They're in Lincoln County, Nevada, headlights eating up the black of the highway as they race towards the state line, Dean's hands clenched on the wheel, Sam's body spread out on the backseat.
The night has well and truly fallen, the sky painted dark like demon's eyes, and Dean takes a glance into the rearview and looks at the smoke they've left behind; a huge, billowing maelstrom that sits heavy and looming in the distance, sparks all the colours of a sunset lighting up the grey canvas as an echo of the surrounding night. From the eyes of a small town sheriff, it looks like the smoke of a typical, dry summer wildfire, and Dean would believe it too, if it weren't for the rotten tang of sulfur still clinging to the back of his throat, if his little brother wasn't writhing and moaning behind him, ifrit venom burning it's way through his veins.
"You still with me, Sam?" Dean asks, and his voice is everything he wishes is wasn't, shaking and hoarse and so fucking weak he can barely get the words loud enough to be heard, like he's still breathing in ash and cinders rather than dry desert air.
Sam just moans, pulls his head up so the tendons of his neck catch taunt under his skin, like he's trying to break out of his own body. Dean twists around in his seat, keeping one hand on the wheel as he reaches the other awkwardly around the headrest, and clicks his fingers a few ineffectual times in front of Sam's face, because if he's gonna make it out of this alive, Dean needs him at least halfway lucid, and most definitely awake.
"Sam. Sammy. Come on, man, you need to wake up, you gotta stay with me here."
Sam's eyes open at Dean's voice, impossibly wide and fearful, and he looks all of twelve years old as his sweat damp fringe falls over his forehead.
"Hurts, Dean," he rasps, and christ, if Dean thought his voice was bad then it's nothing compared to Sam's. It's like sandpaper, so visceral and raw that Dean can barely stand the sound of it.
"Yeah, I know, I know."
Dean manages to reach his arm out far enough to wipe the stray hair off Sam's face, before returning to the road, settling his hand back on the wheel.
"Just hold on, okay, we'll find ourselves a room, get you cleaned up. And don't you even think about falling asleep back there, you hear me?" Dean swallows, feels his dry throat click. "Don't you dare fucking sleep, Sam..."
And his voice tails off then, fading away into night, because Dean doesn't really know where he was going with that. Where he's going with any of this, for that matter. He's guessing, fighting blind, his head a jumbled mess composed from random snippets of demon lore and trying to remember whether or not his father's journal has anything on fire spirits, Sam's name a constant prayer and litany in the recesses of his mind.
They should be back in their room right now, bickering over who gets first shower and whether they want to order chinese or mexican for dinner. And instead, here they are, shooting down a highway at ninety miles an hour, broken, bruised and held together by sheer force of will.
It should have been an ordinary hunt, Dean thinks, bitterly, as he scans the dark roadside for the glowing neon of a motel sign. An ordinary hunt in an ordinary hick town with an ordinary bitch of a demon waiting for them at the end, and for intents and purposes, it had been. Bobby had called a week before, told them about a string of suspicious wildfires near the Nevada-Utah border, and it hadn't been a bad trip, as they sped away from the remains of a chupacabra in Colorado, Sam bitching as Dean made a point of singing along as loudly as possible to Back in Black, while the Impala roared down long, deserted treks of desert road.
They'd realised it was a demon pretty damn quick; the sulfur strewn left, right, and centre at the starting site of each fire and a handful of boxes buried underneath the nearby crossroads being more than enough to confirm the theory. From there, it should have been an easy ride - wam, bam, thank-you ma'am, and out of the state by morning. They'd has a spot picked out, far enough away from the nearest town that nobody would come running if the demon made a fuss of things, close enough to the road that the Impala's trunk would be well within reach as back-up. They'd had a plan, and it would've of worked, should've of worked, but they hadn't had the full picture, hadn't counted on outside variables, and that's where it all fell down.
The issue here is that Sam, Dean knows, has some sort of twisted hero complex going on, meaning when they eventually summoned the demon - which had showed up holding the hand of a six year old in a white dress and a pair of Mary-Janes - he didn't stop to think before he was lunging forward, impulsively, instinctively, to grab the kid's hand, missing entirely the scarlet glow of her eyes and the bloodstained smile, the twin fireballs that sat waiting in cup of her small palms.
(Why was it always fucking kids, that's what Dean wants to know.)
