SPN fic: All Blood Bleeds Red: Part One
Back to Index | On to Part Two
It's August, and the Texas heat is hot and dry. Sam peers out the window of the Impala at a crowded street, and reaches for the dial to turn up the air conditioning, like even looking out the window is making him sweat. He's been bitching about the heat for the past fifty miles, staring out at the desolate countryside.
They're passing through Fort Worth on the way to nowhere in particular, waiting to see what comes up.
"I hate Texas," he complains. "It's ugly. There's nothing green anywhere."
The lawns are all brown, shrubs and plants withered up in the heat. 105, or something like that. It's like someone took the whole city and put it in an oven to dry it up, bake all the moisture out of it. Even the fields north of town are struggling, and they've pretty much lost the fight.
"You just hate it because they don't agree with your liberal college education," Dean remarks absently. "Besides, there's some trees over there - they're green. Quit bitching. Let's find a place and eat."
There's something that doesn't feel right about the place. Still, there's nothing unnatural, just some dead grass and a couple closed car washes, nothing to indicate any greater evil than people neglecting their lawns. The streets downtown are crowded, people sitting on patios to eat their lunches beneath the hot sun, teenagers laughing and hanging out on a summer day, but there's something stifling about the heat, like there's no promise of coming relief. Sam can't put his finger on it, because this is Texas and it's August, so of course it's hot, but it just seems wrong somehow.
Dean finds a place that promises burgers, beer and fries at good prices, and shoves some quarters in the parking meter, grinning at his brother. Sam offers a tight smile. He can already feel the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, and they've been standing on the street corner for less than two minutes. Dean seems unaffected by the heat, smiling as he shoves his car keys into the pocket of his jeans. He's whistling to himself, some tune Sam recognises from one of his many tapes, checking out a girl in the shortest shorts Sam's ever seen and a halter-top that shows off the tattoo at the base of her neck. Charming.
He sighs, jamming his hands in his pockets. "Can we eat now, Dean, or are you going to spend all day gawking at girls?"
Dean's teeth are white when he turns his smile back to Sam. "Jealous much?"
"No," Sam says, sullen, aware that he's pouting - only a little, though. "Just hungry."
He hates Dean's knowing smirk. "You're pathetic. Come on, let's eat."
: : :
Drought.
Dean's not as surprised as maybe he should be, but there's really not that much to be surprised about. It explains the dead fields outside of town, the lawns of withered grass, the absence of sprinklers and girls in bikinis offering to wash his car.
Within fifteen minutes of entering the restaurant, he's overheard parts of three different conversations about the drought, the water restrictions, and the failing crops, and both of the waitress who have stopped by their table have mentioned it. There's a sign at the counter up front saying that you have to ask for a glass of water.
"Weirdest thing ever," their server says in her sugar-sweet Texas twang, balancing the empty tray against her hip. "Been 'bout four months since we got any rain - got enough outside the city, but anyplace within say about fifty miles - dry as a bone." She snaps her gum, smiles brightly at them. "So, you boys decided what you wanna order?"
Sam opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off neatly. "Two bacon cheeseburgers, one with pickles, one without, two orders of fries, uh, an order of onion rings, house salad for my brother here, and a coupla beers." He looks at Sam, giving his best smile; Sam looks annoyed, he hates it when Dean orders for both of them, which is exactly why Dean always does it. "I miss anything?" He knows damn well the thing that infuriates Sam the most is the fact that he always orders what Sam was about to get.
He grins when his brother says, "No."
She snaps her gum again. "What kinda beers you want, hon?"
Dean beams at her; he's flirting, mostly because it's another thing that drives Sam crazy. "Whatever you feel like bringing us, sweetheart." Sam kicks him under the table, and Dean kicks back, keeping the smile on his face, and paying extra attention to her ass when she walks away. The black mini-skirt definitely suits her, and it definitely pisses Sam off.
"Do you have to do that?"
"Do what?"
Sam's giving him the bitch-face, and Dean just looks innocent, like he's got no idea what his brother's complaining about. He knows, of course, it's fairly obvious that his brother's less than pleased that Dean's attentions are laying elsewhere. Still, the flirting's harmless enough, and he likes seeing Sam riled.
They bicker good-naturedly for a few minutes - well, it's good-natured for Dean at least, grinning and nudging at his brother's foot under the table, teasing, "Aw, c'mon Sammy, a threesome would be fun." Sam's just started to smile again when the waitress comes out with their food, and the expression immediately evaporates.
