AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Hi everyone. I apologize for the length of time it's taken me to post this update. It's been quite a challenge to write. If you have already read the prologue, I would ask that you read it again as I posted it prematurely and these first two scenes really need to be read consecutively to be fully appreciated. Also, please read "The Road So Far" as it contains important reminders that are relevant to this episode. Many thanks.
WARNING: Scene 1 contains a brief consent issue.
PROLOGUE:
THE ROAD SO FAR:
After leading a hunting raid that results in the death of his cousin, Sam Campbell is estranged from his hunter family and tries to escape the life. He attempts to start afresh in a new town and is employed as a mechanic by John Winchester, but a death vision of John's wife and son under horribly familiar circumstances draws him back into the world of the supernatural. When the yellow eyed demon possesses John and murders Amanda, Sam carries their son Dean from their burning home. Now Dean has abandoned his old life as a college student and would be musician, and Sam is teaching him about hunting as they pursue their quest to find and rescue John, and avenge the deaths of their mothers. Tensions have been mounting as the friends struggle with their personal fears and self doubts, and as they adjust to each other's idiosyncrasies. Sam has been concealing secrets about his past and about his psychic abilities. Dean has recently discovered that Sam is attracted to him and is beginning to examine his own feelings
NOW
In the heartland
It was the slowest day of the year: not a customer all afternoon until four o'clock when a tall, swarthy, solidly built man walked into the empty bar and rolled up to the counter. Unloading a duffel bag from his shoulders and resting it on the stool beside him he locked the bar-keeper with dark, intense eyes and a broad smile.
"Give me a shot of Jack, friend," he said. "And take one yourself. I'm celebrating."
"Thank you, sir, and congratulations," the barman replied as he poured the drinks. "May I ask what the occasion is?"
The man picked up his shot and knocked it back whole, setting the empty glass back on the bar with a satisfied sigh. "Do you have children?" he asked.
"Two sons and a daughter," the barman acknowledged.
"Good. Then you'll know how it is – how you bring them into the world, you raise them, try to protect them and guide them . . . then a day comes when you can see the progress they've made, and you see them taking their first steps toward their destiny, and if you know you've had a hand in that, you'll know what a proud moment it is for a father."
The barman nodded his understanding. "Sure is," he agreed.
The dark man pushed his glass across the bar. "Hit me again," he said, and the barman refilled the glass. "Do you believe in destiny?" he asked.
"Can't say I've thought about it, sir."
"Oh, I'm a great believer. I believe life is like a story – like the great stories that are told over and over again, and everyone tells them a different way, but some parts are fixed. The hero always meets the temptress; partnerships are always tested; the big choices are made. That's destiny. The story's always the same. It's just the how and the why that changes." He leaned forward and grinned, and suddenly his eyes glowed yellow. "The Devil's in the detail."
The barman gasped and stumbled backwards but the man's hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him across the bar and pressing their faces close together.
"Not so fast, friend. I have to make a call to my daughter."
"There – there's a p – payphone next to the – "
The thing with the yellow eyes raised its other hand and the barman saw the glint of the knife there before it sliced cold across his throat.
"It's not that kind of call." The demon lifted the chalice from his duffel bag and held it under the barman's head as he bled out.
Azazel grinned. "I can feel you in there, John, scratching, fighting. Gotta say I'm impressed. Most people would have given up by now, but not you. You never stop. You never give in. You just gotta keep fighting the good fight. That's what I like about you, John." The demon stirred a finger in the hot, crimson fluid. "It's in your blood."
SCENE 1:
Indiana, 2nd week in April
Dean lifted the towel from his arm and grimaced at the red stain soaking the fabric. The bleeding looked like it was starting to slow. "I had it covered," he growled.
"Dean, it stabbed you with your own knife," Sam observed with his characteristic flare for redundancy. Dean knew that. He was there.
"It's just a scratch," Dean insisted. "I'm not made of friggin' glass, Sam. You were so busy worrying about me, one of them nearly got away."
"Well. It didn't."
No, it didn't. Because, after beheading Ma Ghoul, Superman had flown two quick circuits of the world before running down and dispatching fleeing Pa, pausing en route to rescue Dean from the clutches of Ghoul Jr. (whom Dean had totally been about to decapitate, bloody arm notwithstanding.)
"You gotta let me fight my own battles, Sam. I'm supposed to be learning, preparing to fight the demon."
"That doesn't mean running in half cocked like you've got a death wish. Are you trying to get yourself killed? What are you trying to prove?"
There was a pause. That was a question Dean didn't want to examine too closely. "What was I supposed to do? Run?" he demanded.
