathed in ragged gasps
and stared daggers at her. His damaged hand - now tied securely back to the
bedframe - ached and throbbed. She hadn't been gentle about it, and he could
even feel tiny rivulets of blood snaking down his arm.
"So, Dean, I see I'm not the first one to try this." She touched a scar on his
forearm, next to one of the fresh trails of blood, and Dean paled. He couldn't
help it. He remembered the stinging pain as the broken Skylark window glass
sliced into him all those years ago, the memory fresh and crisp as if it
happened yesterday, and he found himself wishing she'd shut up and start
tearing out more fingernails instead. It would hurt less.
"Daddy's little meltdown, right?" she whispered, tracing the long, thin line of
scar tissue from his wrist, curling around behind to almost his elbow. Dean
tried to pull his arm away, but the rope bit into his flesh and he had to let
her.
"You know, I don't understand why you didn't you stab him in the heart the
first chance you got."
Dean glared at her, trying to keep his breathing under control. "You really
wanna have a deep and meaningful right now?"
The demon shrugged nonchalantly, but her eyes glittered. "It's just that I
asked John the same question while he was staying with us downstairs, but he
never gave me an answer."
Dean's breath caught in his throat as he thought about what horrifying things
those hellspawn must have done to his father, but he covered it well. "You
know, you're right." He bared his teeth in a hard smile. "You wouldn't
understand."
Tara abruptly tightened her grip, her fingernails digging deep crescent-moon
shaped wounds into Dean's forearm. He winced, and she smiled slowly as his
blood began to drip onto the concrete floor.
"Humour me," she whispered, so close he could feel her bourbon-tinged breath on
his cheek. Her nails dug deeper and she held up a little dagger so Dean could
see it. It was only about four inches long, but wickedly sharp, and the
implication was clear.
"Okay, fine," Dean took a halting breath. He got the message. "Fine. I'll tell
you."
She kept smiling and suddenly released her grip, yanking her nails free of
Dean's flesh. He shot her a glare, but she ignored him. She just crossed her
arms over her chest and waited.
Dean took a deep breath and hesitated for a second, considering his response.
He knew the answer to the demon's question, but that didn't mean it was easy to
put into words.
"You want to know why I didn't try and get revenge on my dad," Dean sighed. It
just felt wrong, having a heart-to-heart with a frigging demon. "We kept
hunting together after… after he did what he did, and yeah, there were times
where I could've left him to get dragged into the shadows and eaten by the
monsters. I'm sure he wondered if I was going to pull his ass out of the fire."
"And yet you did." The demon raised one perfectly-shaped eyebrow. She looked
like she genuinely wanted to know the answer - like she couldn't fathom why
Dean might do that.
"Don't get me wrong, I never forgave the guy." Dean narrowed his eyes, his
voice hard. "But he thought he was protecting Sam, and teaching me a lesson or
whatever - he was wrong, but that's what he thought. He did the best he could."
He paused, a little smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"Maybe he had a bad run and a few lapses of judgement, but hey, he did all
right for sixteen years. And we eventually got the chocolates - we got the evil
bastard that killed our mother. It was worth it."
The demon studied him, thinking that over. "So it's one of the sacrifices you
think you made in this little vendetta of yours? You let him get away with what
he did to you because he's your father? If my father attacked me like that I'd
have his head on a pike." She paused, a smile touching her lips. "Well, he did,
and I did just that. But that's beside the point."
Dean smirked at her. "See, this is what I mean - you'll never understand.
People don't kill their parents. Only monsters do that."
The demon gave him a cold, hard smile and, without any warning at all, drove
her little knife hilt-deep into his right thigh. The pain took his breath away,
but the demon just kept smiling.
"I should send you back to Hell - you need to practice. You're terrible at
this," Dean gasped, and the demon actually laughed. She gave the knife a little
twist, then pulled it out at an angle and savoured the resulting strangled cry
of pain.