Dean goes easy on him, just thanks her for their food, arranging their plates so that the burger with the pickles is in front of Sam. Dean can't stand them, hates it when they even touch his burger, something Sam's given him flak about on more than one occasion. Still, the food looks good and smells even better.
"Anything else I can get you boys?" The gum-snapping thing is getting kind of annoying, actually, although it was cute the first time.
Dean shakes his head. "Nah, I think we're good." He pauses, then asks, "So, uh, the drought. They happen a lot?"
She snaps her gum again, shrugs. "You know, every so often. Been 'bout two years since the last one, and that was all of North and East Texas, so." She tucks the tray under her arm. "I swear to God, though, this is the strangest drought I've ever seen."
Dean gives a slight smile to Sam in response to the quizzical look he's getting. "Strange how?"
"S'only affecting Fort Worth and Dallas. Everyplace else got rain. Hell, most got more than usual, but not here. It's like the rain clouds are avoiding us or something." She shrugs, catches another table looking over. "Enjoy your lunch, boys. I'll be around if you need anything else." She looks at Dean then, and he just smiles and looks back at Sam. He's teased the kid enough.
"What was all that about?" Sam asks, reaching past his salad for one of Dean's onion rings, drowning it in ketchup fresh from the squeeze-bottle before stuffing it in his mouth.
Dean wrinkles his nose in distaste. Sam's been eating them like that for as long as he can remember, but it ruins the crispy onion goodness when you do that, and overall, it's just disgusting. He steals one of the fries off Sam's plate, although he's got some of his own. "That's the fourth time I've heard someone describe this drought as weird, strange, or just downright freaky."
"You don't think it's our kind of deal, do you?"
Dean just shrugs. "Don't know yet. Can't hurt to check it out, though."
: : :
What kills Sam is that it really is their kind of deal. He rewinds the tape they made of a recent weather broadcast, which shows a cloud literally going around the area instead of through it. It's not the weirdest thing he's ever seen, but it's up there. It's not that weather-magic is completely unheard of, it's just that it doesn't work like this. You can call a thunderstorm or send one away, hell, Sam's even seen it done - but a four-month drought? That kind of control just isn't possible, not for any witch Sam's ever heard of. Yeah, there's a few reports - but they date back to the middle ages, during a cold-snap that lasted nearly a century, part of a witch-panic that had nothing to do with any real witchcraft.
Dean comes back into the motel, the door rattling on its hinges when it slams behind him. "This is fucking ridiculous," he says. "I drove around the city - that fucking waitress was right, man. Get outside the city limits, and everything's either dying or already dead - fifty miles in any direction from Route 820."
He slams his keys down on the table, shrugging out of his over-shirt. He's sweating from the heat, twitchy with frustration, and finally slumps down on the edge of the other bed. Sam sighs, glancing over at him. "Did you find the edge?"
He nods. "Yeah. Like I said, it's like, fifty miles out from the 820 loop. East-West, it's about a hundred miles of dead zone from Mineral Wells out to Forney, and then North-South from Valley View to Hillsboro." He rolls his shoulder in something like a shrug, then wipes the sweat from the back of his neck. "Outside of that, everything's growing fine, all sprinklers and bikini car-washes."
Sam reaches for the map, sketching a rough circle in red felt-pen, the ink bleeding into the thick paper. It cuts a line between the dry wasteland the drought has made of Fort Worth and the rest of the Texan countryside, where the spring rains have insured wide, green fields despite the summer's heat.
He glances over at Dean, who stretches out on the second bed, lifting his hips to shimmy out of his jeans. The room, like the rest of the city, is hot and stale; they're getting twenty bucks off the nightly rate because the air conditioning is broken. It seems like their typical luck. Shoving the map aside, Sam gets up to turn on the fan the manager gave them. It doesn't do much except make noise and move the hot air around, but it might help a little. Dean, spread out on his stomach, head buried beneath one of the pillows, seems strained, muscles bunched and tight beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
"You okay?" Sam asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching out to rest his hand on the small of Dean's back. He's still, but Sam can feel the tension just beneath his skin. It's starting.
Dean's voice is muffled from beneath the pillows. "Just tired," he says. "Had to go through downtown Dallas. Fucking hate urban driving."