Sam shot him an exasperated glance. "That is an option sometimes, Dean. Sometimes it's the best option."
"It's all we ever do," Dean growled.
"What?" Sam full on stared at Dean and the car rocked as one wheel swerved off the road and into the dirt.
"Road!" Dean barked.
Sam hurriedly steered back on course and mumbled an apology then there was silence for a while. Dean examined his wound again and Sam glanced worriedly at him. "Keep the pressure on that," he snapped.
Friggin' mother hen. "I'm fine, Sam. Watch the friggin' road!"
"It's deep, Dean. It needs stitches."
"Fine, so find the nearest hospital and we'll have them hem me up."
The silence that greeted the comment was ominous. Oh, crap.
"Sam?" Dean prompted.
"I'm looking for a motel."
"You're gonna do it yourself?"
"I know what I'm doing, Dean."
"Why can't we just go to the ER like regular people?"
"We're not regular people."
Dean scowled and grunted. Again with the redundancy.
"Hospitals ask questions, Dean. It's best to avoid them where possible."
Dean grunted a grudging acknowledgement and directed his gaze out of the window, into the darkness. It was a slippery word, "we". Sometimes Sam used it to mean the two of them: the dynamic duo, Batman and Robin. Other times he used it to mean hunters in general. On a good day Dean might kid himself he fell into both categories, but it seemed like every time he was in peril he got relegated to the status of protected charge. Didn't the field hours he'd put in count for anything? How many monsters had to burn, stab, sling, squeeze, and claw him before he qualified as one of the ranks instead of just a victim? Not like he was asking to be a general here, just a foot soldier would do.
"Tell me, Sam, would you still be running from the demon if you didn't have me in tow?"
"What?"
"Are you really afraid of it? Or are you just afraid for me?"
"Dean, we don't know where the demon is and, even if we did, we don't know how to fight it. We just don't have enough information."
"And we're not getting any new information! After all this time, Sam, I gotta wonder, how hard are we trying?"
"All right, look, I know how you feel, Dean – "
"Do you?"
Sam turned and stared. He seemed upset by Dean's tone but Dean continued to press home his point.
"You don't remember your mother. You never knew your father. It's been six months since my mom died, and the demon's got Dad and he's doing who knows what with him. How the hell would you know how I feel?"
When Sam didn't have an answer Dean directed his gaze to the road ahead. His attention wasn't really focused until he realized there was a sharp bend coming and Sam wasn't turning.
"Mind the bend, Sam . . . Sam! BEND!"
As the car careened off the road Dean instinctively grabbed the wheel. Then they were both fighting for control, which wasn't helping at all, but just as a crash seemed inevitable Sam let go of the wheel and let Dean steer them back onto the road. Once they were back on the straight he put his hands back on the wheel but didn't attempt to steer at first.
"I've got it, Dean," he breathed. Then, again, when Dean still didn't let go, "Dean, I've got it."
"O.K." Dean released the wheel and leaned back. His arm was throbbing and when he checked he found it was oozing blood again. Sam glanced at him as he retrieved the towel and pressed it against the wound.
"Are you O.K?" he demanded.
"Never mind me, I'm fine," Dean growled. "Just concentrate on getting us where we're supposed to be going."
As they entered the motel room Dean paused by the ornamental partition.
"Oh, look! We got birdies this week," he remarked scathingly.
"What?" Sam dropped his backpack on the bed and pulled out his medical pack then he went round the room turning on all the lights to give himself as much light to work by as possible.
"Last week it was stars," Dean elaborated. "The week before that it was squares and circles."
"Really." Sam filled the kettle and started it boiling while he unrolled the suture kit.
"Do you ever get the feeling it's the same motel every time, and they're just changing the drapes, the bedspreads and . . . and this?" Dean gave the partition an irritable smack.
Sam leaned against the kitchenette for a few moments, trying to steady himself. The fight, Dean getting hurt, the argument, the near accident, were all still throbbing in his veins. He kept waiting for the adrenalin spike to level out, but it wasn't happening. And Dean wasn't helping. Sam knew it wasn't rational to be angry with him. Dean was keyed up, too, and he was wounded; he was bound to be upset and out of temper.
Sam wasn't feeling very rational at the moment.
Behind him he heard a click and then the radio came on, too loud as usual, and some excessively cheery pop number invaded the space, kept going on about having fun on some boulevard or something. Sam had mixed feelings about it; it grated against his nerves, but it also obliterated his thoughts, so there was a trade off. And if there was a chance it would improve Dean's mood it was worth it. Dean could be aggravating enough when he was in a good mood, but when he was depressed he was . . . well, it was just kind of unbearable.
