Finally, a new chapter.
I should really make an effort to be better about updating.
If only I wasn't the ant to schoolwork's boot...
Anyway. I feel that this chapter makes me a bad person.
When Sam had laid down on his bed after finishing with his research, hoping to catch up on at least some of the sleep that he'd lost over this case, he'd decided he didn't want to be held while he slept. He didn't really need it right now (he was just tired, not freaked out or hurt), and he wasn't going to betray his distant girlfriend by curling up in his brother/lover's arms without a really good reason. He felt terrible enough about what they had already done. Were doing. Jess's face flashed into his mind on an hourly basis. But he wasn't going to order Dean out of the room or anything. He'd allow him to sit or lay or whatever on the other side of the bed but nothing else, and he told him that, eyes on the boots he was stepping out of.
"You...understand, right?" he asked quietly, self-consciously folding his arms across his chest. He definitely didn't hate Dean anymore, and wasn't angry with him. It was just that he was still in a relationship, still jumpy about the incest thing (he heard his father's furious voice in his head most days, which was something he did his absolute best not to think about), and he had to keep his older brother at arm's length to preserve his own sanity. Not that there was much of that left - he'd been hunting freaking monsters for his entire life - but still.
"Course I do." Sam looked up to see Dean smiling warmly at him. "Just so long as it gets you to sleep. You look like you're about to fall over and I don't feel like catching you." Sam guessed that he was willing to give in on this because his need to touch him, to make contact, had already been sated this morning. What with changing his bandages, and the neck rub...which, God, had felt so perfectly fantastic that Sam had been hard-pressed to stop himself from moaning in pure pleasure.
He hadn't been able to keep his cock from rising slightly in his jeans, though. That was another reason he didn't want to be held - he didn't need a full-blown erection to deal with.
"Just wake me up before sundown. We need to get everything in order before we go after the adlet," Sam told Dean. Almost as soon as he'd finished speaking, he felt a massive yawn coming on and couldn't hold it back. Dean rolled his eyes.
"Go to bed, Sam." He didn't need much more urging than that.
Sam went to sleep at almost eight-thirty, sprawled on his back on one side of the bed, with Dean a comforting presence on the other. He woke up at one in the afternoon, his head resting on his brother's warm, solid chest and Dean's arm wrapped supportingly around the curve of his body. The first thing he felt was shock. He was in the arms of a man - and not just any man, his brother. What the hell would Jess think if she saw him? He felt himself tense...and then he felt a warm glow of happy contentment, spreading outward from somewhere in his chest. Not disgust, not horror, not anger. Just...contentment. He relaxed, body going limp and emotions calming down. Partly because this actually felt nice...and partly because his father's voice hadn't popped into his head.
Jess wouldn't mind this. It wasn't like they were doing anything bad.
"Oh. Uh - sorry." Dean must have seen him stirring, because he spoke, sounding a little embarrassed. But there was a slight challenge in his voice, too. Sam could guess what that was about easily enough. He'd rejected him completely the last time that he'd woken up in his arms, and it would be even more unjustified now than it had been then. "You moved. Rolled over and pressed yourself up against me after you'd fallen asleep." He cleared his throat, moving his arm and making to sit up. Sam raised his head from his chest to allow him to move. It wasn't until he moved that he realized he'd been able to hear Dean's heartbeat, strong and steady, and it'd been soothing to him in a childish way. "I figured putting my arm around you wouldn't hurt, and might help you sleep. Probably shouldn't've done that, though."
"Yeah, I told you not to." You broke one of the rules, Sam said silently, without any real venom at all. "But...don't worry about it. I guess." Sitting up straight and folding his long legs, Sam felt himself smile slightly. "It's fine." Sure, he was irritated that he'd been touched without permission and that one of the lines he'd drawn had been slightly crossed, but it wasn't like Dean had fondled him while he was sleeping or anything (at least, not as far as he knew...Jesus, he had to stop thinking like that). He'd just let him use his body for a pillow, sacrificed one arm to pins and needles just to make him more comfortable, and then stayed in that position for four-and-a-half hours. If the digital clock on the bedside table was right. "I feel...good, too. We...might actually have to think about changing the rule about sleeping like that - at least when it comes to naps."
