
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8697046.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Drama, Season/Series_01
  Collections:
      Sinful_Desire
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-06-15 Words: 6775
****** Sacrament ******
by Hellskitten [archived by sinfuldesire_archivist]
Summary
     Seventh in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest,
     strong language and a snarky psychic.
Notes
     Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally
     archived at Sinful-Desire.org. To preserve the archive, we began
     importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in
     November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted
     announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or
     know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on
     Sinful_Desire_collection_profile.
Sacrament
Title: Sacrament
Author: Hellskitten
Email: crissyd33@yahoo.com
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing:S/D
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:Wincest, strong language and a snarky psychic.
Spoilers:Some from the first eleven eps, but nothing huge.
Disclaimer:The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB.
Note: This is a continuation of my series and picks up right after “Down to
Brass Tacks”.
Soundtrack: “The Road” by Jackson Browne

***

John Winchester shaded his eyes as he stepped out into the bright northern
California afternoon. A blast of synthetically cooled air clung to his back
briefly before the hydraulic doors of the Sacramento Public Library sealed
closed behind him. He squinted up the street toward the parking lot where he’d
left his latest rental car and wondered if he had enough cash on him to pay the
attendant. He shifted the small stack of photocopies tucked under his arm and
reached for his wallet in his back pocket. Just as he opened the billfold to
count his funds, someone plowed right into him on the sunny stairs.

“Oh, god--excuse me, sir.” A handsome young man in his early twenties carrying
a backpack the size of a Buick regarded John nervously. His long floppy blond
hair flitted around his freckled face in the warm west coast breeze. “I wasn’t
paying attention. Did I hurt you?”

John smiled at the kid because he couldn’t help it. He was a near perfect
physical mix of his own two sons. “Not at all. I wasn’t paying attention
either. No harm done.”

The young man smiled back, nodding emphatically. “Okay. Cool. Uh, well--sorry
again. See ya.” He hitched his backpack higher up on his lean shoulder and
proceeded toward the library’s doors.

“See ya,” John said but the kid was already inside. With a melancholy sigh,
John turned his attention back to the contents of his wallet. God, he missed
his sons.

He went down the vast stairs at the front of the library slowly, counting the
cash in his billfold. Thirty-eight bucks. If parking cost more than that, he’d
have to crash right through the gate. Wouldn’t be the first time.

As he stood on the corner waiting for the walk signal, his cell phone rang. He
grabbed the little device out of his pocket and squinted at the readout, but
the caller was listed as ‘unknown’. That never bothered John Winchester much.
Most of the people who had access to his cell number were the sort that
preferred to remain unknown. He flipped the phone open and pressed it to his
ear.

“Hello?” he said and the light changed so he stepped off the curb.

“John?!” a woman’s voice said. She was more than a little bit panicked.

“This is John Winchester. Who’s this?”

Suddenly the woman shrieked in his ear. “GET BACK ON THAT GOD-DAMNED CURB!”

He blinked but didn’t hesitate because he recognized the caller’s voice at the
instant it went so shrill. John turned around as quickly as he could and all
but leapt back up onto the curb. Just as his feet hit the sidewalk, a tiny
black Porsche scorched by on the street in front of the library. The driver
never even touched the brakes.

John gawped after the little car with his heart pounding like gangbusters in
his chest. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“You still there?!”

“I’m here, Missouri.” He swallowed and touched his hand to his heart, a little
concerned by its elevated pace. He could hear its fast hammering in his ears.
“Thank you.”

“Good lord!” Missouri Mosley bellowed on the other end of the phone. “I thought
I was gonna be too late.”

“Just in time,” he said, once again staring in disbelief in the direction the
Porsche had gone. “Was that . . . an accident?”

“Are you insane?” she shrilled. “They’re after you, John! They know what you
and your boys are doing.”

“The boys?” he said, frowning deeply. “Are they in danger?”

“Of course they are!” Missouri yelled. “Did you think you could just traipse
around for twenty odd years interfering with evil’s natural order and not piss
somethin’ off?!!”

“Yeah, well . . . they can all kiss my ass. I didn’t start this.” He looked
from left to right up the street. “Can I cross now?”

Missouri’s breathing was still labored, but he could tell by her tone that the
crisis had passed. “Yes, go ahead.”