Dean leaned against the counter hugging the bottle of Jack Daniels they'd picked up at the liquor mart and trying to break the seal.
"So this is what I have to do to get you to buy some booze without bitching, is it? Hey!"
Sam pulled the bottle out of Dean's hand. "It's for after, Dean. I need you to pay attention while I'm doing this. You may have to do it for me some time."
For a moment Dean's face took on that wide eyed, little boy lost expression before it was hurriedly replaced with the stock grin. "Nah. Not gonna happen. Haven't you noticed? I'm the monster magnet around here. Like a walking lightning rod." All the same he watched as Sam sterilized the needles and tweezers.
Trouble was it was kind of true; somehow it was always Dean who seemed to bear the brunt of the physical attacks. He was the one who kept getting hurt. True, part of that was his own fault . . .
"If you stayed back when I tell you to – "
Dean made a rude noise and rolled his eyes. "Don't start again, Sam. I told you, I can take care of myself."
Did Dean ever notice his own contradictions? Sam wondered. He was like Gwen that way: so eager to prove he wasn't afraid, that he could hold his own, he was liable to get himself . . . Didn't he understand? Everyone's afraid.
Dean's recklessness was only half the story, though. The other half . . . well, you could call it bad luck that always seemed to place Dean in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . but Sam couldn't bring himself to accept that. It was the easy option to blame chance, or blame fate, or even to blame Dean himself. It was always easier to turn the anger outward than it was to direct it where it truly belonged.
"Get your shirt off, Dean," Sam snapped, then regretted it the moment he said it. There had to have been a better way to phrase that.
Dean raised his eyebrows and his lips twisted into a lazy grin that Sam wanted to smack off of his face. "I love it when you get all masterful like that, Sam."
Sam tried not to look as Dean eased himself out of the shirt. He knew Dean wouldn't miss the opportunity to make a show out of it. After Texas all the smart talk had stopped for a while, and Sam had started to think Dean was actually going to let the matter drop. Then it began again, just the odd pointed remark at first, but soon it escalated until it seemed like every other sentence out of Dean's mouth was laced with innuendo.
Dean was wriggling his shoulders, flexing his muscles and generally trying to be as provocative as possible, in spite of his injury. Sam tried not to notice, or pretended he didn't, but he couldn't help it. And he knew Dean knew he couldn't help it. And he couldn't stop the heat growing in his cheeks either, which just made it worse.
Sam's greatest fear when Dean had first found out about his feelings was that it would make Dean awkward and uncomfortable around him. He should have known better. Instead it appeared that Dean enjoyed having the power to make Sam as uncomfortable and embarrassed as he possibly could.
As Dean finally finished peeling off his shirt Sam drew a chair next to the sink. Dean took the hint and sat on it, still grinning. He leaned back and allowed his knees to fall open, displaying himself invitingly. "Still, silver lining, eh, Sam? You like doing the whole 'nursing me back to health' thing, don't you?" and he punctuated the comment with a wink.
"Stop being a jerk, Dean," Sam breathed, trying to keep his voice even. He wasn't supposed to get mad, he got that now. There wasn't any malice behind Dean's jibes; he was just teasing Sam, that's all. Still, Sam had to wonder how Dean would like it if a woman teased him that way.
Dean nudged Sam's leg with his knee. "Ah, come on, Sammy, smile," he cooed. "Up side: there are three less ghouls walking the earth tonight, and we're still here. That's something to celebrate, isn't it?"
Sam tried to find a smile of response. He still wasn't used to the way the barometer of Dean's moods could swing so quickly. His own ill humors took longer to evaporate.
Sam poured antiseptic onto the cotton wadding, lifted Dean's arm and started to clean the wound. Dean hissed, yelled "YOW!" then, out of nowhere, he snapped a punch into Sam's side that was so hard it felt like he'd damn near ruptured something. Sam doubled over and just barely restrained himself from retaliating by about a hair's breath. It was probably only the fact that Dean looked just as surprised as he did that held him back.
"What the fuck, Dean?"
"Sorry, Sam. Are you O.K?"
Sam glared and straightened up slowly.
"It stung," Dean said weakly, by way of explanation.
"It's antiseptic. Of course it's gonna sting," Sam responded, still struggling to hold his temper in check. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the receiving end of Dean's impulse to lash out when he was hurt, regardless of whether it was justified or not. Back in Castor's Passage Dean had damn near broken Sam's toe. The punch he'd thrown later . . . well, that'd had some justification. "Just fucking keep your hands to yourself, Dean," Sam hissed. "I'm trying to help you here."