"Aw, don't worry honey - you're squealing just fine," she told him, then poured
a shot of bourbon into the fresh wound. It felt like liquid fire and he clamped
his teeth down on the cry of pain as she leaned in to whisper in his ear.
"You may want to think about your words before you open your mouth, though. You
can hurt my feelings, but I can hurt you." Then she grabbed him by the throat
and pulled, tearing the bedframe away from the wall and letting it - and Dean -
drop onto the concrete.
The fall was short, but it felt like it happened in slow motion. He turned his
face away from the onrushing concrete and generally tried to shield his head as
much as possible, but the floor gave him a nasty crack to the side of the head
that made him see stars. The impact of his chest on the floor and the weight of
the bedframe pushing down knocked the breath out of him, and it took him half a
minute to realise the demon was sitting on her haunches beside him.
He heard the snap of a cigarette lighter coming to life, then the faint
crackling of a newly-lit cigarette. He could just feel her smiling, but he
didn't move a muscle.
"You awake down there?" she asked, but Dean didn't answer.
If she can't see me properly under the bedframe, maybe I'll get a few minutes'
peace…
The demon didn't ask again. She just touched the tip of her lit cigarette to
the soft, smooth skin on the back of Dean's left shoulder.
There was no stifling this cry of pain. He screamed, and the demon laughed. He
could feel the heat of the cigarette, hovering probably no more than an inch or
two off his skin, and then there was a new searing pain just to the side of the
last as she pressed the glowing tip against his skin again - harder, this time,
and for a few seconds longer.
Dean screamed again, trying in vain to pull his hands free and get out from
under the bedframe. It was pinning him to the ground, and he knew the missing
slats offered vast expanses of his unprotected back for the demon to play with.
"What was it you were saying?" she asked dispassionately, touching the
cigarette briefly to the skin over his spine. He let out a grunt of pain and
she repeated the action, scorching another little red circle just below the
first.
"I need to practice, right?" The demon touched the cigarette to a third spot,
and then a fourth. She was drawing a dotted line right down the centre of his
spine.
"Do you want me to keep practicing, Dean?" Her voice was hard now, and when she
pressed the cigarette against his skin this time, she held it there.
Dean let out a cry full of frustration and pain, still pulling at his bonds,
but he wasn't having any success. "You know it fucking hurts!" he swore.
"Yeah, I bet it does." The demon laughed softly and drew back the cigarette.
Point made, she lifted the bedframe by a corner, pushing it back against the
wall with a clang.
"Sam's coming for me, you know," Dean told her darkly, following her with his
eyes as she walked back to stand in front of him.
"Oh, I wouldn't count on that." The demon smiled and tossed the half-burned
cigarette onto the floor, where she ground it out with the toe of her boot.
"Really? And what makes you so confident?" Dean asked, spitting a mouthful of
blood onto the floor. There was a nasty cut on the inside of his cheek that
just refused to stop bleeding.
The demon stayed quiet, that knowing little smile on her lips, and Dean felt a
little flutter of uncertainty in his stomach. The hell-bitch looked like the
cat that got the canary, and in his experience, that didn't work out well for
the canary.
"What did you do?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Haven't you been wondering how I got to you?" she asked brightly.
Dean stayed quiet. He had been, actually, but he wasn't about to tell her that.
"I couldn't get into the house, so I needed you to come to me." She paused for
effect, watching Dean's reaction closely. "So, I set the old place on fire
while you were sleeping and your brother just brought you right out."
Dean visibly quailed, and the demon smiled. "He was quite the hero - literally
carried you out to safety. Has a nice symmetry, I suppose."
"Where is he?" Dean asked, low and intense. He was starting to get a very bad
feeling about this.
"He ran right back into the flames, you know - he really, really wanted to save
that antique peashooter of yours. Can't imagine why," the demon said lightly.
As if she didn't know exactly why he fucking wanted it.
Dean closed his eyes and exhaled, putting it together. Sam had gone back in for
the Colt because it was their only weapon against the demons. The only thing
they had to fight with that might let them break his deal.