He made his way across to the other sidewalk quickly, then headed toward the
parking lot. “Can I ask how you knew that I was about to be run down by a
speeding Porsche?”

She’d caught her breath by then and he heard her sigh in her characteristically
put out manner. “It was a Porsche, huh? Black?”

“Of course.”

Missouri chuckled. “My knowing about it was random, actually. I was looking in
a kitchen drawer for a spare key to my wood shed and I ran across those photos
you sent me at the holidays. The recent ones of your fine, strappin’ lads.”

John knew the photos she meant. He could see them so clearly in his mind, it
was almost like looking right at them.

The photo of Dean was a year old and showed him leaning on that hulking black
Chevy he loved so much. He’d just put the finishing touches on a new paint job
and he was leaning on the hood in battered jeans and an old Megadeth t-shirt,
beaming for John’s camera. His radiant, white-toothed smile was the spitting
image of his mother’s. The sun had been dancing in his hair in that moment and
John remembered teasing him about looking like James Dean. His oldest had been
flattered by that comparison, even though he didn’t say so out loud. John could
tell by that boyish blush that Dean had never grown out of.

The photo of Sam was one John himself had not taken. Dean gave it to him when
he returned from one of his many visits to Stanford. They didn’t know who had
taken the photo, but it was of Sammy sitting in a sun lit library flanked by
the stacks and relaxing next to a wall of windows. He was reclined in a ragged
looking armchair with his long legs crossed on the floor in front of him. An
enormous book lay open on his lap and he wore gray cords, tennis shoes and a
thick beige cable knit sweater with sleeves that almost covered his hands. His
hair was its usual soft chestnut mop and he was smiling in a way John hadn’t
seen since Sam was a child. Every aspect of his body language conveyed
happiness and ease. It was a beautiful picture.

John remembered Dean had hesitated giving it to him because he thought it might
make his father sad. He’d been right. That photograph of his youngest son broke
John Winchester’s heart, but he’d stared at its every detail for almost an
hour.

“He misses you, too,” Missouri said, breaking his reverie. “That’s the first
thing that came through when I picked up that photo today. Your boys feel lost
without you.”

“They have each other,” John said. He made his way across the parking lot to
the red Toyota Camry he’d been driving all week, fumbling for the keys in his
pocket. “It was you who told me they were fine as long as they were together.”

“I did say that,” she said. “I believe they are. But that doesn’t make them
miss their daddy any less.”

He unlocked the Camry and sat down behind the wheel, carefully placing the
photocopies he’d been carrying on the passenger seat. “You could tell I was in
immediate danger from those pictures of my sons?” he asked her.

“It came in a muddle, but my guides were adamant. I didn’t know exactly WHAT we
were dealing with until I had your voice on the line.”

John laughed softly, checking his heart rate again. “You were very nearly a
witness to my demise.”

Missouri took a deep breath on the other end of the line. “It is my solemn
prayer not to be, John Winchester,” she quietly told him. “So, you look after
your reckless self. Your boys might be grown, but they are in no way ready to
bury their father. Take care. You’ve got lots of enemies now and lots left to
do.”

He glanced around at the other cars in the parking lot, wondering if any of
those enemies were near him then.

In her usual prescient way, Missiouri said, “always. They’ve been watching you
and your children since they took Mary. Now that you aggravating do-gooders are
making a real dent in their party plans . . .” She sighed again. “Just be
careful, John. Stay alive. Do the job you’ve been given.”

He nodded gravely, then forced himself to smile before he spoke again. “I’ll do
my best. Thanks for saving my ass again, my friend.”

“Anytime,” she said. “Keep in touch.” And then Missouri hung up.

John let out a deep breath and rested back in the driver’s seat. His whole body
felt weak and heavy, like he hadn’t slept in days. Truth was, he’d been resting
pretty easily since he saw the boys in Idaho. Just seeing them so strong and
healthy settled his mind tremendously. And seeing Sammy had been incredible. He
was still cantankerous and full of piss and vinegar, but he’d grown so much in
every possible way. John’s youngest boy had gone off and turned into a man.
Dean had always been John’s dependable ally, but he also seemed different on
their last meeting. His inner strength had quadrupled simply because he was
with Sam again.