Yeah, that's about as much of an answer as Sam was expecting to get.
: : :
The feeling's familiar, and it gets worse as the days go by. He's on edge. He didn't mean to piss Sam off, but he always does when he's like this, and hates himself for it. He tells the same lies: he's stressed, he's tired, he just needs to relax for a few minutes. Always culminating the same argument, shouting, "Jesus, Sam! Get off my back, I'm fine!" It's a stupid, obvious lie and they both know it.
Sam looks at him with sympathy, like he understands what Dean's going through, why he's on edge and anxious to crawl out of his skin. He fucking hates that look, because Sam doesn't fucking get it, and Dean's trying to stay calm. He's trying so damn hard not to let this take over him the way it always does, but he's starting to feel that need curling in his gut.
Mostly he feels sick and desperate. On top of that, stupid, because his brother isn't back from the library yet, after hissing at Dean over the table, "If you're going to be a bitch, go do it at the motel." He's horny, too frustrated to jerk off, pissed off at himself and at Sam and at this thing that turns him into a raving asshole when he loses control of it, when he needs and can't have.
Sam finally comes back in at 9:30, setting a stack of books down on the rickety motel table. Dean looks up at him, muttering, "Hey," and shifting over on the bed, making room for Sam. He doesn't apologise for being a dick, but the implication is there. His brother settles down on the bed next to him, glancing over his shoulder at him before finally laying down.
He turns his head, looking at Dean. "You feeling any better?"
Dean just shrugs, lifting himself up. There's no answer to that, so he just leans in and brushes his mouth over Sam's, sighing when Sam lifts his head to kiss him. "Maybe - maybe now," he says quietly when they break apart, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, I think that cheered me up." He leans back in, brushing one hand along Sam's throat, feeling his pulse beneath callused fingers.
Sam's mouth is hot, opening for him, one massive hand resting on Dean's hip. He tastes like flat Diet Coke and stale barbeque potato chips, snack-food Dean snuck into the library hours earlier. Dean doesn't care, because it's Sam and right now he needs this like he needs to breathe. And Sam's more than willing, reaching down to tug on Dean's t-shirt, sliding his hands over Dean's chest and murmuring, "I can make it better," before landing another open-mouthed kiss on the corner of Dean's lips.
"Jesus," Dean breathes, helping Sam by tugging the shirt off over his head, tossing it onto the floor. He shoves his brother down, clambering over him to straddle his hips. "And here I thought I was gonna have to get on my knees and beg."
Sam shakes his head, bucking up beneath Dean, letting him feel the bulge in his jeans. It makes him gasp, feeling Sam hard and eager under him, rutting against him. "Fuck me," he murmurs. "Dean, fuck me." Dean leans in, crushing his mouth against Sam's, all teeth and sharp edges, biting at his lips. Sam grips his waist, thrusting up, fucking against him, and Dean grinds down on him, his own cock so hard that it aches, the denim too tight.
He breathes out a shuddering, "Yeah," trying to ruck Sam's shirt up to get at skin. Sam stops him, shoving his hands away, finally shoving Dean off him, back onto the mattress, and then crawling between his open legs. "Fuck," Dean groans, letting out a low whimper as Sam fucks him through their jeans, their hard dicks rubbing together, heavy and hot. Sam's hands wrap around his wrists, pinning him, and he bites a trail from Dean's mouth down his jaw, finally sucking a bruise on his neck.
Dean can't even manage a strangled, "Don't stop," just gasps, arching up under Sam as he feels his mouth teeth against his bare shoulder. Oh god, he wants to whimper, but there are no words. Oh god, and then Sam bites down, his teeth sharp and hard against Dean's tender skin. His hips stutter, his whole body shuddering with orgasm, Sam still biting deep into the fleshy meat of his shoulder.
Sam thrusts down against him once more, hard, then twice, then stops, kissing Dean's shoulder slowly. Dean's still gasping for breath, can't find the words. He manages to tug one hand out of Sam's now loose grip, reaching up to rest his hand in Sam's hair. His briefs are wet with his own come, and he shifts a little but can't be bothered to move. Sam's breath is hot against his neck.
Eventually Sam lifts his head to kiss him, mouth hot against Dean. He tastes like blood now, Dean's, rich and coppery. They kiss slowly, Dean licking easily past Sam's lips, tugging limply at his hair.
