The horizon is orange and red and grey, the night competing with the sun and winning. Dean's eyes adjust as the sky becomes just boring black, clouds covering any stars worth seeing. He's pulled off at a Motel 6. Let Dad fend for himself tonight; Dean feels too grumpy for company anyway. The metal railing of the second story has been painted red but it's peeling and a grey/green shows beneath that. It's not exactly a scenic spot, but Dean's just here to use the bed, not to send postcards.
He flips open his cell phone and rings Sam before he has time to debate whether or not it's a good idea in his current bad mood. Turns out that it's a great idea, because listening to Sam immediately start bitching cheers him immensely.
"I am so sick of driving!"
"Oh boo freakin' hoo. Forgive my complete lack of sympathy." His elbow is too sharp for the metal railing and instead of leaning on it, he decides to sit down there on the hard concrete of the building and hang his legs through the vertical bars. This kind of works, but it's also rather pinchy because he's too large for it.
"I forgive you," jokes Sam. "About the only thing that kept me from driving the Ram off a bridge was flashing back to Chal and your dad."
"Oh god, that was the funniest damned thing I've ever heard! And you have got to thank your mom for giving me something I can use against dad until I'm old and gray."
"I'll pass it on." Dean hears a creak and he wonders what Sam is doing. "So, our parents are a thing now. That's weird right?"
Dean agrees that it is weird, but it's also awesome because his dad has never had a real girlfriend, just occasional road flings that he's been pretty discreet about. Considering Chal's inexperience, it's probably good for her too. "Kinda weird, I guess. Does that make what we did incest? If so, that's kind of hot. I could get on board with the whole step-brother action thing."
Sam laughs. "That's gross, dude. Why do only ever think with your dick? Besides, they're dating, not married."
"It could happen. Chalendra Winchester has a nice ring to it."
"The family that hunts together… No, that's just weird. Your dad is not allowed to marry my mom."
"Why not?" Dean thinks his dad is probably too good for Chal, drinking problem or not, but that could just be a biased familial opinion. He's almost hurt to hear Sam imply otherwise.
"Well, for starters, we'd have to stop."
Dean grins, glad that Sam is showing reluctance about that. He hears the creak again. "What is that sound?" he asks, not letting the last thing Sam has said drift from his mind, but unable to keep not knowing.
"Oh." The sound stops. "You can hear that?"
"Yeah, what the hell is it?"
"Uh, nothing."
"Sammy…."
"It's the bed." Dean hears the embarrassment but doesn't understand it.
"What are you doing to it?"
Sam is quiet for a really long time, but Dean has learned that if he just waits long enough, he'll answer. "Just kind of walking on it."
Dean imagines Sam, large bare feet treading across the hotel mattress, an occasional bounce to his step making it squeak. "Sam… are you jumping on the bed?"
"Shut up."
Dean smiles.
Sam stands in front of the black-eyed priest and though his back is to Dean, the expression of ice cold detachment in his hazel eyes is perfectly visible. That's because this Sam is part memory and part dream, living breathing specter created from fresh events and deep-seated fantasies, emerging here in the seconds after waking, the moments after a touch below warm blankets, testing rigidity borne of sleep and youth and this image of Sam. Sam, arm raised making the demon scream, smoke struggling to get clear of the host, to return to a pain-free non-corporeal state.
"I don't make deals with demons." Dean hears. Again, the careless cold, like the lick of an ice cube on his neck and the hot pull of his groin as his dick responds to the pitiless voice.
Sam's lips are a sneer. Apathetic disgust, such a volatile combination for Dean's lust. He's asleep, dreaming, he knows it, can feel his own hand covering his stiff cock even as he feels the hard wooden chair, the one that isn't really there, under his ass, the one he's bound to with chains one-tenth as cold as Sam's voice. He half-heartedly struggles against them. They're warded, devil's traps etched into their tiny links.
Dean cries out to Sam, "Don't hurt me! I'll do anything you say!" His half-unconscious mind sees no cliché in his words, knows only that phantom Sam, the dominating Sam that can control demons with will alone, likes it.
"Anything?" Sam asks. His eyebrow rises.
Dean's so hot under his blanket, under the chains, under that look of Sam's
"Please," Dean begs. "I want to serve you."
Sam's face appears, faster than an eye blink, inches from Dean's. The cold eyes are a fire. "It doesn't matter what you want."
Dean whimpers. His hand moves, fisting his dick.
"Because you will serve me." The hand that extracted Father Thomas rises and even though he's feet away, Dean feels Sam's fingers around his throat. Dean gasps for breath, gasps for the orgasm, reaches for it with all he's got. "You exist to please me."
Dean is coming awake and coming in his hand and Sam is watching and his upper body is lifting off the bed and the chains drag his wrists and he's inhaling and can't breathe because he's being choked or because this is the most intense orgasm of his life. His body shudders and he thrusts into his desperately stroking hand.