And it was inevitable, then, unavoidable, that the moment he'd touched her, Sam's back had arched up into a snake tail curve, and his head had thrown itself backward with terrifying force. Dean had watched him fall, stunned and silent, watched him collapse into a crumpled heap like a marionette with slit strings, and it was only by barely avoiding a hit from a rogue fireball that he'd remembered time was still moving, that both demon and ifrit were still breathing, still fighting, and he needed to do something about it.
The kid had thrown another fireball, this one grazing over Sam's hip, and Sam had cried out, writhed in pain as it brushed in a deceivingly soft caress over the skin beneath his jeans. The ifrit girl had laughed, shooting trails of flames from her hands that caught instantly in the dry Nevada brush, aim clumsy and messy like the fire was nothing but a toy. Dean had shouted, screamed his brother's name like a war cry, before shooting the thing down with three well placed consecrated rounds, and throwing Ruby's knife straight for it's heart.
He'd felt sick, as the blade sank into the would-be child's chest almost to the hilt, watching the small body stagger to it's knees, slump down to the ground in a bloom of startling crimson that had glittered blackly in the fading summer light. He'd darted forward to yank the knife back, and realised that the demon had started to advance on him, angered at the loss of it's plaything, and he'd felt the back of his throat burn, his eyes water, inhaling all that thick, acrid smoke as he recited an exorcism at a thousand miles a minute.
There had been a long shriek, the dark funnelling rush of a demon descending, and the familiar thump of a body hitting the ground. So Dean had crawled over to his brother, coughing himself dry and too weak to stand, trying to catch a glimpse that would promise Sam's chest was still rising, still falling. He'd finally reached him what could have hours or minutes later, he didn't know, pressed two grimy fingers against Sam's neck, hot, fierce relief rising in his throat when he'd felt the beat of a pulse. It was too fast, fluttering wildly, but it was enough for Dean, gave him an anchor as he cradled Sam to his chest and pulled them both away from the rising flames pressing at their backs.
He'd bundled Sam into the backseat, his mouth trailing off on a tangent of apologies and hushing and "It'll be alright, Sammy, you'll be alright." Opened the Impala's trunk for the portable gas tank filled with holy water, only to realise with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that there was none.
And that? That's the biggest of Dean's problems right there. He's equal parts angry and terrified - pissed off beyond belief that he could've been so careless, but also filled with a gut-wrenching sense of fear for Sam, because unless he finds a solution, and fast, then they're going to be in some deep, deep shit.
Dean's hunted an ifrit precisely once before, in Montana with his father, three months after Sam left for Stanford. They'd been careful, real careful, took the fucker out with a headshot from behind using a crossbow, and worn heavy duty gloves to pull the corpse into a nearby woodland before dissolving it to ash using holy water. "You can't kill fire with fire, Dean," John had told him, as they'd watched the body melt away, the bones liquidizing with a noise like a snake's hiss and the sour smell of burning rubber thick in the air.
Neither of them had touched it; not even come close, but that doesn't mean Dean doesn't know what the poison's doing to Sam. He can remember the illustrations from Bobby's books like they're imprinted on his brain - woodcuts and sketches and paintings of human beings screaming in agony, their skin charred, black and smoking.
It's not fast, ifrit venom. It's a slow death, and it's a painful one, the poison burning you out from the inside over the course of around two hours, until there's nothing left but dry, brittle bones.
Dean wants someone to tell him what to do. Wants Sam to recite the lore about fire demons word for word like he'd swallowed a goddamn textbook, wants Bobby's gruff voice to give him advice on after-effects, interspersed with gratuitous amounts of cussing and scolding. Wants a decent room with a bath that he can fill with water and bless, wants to get his brother in the tub and keep him there until Sam's skin is cool, until his eyes are focused and his mouth is soft and pink and until Sam makes his chest ache when Dean looks at him for too long.
But there's no-one, there's nothing. There's him, and Sam, and the desert road, and the only thing he can do is drive.
A ragged cough echoes out from the backseat, and Dean turns around again to look at his brother. He's worse, even in ten minutes or so it's been since Dean last checked him over, skin a waxy shade of yellow as he pants and scratches at his arms, the heat coming off him now in palpable waves.
"Hot, Dean..." Sam moans, eyes screwed shut, and Dean knows with sudden, horrifying clarity that there isn't time for him to find a motel.
"S'okay, Sammy," Dean answers thickly, and his voice breaks in the middle of his brother's name, because it's not, it's not okay, none of this is even fucking close to okay. This isn't how the job was supposed to go, this isn't how it's supposed to end, and fuck, all he needs is water.