"Right." Dean shrugged awkwardly and pointedly wrapped his free hand round the seat of the chair. "Sorry," he repeated. Then after a moment he offered a tentative grin and added "guess that means I've stopped telegraphing my punches, though, right?"
Sam had to smile a little at that. "I guess so," he agreed, and allowed Dean his moment of self satisfaction.
When he'd finished cleaning the wound Sam threaded a needle, then he opened a small bottle and handed it to Dean.
"What's this?" Dean asked then winced as he sniffed at the contents and his eyes started watering. "Smelling salts? Are you kidding me?"
"Like I said, you need to be focused while I'm doing this. I need you to watch what I'm doing."
Dean tried to push the bottle back at Sam. "I'll be fine," he insisted. "I crossed the Rubicon after that red paint job in Texas. I'm over it now."
That might have been true, and if it was Sam supposed it was a good thing, but he had mixed feelings about it. It felt like the start of something he'd wanted to protect Dean from. He ignored the proffered bottle. "Just in case," he said.
"I'm fine," Dean growled, but he kept the bottle.
Sam knelt down between Dean's thighs and as he pinched the sides of the wound together Dean growled again and muttered "son of a bitch" under his breath.
Sam drew in a slow, deep breath before he started the procedure. For a moment he wondered if he was going to need the salts himself. He was suddenly too aware of his proximity to Dean and he felt momentarily overwhelmed by the strange energy he imagined he felt whenever they got too close to each other. He knew that the aura of light he saw around Dean was kind of in his imagination, too; a chemically induced illusion he'd read about some place. It was ironic, though, considering how he was telling Dean he had to stay focused. Sam took another breath and prepared to take his own advice, ignoring the inappropriate stirrings of the beast below.
Dean watched with gritted teeth as Sam carefully picked up the flesh either side of the wound with the needle. Would he really wind up having to sew up Sam one of these days? Hell, he didn't want to have to do that. But he could see the edge of a scar on Sam's shoulder that demonstrated that, Dean's assertions to the contrary, Sam wasn't invulnerable to injury. He scratched his nose. Because it was itching. Not because he needed the smelling salts. The bottle just happened to be in the same hand is all.
To give Sam his due he did know what he was doing. He executed the first couple of stitches slowly and carefully so Dean could see his method, but then he picked up his rhythm. He was neat and he was quick (which, good), evidence of how practiced he was in the task . . . and Dean wondered if Sam had ever had a day of fun in his whole life . . .
Dean had heard that song a thousand times if he'd heard it once, but this time it was really speaking to him. What was the average life expectancy of a hunter, he wondered? His attention wandered from Sam's hands to his face. He looked young tonight. Since Sam had begun growing his hair it had started to soften his features. It was still short but it was thickening, and he was beginning to get a bit of a fringe. It gave him a boyish look, and seemed to make his beauty spot and his cupid's bow lips more pronounced. Mind you, Dean could kind of see now why Sam had preferred to keep it short. It tended to be a little wild and unruly, and rebel tufts and curls stuck out at odd angles. Dean thought it was cute, but he knew how Sam was about anything he couldn't control.
"You've got some little kiss curls growing there, Sammy," Dean remarked, and he reached out and toyed with the ringlets at the back of Sam's neck.
"Quit it, Dean!" Sam snapped, smacking Dean's hand away, with more than necessary force in Dean's opinion but maybe he was still mad about that punch.(Hell, Dean was surprised it had landed, let alone done any damage).
Sam tied off and cut the suture, and dabbed off the remaining blood, then he started on bandaging.
It had been a fuck of a long time since Dean had last had any fun. For a long time after Mom died and Dad . . . well, he just hadn't felt like it. And now . . . well, the fun parts of his body seemed to be working again, but there wasn't a lot of free time, and the lifestyle didn't lend itself to making new relationships. Sure Dean knew he could pick up one night stands whenever he wanted to, but tomcatting around didn't have the appeal it had when he was younger, before he met Penny . . . Not that he was about to choose celibacy as an option if that was the only alternative . . . but maybe it wasn't.
O.K. so Dean was a bit surprised . . . really surprised to find himself thinking about this, but now that he was thinking about it . . . quite a lot, lately, actually . . . you know what? It didn't suck. 'Cause Sam really was kind of beautiful. His skin kind of glowed with it. He had those sparkling hazel eyes going for him, with the feather soft lashes and, man, that body! Sam was this weird mix of something delicate and almost fragile, and yet hard and lethal at the same time. It was weird because, what Dean had always enjoyed about women was the softness and the curves but, yeah, he was curious to find out what that firm muscled flesh would feel like under his hands. And that wasn't all he was curious about. He really wanted to know what it would be like to see Sam let go. Lately Dean's morning shower routine had included visions of Sam quivering under his touch, writhing, whimpering, gasping. Dean grinned. Oh, yeah. He was pretty sure he could show Sam the meaning of fun given half a chance. And since they had to spend all this time together in cheap motels anyway, they might as well make it work for them. Come on. Friends with benefits, Dude!