He doesn't want to be awake, would much rather keep that dream, just live in it all the time, but he is awake, the dream fading to memory, and the wet of his sweat and his come are uncomfortable. He kicks off the blanket and breathes roughly, hand lying in the glop between his legs.
"Goddamn," Dean says to the room. To Sam, absent though he may be, Sam says, "Gotta give you credit for that one, Kiddo." After wiping his hand on the sheet, he leans over and types out a message on his phone.
Dedicated today's wank to you.
Thanks? I'm flattered?
The yellow line stalks him, persistently appearing behind his eyelids as he settles in for his second night's sleep on the road. Cujo licks her butt with gusto beside him. The sheets on the bed are over-starched and reek of bleach. It shouldn't be possible to be less comfortable somewhere than a truck, but he is. In the truck, he has purpose. He's driving to his new home in Texas and before that, his old home to liberate his waheela. Here in this Best Western, he's just a guy needing a break from the yellow line.
Sam climbs out of bed and pulls his cell phone off the charger.
"You awake?" he texts.
While he waits, he scratches behind Cujo's ears. He'd been a stranger to her all over again when he showed up at the shed. Her foolish fluffy brain had been unable to retain the memory of his scent after only six days apart. She'd growled like the engine of a Vespa and bit his hand, not quite the gratitude he'd expected after driving 800 miles to collect her. He'd dropped her into the passenger seat which she quickly climbed underneath and just drove, too bitter about her unfriendly reception to bother trying to comfort her. It hadn't even taken an hour before she was on the seat watching the cars go by with curious pink eyes. Now she seemed completely happy to be curled up next to him, all fear departed.
Sam debates calling Dean, but it's late and he doesn't want to be responsible for Dean bringing anything less than his A game to a demon fight. Instead, he reads Margaret Weis for an hour and then sleeps shallowly until morning.
The sound of a text message wakes him.
I am now. What's going on?
Just couldn't sleep. No prob.
Aw, wanted a bedtime story?
And he hears from Dean again in the afternoon.
Fried pickles rock.
I'm not big on fried food.
Heathen.
These small contacts help keep him sane while he's driving, but by nightfall even Cujo seems just plain old done with being on the road. He painstakingly types out a message to Dean while driving, which he's sure that Chal would not appreciate.
How do you stand this? It's all yellow line all day.
Cause I'm not a whiny bitch.
Music.
Still bored.
The ringing of Sam's phone is the best sound he's ever heard, especially since he figures that it's Dean calling him. He's right.
"How can you be bored already? You've been driving, what, three days?"
"Not all of us are drifters," Sam says, cradling the phone with one hand and the wheel with the other. He wonders, briefly, if he could steer the wheel with his powers, but decides that it isn't worth risking his life to try it out.
"Obviously."
"So did you just call to rag on me?" It's playful and pleasant. Sam's never known anyone that's made it just so easy to be around. He and Chal have good communication, but that's more about honesty and familiarity, less about this mutual respect that they seem to have. Yeah, Dean calls him "kid" and stuff, but when they'd fought side by side, he'd felt that they were working together like partners.
"Nope. I'm going to keep you from being bored."
"So, you're going to put someone else on?" Sam says with a grin.
"It's me or nothin'."
"I suppose I'll take it."
Dean asks, "So what are you wearing?"
Sam doesn't laugh, quickly replies, "A hoop skirt."
"Sexy. Do-si- do cowgirl!"
"You're an idiot." Still, Sam grins. A sign advertising amazing pie off the next exit catches Sam's attention.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm wearing?"
"You're wearing jeans and a black shirt, possibly with your leather jacket over it," guesses Sam.
"Wrong. Try again."
He figures this should be fairly easy to figure out, that he probably wasn't that far off with his last guess. "Okay, jeans and a blue shirt.
"Nope. That's too much clothing. Try again."
"Just jeans, no shirt."
"Closer," Dean says, voice dropping lower.
Sam doesn't know how he's caught so by surprise by the turn of this phone call after what happened the last time that they were alone together, but he is. "You're calling me in your underwear?
"Closer." Sam hasn't had the opportunity to see Dean naked, but figures it's a sight worth seeing. He imagines Dean's broad shoulders, thinks that his back must look incredible, and his ass, probably his chest too; the mental list of probably amazing body parts lengthens as his imagination runs away with itself. "Hello?"
"I'm here, just kind of dealing with that visual." So is the steering wheel, since his brain can't seem to handle driving and picturing Dean naked.
"You know I'm messing with you right?"
"I know, but it's still a nice thought."
"Yeah? Like the thought of me talking to you with my dick hanging out?"
Sam doesn't want to encourage Dean's ego, but he does want to encourage him to talk more about his dick. "If I said yes, you'd say "Of course, cause my dick is awesome.""
"But I'd still like to hear you say it."
"Yeah, I like the thought," Sam admits.
"Of course, my dick is awesome. What about you, Sammy? What would it take to get your dick out?" Dean's tone is mischievous. The tone and the words are having the effect that he knows Dean is going for.