That's when the headlight's white gold glare catches on a road sign, and Dean's heart jumps into his throat.
Lake Anasazi. 5 miles west.
The Impala squeals out in complaint as Dean makes a sharp right turn, pulling onto an unmade dirt road, and Dean sends her a quick, silent apology for what this will do to her tires, keeping his foot pressed down on the accelerator.
He looks back at Sam again - he can't stop himself, he has to know, has to see with his own eyes that his brother's still holding on. Sam's gone quiet now, making no noise aside from those harsh, panting breaths, but his eyes are still open, and they focus in on Dean's with that unique, Sam-like intensity they've held since Sam was a kid.
"Nearly there, Sam," Dean tells him, even though Sam's fever is probably too high for him to understand what Dean saying anymore.
He clears the tree line, and the road falls away to a shore of silt and sand. The lake sits, soft and still, in front of him, its surface a perfect reflection of the night's starstruck canvas, and Dean think's it would be beautiful, under different circumstances.
He has a small battle with the laces of his boots, tugging and pulling until he's barefoot, and then he opens the glovebox, rummages around until his fingertips brush against the spare rosary that's hidden beneath the box of fake IDs. He grabs it tightly in his hand, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans while he gets out of the car and opens the door to the backseat.
Sam's sweating profusely where he lies across the leather, eyes rolled to the back of his head, his chest shaking from small tremors. He's unconscious, and Dean swears violently, his own chest freezing up.
"Don't you do this to me, little brother," Dean mutters, reaching in and haphazardly pulling off Sam's shoes and socks, before shoving his hands under Sam's armpits and trying to heave him up. Once he's got him out the car, Dean throws one of Sam's arms around the back of his neck, tucks one of his own around Sam's waist, and half carries, half walks them both to the edge of the water.
Sam's body is soft and pliable, unresisting, and Dean feels like he could manipulate him any way he wanted, as if he were made of clay. He's a furnace wrapped around Dean, his skin almost unbearably hot to the touch, and Dean doesn't want to think about how high his temperature must be by now. He can feel the hummingbird wings of Sam's heartbeat thrumming underneath his fingers, and Dean is suddenly acutely, incredibly aware of how close they are, how much of Sam's body is brushing against his.
The heady smell of the lake is strong to Dean's senses, all fresh and clear and sharp, and it gets stronger as Dean walks into the shallows ankle-deep, water still warm from the previous day's sun, Sam propped up against his shoulder.
Keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Sam's waist to stop him falling, Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out the rosary, the prayer beads beneath his fingers giving him comfort in their familiar shape. He breathes in, and refuses the let his voice shake.
"Exorcizo te, creature acquae in nomine deo, patris omnipotentis et in virtute spiritu sancti."
The latin feels strange on Dean's tongue, and his heart's going at a speed to rival Sam's, because what if it didn't work, what if Sam's going to die here and it's all Dean's fault, and Dean can barely breathe, barely think for all the panic clogging his throat.
Trying to keep his breaths even, he wades them in deeper, until the water rises to a few inches above their waists, and then Dean's holding Sam against his back in the bracket of his arms, two fingers pressed hard against his neck in search of a pulse, looking for any sign that Sam's conscious.
Dean feels the way Sam's chest is barely moving, and his mouth goes dry. He wants to speak, to say his brother's name, but he can't, because he doesn't know how to form the words.
And then Sam inhales sharply, gasps as his head throws back against Dean' shoulder under the sky, lips gently parted, and Dean has never seen anything more beautiful in his life than this - Sam, breathing in the night with his wet skin shining under the moon, chest heaving as his eyes finally open.
"Dean?" he says, his voice sleep-soft and confused, and it's easy, so easy, to turn Sam around, pull him in close and breathe him in, feel his pulse move in a steady, calming rhythm beneath his fingertips, such a juxtaposition to the frenzy of his heartbeat during the fever. A dam somewhere has broken, and relief is flooding over him, making him feel warm and lightheaded, punch-drunk on the realization that Sam is alive. Sam's not going to die.
They're close together in the water, and Dean can tell that Sam is tired as hell from the way he leans most of his weight into Dean, sags against him so his head tucks just so under Dean's chin. Dean let's him, and Sam just melts forward against his chest, face tucked against the nape of Dean's neck, and Dean feels his heart fill, because Sam's okay, Sam's with him and isn't leaving.
Dean feels like he'd dreaming. It doesn't seem real that the solution was so simple - he feels like he should be drawing symbols in his own blood or some other kind of painful, complicated ritual, but instead Sam is alive and well and here, and all it required was a blessing and some water.