But Sam was so fricking hard to read. There was something there, Dean was sure. Pretty sure, anyway. Since Texas he'd been watching for it, and he'd caught Sam checking him out a couple of times. Well, looking at him, anyway. Not quite the full on "get in the back seat now" look from before but, still, something. But when Dean flirted with him all Sam did was blush like a schoolgirl and get irritable. Not exactly the green light Dean was looking for. That was all Dean needed: just one green light, and he'd take it from there. No problem.
Sam looked up, caught Dean watching him and frowned. "What?" he demanded.
"Just admiring your handiwork, Sam. Are you always as good with your hands?" C'mon, Sam. Green light. Green light. Green light.
Crap. Bitchface.
Maybe Sam just wasn't getting it, but just how fucking obvious did Dean need to be?
Sam tied off the bandage and stood up. "We're done here," he announced.
Crap. Maybe Dean was just getting it all wrong, somehow.
Sam found a tumbler in a cupboard, splashed some whiskey into it and handed it to Dean, then he was hunting through his Dr Quinn pack again and he pulled out a small ominous looking bottle.
"Thought you said we were done," Dean complained, eyeing the bottle uneasily.
"Painkiller," Sam explained, proffering the bottle toward Dean's glass.
"What's wrong with ibuprofen?"
"You want the brand product or the one that works?"
Dean shrugged and held out his glass. He might give Sam crap about his home remedies but, truth is, they were usually effective. He let Sam tip a couple of drops into the glass then downed the contents. Warm glow from the Jack Daniels as it burned through his tubes: great. Herby aftertaste: nasty. He held out his glass for a refill.
"Now give me one you haven't douched up. And why don't you join me? You could stand to relax once in a while, Sam." You could stand to let me help you with that.
Sam gazed ruminatively at the bottle. "Are we going out to eat? Or ordering in?"
"Oh, order in. I'm pooped, aren't you?"
Sam nodded, shrugged and got out another tumbler, poured himself a generous measure. Good. Right direction. Not that Dean wanted Sam drunk, but a little less tightly wound couldn't hurt.
Dean stood up and made for the bathroom. "You wanna order a pizza while I get cleaned up, Sam?"
"Do you wanna look at the menu?"
"Nah, just order my usual."
Sam clicked his tongue. "You ever think your diet might benefit from more variety, Dean?"
Well, Dean couldn't let that pass. "Oh, I might surprise you some time, Sam," he replied with a wink.
A slow frown settled on Sam's face. Not so much irritated this time, more puzzled. Maybe now he was starting to get it. Dean grinned and ducked into the bathroom.
The bandage made showering awkward so he just stripped down to his boxers and had a quick wash up then rinsed his hair under the shower. It put a crimp in his mood when he picked up his hair mousse and it farted into his hand.
"Crap," he muttered, letting out a deep sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. If Sam thought buying brand shampoo was an unwarranted luxury, he was likely to be even less sympathetic to Dean's styling mousse needs. Still, Dean finished off drying and styling his hair with the little he could coax out of the end of the bottle then he opened the bathroom door and struck a pose in the doorway.
"O.K. so who do I have to sleep with around here to get some more styling mousse?" he asked, rounding off the comment with a catwalk pout.
Sam looked round but immediately looked away again, then it was back to girly blushing, but the blush was a little deeper than usual.
"Is everything about sex with you, Dean?"
He was trying to sound casual but Dean thought his voice had a suspect quaver in it. Dean sauntered a little closer to him.
"Everything's about sex period, Sam. Don't tell me with all that reading you do, you've never read Freud."
Sam cleared his throat. "I'm more of a Jungian," he replied, still not meeting Dean's gaze.
Dean laughed. Figured.
"Have you finished with the bathroom?" Sam asked then dodged round Dean and through the door without waiting for an answer.
Dean huffed, exasperated. Weren't men supposed to be easier than women? 'Cause he'd never had any trouble telling whether a woman was interested or not. Picking up his neglected tumbler he dashed off the remainder of the Jack, turned off the radio and picked up the TV remote instead. Stretching himself out on the bed he surfed the channels, various snatches of dialogue competing with the sound of the shower in the next room. A few minutes after the shower was turned off there was a knock at the door. Dean turned off the TV.
"Sam, can you get that?" he called out.