"I'm driving."
That should put an end to the conversation, but this is Dean and Sam is already learning that the man is persistent. "So what? Haven't you ever rubbed one out while driving?
"Can't say that I have."
"You wanna?"
Sam doesn't know why Dean is so eager, doesn't understand how he has managed to catch Dean's attention. It isn't that Sam has low self-esteem, but he's still in high school and loves Star Wars and Dean is just so, Dean. "I don't know."
"You tasted amazing. I didn't tell you at the time, but your dick is perfect for sucking on. Nice big head. Do you remember the way it would catch on my mouth when I moved off it?" Oh god, Dean was talking dirty to him. Sam sneaks a peek at the empty lane beside him before sliding a hand over his jeans. A few words and he's already getting hard. "That's cause of that nice mushroom head you've got on it. You're ribbed for pleasure. I could have sucked on you all night, might've too if it hadn't been for the folks. I think you'd like it if I spent all night on your cock. My knees would get all sore and my hand would cramp up just for you."
Sam squeezes himself, imagination far too vivid to be doing this while driving. He pulls off to the side of the road, Dean's words still standing out, even while he does so.
"I'd spend so long on that fat head of yours that my lips would get sore and I'd want to take a break but you wouldn't let me. You'd shove your cock down my throat, make me gag, like you did when you came. I loved that so fucking much, having your hands on me, making me take you down my throat. You could do that to me again. You could do it harder. Your fingers on the back of my head, just yanking me down, using my mouth just like you wanted. I fucking loved the feel of your come hitting the back of my throat. I didn't care that I couldn't breathe. I kinda liked that I couldn't. It was like I was going to die going down on you, like the last thing I was ever gonna do. The last thing I was ever gonna taste was your come.
"Is your dick out, Sammy?"
"Not yet," Sam admits. He turns off the engine. Cujo perks up, thinking they're going to get out of the car for a while. He tries his best to ignore her gaze, grabs his coat from the back of the passenger seat instead.
"What are you waiting for?" Dean asks.
"I haven't decided if I want to."
"You want to," Dean says, certainty nearly a command.
"Yeah?"
"Want me to beg for it, Sammy? I will. Please Sam, please get your cock out. I want to put my mouth on you."
Sam's embarrassed. He looks around the empty patch of road, tents the jacket over his lap. "I can't believe I'm doing this."
"Not doin' anything, Sam. You're just letting me serve you. You just want me to get you off."
"Yeah," sighs Sam. His finger yanks down on the zipper of his jeans. He adjusts, fiddling with the front of his boxers, popping his warm dick out, still hidden by jacket. He still feels exposed.
"You out?"
"Yeah."
"I knew you'd cave," boasts Dean.
"Dean, keep going."
"Yes, master." The two words shouldn't make his cock twitch, but they do. What gets Sam Ackles off? He likes hearing a hot guy call him master.
"You want me to tell you why I dedicated my wank to you yesterday? Tell you what kind of things you were doing to me while I was sleeping? Oh, Sammy, you were wicked, had me all bound up like that demon in Clever. The chains were cold, but not even close to as cold as your voice. God, you were hot like that, when you were interrogating that demon."
Sam's grip is loose, waiting for Dean to really get going before going to town on his cock. He's so worked up, but he's caught off guards by the implications of what Dean is saying. He asks, incredulous, "Me torturing demons gets you hot?"
"It fucking made me crazy. I wanted to be the one in that chair. I wanted you to be speaking to me like that, like you could fucking snuff me out with a thought."
"That's kind of messed up, Dean," says Sam, hand slowing on his dick. He doesn't want to be a buzz kill for this awesome impromptu phone sex, but between what he's saying now and what he's said earlier, it seems like Dean is mixing up foreplay and suicide.
"You don't like being powerful?"
"I'm not powerful."
"Yeah, you are. You do it really well too. The way you gave that thing no room for argument, then the way you showed no mercy."
Sam hasn't thought much about the demon-related part of the hunting trip, has been way too caught up in the aftermath, reminiscing about Dean's mouth. It's surprising to hear how his hunting looks from the outside and he worries suddenly about how he's coming across as cruel to Dean who had been, apparently, an attentive witness. Demons are not deserving of mercy. They are twisted, depraved, murderers and rapists, and collectors of souls. He would no more think to show one mercy than he would to do the kinds of things that they do, hurt the people they take as victims. "It was just a demon," he explains.
"Oh, I'm not saying otherwise. I am talking about you, Sammy. You were amazing." Sam wonders if it's appropriate to say thank you, but the compliment is too much, acknowledging it would only make him seem like an ego-maniac.
"And you want me to be cold to you?" he asks, steering the conversation back to what had led him to the side of the road, away from the praise that makes him uncomfortable, towards what makes him feel aroused. "You… you get off on that?"
