
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1606433.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Gullah_Legends, Gullah_Lore, Charleston_(Location), Underage_Sam, First
      Hunt_Together, Absent_Parents, Summer, Motel_Rooms, Inspired_by
      Photography, Photographs_Included, Bottom_Sam, Beach_Sex
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Holy_City
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-12 Words: 11408
****** Don't Let It Ride You ******
by kelleigh_(girlfromcarolina)
Summary
     Dean and Sam hole up in a South Carolina motel while their Dad lays
     countless spirits to rest in the haunted grounds of Charleston. It's
     as close to an ideal summer as they'll get. Dad has plenty of work,
     and Dean has Sam. That is until locals start dying and the Winchester
     brothers realize that something other than a spirit, and possibly
     more sinister, is at work in the Lowcountry.
Notes
     I wrote this because I couldn't get the idea of Sam and Dean tackling
     a hunt in my city out of my head! To me, even though this story is
     relatively mellow [on purpose] the angst is sort of implied. We know
     what's coming for the Winchesters, and it feels sad to imagine that
     at one point, the brothers could have been *happy*.
See the end of the work for more notes

[http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_unitarian.jpg]
         Unitarian Church and Graveyard - Charleston, South Carolina.
It's hot enough that the sparklers can almost ignite on their own. The moon's
pull drags the tides up over marsh grass and Lowcountry, higher than the waters
have been all month. There's moisture heavy in the air and it slows everything
down, even the insects. The sky's painted with bright watercolor pinks and
gray-blues, swirling in trails to follow the setting sun. Halogen street lamps
are unsure whether night is coming or going, so flicker with indecision
instead.
The cracked cement is warm under Dean's bare feet. Too humid for socks and
shoes, even for jeans, but shorts are out of the question. He suffers through,
sweat tingling down his back under the thin, tight shirt to catch on the denim
waistband. He stays quiet, watching his brother through the summer haze as Sam
lights another sparkler from the pack–courtesy of Dean's five finger
discount–and waves it halfheartedly.
Sam is wearing as little as he can get away with: olive khaki shorts sitting
low on his brother's bony hips, one of Dean's hand-me-down gray tanks clinging
to his torso. Fifteen and skinny, Sam doesn't carry an ounce of extra weight.
Picking at diner-food, the Winchester brand of exercise, and teenage attitudes
keep him lean.
The whoosh-crackle of the sparkler gets louder in Dean's ears. Sam comes closer
over the shabby motel's concrete courtyard, thick blades of grass making a
valiant effort to push through the large pavers. His brother's face is lit by
the bright, fizzling sparks. Dean can see Sam's bright eyes behind the hot,
shooting powder, hazel reflecting the light. There's a secret smile for Dean
between the sizzling lines, like he and Dean are the center of the universe
tonight. Feels like it: waves crashing down on the hard-packed sand, heat that
makes Dean dizzy, and his brother waiting until the sparks have all died before
he moves fully into Dean's space, and then the heat increases ten fold.
                                     * * *
Three weeks already on the South Carolina coast and surprisingly Dean's not
restless yet. The motor court masquerading as home has seen better days. Tucked
on the coast between multi-million dollar cottages to the south and double-
wides to the north, its residents are largely ignored and inconspicuous.
Perfect for nomadic Winchesters who happen to get stuck in a place with more
than its fair share of restless spirits and a myriad of local legends.
Dad's out more than he's in, taking the truck and accelerating away into the
morning–avoiding something, or avoiding them. Plenty of jobs keep him busy: the
blemished histories of the southern plantations provide their share of restless
spirits, eager for the blood of the Bukrah that the shades can no longer
distinguish from their former masters.
The arrangement suits Dean and Sam. They've gone on a few salt n' burns, helped
with research. Sam takes newspapers and library copies from their Dad down to
the beach; Dean keeps the food stocked and the weapons clean. The summer days
pass and when their stay creeps towards a solid month, the hard and wary edge
to Sam's eyes disappears and Dean breathes a little easier.
In the height of summer, there's no school for Sam, but he reads tattered
paperbacks and well-thumbed classics Dean gathers from garage sales without
really looking at their titles. And Sam never cares what Dean gets, just
accepts the box with a grin and starts digging through.
The breeze today is cooler and salty, blown in off the Atlantic. Dean makes his
way towards the rickety boardwalk running over the dunes and onto the sand.
He hears the low, sweet whistling before he sees her. The motel owner's wife
moves slowly, a handful of sweetgrass clutched in her arms while she steps
heavily over the planks and keeps her distance from Dean. She hasn't spoken to
any of the Winchesters since they checked in. Didn't shake Dean's hand when he
tried to introduce himself on the first day, just kept singing and whistling in
her way–melancholy and creepy. She sits in the sun, in simple but colorful
clothing, and watches the coming and going of the motel's few guests, weaving
her baskets and humming to herself.
The large woman passes by, but at the last minute her coal eyes find Dean's.
"Don' let de hag ride 'ja," she says, mix of Gullah and creole thick on her
tongue.
And then she turns away like nothing happened.
Not wanting to think about it, and pushing away the idea that he's probably
just been cursed in some sort of hoo-doo tongue, Dean turns to find Sam seated
Indian-style on the sand. Lunch is nothing more than crunchy peanut butter and
strawberry jelly on generic white bread, but Sam looks happy anyway. He grabs
one of the offered colas and scooches closer to Dean when he sits down on the
threadbare motel towel. Sam's bare torso is sun-hot, smells like the tropics,
and Dean doesn't mind the extra warmth. His little brother's mouth is full of
sticky peanut butter when he starts rambling about the research Dad set him to.

[http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_boardwalk.jpg]
               Boardwalk and dunes - Kiawah Island, Charleston.
                                     * * *
One last shovel full of dirt and Dean finally hears the tell tale crack of a
wooden coffin lid.
"About time." Dad grumbles and lowers a hand, dragging Dean out of the grave.
He could have dug faster, but Sam was squatting at the edge of the hole with a
rifle perched on his knees–just watching–sharp angles drawing Dean's eyes again
and again.
It can hardly be called a graveyard, set deep on the old plantation grounds.
Crude iron fencing barely two feet high, half-broken stones with initials and
numbers rather than name and epitaphs. It's a crude step down from the
beautifully landscaped, historically celebrated graveyards in downtown
Charleston. They're relying on luck and old records to ensure they have the
right grave, but with the way their hunts have been going, Dean thinks they
might as well dig up and burn every corpse in here. Dad's got the salt and
gasoline ready, poured on the old bones like some sort of baptism.
"Dem don wan t'go."
Sam springs up in an instant, rifle leveled at the voice masked by shadows. The
match in John's hand burns down to his fingers, extinguishing in a hiss of skin
and sulfur.
"Who the hell are you?"
Not a single leaf stirs, no crunch of grass or twigs snapping. Their voyeur
stands motionless.
"Dem cawpses not nun ayuh bidness." At least it's an answer, though not a
helpful one. "Dey 'f 'aid."
John steps out towards the darkness. "They're hurting innocent people."
The bodiless voice's accent is as heavy as the motel owner's and his wife's,
only deeper. "Bin hurt. Dem n'gwanna let go."
There's old pain in the voice, scratchy to cover centuries of embattled
history.
"They're not going to stop." John sounds perfectly rational, considering. Like
he's explaining to a child. "Do you want more people to get hurt?"
Silence from behind the twisting oaks. Then: "honor de'grabes. Be done wit' dis
place."
Resigned, but a clear warning. John calls something back but there's no further
response. The silence lasts for five more minutes–all three Winchesters
remaining still–until Dad throws another match in the grave and the old
indentured bones light up.
Dean chalks it up to another bought of creepiness in an overly creepy city, and
watches the flames rise.

  [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_grave.jpg]
               Grave overtaken by nature and time - Charleston.