"You sure know how to fuck a guy stupid," Dean grumbles lowly against Sam's mouth, and Sam finally rolls off him, grinning. Dean reaches up, pressing a thumb to the bite on his shoulder. It comes away wet with saliva and traces of pinkish blood, and he smiles up at Sam, trying and failing to remember he should be angry.
Sam tugs at his arm, murmuring, "Shower. Haven't come in my pants since..."
Dean grins, letting himself be dragged into an upright position. "Since the last time we did that, yeah."
Tomorrow won't really be much better than today was, but for now, he feels okay.
: : :
"Maybe it's a god," he finally suggests, shoving yet another book of spells away in disgust.
"A god." Dean's deadpanning, showing how little he thinks of the idea. But Sam can tell he's frustrated. His shoulders are tense, brows drawn together as he flips through one of the dusty tomes from the library. "You think a god is pissed off and causing a drought?"
Sam shrugs. "I don't know, but whatever it is, it's not witchcraft. The kind of power it would take to cause a drought like this - the entire population of East Texas would have to be in on it, and somehow, I don't think there's a coven that size in Fort Worth or Dallas."
His brother rubs a hand tiredly over his face. "Great. Just fucking great. Man, this job friggin' sucks."
Sam hauls himself off the bed, going over and taking the book out of Dean's hands. His brother looks up at him. He looks tired; they've been here a week with no luck, going through newspapers and books, finding nothing. It's not exhaustion that's getting to him, no dark circles under his eyes, just frustration, a kind of tension that Sam recognises but doesn't know how to fix, and there's something hollow in Dean's expression, like there's something missing.
It's been a few days. It sounds stupid to say this, because it's Dean, but - Sam's gotten the impression that he hasn't really been in the mood. He hasn't made any moves on Sam, so Sam hasn't bothered trying, but now Dean seems stressed and frustrated and it's been more than long enough, so. He puts a large hand on Dean's knee, smirks a little. "Speaking of sucking," he says, the smirk splitting into a wry smile. He can't pull it off with the easy lewdness that Dean would have, but at least it gets his brother's mouth to quirk up in something that's almost smiling back.
Dean says, "If you want to."
Sam knows what's wrong. He knows, and it's nothing he can do anything about, so he pushes Dean's knees apart and settles down between them, pressing a kiss into the soft denim at the inside of one of his thighs. He hates that noncommittal 'if you want to', the way they both know this isn't going to give Dean what he needs, and the way they both pretend it will. "Yeah, I want to," Sam murmurs. "I'm a cockslut, what can I say."
Dean just smiles. It's his joke to make but he doesn't, just reaches down and undoes his fly, and rests one warm hand on Sam's head, threading his fingers through his hair. "Yeah," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Yeah, Sam."
: : :
This is the worst part.
It's been a while, and Dean's tired. He was doing good up until a week ago, but this job - it's been a week with no answers, nothing but reading books, and the boredom, yeah, it gets to him. He's never been good at this patience thing, and he's itching for something he can't have right now. Sam knows it; Dean saw it in the way his brother looked at him, silently asking, do you want me to? This is the moment when it's at it's worst, when he's needing and there's no promise of any action, no possibility of a more natural relief.
It's moments like these when he realises exactly how fucked up he is.
He's sitting on the toilet with a knife in one hand and his dick in the other, eyes shut because even the bathroom tile seems accusing right now. Because no matter how much he wants to, he can't look; it's too much. It's fucked up that he needs this, fucked up that Sam sucking him off barely gets him to half-mast before he comes, but with a blade pressed in against his hip, he's already panting and shuddering, hard and so goddamn close he can't hold it in, fucking into his own fist.
Sam knocks on the door, his voice faint and concerned. "Hey. You need anything in there?"
Dean can't help it. He comes, wet and messy, spilling over his hand and thighs, trying to muffle his groan. "I'm - I'm fine," he manages to get out, his voice sounding strangled. "I'll - fuck, I'll be out in a minute, okay?"
: : :
When Dean comes out of the bathroom, Sam's back in bed. He's not sleeping, and he can see Dean's hesitation as he thinks about going for the other bed instead of settling into the one they've been sharing for most of the past week. Sam grumbles and sits up, looking at his brother. He's wearing his jockeys now, although he wasn't when they fell asleep. It's the clue Sam needs, and he pushes the blankets aside on Dean's half of the bed.
"Man, stop being all - whatever, and come back to bed."