Looking at the quiet phone in his hand, John thought back to one of his most
impactful conversations with his dear friend Missouri Mosley. It had been one
of the earliest times in their mysterious association that she had
inadvertently rescued him from himself.

***

Lawrence, Kansas. Autumn, 2000.


The cloying aroma of Darjeeling tea hovered in the still, sunny air as Missouri
settled into a rocking chair opposite him. John Winchester marveled at the
density of the silence in the room, wondering just how many spirits occupied
the space around them. He could sense them, but only vaguely. Missouri knew
them all by name. They were her guides, her teachers and her eyes to the other
worlds. John had come to respect them greatly, even though he would never have
the privilege of seeing them with his own eyes.

His own eyes, however, were what had brought him to her that afternoon.

He picked up a small silver spoon perched on the china saucer before him and
stirred his fresh tea. His dark eyes tracked the sliver of steam that drifted
out of his cup, watching it linger above the coffee table before it evaporated.
His hostess sat watching him, silent with her hands folded in her ample lap.
John offered her a weary smile.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he said, his voice seeming too loud in the thick
quiet around them.

“Just tell me what’s on your mind, John Winchester.”

“Can’t you tell?” he teased her, lifting his cup to his mouth and inhaling the
sweet scent of the tea.

Missouri Mosley smiled indulgently and her dark eyes twinkled. “As usual,
listening to your thoughts is like listening to a high school marching band
rehearse. Clang, clang, bash, boom, clatter. Dreadful noise.”

He chuckled, sipped his tea, then set the delicate cup down in its saucer.
Vaguely he wondered how old the china might be. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s a lot
goin’ on in there today.”

“Two things are coming to the surface,” she said, shifting in her seat so she
could reach for her own china cup. “Mary is always forward in your mind--the
first thing. When you come to me, I see her face before I see yours.”

John sighed and looked down at his hands. His skin was dry and rough and he
pulled at his fingers thoughtfully, trying to will forward the subject he
wished to discuss with Missouri. He imagined his tumultuous thoughts as a box
of disheveled file folders and he selected one to move to the front. There was
a word written on this folder in his mind and he closed his eyes, reading it
slowly, letter by letter, knowing she would be able to see it.

Incest

Missouri exhaled a deep breath in the quiet room. “Mm,” she mused. “That
again.”

He shook his head, knowing she was about to scold him once more for his natural
parental concerns. “Missouri,” he began. “If they were your children, you’d
feel exactly as I do.”

“John,” she returned, her tone brisk and forthright. “If they were my children,
they’d have neat hair cuts, clean fingernails, pristine manners and their
ornery little butts would be in church every Sunday. But they’re not my
children, they’re yours. And they’re yours for a reason.” She stared at him
with her eyebrows raised like a harried fourth grade math teacher. “After all
this time, don’t you know that there is absolutely nothing you can do about the
course of their relationship? That was never in your hands--not to correct or
dissuade or otherwise. Never. It’s in the hands of their destiny, John.”

He covered his face with his own hands, sighing into the darkness there. His
mind had suddenly gone clear of his usual cacophonous thoughts and he could see
only one thing--one image. With this single idea in his head like a well-lit
painting in a museum, he beseeched her with his gaze.

“Do you see that?” he said.

She stared deep in his eyes, searching, tracking, viewing. “Yes,” she said and
nodded.

“How am I supposed to just . . . let that be?”

“Because you have no choice. That thing you’re showing me now--that’s a force
of nature. Your boys will communicate in that very way for the rest of their
lives. It’s a sacred ritual to them now. Something that’s only theirs. The fact
that you whinge and moan about it makes it glow that much brighter--drives it
down that much deeper between them.”

“God,” he groaned miserably.

“They don’t do it to spite you, silly man,” she went on. “They adore you. Your
boys can’t help it.” She closed her eyes and sat still for a moment, mulling,
concentrating. “Your youngest is drawn to Dean in two very distinct ways. He
sees his brother as both protector and muse. Savior and inspiration. If that
sweet young thing tried his level best, he would never be able to resist the
power of his urge to touch Dean--to connect with him physically. He feeds from
it. His energy derives directly from his brother’s affections.”

“Affections?” John said, his eyebrows arching. “Is that what it looks like to
you? That image in my mind . . . looks like affection?”