                                     * * *
Bernard Chisholm, 28, dies in his sleep.
Bernard Chisholm, of Awendaw, passed away in his sleep on Tuesday evening. He
was found by his wife, Natalie, at their home on Wednesday morning. Police have
not yet ruled Chisholm's death as suspicious and investigators remained at the
residence today. Chisholm is survived by his wife...
Sam hands the paper back to Dean.
"Still don't see anything suspicious about it, Sammy."
"A twenty-eight year old doesn't just suddenly die of natural causes."
"Doesn't mean it's our kind of case. He could have been poisoned."
Sam huffs.
"What?" Dean throws the Post & Courier on the floor. "You know something about
it that you want to share?"
Sam shakes his head, floppy hair going bronze from the constant sunlight.
"Then what, Sam?"
"I just think we should look into it."
"You think?" Sam's stare doesn't budge and Dean just sighs. "Fine, I'll tell
Dad about it, if he doesn't have it flagged already."
"No!" Sam's hand shoots out to grab Dean's wrist. "Just you and me." When Dean
isn't convinced, Sam throws out an ace. "You've already tried to work a couple
of cases on your own. Why not this one?"
The fact that Sam has picked out a hunt is enough of a mind-trip, but he seems
excited. Dean almost Christo's him for kicks.
"What made you focus on this dude's death?"
Sam's eyes dart away, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know–I just thought....
Come on, Dean."
"All right, Jesus." The newspaper crunches under his boot when he stands. Dad's
been gone since sunrise, checking out a haunted courtyard downtown. They've got
nothing else to do to wile away the muggy hours besides sit on the beach, or
sleep. "Grab the paper, let's check out this guy's house."
"What are we going to tell Dad?"
Dean ruffles Sam's hair when he passes; whatever he is, he's still Sam's big,
obnoxious brother. Sam swats his hand, but does it with a grin, already filling
his old backpack.
He takes a deep breath when Sam isn't looking. Dean keeps waiting for that
moment, when teenage angst will overcome being brothers. When Sam will turn on
him, on their family, and become some kind of monster. He's still Sammy
now–Dean's little brother, Dean's world–and God if that's not the best thing
Dean's felt in his up and down life.
"Let me worry about Dad." Dean slings his own bag over his shoulder. "You
ready?"
When they go, the motel owner's wife is sitting outside the motel office, a
broom propped against the wall behind her. Dean hurries Sam to the Impala
before she can say anything.
                                     * * *
Chisholm's house is a bust. Zilch on the EMF and the single story home is
Stepford-normal, except for the fact that it sits ten feet above the ground on
solid beams. Maybe Chisholm was expecting Noah's flood.
Whatever cops were left at the house to "investigate" are gone; it's no trouble
for them to slip onto the porch and jimmy a window. Dean's tucking the EMF back
into his bag when Sam calls him from the back of the house.
"I got nothing, Sammy," he starts, trails off when he sees Sam looking around
the Chisholm's master bedroom. "You find anything?"
"No sign of a spirit, but can't you smell it?"
"I don't smell any ozone," Dean doesn't particularly want to sniff the air
again, and tries to breathe through his mouth. "All I smell is–"
"Rotting meat?"
"Dead body."
"Nope." Sam grins and goes to open a window. Even that doesn't help the smell.
"The guy was only in here twelve hours at most before he was hauled off. It's
not decomposition. It smells more like," Sam shrugs again, "rotting meat."
"Smells like a rotting body." Dean backs into the hallway where the air is
slightly fresher. "But why, does rotten meat mean anything to you?"
"Maybe." Sam may not be riding the full teenage hormonal roller coaster, but
he's developed some annoying habits in the last few years. Like that
infuriating smirk saying he knows something he's not telling Dean. And in a
family of hunters, that doesn't fly.
"Sam."
"I'll tell you when we get back, okay? I don't think there's anything else
here, anyway."
Pulling onto Highway 17, Dean wonders when exactly he became Sam's backup on a
hunt. Sitting side by side in the Impala with a fresh case in their laps, it's
not a bad feeling. He can almost forget they didn't come to South Carolina by
choice.
Back at the motel, Dean showers off the sour smell from the house. For once,
there's no need to conserve the hot water. That's pretty much all that comes
out of the pipes–heat in the air permeating into the ground. It still feels
good, a near-scalding shower in ninety-five degree weather. Sam is no where to
be found when he comes out, but the beach is as good a guess as any.
Dean has always felt weird about the ocean. It's gorgeous, but it's just a
piece of the coast where the rocks have been ground down to fine sand over the
eons. Here on the Carolina shore, it's more like a tiny sliver of pristine
white that hasn't yet been eroded by waves and hurricanes. But he gets to
thinking about how deep the waters can run–fathomless in Sam's words–and so
much of the unknown hiding beneath the choppy surface. It's more than a little
off-putting; the thought has Dean taking a step back from the tide line.
The beach is empty–the other guests apparently are not the fun-in-the-sun
types. He turns to walk back to the dunes when Sam appears on the boardwalk,
holding two glasses of iced, amber liquid.
"Where the hell did you go?"
"Just around." Sam offers a glass to Dean before he can get pissed at the
nonchalance. "Want some sweet tea?"
"Where'd you get it?"
"From Marietta." His brother takes a sip and smacks his lips, a percussive
sound that makes Dean shiver.
"Marietta?"
"Henri's wife." Sam looks at him. "The guy who runs the motel?"
"Right." A second glance at the tea reveals nothing more sinister in the glass
than a lemon wedge, but he hears Sam snickering. "Dude, shut up. I think she
tried to curse me." Dean swallows a large gulp of the tea to cover his flush,
syrupy-sweet coolness easing the sun's rays.
"I don't blame her," Sam mocks in the perfect little-brother tone. He laughs
and spins away but Dean's quicker, catching Sam by the wrist and pulling him
close. Tea sloshes out of both their glasses, landing with wet thunks on the
sand.
Back to front, they stand watching each wave roll in before getting sucked back
to sea. The condensation on the glasses makes them slippery, so Dean sets his
in the sand and sits, Sam following. A soft crinkle catches Dean's ear when he
brings his legs up to frame Sam's narrow hips.
"What d'you have there?"
Sam draws out a grayish-green piece of grass, a warm blush–definitely not just
from the sun–tinting his cheeks. The blades of sweetgrass have been folded and
twisted, shaped into the crude form of a rose. Dean recognizes the local
trinket; children sell them to flocks of tourists downtown.
"Marietta made it for me." Sam folds back against Dean's chest.
"You two becoming best friends or something?" Dean snips a little petulantly,
but the large woman has never come off as anything other than disturbing. The
hell does Sam see in her?
"No, she's just nice."
"Bet she is," Dean doesn't really want to argue the point. There are better
ways to spend his afternoon, such as the line of Sam's shoulder exposed by the
loose neck of his t-shirt. His little brother's skin is so tanned and smooth,
and radiates warmth even in the dead of night. It's the perfect spot for Dean's
lips, tucked into Sam's neck. They relax almost simultaneously, another
afternoon without Dad's awkward side-glances and mutterings.
"So what's the next move on your hunt, Sammy?"
"My hunt?"
"Mmhmm," Dean exhales, then breathes in the unmistakably summery smell
surrounding Sam. "You found it."
"Okay." Sam leans into the touch. "Do you think you can drive me to the library
downtown? They have a huge local history section, and there's a few things I
want to look up."
"Sure," Dean agrees, but doesn't let go of Sam. "We'll grab some lunch on the
way." And Sam doesn't move either, except to bend his neck so there's more dark
skin for Dean.
This is as close to an ideal summer as Dean's ever gotten. With Dad occupied
more often than not, he's left with Sam to do as they please. When he's not
training, or trying to drag Sam to train with him, Dean just watches Sam.
