Sam's silent for a moment after Dean fills him in on his conversation with Bobby, and then he says, "At least we know Dad's all right. Jesus, what an asshole."
"He's not an asshole," Dean says automatically. "He just – sucks sometimes."
"That's putting it mildly."
They're in the kitchen while Claire makes up the fold-out bed for Dean, who's propped up against the countertop, afraid to sit down lest his knee lock again. Sam's sitting at the kitchen table holding an icepack to his ribs and eating a bowl of granola, studying the notes Dean gave him on the protection spell.
"Hey Sam," Dean says suddenly. "You think it'd be different, if I wasn't…" he waves his hand vaguely at his bad leg. "You think he'd still be hiding like this?"
Sam's silent for a moment. "I don't know, man. But honestly? Yeah. I think he would. The thing that killed mom – that's always kinda been his fight. And, like I said, the guy's an asshole, but he's always tried to protect us, in his own fucked-up way. I just… I don't think he'd want us getting into this."
"Yeah." Dean sighs, settles a hand on his aching right hip, kneads a little. "We got any more of those heat-packs?"
"I think there's one or two in the first-aid kit," Sam says, then, "I really wish there were something I could do."
"Nothin' we can do but just keep looking, Sam," Dean says. "He can't run forever."
"I didn't mean – well, that too," Sam says, looks a little embarrassed. "I just mean – your leg, dude. Maybe we should see a doctor, get you on some different painkillers. Percocet or something? Vicodin doesn't seem like it does shit, these days."
"It does," Dean says, "believe me, it does. My tolerance is growing, that's all. Wears off quicker, comes on weaker. But usually I'm fine, Sam; it's just the cold's kind of getting to me. Don't worry."
Sam shrugs, looks down at the tabletop. He can't help but worry. It's rough, watching his brother in pain day in and day out; and he does watch. He sees how Dean's face falls into a grimace when he thinks Sam's not looking, sees the furrow between his brows, sees how Dean wakes up in the morning with his face pale and rigid, sometimes can't even really hold a decent conversation until the painkillers have kicked in, and even then Sam suspects that they just barely take the edge off.
"Hey," Dean says, snaps his fingers. "Quit it, dude. It's this shit with dad, it's messing with your head. I'm fine. You're just putting your worries where you can see them."
Sam is startled by the profundity of that statement. "Maybe you're right."
" 'Course I'm right." Dean pushes himself up a little, leans on the countertop so he can follow it over to the kitchen table, where he rests his hands on the back of Sam's chair and peers over his brother's head to look at the list of ingredients for the protection spell.
"Pretty easy, right?" he asks.
"Looks simple," Sam agrees. "Should only take about a half hour, tomorrow morning. I feel like we've done this one before, way back. You sure it wasn't in dad's journal?"
"Relatively sure," Dean says. "I coulda missed it, though. Not even I can claim perfection."
Claire comes into the kitchen. "Couch is all ready," she says. "Sam, the guest room already has clean sheets. There's like, toothpaste and soap in the bathroom. Feel free to use the shower, too, I've got a bunch of towels."
"I bled on some earlier," Sam says, lifting a hand to touch the bandage on his forehead. "Sorry about that."
"Sam," Claire says with an exasperated sigh, "I'm a woman. You can't imagine how much stuff I've bled on in my life."
"Huh?" Sam says, and Dean goes, "Oh, gross."
"There's nothing gross about the female body," Claire says primly, stealing a bite of Sam's granola.
Dean reflects for a moment. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
Sam casts a strange, furtive glance to Claire, and then to Dean, and Dean's not really sure how to interpret it, but it makes him nervous.
"I'm going to go brush my teeth," he announces, and Claire hands him his crutches without being asked.
"Need help finding anything?"
"Uh, is it hard to find the bathroom?"
"No. There's only three rooms up there."
"Then, no."
He gets his toothbrush and pajama pants out of his duffel, slings the pants awkwardly over one shoulder and starts his slow way up the stairs. It's an old house, so they're steeper than he's used to, and it takes a fair amount of concentration to get up; he hasn't quite perfected his technique on crutches. Mid-way through he hears Claire come up behind him, and he steps aside, presses his back to the wall.
