The Passenger: Chapter five

[askellington]

Sam

"Hey, good news," Dean crowed. "We got a room added on as part of the payment-plus the MoLs will give us the full bounty on feral vamps, fifty of their credits a head. Good, right?"

Sam looked back at the truck, and the elegant rosewood box in its bed holding six hanks of hair. After the hunt, he'd offered to bag the heads, but Dean had insisted he didn't need to cart whole heads off, or chop off body parts when the MoLs could tell everything about a score from a couple of pieces of hair or a vial of blood. Sam had been some surprised at that, because every hunter he'd ever ridden with had taken ears, or fingers or noses.

"That's because the people you've met have been the scum of the earth. Real, registered, accredited hunters don't do shit like that. They have back-up, and education, and fucking respect."

Sam nodded and acted like he believed Dean. How the hell did this guy make it through life, naive as he was? If Sam hadn't seen him hacking away at those vamps, covered in blood and bits of sucker and grinning like a crazy person, he'd have said the guy was too soft to live, definitely too fucking soft for a hunter. Instead, the guy turned out to be an efficient and enthusiastic killer. Sam shook his head. Dean worried him.

And frankly, fascinated him too much.

Fuck, the first thing Sam had done when they got back to the truck was root through the guy's laundry bag. He'd gone crazy in the vamp's nest-he'd come out fucking needing to have something of Dean's next to his skin. The need had overpowered his common sense and self-preservation and he knew there was a possibility that Dean would kick the shit out of him, if not put him down for stealing, but he'd had to. The minute he'd had the damn shirt on, when he was surrounded by Dean's scent, his whole self settled. He'd never felt anything like it before.

When Dean had walked out of that place with the bounty, Sam felt torn between running for the hills, and ripping Dean's throat out. Or swallowing his dick. He'd been ready for anything Dean might dish out-a beating, a capping, anything. Instead, the fucker had just smiled, and Sam wasn't really sure, but he thought he'd caught a faint whiff of...well, maybe Dean wasn't as uninterested in fucking him as he insisted.

Sam would keep an eye on him.

After taking payment, and getting some extra goods as well-Dean got the gifts of a jerrycan of real gas and some new blankets, plus several loaves of fresh bread someone had shoved into Sam's arms, and wasn't that a hell of a fucking surprise-they rode out of May's village and headed in the general direction of the mountains. The drive was rough as usual, but good in that again, he didn't have to worry about being tossed out of the truck bed. It hadn't even been that long, and he was already beginning to sort of think of the passenger side as his...though he'd eat his own tongue before speaking that crazy thought out loud.

=@=

Climbing higher into the mountains and closer to the Deadlands made for a rough ride. It was a little different from the nuked roads Dean had driven over so far. Huge sections of the road were demolished, the surface littered with half-melted vehicles and every few miles, there were deep round holes, like giant poles had crashed through the road deep into the earth. Parts of the road were smooth sailing, but they were the creepy parts. Scoured clean as if someone had taken a blade and shaved every feature higher than a dandelion away. The roads weren't just glassy smooth nuke-glass-they were cursed. The constant stink of something beyond death made Sam's nose run, his chest feel tight. Every inhale felt like a steel band around his forehead, squeezing tighter with each breath. They crested a pass, right before the road angled downwards again, and the atmosphere changed again. The pain, the feeling of being squeezed evaporated, and they were now in parts of the mountain that were truly sterilized, not just cursed, or human nuked. Here, sorcerers' magic had burnt into the ground so deeply, not even ghosts survived. These were the parts where anyone who spent more than a few days went insane. Here was the 'Dead' of the Deadlands. Sam knew how deceptively horrible these parts were-the loco were he'd 'helped' put down a few days ago had come out of these parts. Poor, fucked-up, dead-on-his-feet monster.

They continued angling downward. The lower down the mountain they drove, the happier Dean seemed, the better Sam felt, and even Lucille seemed more chipper. It was clean here, free of poison. The road widened, pig farms and fields started appearing, and a mix of vehicles began popping up on the road as well-trucks and tractors alongside horse-drawn carts and carriages. Children strolled next to the road, leading goats, sheep, dogs dancing between them. Children were a good sign, Sam thought. It meant people were settled enough and felt safe enough to let their children go outside without guards. Settled, safe people were less inclined to want to kill a freak on sight.

The road leveled out and still Dean drove, past the houses getting closer together, and the fields getting larger, past what looked like orchards and maybe vineyards.; on and on, until the houses began to thin out again, and they were driving through a collection of houses so sparse they didn't seem to be part of the village. Dean sang, ignoring Sam's small whines of irritation. At the moment, he had one of his tapes in his tape deck, and was doing some injustice to what he called a Metallica, or was it Whiskey in a Jar? The Jar? Whatthefuckever, it was awful. He wished Dean would go back to the Elvis. That hadn't been as horrible.