Growing up together, Dean had never taken the time to stop and look, really
look, to see the changes in his little brother. Now, he can see just how much
Sam has grown up. And Dean did that. He helped raise this kid, now a young man.
When their relationship turned, there was the inevitable guilt, but then,
epiphany compliments of Beam and a few melancholy metal ballads, he realized
that he was so wound up in Sam, there was no getting out. It was the most
terrifying–and at the same time, the most encouraging–feeling Dean had ever
known.
People are willing to spend their entire lives in a search for their other
half. Nearly a year ago, Dean figured out that his had been with him all along.
That Sam seemed to feel the same way was no small wonder–something Dean would
never take for granted.
A few minutes later, Dean notices that Sam's eyes are closed and his tea sits
forgotten on the sand. He picks up the sweetgrass rose from where it's fallen
on the dune, and tucks it back into Sam's pocket. They stay there, Dean
drifting while Sam sleeps, until the sun passes its apex and the tide moves
away.
  [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_rose.jpg]
                                     * * *
Elizabeth Warner, 31, found dead in her apartment on Friday morning.
The article reads the same as Chisholm's. Mysterious, non-violent death of an
otherwise perfectly healthy adult. Sam drops the paper in Dean's lap as soon as
he's finished rereading.
"It's got to be the same thing."
"And we have no idea what." Dean doesn't bother scanning the short article
again, nor does he try to say it's not a Winchester kind of case. He hasn't
forgotten the putrid, inhuman smell in Chisholm's bedroom. "Anything from your
research clinking here, Sammy?"
He gets a mumbled 'no.' Sam's concentrating on his notes from the Charleston
Public Library.
"You want to stay here while I check out this chick's apartment?"
"Nah, I'll go." Sam hip-checks him when he stands, and Dean kind of wants to
grab him and forget about the hunt for another hour. It's achingly hot and
unappealing outside.
As if Sam knows the carnal path Dean's mind is wandering, he steps out of big
brother's reach, smirking. So much for that diversion.
"Later, Dean."
When they step out of the room and into the heat, a broom clatters to the
concrete.
"What the hell?" Dean bends, picking up the straw broom. "Did you see this here
last night?"
"No," but Sam's contemplating. His eyes dart from the object in Dean's hands,
out to the parking lot, and down the line of identical doors.
"Maid must have left it here." Like it's some kind of cursed artifact, Dean
gingerly sets the broom back against the wall, wishing he believed himself.
"Come on, let's go before Dad gets back."

  [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_gate.jpg]
  The Sword Gate, as referenced in the local tale, The Sword's Gate Romance -
                                  Charleston.
                                     * * *
"Maybe we should tell Dad."
"No way." Sam glances at the bathroom door; they can still hear the shower
running. "This is ours, you promised."
Dean's got no memory of promising anything. "Fine, but we're no closer to
figuring this out and now there are two victims."
"But we've got clues." His little brother's eyes are wide and earnest, sincere
intention flushing his cheeks. "The smell was in Elizabeth's place too, and
look!" He brandishes a tri-folded piece of paper. "She worked at the same law
firm as Bernard."
"Seriously?" Dean's eyes scan the paycheck stub Sam had lifted from the
apartment. Impressive, Sammy.
"She was a junior partner and Bernard was the firm's accountant. I saw one of
his business cards when we were–"
The pipes clunk and shudder in the walls when the shower is turned off. Sam
huffs and rushes to stuff his notes into his backpack.
"Guess we're checking the firm out on Monday," Dean takes a deep breath,
getting to his feet just as the bathroom door creaks open, releasing vapor into
the already steaming air. The air conditioning has a hard time coping with the
mid afternoon hot spells.
Dad emerges from the steam, redressed and looking more awake that he had half
an hour ago when he walked back into the room after a night spent keeping watch
over his supposedly haunted courtyard.
"Any luck?"
"It was a bust," Dad rubs his face, already red from the hot water. "I swear,
half of the stories in this place are made up, and the other half...it's like
no one wants to get rid of the damn spirits!"
Dean has seen plenty of evidence of that downtown. Ghost tours, themed
restaurants, and compilations of local lore–not to be confused with history–in
every corner shop. In the Holy City, ghosts are a bankable attraction.
It looks like Dad wants to laugh. But then his expression hardens and his eyes
narrow.
'I don't care what these wackos believe." He starts repacking weapons and rock
salt. "Their star-crossed, god damned lovers'll turn violent eventually. Best
to stop them now before anyone gets hurt."
It almost trails off into a question, but Dean doesn't bother nodding.
"You boys ready to head out?"
"Dad, you just got back." Sam's voice is cautious, trying so hard not to be
confrontational. "Don't you think -"
"Been here long enough as it is," Dad cuts him off and doesn't notice when
Sam's face falls. "But I got word of another hunt in the area that I wanted to
check out before going back to the courtyard tonight, and I want you boys with
me."
Dean wants to slide over and grab Sam's shoulder; his brother looks so pissed
off.
"Apparently, there were some nasty pirate murders up the coast a ways, back in
the eighteen-hundreds. And the bodies were never quite laid to rest. Sound
interesting enough?" Dad adds sternly, reading Sam's mood from across the room.
He doesn't wait for their answer, always assumed compliance, before walking out
with his bag.
"Dean..." Sam hisses, an angry exhale of air.
"I promise, we'll get back to your case afterward, all right?" Dean arbitrates.
"And besides, it's freakin' pirates, Sammy. Come on!"
                                     * * *
Dad doesn't bring them to the courtyard later that night. He masks the decision
with the excuse of 'better sleeping arrangements'. This way, Dean and Sam can
sleep in the two queens, and Dad will sleep a spell during the muggy, still
evenings. No one is relegated to the floor. In theory, anyway.
Dean's pretty sure there's another reason entirely, but he keeps quiet.
Sam's facing away from him, physical distance coupled with an emotional wall
Dean is getting used to climbing.
"Still pissed?"
There's no answer for a few minutes. From the rhythm of his breathing, Sam is
still awake, so Dean stretches out on the bed next to his brother. Muscle-
relaxing routines help bleed the tension from his frame, or else sleep would be
next to impossible.
"It feels like our vacation's ending," the quieter teenager finally mutters.
Dean's not really sure what that's supposed to feel like. Vacations are as
foreign to him as bouillabaisse or a lobster dinner. But Sammy's tone is somber
enough that Dean feels the regret and reluctance.
"But all we've done is go on hunts, or help Dad. That's not really a vacation."
"Yeah, but I'm hunting with you."
"There's a difference?"
Sam turns over then and Dean loses whatever answer he would have seen in his
eyes.
                                     * * *

  [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_firm.jpg]
                              Downtown Charleston
The Hatch & Davidson law firm's building sits behind an intricately designed
wrought iron gate and a small entrance yard that's landscaped with impeccable
detail. But the walkway isn't swept, and the tiny dark palmetto seeds from the
trees above litter the brick.
Only Dean goes in. Thanks to Sam, he can pass as a college student hoping for
an internship. Inside, the office isn't nearly the bright, cheerful place
promised by the exterior. The receptionist, behind her sharp-edged steel and
glass desk, has red, puffy eyes and no smile for Dean.
"Can I help you?" There's a wet sniffle in her voice that doesn't sound quite
like a cold.
"My name's Jeff Lawson and I called last week about a possible fall
internship?"
The petite brunette glances at a haphazardly stacked pile of notes to her left,
and sighs. "Sorry, it's been kind of rough here since last week. What did you
say your name was again?"
"Lawson, but hey," Dean pauses and throws the receptionist his most sympathetic
look. "Is everything all right around here? You seem really stressed."
"The firm's had some really bad luck lately." She pulls a tissue from a nearby
box and wipes at the corners of her eyes even though they're dry. "It's crazy,
but maybe we're cursed."