"Why don't you go on ahead of me," he says.
"Thanks," she says, gives him a little smile, and as she passes her hand brushes up right against his –
Jesus christ. He swallows, tries to focus on getting up the stairs, but he can't help himself from watching Claire instead, going up the stairs in front of him, and he has to bite down hard on his lip to remind himself to attend to the task at hand.
He's been like a thirteen year-old boy lately, and he knows it. A waitress, who was, he'll admit it, probably over forty, had winked at him suggestively just the other day and he'd had to yank Sam's computer over his lap just to hide the evidence, though he's pretty sure Sam had cottoned on because he couldn't stop smirking all through the rest of breakfast.
He moves cautiously down the hall, sees the bathroom almost immediately. Claire's bedroom door is closed and he can hear her moving around inside, so he steps quickly into the bathroom, shuts the door. He's had to pee for the last hour and it feels great. The bathroom is nice, with some heady potpurri that smells like roses and lavender, and the toothpaste is some weird all natural licorice stuff that actually tastes pretty great.
As he's brushing his teeth, pajamas on and one hand bracing himself on the sink, he hears a knock.
"Can I come in?" Claire calls.
"Arglh," Dean answers, mouth full of toothpaste, spits. "Yeah, I'm decent."
She's changed into a pair of soft grey pajama pants and a tight, white tank top that leaves pretty much nothing to the imagination in certain departments. Like, the boob department. Like, woah, her nipples are way darker than he would have expected, and she's not as frail as she looks packaged away in the bulky wool sweater she's been wearing all day. She's got curves, and he would –
All of a sudden, in a moment of painful clarity, he realizes that he's been staring directly at her breasts, toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth, and she's just standing there looking at him, one eyebrow raised. He yanks his gaze away, turns back towards the sink, and she steps forward like nothing's happened, paints a line of toothpaste on her brush and begins brushing. Dean can feel his face heating up, and he brushes furiously, feeling completely caught.
Pull it together, he tells himself, but pretty much can't wait till Sam and Claire are asleep upstairs and he can jerk off in peace. Fuck decorum. He deserves it.
Claire leans forward, too close, to spit out her toothpaste, her hair brushing his arm, and as Dean leans back to get out of her way he completely overbalances, sways dangerously on his good leg, arms flailing to grab onto something.
Claire's quick, reaches over and grips his arm to hold him upright before he can go down or put too much weight on his bad leg, and for a moment she just keeps one hand wrapped around his bicep and the other on his waist, steadying him.
"Jesus," she says, "sorry about that!" She's smiling like she's not really sorry, a strange gleam in her eye that sends Dean's blood down to exactly the place he doesn't want to think about right now, not with a girl not a foot away from him.
"Thanks," Dean says, and, wow, he really didn't think it was possible feel so mortified and so horny at the same time.
She releases him, and he realizes he's been holding his breath.
Forget thirteen year-old boy, he's acting like a thirteen year-old girl. Before his accident, he never would have felt this way, but since he fucked up his leg he's had this bizarre, terrified shyness around women that he's never, ever felt before in his life.
There are two things that he's always known he's good at: women and hunting. And he never doubted either of them, until a couple months ago. He tries not to think about this too much, because, honestly, it scares him a little, but in his more reflective moments he thinks that maybe all that time in the hospital, when he couldn't walk, could barely move, maybe all those efficient nurse's hands running over him, impersonal, cold, ruined something for him. To have so many women touch him, but in the most asexual way possible, like he was a job, something to be dealt with. Sometimes (and why is he thinking about this? It's just going to depress him), sometimes when he tries to jerk off, he can't, every fantasy replaced with a blank face and the sterile stench of medicine.
"You okay?" Claire asks, and he realizes that he's been staring into space, moving the toothbrush methodically around his mouth but not really doing anything.