Dean had to admit, it explained a lot of things. The smoke smell, his gritty
eyes, sore throat… and why Sam hadn't broken down the door yet. The only reason
he wouldn't mount a rescue mission was because he couldn't.
"Dangerous business, running into burning buildings. The kind of thing you
don't come out of," Tara continued, and Dean's eyes snapped open. He stared at
the demon, tears blurring his vision as he searched her face for any clue she
might be lying.
"I don't believe you," he told her, but he didn't sound convincing even to his
own ears. He couldn't accept that. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea
that, after everything they'd gone through, his baby brother was… was…
"Whatever makes you feel better, sugar," she smiled. She could see he knew - it
was written all over his face. And she was loving every second.
"Honestly, it doesn't matter to me if you believe he's dead or not. We've got
business of our own." She hit him across the face again, snapping his head to
the side and opening up a gash over his left cheekbone. "After I get my pound
of flesh - literally or figuratively, I haven't decided yet - we're going on a
little trip downstairs."
Dean felt it when she hit him and he could hear what she was saying, but it all
seemed very far away. He didn't care about that. If she was telling the truth
and Sam was dead, then it none of it mattered. She could ride him into Hell
like a frigging pony if she wanted, because he had no reason to stay here
anymore.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The sun was going down outside when the demon put down her last instrument and
stood a few feet back from Dean, hand on her hip as she regarded him.
Dean had been wondering how it was going to end, and he raised his head with
some effort to peer at the demon through his right eye - his left cheekbone was
fractured, and that eye was swollen almost shut. He was a bloody mess, covered
in cuts and bruises and burns, hanging from his bonds like a rag doll.
"Well, Dean, it's been fun, but it's time we headed downstairs."
The demon's black eyes were all but glittering as she extended her right hand
towards him. She closed her hand almost theatrically slowly, her eyes burning
into his, and he felt a corresponding crushing pressure on his neck almost like
she was choking him from the inside.
It didn't hurt as much as someone wrapping their hands around his throat and
actually physically choking him, but it was just as effective. His chest burned
as his muscles worked reflexively, trying to expand his lungs, but he got
nothing. He couldn't get any air at all, and he knew he should have been
terrified, but he just wasn't. He was ready for it to be over.
So, this is it. I learned the frigging Rituale for nothing. Despite his
situation, a small, fleeting smile touched the corners of his mouth. Well, it
was worth it to get into Sam's pants.
It was storming again, and he looked out at the trees whipping in the wind and
driving rain, punctuated by flashes of lightning and rolling thunder that shook
the windows in their frames. It seemed like a better last image than looking
into those bottomless black pits of eyes.
He saw two flashes of lightning before his vision started to close in at the
edges. The tunnel got narrower and darker and all his pain ebbed away as his
brain started to shut down, scrounging every last molecule of oxygen it could
to keep him alive. His eyelids were getting heavy, and he let them fall closed.
It would've been nice to go out in a blazing fireball of glory and take a few
dozen of those hellspawn with me. He would especially have liked to get this
one - the one that watched Sam die - but that just wasn't in the cards.
And anyway, once he finds out what happened here, Bobby's gonna hunt this bitch
down. It was a struggle to put the words together now and maintain his train of
thought, but that one made Dean smile again. She doesn't have long left.
Dean was still enjoying the notion of what Bobby would do to this black-eyed
bitch when the crushing pressure on his neck suddenly disappeared.
There was an almost painful sensation as the blood rushed up into his brain,
and he sucked in a deep, reflexive breath which immediately started him
coughing and retching. His eyes flew open and tried to focus, but it was like
waking up in a dark room and it took a few seconds for his vision to come back.
When it did, he saw the demon grinning back at him. She looked like she was
laughing, but he couldn't hear it over the sound of rushing blood and his
racing heart pounding in his ears.
Even in his oxygen-deprived state, it was immediately obvious to Dean what she
was doing. She wasn't quite ready to call it quits - she intended to draw this
out, choking him mostly to death as many times as she could before he either
had a stroke or she decided to end it.