Eventually Dean pulled off the main road, guiding Lucille down a narrow lane. They came to a stop at long last-Sam was out of the car almost before Lucille slowed to a total stop. He groaned, and stretched, bent and twisted trying to get some life into his limbs again. Lucille ticked and groaned and moaned herself, poor old rustbucket. He reached out and patted her fender, feeling kind of stupid, but he couldn't help it. She was trying so hard. When he looked up again, he caught Dean staring at him, a horrible fond expression on his face.

If he'd been just a few steps closer, Sam would have taken a chunk out of him. And just as he had that thought, Dean's expression shifted; he smirked at him, and gave him a slow wink before patting Lucille himself.

Jeezus. Dean was-he was-he just pissed Sam off to no end.

The road had ended in small circle of gravel and dirt, with a shop sitting in the middle of it. A sign hanging from the porch that graced the front of the shop sparked Sam's interest. There were words, which meant nothing to him, and a few sigils painted on it which he did recognize, but they weren't in any kind of sensible order. It looked like someone who knew nothing about magic painted the sign, and just chose pretty symbols. But the thing was leaking power, he could feel it crawling over his skin.

The shop itself smelled of meat and spices and sugar. It looked a bit tumbledown, but friendly, despite the cold waves of power dancing around it. He glanced over to one side of the building, towards a yard that was filled with piles of metal, heaps of glass vessels and bottles, and stacks of wood, cut and raw. A firepit stood in the middle of that heap of objects, flames chirping as they ate up wood.

Between the shop and the yard, chickens hopped about and a lone, yellow dog silently watched them approach from its perch on the front half of some sort of car; the back half was nowhere to be seen.

"So, this guy we're coming to see is something of a scavenger, a human one," Dean explained even though he didn't need to, especially to Sam. "I got a little something Bobby sent along in the Menaletters bag for him, hoping he's got something for me."

Sam had no real idea what Dean was going on about, but this Bobby guy must be someone with a lot of clout-Sam could feel the power coming from the burlap sack Dean held; stronger even than what he felt from the shop. It smelled of herbs and burned bone and old blood, and when he brushed against it, he felt little sparks of power, like electric shocks running over the skin. The bag was not a bad thing, but it was not a good thing either. It was just power, and what it did depended on the intent of the person holding it.

He knew for sure that it was dangerous in the hands of someone not skilled, even if their intentions were good. Too many sorcerers and witches had pinned attention on Sam for him not to know how dangerous spells and spellworking could be.

Dean caught him frowning at the bag and shrugged. "Yeah, sometimes, we just do what we have to do, and don't ask a lot of questions." and Sam nodded. That was true.

Dean stepped up to the doorway of the shop and slammed his boot into the steel kickplate a few times, until the door flew open and someone roared, "WHAT?"

Sam startled backwards, blasted by the volume of his shout, and the power rolling off of the person who'd shouted-and just how hot he was. The guy was big-taller than Dean by a little bit, well-built and dark-skinned, sporting a salt and pepper beard and a smirk that made Sam's skin crawl, but not exactly in a bad way.The guy met his eyes, one brow raised in surprise. Sam felt caught by those eyes, dark, warm, and intense.

"Who's our traveling companion then, Dean-o? Friend or job?" Sam caught a slight accent of some kind, that and the hint of a growl in his voice pulled Sam's full attention to him, fascinated by the way the guy smelled; a little off, so he smelled not quite human, despite obviously being so. Sam inhaled, tasting him-barely kept himself from sneezing. The power the man carried wasn't native to him. Yeah, this guy was pure human but powerful. Fascinating.

Those dark eyes traveled the length of him again, and the sideways little smirk he gave Sam was more knowing than the one he'd graced Dean with-still, there was that same hint of affection in it.

Dean laughed. "Don't you worry about him, Lou. Here, something you could use considering you insist on climbing through garbage dumps and nuke spots with no back-up."

"Luther, damn it, tell you time and time again. Humph," Lou huffed. "And I'd have a partner, but the one I want won't take the hint, 'n no one else can keep up with me."

He led them in, and inside was just as scattered and messy as outside. Luther cleared a space on a bench and set down the bag Dean handed him, and whistled as he looked through it. "This is high powered stuff. You sure Bobby only wants two of my hex bags? Got enough here to make a couple more-"

He looked up at Dean, who shook his head no. "Well, in that case, tell him I said thanks. I can make a coupla ordinary hex bags outa this...enough to sell for a good price, plus gift Bobby back. Sweet." He looked up at Dean again, this time with a playful grin, eyes sliding over him slow and heavy. "Sure you won't give partnering up a thought? You, me, the open road, and my wildly skilled fingers?"

"Man, I got a partner now," Dean laughed, turning bright red and pushing Lou back from where he'd eased up on him. "Besides, I don't swing any of the ways you do, man. Now since I came all the way out here, you got something for me as well?"