"Have and will. I want to see you do it again. I want you to do it to me. Just use me for hours. Just use me for a while, fuck my throat, and then stop. You know, I could wait on my knees for you until you wanted me again. You could draw or something, come and put your hard dick in my mouth and then go back to drawing. I could just wait there, like a sex toy for you, ready anytime."
He can picture it, the mixture of memory and imagination that Dean uses. He wants to do it again, wants to be rougher like Dean craves. He can feel the smooth wet mouth, hear the gagging sounds. His hand fists his cock, the jacket moving up and down, and Sam closes his eyes, pictures those green eyes looking up at him from between his legs. "What else can I do, Dean?"
"You can do whatever you want to me. You want to fuck my ass, Sammy? You can. Your dick would feel amazing in my ass. Bet that nice big head would stretch me out good. Can you see it? The head of your dick pushing inside of me? I'd be all tight and warm and I wouldn't make you wear a rubber. You'd feel every fucking part of me and I'd be begging you for more, begging you to fuck me hard, fuck me raw so that I couldn't sit down the next day. And you'd fill me up good too, I know it. You came so much in my mouth and my throat. Want you to do that to my ass too, Sammy. I want you to come from that beautiful cock of yours as deep inside of me as you can, want to feel your balls slapping against me as they give me every fucking ounce they have."
The words, more delicious than the sweetest pie, twist Sam's insides, make his cock ache. He pants, feeling close already, the suddenness and the naughtiness of doing this in the car on a highway flaring his lust.
"You getting close, Sammy? We've gotta work on that stamina. How are you supposed to make me sore if you come too fast? You've got to use me for hours."
"Dean… tell me…"
"Anything." Sam believes it.
"Tell me you like this too."
"Oh Sam, I fucking love this too. My dick's so hard and I'm getting my jeans all wet thinking about you. I want to hear you come, gonna remember the sound and play it back when I come tonight. I'm gonna come thinking about this. Gonna call your name." Sam moans, can't resist it. He's getting so close, balls tightening, legs clenching. "That's it, Sammy, come for me. Gonna call your name while I come so hard. Yeah. That's it. Such hot sounds. Yeah, Sam, just like that."
Sam's orgasm is quick and mild, a kiss on the cheek before work, but his body still exhales and relaxes. His eyes are closed and he smiles. He'd been way too tense before.
"You still on the right side of the road?" asks Dean.
"I pulled off."
"See? You are a genius."
Sam raises his hand from the sticky mess under the jacket. "A really gross genius," he says. He uses the jacket to wipe himself off. He'll throw it in the wash as soon as he gets to the new house.
"I'd offer to lick it up for ya, but you're a bit far away for that."
Sam starts to return the jacket to the seat, but Cujo is way too alert and he knows that if he sets it down, she'll start sniffing at it. He decides to shove it under his seat instead. "Cujo was watching too. That was weirding me out." Honestly, he'd only noticed it at first, but he doesn't say this.
"Ew. Dog voyeurism. At least she didn't…"
Sam interrupts. "Don't… even…"
"Ha! Okay then. Well, I should probably get back inside." Sam thinks it's strange how quickly Dean's voice changes from phone sex hotline to nonchalant bro. For his part, Sam's still a little out of breath.
"Where are you?"
"Impala. I was inside a police station when you texted."
"You are sitting outside a police station?"
"Yep."
Sam is horrified on Dean's behalf since it doesn't seem to bother Dean in the least. "And you said all that right there?"
"My windows are rolled up," Dean says defensively. Then, after a pause, he adds, "Well, most of my windows."
"Goodbye freak."
"See ya."
The call ends and Sam looks over at Cujo. "Might as well walk you," he says to her. She wiggles.
The Texas Red Oak in their front yard is the perfect spot to play with bugs. Chalendra is sitting in its shade holding a stick that she occasionally turns into an ant bridge. The colony is confused, but responds quickly to the change in situation as all good soldiers do. It makes her miss her fellow angels, specifically her garrison, and she wonders again how they are, what they are doing, if they hate her for falling. She hadn't given much thought to fallen angels before she became one, so they probably don't think of her much at all.
Gloomy thoughts of the past vanish when Sam pulls up to the curb. She drops the stick and jumps up to greet him. She reaches for him before he's even all the way out of the car, wrapping her arms around him and holding on tightly. "Hey, Chal," he says low in her ear. They haven't made names for themselves yet, had prioritized it behind hunting with the Winchesters, and he's clever enough not to call out her real name.
"Seeing you makes me happy!" she says. Cujo whines from inside the car, nervous about the goings on or perhaps jealous that she's not getting any attention. "And you, Jo." She reaches in and snatches up the struggling waheela cub that snaps at her, is too young to properly tell friend from foe. A few scritches on a white fluffy belly and Chal is friend again. "I have a new leash and a collar for you," Chal says to Cujo who looks at her uncomprehending but excited.
"Well, this is it huh? I love the tree."