"Well, it's not a totally crazy thing to say, but what makes you think that?"
"Two of our employees died last week, one was my really good friend." Then she
laughs and the sound is part dry humor and part sniffle. "I thought it was only
celebrity deaths that came in threes."
"Three?"
"Yeah, before Bernie and Liz, our boss Mr. Hatch passed away a few weeks ago.
It's just horrible." She needs the tissues now, eyes finally starting to tear,
trailing dark makeup to the corners of her eyes. "I mean, who has that kind of
bad luck? I just - oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you with any of this."
"It's all right," Dean grins disarmingly, the same 'tell me everything' smile
employed successfully by every therapist in the country. "My friends say I'm a
good listener, I don't mind."
And like so many women have before her, she falls into the Winchester ease.
"Okay."
                                     * * *

        [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/
                              sc_customhouse.jpg]
                           Charleston Custom's House
"I can't believe I missed that!"
Sam is slouched down in the passenger seat, dejection in every muscle. He looks
pissed at himself, at Dean, at the circumstances of a frustrating hunt. Hell,
Dean watched as Sam glared daggers at the walkers and joggers while they drove
over one of the massive bridges spanning Charleston's rivers. Dissatisfaction
fills the car, and Dean curses when someone cuts him off–yet another South
Carolina driver who doesn't know what their turn signal is for.
"Dude, it's not a big deal."
"It is," Sam insists, all but throwing his notes in the air. "I figure out the
law firm, but I miss the death of one of the partners?"
"Well, we know now." Placating Sam is similar to placating Dad. Try your
damnedest to move on without letting him beat himself up. "And now we probably
know where this all started, and why."
Joan, the receptionist, had been surprisingly revealing. It figured that office
gossip never slipped past the firm's gatekeeper. Once Dean got her to talk,
there was no stopping until Dean was treated to her depth of personal knowledge
on the three victims. Chisholm and Warner were nothing special–average
employees with good, wholesome lives–but Evanston Hatch was a different story.
According to Joan, Hatch had been a bit of a philanderer, most recently seen
consorting with a very perky judge's clerk.
"Yeah, I missed that too."
"We missed it, Sammy. The death of that clerk was almost a month ago, before
the lawyer's, and we had no reason to look."
Four deaths now, and this impromptu-turned-serious case is starting to make
Dean antsy.
"Hatch's wife has a clear reason to want revenge on her husband and the other
woman," Sam's thinking out loud. "She could have set whatever this is, in
motion, and maybe -"
"Maybe this thing just couldn't stop," Dean finishes. "Warner and Chisholm were
unexpected damages. You let the beast out of its cage, and you lose control of
it."
"So we've got revenge as a motive, deaths that appear natural, and something
you can't control..." Then Sam's face lights up like a salted bones. "Holy
shit."
"What?"
"I think I might know what's doing this!"
"Care to share?"
And just like Dad's, Sam's grin gives nothing away and he shakes his head. He's
figured out the puzzle, but whether or not he wants to be sure before telling
Dean, or if he just likes keeping it to himself a tad longer, Dean has no idea.
They race a summer storm back up the coast to the motel. It's dark to the
south–mottled gray clouds billowing and menacing–but clear to the north, and an
easterly wind blows Sam and Dean back into their room. Dean knows immediately
that Dad's been back - small, telltale disturbances Dean doesn't remember
leaving. But Sam's already diving on the bed, grabbing the books he couldn't
carry downtown.
All Dean can do is stand and watch as Sam flips through one of the books, snaps
his fingers, and dashes back to the open door. Sam grabs the broom, still
propped up outside, and holds it like a trophy.
"The broom, Dean!"
"Is really creepy and shouldn't be there?"
"No! I should have guessed when I saw the broom!" Sam waits for Dean to get it,
but he really, honestly doesn't. "I think she was trying to protect us once we
got involved."
"Who is protecting us from what?" He adds a little frustration–okay, more than
a little–into his voice, because playing twenty questions with a hunt gets on
Dean's nerves.
"Marietta." Sam says it like it should be obvious to Dean. "She was trying to
protect us from the hag!"
The storm has caught up with them; the light in the room dims when clouds
obscure the sun. Dean smells the rain before it comes, harsh and metallic in
his nose. Strange, ominous words come back to Dean at the first low rumble in
the distance.
"Wait, a hag? You mean that woman actually cursed me?"
"What woman?"
"Marietta, your new friend." Dean tries to remember exactly what she'd said.
"It was something about a hag riding me, and not in the appealing way, either."
"That's just a saying, Dean. 'Don't let the hag ride you.'"
"Sounded creepier when she said it."
"Yeah, she's kind of hard to understand sometimes."
Sam is still holding the straw broom like a shield, staring past Dean and out
into the sudden, summer downpour. There's steam drifting up from the concrete
courtyard, a product of hot stone and cool rain.
"But hags are just creepy old witches. And we didn't find any trace of hexes,
or of a coven being involved here."
"And we wouldn't, Dean. Not if it was a boo-hag."
Before Dean can pretend to know what Sam is talking about, his little brother
trades broom for book and eagerly starts explaining.
"Boo-hags aren't human, so they're not witches. They're a kind of physical
spirit, but there aren't any bones to find, or salt and burn. The Gullah people
believe that they're like female demons, or the spirits of dead witches."
"So someone can conjure one of these spirit crones?"
"More like hire them," Sam checks his book. "I think you have to offer them
something in return, but I'm not sure what. It's no guarantee they won't come
after you once you do, though."
"And the riding?"
"It's how they kill. Almost like the old vampire tales, except hags come in the
night to steal your breath, not your blood. They sit on their victim's chest,
suffocating them. The hags ride them, basically. Sometimes people can knock
them off and survive."
"Kinky." Sam scowls at him. "So that's why it looks like a natural death."
"I guess. Except for the smell."
"Yeah, any idea why they're so rank?"
Sam flips to another folded corner in his book. "I'm not really sure. But when
have we ever found something evil that smells like roses?"
Dean feels an involuntary smile pulling at his lips and he rubs his hands
together. The familiar burn of a good lead settles; it's something solid for
Dean to chew on. "Well how about killing the bitches?"
"Definitely easiest at night," Sam confirms.
"Why?"
"Because they're hard to track during the day. Boo-hags wear a skin in sunlight
and they're impossible to pick out."
"Like a meat suit?"
"Probably where the smell comes from." Sam hands him the book and Dean skims
over the page. "But at night, they shed their skin to feed, making them
invisible."
Dean snorts. "Sounds real easy, Sammy."
"It is, if we know where the hag is going. Then all we need is salt."
"Standard sayonara-ghost salt?"
"A salted hag can't get back into her skin. Come sunrise, she'll basically melt
away and die."
The corners of Sam's mouth are upturned. He's clearly not finished impressing
Dean.
"You think you know who it's going after next, don't you?"
Sam nods. "Got a good idea, yup."
"Kick ass, Sammy."
His little brother grins, proud and happy. They sit together on one of the
beds, pressed together over Sam's library plunder.
Outside, the rain drizzles and finally stops. Sunlight is already retaking the
sky, rays glinting off new puddles and stray drops. Dean figures he could
almost set his watch by these afternoon storms, if anyone in the lazy South
bothered to set their watches at all.

 [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_ravenel.jpg]
                       Cooper River Bridge - Charleston.
                                     * * *
They've never owned swim trunks, but for Sam, an old pair of worn khaki shorts
do the trick. Dean stays on the sand, safe in the shade of a palmetto tree for
now, and watches Sam dive headfirst into another cresting wave. The beach is
empty; small, winding inlets and rocky points isolate their stretch of shore
from neighboring ones.
There's barely a cloud in the sky now, all traces of the storm blown off shore.
Sam can't stay away from the beach, like he knows it's not going to last.