"Ah ha, beautiful, you know I do, thick and heavy and hot as a-okay, okay," he laughed, when Dean punched him hard in the arm. "I got gas for you, a couple of jerries, and some good, clean fatfuel personally rendered-it'll burn hot and fast and clean up after a hunt in no time. And on the subject of gas and fuel...you know you're going to have to dump that gas-eater eventually, Sweet. Switch over to diesel...I got my eye out for just the right vehicle for you."

Sam sat back watching them banter-smirked himself at Dean's horrified look at the suggestion he set Lucille aside. When Lou smiled at Dean this time, none of the joking kind of lust was in it, just pure affection. It must be nice to have friends who liked you back, Sam thought.

=@=

They stayed over that night, crowding around a tiny dining table to share dinner with Luther. He was not only an excellent spell-caster, he was a good cook too, making a pasta with tomatoes and peppers and sausage-Sam and Dean both inhaled plates of it as Luther looked on, grinning. They bumped elbows and knees as they ate, and downed mug after mug of a sweet wine Luther made himself. After pasta came a fruit bread, and over slices of it, Luther and Dean exchanged stories, some so outrageous and fantastical that Sam managed to put aside how much he hated humans, and laughed along with them. It was fun, the way they seemed to want to top each other to make Sam laugh harder.

Along about the third bottle of sweet wine, Luther slid a warn, heavy hand on Sam's thigh, bickering good-naturedly with Dean as he eased his way up higher and higher, pushing Sam's legs apart until he was cupping his rapidly hardening dick. Sam glanced over at Dean, who looked like any moment he was going to crash, and back at Luther, who was hot as fuck and Jeezus, Sam was so fucking over being celibate. Despite the stink of magic coming off the man, Sam wasn't picking up any especially dangerous vibes, and he had such a silky laugh, and kind eyes and a smooth, plush mouth that Sam wanted to feel on all parts of his body. He wanted to know, was the dick as thick and hot as Luther claimed….

Dean was two steps from passing out when Luther slipped an arm under his shoulder and got up to walk Dean back to the room he'd set aside for guests. He fixed Sam with those intense eyes and said, "If-and only if you're interested-go to my room and take your clothes off."

Now, that sounded like a plan to Sam. He didn't even wait for Luther to point his room out. He followed his nose to it, and stripped out of his stuff quickly as he could. He dug around in the small table bedside, and, "Ah-ha." Found the lube he figured would be there. He leaned one knee up on the bed, opening himself and rubbed a good amount of lube inside himself, hissing at how perfect it felt just having his own fingers inside. He bit back a small moan, and heard, "Um, don't be quiet, let me hear you. I like a loud and enthusiastic partner."

Luther. How had he missed the feel of all that power creeping up on him?

Luther picked Sam up, lifted him straight up in the air like he was made of dandelion fluff, and tossed him to his back on the bed. Sam laughed, for once genuinely amused by a john.

"What do you want from me," he purred. "How do you want it, baby?"

"Baby...I like you callin' me that." Luther dropped his clothes in an untidy heap at the foot of the bed, then crawled up until he was arched over Sam, knees bracketing his hips, hands pressing the mattress down on either side of Sam's head. He dipped his own head, and licked a long, wet stripe up Sam's neck, stopping to nip at his earlobe, suck it as he see-sawed his hard dick up and down Sam's quivering stomach.

Sam whispered a thin groan. It actually felt good to him, and he wanted it more than he'd thought he did, which made it worlds better. Sam arched up and moaned a little louder as Luther's tongue worked around his ear, sending shivery little pulses all through him. Sam had no idea that messing with his ears could be such a turn-on. Luther bit down on his neck and sucked hard as if he was going for blood, and rutting against Sam, left a puddle of precome on his trembling belly. This was insane, it was overpowering. Sam had never felt this way having sex with anyone before. "Jeezus," he whispered, and Luther snorted.

"Not in this room."

Luther rose up, dragging his dick over Sam's hot skin until it bumped his chin. He laid it on Sam's lower lip, painting it with precome. "Open," Luther said, and Sam gasped. Not quite an order, but definitely expecting Sam to obey. Sam fluttered his lashes, opened wide and let Luther slide in.

"Good boy."

He was thick and hot and heavy, just as he'd promised. Sam sucked slick off of him and let the tangy, salty flavor of it slide down his throat. He reached up and squeezed Luther's ass, coaxing him into a rhythm Sam found comfortable and, and fuck, sexy as hell. He loved the roll of Luther's hips, confident, aggressive, like a dance. Loved the feeling of Luther skating over his tongue, sliding deep into his throat, loved the brief seconds when there was nothing in his throat but dick, no room for air, no room for anything but Luther. It was good.