Patient but annoyed, Missouri stood up, walked over to the couch and sat down
beside John, taking his hand in both of hers. For a moment, they just looked at
each other--his expression scared and imploring, her’s empathetic and gentle.

“Show me again,” she said. “Now that I’ve got your hand and there won’t be any
interference. Show me what you saw and let me look at it. I’ll tell you
everything I see happening between them--and I don’t mean the obvious things.
That’s all you’re seeing, John. You’re missing the ceremony of it all entirely-
-this much I already know.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Go on, then.
Show me.”

John lowered his head and steadied himself with a big, deep breath.
Concentrating, he closed his eyes and called up the distressing images from the
night before when he’d returned home unexpectedly early.


***

John had moved the boys several times since Mary died. For various stretches
the three of them had taken residence with friends, but when they were on their
own, he tended to stick near Lawrence. Not IN it, just near it. That made his
investigations easier while sparing him the brutal reminders of things he saw
every day with his wife.

When Sam had reached high school age, he’d begged his father to stay stationary
long enough for him to attend one school consistently. John couldn’t guess why
that mattered, as long as he went the whole four years someplace. Dean had
attended six different high schools and was no worse for the wear. But Sammy
had been adamant, and he swore that he absolutely must attend only one school
for the entire four years.

So, John rented a small bottom floor apartment and he and Dean did whatever
worked to make enough money to stay put. Dean even found enough time to have a
steady girlfriend or two. If it weren’t for the dark truths about the
Winchester men, they would have appeared on the surface as an ordinary single-
parent family.

Sam had just turned seventeen and was a few weeks into his senior year. He’d
been playing soccer and getting frighteningly good grades and he was even on
the debate team. That hadn’t surprised John much. His youngest had excelled at
arguing since he’d learned to speak. Sammy had also recently surpassed Dean’s
considerable height by about four inches. He was much slighter, but taller and
Dean was still adjusting to the altered dynamic that created.

The night before, John had gone to see Caleb to inspect a new shipment of 9 mm
handguns. He’d told the boys he’d be back around 8:00, but it turned out the
meeting hadn’t taken that long. As he’d rounded the corner from the car port
just after 7:20, he caught movement through the blinds covering their kitchen
window. The kitchen’s overhead light was turned off, but a lamp from the
adjacent living room cast just enough illumination to create a deep shadow.

John had frozen in his tracks, squinting at the curious shape projected on the
blinds. At first glance, he thought their flat had been invaded by some sort of
multi-limbed hell beast, but then his mind worked the puzzle before his eyes.
He wasn’t seeing a beast with six limbs, but his two very human boys tangled
around each other in the middle of the kitchen. From what he could gather, it
looked like Sammy was sitting on the table and Dean’s hips were wedged between
his brother’s long legs.

John crept through the shrubs that lined the outside of their dumpy building
and stood to the far left of the kitchen window. From there, he could see
around the thin beige blinds and into the dimly lit room beyond. Holding his
breath, he frowned deeply at what he observed.

Dean had found a little restaurant on the corner of their street that made
delicious, inexpensive wraps and the three of them had been living on that menu
for weeks. John could see by the debris on the kitchen table that the boys had
procured dinner from that place again. Sammy was indeed sitting on the table,
with his legs open around Dean’s hips. His bare feet rested against the
cabinets by the frig and his blue flannel button down shirt was open over his
bare torso.

Dean stood between Sam’s legs. His head was bent forward so he could extend his
tongue far enough to lick up a dollop of mayonnaise that had landed on Sam’s
chest, just above the right nipple. Having collected the drop, Dean
straightened and brought the stray mayonnaise to Sammy’s open mouth. Their
tongues connected, stroked each other and then the boys’ mouths were melded
tightly together.

John swallowed, tasting metal and bile, but for whatever reason he was unable
to turn away. Through eyes squinted in disgust he kept watching, dismayed that
he was so close he could hear them clearly through the window.

Sammy moaned into their kiss, sucking greedily at Dean’s full lips. John
cringed when Dean moved just enough to the left to expose what his hand was
busy doing in that space between their meshed bodies. Both of their ragged
jeans were open and Dean had hold of their erections in his right hand, deftly
rubbing them against each other as they kissed. John looked away, his gaze
momentarily tracking down the long line of Sammy’s left leg. His youngest son’s
toes gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and John heard him moan again.