"'Might'?" Dean raised an eyebrow as Sam swung his legs off the bed and stood. "You slept like a baby. Now, I know that you have a girlfriend, believe me, but there's nothing wrong with something that helps you get a little rest. I've seen you tossing and turning over here in the middle of the night. Even when you're not stressing over a hunt."
Stepping into his boots, Sam didn't comment on that. He'd learned early on at Stanford, back in the days when he'd had his own room and his own bed in the dorms, that he had a...thing...about sleeping alone. He'd never done it before. At least, not for very long. Things had gotten better when he and Jess moved in together, but, now, he was facing intermittent insomnia again. God, he missed her.
"Are we doing anything for lunch?" he asked, running a hand through his hair as he turned to look at Dean. Dean shrugged, pushing himself up off of the bed.
"Was kinda planning on it, if you woke up in time," he said. Flexing his arm in an obvious effort to get blood flowing through it again, he wandered off in the direction of his duffel bag. "Just let me dig up my wallet...I know it's around here somewhere. And you," he said, turning to give him a critical once-over, "can go stick your head under the faucet or something. Try to tame those wild locks." He said the last few words with lusty sarcasm. Sam rolled his eyes but turned towards the bathroom anyway, raising a hand to his head to feel that his hair was, indeed, sticking up pretty spectacularly on one side.
A wet comb made him presentable, and the Texas heat sucked the moisture from his hair almost immediately when Dean led him out the door of their room and over a few blocks, to a cutesy little diner that looked like it'd been dragged right out of the fifties. It was apparently the place where he'd gotten their breakfast. Sam had been impressed by the pancakes, so he agreed with Dean's choice wholeheartedly. He felt good. Like his batteries had been completely recharged by a little over four hours of deep sleep, and now the air was a little clearer, the sun a little brighter. He was ravenously hungry, and couldn't help being enthusiastic about everything laid in front of from: this hunt, the search for his father, and everything else that life might throw at him in the near future. As a college student in his early twenties, Sam had had a lot of experience with power-sleeping, but its stunning results never failed to dazzle him.
Once they were seated and had placed their orders, he talked animatedly about their game plan for that night. He wasn't really a revenge-motivated type of guy (despite his dad's best efforts to drum into him the importance of finding the thing that'd murdered Sam's mother), but the idea of bringing down the monster that'd laid deep wounds into his chest and back was at least a little appealing. Dean nodded and commented in most of the right places, but Sam could tell that his mind was somewhere else entirely. Maybe at least part of what he was saying was making it through, though, so he kept talking.
"So, I know it's a residential area and people might call the cops if they hear shots, but I still think guns are - " Sam stopped, noticing the vague look in Dean's eyes. Yeah, okay, he'd completely lost him. "Dude, are you listening to me?" He reached forward to tap the table in front of his older brother. Dean blinked.
"Yeah. Yeah, course I was." He swallowed the piece of bacon cheeseburger that'd been in his mouth. "Now, uh, what'd you just say?"
Sam smirked, more amused than offended. "That we should use guns tonight, instead of knives or, say...crossbows."
"Crossbows are effective," Dean pointed out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Guns are faster and easier to aim, and reload," Sam countered. "Especially in the dark - anyway. I want to try and draw this thing out, and then shoot it."
"Uh, yeah...I don't know how awesome of an idea that is." Dean shook his head, picking up his burger again. "I mean, this thing knows our scents. It'll remember that I shot at it, and that it just really hates you, for whatever reason." Sam felt his face settle into an unimpressed expression. "Even if we manage to get our hands on a pile of human intestines - and I don't know about you, but I'm definitely not volunteering - it's not gonna come out for us." Sam considered that, dipping his chin slightly in a grudging nod, and Dean continued. "'Sides. Just looking at the body count, and how many pieces have been missing from the victims, I'd say it has plenty of food right now."
"Okay..." Sam reluctantly agreed. He didn't want to admit it, but he had a point. "So." He pushed the tines of his fork into a piece of chicken in the Caesar salad that he'd ordered, giving Dean a "well-go-on" gesture with his free hand as he popped it into his mouth. It tasted pretty fresh, which was a welcome change from their usual fare of the past two weeks or so. "Let's hear your plan."