And with that thought, Dean ducks his head down, and captures Sam's mouth with his own.
It's soft, closed mouthed and fleeting, lasting for a few, perfect seconds, before Dean realises what he's doing and oh shit, shit, that's his brother, that's Sam, he just kissed Sam, and Dean has to get out of here right the fuck now.
He wrenches himself back, stumbling slightly in the water as he tugs his arms off of his brother, who's looking at Dean like he's never seen him before, one hand raised as his fingers brush against his mouth.
Dean swallows down bile in his throat, refusing to look at Sam's eyes and see the disgust there for what he just did. He's about to run, ready to sprint back to the shore and his car and as far away from Sam as he can get, but Sam's reaching for him, that strange look still on his face, and suddenly he's cupping Dean's face in his palms.
"Dean," he says desperately, as Dean tries to pull out of his grasp, to pull away from Sam, but Sam won't let him go, and after a few seconds, Dean stops struggling, and they look at each other.
"Dean," Sam repeats, voice soft and tinged with pleading, and that one word, the cadence in the way it falls from Sam's lips, tells Dean everything he needs to know.
"You'd better not be fucking with me right now, Sam," Dean tells him quietly.
Sam strokes shaking thumbs down Dean's cheekbones, and shakes his head, saying, "I'm not, Dean, I swear I'm not, I just...I didn't..."
Dean's expected an explanation or something, so his breath is shocked out of him when Sam leans in and slots their mouths together again, like he couldn't help it, like he had to, before pulling back and leaning his forehead against Dean.
"It's you. Fuck, it's always been you."
And Sam's hands are still quivering over his cheeks and jaw, and Dean can feel his breath skating across his face as he turns his head to suck a bruise into the skin under Sam's jaw, and Dean didn't know it could feel like this, he had no idea.
When Sam was sixteen and he was nineteen, one long summer spent on the Mississippi delta, Dean came to terms with the knowledge that he was in love with his brother. He has resigned himself to this fact. And yet here he is, eight years later, and it turns out Sam's been feeling the same way the whole damn time.
"Sammy," Dean breathes, and remembers that he can kiss Sam now, that he's allowed to kiss him. So he does, the way he's thought about for years, moaning when Sam bites at his mouth, wraps his arms around Dean's neck to pull them even closer. Dean coaxes Sam's mouth open and slips his tongue inside, all slick, wet heat, and god, fucking addictive is what Sam is, because Dean never wants this to end. He slips hands into the back pockets of Sam's soaked jeans to tug him flush against Dean, and they're both half-hard, even in the cool of the water.
"When you wouldn't wake up... thought I was gonna lose you," Dean pants when they finally break apart, and he feels like he could tell Sam anything in this moment, all secrets between them laid bare, the only witnesses being themselves and the moon and the water. Sam shakes his head, brushes their noses together, and his mouth is inches away from Dean's when he replies.
"M'not going anywhere."
Dean can count every one of Sam's eyelashes, they're so damn close, and his chest fills with the terrifying immensity of how much love he has for his brother. They're silent for a few minutes, just looking, drinking each other in, their breathing beginning to slow. Dean's still somewhat hard, thinks Sam is too, but that's not for here, not now. Dean wants to savour Sam, wants to kiss him some more and learn the lines of Sam's body, wants to know where to touch him to make his breath hitch, but he also wants a shower, someplace with food and a bed, and he knows which option Sam needs more right now.
"Cold," Sam says, some inordinate measurement of time later, pouting at Dean like the whiny-ass little brother he is, and Dean slips easily back into their usual banter.
"Sorry, Samantha, I'll make sure to preheat the lake for you next time."
Sam shakes his head, smiling slightly, and Dean resists the urge to trip him up in the water, despite the fact it's practically in his human rights to do so as an older brother, because Sam's still shaky on his feet as he stumbles back to shore. Instead he just sighs, comes forward and wraps an arm around Sam's waist to keep him upright, before walking towards the familiar black shape of his car.
And later, when they're sitting together on the Impala's hood, old blankets wrapped around their damp forms as they swap a bottle of Jack back and forth, Sam turns his head to kiss Dean with a mouth that tastes like cinnamon and whiskey, and Dean kisses him right back, just because he can.
On the edge of the horizon, morning starts to break.
nepenthe - noun
The fabled cure for all ills, mentioned in ancient Greek mythology. Figuratively translated as "that which chases away sorrow."