It works, startling Dean enough so that he nods, settling down next to Sam. He's tense, trembling a little, and Sam knows. This isn't the first time it's happened, and as much as he wishes it'd be the last, it won't be. He presses in close, flinging one of his legs over Dean's, resting a hand over that place on Dean's hip.
Dean shivers, and Sam can feel the plastic of the bandage beneath Dean's boxers, and he presses a kiss into his brother's neck, breathing hot against it. Dean says, "Dude, get the fuck off me," but it's half-hearted, not really a protest, and he settles back against Sam, giving in.
Sam doesn't even dignify that with a response, and he lays awake next to Dean until he feels the shaking stop and his breathing even out.
: : :
He deals with it on his own. It's always been that way, since the first time this happened. He was fifteen, sprained his wrist on a hunt he can no longer remember, locked himself in the bathroom. Fifteen years old and fucking aching he was so goddamn hard, high on adrenaline and his wires crossed. He jerked off in the bathroom, panting low, wrist screaming in protest at the abuse, his whole fucking body coming undone when he came.
He barely managed to get his pants back up before his dad came in, holding a splint in his hand, saying something about, "It's okay if it hurts, son. There's no shame in it."
It hadn't been until that second that Dean had realised he was crying, his face streaked with tears and come drying on his hands.
He doesn't know how he ended up like this, he just knows that's how it started.
The first time he did it himself he was eighteen, shaking and scared, locked in the bathroom while his dad was out and his little brother was asleep. He could barely hold the knife steady when he cut into the softest part of his hip. He remembers feeling shame, like a living, hot thing in his stomach, trying awkwardly to get the blade to bite into skin. It took three tries, cutting shallow lines into skin, before he came, shuddering, drops of blood seeping out from the scratches.
He doesn't know if Dad ever knew about it beyond a vague sense that something was wrong. He's not sure when Sam figured it out, but he knows from the comforting, protective weight of Sam's large hand on his hip when he wakes up, that he has. He still hasn't figured out if he should be grateful or terrified; maybe both.
: : :
Dean's even more on edge than he's gotten over the past week. He doesn't sit still: can't, like a three-year-old on speed. He sits on the edge of the bed, balancing a book on his lap, flipping through the pages with force, like he's going to hurl the book across the room in disgust at any second. He doesn't. Instead he slams it down on the bed, and gets up.
"Any thoughts on what god we might be dealing with?" he asks, not actually looking at Sam, although he comes over to the table and does something on the computer, moving the mouse around, starting to type in a search term and then stopping.
Sam sighs, putting down his book and reaching for one of the newspapers, saying, "No, nothing yet." Dean's already going through one of the duffle bags, looking for god-only-knows what.
He's emptying the contents of the duffle bag onto the motel floor, saying, "Fuck. I hate dealing with gods, you have to figure out which the fuck one you're dealing with, and what the fuck you have to do to make them happy - and, fuck." He's up again, and Sam stifles a groan, because now Dean's going through the papers on one of the beds, barely glancing at them before shuffling them into the back of the pile. He's left the clothes all over the floor. "I mean, it could be fucking anything, so how the hell are we supposed to figure it out?"
"Are you... looking for anything in particular?" Sam asks slowly, although Dean's now thrown himself down on the nearest bed and is leaning sullenly against the headboard. He reaches into the bedside table for the bible and starts flipping through it, not actually looking at any of the pages. "And I'm pretty sure the Christian God isn't the one we're looking for."
"Yeah," Dean says. Then, "No. I mean - dude, I know that!"
Sam's going to throttle him any minute. He takes a deep breath, trying to relax, which isn't easy with Dean practically vibrating on the other bed, tossing the bible aside and starting to rifle through the packet of advertisements and other miscellaneous papers also contained in the drawer. Sam's relatively certain none of them contain anything about mysterious drought-causing God, but it's probably in his best interest not to point that out. "I've got it narrowed down - I mean, it's gotta be some kind of rain-god, right, to be causing a drought like this?" Dean doesn't say anything, although he dumps the papers he's holding down onto the paper next to the lamp, and gets to his feet again. "So we're looking for a god with some kind of power over the weather, which should make it at least a little easier."
He can't be sure if Dean's paying any attention; he's started shoving all the clothes he took out of his duffle bag back into it now.
Sam sighs. "Dean," he says, and Dean looks up, closing the duffle bag again.