For an instant, he thought he would vomit but then he managed to steady
himself. Why he wanted to look again was a mystery, but look--he did. Sammy had
broken their kiss and he was panting in shallow breaths, his forehead pressed
against Dean’s. John’s oldest son groaned softly then his left hand came up
into Sammy’s hair, fingers carding through the chestnut locks, caressing his
neck and holding on tightly. Their hips pumped against each other and Dean’s
hand worked furiously between them. As they got closer to coming, the table
underneath Sam began to thump with their rhythm, banging loudly on the cheap
linoleum. John could feel the vibration of it through the building’s outer
wall.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried desperately to un-see what was
likely to be forever burned in his mind. The thumping increased, gathering
speed and he heard Dean cry out first, moaning deep in his throat over and over
again. Sammy’s breathier voice followed immediately and in shorter bursts. John
pressed his cheek to the prickly stucco of the outer wall and forced his eyes
open.

Dean’s hips worked in slow pumps up and down and he moaned fiercely as he
ground their erections together. Sammy’s legs had opened even wider and he’d
tilted lewdly forward on the table to give Dean more access to his private
parts. Those green eyes that usually sparkled with ferocious intelligence were
heavy lidded and glassy with lust. To John, who saw his beloved Mary in Sammy’s
eyes every time they looked at each other, that image had been the most
unnerving. He wasn’t the independent, bright boy John was so very proud of--
he’d become a ravenous young male animal writhing under the spell of blatant
carnality. It made John shiver down to his bones.

They were kissing again, gnawing each other’s lips as they literally rode
through their climax. John could see his youngest trembling all over as the
spasms shattered through him. Panting into Dean’s open mouth, Sammy then
started to speak . . . but John couldn’t hear what he said. He actually could
hear the sounds, he just couldn’t understand the words.

The communication reminded him of a conversation he’d overheard once on a
Greyhound in Southern California. He and two fellow marines had been returning
from a training exercise at Camp Pendleton and they were seated in front of a
young couple who appeared to be newlyweds. The girl had been lovely and petite
but too dark for John’s type. Willowy blondes were his downfall. That hadn’t
stopped him from being captivated by the quiet murmurings between the girl and
her beau. John guessed the language was some dialect of Spanish, but it sounded
so much more melodic than the ones he’d heard before. He’d listened to them
whisper to each other for half an hour, lulled by the seductive cadence of the
words.

But his sons weren’t speaking Spanish or any other known language. They were
talking to each other in a vernacular all their own--one only they knew how to
interpret. He watched and listened as they traded tones and breathy mutterings,
brushing noses, softly tasting each other’s lips. He tried not to scream when
he saw Dean slip his slick fingers into Sammy’s mouth. His youngest sucked
those fingers with his eyes closed reverently, as though he were taking
communion from a priest.

He’d stayed outside the window for another ten minutes, watching as his boys
kissed relentlessly through the afterglow of their dark pleasures and then
proceeded to clean up the kitchen. Even during those menial chores, they’d
stopped several times to kiss each other again. Apparently, they thought a
little spray cleaner and a pile of freshly washed dishes would make it so their
father never knew what they got up to on top of that wobbly secondhand table.
John wished he didn’t know. Wished it with all he had.

When he’d finally come into the small apartment about fifteen minutes later,
Sammy was in his room immersed in his homework and Dean was reclined on the
couch with a book in his lap, half watching a football game on television. His
oldest had greeted him with a good-natured, tilted smile and told him there was
a chicken wrap and some potato salad for him in the frig. John had thanked him,
but said he wasn’t all that hungry. For some reason.

***

Missouri pursed her lips, frowning in thought. John sat slumped on her couch,
his head resting on the cushions behind, watching her pensive face closely. He
felt exhausted as though she had somehow drained him with the simple act of
reading his thoughts. Perhaps he’d sapped his own energy trying to push them
away.

“Do you want to know what I saw?” she asked him.

“That’s why I’m here.”

Missouri huffed as she stood up slowly. “Oh, like hell, John. You’re here
because you’re hoping I can give you a potion that will make your sons stop
coveting each other’s privates.” She crossed back to her chair and sat down,
reaching out for her tea cup. For a few minutes, she sat quietly stirring her
silver spoon in her tea.

