The gas attendant looked up from his magazine, the door ringing as two boys walked in, one loud and the other nursing a private hurt.
"You locked John in a car trunk?" Dean hissed.
"He'll be fine, there's a safety latch on the inside of that model," said Sam, pulling out his wallet and tapping on the security window, "Pump two please."
"He's gonna kick your ass he ever wakes up, and he'll never take you hunting again," said Dean, picking at a brown stain on Sam's sleeve, "I won't hardly see you."
Sam itched at the ring on his hand, the knuckles scabbed and swollen from brawling.
"Are you out of your mind, picking a fight like that?"
"He ditched you in the woods, he deserved worse."
"No," said Dean, grabbing his shoulder to turn him around, "It's not that, is it?"
Sam shrugged him off. "I gotta pay for gas, grab some water so we can get out of here."
The attendant kept his eyes on the register, quietly tearing off the receipt and watching the boys go on their separate errands. You never offered friendly advice to out-of-towners. They always had guns.
Nervous Willy's Gas Guns and Fireworks was the only store for fifty miles in every direction, offering up all kinds of fare for the lonesome hunter. Out of the need for privacy more than anything else, Dean skulked toward the back of the store, and there, past firewood and slot machines and bags of feed, was the little booth, the available entertainment chastely covered in paper sleeves reading WHITE, BLACK, or LATINO.
He'd had been feeling...sticky the whole way back to town, and Sam wasn't letting on what had happened after he'd passed out last night, and he didn't want to check himself in a crowded men's room.
A mural of the Statue of Liberty crowded the rifle display, her raised hand painted around the emergency light over the fire alarm. Truthfully he should have felt more beat up, but waking up next to Sam, after almost getting killed last night, well, something in that wolf heart must have done the trick. The mountains pushed against his bootheels all the way back to town, out of that wretched wood and sideways into a world of hidden depths, where the sweet summer air sang a love song you only remember when you're drunk.
He felt changed.
Just then a shout rose from the front of the store. "Sammy?" he called out.
A window smashed, and someone took a shot that ricochetted off a fireworks package, sending smokeballs everywhere in a candy-colored cloud. Dean was about to go for his piece when a hand shot out and yanked him into the booth.
"Mff?" he said, a filthy hand clamping over his mouth.
"Ssshhh..."
He looked up, eyes widening at John's bloody face. He'd seen better days, but if he felt any pain he'd stuffed it away, focused on the job again. Raising his gun at the door, an ad for Kansas Cunt Hunt 7 leering back at them, he took a steady breath, calm enough for both of them, until their chests rose and fell together, waiting as one man.
"Somebody call Animal Control!" shouted the attendant, "I got this one!"
No he doesn't, thought Dean, afraid of what might be out there, even with back-up and more weapons in reach than an NRA calendar girl. More glass was broken, and the attendant began to cough in all the smoke as he reloaded.
"Damn but you're an ugly one." said the attendant, taking another shot.
The smell of John, the contour of his body against his back, made him flush, and he wondered if the old man felt it, his fingers digging protectively into the side of the boy's face.
Dean was about to try and peek over the edge, when he heard the attendant scream something and then pelt toward them, crashing against the booth door.
"No please!"
Dean moved to help, but John kept him close, shaking his head a fraction of an inch. Not enough gun for this fight.
The attendant was about to plea bargain until he was struck in the face, a wet pulpy noise like a hammer hitting a soaked head of lettuce, and all his words turned into vowels.
Dean stayed perfectly still, the air growing thick with blue smoke, and he hoped to hell Sam had made it outside. Now that John was close, some of last night was coming back to him, and he wanted to live long enough to explain himself to the kid.
Sam pressed his hand to Dean's thready heartbeat, like a hungry kid peering in at a window display. He didn't have the strength to carry him down the mountain, and nothing he did could warm or waken him.
He lay down on the wolf coat, wrapping his arms around that sleeping neck, and considered his options. The rangers in town could helicopter Dean to a hospital. Assuming he could find his way back here, that John didn't take tit for tat and shove him in a trunk, and the coyotes didn't snack on Dean in his absence.