"Yeah?"
He snakes the keys from where they're sitting on the table, tosses them to Dean. "Go for a drive or something. I'll call you if I find anything." Dean stands up and puts the keys in his pocket, and Sam smiles a little at him. "Just... try and act less like a neurotic hamster when you're out in public, okay?"
When Dean comes over, Sam kind of expects to be hit upside the head for the hamster comment, but instead Dean fists his hands in the front of Sam's shirt, dragging him up. The kiss is hot, and he shoves his tongue roughly into Sam's mouth, fingers twisting in the fabric. He bites at Sam's lower lip, tugging with his teeth. It only lasts a second, long enough to get Sam's heart hammering in his chest, and then Dean drags his mouth away.
He's not smiling. He just says, "Call me if you need anything, okay?"
"Yeah," Sam says, and then Dean's gone, the door slamming behind him.
: : :
He ends up twenty miles outside Fort Worth, car parked on the shoulder of U.S. Route 377. He's sitting on the trunk, emergency lights flashing, watching the traffic go by. No one stops. He's not looking for help anyway, not that any passer-by could provide him with any. No good Samaritans here.
The countryside is grim. The fields are either withered or simply empty, not even weeds to fill them. The only greenery comes from a few scattered acacia trees, stubbornly resistant to the drought. It's still really fucking hot, another day over a hundred degrees, no clouds to block out the sun. Dean's leather jacket spread on the trunk beneath him protects him the hot metal.
It's been three hours since he left, driving aimlessly around the city before he ended up here, on the outskirts of town, shading his face from the sun and looking back at a city dying of thirst. Somebody's pissed.
It's another twenty minutes before his phone vibrates in his pocket, starting to hum AC/DC's "For Those About to Rock".
"You find anything?" he asks without preamble.
"Yeah. I think I've got it." He hears papers shuffling in the background, like Sam's looking for something particular. "Yeah, here it is. Chaac. Mayan rain god."
"Mayan?" Dean echoes. "Isn't that like... Mexico?"
"Guatemala."
"Whatever. That's farther away, right? So, uh, why's the Mayan god pissed off at a city in North Texas?"
: : :
"So this is the god who's pissed off?" Dean asks, standing in front of the eight-foot-tall limestone carving. He doesn't look impressed, arms crossed, frowning up at it. For all Dean's lack of art appreciation, it's a beautiful piece. Sam huffs a sigh, shaking his head.
"No. This is the Sun-Faced Jaguar." He glances at the plaque, confirming what he's already read online. "He was a Mayan ruler some two thousand years ago. It was looted from a site in Guatemala and bought by the museum in 1970."
He watches Dean quirk his head, like looking at it from a slightly different angle will make a difference. "So, uh - did he piss off this Chaac guy, then?"
Sam thinks sometimes Dean is dense on purpose. "No. The piece was looted. He's pissed off because it's supposed to be in Guatemala." There'd been a drought in 1970, when the piece was originally bought by the museum, but it cleared up after a few months; Sam suspects somebody paid tribute to the god, which is exactly what they're going to have to do. "Anyway, four months ago, the museum announced it was going to have a duplicate made and shipped to Guatemala. I'm not a hundred percent on this, but I think he's pissed off that they're sending a knock-off to Guatemala and keeping the real thing for themselves."
"So what do we do? Burn it?" And there's a light in Dean's eyes when he suggests it. Sam suppresses a groan. It's so typically Dean.
"No, you pyro," he says, and honestly he's trying not to smile when he says it. "He's pissed off about it being stolen; you think having it destroyed is going to make him happier?"
"So what do we do?"
"We come back at night."
"I thought you said we didn't get to burn it."
Sam really does groan this time, rolling his eyes. "Come on. Will you shut up if I buy you dinner?"
: : :
Breaking into museums is a pain in the ass. It took three days to get everything ready, peering at a computer screen over Sam's shoulder while his brother hacked into the museum's security system. Sam still won't say where he learned to do it, but he got them the floor plans, the camera locations and angles, and the alarm codes. Dean got stuck with the grunt work, scoring them a couple uniforms with the museum cleaning company's logo emblazoned on the breast pocket.
They get in with a nod and a smile, Sam saying, "Yeah, we're the new guys," flashing a self-deprecating smile. The ingredients for the summoning spell are in the duffle bag Dean's got slung over his shoulder. Nobody looks at them twice, and Dean grins as they head down the hall to the supply room.