"You bitch," he rasped - or at least, tried to. It didn't really sound anything
like that, coming out of his bruised throat. The demon got the message, though
it just seemed to make her smile wider.
"Oh, you didn't think I was just going to let it end, did you?" she laughed,
genuinely amused. "I'm supposed to have you delivered by sundown, but it's not
sundown just yet, sugar."
Dean could hear her now that the roar of blood in his ears was dying down and
he half expected her to clap her hands with glee, she looked so pleased with
herself.
He let his head fall back against the slats and stared up at the roof, ignoring
the way his neck protested when he moved. Wasn't it enough that she'd inflicted
all those other tortures on him already, and that there were more, worse ones
waiting when he got downstairs? Couldn't she just let him go?
"It's nothing personal, Dean." She leaned in and whispered in his ear, like she
was telling secrets. "I just really, really like this part." Then she stood
back and extended her hand out towards him again.
Dean lost count of how many times she choked him. She would bring him right to
the edge of unconsciousness, then just at the point where everything went
black, she'd release the pressure and let him get his breath. She did it over
and over and over again, taking him to the edge and then bringing him back,
smiling and laughing the whole time.
He could hardly focus when she loosened her grip the last time, and it was hard
to make out more than a shadowy silhouette in the faint twilight, but he saw it
as she pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. She picked something up off
the table, but she had to come all the way over to stand in front of him before
he could see what she had in her hand.
It was a strand of high gauge wire, about three feet long. It wasn't quite
piano wire, but it was almost as thin, and Dean let out a soft sigh. This was
it. This was how it was going to end.
For once, the demon didn't say anything. She just smiled as she looped the wire
around his neck so it crossed at the front of his throat, the ends wrapped
around her gloved hands. She wanted to be close to watch the light go out in
his eyes, but evidently didn't want to damage her meatsuit while she choked the
life out of him.
The demon was strong, and the wire hurt when she pulled it tight. It cut
cruelly into Dean's flesh as it choked off his air and the blood to his brain,
but he didn't fight it and the black tunnel closed in fast. This time was going
to be the last time, for sure, and he felt a flutter in his chest that had
nothing to do with his imminent suffocation. This was it, and where he was
going there was no way he was going to see Sam again.
Dean let his eyes fall closed, remembering Sam sitting across him. He was on
the bed in a fleabag motel room, leaning against the bedhead with soft pillows
at his back. Sam was straddling his thighs, one of those big hands resting on
his bare chest as the other caressed his cheek, and Dean could feel the warmth
of his smooth, hard chest press against him as he leaned in for a kiss - one of
those soft, gentle ones that Sasquatch shouldn't be able to pull off…
"Dean."
Sam. He could even hear the kid's voice, and it made him smile. As last moments
go, that was a nice one.
"Dean?"
God, it sounds so much like him, too…
"Dean!" There was a sharp smack on his left cheek, and his eyes flew open.
Dean realised a few things in quick succession. Firstly, the crushing pressure
was gone from around his neck and he could breathe.
Second, although he was still in that Godforsaken warehouse, he wasn't tied up
anymore. He was lying flat on his back on the cold concrete floor, and someone
was leaning over him.
He blinked a couple of times, squinting and trying to clear the lingering fog
from his vision. After a few torturously-long seconds, the looming figure
started to come into focus.
"Sam." Dean's voice came out in a hoarse, rasping whisper, but the relief in it
was evident. He tried to reach up to touch Sam, to see if he was real, but as
soon as he moved his broken ribs exploded into agony and his arms dropped back
to his sides accompanied by a grunt of pain.
"For the love of God, don't move," Sam told him, pressing down slightly on
Dean's shoulder and grimacing a little himself when his hand came away bloody.
He looked confused when Dean's face broke into a smile.
"Hurts too much to be a dream," Dean breathed, still smiling. The fact that he
was in this much pain meant this must be real.
Sam rolled his eyes and sat back on his heels, rubbing his hand across his lips
to wipe away smudges of bloody saliva from around his mouth.