"Thought you'd never ask. Okay, what I think we should do..." Dean pushed his burger and fries out of the way and leaned forward, stabbing the red vinyl tabletop with an index finger. "...is have Robbi clear out, and then head in there right before sundown. That way, the ad-thing - "
"Adlet," Sam said as he speared a crouton, automatically correcting him. Dean rolled his eyes.
"Whatever. That way," he started over, putting exaggerated emphasis on the words, "it'll either still be asleep or just waking up. Either way, we can find its den and catch it off-guard. Keep the whole operation nice and neat and entirely inside that crazy jungle garden." Sam felt the gashes on his back and chest, though they were healing over with new, pink skin, suddenly sting with the memory of what had happened the last time they'd gone into that garden at night. Some part of that reaction must have shown on his face, because Dean continued. His voice dropped into a much gentler cadence. "I know you got hurt last time. Bad. But that's not gonna happen again, I promise. We'll be real careful, and I won't let anything near you."
"I really appreciate the concern, but I think I can look after myself, Dean," Sam responded dryly. His brother's words had sparked a flare-up of the old anger, which he hadn't felt in a week. Directed at Dean's over-protectiveness and near-obsessive need to take care of and shelter him. He pushed it down, focusing on the fact that there wasn't really anything substantial there for him to be pissed over.
"Yeah, well, the lovely needlepoint on your back tells a different story." Dean raised his eyebrows, then focused on his meal. Sam didn't say anything, used to having only part of his attention when his favorite foods (of which there were many, none of them healthy) were around. "So. D'you have any relevant comments about what I wanna do here?"
"Well...it's probably the best thing we can do, actually," Sam admitted, scraping some dressing off a piece of lettuce before raising it to his mouth. He didn't have to look up to know that Dean was smiling around a bite of burger. "If we wanna keep everything quiet and everyone safe. Kind of stupid to charge right into the adlet's territory, but..." He trailed off with a "what-can-you-do" shrug, then winced when it pulled just a little too hard on his still-tender wounds.
"We hunt monsters," Dean deadpanned. "Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but it just doesn't get much stupider than that."
Sam smiled a little, glancing back down at his half-eaten salad. "Yeah..." He chuckled softly. That was why he was in eastern Texas, with claw marks all over his torso and his brother/incestuous lover making eyes at him, instead of in Palo Alto with his girlfriend. "Don't remind me." Pushing down all the complicated emotions that had suddenly welled up, he he made eye contact with Dean again. "What should I say to Robbi? To get her off her property, I mean. She probably already thinks we're nuts, with all the searching for a 'suspect' or whatever in her sister's garden."
"Tell her whatever you want," Dean replied, finishing his burger. He wrapped his lips around his thumb, probably to suck the grease off, and Sam's upper lip automatically twitched in disgust. At the same time, though, a pulse of arousal rolled through his groin, and his face started to heat up in response. There was something about those full pink lips...but he wasn't a teenager, he could control his urges. He thought. "Trust me, she'll believe anything you say, and do anything you tell her to."
"Uh..." Sam widened his eyes slightly, gesturing with his fork for him to continue. He didn't get it. Sure, he'd been the first one to talk to Robbi, but he hadn't exactly done anything special for her.
"She likes you," Dean clarified, sounding more than a little disbelieving. "At least, she's been giving you this sappy, doe-eyed look every time I've been there." He stuck a french fry in his mouth and offered another to Sam, who turned it down and picked at the remains of his salad again. "Dude. Do you seriously not pick up on stuff like that?"
Sam leaned back in the booth they were in. For just a second, he considered acidly saying that he'd never actually learned how to "pick up on stuff like that," with his love life kept exclusively in the family, from when he was a toddler up until two years ago. Hell, Jess had done everything but throw a brick inscribed with "Please date me" at his head, when she'd been trying to get his attention. Instead of doing something he'd hate himself for later, though, he just shrugged and said, "I guess I'm just not open to it. Maybe because of the girlfriend thing...maybe because I'm just clueless." He gave Dean a smile, the momentary flash of bitterness having passed. He couldn't blame his older brother for his own inability to speak "girl."