“I don’t want them to stop showing affection for each other,” John clarified.
“Genuine affection, not . . . whatever it is they’re doing.” He sighed. “I just
want them to stop this revolting sexual contact.”

She shook her head. “That’s the part you’re missin’. Didn’t you tell me that
your boys have been physically close since Sammy was born?”

John nodded. “More so after Mary died. I would find Dean in Sammy’s crib every
morning wrapped around his baby brother for dear life.”

“Right,” she said. “Before Sammy could talk, Dean taught him physical
communication. The first thing your baby son learned was that his big brother’s
touch meant protection, safety.” She sipped her tea, watching him over the edge
of her delicate cup. “That’s exactly what they’re still doing, John--protecting
each other and keeping each other safe.”

He grimaced and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Missouri, you can’t tell me that
what I saw them do is anything more than deviant pornography. They both have
excellent vocabularies. Why can’t they just talk to communicate?”

She narrowed her gaze at him. “Are you saying you don’t ever hug your boys?”

“What?” he said, confused and more than a little insulted. “Of course I do. I
hug ‘em all the time.”

“And why do you do that?”

“Because . . . I love them. That’s not remotely the same thing!”

She took in a breath and went on. “You hug them because you love them and
that’s one of the ways you express that to them. Right?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Of course not,” she said. She set her cup down on the table, resting her
elbows on her knees. “What you didn’t see in the images you shared with me was
the ceremony of what they’re doing, John. You saw an exchange of nothing more
than base, animal desires. What I saw was quite different. Yes, your boys are
engaging in pleasures that could be considered . . . well . . . morally
questionable. However, it’s not really fair to judge them by the same standards
as ordinary people. Your boys are not ordinary. They’re Winchesters.”

John winced from those words, wishing with all his might that he could change
that reality somehow.

“They need special comforts,” Missouri continued. “They’re doing heroic deeds
no one else can do. What I saw wasn’t just them communicating, but them
communing. I saw Dean’s fingers caressing Sammy’s hair. I saw them kiss each
other over and over again--like they’d die if they stopped. I saw Sammy take
his brother’s fingers into his mouth like a sacramental wafer.” She lowered her
voice slightly. “I also saw Sam surrender himself in a way that no one could
unless they felt completely and utterly safe with the person they were with.
That’s trust, John. Life and death trust.”

Missouri settled back in her chair before she continued.

“All those things are a ritual to them now. At some point, they translated the
feelings of safety and protection from something platonic and familial into
something deeply sexual. They are healthy human males, after all. We’re
creatures driven by pleasure. But what you need to understand is that it
doesn’t matter how they find each other. They simply need the other’s touch to
function.”

For a long time, he just sat there turning her words over in his head. Like he
always did when he was deep in thought, John absently spun his wedding ring on
his finger. Missouri let him think, busying herself with pouring them each a
fresh cup of tea. Finally, he looked over at her.

“You’re saying they’re never going to stop this.”

She settled back in her chair again with her cup resting in her lap. “I’m
saying they’ll comfort each other in this way for as long as they need to.
There’s no telling how long that’ll be, John. But, yes. It might be for as much
of forever as they have.” She looked down into her tea and her voice tempered
to a near whisper. “With the lot your family has drawn, that may not be very
long. Try to make peace with it, John. You have no control over it, anyway.”

John Winchester sighed, his heart like concrete in his chest. He looked out at
the street through the sheer curtains over the window in Missouri’s sitting
room and caught a glimpse of a boy on a bicycle weaving happily down the center
of the quiet road. His light brown hair fluttered in the wind and after
establishing control over his ride, he lifted his arms in a wide ‘V’ over his
head. John smiled as the boy disappeared around the corner, even though the
image of that carefree child nearly brought him to tears.

***

Fremont, Nebraska. Present Day.


Dean’s cell phone chirped in his jacket pocket and he fished it out while he
kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t look to see who was calling. “Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo.”

His heart raced for an instant at the sound of his father’s voice and then it
settled into an excited gallop. “Dad. Where are you?”

“I’m close. Are you in Omaha yet?”