The half-eaten heart lay in the leaves nearby, and he mulled over it bitterly. The monks had been right, you could cure a lycanthrope victim that way, but hunting down the original wolf that bit you and getting the heart at all was a rare occurence, and no one knew what happened if a normal person ate one.
Which meant Dean had gone out of his way to prove he was human. To prove to someone.
He kissed the side of Dean's face, the skin blue in the summer heat, and wondered what John had said to convince him.
"Heh...heh...heh..."
Sam looked up. Perched on a prickly branch was the bantam, or what was left of it. The flesh had been stripped away, wattles wobbling on its eyeless skull and wings clicking like folding umbrellas, half-whistling when it spoke.
"Trooo...looove..."
"Leave us alone." Sam whispered, too tired to be angry.
The bird tapped its talons against the tree, surveying his menu options and wondering which would be the least hassle.
"Go away," said Sam, as the bird approached, "There's plenty more the way you came."
But the bird was not interested in stringy old soldiers, and it pecked at his bluejeans, the wolf's blood tacky on his leg. The wolf had been left to rot over night, and was not so tempting a breakfast.
"I don't have anything for you." Sam whispered, to both of them, nose pressed to Dean's hair and wishing he could sleep so easily.
This earned him another thoughtful peck, a black tongue savoring the residual magic the wolf had left. A lycanthrope heart is not just a hunter's prize, it is a great source of power for other creatures, and the bantam knew the boys had it hidden away. Sensing it was near, it lept onto Dean's chest, cocking its head inquisitively.
"Hey, get off!"
It looked up, staring down the length of his gun barrel, or would have if it hadn't eaten it's own eyes. But ghosts didn't need permission.
Opening its mouth, a dark thread floated out, sniffing the air for that precious morsel. Sam stayed his hand, could it know something he didn't?
A tenebrous hand slipped into Dean's mouth, and Sam tensed as the older boy began to sputter, his face turning red around the edges. After an awful minute of silent struggle, he coughed up a string of blood, and the bantam rocked on it's heels, reeling in a sticky lump out of Dean's throat like a toy in a claw machine. Ignoring Sam's whoops of joy, it hopped off the boy to enjoy its catch in the shadow of a honey locust.
"Dean..." he whispered, taking the boy's face in his hands, searching his eyes. Wiping the blood away with his sleeve, he kissed his face, scratching himself on the three day beard, wondering why the hell he was still so cold.
"Come on, say something."
He rolled on top, one hand holding the back of the boy's head as he pressed his mouth to the soft flesh beneath his jaw, his other hand grabbing his waist and tracing a rib with his thumb, smiling when he heard a little intake of breath at his touch. Slowly, he began to get a response, the hands parting to fall at the sides, the gun still gripped instinctually.
"That's it, come back to me."
Sam stripped off his shirt, hands reaching around and flattening against his back, still slack and sleepy. He buried his face in the boy's neck, his mouth wet and needy, eager to go further, but waiting for some gesture of permission. He had worked so hard at setting this scene, flaying the wolf, cleaning the blood, hiding the bodies, just so they could have something nice together, and he wanted some appreciation for his effort.
"I've got everything ready for us," he whispered, "Just like I promised."
He grew hard, the blood stain on his jeans gluing and ungluing like old ductape as he rocked on top, shivering in that cold embrace and desparate to warm it. The boy's lips were soft and yielded to his kiss, and he was afraid no amount of chaste love would revive that sharp tongue. As the haunted bantam had proved, life was an invasive procedure.
Besides, hadn't he been given consent the other day, the last time they'd been together? He could think of no better reunion than to awaken to love on the grave of their antagonist, and breaking their kiss, be began to undress them both.
He was in no hurry, gently pulling his arms from the sleeves, setting the boots next to each other with the laces tucked inside. The sun spilled thru the trees and lit his sleeping face on the earth, bringing out the pinks atop the eyelids.
Sam ran his hands along the black carpet beneath them, mouth watering at the glowing Adonis framed against it. This was the real victory, to literally take comfort from their enemy, and, for Sam at least, to finally close the door on his dirty little habit.