Winchesters move on, they always move on. Not even Dean can keep this intact
for his brother. With nothing to do until sunset, Sam dragged Dean down the
boardwalk and out onto the hot sand. When Dad's around, it's game on all the
time. But not with Sam. Distractions are good for the soul, letting them relax
before they're crushed under the weight of all the evil in their world.
Sam jumps up in the water, sloshing through the low surf towards Dean with the
swells breaking around his calves. The shorts are slung low under Sam's tan
belly; wet and clinging, the material outlines every bony ridge and plane that
Dean knows by heart. Sam's arms swing against the Atlantic breeze, slender and
graceful beyond his years.
"You should go in." Sam stands, dripping chilled points of water, over Dean.
"It'll help you cool down."
When Sam's close enough, Dean grabs his wrist and pulls his brother into his
lap–no one around to witness the open affection.
"But that's why I've got you."
Light skitters between the clacking palm fronds, luminous wounds shifting
across Sam's shoulders. Ocean water soaks into Dean's faded jeans and black
wife-beater. Christ, it feels almost as good as Sam's mouth on his–cool, salty
tongue lazily running along Dean's teeth.
Sam pulls back, eyes half-closed to shield against the penetrating rays of
sunlight. "Cool yet?"
"Not in the least."
Everything about his little brother is heated, despite his swim. Dean recalls
the steam released on pavement, surprised that Sam's balmy skin doesn't do the
same where it's covered in cooler water. Straddling Dean's legs, Sam moves,
easy and sure and as lazy as an afternoon spell. Dean's fingers hold but don't
tighten, thumbs stroking over the softer skin above Sam's hipbones. His eyes
don't have time to adjust between the stripes of sun and darker shade;
everything's caught in a kind of haze, accompanied by the ebb and flow of the
rolling tide.
"Wanna go back to the room?"
Sam's exhale is gentle against Dean's throat, but holds a shiver of ragged
arousal that's confirmed by his darkened pupils.
"Let's stay here."
It's fine by Dean, and he lays back in the white sand, drawing Sam down with
him. His brother's body blocks the rest of the sun, and Dean can finally focus
on the body above. Quick tugs and touches get Sam's shorts pushed down to his
thighs and Dean's wet jeans opened just enough. What started slowly becomes
more frantic as Dean's hot erection touches Sam's ocean-cooled one. The
contrast has Dean shuddering and bucking up into Sam's undulating hips.
There's sweat and salt gathered above Sam's lip and Dean licks it away when
their mouths separate, one hand on the back of Sam's neck and the other holding
their erections in a loose grip. Dean tries to swallow every little moan and
whimper his brother makes, grinding up and into his fist. Hot flesh slides
together, slicked by water and humidity. His brother's mouth no longer tastes
of salt, only Sammy, and Dean presses his tongue deeper. He feels Sam tuck
closer against Dean's body, desperate hisses escaping between their lips.
Sam breaks the kiss, turning his face against Dean's throat when he comes,
stuttering hips and heavy breaths. Dean pants through his own climax, grip wet
from Sam's semen. When he muffles his cry against Sam's ear, biting gently down
on the lobe, Sam gives one last shudder before he's spent, going limp on top of
Dean.
"Getting up anytime soon?"
Sam mutters something–it sounds like a no–and Dean resigns himself to being a
human mattress for a few more minutes. When Sam does get up, he's considerate
enough to hastily wipe Dean off with his hand and tuck him back into his jeans.
They'll shower before Dad reappears, rinsing the Atlantic away, and get ready
for tonight.
Messy and disheveled, Sam walks back to the water alone after failing to drag
Dean with him. Thanks to the moon's sway, the tide's already receeding. Sam
jumps into the next large wave, washing everything away in an instant.
Dean knows he'll never be able to wash Sam off his skin so easily.
                                     * * *
"So what's the deal with the broom?"
He and Sam are crouched in the darkness outside Evanston Hatch's house. Sam's
theory that a boo-hag, no happier about being controlled than any other evil
son of a bitch, would come back for the woman who'd likely unleashed it,
sounded pretty solid to Dean. Crowning that idea, Hatch's wife Alfreda was a
professor of Southern history at one of the local colleges, and that nailed her
proverbial coffin shut.
They'd found Hatch's address in the phone book easily enough; it led them to an
affluent Mount Pleasant neighborhood where the houses stood on large lots,
hidden behind lines of live oaks. The thick trunks and dipping branches spread
tens of feet, providing perfect cover to sneak up to the porch.
Sam's response is just as hushed, no more than a breath but Dean can hear him
perfectly. "Gullahs believe that hags can't resist stopping and counting all
the bristles."
"Seriously?"
"It slows them down, I guess. Hairbrushes work too, or sieves."
"What's a sieve?"
"Something with a lot of holes," Sam whispers back without looking over. His
gaze is fixed on the wide, wrap-around porch so common in Charleston. The
flickering flames from twin gas lanterns mark the front door, but there's been
no sign–or smell–of anything yet.
"How'd you tag this as a hunt in the first place?"
Sam's eyes focus on the ground, evasive.
"Fine, I wasn't going to rag on you or anything. It's just–"
"Just what?" Sam's looking over steadily, almost a challenge.
"Nothing." Dean shakes his head and turns back to the house. He can feel Sam's
eyes, unmoving and uncomfortably scrutinizing, and sighs. "You're usually
pretty bitchy when it comes to hunting. Now you pick one out and you're
suddenly gung-ho?"
He gets an unhelpful shrug of narrow shoulders. It's Dean's turn not to look
away. If he's honest, he really doesn't want to talk about this, but it's been
bugging him since Sam first shoved the newspaper article under his nose, and
there's not a whole lot else to do while they're sitting in the dark, just
waiting.
"Marietta." Sam's quiet voice startles Dean, lost in his own head.
"Huh?"
"She gave me the newspaper."
Not really the answer Dean was expecting, by a long shot. Oak leaves shift in
the light breeze, a hushed cover for his confusion. "How'd she know what we
even do?"
"She believes in this kind of stuff." Sam shrugs. "Guess it's not hard to spot
a hunter when you know what to look for."
"And she couldn't tell you what it was, make our jobs easier?"
"I don't think she knew. Maybe she suspected..." Sam trails off.
"Doesn't explain why you wanted a hunt when you're usually such a–"
"Jesus, I just thought it would be fun, okay?" Sam snaps, harsh as it can be
while still being quiet.
"Fun?" Dean waits for Sam to laugh, because he's got to be kidding.
But his brother scowls without a hint of humor. "Give it a rest, Dean. Watch
the house."
"Yes sir," Dean almost laughs. They turn back towards the house, eyes ready to
catch any shift in dim moonlight, the barest hint of anything out of the
ordinary. Beyond Sam's new found affinity for hunting with his brother, that
is.
Nearly an hour later, Dean switches positions, hears the crack in his knees and
elbows when he moves. Sam hasn't said a word, and hasn't moved, but he looks
uncomfortable.
"So are you having fun yet?" Dean wonders if Sam hears the affection underneath
his sarcasm.
"Shut up."
But Dean catches him grinning.

[http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_angeloak.jpg]
                   The Angel Oak - John's Island, Charleston
                                     * * *
Two nights later, Dean smells it. Putrid, gag-inducing stench of spoiled meat.
Sam is dozing off next to him, deep breaths starting to lull Dean into a
similar stupor. But his brother jerks up when the rank smell invades his
nostrils.
"Bitch is in the house," Dean snorts, as much to blow out the smell as to joke.
Sam's armed only with rock salt, Dean with the extra precaution of a handgun
tucked in the back of his jeans. Can never be too careful.
He nudges his brother towards the back door, already opened by craft or by
ignorance, and they pass into a dark kitchen. The smell gets stronger inside
the house, burning the inside of Dean's nose.
"Where do you think it leaves its skin?"