“About two hours out.” Dean glanced over at Sam who was napping soundly in the
passenger seat. “Are you gonna meet us?”

“Soon, Dean.”

He frowned but knew better than to push the issue. “So, what’s up?”

“I was just thinking about something . . . from a few years back. Something
Missouri told me.” He paused and Dean heard him swallow. “I couldn’t say it
when I was with you guys, but . . . I just wanted to . . . tell you . . . ”
John Winchester sighed heavily and it sounded frustrated, but Dean couldn’t be
sure. “I just wanted to hear your voice. And to tell you to take care of each
other.”

Dean’s frown smoothed out into the brow of a young boy. His eyes welled up
surprisingly quickly making him blink back tears. “We will, Dad. Always do.”

“I know,” his father said in a voice thick with emotion. “God, it was so good
to see my boys. I swear Sammy got taller.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “I think so, too. The bastard. Listen . . . don’t stay
away too much longer, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, son. But even though I don’t want to tell you what’s going on
with me yet, I needed you to know . . .” He sniffed and Dean heard him struggle
to speak.

Big hot tears tumbled over Dean’s cheeks, dropping in tiny splats on the
leather of his jacket. “We know, Dad. We love you, too.”

Sam shifted next to him, turning slightly in his sleep, but he did not wake up.


John sniffed again and cleared his throat. “Okay, enough of that. Call me when
you’re settled in Omaha.”

“Will do.”

“Talk to you then. Bye.”

The line went silent in his ear and Dean folded the phone closed, dropping it
back into his pocket. He bit his lip, troubled by the unusual level of emotion
in his father’s voice. As an ex-Marine and stalwart hunter of evil things, John
Winchester just wasn’t that guy. Maybe he had been at some point, but Dean
surely couldn’t remember.

Sam shifted again and then sat up suddenly, blinking into the late afternoon
sunshine. He shook his head to clear it, then rubbed at his eyes.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. I was just . . . really out. Which is weird cuz . . .” he glanced over
at his brother behind the wheel. “I never sleep like that unless you’re
touching me.”

“Well, I was right here. And you did touch me a few times when you were
fidgeting around.”

Sam nodded, but still looked perplexed.

Dean glanced at him sidelong. “Nightmares?”

The youngest Winchester squinted, thinking. “There was something kinda . . .
cold . . . but I don’t remember. It was like . . . something that almost
happened.” Shaking his head again, he looked at Dean’s face closely. “Are you
crying?” Sam reached over and brushed away an errant tear on Dean’s chin.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Sorta. Dad called. He was in kind of a mood. Really
emotional. It just . . . got to me.”

“Is he okay?”

“Seems like.”

“He does get like that sometimes,” Sam said softly. “Or he used to.”

“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat and scowled at the road ahead. “He wants us to
call when we get settled in Omaha.”

“Okay.” Sam stretched as best he could in the cramped front seat and then sat
back, looking out the window at the waning day. “I’m gonna need food soon.”

“Me, too,” Dean said. He sniffed and wiped at one last tear that had cooled on
his cheek, but he still felt strangely unsettled inside. He felt like he either
wanted to curl up in a ball and cry for an hour or like he wanted to kill
something in a really brutal way. Those roiling emotions annoyed him and made
him feel out of control. He tried steadying himself with a few deep breaths,
but it didn’t help. He could feel Sam looking at him, too, and that wasn’t
helping, either.

Suddenly, his brother shifted beside him and stretched out on the bench seat.
Sam laid on his back with his knees bent against the passenger door and he
rested his head in Dean’s lap. Without thinking, Dean slipped his right hand up
underneath Sam’s shirt, looking for the warm, satiny skin he loved so much.

“Awfully tough to keep a seatbelt on in that position, Sammy-boy.”

Sam grinned. “Seatbelts are for wimps. Besides . . .” He turned his head so he
could press a kiss into Dean’s belly. “I can’t blow you if I’m strapped down.”

Dean laughed, shaking his head. “You’re dangerous, dude.”

“I thought you were the dangerous one.” Sam turned a little more until he could
get his fingers on Dean’s fly. Once this was accomplished, he wriggled the
zipper down and worked his fingers inside Dean’s boxers.