"This really the time for us to be making out, Sammy…?" Dean croaked. It was a
miracle he could speak at all, but he still managed to be a smartass.
"I was giving you CPR, you jackass," Sam told him, but he was smiling now too.
"She choked you out."
Dean blinked and looked around, wincing as he moved his neck. He saw the demon
lying on the floor nearby, motionless, and his brain suddenly kicked back into
gear.
"What happened? Is she dead?" he rasped. Then, more urgently, "Where's the
Colt?"
Sam held up the gun for Dean's benefit, then tucked it back into the pocket of
his jacket. "Demon's not dead - I couldn't shoot her without hitting you. I had
to improvise, but don't worry, she's not going anywhere."
Dean held up his right hand, and Sam helped him sit up. It enticed fresh stabs
of agony from all his injuries and made his already-throbbing head start
spinning too, but he did it anyway.
"You okay?" Sam asked, concerned. Dean gave him a pointed look with the eye
that wasn't swollen nearly shut, holding his arm to his injured ribs.
"Right." Sam nodded, giving himself a mental head-slap. Of course he wasn't
okay.
"So, what's her deal?" Dean whispered, looking over at the demon. She was about
six feet away, and not moving. He squinted, trying to make out more detail with
his still-blurry vision, but he could have sworn...
"Sam, is that a stake sticking out of her back?"
"Yeah." Sam shrugged, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Carved a
quick devil's trap on the end of a broken piece of wood and stabbed her in the
spine with it while she was concentrating on you. She can't move, but she can't
smoke out either."
"Very sneaky, Buffy."
Sam smiled and helped Dean struggle to his feet. "I've been wanting to try that
one for a while." He paused while Dean got his balance, then turned to look at
the demon as he pulled the Colt out of his pocket.
"No, no, no - wait." Dean put a hand on his arm. "This one's mine."
Sam looked puzzled, but waved a hand in an 'after you' gesture. Dean took the
gun and shambled a few steps closer to stand over the immobilised demon - there
was indeed a piece of wood sticking out of her upper back, high between her
shoulder blades. She was conscious and she glared up at him out of the corner
of her eye, almost palpable waves of contempt coming off her.
That has to hurt like hell, Dean thought to himself, and a little smile played
over his chapped, bloody lips.
"I told you I'd send you back to Hell, you sabotaging, mouthy bitch," he
growled.
"Fine. Send me back," she spat, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth
onto the concrete. "When I claw my way out again, and I will, the first thing
on my to-do list will be to peel the meat from your boyfriend's bones while you
watch. Then, when I'm done with -"
She was cut off mid-sentence when Dean wordlessly raised the Colt and put a
round into her back, just below the stake. She lit up from the inside with that
orange light, flickering over her skin in waves as her body tensed and her eyes
widened in disbelief.
"For the love of God, shut up…!" Dean complained, exasperated. The body
twitched once more then went still, and he sank down to sit on the cold
concrete floor. Now that it was over, his legs didn't have it in them to hold
him up any more.
"Thought you might wanna break out the Latin for that one," Sam observed,
taking the gun when Dean offered it back to him. "You did learn it, after all."
Dean shook his head, eyes on the dead demon in front of him. "When she got
outta Hell, she was gonna follow through. She and Blondie were dating."
"Wait - and they were making fun of us?" Sam said indignantly. Dean just smiled
up at him from his spot beside the corpse.
By the time Sam disposed of the body in the woods outside, it had stopped
raining. He went back to get Dean, who was sitting on the corner of the desk,
and found all the demon's instruments were on the floor behind it like he'd
swept them off the table top. Sam didn't blame him - most of them were still
stained with his blood.
Sam helped him up and got his big brother's right arm around his shoulder. Dean
held his other arm close to his broken ribs, and although Sam knew it had to
hurt like hell, he didn't complain as they went slowly out through a small side
door.