Dean would have done more for preparation. But he thought back to their first time, his impatience to get going, and remembered wanting to be held more than the promise of any sleight of hand. And spitting into his hand, he readied himself and leaned over, hooking his arms around the knees for balance.
He held his breath once he was all the way in, biting down to keep control. It felt amazing, not like any woman, and all the more agreeable since it was what he'd desired back when he'd propositioned the boy in the grimy hotel room months ago. He pulled back, shuddering as his cock threatened to surrender to that crushing heat. He pushed again, all the way to the hilt, grinding his hips and softly lifting them both off the ground, blushing as he closed his eyes and tried to stay on task.
He leaned forward, and though he did not get kissed back, the rest of the body closed down on him, and he moaned into that sleeping mouth like he'd stepped into a bear trap.
"Aw fuck..." he whispered in his ear, "I'm right here, can you feel me?"
He took another experimental pull, dizzy with delight. They would both need time to get used to each other, and he kept up this slow dance for as long as he dared, honored to be the first and eager to do it right. He wanted to make an impression, so that in the lonely weeks ahead when they wouldn't have an opportunity together, this would be the first memory Dean would draw on in his solitary times of need.
It was odd having a silent partner, but it let him focus, to last longer, and really all he needed was that first clench to know he was doing the right thing.
The sweat rolled down his back in his effort. He blotted out anything that might bring him too close, and took it from moment to moment, like a machine, like waves breaking on a cliff. He was just a tool in building a man back to life.
Dean was dreaming. He must have been, this couldn't be real.
He was so tired, and when he felt hands reaching around him, he was happy to give up control, turn off his brain. Let someone else do the thinking. Fuck's sake, he's just killed a wolf with his hands tied behind his back, he deserved some gentle treatment.
And then he was naked, the breeze skating across his bare skin, and a shadow pressed their hands against the inside of his knees. He would have questioned it, the soft, wordless manner in which he was taken, without warning or preamble, except that he'd had this same dream a thousand times, and when they fit together, the pain surprised him into near-waking, and he knew he'd gotten his wish.
Finally. They had been waiting for each other, denying themselves of those who didn't make the cut. He'd completed the mission and now he was to be rewarded. It's what he'd always wanted, to prove he'd been a good and faithful lieutenant, to offer himself as something to be enjoyed, tasted and appreciated and swallowed like an eighteen year bourbon.
He closed down on him, to prove there'd been no one else, that the privelage was his alone. Who could have competed? They were made for each other, horse and rider, gun and hand. The pain was a little distracting, but then his cock was taken in a light grip, working it with a practiced slide, and he could feel it coming, now he would be broken in, now they would be bound, like two burning candles melting into each other.
Sam sped up, feeling Dean's heart beneath his. They were both very close, and he took long, careful strokes to prolong it, the creature in his hand swelling in anticipation. The boy was still sleeping beneath him, eyes closed on some feverish dream, but his mouth was wrapped around a name. He arched his back, the end was near.
Sam didn't want to finish, not yet, he wanted to be available for more should he be wanted, and concentrated on staying hard for his love.
He leaned close, hungry for any little confession that might escape.
"...I waited so long..."
Sam smiled.
"...I've been wanting this..."
His heart turned to water, happiness blooming in his chest, and he knew he wouldn't last now. He went faster, harder, and when his climax soured on the final word, it was oddly made more satisfying because he had claimed it from someone else.
"...John."
Back in the video booth, John and Dean held their breath, listening as the the attendant was stripped and dangled upside down, his ankles held apart like a wishbone under the Statue of Liberty's unfeeling gaze. A shadow circled him, splitting in half so that one end went down his mouth, the other somewhere further down.
"...ugh...don't..." the attendant gasped, regaining consciousness.
Dean squirmed under John's grip, desperate to escape as the man's insides were twisted, his screams an inhuman gargle. Looking down thru the smoke, blood began to seep across the linoleum, down down under the crack of the booth door, and Dean tried to back away from it, flattening himself against John. Some things can't be washed out.
The wolf looked up at them, a rictus grin on it's flayed face.
"Trooooo looooove."