"It's a Texas Red Oak, quercus buckleyi." She looks at the tree longingly. "I wish I could ask it its tale."
She says things like that sometimes, usually about animals, and Sam wonders just how often angels need to be tree whisperers. He barely remembers her when she still had grace, but he doesn't need to imagine her having conversations with plants because she still does, even if they are now one-sided.
It takes four trips to bring everything in from the truck as he'd grabbed a few stray things from the shed that they might need before dismantling it and taking it to the junkyard where no one would connect the Ackleses with the metal scrap painted with devil's trap and Enochian sigils. The house is big with single paned windows, almost farmhouse in appearance. To his consternation, he finds that his room is not actually a room, but a loft, one wall about belly button height. He climbs the short set of stairs that leads up to the room, sets down the last trip of stuff, his bags, and cries out, "Chal, this isn't even a room!"
She doesn't call back, but comes to him holding a collar and a wild, angry monster dog with wet fur. He has to hand it to her; she wastes no time in performing unpleasant tasks. "What do you believe it to be?" she asks. Cujo snorts and struggles.
"Privacy, Chal, it's important!"
"Oh," she says, comprehension just peeking in. "You're unhappy about the walls not reaching the ceiling!"
"Yeah, Chal!"
Cujo makes a desperate attempt at freedom and manages to wriggle out of Chal's hands, racing off down the hallway, probably to pee on things. "Cujo!" yells Chal. Her hands are wet and coated in fur. "Our waheela is loose."
Sam rolls his eyes. He looks around the room. "What about my music? You complained about that in Michigan and I had walls in Michigan."
"I already set things up in the room I claimed as my own, but if you want to negotiate for it, I can sit down and do that." She eyes the boxes stacked in his room and adds, "Though I don't want to."
He just wants to sleep and seeing his own bed, not one of those stinky stiff unhygienic hotel mattresses, makes him all the more eager. "Never mind, Chal. It's fine. I'll just deal with it for another year." He lands face first on the bed, momentum making him bounce a bit. The linens smell like home, that indescribable whatever that composes a scent he can only smell for a brief period of time when returning somewhere else; soon the scent will become invisible as it coats his body and he loses the ability to smell it.
"Are you sure? I would rather negotiate it now before having you unpack your boxes."
"Chal!" he whines. "I just wanna sleep." Maybe he'll feel like fighting the issue when he wakes up, but he doesn't think so. It's actually kind of neat to have a loft; he can see down into the living room from up here. He'll be like Sauron keeping an eye on the middle-earth that is the Ackles home.
He thanks her when she turns off the light. Of course, the room is still illuminated from the living room below and it's too bright. "Chal! Can you get the downstairs light too?" he yells. Within moments, it grows darker again in the room. Now the remaining house lights barely reach his room, like having a nightlight. He shuffles underneath the blanket, shimmies out of his jeans, and grips his pillow tightly. When he closes his eyes, the yellow line appears again, a lurking boogeyman. He growls at it. This apparently is waheela-speak for "come here" because within seconds, Cujo is next to him on the bed. Her nose tickles where it touches his ear and then his cheek. When he raises his hand to pet her, she ducks away, still not as domesticated as a normal puppy, but she also doesn't go far. By the time he falls asleep, she has too, the little black pads of her paws pressed against his forehead.
The next few weeks are boxes and sketchpads and dog treats and Dean's voice swirling into a routine as comforting as Sam has ever known. The sun seeks him out, finding him when he sits beneath the Red Oak (which Chal has taken to calling Cardinal Richelieu) with his hands full of another Star Wars novel or when he's walking Cujo in the park, making up some nonsense about rare Alaskan breeds when they gush, "Just like a little bear!" at his stranger-friendly waheela cub. His skin darkens. He covers the fuse box in his room with a Led Zeppelin poster and draws Nick dying, his body an eggshell cracking under the pressure of Lucifer's essence. Sam propels a bullet through a Budweiser bottle with only his mind and Chal makes him peach pie. He gets the Hunter comic scanned at Kinko's and sends them to Dmonhunter and Dean asks questions, offers enough praise to make Sam feel like Todd McFarlane. Then the praise turns into phone sex, promises that make his blood rush, his needs manifested as wicked words and his name on Dean's lips.
Sam is happy.
Chal has become so accustomed to Sam's more upbeat mood, that when he shuffles into the kitchen with hair askew and eyes downcast and hard, she asks if he's feeling ill. When he snaps at her to leave him alone, she's brought forcefully back to perpetually angry Sam, the Sam who had yet to meet Dean Winchester. She wants to shake him out of the relapse, to jostle him until his eyes light up with laughter.
"Did something happen with Dean?" she asks.
He turns on her, mouth animated by loathing. He holds the blue and white milk carton like a weapon. "Not everything is about Dean! Or John! God, you can't think about anything but the Winchesters these days!"
Whether the words sting or not, she is no punching bag for his temper's focus. "Do not disrespect me," she says, voice cooler than she feels, heart pounding with self-defensive startled anger.