Sam appeared in the bathroom doorway looking damp and steamy and clad just in his night joggers. Nice.
"Why can't you – " He took one look at Dean's continued state of undress, scratched at the back his neck and started looking for his wallet.
The pizza guy could still see Dean, even from the door. He glanced from Sam to Dean and smirked, clearly drawing conclusions about their attire that Dean hoped would turn out to be accurate.
As Sam turned from the door his cheeks were so pink it was adorable.
"You know, Sam, I do believe he thought we were misbehaving," Dean teased.
"Well, it's hardly surprising with you sitting around half naked," Sam retorted.
Dean stood up and planted himself between Sam and the table, leaning on the edge of it. "No, Sam, you're half naked. I'm at least . . ." he pursed his lips ". . . eighty per cent naked."
Sam tried to dodge round Dean to get to the table but Dean swiveled so, once again, he was right in front of him.
"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam's voice came out hoarse.
There was a quaver of nervousness in Dean's, too, as he responded. "What do you think I'm doing, Sam?"
"I don't know . . . I don't know . . . what . . .? . . ." There was an edge of something like panic in Sam's voice and he was clinging to the pizza box like it was a lifebuoy or something, and staring at the lid like he might find instructions written on it.
Dean stood up, took the box out of Sam's hands and dropped it on the table behind him. Fuck, he hoped he was right about this because, if he wasn't, he was about to get royally smacked. Or, worse, he was gonna look really, really fucking stupid.
He rested a tentative hand on Sam's hip, leaned closer and spoke softly close to his ear. "I'm trying to seduce you, Sam. Is that O.K. by you?"
Sam stumbled backwards a little but fetched up against the decorative metal birds. "D – don't, Dean . . ." he mumbled.
Oh, fuck! . . . Seriously?
As Dean hesitated he could hear his own heart beating in his ears, and Sam's breath coming out in fast shallow rasps. Sam looked up at last and Dean watched as his pupils dilated and the irises deepened from hazel to smokey brown.
Huh. Mouth says no. Eyes say yes.
Dean looked down. What was going on in Sam's joggers was saying a big yes, too . . . a really big . . . Fu – uck!
He looked up again. "You sure Sam?" His voice cracked with a telltale squeak in the middle of the sentence.
When Sam didn't answer Dean risked another step forward. Sam didn't move. Dean could see he was trembling, but it was hard to say who was trembling more at that point, or who was breathing faster. Dean reached for Sam's hip again, felt Sam shudder as his fingers made contact, but he wasn't trying to get away this time. Dean drew his thumb gently across the flesh near Sam's hipbone and felt it quiver under his touch. And things were starting to stir in his own boxers now.
"'Cause, you know . . ." he breathed against Sam's ear again ". . . you could push me away if you wanted to . . ." his hand slid slowly up Sam's side, thumb working in gentle circles over the flesh as he moved. There were tiny little noises coming out with Sam's breath now, and they were making Dean so hard so fast he was kind of dizzy with it. "You're not pushing me away," he observed quietly, dropping his head and planting his lips softly against Sam's shoulder.
The sound that came out of Sam . . . well, it was hard to believe it had come out of Sam's mouth: a deep, dark guttural moan, loud and filthy. And then his hands were on Dean and for a moment Dean thought he was pushing him away, but then Dean felt himself being swept round, pushed back. It happened so fast he lost his balance, his feet left the floor and he landed on the bed with a whump, and then Sam was on top of him, and Sam's mouth crashed against his, and Sam's hands were all over him, and Sam's huge boner was pressing, grinding against his hip, and it all had about as much finesse as a road crash.
Couldn't fault the enthusiasm, Dean supposed, and it was kind of exciting, kind of a turn on, just a bit . . . Dean just couldn't believe how fast he'd lost the initiative here. Everything was moving way faster than he'd imagined it. He tried to roll Sam over, see if he could slow things down a bit, but that massive, powerful body wasn't going anywhere until Sam wanted to. Then when Sam pulled away, Dean's boxers went with him, and he shed his own joggers just as quickly. Dean's eyes widened. Things were happening way too fast, and that thing was way too big and
"Sam, w – "
Sam's mouth closed over Dean's, his fingers sliced through and gripped Dean's hair, and he was on top again, between Dean's thighs and – fuck – no that – that was not good – that did not feel good – NO
He pushed Sam's head away. "Sam, get off! Stop! Get off now! I SAID FUCKING STOP!" He was pushing but Sam was too strong so then he punched and then he just drove his elbow into Sam's chest.