Sex being good had happened so very rarely in his life that he threw himself open to enjoying it. Eyes closed, the person over him wasn't Luther, with his chocolate dark eyes and skin, his wide shoulders and long, straight legs-Sam jerked, eyes flying open when he realized in his mind's eye the body over him was pale, freckled, and green eyes were locked on his.

Shit.

Luther drew out of his mouth slowly, slowly, letting spit and precome drool down Sam's chin. He reached out, thumb smearing wet along Sam's lips, down his neck...he kissed his way along the wet trail, stopping to suck and bite at Sam's nipples until Sam was writhing with the feeling, tiny lightening strikes zinging under his skin.

"Now," Luther said, "I'm going to fuck you and you're not going to make a sound the whole time-not one." He kissed the peak of Sam's nipple, "-little-" He sucked hard, stretching the hot, abused nub as far as he could, making Sam bite down on a confused yelp-it felt good, and not good at once. "Peep." And he bit-a hard, quick nip, that he immediatly soothed, laving the poor nub with his tongue. Luther pulled back, grabbing the lube from the side table and slicked a handful over his dick, then scooped Sam's legs up and over his arms, exposing him, spreading him wide. Normally, it was a move that irritated the hell out of Sam, but this, with Luther, and how much he was enjoying the way Sam was enjoying it, just felt...right. Fun.

"My good boy, all ready for me, Beauty..." Luther eased in, making way by sheer force, giving Sam little time to adjust but it was okay. He'd expected the man to slam right in like gangbusters, like too many johns did, thinking it made them macho or something. This, though...fuck, it was hot. The second Luther's dick breached him, it sunk in deep, and kept on going, fucking deep and steady and grazing that spot inside that only Sam had ever touched because he'd never been fucked by anyone who thought Sam's pleasure counted for anything. Luther made sure to, and even though Sam was going to be sore as shit tomorrow, he threw himself into it. He came when Luther wrapped a hot hand around his dick and squeezed, stroking a tight hold once, twice, rough palm working over the head of his dick ‘til he fell over. He came silently, as ordered, and dragged Luther right with him.

If the face he was picturing gasping out their release was freckled and biting plump, red lips, hey, Luther probably wouldn't have give a damn-hell, he'd probably understand.

Both of them lay still, just breathing, for long minutes, until with a chuckle, Luther rolled to one side, and rummaged around on the edge of the bed. When he rolled back to face Sam, he shoved a warm cloth against his chest. Sam blushed, a little overwhelmed with Luther's kindness. He was grateful that Luther ignored it.

"So. Shifter? Skinwalker? Were…?"

"Skinwalker." He sat up and turned away from Luther to clean himself, flinched away when Luther reached out and touched the trio of scarred lumps on his neck.

"Well, hell. I'd be ready to gut the boy right now, hot ass or not, for this. But I can see they're very old. This was from before, right, when it was still legal." Luther shook his head. "We've been through some hard times, haven't we? Most people are still okay with making slaves of your kind."

Sam moved out of his reach. "This was good, don't fuck it up with trying to make yourself feel better by fucking me and them whining about it."

Luther barked a laugh. "Fine. You're...not what I expected."

"I've been told that a million times. It's never been followed up by anything good. Why are you this way?"

"I got dropped here at a young age. Parents died, no one wanted an extra mouth to feed, not when I was too little to do much. Sorcerer found me and for some reason didn't use me in a spell. He was an ass, but he taught me everything I know. I remember hiding when the beasts came out at night, eating humans, monsters, anything in their way. I remember the sorcerers fighting-spells rolling over the earth, cooking everything in their way, beasts too stupid to move, and everything else too helpless to survive."

Luther drew in a shuddery breath, then turned towards Sam and laughed. "Sorry, little 'walker, I don't know why I'm babbling here. You poor captive listener, you."

"It's okay," Sam murmured, kneading fingers along the twisted scar on his knee cap. "I don't remember any stuff like that. Just my mom, and the johns, and being hungry sometimes, until she got killed and I got sold."

"Yeah, we probably had a similar upbringing."

"Not if you didn't trick," Sam said, done with sharing and caring.

Luther picked up on Sam's impatience with him, and dropped the sharing and caring. "Yeah. Listen, let me give you something, Beauty."

"I didn't do this for trade," Sam huffed.

"I know. It was good. I like you, you listened to me whine. You deserve something for that. This, it's not a big thing, okay, supposed to be a protection. You take it. Protect yourself. I want you to...stay safe."

Sam took the thing from Luther. He stared at it, holding it between his fingers, wrapping the leather strip around his hand. "Thank you, he said seriously, nodding. "I...had fun."

"Well, fucking amen to that, so did I," Luther laughed. "Let's sleep. I cuddle."

"Oh, great." Sam frowned, but gripped the only gift he'd ever gotten in his whole life in his fist, and didn't let go all night.

=@=

When they drove out the next morning, there was a definite air of silence being strained in the cab. After a few dozen miles, Dean hesitatingly said, "We don't need you to do that, you know. I'm the one who's keeping this thing going. My mole gig is lucrative enough, okay?"