The sound of the milk carton slamming against the wall behind her back reaches her ears before her eyes can make sense of the movement of Sam's hand. Milk splashes against her upper arm, though most gurgles out of the misshapen box, bleeding out onto the tile like a gunshot victim.
Sam's face is has never been cruel, even in moments of anger. The corners of his lips are too eager to curl upwards and his eyes too wide show too much the kind nature of his heart. But it is cruel now, the look he gives her before leaving kitchen, leaving Chal with her confusion and sadness.
When Cujo bites her as she leashes the waheela cub, who is normally overjoyed to be going for a walk, Chal decides to put the pup into Bloodlust quarantine now rather than waiting until right before they leave for the movies. The new moon won't rise for at least eight more hours, but Chal feels like having to handle one more act of aggression today will break the camel's back, her nerves still raw from the unexpected confrontation with Sam.
You're both disloyal, she thinks as she looks down at the growling waheela.
The chamber she's prepared for Cujo's isolation is in an unfinished basement down the stairs from the laundry room. Sigils of sound protection line the walls of the room. She's drawn a rather large one on the floor in the center of the enormous cage that will hold Cujo. She's spelled the bars, infused them with a calming aura though if the puppy does go through her time of bloodlust this month, Chal imagines the spell will be close to useless. She'd constructed the cage, an ugly and near-indestructible creation, herself. It needs to be sturdy enough to withstand the waheela rage once Cujo is grown as well; she won't stay the size of a bread loaf forever, has grown noticeably in only the two months that they've provided her a home.
Cujo is none too happy about being carried to the basement. She's suspicious and rumbling softly, complaining in beast terms about being held in her current bad mood. Her tension becomes action, when she sees the opportunity for escape, Chal's one hand reaching for the unlocked cage door. Cujo drops to the basement floor and in a scramble of clicking nails and bristled fur takes off to the stairs.
Chalendra hadn't expected the escape attempt, but hesitates only as long as her mortal reflexes take. Then she is chasing after the waheela, body a racehorse trained for speed and power. She's in luck that the puppy is less agile on stairs. She throws herself and reaching a hand, manages to grab one of Cujo's back legs. The waheela turns, ready to bite her hand, but her other hand is there clasping the cub's snout, shoving it closed with probably too much force. Chal releases the leg to get a better grip on Cujo's torso. The whipping tail and head are no match for her human muscles. Soon, she's carry carrying the beast back to the cage and tossing her in like a sack of rabid potatoes. Chal barely manages to shut the metal door before Cujo can press herself against it. The lock slides easily, trapping the grouchy creature in her home for the next two days.
Chal sits Indian-style, back to the cage, and catches her breath. She speaks aloud a word she doesn't recall ever using but that John uses often. "Fuck today," she says and the curse tickles her tongue, makes her laugh. Her day gets worse.
Sam cleans the milk, has to because Chal won't stop making a big deal about it. He told her that if she cared so damned much she should just clean it herself. It had taken all his willpower not to just smack her across the face when she started in with her even tones about shared responsibility as though he was a newcomer to this household, to the way that she wanted everything to be. He'd yelled a bit, okay a lot, but it didn't feel good, didn't make her mad too like he wanted it to. He rings the white out of the rag and into the blue plastic bucket with the cheap yellow handle. He's pretty much growling, like Cujo does. He can't hear it if she's growling or barking in the basement, not with all the sound-warding Chal had put down there. He bets that she is. He can't blame her, being caged in down there and it's not like it's her fault; she can't help what she is.
He rises up, the knees of his jeans slightly damp from crouching too near the puddle. The floor is clean enough, he figures. Tossing the dirty water out into the front yard feels good. He wants to throw more things. He picks up a rock, turns it over in his hands, and then throws it for all he's worth against the neighbor's wooden fence. The sound of the ricochet is satisfying, like the feel of hurling it with his full power. Sam wonders how many windows he could bust in the neighbor's house before the cops arrive. Then, he wonders how many cops he could take out before they finally dragged him off to jail. He's a good fighter; Chal didn't skimp on his martial training. He aches to put that to use right now, wants to throw a rock not into a fence but into someone's face, wants to hear the sound of an eyeball exploding underneath stone.
He's still standing on the porch considering these morbid thoughts when Chal comes up behind him and rests a hand on his shoulder. It feels like he has a sunburn where she touches. He recoils from her, glares from behind his bangs.
She notices the look, ignores it. Instead, she looks out over the yard. "I put Cujo in the cage."
"You want an award?" he asks.
"I thought you might want to sit with her for a bit, let her know she's not alone."
Great, he's cleaning the house and watching a dog, a dog that's caged, no less, and he wonders what other chores she's going to make him do. "She is alone."
"Sam, what's bothering you?" she asks.
He hates the kindness in her voice, the concern that she used to show only for him, and now shows for John. The answer is obvious, at least to Sam. "You're bothering me. Why do you have to be around all the time? Can't you have a job like a normal mom?"