They grab a cart with a trashcan, stashing their supplies in the Hefty garbage bag. From there, it's a short walk to the dining hall where the massive stone stele hangs on one of the walls. The museum is quiet except for the cart's squeaking wheels and their own footsteps. Sam's serious as he steps up to the limestone carving, reaching out as if to touch it, although his hand falls short. There's admiration as he mimes tracing the lines, the long-faded details of the Mayan king's rich clothes.
"Man, can we get this over with? I want to get some sleep."
Sam gives him a dirty look, but reaches down to get the candles out of the garbage bag. Dean remembers buying them, Sam bitching at him over the phone about how they had to be this particular shade of "Mayan" blue or the ritual wouldn't work.
He hangs back while Sam arranges everything - arranging the candles in a semi-circle around the wall where the stele is hung, keeping his eyes lowered as he lights them, as if out of respect.
It doesn't take long.
: : :
When they look up, he's there. He's huge, almost as tall as Sam, broad and muscular. The details that were hard to make out in the carving are obvious now; what looked like a helmet on the stele is an ornate feather headdress, the sides inlaid with two golden faces looking outwards. A wide, flat collar covers his shoulders, heavy with the colourful beads; a large medallion hangs from the centre, decorated by the carefully molded face of a god. The ornate belt around his waist is similarly decorated, three more of the god's faces staring out from it, surrounded by the brightness of the beads.
He is solid and tangible, his sandaled footsteps heavy as he steps towards them, a gold sceptre in one hand. His eyes are sharp, dark and warm despite the coolness of his expression. Blue paint is smudged on his cheeks, and the feathers of his headdress rustle when he turns his head to examine the limestone carving from which he came.
It's like no ghost Sam's ever seen; he looks alive, his dark skin rich with colour, not even a hint of a flicker around the edges of his body. His voice, when he finally speaks, is deep, the words heavily accented but the English flawless. He asks, "Have you come to make restitution for the crimes of your people?"
Sam suspects the feelings of awe aren't entirely natural; there's that hint of something else, something magical about his desire to prostrate himself at the king's feet. Dean stands next to him, arms crossed over his chest, apparently unaffected, unimpressed. He glances at Sam, and says, "You said I wasn't allowed to speak because I'd say something stupid, so you have to say something."
He swallows heavily, shoving the supernatural awe aside, and tries to find the words. "You're, uh - you're the Sun-Faced Jaguar?" he asks, and the Mayan king gives a single, slow nod. "We, uh - we wanted to talk to you, about the drought." The longer he resists that sense of wonder, the weaker it grows, until it's just a knot in his gut that he can ignore.
"The waters will return when you make restitution for the cri -"
"The crimes of our people, right," Dean cuts him off, and Sam suppresses a groan. It figured his brother couldn't keep his mouth shut. "So, uh, how do we do that?"
"You stole me away," he says. "Took me from my people's homeland. But payment was made. Now you send them a forgery in my likeness, but it will not protect them. You insult Al Tzenul." There's anger in his voice, and something like music, although his face remains blank, emotionless. "This, you must make right."
Sam exchanges a measured glance with his brother, frowning, trying to figure out who Al Tzenul is - probably a different name for the same god. Dean gives a slight shake of his head, a small shrug. "We, uh, can't really do anything about that," he says slowly. "We don't work for the museum, and it's not really up to us." He pauses, thoughtful. "Is there something else we can do to make Chaac - uh, Al Tzenul - bring the rain back?"
The Sun-Faced Jaguar closes his eyes a moment, holding the golden sceptre close to this thought. When he opens them again, he looks directly to Dean. "The rain god would accept a sacrifice," he says, and he's staring at Dean still. Sam's brother shifts uncomfortably, glancing over at Sam. "The life-blood - the heart - of one of your finest warriors."
Dean smirks. "Finest warriors," he murmurs, low as if it's an aside only to Sam, although they both know the Mayan king can hear him. "Hey - we could kidnap a marine, right? Few, the brave, the proud. This would totally count as service to one's country." They both know Dad would kick his ass for saying it.
"Dean." Sam's attempt to chastise him is half-hearted; for one, they both know they'd never actually do it, and second, it was actually kind of funny.