"Oh," he says, "yeah," and spits out the rest of his toothpaste, rinses his mouth. He moves to leave, but Claire says,
"So tomorrow, you guys are going to go in and … vanquish the spirit? Whoever it is?"
"Yeah," he says, leans a shoulder on the doorjamb. "Or, that's the plan."
"You gonna be okay?" she asks. "The cabin, and everything? Your brother told me you… had a bad experience once."
"Oh," Dean says, making a mental note to kill Sam. "I think I'll be all right." But his heart is starting to race just thinking of it, and he wonders how the fuck he's going to pull this off.
"He didn't say what happened," Claire says, "but is that how you hurt your leg?"
"Yeah," Dean says, can feel his jaw tighten, turns away and moves back down the hall, stomach in strange knots that he just doesn't know what to do with. He kind of hates Claire, right now, for making him feel this way, hates her for how nice she looks in her pajamas, how soft her hair felt brushing against his arm, hates how she's almost as tall as he is and how she won't stop asking her fucking questions.
Downstairs, Sam has stretched out on the makeshift bed, an ice pack pressed to his ribs, eyes closed.
Dean gets a couple heat packs from out of the first-aid kit, eases himself down on the bed next to his brother, props himself up against the headboard.
"Shove over, dude," Dean says, cracking one of the packs to activate it and laying it over his knee. Sam doesn't move. "Seriously, Sam," Dean says, pressing the other pack to his hip. "This is my bed, go upstairs if you want to sleep. I'm not going back up there, it took me like ten minutes."
Sam mumbles something and flings an arm out, thwacking Dean in the stomach.
"Hey," Dean says, trying a different tactic. "Go get me a glass of water so I can take my meds. I'm in a lot of pain, here."
Sam cracks an eye, scowls. "You're a manipulative son-of-a-bitch sometimes, you know that?" he grumbles, but he pushes himself up with a groan.
Dean feels a little stab of guilt, says, "Dude, I was kidding, I got it," but Sam just shakes his head, bitchface firmly in place.
"Too late," he says, ambles into the kitchen. There's the sound of a running faucet and he comes back out, hands Dean the water and plops down onto the bed. Dean palms two Vicodin, swallows them down, offers the bottle to Sam, who takes one.
"I did three different drugs tonight," Sam says in the same tone of voice he used to say I got an A+ on my science exam.
"Dude," Dean says. "You're a loser. Alcohol doesn't count as a drug. Neither does Vicodin."
"Vicodin definitely does," Sam says. "It makes me feel like parts of my brain have gone liquidy."
"That's just the normal state of your brain," Dean says, clamps a hand down on Sam's shaggy head.
"You think you're addicted to painkillers?" Sam asks out of nowhere, getting a wide-eyed, serious look on his face that makes him appear all of five years old. When Sam is sleepy and kind of drunk he regresses about fifteen years.
"Yeah, Sam, probably," Dean says, not sure why he's being honest, except that he's sleepy and has also been drinking.
"Really?"
Dean shrugs. "I've got a pretty steady prescription, so I wouldn't worry about it. Not like I'm gonna be jonesin' for a fix, or whatever."
"I think you have an addictive personality," Sam says thoughtfully, and Dean snorts, even though this addiction talk has made him painfully aware of the lack of nicotine in his blood. Goddammit. He just brushed his teeth.
"Go to bed, Sam."
"It's only like ten o'clock," Sam says with a yawn, glancing at his watch. "I dunno why I'm so tired."
" 'Cause we drove eight hours last night and then slept for an hour before waking up at the ass-crack of dawn?"
"Why didn't you get a scholarship to Stanford?" Sam muses, sliding off the bed, ice pack still pressed to his ribs.
"You're a dick," Dean says good-naturedly.
"You need anything before I head upstairs?"
"I'm good. I'm gonna get up and have a cigarette before I go to sleep, anyway."
"Right." Sam tugs his duffel up over his shoulder. " 'Night, Dean."