"Ugh, dude." Dean chokes a little on the mental picture. "Don't want to know."
With his bag of salt at the ready, Sam motions towards the wide staircase at
the end of the hallway. Bedroom. On the second floor landing, they hear it: a
muffled thunking that's coming from the left. The air is moist and hot–like
humidity only more cloying–and the stench sticks in Dean's throat until he
thinks he's going to puke all over the shag carpet.
"Breathe through your mouth." Sam sounds like he's trying not to throw up
either, voice no more than a careful exhale. The tip helps, but not much. It's
enough for Dean to move again, getting into position opposite Sam at the door.
He could break down a thousand doors, already knowing that there's something on
the other side intent on killing, but it always shocks Dean for a split second.
No such hesitation with Dad, busting in with guns blazing, but he's never
called Dean on it. It's barely a moment for Dean to look–to process–before he
jumps. Maybe someday it'll mean the difference between saving a life and making
a mistake.
Now he only sees Mrs. Hatch, pinned on her bed by an invisible force, but
struggling with everything she's got. The whites of her eyes are showing,
pupils rolled back as the heavy woman fights for breath.
Dean tries to shout, anything to distract the invisible boo-hag suffocating the
lawyer's wife. Sam is quick, grabbing a handful of rock salt and flinging it
towards the bed, crystals thrown in a wide arc over Mrs. Hatch. She goes stock-
still for a moment, Dean and Sam creeping forward on opposite sides of the bed,
then suddenly gives a great shudder. Her indrawn breaths sound almost painful,
harsh and deep, but at least she's breathing.
"Sam?"
"I don't know." His brother's leaning over Mrs. Hatch, who's too focused on
getting air to really notice the strangers in her house.
Dean's about to ask Sam if there's any way to make sure the hag has been
finished off, when his little brother is thrown backwards onto the floor. Sam
hits the carpet with a loud thump, and his pained gasp is loud enough to hurt
Dean. The plantation shutters on the windows clack together and shake, the
entire room taken by a tremor. The boo-hag is making her very pissed off
presence known.
"Sam!" His scream mixes with Mrs. Hatch's as she finally moves, scrambling to
ball herself up against the headboard and gripping the magnolia-printed
comforter close like it's going to protect her. She's shaking hysterically,
hair hanging messily in her face. No fucking help at all.
Dean is leaping over the bed in an instant, bouncing off the corner and landing
hard on his knees beside Sam, the weight of the invisible hag keeping his
brother down. This close, the sting of rotting flesh burns Dean's eyes but
there's no way to avoid it. Sam is choking right in front of him, limbs
thrashing as he struggles futilely, and face going pale from oxygen
deprivation. The bag of salt had landed beside the bed and Dean dives for it
now, grabbing a messy handful and throwing it over his brother's chest. Sodium
chloride confetti dropping and sparking where it falls on the transparent
creature.
Immediately, the air in the room shifts. The sound of Sam's first, ragged
breath is nearly obliterated by a terrible, unearthly screech, undoubtedly from
the boo-hag. The smell in the room turns sharper, sizzling for a moment until
it's gone altogether. Shutter planks go still and the room stops spinning
around them. Weeks of havoc are ceased in an instant.
Pulling a nearly boneless Sam off the floor, Dean barely notices movement from
the bed. Mrs. Hatch, apparently now in possession of her wits, leans over and
stares at them, still clutching her comforter with stubby, ring-laden fingers.
Adrenaline fading, Dean finally gets a good look at the bedroom. Clothes tossed
over every piece of furniture, cluttered dresser-tops and streaked mirrors
unable to reflect what they see. The den of a different kind of monster, one
consumed by self pity and anger. Proof that jealousy can sometimes consume more
thoroughly than any curse.
"Who the hell are you?" The wife shrieks.
Dean rolls his eyes, but she can't see. "Just the guys who saved your ass," he
snarls. Sam was just attacked and that never leaves Dean feeling particularly
charitable.
The woman's still glaring, but her frantic eyes take in the salt scattered like
hailstones across her mattress and on the carpet. "How did you get in?"
"The hag was kind enough to leave your door open for us!"
"The - I can't..." Mrs. Hatch begins to stutter. In Dean's experience,
sometimes it takes the brain a little bit to catch up with what it has
witnessed, despite the fact that the woman was being crushed to death only
moments ago. There's shock, mixed with horror, and behind it all, the
realization that she's the one who caused this mess in the first place.
"I never meant..." she starts to say, and Dean knows. He knows, but he doesn't
really care.
Dean holds onto Sam, able to feel with his entire body how his brother's
desperate inhales turn steady and slow, and Sam grips at Dean's legs like the
touch can help him recover.
And finally Dean hears Sam's voice, scratchy and sarcastic. "Another satisfied
customer."
"Hey," Dean ignores Mrs. Hatch's sputtering in favor of a deep, relieved sigh.
"Welcome back. How's your throat?"
"'I'm okay."
"Looked pretty comfy with that hag ridin' ya," Dean drawls quietly, right in
Sam's ear. "Got a fetish you want to tell me about?"
"Jesus, Dean." Sam stammers, but Dean hears the amusement. "Shut up."
                                     * * *
There's a perk to dealing with someone like Mrs. Hatch: no awkward "evil
exists" speeches that never end up going the way you want them to. After the
Winchesters killed the boo-hag, her eyes never lost their horrified shine; she
looked terrified even as Sam and Dean were closing the back door behind them,
leaving her alone with her conscience.
Part of Dean is raging when they make it back to the Impala, door slamming too
impatiently in the quiet night. Alfreda Hatch caused the death of four people
and, except for one hell of a night, got away with it. Families were shredded
because one woman flew off the edge. Hasn't she ever heard of a fucking
divorce? But the Winchesters aren't the law, regrettably, and they're not a
vigilante hand to dole out that kind of justice. Four victims on her head, and
Dean's seen enough to know what that kind of weight will do to a person. She
may no longer be haunted by the boo-hag, but the knowledge that she was a
breath away from death, the horror she caused, will dog her steps.
Gunning the car, driving away from the losses and the pain left for others to
pick up, Dean doesn't feel a stitch of remorse for the torment in Alfreda
Hatch's future.
They're alone when they get to the motel. Dean cuts the Impala's engine off, so
the only sounds are the waves from over the dunes and chirping of tree frogs.
His key scrapes in the door's lock, busted metals grinding together before the
tumblers click. All he wants is a steamy shower and dreamless, heavy sleep. Sam
has the same idea, pulling Dean towards the bathroom, shedding clothes as they
stumble.
The light is dim in the shower, the one remaining bathroom bulb flickers and
flares, casting faucets and tiles in barely more than shades of gray. Not much
can penetrate the thick, vinyl curtain; the small space in the tub is intimate.
Sam and Dean wash each other by touch over sight, sweeps of hand and washcloth
that make Sam curl into Dean, yawning under the hot water.
Dean's neck aches, tension pulling his muscles all wrong. He leans on Sam after
handing over the washcloth, and his forehead rests on his brother's
shoulder–Dean remembers when Sam wasn't tall enough for such a gesture–as Sam
soaps him down with lazy strokes.
They share the same thin towel to dry off, leaving the last clean one for Dad.
Nothing's been said since they walked back into the room, everything
telegraphed with looks and fingertips. When they fall into bed, the frog chirps
have given way to bird calls, and a brightening line low on the Eastern horizon
tells of a day almost ready to begin.
Dean looks over and Sam's staring at the ceiling, smile crooking the corner of
his lips. He strikes Dean as happy, no trace of sullen teenager or reluctant
hunter in his body language. Just a simple contentment that Dean wants to be
closer to. Scooting across the mattress, he slides into Sam's space, nose
tucked against his brother's neck. Dean can't muster the energy to move after
that, limbs sinking into the mattress like lead and pinning him for the count.