Dean nodded thoughtfully, green eyes skating away as he ran his upper teeth over his lower lip, but then his attention suddenly returned to Sam. "Yeah, that second option sounds about right." With the fries gone, Dean set his plate on the edge of the table, then gestured to Sam's salad bowl. There was nothing left except for a few wilted lettuce leaves, floating in a thick pool of dressing at the bottom. "You done with that?" When Sam nodded and set the bowl over near his plate, he shifted his weight to one side and shoved a hand into his pocket. Obviously going for his wallet.
"No, it's okay, I got it." Sam reached into his own pocket and drew out a ten and a five, which would cover their lunch almost perfectly. Placing it on the table, he felt a shy, unsure smile flicker across his mouth. "Consider it an apology for putting your arm to sleep."
Dean stared at him for a second, looking a little surprised, but then he smiled back. Much more confidently. "Well, okay, then. If you insist."
Once they had left the diner and returned to the motel room, the rest of the afternoon passed relatively quickly. Sam checked to make sure that he hadn't missed anything crucial about adlets that could get one of them killed, Dean dumped most of his clothes, soap, cologne, and other paraphernalia out of his duffel bag to make room for weapons. A disproportionate amount of weapons, granted, but they'd both learned the hard way that it was better to have five too many knives than one too few. After awhile, Sam closed the screen of his laptop and stood up from the table, in order to help field-strip and load the guns that they'd decided to use on this hunt. They had plenty, stored in the trunk, and ammunition for all of them.
When the sunlight slanting through their window had gone a deep, rich gold, Sam tucked the handgun he'd decided to go with into the waistband of his jeans and started for the door. But Dean stopped him, by laying a hand on his upper arm. Not his shoulder - he must be hyperaware of the sensitive skin there, because of what they were about to do.
"I want you to wear this," he said, when Sam turned to look at him quizzically. A bundle of old, comfortably-worn leather was shoved abruptly at his solar plexus, and he had no choice but to take it. He let it fall open with a frown, realizing, as he did so, that he was holding onto the shoulders of Dean's leather jacket.
"Your jacket?" he asked, glancing at him. He was honestly a little bewildered.
"It's a whole lot sturdier than a suit jacket," Dean said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and nodding to the jacket as he referenced what Sam had been wearing when he was attacked. "I'm not saying it'll stop claws, but it'll definitely keep 'em from going as deep as they did last time. If, y'know, that thing jumps you again. Which it won't." He lapsed into silence for a moment, face expressionless and eyes fixed on the jacket, then spoke again. "But better safe than sorry, huh?" He patted Sam's arm, then brushed past him. "Put it on. I'll go start the car."
After the door had clicked closed, Sam bit the inside of his lower lip, staring down at the jacket. He closed his eyes and gently worked the soft-but-sturdy leather between his thumbs and fingers. He'd worn it multiple times before. He remembered being fourteen, before he hit his growth spurt, shivering in the doorway of their motel room until Dean draped the heavy garment over his shoulders and pushed him out. He remembered being sixteen and lying in the back seat of the Impala, trying to help Dean get the jacket onto his cold, naked body, his movements post-orgasmically clumsy. And, of course, he remembered the last time he'd had it on. Nineteen, exhausted from sex, huddling in on himself in an effort to escape the cold, his father's rage, and his own shame.
There were some pretty bad memories associated with this jacket. And it was hot enough outside without adding the insulating properties of leather, and it looked like it might be too tight in the shoulders and chest, and he wasn't nearly helpless enough to need armor. Which was obviously what Dean intended it to be.
He shrugged it on anyway, slipping his arms through the sleeves and rolling his shoulders so that it would fall right.
To his surprise, it fit almost perfectly. He was broader in the shoulders than he had been two years ago, and that seemed to work to his advantage. The jacket had always been a little long on Dean, since it'd originally belonged to their father and John was a couple inches taller than his eldest, but it seemed to have been tailor-made for Sam. And it smelled like his brother. Alcohol (mostly whiskey), gunpowder, that weird vanilla undertone that he'd never been able to identify, cologne. The scents seemed to be ingrained into the leather. Sighing with some bittersweet emotion that felt pretty alien to him, Sam headed out, locking the door behind him.