" 'Night, Sammy." He watches his brother head up the stairs, feels sad all of a sudden, for no reason at all. Wishes for half a second that Sam was four again and he could tuck him under his arm, just for a minute, give him the kind of hug you can give your four year-old brother but not your twenty-two year-old brother who's got three (okay, three and a half) inches on you.
He pushes himself up out of the bed regretfully, really doesn't feel like going back outside in the cold. He pockets the heat packs to take with him, bites out a curse as the wind hits him when he steps out the door, whistling right through his thin pajama pants.
He lights a cigarette and holds the heat pack to his knee with his free hand, praying that it won't lock up again.
He hears the door open behind him, and he twists his head up to see Claire, bundled back into that wool sweater.
"Hey," he says, surprised.
"Hey," she says, sinks down onto the step beside him. "How's the fold-out? You need more blankets?"
"No, I've got plenty," Dean says, takes a drag. "Thanks."
"When I start my artist colony, every room is going to be a different color, and every bed will have a down comforter. I want those iron beds, the old-fashioned kind."
"That sounds nice," Dean says, and it does. "If I were an artist I'd totally sleep in your bed."
"If you were an artist?" she says with a smirk, and he laughs uncomfortably. No way is she coming onto him. Is she? She's been awfully… touchy. No. He is so not her type. And she's not his.
Ah, who is he kidding. She's an attractive woman. That's his type, right there.
He flicks ash, takes a few quick, long drags. "Sounds kind of expensive, those luxury beds."
"I have a grant," Claire says, smiles a little. "The government gave me an arts grant for… a lot of money."
"Really?" Dean says, impressed. "That's awesome."
"It is pretty awesome." She watches him smoke for a minute, says, "You're really destroying that cigarette, huh."
"It's freezing out here," he says. "Just wanna finish so I can get back inside."
"How much do you smoke in a day?" she asks.
"Too fuckin' much," he says, pulls smoke deep into his lungs and crushes his cigarette out on the steps, looks around and realizes that there are already at least ten butts collected in a scraggly, sad-looking pile, obviously all from him.
"Sorry about that," he says. "Before I leave I'll put those in the trash or something."
"Thanks," she says, digs around in one huge pocket. "Here, take this." She holds out an altoid.
" 'Kay," he says, pops it into his mouth. "Why, exactly?"
"So I can do this," she says, leans forward out of nowhere and plants her mouth firmly on his.
For a second he's too surprised to respond; then, before he can stop himself, he breaks into a wide grin, grins into her kiss for a long minute before he remembers to kiss her back.
God it's been too long, and apparently it's been a while for her, too, because her hands are freaking everywhere, snaking up cold under his jacket and shirt, skittering across his chest, dipping into his flannel pajama pants and then his boxers so he's gasping into her mouth as they dance up to grip his hair a moment later.
"Jesus, Claire," he says, when she breaks away.
She grins, sticks out her tongue, where the altoid is melting away on it. "Wanna take this inside?"
"Yeah," he breathes, and she stands while he pulls himself to his feet. Thank god his knee acts like it's supposed to and lets him up with no trouble.
In the house she takes his crutches away from him and pushes him down so he's sitting on the sofabed, and he says, suddenly panicked, "Sam, Sam is—"
"In his room for the night," Claire whispers. "I checked. Door's closed. We just have to be quiet. Besides, he doesn't care."
He starts to say something else, like how does she know Sam doesn't care? but she's eased herself between his legs and is kissing him again, slower this time, deeper; not just making out, but a definite prelude to something else. And Dean's terrified.
For the first time, he's not sure if he's going to be able to… live up to standards. Unless every woman he's ever been with was faking it, which he doesn't think is the case (prays to god is not the case), he's always been effective at what he does. Not just effective, let's be honest – he's been really fucking great at what he does. It's a point of pride with him, up there with melting down a perfect bullet or knowing exactly when a werewolf is going to charge. Except, you know, way funner.
But now, he knows the old tried-and-trues aren't going to work. Normally he'd be pulling her down right now, flipping her onto her back, kneeling over her and working his way slowly down her body, getting her out of that ridiculous sweater… but he can't, not with his leg. So he's not sure what to do.