                                     * * *
Whatever high Sam was riding disappears the next morning when Dad shows up.
Dean wishes he could say something–Dad might be proud of them at best,
disappointed about the secrets at worst–but Sam shoots him a dark look every
time he opens his mouth. So they don't tell Dad. It's easier to let him think
they're bored, waiting for his lead or the inevitable "let's hit the road."
Soon enough, Dad's distracted by another potential hunt down the coast towards
Beaufort. He stays in the room long enough to dole out responsibilities and
research before taking off in his truck.
The work makes Sam tuck in on himself psychologically, quiet and unreachable to
everyone but Dean. His brother wanders between the beach and the room, drifting
away from Dean in the daylight, coming back when Dad has disappeared for the
night. Sam fits himself around Dean, melds them together until Dean doesn't
know–doesn't care–where one Winchester ends and the other takes over.
Dad's on the phone now, freshly showered and practically mainlining coffee. The
room's phone cord is stretched from nightstand to table, and Dad's scribbling
hastily on his journal's blank pages. A greasy diner bag sits crumpled on the
table next to his elbow, two more on the dresser from lunch.
Dean doesn't need to hear Dad's conversation explicitly to get the gist of it.
The long silences while Dad's listening to his contact, followed by a rapid-
fire of questions–they're getting ready to move on. Dean aches to get out of
the room, maybe walk over the dunes and bury his feet in the sand as far down
as they'll go, like the massive trunks of driftwood that sit undisturbed by the
tides. One glance at Sam and he realizes that his brother's ready to bolt too,
spindle-limbs shaking visibly in an attempt to remain calm.
"Got a line on a hunt in the Everglades, boys."
Dean's up as soon as the phone is set in its cradle, blocking Sam's sour
expression from their Dad. "Did Joseph say what it is?"
"Wasn't completely sure, but he had a pretty good idea 'bout it being some kind
of swamp creature." Dad folds his maps into neat squares, latching the flap on
his already-stuffed journal. "A few days, at most. Thing's got a schedule,
apparently. Doesn't attack until a full moon."
With the new moon tonight, at least it gives them some time. "When are we
leaving?"
"Got some things I want to finish up around here, and there are a few incidents
that look like black magic gone wrong up the coast. Suppose we don't need to
move to check that out." Their father rubs a hand over his face, around behind
his neck, and sighs. "A week, maybe more."
Or maybe less.
Dad hoists his already packed bag over one shoulder. "I'm gonna head north, see
what I can dig up on a wanna-be witch doctor."
"Do you want us to go with you?"
As good as Dean is at reading Dad, he gets a look that he can't quite place: a
mix of sadness, tightly-held impatience, and awkwardness. It's as if Dad can't
get out of the room fast enough, and Dean suddenly doesn't want to know what
kind of thoughts make his father so unbalanced.
"No, I can handle it."
Dean sighs, disappointed. Because witch doctors and black magic are always
easier to deal with than this: than Sam's despair and Dean's tenuous hold on
the entire situation. He wants to insist on going, follow Dad like the good son
he hasn't felt like in at least a year. If Sam were more eager, the way he's
been with Dean for the last few weeks....
Dean finds and holds his father's eyes for a moment, until he can't. Dad's gaze
shifts away, out the window, and he doesn't say anything else before he slips
out into the baking afternoon sun.
Sam is a statue perched on the bed, tiny movements of his fingers twisting
together betray his resentment. Dean's had a lot of practice with moments like
these, but he hasn't yet gotten it right. It doesn't mean he can stop trying.
"Maybe we can stop by Disneyworld on the way down."
"I hate Florida."
"Everyone hates Florida," Dean mutters. "But it's better than Ohio."
Sam manages a wry smile - minuscule, but there. "Yeah."
"Sam -"
"I'm going for a walk," his brother mumbles, standing and cutting off whatever
pathetic attempt at condolence Dean might make. Sam's used to these moments
too, but finds his own way to cope.
"Want company?"
Sam shakes his head and shuts the door quietly behind him, just like Dad. And
Dean is left alone, two invisible threads pulling in opposite directions. The
thought sinks and circles in the pit of his stomach, but he knows which string
he'd cut if he ever had to make a choice.

 [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_basket.jpg]
   Gullah women pass the skill of sweetgrass weaving down from generation to
                                  generation.
                                     * * *
There's little to keep him occupied until Sam comes back. Dean does his best to
avoid thinking: cleans his gun until it gleams and the parts slide together
like butter on a warm knife, wanders into the brush and practices throwing
knives at the shingled bark of the Washingtonia palms.
Finally, after the sun goes down in a blaze of orange and gray that Dean can't
dig up the energy to appreciate, Sam wanders back into the room. His brother
seems less agitated, settling on the bed next to Dean with a heavy sigh. Dean
mutes the movie, letting the light from the screen pass over them in flashes
and shadows.
"I talked to Marietta," Sam offers a few minutes later, voice hushed.
"Tell her we smoked her boo-hag?"
"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure she thanked us." His brother faces the screen, blank
eyes not really catching whatever late-night offering Dean had stopped on. "She
said that she'd prayed for the spirits to stop."
"Shows how well that works."
Sam doesn't argue, rolls on his stomach instead. "And she told me something
else."
"Mmm? What's that?"
"That when you make a wish under the new moon, it comes true."
Dean pokes Sam with his elbow, soft smile lit by the television. "Probably just
a silly kids' story."
"Probably."
Sam's face turns, cheek resting comfortably on his forearm. His eyes show other
possibilities though, and Dean starts contemplating idealism. Those thoughts
never lead anywhere productive, so he stems the flow by sliding up to Sam and
nudging him over so his lips are in reach. Gentle to start, relief after being
denied all day. Sam falls into it, pressing against Dean's chest and throwing a
leg over his hip to keep them together. Everything else disappears until Sam is
Dean's only anchor to the world; he wouldn't have it any other way. A supple,
playful mouth parting for Dean's tongue, hands pushing and kneading.
The threadbare t-shirt is all that's keeping Dean from Sam's warm skin, and it
disappears hastily. With little light in the room, his brother's skin looks
even darker, bronzed to perfection from hours under the sub-tropical sun.
Dean's hand appears pale on Sam's shoulder, an arousing contrast like Sam is
something exotic, more beautiful than usual.
Dean rolls Sam beneath him, noses and knees touching. Sam's arm smacks around
for the television remote, a single click plunging the room into darkness. It's
close and claustrophobic with the pitch pressing close, Sam beneath him again.
The need for deep breaths makes Dean pull back, willing his body under control.
He's aware of the desperate edge to his breathing. The feeling takes him back
to when he and Sam started this thing between them, back to when everything
felt so good–always edged with the threat of getting caught–he didn' t know
where to begin.
Lying like this, Dean can wrap his body completely around his brother. Sam's
arms are loose around his neck, tickling fingers drawing nonsensical patterns
along Dean's nape. The fine hairs on Sam's forearms, bleached soft from the
sun, rub on Dean's cheeks. Kisses are laid to Sam's face, his cheekbones and
chin. To Sam's throat, there are languid touches of tongue where neck meets
shoulder. His brother's eyes track him, watching with mild amusement until he
blinks lazily.
"Tired?" Dean leans closer when those eyes reopen.
"Not quite."
There's a Pavlovian trigger in Sam's warm smile. Formerly cute dimples and lips
now stir deep within Dean's gut. He kisses his brother again, eyes locked until
their mouths connect, and then he lets go. Sam is eager, his entire body an
exposed wire that crackles and pulses wherever Dean touches him. The reactions
drive Dean's arousal to its peak, his erection hardening where it is trapped
against Sam's hip.