Dean had been right about Robbi. Sam had come up with a patchy excuse on the way to her house, about he and his partner wanting to "collect more evidence," and he almost cringed at how vague and weak it sounded as he talked to her. But she bought it, nodding with wide eyes and scurrying out of her house to where a sky-blue Volkswagen Beetle was parked in the driveway.
"Be careful in the garden, Agent Mason," she told him, eyes fixed on his torso. The leather jacket seemed to captivate her, and her attention made him a little uncomfortable, now that he was aware that she was interested in him. Or, at least, Dean had told him she was. "I turned the water on, so it's muddy."
Ten minutes later, they were wading through a veritable flood, and every other word out of Dean's mouth was a curse. "'Muddy,' my ass," he muttered, raising one soaked boot and glaring at it. "It's like friggin' Panama back here." Seeing the look Sam gave him, he scowled. "Yeah, I paid attention in sixth grade. Don't look so surprised."
"No, no, I just..." Sam trailed off, then just let it drop. It was dark in the garden, beneath the flowering trees, and they were sweeping the beams of flashlights across the soggy ground. The perfume of the blossoms was overwhelming, even covering the scent of Dean in the jacket that Sam was wearing, and the stench of decay he knew had to be present. "It's impossible to track anything in this."
"Yeah, you're telling me." Dean glanced over at him, stopping beside a rose of Sharon bush that had long since outgrown the bed it shared with stunted stalks of delphinium. "So, I've been wondering. Just what the hell is an Inuit monster doing in Texas?"
"Well..." Sam considered the question. He hadn't really found any answers to it in his research, but he was pretty sure that he could figure it out. Dean moved a little deeper into the garden, heading towards something that looked like a bank of weeping willows covered with small pink flowers, and Sam followed him. "Things just migrate, I guess." He shrugged, keeping an eye out for any pawprints, even though he knew that the water would have washed them away. "I mean, harpies are Greek, werewolves are European, nagas are Asian...but we've found all of those in the States. They get pushed out by hunters or normal, clueless people, or they follow their food. It's not that weird."
"Hmm." Dean grunted in acknowledgment of the answer, then crouched down right in front of the bank of maybe-willows and poked his flashlight between the trailing branches. "Oh, man." Sam saw his shoulders twitch with shock at whatever it was he'd found. "Hey, Sammy, you'd better come and take a look at this."
Sam went over and dropped into a crouch next to him. As he peered between the branches and saw what was obviously a deep den, dug into the soil and flooded, Dean quietly said, "Didn't you say these things have puppies?"
Sam aimed his flashlight down into the murky water as he became aware of something - the smell of rotting flesh that he'd been expecting. He swallowed when he saw four or five small forms huddled at the bottom of the flooded den. They'd obviously drowned, and been dead for several weeks. Right around the time that Robbi's sister, Rachel, had been killed and partially eaten. He remembered wondering just how much water this garden needed to thrive in the dry Texas heat, and felt a chill despite said heat and his jacket.
"That's why it went after Rachel, and why it's terrorizing Robbi now," he murmured. "She killed its offspring."
"I'm just kind of glad we don't have five more to deal with," Dean replied, getting to his feet. "So. We've got a grieving monster mother on our hands...great." Seemingly unconsciously, he reached for the gun that was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Their other weapons were in the duffel bag that was slung across his back.
"We only need one shot," Sam reminded him, standing. "It's not immortal. We don't have to do anything weird to kill it." He pushed his free hand into one of the pockets of his jeans, using the one that held his flashlight to look around. "The water will have driven it out of its den. It could be anywhere."
"Nah...I've got a feeling that it's still around here." Pulling his handgun out and holding both it and his flashlight level, Dean took a couple steps away from the den. His every movement produced a loud squelching sound, and Sam winced a little, realizing that there was no way that they'd be able to sneak up on the adlet with the ground so soft. "C'mon, you bitch." Directing the insult to the concealing plants all around him, Dean thumbed the safety of his gun off. "I wanna make up for missing last time."