Chal frowns, chapped mouth corners turning downward. "I am not your mother."
Sam loses control of his actions then, swings his fist and the white wooden finial at the top of the porch handrail flies off into the grass. Instant pain whites his vision and damned if it doesn't make Sam feel better than he has all day. It feels triumphant, productive, like it's what he's supposed to do. So, he does it again, punching the knob off the other side of the porch railing. It takes two hits, one right and one left, before it too lands in the yellowing grass. His body surges like he's growing, an Incredible Hulk metamorphosis. He wants to do more. Then Chal's hands are on his shoulders and he whirls to her, focuses on how much stronger he is than her, all her training and exercising inefficient against his natural male power, the muscles flexing under the skin of his 6 foot 1 frame. She's helpless to what he could do to her, how he could make her head join the ugly decorative knobs in the yard, one more trophy.
Chal is yelling at him. He can't understand her words. His fingers itch to destroy, but not her, no, she's kin. As gratifying as it would be to see his hands around her throat, he knows that killing her won't help. He needs to see someone else die, someone not part of his pack.
The opportunity presents itself faster than he could have hoped. A nosy neighbor, drawn to the property, intent on interfering with Sam's pleasing destruction, appears. The neighbor, late thirties, a weak pencil-pusher, takes long strides towards him. Sam can't feel the dark smile that spreads across his own face, feels only elation at impending battle, impending victory. He growls and jumps off the porch, bypassing the three short stairs completely. His opponent stops, worried by the jump, and his hands are up, lips moving, and sounds that Sam can't or doesn't want to recognize squeaking from a neck pinked with adrenaline.
He lunges at the man, the weak neighbor, grabs his body and slams it to the ground. Sam's never used his teeth in a fight before. There's a first time for everything. The man's throat tastes like shaving cream and fear. The sensation of biting that pulsing neck and the desperate push of struggling hands has to be better than sex. Sam's fingers bite into the man's chest, nails sinking into the skin through the man's blue button-up shirt. Sam can smell the blood. It's better than the smell of Chal's oatmeal date cookies, makes his groin tighten with a rush of pleasure. The man is screaming.
He tastes the blood of the man, coppery, gross, but Sam revels in it anyway, because he is the one that caused it. The disgusting blood is his prize for being more physically capable than this stupid man. He raises his head from the man's throat and howls.
Then, his head jolts and blackness overtakes his vision. The world with all its blood and violence and sex vanishes with his thoughts and his consciousness.
Dean's addition of Chal's cell phone number had been a polite gesture, not actually a desire to make contact. She is dad's obsession, not his, and while she seems cool enough, he thinks of her only as Sam's mom. He's started to note her name on his caller ID and considers not answering because he doesn't want to have long conversations with her like his dad does, but there is the chance that Sam's hurt or something, so he does answer but with every intention of jumping ship if she's calling to chat.
"'Lo?" he answers.
"Dean. This is Chalendra."
"Hey, Chal. What's up?"
"Are you in close proximity to John, your father?"
For a second, dean thinks that his dad must be nuts because Chal is just so weird. She's used the word "proximity" which is weird but also done that thing where she makes sure to emphasize that John is his father; Dean is well aware who John is. "No Chal, not within proximity. He's got a good 60 miles or so on me. Why, he not answering his phone?"
"I didn't attempt to reach him. I'm calling you."
Crap, thinks Dean. "Yeah well, I'm in the middle of a case right now, so I don't really have much time to talk."
"Dean, it's about Sam." Dean's stomach drops. His hypothetical Sam-being-hurt situation wasn't actually supposed to be a possibility.
"What about Sam?" asks Dean. He hopes that it's nothing, but his head is yelling that something is wrong and his hearing is suddenly bionic with his concern. He waits what seems like a Gone with the Wind amount of time for her to speak.
"First, I have kept your secret from John and I ask you to extend the same courtesy with what I need to tell you now. John is not ready to hear this, but you might be."
It's emotional blackmail, of course, because Dean absolutely needs to know what's going with his new friend, but he won't hold it against her because she's right, he does still owe her a secret, and because there's already a fuckton of shit that he's keeping from his dad and one more isn't going to make much of a difference. "Sure, Chal. I promise. Just tell me."
"In addition to Sam's ability to destroy demons, he also has a touch of telepathy and telekinesis."
Maybe Dean had been a bit naïve telling Sam that he wasn't something his dad would hunt because ganking demons is one thing and moving shit around and getting into people's heads is another. Little Sam Ackles is a hell of a lot more dangerous than he thought, maybe less Spiderman and more Darth Vader.
He weighs what he does know about Sam with Chal's revelation and decides pretty quickly that he still trusts Sam, still likes him, and still wants to have him as an ally and friend. Dean doesn't think Dad will come to the same conclusion, but then, he doesn't know Sam as well as he does. Chal understands his silence, that he's re-considering his relationship with her son, and she speaks up in Sam's defense. "This changes nothing about who Sam is as a person nor how greatly he esteems you."