"Dean w – what the fuck? What the fuck? " Sam cried as Dean scrabbled away, scrambled into his boxers and started looking for his jeans. He couldn't find his clothes fast enough.
"WHAT PART OF THE WORD STOP DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" he yelled. He had his jeans on. He was looking for his T-shirt. Sam was still naked. Sam was still – He had his T-shirt. He was looking for his jacket.
Sam looked stunned, like he didn't know what was going on or what Dean was talking about. "I d – I st – . . .Wh – . . . I don't understand, Dean. I don't understand. You came on to me. You came on to me! I thought you wanted this!"
"I might have done – " O.K. O.K, he had his clothes on now. "I might have done if you had the first fucking clue what you were doing!" he shouted. "I thought you said you'd done this before!"
Sam just stared at him with that stunned mullet expression.
Dean continued to shout. "That hooker you said you went with. Or was that just a story you made up?"
"No. No!" Sam was starting to color: a hot angry flush that filled his face and started to spread down his neck and through his chest.
"Well, didn't you learn a fucking thing from him?"
"I didn't get any complaints from him," Sam snapped back.
"He was a HOOKER, you asshole! You paid him not to have any complaints!" Dean started struggling into his socks and his boots. "It fucking hurt, you asshole! You ever hear of lubricant? You ever hear of condoms?" Dean straightened as an uneasy thought struck him. "Did you use a condom with the hooker?"
Sam was staring wide eyed, and then he was trying to calm down, and he was trembling from the effort it was costing him. "Yes. Yes, of course, I did. And I should . . . I would have . . . Look, Dean, I'm sorry, O.K? I didn't think, O.K? I didn't mean to – It just all happened so fast. I wasn't thinking."
"You happened fast," Dean growled.
Sam snapped. "YOU FUCKING CAME ON TO ME, DEAN!" There was a brief silence and then Sam continued with slightly less decibels but his voice was shaking. "Just – just out of the blue, out of nowhere – after all these months – when I thought you didn't – you said you didn't – and I'm supposed to know what – what to . . . What the fuck, Dean?"
"What out of nowhere? I've been dropping hints since Texas!"
Sam blinked. Seriously. He didn't know.
"Yeah . . . well . . ." Dean picked up Sam's joggers and threw them at him. "Put some fucking clothes on," he growled.
Sam was tight jawed. His nostrils flared and his eyes glistened suspiciously, but he struggled back into his joggers.
"Well . . ." Dean passed his hand around the back of his neck. "Well, we ever do that again we use lube, we use a condom and . . . and . . ." he stabbed his finger at Sam "and you can be on the fucking receiving end."
Sam's head snapped up and his eyes flashed. "Oh really?" His tone sliced through the room like a scimitar.
In the silence Dean could hear his own blood pumping. His breath came out in a mirthless half laugh and his fingers twitched with the urge to hit. "Right. Right, because it would never be that way round. I guess I just forgot my place in this relationship for a second there." Dean turned, started looking for his car keys. He needed to get out, get away, get some air.
"Dean, what are you talking about – Dean?"
He found the keys, headed for the door.
"Dean – what – wait – where are you going? Dean!"
Sam was between him and the door. "Get out of my way, Sam."
"Dean, you're not driving. Not like this."
"Get out of my way."
"Dean, just stop. Just think! You're upset, you've been drinking, you've got drugs in your system. You're in no state to drive!"
He tried to push past but Sam was an immovable road block. So he swung his arm and his fist connected with Sam's jaw. Sam rocked back, startled, hugged his jaw for a second then drew his hand away and stared at his fingers; there was a red trickle coming from his mouth. Dean was moving to punch again but before he made contact he was pinned against the partition and Sam's arm was across his throat.
"You've used up your quota of free punches, Dean," he snarled. He held Dean for a second, then stepped back, grabbed Dean's wrist and tried to pull the keys from Dean's grasp. And Dean punched him again.
While Sam was reeling from that he made a break for the door, but before he reached it he was grabbed from behind and hurled down onto the table, flattened over it, and Sam had his wrist pinned. The position was all too familiar from the previous occasions Sam had decided Dean wasn't fit to drive.
No. Not this time. Dean stabbed his elbow back into Sam's side, stamped down on his instep and snapped his fist back into Sam's face. Again, he didn't make the door before he found himself pinned to the partition once more and this time Sam's hand was on his throat, cutting off his windpipe. His face was in Dean's and his eyes were dark, so fucking dark . . . His fingers were clamped around Dean's wrist and his thumb was digging into it.
"Let go of the keys, Dean," he breathed, low and dangerous.
For a moment Dean genuinely believed that if he didn't give in Sam just might possibly kill him, and then he felt oddly calm. So be it. He was going to hang on to those keys for as long as he had air.