He was obviously on edge. When Sam made to go off and check out another part of the garden, he looked over his shoulder and shook his head at him.
"Oh, hell, no," he said. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"That didn't make much of a difference before," Sam pointed out. Dean, looking up into every tree and behind every bush, didn't respond.
The sun had fully set now, taking what little light had been filtering through the plants with it. Sam wasn't uncomfortable in the dark, having worked and trained in it for most of his life (it was shocking how many monsters obeyed the horror-movie trope of only being out at night), but he felt apprehensive with only the beam of his flashlight to guide him. He was very aware of the stitched-up gashes on his torso. Not to mention the fact that the temperature had yet to drop and he was sweating in his jacket, and the wetness that had somehow leaked into his sturdy boots and was squishing between his toes with every step. There was no sound besides those that he and his brother were making, and the almost-ringing noise that water made as it flowed through the system that irrigated the garden.
"Maybe we should turn off the water," he suggested quietly. Dean, an undefined figure ahead of him when his flashlight wasn't aimed in his direction, stopped.
"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," he agreed, turning around. "Pretty sure I saw a valve or something back near the house...come on." He gestured with his flashlight for Sam to follow him as he passed him. He would've, if a sudden quiet rustling hadn't caught his attention.
"Dean, wait," he said, half-turning in the direction that he'd heard it coming from and holding up a hand. Dean stopped.
"What is it?" he asked. The tension in his voice had ratcheted up a few notches. "You hear something?"
"Be quiet for a second." Sam listened, straining his ears. He focused, trying to pick up on any sound at all, until he was pretty sure that he could hear his own heart beating. Dean shifted his weight, but that was the only sound outside of his body. The rustling didn't come back. He shrugged. "No, I guess I didn't. Must've just been the wind or something."
"Okay, if you're sure." Dean mirrored his shrug, then turned back around to face in the direction of Robbi's house. He only made it a couple steps before something blazed out of the nearby shrubs, struck his legs with enough force to make him shout in surprise and pain, and knocked him down into the mud and flooded grass.
Dean's gun went off before Sam could even snarl, "Shit - " and charge forward, but the shot must have gone wild and hit nothing more than a branch, because a sudden flurry of heavily-scented flowers cascaded down. Sam swiped his arm through the air to clear his field of vision, then yanked his own gun out. His brother was on his back, having slipped or wrested himself out of the strap of his duffel bag, holding something relatively small but extremely pissed away from his vulnerable throat. It was snapping and howling and clawing at the air, and it looked like his forearms were getting scratched up, but Dean still managed to throw it off of himself.
As the thing (which had to be the adlet that they'd come here to kill) scrambled onto all fours from where it'd landed on its back, growling, some part of Sam's brain whirred to life and started analyzing it. It was small, maybe about the size of a twelve-year-old. It was built to walk upright, he could tell that. Its hindpaws were identical to those of a dog, but the forepaws were more like stubby hands, with opposable thumbs. Raising his gun, Sam took in its short tail, wiry, humanoid form, and thick coat of silver-gray fur. It reminded him of a Siberian husky.
When he fired, it didn't do anything but kick up a spray of water and wet earth. The adlet had moved too fast, launching itself back towards Dean, who'd been trying to get to his feet. It knocked him down again, slamming into his chest and forcing the air out of his lungs in an explosive, tortured exhale. He punched it as Sam lunged forward. The blow had been weak, but it still knocked the thing off of him. Sam's boot struck something angular - Dean's gun? Had he dropped it? - and sent it sliding away as he made it over to grab his brother's shoulder and haul him up.
"Son of a bitch," Dean swore, kicking his dropped duffel bag out of the way as he hastily backed away from the adlet, which was confusedly shaking its head.
Sam could see shallow, red-ribbon scratches on Dean's arms and his chest, through his torn T-shirt. He didn't have time to ask him if he was all right, though. He had to kill this thing.
Dean's flashlight lay in a raised bed, projecting a bar of light between the two of them and their monster. Sam stepped into that light to take his stance. Everything around him had the crystal clarity and fluid slowness that only came from a bloodstream full of adrenaline, and he could hear Dean's raspy, shocked breathing behind him. His finger tightened on the trigger - and the damn thing was moving again before he could shoot, getting ready to jump as it bared the same fangs that'd been buried in his chest about a week ago.