"Where the hell are we, anyway?" Dean asked, squinting against the late
afternoon light as he looked around. There were a handful of old warehouse-type
buildings much like the one he'd been held in, and apart from a battered old
asphalt road leading away into the trees there wasn't much else to be seen.
"Abandoned industrial estate outside town," Sam replied. "This and an old
sawmill were just about the only places nearby she could go without crossing
the flooded bridge, so I figured she'd be here." He didn't say anything
further.
"So, she told me she left you in the burning house. How did you get out?" Dean
asked, after a moment of silence. It hadn't escaped his notice that Sam had a
bandage over his left forearm, from just below his elbow up under his shirt
sleeve. He wasn't using that arm to support Dean and he held it like it was
sore.
Sam grimaced. "Yeah, she did. Local cops were coming to check on the bridges
when they saw the smoke and hauled ass. They pulled me out of the house at the
last second," he said. He didn't volunteer any further information, but before
Dean could needle him further, they rounded the corner of the building where
Sam had parked the car.
Where Dean expected to see the Impala, there was instead a beaten-up, ancient
old Jeep that looked like it was older than both of them. Combined.
"So whose is this?" Dean asked, vaguely amused.
Sam flushed a little. "The cops insisted on giving me a ride into town. I
raided the Impala's trunk for clothes and weapons, so I didn't need to go, but
I couldn't exactly get them to bring me here. So I needed wheels that would get
me back past the flood." He let Dean lean against the rear quarter panel while
he got the back door open.
"Hey, you don't have to convince me," Dean told him. "I've always been of the
opinion you don't steal enough cars, Sammy," he added, gritting his teeth as he
started to climb up into the back seat. Sam winced and put out a hand to help,
but Dean swatted it away. He struggled up into the 4x4 and lay down across the
seat, pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, taking short, rapid breaths.
"You okay?" Sam asked, and Dean gave him a shaky thumbs-up.
"Will be," he croaked. "But next time I get kidnapped and tortured by demons,
can you pick a rescue vehicle a little closer to the ground?"
Sam rolled his eyes as he shut the door, but he was smiling. Dean was going to
be fine.
It was dark when they got back to the motel, but Dean was pleased to find the
Impala waiting in the carpark where the tow truck dropped her off.
"Thought I was never going to see you again, baby," he breathed, running a hand
lovingly along the generous curve of her rear end. Sam was sure there was a
one-liner in there somewhere, but he was too tired to ferret it out. It had
been a long day.
"I call the first shower," Dean said, as Sam shoved their door open.
"You gonna be okay by yourself?"
That got a smile from Dean. "I'd love you to come with me, Sammy, but I
actually need to get clean today," he replied, with a wink, and headed into the
bathroom.
His torn and bloodied boxers went straight into the bin, and he paused briefly
to check out his wounds in the mirror. They hurt, and they weren't pretty, but
on the whole they weren't really serious. Most of them would probably barely
even leave a scar, if they were cleaned and dressed properly. It could have
been much, much worse.
"I told you, sweetheart - you were terrible at it," Dean said to no-one in
particular, and turned away to start the shower.
As it turned out, it was a pretty quick one. Even lukewarm, the water stung his
wounds and burns and he only stayed under it long enough to rinse off most of
the blood and sweat. He got out and gingerly dried off a little, then wrapped
the towel around his waist with a little difficulty - it was hard with a broken
hand. He got it secured, though, and had just started to push the door open
when he saw Sam standing in front of the mirrored closet door by the beds.
The younger Winchester had pulled his shirt off, and was wincing as he checked
out his arm in the mirror. There were fresh white bandages covering what were
obviously burns over most of the surface of his upper arm and around the back
of his shoulder, which was badly bruised from running into the demon's
invisible wall. The point of his shoulder was obviously swollen and the skin
was turning shades of blood red and port wine.
"Just in the nick of time, huh?" Dean rasped, pushing the bathroom door open.
Sam started and turned to see Dean watching him. He turned back to the mirror
without a word.
"You okay…?" Dean pressed, as he shambled out into the room.