Sam flicked a look over at Dean, pulling the strip of leather holding the pendant through his fingers. Sam tugged the pendant attached to the loop into sight-it was a little bronze figurine-a head, horned head. Sam sighed and handed it to Dean. "Here. He gave me this. Not a price, I did it for fun. He was fun. Take it."

Dean reached out, his fingers brushing against Sam's when he touched the pendant, sending a tingling through Sam's hand. Dean made a tiny sound, as if he felt it too. Sam cursed himself for being an idiot. "Go on. Take it."

"I don't...okay, thanks, I guess...you sure? I mean, this is pretty cool, Sam."

"Good, then you keep it," Sam said, with an emphatic nod. "It's not for things like me anyway."

"Sam…" Dean started, but Sam turned his head and rolled up against the door.

"Tired. Sleeping." He could see Dean from the corner of his eye, the way the man watched him for a bit, then dropped the pendant over his head, settled it against his chest. Patted it softly with a small smile. Sam was glad that he'd given it to him, glad he hadn't made much of a fuss about how he'd gotten it. He sighed, and settled down into real sleep.

=@=

Halfway back down the road they traveled earlier, Dean pulled Lucille over outside of a huddle of houses, stopping in front of the cottage farthest from the rest of the houses. It was tidy, small, and completely boring. "So, I got a favor to cash in here. And it involves you."

He reached over and opened the glove box, pulled out a cardboard box covered with sigils drawn in blue ink. Looked like maybe lockouts to Sam, which meant something powerful was in the battered little box.

Dean had a gun in his lap, a gleaming chrome gun, its barrel engraved with a floral design of some sort along the length, but just for looks, not power. He saw that the grip was a time-mellowed piece of ivory, which if he remembered correctly had some mild, protective properties. Dean saw him looking and smiled.

"That's my Baby, he said laying a possessive hand over the gun. "She's had my back since I was a teen. M'dad gave it to me. Found her when we first lit out, free and clear, sitting on the side of road, just like that. Like it was meant for him, he used to say." Dean shook his head. He loaded her, explaining to Sam that the ammo was witch killing bullets. "Not that I'm gonna need them, probably," he said. "Me and Rowena go back a ways but…" he shrugged. "You know witches, they got short fuses and a passionate nature. Change like the wind."

=@=

Sam followed behind Dean to the cottage. There were no cat skulls above the door, no bones interwoven with red thread at the gate. There were pots of herbs lining a short walk, and the wreath on the door was just an interwoven circle of ivy. The windows were wide, with bright curtains framing the view. There was a huge garden, and as they opened the gate to the neat little fence surrounding the cottage, a tall, bare-chested, very fit man with a hoe over one sweat-glazed shoulder came strolling from around the side of the house. He smirked at them, winked at Dean and walked past, headed towards the gate.

"That woman," Dean muttered, leading Sam to the front door. He tapped at the round window set in the middle of the door and let himself and Sam in.

"Hey, milady. Come to collect on my favor..."

The svelte, red-headed woman lifted her head from the book she was reading. She sat at a monk's table, the surface in front of her covered with jars and boxes and bags, some spilling their contents. "Come in then, sit down. I've been waiting for you." Her voice was lilting, held a bit of an accent, like Luther's, though not the same. Sam liked the sound of it. The smile she gave them was a tight, prim thing that was just a hair from becoming a sneer. Her eyes widened a bit when her gaze slid past Dean and landed on Sam. She frowned, and gestured him closer, and at Dean's nod he sidled up to her hesitantly. None of his experiences with witches had ever been positive.

She took his hand, ignoring his flinch and stroked it, pulled it closer and for a moment Sam thought she was going to bite his fingers, but she just sniffed, delicately, then took the tip of his finger into her mouth, ignoring Dean's startled "hey!" and Sam's initial impulse to yank it back.

After a brief second, she jerked away, made a face. "Well, haven't you been through a lot, you poor dear. You've been dragged through the coals, that much is certain." She tapped a bejeweled finger against her red-painted lip, and asked, "Your parents?"

Sam tilted his head in puzzlement. The question was definitely a first-no one had ever asked him about family. "Humans called my mother Kitrina, but Seli-enkitri-Dor was her pack name."

She smiled. " Seli-enkitri-Dor. Lovely... golden moon on a midnight lake."

Sam was startled that she knew, but Dean just rolled his eyes. "Of course, she knows, Ro knows everything, especially things not her damn business."

The witch just laughed, a carefully modulated little peal of amusement. She leaned forward, incidentally giving Sam a clearer look at her decolletage, and squeezed his bicep gently. "Oh, my dear-you don't get where I am by going alone, you know. Now. What is your true name?"

Sam dropped his head and growled. "Sam is my only name. My mother was the one who gave it to me."