Any more of his brother's slick mouth and Dean's going to come embarrassingly
fast. He pulls away to yank off his jeans–temper the fire–and Sam kicks off his
shorts. Bared, the feast begins again. Sam's fingers wind through Dean's hair,
guiding and encouraging while Dean tastes the sun soaked into his brother's
skin. From newly freckled shoulders to his lightly muscled chest, down Sam's
ribs to where the skin turns paler. Hidden from the sun's burning gaze, the
soft expanses of Sam's thighs are meant only for Dean's eyes.
Dean's mouth wants to trace that paler skin. He tries to turn Sam over, but his
brother reels him close.
"Wasn't gonna stop, you know."
"I know," Sam breathes. "Just want more."
Sam's mouth is sweet–an opiate kiss that envelops Dean in its warm glow,
movements long and slow. There's the throb of Sam's pulse where their chest lay
pressed together, Dean's own heartbeat slowing to meet it. When Sam's tongue
flicks against his, Dean feels the pleasure fluttering down his spine, all the
way to his toes.
Dean flips Sam onto his stomach before he's distracted; Sam laughs like he
expected the move all along. And this, Dean can appreciate. More than the
sublimity of nature, or the subjective beauty of art. The sight of Sam spread
beneath him–so pliable and very much Dean's–sets him on a possessive binge.
Dean's lips glide across the downy skin on the back of Sam's thighs, untouched
by the sun, and savors his brother's hitching breaths.
The heat in the room–the heat between them–slicks Dean's muscles with sweat. On
Sam it gathers in the valley between his shoulder blades, a salty offering to
Dean's tongue. He doesn't want to hurry this, a rare opportunity for touching
Sam to excess.
"Dean..." Sam whispers, back bowed against Dean's chest.
"I know," is all Dean can say, grinding between Sam's legs where the ache runs
deepest.
And they don't always get this far–Dean never stops discovering ways to get off
with Sam–but he needs it tonight. Sam too, by the way his brother bends and
pleads. So much for not rushing, but Dean's always been helpless when it comes
to Sam's wants.
"Sammy," Dean groans.
"Yeah, got it." Sam stretches over the edge of the bed, head disappearing as he
roots in Dean's bag. "Here," he tosses back a well creased tube, shifting under
Dean. "Just hurry."
Sam sounds more in control, but Dean feels the shiver under Sam's skin when he
brings cool, slick fingers down, easing them into Sam's body as carefully as
the first time. One hand on the bed for balance, and Sam grips Dean's wrist
tightly, teetering on the edge that separates pleasure from pain. But after a
moment, Sam's fingers loosen, and he moans as his body bears back against
Dean's hand.
Dean can't touch himself beyond a quick swipe of lube for prep–just having Sam
around his fingers is enough to set his blood burning. And when he pushes in,
the grounding sensation is the one thing keeping Dean from flying apart. Every
sense is focused on that point of contact, nerves firing in rapid succession
between brain and body to bring back only one response– Sammy.
It always begins the same way. Sam's muscles tense along his spine, flexing and
relaxing in sequence until he takes a deep breath, nodding into the comforter.
Dean's hips move in a gradually increasing swing–a slow invasion. Right now,
Dean can relish the emotions: the affection and trust almost palpable from Sam,
conveying back sheer contentment. It's clear– and free– in a way a Winchester's
life rarely is. These moments might come few and far between–the times when he
and Sam can be two men with nothing between them, nothing around them–but Dean
is so fucking selfish. He knows he can never give them up.
Dean drapes himself over Sam's lean back, their hips pressing together, and
Dean's belly fitting to the curve of his brother's spine.
"Is this what you wished for?"
His brother bears back against him, pulling Dean deep within. Dean feels the
vibrations of Sam's throat when he answers.
"Doesn't work if you tell."
Leaning back, Dean's hands grasp Sam's ass tightly. With his thrusts, his
brother's hips are bouncing on the mattress, down-and-back onto Dean. Sam is up
on his elbows–concave stretch of spine–so he can look back at Dean. The way Sam
is writhing, it must feel as good for him as it does for Dean. He's rutting
down into the comforter with every thrust, no space for Dean to reach between
and palm his erection. As it is, Dean can barely think: Sam's involuntary grip,
the moans, the smell of their sweat. All of it forces Dean into a desperate
rhythm. Sam's the only one with the knowledge, conscious or not, of how to
break Dean down.
It'll never last long enough–bump and grind and holy shit. Dean is fucking Sam
deep–mindless to everything but getting off–and Sam jerks with the force, but
his keens only spur Dean's hips. Higher and higher until the bed frame cracks
against drywall and Dean groans loudly enough to drown the surf.
Dean's neck snaps back, breath stuck in his throat when he comes. Just when
Dean's thrusts ease, the white-hot bolts shifting to tingles and sensitivity,
Sam bites off a moan and comes on the comforter. There's hot, sticky wetness on
Dean's fingers when he reaches under his brother to stroke him through the
aftershocks.
He doesn't even mind the heat when he collapses on Sam's back, up and down
movements with Sam's deep breaths.
But Sam minds, apparently.
"Jeez," his brother groans, pushing for leverage on the bed to flip Dean. "Get
off."
When Dean turns, Sam hoists himself up and scoots towards the pillows, waiting
for Dean to flop down before curling close.
It's inexplicably comfortable, knowing what to expect when his head hits the
pillow. Sam warm against his side, fingers trailing through their mess before
it gets cool and uncomfortable. Then, by rote, Sam gets up for a towel, a spare
pillowcase–whatever's handy. The evidence is cleared away, one less thing to
worry about. Dad doesn't barge in anymore, but it never hurts.
"I don't want to leave," Sam says, back beside him. His words dissolve the
near-sleep Dean's trying to hang onto.
"It'll be okay." A thousand platitudes for this, and Dean's not sure of any of
them. "Just get some sleep."
Silence for a few minutes, the constant thrum of the AC unit bleeding into
Dean's dreams.
"I wish–"
"Don't." Dean holds Sam's wrist. Maybe he can drag his brother into the elusive
dream. "Won't work if you say it out loud, remember?"
And Dean wants Sam's wish–doesn't even need to know what it is–to come true
someday.
"Dean–"
"You're still talking," he grumbles, and then there's not so much as a whisper.
Sam falls asleep first, limbs sprawled away from Dean, as usual.
"Night, Sammy."
Even ideal summers have to end. Everything ends. But Dean's gotten a glimpse of
what life could be like, hunting with Sam. A Sam who is eager, motivated
instead of dragged down by family loyalty and the burden of being a good son.
Teamwork over orders. Seemingly out of reach, but it's an existence he wants to
look forward to. Dean may have to wait, but when the Winchester's crusade is
done and buried, he can stay with Sam, and it will be enough.
Someday.
Before sunrise, Dean makes his wish.
 
FIN.

 [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v11/laiquendi/supernatural/sc_graves.jpg]
                        Unitarian Cemetery - Charleston
End Notes
     Bukrah - white men.
     Gullah - [Language] an English-based creole marked by vocabulary and
     grammatical elements from various African languages. [People]
     Descendants of West African slaves who remained in coastal South
     Carolina and Georgia after slavery was abolished.
     Honor de'grabes - Gullah culture accepts the supernatural but knows
     the importance of honoring the spirits and souls of the dead. They
     believe that spirits, benevolent ones, remain behind to participate
     in the lives of their family, while souls return to God.
     Shaking hands - It is a Gullah belief that shaking hands puts a curse
     on both people. It's not too common now to avoid shaking hands, but
     there are still people who refuse, politely.
     Unitarian Church and Cemetery - pictured multiple times here, and
     referenced in the story. It's a beautiful cemetery, old and
     overgrown, in downtown Charleston. It's also said to be haunted by
     multiple ghosts, the most famous of which is one-time Charleston
     resident Edgar Allan Poe's Annabel Lee. It's tucked away downtown,
     but draws so many tourists and locals alike.
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