I guess that everybody gets worried, sometimes, that something's going to come after them. In this line of work, I mean. But maybe police officers are afraid of the friends or family of people they've put away tracking them down. Or maybe soldiers are like that with the people they've killed. I'm off-topic. It's two in the morning, I can't sleep, and I've fried my brain with caffeine and electric light. Which, come to think of it, might be part of the reason I can't sleep.
I hear about it all the time. Hunter kills what he thinks is a lone vampire (they're not extinct, Garth is insane), the nest catches up to him a few months later and tears him to pieces. Hunter gets rid of a ghoul terrorizing a town and then gets eaten by its offspring ten years in the future, when they're mature enough to start changing shape. Hunter, busy, teaches a few amateurs how to exorcise a weak demon. It guts him the next time it makes its way out of the Pit.
It's just one of the millions of risks that you have to accept when you start hunting. I've talked to people whose kills number in the thousands, who just aren't that concerned about maybe being hunted down for revenge. They seem to just figure that if it happens, it happens, and they're going to die someday anyway. They're obviously in a much better place than I am, mentally, because I'm not even a real hunter and I'm way more paranoid.
I've performed a lot of torture. More importantly, I've learned a lot. Five years ago, there were a ton of monsters out there with secret weaknesses that they guarded very closely and only one or two seasoned hunters knew about. But now I've exposed dozens of those weaknesses, put them in books and online, and made sure that every idiot with a shotgun full of salt knows exactly how to kill these things. I guess I'm safe here, but if they ever decided to launch a full-scale attack, maybe some of them would get through.
- Personal journal of Sam Winchester
The shards of concrete and the dust that had fallen off of them made a small, ankle-high pile in front of the doorway, haphazard and messy-looking. Sam let go of his crowbar as the little particles in the air began to settle, leaning it up against the wall. He stretched a hand through the doorway, palm up. Dean took it. Sam winced, watching him walk barefoot over the pile of concrete chips with his boots dangling from his free hand, but it really didn't seem to hurt him.
He stopped and hesitated, toes touching the metal threshold of the cell. Which had to hurt, since it was made of iron. The cement crunched under him and Sam winced again.
"What're you waiting for?" he asked, tugging on his hand a little to encourage him to keep moving.
"This was a really stupid move," Dean replied. "Not every demon is as warm and cuddly as I am. What if you've gotta put one of them away?"
"I'll use a devil's trap," Sam replied. "Which reminds me. I've gotta take care of the ones in front of the doors."
"Yeah, okay. I guess that'll work," Dean conceded. "Second thing, though. Before I come out." Their clothes were rolled up into a bundle under his arm, and he adjusted it so that it wouldn't fall into the dust. "Are you sure about this?"
Sam stared at Dean, not afraid to make eye contact. He looked completely serious. And maybe a little concerned, too, which Sam could understand. This was kind of a big step. Especially given how the two of them had acted towards each other when Dean had first been delivered to Sam. But despite that understanding, he still asked, "You're kidding, right?"
"Hey. Look, Sammy." Dean let go of Sam's hand so he could raise both of his own in a placating gesture. "All I know is that you and me had sex, and I hadn't even stopped seeing stars when you went got a freaking crowbar outta your umbrella stand and started smashing up my floor. Naked." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, but the whole thing just kinda screams 'impulsive' to me. And maybe 'insane,' too. Did fucking me break your brain or something?"
"No," Sam snapped. He didn't really appreciate being called crazy by the guy whose ass he'd just shot his load into. Mostly because the act had been a lot more tender and meaningful than those terms suggested. "I…of course I'm sure, Dean. We just…" He trailed off. He got the feeling that the demon would make fun of him if he said "made love," but saying anything else would cheapen what they had just done.
"Knocked boots," Dean supplied. He must not have had the same problem. "Figuratively, I mean. Since you're a filthy savage who runs around barefoot all the time and I took mine off." He raised a hand and put it on the left side of his chest, making his eyes big and soulful as he did so. "Can that bleeding heart of yours just not stand the thought of locking up somebody you just fucked into the floor of your creepy cell?"