"Bullshit," says Dean, but he isn't certain it is. He may agree that he won't let it change his dynamic with Sam, but he doesn't care for how easily she is dismissing his powers. John and Dean have hunted less dangerous things than Sam. "You're a hunter; you know how this type of shit gets into people's heads, how it rots them from the inside out."
"He's had these powers all his life and he's still a good person."
"He is now…"
"And he will continue to be."
Dean dislikes her certainty. He'd seen the way Sam changed when he'd vaped that demon in Missouri, seen the way Sam's personality and emotions had shut off. That kind of power does something to the person using it and if it can be used against humans, not just demons, then that makes Sam dangerous. Dean's not about to hunt Sam, but he's not going to take for granted that his friend is always going to be as tender-hearted as he is nor that he'll always be able to resist the allure of using that power on his fellow humans. "So, why the confession now?" he asks Chal.
"Because the waheela is telepathic too."
"Cujo?"
"Yes, and at sun-down yesterday, she went into the blood rage and took Sam with her."
Guilt wraps its tentacles around his confusion. Dean doesn't know what happened, but he knows that the waheela is to blame and that damn thing is alive because of him. "She went into the blood rage around Sam? Is he okay? Did she hurt him?"
"She sent off the blood lust through her telepathy into him. She was… contagious because of his telepathic susceptibility."
"Are you saying that he went into a blood rage?"
"Sam was arrested last night for attacking our neighbor." Chal's voice cracks. She's either about to cry or trying not to cry. "He… he bit the man's throat after knocking him to the ground."
"Holy shit," says Dean.
"The police came and took them both to the hospital."
"Why didn't they take Sam to jail?" asks Dean.
"Because he had suffered head trauma from where I knocked him unconscious with a decorative wood piece from the porch stairs."
If the whole story wasn't so horrific, Dean might have been tempted to find the image of Chal knocking Sam unconscious with a wood block amusing. Instead, he knows how bad it must have been for Chal to do that to her son, knows how desperate of a state she must have been in to resort to that. Dean wonders what he had been doing when this happened. At sundown he'd been about to order a pizza, just wandering around the hotel room in his boxes and he'd been completely oblivious to the crazy seeping into his friend's mind.
"The police are releasing him back into my custody. They confirmed that he had no drugs in his system at the time of the attack. They suggested that I get him into therapy. Overall, they seemed less concerned than I would have suspected. I told them that we were having a disagreement outside prior to the attack and they concluded that that was the reason for the assault. That my neighbor stepped into the fight and Sam, still angry, lashed out at him rather than me." Her breath catches. "Now that I think about it, that's probably what happened. He couldn't kill me so he took the opportunity to redirect his rage to the stranger."
Dean doesn't know what to say when Chal does start to cry. He hears the fa-fa-fa of her lower lip shuddering. "Hey," he starts, but doesn't know how to finish. "He's gonna be okay though right? I mean, you said they're releasing him, right?"
"Dean, your father asked if Sam could join you two hunting this summer. I declined. I would like to change my answer."
If Dean was a dog, his floppy ears would tweak upwards at this. "Dad invited Sam with us?"
"Yes. I didn't want to… well, I didn't want to give him up. Now, I think the best thing in the world for him would to be with you two right now. He is going to emotionally torture himself for his actions, regardless of Cujo's involvement. If he is mobile and busy and with you both, he will have less opportunity."
If Dean wasn't driving, he might do the happy dance, the one that involves clicking his heels together ala Singing in the Rain. "I think it's a great idea! Sam can ride in the Impala with me!"
"You will keep an eye on him."
"Hell yeah, and if he tries any Jedi mind-trick shit on me, I'll smack him upside his head like you did." It is way too soon to make that joke and Dean gets that as soon as he shuts up. His mouth filters always suck when he's happy. He's much better at shutting his trap when he's pissed or depressed. "Um, sorry."
"Sam is adept at controlling himself and his abilities. I would not give my permission if I felt that you or John would be in danger."
"Yeah, I get it. So, how's this going to work?"
"I will speak with Sam and make sure that he wants to go, but I am quite convinced that he will. Perhaps one of you could drive down to Texas and pick him up? His school starts September 6th. You will need to have him back before this date."
"Sure," says Dean, probably too quickly. "I'm in Idaho right now, so it shouldn't take me too long to get him."
"Finish your current hunt. I will talk with Sam and he can call you if we decide to proceed."
Dean's about two seconds away from saying that he isn't on a hunt when he remembers his lie at the beginning of the conversation and instead says, "Okay."
"I cannot sufficiently convey my gratitude," she says, which makes Dean feel kinda guilty because he's totally benefitting from the bad situation.
"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of him."
"Goodbye, Dean. We will talk soon."
Dean pops Autograph into the tape deck and, taking their advice, turns up the radio.