“Ooooh, man . . .” Dean sighed, lifting his hips as much as he could without
taking his foot off the gas. Sam got hold of his swelling cock and in the next
instant, Dean’s entire body was zinging with pleasure. He knew he would have to
pull over or he’d end up crashing the car into a tree as soon as he came.

As he slowed the Impala and moved them off onto the gravelly shoulder, Sam’s
tongue found the big, sensitive vein running up the back of Dean’s cock. It
played there gently until the car came to a complete stop, then Sam rolled onto
his belly and really went to work. Dean moaned, his fingers knotting in his
brother’s hair, reveling in the softness and heat. He loved playing with
Sammy’s hair. Always had. When they were really young, Dean remembered being
aware of that as one of his first sensual pleasures. His first erection was a
result of nuzzling his little brother’s chestnut curls.

He let his head drop back over the top of the driver’s seat and he closed his
eyes. On the darkness behind his eyelids, he pictured the yummy sensations
Sammy was giving him--he could see his brother’s tongue sliding along and
stroking his cock inside that hot mouth. He could see the blood darkening
Sammy’s pink lips to crimson. He tried not to pump his hips, but found he was
losing that battle. Everything felt so good, so right, so incredibly,
deliciously necessary.

Dean came with a series of shuddering groans, his fingers buried deep in the
curls at Sammy’s nape. The top of his left thigh crammed into the steering
wheel as his hips lurched, but he barely noticed. He heard his little brother
moaning in that telltale way and he glanced over just in time to see Sam stroke
himself through his own orgasm, spilling creamy seed in a thick puddle on the
Impala’s front bench. Dean didn’t care. He knew from plenty of experience that
if they got to it quickly, semen wouldn’t stain the interior.

Sam gently sucked on Dean’s cock until it went flaccid in his mouth, drawing
out the reverberating tingles to the very last moment. Then he sat up in the
passenger seat and opened the glove box, fishing around for some clean napkins.
Dean zipped up as his brother tended to the little mess he’d made on the front
seat. He watched Sammy’s handsome, flushed face as he frowned in concentration,
carefully making sure he got all the liquid off the vinyl. Sam wadded up the
napkin and gave Dean a grin as he tossed it into the back seat.

“Good?” his little brother asked, completely unnecessarily.

“Please,” Dean chuckled. “Did I come?”

“You always come.”

“That’s because it’s always good--sometimes it’s even epic, Sammy.” He gave his
brother a wink. “Shall we find food?”

“Definitely.” Sammy hitched up his zipper then settled back into the passenger
seat, glancing outside at the flat Nebraskan terrain. “What the hell do people
do for fun around here?”

Dean looked over his shoulder at the road behind them, making sure the coast
was clear to pull out. The long, straight highway stretched all the way to the
horizon and there wasn’t another car in sight.

“Who knows?” he said, pulling the Impala out onto the empty interstate again.
“I’m sure they figure something out.”

Just as he got back up to cruising speed, headlights appeared in his rearview--
gaining impossibly fast. Dean watched the lights approach, holding his breath
and in a matter of seconds, the vehicle was right on his tail. Sam looked back,
glaring through the rear window at the other car. It was a late model Porsche
painted in glinting black metallic.

“Where the fuck . . .?” Sam started to say and then the black Porsche rounded
the Impala on the driver’s side.

The windows were deeply tinted so the boys couldn’t see the driver, but whoever
it was pulled right up next to them and matched their speed. For almost half a
mile, the Porsche paced them and then suddenly, its driver gunned the engine
and sped off down the road.

“Okay, that was freakin’ weird.” Frowning angrily, Dean turned to his brother.
Sam was staring after the Porsche and his smooth face had gone pale.

“What?”

It took Sam a moment to answer. He swallowed, still staring ahead down the road
where the Porsche had long since disappeared. “That car . . . was in my dream.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you kidding me? The dream you just had fifteen
minutes ago?”

Sam nodded, turning his wide-eyed gaze to his brother. “It just . . . stopped
and then went right by me . . . Exactly like it just did with us.”

“Could you see the driver in the dream?”

He shook his head. “Did you see him?”

“No.” Dean pursed his lips unhappily. “Super,” he said, stepping hard on the
accelerator. “Now we’ve got a stalker.”

The Impala barreled ahead down the road as the bright day began to slide toward
night.

(more soon)
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