"So sex means something to me," Sam replied, starting to get frustrated. "That a crime?"
"No, no, I get you," Dean assured with a shake of his head. "My first time was special, too."
"It wasn't really – " It was his first time going all the way with another guy, but it wasn't his first time having sex. Sam abruptly decided to give up on explaining that to Dean, though. It wasn't worth it. "Never mind." He shook his own head, hair flopping softly. "I know I'm sure about letting you out of here. There's nothing I can do to take it back, is there? The Circle's broken – it's ruined." And the salt was scattered, and he was sure that the devil's trap and the sigils on the walls and the doorframe wouldn't hold Dean for long. Hesitantly, Sam held out his hand to Dean again. "Yeah. I want you out because I had sex with you. But that's not the only reason. It's just the latest one."
Dean took his hand, grip firm and blazing with warmth that Sam still couldn't get over, and this time, he left the cell without stopping once. Nothing seemed to hold him back at all. Almost as soon as he was out, the bracelets of the handcuffs on his wrists clacked open and fell to the ground. Sam let go of him after that, but Dean surprised him by dropping his boots and their clothes on top of the cuffs and pulling him into a deliciously tight hug. Sam's eyes fell closed as Dean nuzzled into his hair.
"Meant a lot to me, too." He mumbled it out, even though there was no one around who could possibly hear him but Sam. "Didn't you wonder why I was saying all those girly things?"
"I guess I kinda just assumed that that was what you did during sex," Sam replied, and grinned when Dean pretty much snorted into his ear.
"Maybe you do," he said defiantly. "You're a pussy like that." He stopped hugging Sam but didn't let go of him, taking hold of one of his hands as he bet down to pick their stuff back up. "C'mon. Let's go get cleaned up. And then I guess I better feed you something. How many times a day do you eat?"
"Uh, three, usually," Sam replied, taken aback by the question until he remembered that Dean hadn't been human for, from his perspective, over three thousand years. That was more than enough time to forget something as trivial as how many times a day a living person needed to eat. "I need to get rid of those devil's traps before we take a shower, though."
"You don't have to worry about 'em," Dean replied, shaking his head. "I'm a Knight. Ordinary devil's traps don't bother me unless I physically walk into them – and even then not for very long. I can teleport over them just fine." He cleared his throat. "Not outta them, though. And Circles of Solomon still trip me up no matter what."
Right, he could teleport now. Because Sam had let him out. "That's pretty useful."
Dean grinned, and then hot water hit Sam in the face. He blinked and gasped in shock, turning instinctively away from the spray, and pulled his hand out of Dean's in order to wipe his heavy, wet hair out of his eyes. As soon as he could see, he was greeted by pale beige tiles and grout that was getting a little too mildew for its own good. He stretched out his left hand, and met the smooth, warm glass of a frosted door. He was in his shower, and the water that was currently pounding into his upper back was the perfect temperature.
"Never been teleported before?" Dean asked cheerfully. Sam could hear him smiling.
"Of course not," Sam replied. He couldn't do it himself and he'd never met anything he'd feel good about letting do it for him. Demons, angels, deities, demigods, witches – not exactly trustworthy types.
"Well, trust me, it's way easier with me than it'd be with an angel," Dena told him. "Crazy shit comes off their wings when they're flying. It'd really screw you up – especially your plumbing, if you know what I mean." Sam heard him smacking his own stomach. He turned around to look at him through a mist of steam and spraying water.
"I needed to know that," he replied, reaching for the bottle of shampoo that he'd used to share with Vaughn. "Lemme wash your hair. It's gross."
Dean did, dipping his head to make it easier for him even though Sam was tall enough not to need it. As soon as his short hair had been lathered and rinsed four times, the suds finally coming out white and clean on that last one, he returned the favor. He was a little confused at first by all the different types of soap and conditioner, but he seemed to have no trouble at all remembering how to wash someone. He held Sam against him, back to chest, with one arm wrapped around him at shoulder level, and used the other hand to gentle and slowly scrub his torso down with a soapy washcloth. Hot water poured down them the whole time.