"Yeah," Sam sighed, pulling his shirt back on over the bandages. "It hurts, but
the burns aren't bad and the paramedics don't think anything's broken," he
replied, matter-of-factly.
Dean sat gingerly down on the end of the bed. "So you ran back in for the
Colt?" he asked. Sam nodded wordlessly, deliberately avoiding Dean's eyes as he
did up his buttons.
"That was stupid, Sam," Dean sighed. "You've gotta be smarter than that."
"Yeah, well, excuse me for not giving up." Sam's face was turned away from him,
but Dean heard the pain in his voice.
"It's not worth your life," Dean told him, making an effort to keep his voice
calm. "I made that deal so you could have one, not throw it away running into
burning buildings."
"What if I don't want one? What if there's no point without you?" Sam shot
back.
When Dean didn't return fire with a retort of his own, Sam turned to look at
him. He was staring off into the distance, lips pursed, with a pained look on
his face.
"She told me that you were in the house when it burned, you know," he said
quietly.
It took a second for it to dawn on him, but as soon as Sam realised what Dean
was saying, the head of steam he'd built up on his anger just evaporated. He
understood a little about what it was like to lose your reason to live.
"She told me she was going to torture me to death and drag me down into the
Pit, and I didn't care. If you really were in that house when it burned down
and you…" Dean trailed off and took a long breath, looking down at the
nondescript, gunmetal grey carpet. He couldn't quite bring himself to say the
words.
"I gave up, Sam. I couldn't go through that again. If you were gone, she could
do whatever she wanted to me because there was no point fighting anymore." Dean
looked up to find Sam looking back with one of his patented emotional, dew-eyed
expressions, and immediately looked away again. If the kid actually started
crying, he didn't think he could get the words out.
"Look, I get it, okay? I understand why you're so hell-bent on saving me, and I
understand why you ran back in for the Colt." He paused and took as deep a
breath as his ribs would let him. "But you can't sacrifice yourself. I won't
let you."
"So I'm just supposed to let you do it?" Sam asked, his voice thick.
"I don't want either one of us to make the sacrifice." Dean paused, chewing on
his bottom lip, and when he continued his voice was very soft. "I don't wanna
die, Sammy."
There was a pause as Sam drew in a deep breath. It seemed like he'd been
waiting forever for Dean to say that. "Will you let me save you now?" he asked.
"No more burning buildings, okay?" Dean replied, with a small smile.
Sam couldn't help it - he smiled back. "Well, then you're not allowed to get
kidnapped by demons again."
"Deal." Dean pushed himself up off the bed and enfolded Sam in a hug, as tight
as he could manage. It felt good to have Sam's warm, firm body pressed close,
and when he leaned in for a kiss Dean gave it to him, if somewhat gingerly.
"We've gotta clean these," Sam said, and touched a finger to Dean's split lower
lip. He was covered in a myriad of other cuts and abrasions that were going to
need attention, too.
"Way to kill the mood, Florence," Dean groaned, but permitted Sam to sit him on
the bed. "Can you at least start with my back so I can lay down?" he asked, as
Sam came over with a bowl of warm Dettol solution and a pile of clean gauze
pads.
"I suppose you've earned a bit of R&R," Sam conceded, smiling as he sat cross-
legged behind Dean on the bed. His smile faded when he saw what was in front of
him.
Dean's back was a mess. Besides all the old scars, both from John and a life of
hunting things with teeth and claws, new wounds literally covered the skin all
the way from his lower back to his shoulders - cigarette burns, small knife
wounds just deep enough to hurt, plus parallel bands of scrapes and bruises
from the rough wooden slats of the bedframe. There were even splinters still
embedded under the skin.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam breathed.
"Just get on with it, will you?" Dean told him, shifting uncomfortably. He
didn't like people fussing over him when he was hurt - he didn't like medical
attention of any kind, really, and he certainly didn't want a running
commentary. "It's not exactly a picnic, sitting here with broken ribs."