"Oh! Are you a hybrid, then?"

Sam lifted his lip, his teeth pricking as they went sharper-felt a shivery flutter coil through his gut. "A freak among freaks. Not even the monsters want me. Human father, some john of Seli's pupped her and left her without a thought. For some reason she didn't kill me...lucky me," he laughed sourly.

"Ah, that's what I felt there. No father that you knew. But a familiar air about you…" she narrowed her eyes at Dean and licked her lip again. "Very familiar…"

"Um, excuse me," Dean interrupted. "Favors?" The long-suffering tone he was going for was marred by the square of brown cake he was stuffing into his face. Sam watched him lick smears of chocolate from his lips, and bit down a whimper. He hated what Dean did to him...it was unfair, it really was. He also wondered just what the hell kind of favor Rowena owed him that he had the balls to eat her chocolate? Like fucking gold, that stuff….

"Aye, I do owe you quite a large one," Rowena replied, deftly moving the cakes out of Dean's reach, settling it on the shelf behind her, between a dusty copper kettle and what looked like...Sam squinted...a dried...face?

"What is it you need, dear boy?" she asked, dusting off her hands and smiling wide.

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. Sam, take your shirt off, " he said and the sparkle in Rowena's eyes went up several notches. "No, not for that!" he barked.

Sam and Rowena stared at each other, and then back to Dean. Sam and the witch both asked, "What for?"

"Damn it, Sam-just turn around so she can see your damn neck!"

Sam spun, yanked his shirt off. What the hell-if the witch wanted payment in flesh, he could do that. Dean was kind of annoying about the whole fucking thing, he just didn't get that Sam was fine with whatever. His thoughts were derailed by the witch's hiss of sympathy, pity, something like that. She took a step back, an elegantly painted hand going to her mouth.

"Oh my, that's a very nasty piece of work. How long has it been on you-and those bits under the skin, how long?"

"Uhmm..." Sam thought, trying to remember. "I think...maybe four?"

"Four years!" she exclaimed. "That's a long time to have something like that polluting you." She shook her head sadly. "It's going to take some time to undo, and it's probably going to be painful. Ach, why lie? It's going to be very painful."

"Uhm...I meant since I was four years old…."

=@=

Sam sat in the deep sill of one of the cottage's front windows, lazily enjoying the sun pouring through the spotless glass, thoroughly entertained by watching Dean and the witch arguing in the garden. Nice garden, he thought idly, as the two of them went at it, toe to toe.

The witch-Rowena-had moved on from describing Dean's sex habits-rat fucker, hunh-and his inbred parentage, to explaining just how much it was going to hurt Sam, how unsure she was what would even happen at the end, if what she had would kill or a cure. Whether he'd even be able to shift after all this time. Sam could tell that for some reason her concern was genuine, and that was...surprising.

As for changing, he knew he'd been able to do it once. The memories of changing were blurry, and he mostly remembered being taught not to. Remembered Seli catching him when he was about to, and punishing him for it. He'd fully shifted a time or two, but those memories were mostly impressions; of smells and tastes and warm sun, of something sleek and black rushing past him. Feeling happy.

He remembered the time he'd tried to change to escape those first humans who'd owned him; it had been the last time he'd done so. Here too, he basically only remembered vivid smells, light-maybe a fire-and being caught, then beaten for so long it took him weeks to recover. They'd stomped one of hs kneecaps over and over, until it was a pulpy mess. Wasn't sure it'd come back together, but it did.

When he could finally walk again, they'd taken him to a sorcerer, who'd done the thing, the whatever it was that locked his beast into this cage of a human body.

And now here was Dean, practically a stranger, wanting to change that for him. Sam shook his head. Dean was so naive. He probably thought Sam would be so grateful that he'd throw himself whole-hardheartedly into hunting full time with Dean, being his "partner."

No, if Sam survived, and if he could change into...whatever form he had, he'd run as far and as fast as he was able. Dean probably thought of himself as a good guy, but there was something deadly and wrong about him lurking under that I'm a good old boy surface, and Sam was afraid of it.

=@=

Dean

"All right, Samuel-"

"Not my name," Sam growled. "Sam's not short for anything, Seli just gave it to me because she had to call me something." He hesitated and then said, like confessing to something humiliating, "She said...it came from a book. Fairy tales or something, some guy who wanted people to live with him in some magic house in the sky. I don't know. She didn't teach me to read. Didn't get a chance."

Rowena said nothing, just fixed Sam with an intense gaze, then turned to Dean, with her chin tilted back and a glare that could cut diamonds.

Dean stared back, his eyes full of, "What?" He had no idea what or how he was supposed to respond to that. Sam had it tough, was stolen from his mom, couldn't read-there were a hell of a lot of people out there these days who couldn't read, didn't have time when all their day was spent trying to stay alive.