Claire sheds her sweater without his prompting, however, says "Come on," unzipping his jacket and then curling her fingers underneath the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up over his head, tossing it aside.
"Damn," she says, gives a low whistle, traces her hand over a particularly brutal scar that's clawed down his chest.
"Shoulda warned you," he says, easing his hands down her body, gripping her hips, pulling her closer. "Perks of the job."
"You're a lot more muscley than I thought you'd be," she muses, bites down on his collarbone, a light nip that sends a shiver running through his body. "Mmmm… look at these shoulders."
Usually that's his kind of line, but right now all he can do is moan a little as she slides a hand appreciatively down his chest and belly, right down to – oh god.
"Okay," she says, giving him a gentle squeeze over his pants, "how are we going to do this? With your leg, I mean."
He's almost too dazed to answer, suddenly so hard he can barely see straight, but he says, "I've never – I don't – since I hurt –"
"Oh man! So you're kind of a virgin?" she asks, lighting up, and he barks a laugh at the idea, but in a twisted way, she's right.
"Well," she says, pushing him gently, "why don't you get all the way up on the bed like this…"
He follows her lead willingly, scoots himself back so he's half-reclined against the headboard, and she follows, still between his legs, hands on his chest.
"I guess I'll probably have to be on top," she says. "Fine by me."
"Awesome," Dean manages, then, "hang on," has the presence of mind to prop his knee up on a pillow, just for now.
"I'm going to be careful with you," she murmurs, puts one soft hand on his bad hip as he mouths his way down her neck, "don't worry. Just tell me if I hurt you. Does it hurt if I do this?" She palms his cock through the flannel again and he can't help but buck up against her hand a little.
"Christ, no," he gasps, "and I'm not gonna break, don't worry, I – oh god."
"I'm just gonna get these out of the way," she says, undoing the drawstring to his soft grey pants with a flourish. She eases them down over his hips, tugs them carefully off his legs and down onto the floor in a heap. "And these," she says, moving onto his boxers, and before Dean knows what's happening he's completely naked and she's still fully clothed.
"Nice," she breathes, taking him in, then runs a hand down the nastiest of his scars, the one that runs jagged from his hip to his knee, the worst of the surgeries.
"Don't," he gasps, tries to take her hand away, but she lowers her head instead, lays a kiss against the scar tissue puckered there, licks a clean line down to his knee.
"I like it," she says against his skin, "war wounds, a warrior. Does it hurt if I do this?"
And her mouth is suddenly on his dick and he lets out a strangled gasp, and then, too soon, her face is back up by his, grinning wickedly.
"Claire," he growls, "get this off," tugs at her shirt, and she reaches down to pull it over her head, and hello: if that isn't the most miraculous sight Dean's seen in six months, he doesn't know what is.
"Jesus," he says, wishes he had thirty hands, "you're beautiful."
"Thanks," she says, "does it hurt if I do this?" She lowers herself down on top of him, straddles his hips and grinds against him a little, and yeah, that definitely does hurt, it also feels fucking incredible.
"Doesn't hurt," he says, "jesus, you should get these," fumbles to undo the drawstring of her pajama pants.
"Yeah," she says, "I was about to. That was just practice for later." She wiggles out of her pants, and Dean almost weeps. A real, live, naked woman.
"God, I'm so glad you showed up here," she says, almost conversationally, except for the hitch in her voice when he reaches down and slips his hand between her legs. "That body, yes oh and you're a great kisser even if you do taste kind of like a yes, yes an ashtray and a meat eateeeooooh, I'm so glad my house is haunted, unless it's my mother, does it hurt if I do this?" and her hand is firmly wrapped around his dick and he can't even answer.
He can already tell she's going to talk through this whole thing, and that's just fine, because she's rolled over onto him, is straddling his good leg saying, "God, I really needed to get laid."
"You have no fucking idea," he says as she guides his hand right where she wants it, and lets out a soft moan, "Claire, you have no fucking idea."
"Actually," she says, grins wickedly, "I have some great fucking ideas."