Sam sighed, dipping a gauze pad into the bowl, and Dean tensed as he waited for
the sting. He felt something warm and wet touch the back of his left shoulder,
just where it met his neck, and winced as the antiseptic irritated one of his
numerous cigarette burns. It stung like crazy for a couple of seconds, but then
Sam leaned in and placed a soft, soothing kiss on the unmarked skin beside it -
then a second, and then a third.
Some of the tension went out of Dean's shoulders, and Sam smiled. He placed
another kiss next to the next burn before he touched it, and was pleased to see
Dean's breathing stay slow and steady. The older Winchester sat still and
relaxed, eyes closed, and let Sam continue cleaning his wounds, trailing gentle
kisses along beside the injuries as he went through gauze pads one after
another.
"So, what did you see?" Sam asked, as he dabbed at a knife wound on Dean's
lower back.
"Mmm?" he murmured, as Sam laid another soft kiss on the point of his shoulder.
He was really enjoying that.
Sam tossed out another square of gauze, adding it to the small, bloodied pile
in the bin beside the bed. "She had you dead to rights, Dean - you all but
crossed over. What was it like?"
Dean sighed, considering that for a second. "Well, it wasn't hellfire and
brimstone," he said, slowly.
"So what then?" Sam raised his eyebrows, but tried not to sound surprised.
"White light, angels singing…?"
Dean nearly choked, and winced when his ribs stabbed him. "You think I
saw Heaven?"
Sam just shrugged. "Well, we know you couldn't have actually gone upstairs…" he
said, without putting too fine a point on it. They both knew that if Dean had
in fact 'crossed over', there was only one place he could possibly have ended
up.
"I know," Dean admitted, as Sam got up off the bed and pulled a chair away from
the table so he could sit in front of his brother and start on the rest of his
wounds. "Honestly… I think it was a dream, you know? Like a Heavenly
hallucination or something."
Sam nodded, dipping a fresh wad of gauze into the antiseptic. "So? What was it
like?" he asked, and dabbed a little too hard at the wound in the front of
Dean's right shoulder. He yelped and pulled back, shooting a glare at his baby
brother.
"Sorry," Sam winced, watching as fresh, red blood started to well up.
"You're damn right!" Dean complained. That was a deep one, and it was sore.
"Oh, come on. Like that's the worst thing that's happened to you today," Sam
said drily, and placed a gauze pad over the wound and taped it gently down.
"Suck it up, princess." He smiled, and pressed his lips to Dean's in a soft
kiss. Dean nipped at his bottom lip, catching it briefly between his teeth.
"Some Florence Nightingale you are. Do you torture all your patients?" he
quipped, getting a smile from Sam.
"Only the ones I let fuck me senseless on a regular basis."
Dean had to chuckle at that. Sam placed another kiss on his collarbone, still
smiling, and Dean winced as he wiped at a particularly deep cigarette burn.
"Do you reallywant to know what I saw?" he asked, after a long moment.
"Yeah," Sam told him, eyes on the cluster of burns on the skin over Dean's left
pectoral muscle. He was incredibly curious as to what was in Dean's
Winchester's Heaven.
"You."
"Me?" Sam looked up, eyebrows raised. He wasn't expecting that. He'd always
figured it was probably full of beer, burgers and classic muscle cars draped in
women of questionable morals.
Dean nodded, enjoying that look of surprise. "Yeah, just you. Your hands, your
floppy frigging hair all in my face, and your lips…" Dean trailed off,
remembering the warmth of Sam's skin, those kisses and soft caresses…
"I'm your Heaven," Sam said, and a smile spread slowly across his face.
"Oh God," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. This was rapidly turning into
another chick-flick moment. "Well, when you say it like that…"
"I love you too, Dean." Sam leaned forward for a kiss, and Dean gave it to him.
He lay back on the bed and pulled Sam down to lay beside him, enjoying the way
his baby brother's body moulded itself to his as he cuddled up close. If they
couldn't break his deal, this was the kind of thing he wanted Sam to remember.
 
                                   [Fanmix]
Chapter End Notes
     The end. :)
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