Rowena huffed and turned away. "Now, Sam, this is going to be rather painful, as I said. Don't think I'm underplaying this. I'm going to have to cut open your neck, dig out those silver slugs-thankfully they're not too deeply implanted as far as I can tell. Then, I have to break the brands and the spell work around them. Thankfully, the spell work is pedestrian; goodness, the sorcerer basically just crayoned a stop sign on you. Hack."

Sam's eyes rolled like a terrified horse. "It hurt a lot, and he fucked me while he did it. Do you have to?"

"Gods, no," she said, horrified. "Not that I would turn an offer down, heavens no, but this...thing….doesn't require that. No wonder it stinks to high heaven. He was a pervert, and a sadist. If he hurt you, he did it on purpose and now I'm stuck with having to hurt you again. Poor boy." She patted his hand, her face gone soft. Turned to Dean, and once again, her expression was the sharp edge of an ax.

"Can you support him while this happens? If not, get me that bottle of Glenlivet, and get out."

"Can't I do both and stay?" Dean asked. He knew Glenlivet, it was Name Brand Booze, but better. He wouldn't mind getting reacquainted. He figured that was probably not the take he was supposed to have now. "Yeah, all right, where should I be?"

Rowena arranged Sam face down on a long, sheet-covered table. "Like this, love, hang your arms down-Dean will hold your hands, and you squeeze him, hang onto him. Concentrate on Dean's hands, concentrate on his fingers, concentrate on his knuckles, feel the scars on them, feel the tendons…"

She droned on and on, until both Dean and Sam were drifting away from the small, neat room, the white walls and dark wooden beams. As she spoke, the flames of candles set around them perfumed the air and tinted it gold; leaping and fluttering in time with the musical lilt her voice took on.

"Hold on," she murmured, and the first cut ripped through Sam, bringing him out of the trance he'd fallen into, but he dropped back just as quickly when the pain stopped. Again, rise and fall. And then...Dean brought up both hands, taking Sam's and yelling "Eyes on me, eyes on me, Sam!"

The scream ripping through the room stuttered as Sam obeyed Dean. He couldn't stop, but Sam gripped his hands so hard that Dean's eyes watered with the pain. He didn't try to pull away, he kept talking to Sam while Rowena cut through the cysts grown around the cast silver runes. It was horrible; he could hear Sam's flesh reluctantly let go of the silver. He could see what looked like a small amount of pus and black blood ooze out of the holes left behind, before Sam finally collapsed against the table, his grip on Dean's hands loosening.

Dean heard Rowena call his name, and her eyes were deeply sympathetic as she held up a jug of clear fluid...holy water. She inclined her head towards Sam, and Dean wrapped his hand around the back of Sam's head. His eyes went wet again with the anticipation of Sam's pain. He barely knew Sam, and yet already it hurt him when Sam hurt. "Sam," he whispered, "This is the part where it gets really bad, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said, biting his lip. He dropped his head, and Dean scooted closer, nudging Sam until his head rested against Dean's chest, and nodded.

Rowena poured, and Sam arched against the pain. Steam rose up like smoke from a fire, and blood welled and ran black at first, then lighter and lighter until it ran red, then finally pink as the holy water ran out.

Sam screamed the whole time, snot and tears coating the front of Dean's shirt as he bucked against Dean's hold. He tried to keep a firm grip, while also trying not to make Sam feel trapped-more trapped than he was. He looked up and caught sight of Rowena, her eyes glowing briefly purple as she snapped something, not Enochian or Greek or Latin, something rich and...ancient, that was the feeling he got. She raised an iron knife, leaf-shaped, tiny, no bigger than her littlest finger, and slashed at the tattoo between Sam's shoulder blades, the one that Dean had earlier cut through. Between the two of us, we've shredded this kid's back, was the crazy thought that flashed through Dean's mind. He pulled Sam closer, murmuring whatever came to his mind into Sam's ear, doing his poor best to comfort the kid, but it seemed to help. Sam finally dropped, muscles loose, and Dean's hands were all that was holding his head up.

Without even thinking about it, Dean kissed the crown of Sam's head, pressed a few quick pecks into the thick, chestnut hair. "Fuck," Dean whispered, "Ro, he's passed out, I think."

"Good. Put him on the couch in my bedroom-he'll fit," she said," squashing any disagreement Dean might have had. "Make sure he's on his front."

"Hey, I'm not an idiot," Dean snapped, and Rowena rolled her eyes at him.

"That's entirely debatable," she snapped, and Dean decided to shut the hell up, because the last thing they needed was a fight, with him possibly pulling a witch-bullet loaded Baby out, and waving her around and then Rowena flinging hedge-witch stuff about because she'd told him once that he wasn't worth her elegant style of magic. Then usually, they'd end up fucking, but somehow, with Sammy laying up passed out in her room and the place still smelling like his blood...nah. That wasn't happening, not today. Not with him having to take care of Sam.