"No." The ghost of the Mayan king seems unamused, still eyeing Dean coolly. He turns to Sam. "He does not want one of your costumed soldiers." There's something warm in his gaze, heated, and Sam reaches out, fisting a hand in the sleeve of Dean's shirt. "Him," he says. "The earth-child of the warrior of shadows. We will take his life-blood in payment, and Al Tzenul will return your waters."
Dean turns slowly, to look at Sam. "Life-blood?" he asks. "Is he talking, like -"
And then Dean buckles, falling to his knees with a gasp, hands going to his chest, tugging at the fabric of his jumpsuit. "Dean!" Sam's startled, goes down next to his brother. Dean moans low in his throat, fumbling with the zipper at the front of the jumpsuit, finally managing to get it down. His t-shirt is red, blood spreading across the grey fabric.
"What -" Dean gasps. "Oh - god - oh god, Sam!" There's a hysterical note to his brother's voice, plucking at his t-shirt. The fabric tears, something that has nothing to do with Dean's frenzied inspection, revealing a slowly opening gouge in Dean's chest. He screams.
"His heart," the Sun-Faced Jaguar says. "Give us his heart."
Sam's heard Dean gasp and groan in pain before, heard him cry when he was just fourteen, shout and swear. This isn't any of those sounds. He's screaming in horror, in pain, as his chest opens up, blood gushing everywhere, red and dark down his front. He screams until Sam grabs him, shouting, "Stop it! STOP!" at the stone-faced king, covering Dean's mouth with his hand to muffle the screams.
The king murmurs, "We will have his heart. You say you cannot stop this insult, so you must give us his heart." His smile is utterly cold, fatherly in some sick way. You will let me take it, or you will cut him yourself, give us your brother's life-blood."
Dean's fingers are clenched in Sam's jumper, his eyes wild with terror, and there's blood everywhere, red drenching him. He's going to die. He'll die with Sam's hand over his mouth, muffling his screams as his heart is ripped from his chest. Sam almost swears he can see it, thundering within the red cavity carved in Dean's body. He looks beyond saving but Sam doesn't care, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them. "I'll do it! Stop! Just - Jesus, just stop! I'll do it."
Dean doesn't stop screaming, but the wound doesn't grow any more, and the king looks at them. "You will do it?" he asks. "You will give us his blood in payment?" Sam doesn't flinch as Dean's fingers dig into his arm, clutching desperately.
"Just don't hurt him anymore," Sam pleads, reaching his free hand to sift through Dean's hair. They're shaking, the two of them together, trembling as they clutch one another.
Sam stares as the wound starts to close, filling in. The skin that grows to cover the wound is pink and scarred, painted over red with blood. Dean's still trembling violently, clinging to Sam, but the screams have stopped. He gasps and moans quietly in pain, one trembling hand reaching to feel the healing wound.
"He has lost too much," the king says. "Thirteen nights from now, you will give him to us. Do not fail in this, sun-child, or we will come for him."
Sam doesn't say anything, giving a slight nod, but he's looking down at Dean. His brother's face is ashen, knuckles white, one hand clenched around Sam's arm, the other pressed over the closed tear in his chest. "Sam," Dean gasps. "Oh god, Sam."
"It's okay," Sam whispers, reaching out to gently push Dean's hand aside, touching the jagged, closed cut over his heart. It's long and wide, but the skin is knitted together, a twisting red line of his heart, slick with fresh blood. "You're okay, Dean."
When he looks up again, the Sun-Faced Jaguar is gone. Sam stands, slowly, pulling Dean up with him. Dean's shaky on his feet, but he stands, leaning heavily on Sam. There's blood on the floor, and Sam has no idea how much Dean has lost. He's so pale. Dean spits red on the floor, some of it dribbling down his chin, and Sam again feels that panicked tightness in his chest. "Dean? Dean - Dean, you're still -"
Dean shakes his head. "Bit - bit my tongue," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, words thick and strange, like he can't quite get his mouth around them. "Get - get the shotgun, Sammy - let's - let's get out of here." He seems dizzy, disoriented, but his eyes are sharp as he looks up at Sam, still frightened. "M'okay."
Sam glances back at the cart, supporting Dean with one arm as he reaches into the empty trash-bin to retrieve the shotgun. He'd completely forgotten about it when Dean had started to scream; he suspects it wouldn't have worked on the god's envoy, but... "C'mon. Can you walk?"
Dean nods. "Yeah. Yeah, can walk."
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