Sam felt like a little kid, having somebody else wash him like this, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He was being taken care of. He felt really, truly safe, for the first time in…well, seven years, probably. He tipped his head forward as Dean started on his hair, closing his eyes tightly so that he could avoid having soap run into them.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean spoke up all of a sudden. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise that the shower was making. His hand didn't stop moving in the soapy mass of Sam's hair, so Sam didn't open his eyes.
"Yeah?" he asked, chancing a mouthful of water. It didn't taste like shampoo – success.
"Look, I…I'm sorry I wouldn't tell you about the Trials." His fingernails scraped gently against Sam's scalp. "That's what they're called. The things you've gotta do to close the Gates. The Trials."
Sam turned his head to the side. He still didn't open his eyes, but now Dean could see half of his face, and he could talk directly to him.
"Could you tell me what the last one is now?" he asked quietly. Not too quietly, though. Dean wouldn't have been able to hear him otherwise. "The one you said was impossible?"
Dean hesitated, then sighed, and Sam felt him shake his head as he told him, "I'd really rather not, Sam."
Sam couldn't stop the little twinge of frustration that reverberated through him at Dean's answer. He knew that it was selfish of him. Or more than selfish, actually, since he'd just barely bullied Dean into participating into a memory spell that had practically given him a nervous breakdown. He should be content with the fact that Dean knew who he was now. If he said that the last of the Trials was impossible, then it probably was. Sam should leave it alone.
But he felt his mouth opening anyway, and realized (with a sense of dismay) that he was about to start whining. Then, though, sudden insight knocked into place in his head, shutting him up before he could even take a steam-filled breath.
"They came after you because you knew how to do it," he said, mostly just thinking out loud. Dean stopped scrubbing his hair and just let the water rinse it clean. "Are you trying to protect me? D'you think it'll put a target on my back if I know how to close the Gates?"
"Uh, no, I'm pretty sure you've already got a target on your back, Sam," Dean replied. He swept Sam's wet hair up and out of his face with one easy movement, and Sam opened his eyes so that he could look at them. "I'm not trying to protect you. You've already got a shitload of dirt on demons and Knights and Hell and everything else like that – how could a little more information possibly make it worse?" He picked up the conditioner that Sam had pointed out to him earlier. The bottle, almost empty, squelched obnoxiously when he squeezed some out into his hand; Sam would have to put that on Garth's list later. "You're a huge threat. I've heard your name before, from the dumb grunts that Alastair has me commanding. The demons would've taken you out even before you ever met me – if they just could've figured out how to get to you."
Wasn't that comforting. Before horror and panic could set in at that information, Sam pointed out, "My wards'd gotten pretty weak."
"Strong enough to keep most out," Dean replied. "The team that came for me had a hell of a time getting in as it was." He smirked. "And you've got a pretty badass bodyguard now. Nothing to worry about."
Sam snorted, but really, Dean was probably the best security measure he could possibly have. As a demon, sure, he was vulnerable to a lot of stuff, but as a Knight of Hell, he was also extremely tough and very powerful. Sam would like to see a ghoul or a werewolf try to get past him.
"So. I can tell that you're about thirty seconds away from getting that thing about the Gates back in your head," Dean said, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. "And then you're gonna start pestering me about it again, I can just hear you now." Dean let his voice jump a few octaves, into a ridiculous falsetto. "'Oh, Dean, if you're not trying to protect me, then of course you can tell me what the last Trial is!'"
"I don't sound like that!" Sam snapped, embarrassed. He wondered if Dean had a seemingly-constant need to interrupt every tender moment they had by making fun of him because he was a demon, or if he'd just been a jerk back when he was human, too.