Those fangs would hit Dean's exposed throat, he saw with sudden, startling certainty. Slice into his jugular and trachea, so he'd bleed out or suffocate or both. It would break him so completely and so quickly that neither Sam nor anyone else would be able to fix him, and then he'd be gone, green eyes glassy and full lips cold. Sam would lose him.
He couldn't even handle the thought.
He wasn't really aware of moving. Just that complete horror flooded him, and there was a litany of no no no no no - pounding inside his head, and then he was standing in a different place. He'd thrown his arm out. And before he had time to react to what his body had just done without his permission, the adlet crashed into his extended arm. It felt to the ground with a yelp, and his forearm stung with the impact, but the creature's fangs hadn't broken through the leather of Dean's jacket. Just left indentations in it.
The adlet was squirming on the ground, whimpering - it looked like he'd succeeded in knocking a couple of its teeth loose of its gums. It was on its back, so he was able to get a clear shot at its chest. And, this time, he managed to hit it before it got out of the way. Sam winced as blood misted across his jeans and the hand that held the gun.
He glanced at Dean, realizing that he was breathing just as hard as his older brother, and lowered the gun as he straightened up. He swallowed, starting to feel shaky and exhausted now that the adrenaline was wearing off. And a little surprised by his own emotions.
Dean looked at the body of the adlet, then made eye contact with Sam, nodding.
"Good shot," he said, rough voice approving. "And...thanks. It was really gunning for me, for some reason...you'd just better not have screwed up my jacke - "
He abruptly stopped talking when Sam hugged him, hard. Dean was soaked and muddy and smelled like wet dog, but he put his arms around him anyway and crushed him to his chest, burying his lower face between his brother's neck and shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut tight. He needed to reassure himself that he'd really succeeded and saved Dean's life. He could not lose this. Warmth, safety, happiness, peace...he hadn't been able to bear the possibility that everything that made Dean up, everything he got out of him, would be gone.
Sam sighed when his older brother hugged him back, almost holding him. They stayed like that for awhile, despite the blood and soil-laced water spattered all over both of them and the body at their feet, until Sam had calmed himself down and could let go.
"Feel better?" Dean asked quietly when he lowered his arms and stepped back. There was no sarcasm or amusement in the question.
"Yeah." Sam nodded, then looked down at the dead adlet. "Uh, okay...we need to get rid of that."
"Oh, no, I figured we could just leave it there. Yeah, Sammy, of course we need to get rid of it." Giving him a grin, Dean put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. Offering comfort and normality, which seemed to have been his job for as long as Sam could remember. "C'mon. Let's go get a tarp outta the car."
Sam allowed himself to be led, turning to Dean when they were almost out of Rachel's overgrown (but once again safe) garden and softly saying, "I'm gonna need to sleep with you for at least part of the night. Like when I got hurt."
It was a little too dark for him to see Dean's eyes light up, but he definitely caught his wide, genuine smile and the note of euphoria in his voice as he said, "Well, we can definitely do that, don't worry." He stopped, and turned so that he and Sam were facing each other. He put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"
"I'm just fine," Sam said with a smile. "We finished the hunt, didn't we? We did something good."
Even so, he took comfort from it when Dean cupped the back of his head and, after a moment's hesitation in which he probably remembered he wasn't supposed to kiss him on the mouth, grudgingly kissed his nose. He smirked, pushing him away, but the movement was gentle. Even though he was thinking of Jess with a soft sort of guilt, realizing that he really shouldn't be letting his brother kiss him like that with her in his life. Even if she was hundreds of miles away.
"I told you, I'm fine," he said. He wasn't, but he wasn't thinking about why. "Don't we have a monster to burn?"
"Yeah, we'd better do that," Dean agreed, but he still looked at him with some concern. "I wanna get you home and make sure that your arm's okay."
"I just wanna go to bed," Sam said honestly.
"That, too." Dean put a hand on his upper back and patted affectionately as they turned and walked. "Definitely that, too."