The pressure from Sam's thumb kept increasing until Dean's eyes were watering but he kept his grip tight and just kept staring into Sam's eyes until, after some indeterminate number of moments, he thought he saw something waver there, and then the pressure on his wrist and windpipe eased.
Sam was looking back into Dean's eyes, searching, troubled. "Dean . . . Dean what the fuck are you doing?"
Dean sucked in enough air to speak, and when he did his voice was trembling but calm and determined. "I'm going through that door, Sam," he said quietly. "You can either let me, or you can put me in hospital. Those are the choices."
He meant it. Sam knew it.
As Sam stepped back Dean turned not toward the door, but toward his bed and the duffel bag that sat at the end of it. Sam watched in a kind of weird, dissociative state as Dean dropped the bag onto the bed and started packing things into it. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. None of this felt real.
"Dean what are you doing?"
No answer.
"Dean, come on. You're not serious."
"I am serious."
"It's the middle of the night. Where are you gonna go?"
Dean turned without answering Sam, and without looking at him, and headed for the door duffel bag in hand. Outside he dropped his bag by the Impala and popped the trunk.
"Dean, wait! Dean!" Sam followed him into the car park, shirtless and shoeless. "Dean, you can't leave. You need me!"
Dean turned. "What do I need you for, Sam?" He sounded uncharacteristically cold and hard. "You think the demon's gonna come for me? You think you can protect me? When you went up against it last time it whooped your ass, you said so yourself, so what are you gonna do that I can't? I can put down a salt line as well as you can." Dean had hold of the spare duffel now and he'd opened the weapons cache. "But it's been six months now, Sam, and the fucker hasn't raised its head and we haven't found Dad, and we're not going to find him, because you don't have the first clue where to look, and in the meantime what do we do? We hunt monsters. What the hell, Sam? Normal people, they see a monster, and they run. But not us, no. We search out things that want to kill us. You know who does that, Sam? Crazy people. It's insane." He was packing things into the bag. Sam watched without absorbing what he was doing. "You're insane. And I'm done with it. And I'm done with the bad diner food and the skeevy motel rooms. I don't need any of it. You can forget it."
"So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it? You can't go home, Dean. You can't go anywhere people know you."
"Not normal, Sam. Safe."
It began to dawn on Sam that Dean was unloading all the weapons. "Dean, what are you doing?"
"I'm getting all your freak junk the fuck out of my trunk."
"Wh - ? Wait, Dean, you're not even using your head!"
Dean dumped the bag into Sam's arms. "Never have. Never will." He made his way round to the driver door.
"Dean, don't leave yourself defenseless!"
"Not defenseless, Sam. I kept all the weapons you stole from Dad's lock up."
Sam's mouth dropped open. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I st - . . . That's really what you think?"
"You broke in, didn't you?"
"I salvaged what we needed from a burned down house, Dean!"
"Whatever." Dean climbed into the car.
"Wait! Wait! Dean! WAIT!" Sam turned and dashed into the motel room. When he ran back out with his own back pack Dean was already starting to reverse out and when Sam got behind the car Dean only just braked in time to keep from hitting him.
"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Dean yelled as Sam yanked open the passenger door.
"If you're gonna do this fucking stupid thing at least don't do it in this fucking stupid way!" Sam gasped. "Holy water!" He showed Dean the bottle and dropped it on the seat, dropped the EMF monitor beside it and started rifling through his journal. He found the pages he was looking for and ripped them out. "Exorcism ritual. Dean, please!"
He proffered the pages and Dean stared at them for a few seconds, then he reached out. Just for a moment, as Dean took the pages from Sam's hand, Sam thought he saw something soften in his eyes, thought maybe he might just change his mind about the whole thing, but then he reached out for the door handle and Sam was forced to step back.
"Goodbye, Sam," Dean said as the door closed, and then the car pulled away.
Sam watched the tail lights until they turned a corner and disappeared and for some time after he remained there, standing with his hands clasped behind his head. Eventually he wandered back into the room, dropped onto the bed and sat there, eyes stinging, staring into nothing. He couldn't understand what had happened. He couldn't understand how everything could have gone so wrong so fast.
And he couldn't understand why the room was so dark. Every single light was on and it still seemed dark to him. And the silence was deafening.
Meg stood in the darkness of the alley across from the motel. She kicked the dead body of the old bum into the shadows behind a dumpster and watched the blood curdle and spike as she stirred her finger in the chalice.
"He's lost the key," she said. "He's alone." She paused. "Yes." Another pause. "Yes." And then, after a lengthier silence, "Yes, Father."