"Okay, fine, you don't sound like that," Dean easily conceded. "But I'm still not gonna tell you what the last Trial is. Or the first two, for that matter. So don't even bother asking." He shook his head, and suddenly looked tired as the hot water sprayed across his face. Old, too, much older than his physical twenty-eight years. "I just don't wanna talk about it, Sam. I don't wanna think about what happened to me because of what I tried to do. Maybe I'd let you ask me about it if I thought that there was some way for it to work, and if I knew that having you finish all of what you needed to do wouldn't rip me away from you." He reached over and shut the water off. Sam let him, since they were both clean now. "But I don't know that. So I won't tell you."
As far as explanations went, Sam had to admit that that was a pretty good one. He pushed open the door and stepped out of the tiled cubicle, water pattering off of his body and onto the floor as he reached for a couple of towels. He handed one to Dean after pulling them off their rack.
"And I don't want you to get hurt, either," Dean added, knotting the towel loosely around his hips after a cursory wipe of his entire body. His damp skin glistened in the midafternoon sunlight coming in through the bathroom's small window. "Those Trials were tough. Physically, I mean. They took a lot outta me, and I was in perfect physical shape. You, on the other hand…" He gestured vaguely to Sam's bad leg. Since he was wearing nothing but a towel, the heavy scarring and wasted muscle of his calf was fully visible.
"So you won't tell me how to close the Gates of Hell because I'm crippled," Sam summarized. He would have folded his arms over his chest, if he hadn't been holding his towel up with both hands.
"Yeah, that's one of the reasons," Dean agreed readily. "You're not gonna guilt this outta me. I have absolutely no conscience."
"You're a real jerk," Sam told him.
"Well, you're kind of a bitch," Dean replied. "Guess we even each other out, right?"
They dressed. Sam's clothes were still a little too big on Dean, but not ridiculously so. Then Dean herded him into the kitchen and made him eat while their hair dried from the shower. A ham sandwich, two apples, and a tall glass of ice water – Dean was very adamant that he get enough to eat, and that it all be good food. He seemed to be taking the idea of looking after his human lover very seriously, and Sam could hardly complain. It was probably good for him to have a babysitter.
Once he'd eaten, Dean took him back to the bedroom and commanded him to take his pants off. Thinking that he wanted to have sex again, Sam obeyed reluctantly (he was tired), but it turned out that that wasn't what he had in mind. He somehow found Sam's lotion, then they sat on his bed with Sam's leg in Dean's lap, and he spent the next ninety minutes massaging the pain and tension out of the heavily damaged area.
"You should get some of that stuff that gets, like, hot when you start rubbing it on," Dean said. "I saw a commercial for it. That'd be real good."
"Thought about it," Sam said drowsily. This might actually feel better than the sex had.
"Wish you had a bathtub," Dean went on. "Or a hot tub. Somewhere you could soak this – I think that that'd help you a lot."
"Welp," Sam replied, "hate to break it to you, but I'm probably not gonna get either of those anytime soon."
"Yeah, I didn't think so," Dean replied. "You little masochist, you." He fell silent for a while, concentrating on something up by Sam's knee. It hurt when he dug his fingers into it, prompting a breathless little gasp from Sam, but he forgave him for it fairly quickly, because it felt so good when it relaxed away into nothing. "Christ, Sam, you're tighter than a pair of goddamn skinny jeans down in here…this is why it hurts so bad."
"When did you become a physical therapist?" Sam asked, shaking his head back and forth on the pillow that supported it.
"Lotta wounded in Hell," Dean replied neutrally, and Sam decided that he probably shouldn't try to press him into elaborating on that.
By the time that Dean finally decided that he was done with his leg, Sam was a warm puddle of sleepiness and contentment. He didn't object at all when Dean maneuvered him under the covers of his bed and then basically tucked him in. He kept his eyes closed as a callused hand swept gently over his hair and smoothed it back.
"You get some rest," Dean murmured to him. "Kind of been a big day for both of us. I'll keep watch, don't worry. You'll be safe."