=@=

Sam woke up hours later, having slept long enough for Dean and Rowena to prepare and eat lunch, then dinner, than a snack, and finally, stare at each other across her thick, old oak kitchen table, drinking beer that an admirer made for her and contemplating a handjob-"I mean, it's not really sex, right?" Dean muttered and Rowena scoffed. "You are such an idiot," when Sam woke up all at once, roaring at the top of his lungs.

"Shit!" Rowena jumped away from the table and plunged through the strings of beads hanging in her bedroom doorway, Dean right on her heels.

Sam lay on the floor, blinking owlishly, looking around like he'd just regained his eyesight after being blind for a long, long time. "Pain's gone. It's. Wow. It's, I don't know, like...things are brighter."

Rowena nodded. "It's possible that the silver dulled your senses. What's more important is, now you should be able to change to whatever form you hold."

"Ah," Dean, "Dog, right? Skinwalkers shift to dogs, my dad said."

"That's because he was a man of limited imagination. Skinwalkers can have any kind of beast. Dog, wolves, bears-elephants," she chuckled. "It's partly cultural, partly convenient." She stared at Sam, mouth pursed into a little moue of thought. "Let's go outside. I mean I highly doubt there'll be any elephants appearing here, but one never knows. An ox, a stag, a moose…" She shrugged.

Sam dragged himself up off the floor, shying away from Dean's attempt to help him, and staggered out to the wide, green lawn at the rear of Rowena's house.

Dean stayed on the porch as Rowena and Sam made their way out into the middle of the green space. From his perch on the porch railing, he watched Sam take deep breaths as Rowena talked to him, watched the kid become more and more agitated until finally he threw his head back and screamed, "Leave me alone!"

He folded over and dropped to the ground, burying his hands in the thick green blades.

Ro came back to Dean and said, "Either...what I suspected is true, that he's lost the ability to shift, or…" she sighed. "Maybe, one day, if-when-the damage done to him heals, his beast will out. Sometimes what holds us back is a matter of the mind, not the body. The poor thing has had an awful time of it."

"I'm shocked to see you so concerned over someone who can't pay you back in some way."

Rowena fixed Dean with that intense stare of hers, and frowned. "If you were in any way important to me, that would have hurt," she said and swept past him into the house. She turned at the doorway and said, "We're even. Snow is coming into the pass. You should get a move on, so as not to be trapped on the road."

The door shut with a decisive click and Dean dropped his head. Later, he'd feel crappy about being so stupid later; right now, he had to take care of Sam.

He got Sam back in the truck, his weird ass blanket-a pink monstrosity made for a little girl, looked like-tucked around him, with one of Dean's thrown on top as well. Before they took off, he opened the MoL bag, and took one of the hex bags Lou had made for Bobby. "Sorry, old man, but I fucked up and I gotta make amends. You'll understand."

He pulled over at the gate at the end of her lane, next to a box nailed to a pole. He took a few seconds to tuck the little bag inside. He closed the box and spoke a quick little locking spell Bobby had hounded him to memorize; it was something she' d be able to break with a snap of her fingers, but not a casual, nosy passer-by. He felt a little bit better about himself then.

He jumped into the cab and patted Lucille's worn, sun-faded dash. "Here we go, girl. Jeezus willing, Sioux Falls is the next stop."

=@=

"It's going to take us two days to reach the pass, and then another day before we hit the MoL base. After that, well, we'll check in with my family and then you can decide what you want to do. Me, I'll have ta explain why my mail bag's not empty, but I figure getting us safe counts for more. To me, anyway." Dean snickered softly, then shuffled down into his coat, idly contemplating getting up and getting into the truck. But the fire felt good, and he had a nice buzz, and the down coat he was wearing wasn't going to let him freeze to death. He adjusted the scarf around his chin and nose, and just let the music take him; a song Dad played often late at night...singing along, drinking hooch. He remembered how he'd always laid still, pretending to sleep, so he could hear his dad sing. It was melancholy, but not a hurting kind of sad. Atlantis...I'll always come back to you...

He watched Sam through slowly lowering eyes, watched him until he just couldn't keep his eyes open anymore.

=@=

Sam nodded along to whatever it was that Dean mumbled, figuring that after Dean fell asleep, he'd light out. He wasn't about to end up under a mole's scalpel, like old Ugly had talked about at some length. Sam knew he was a rarity, mixes usually didn't survive. If they didn't die on their own, the pack would see to it. If the Men didn't take him apart to see how he worked, he'd end up in somebody's zoo or worse. When he'd been a kid, he'd seen people with pet monsters: neutered, spelled, chained-whatever it took to make them safe. Before being "rescued', nobody had known he was a mongrel; now two people knew and his life was in the hands of one of them. Well, screw that, after a lifetime of being a slave, he was finally taking his life into his own hands. Despite being broken and stupid and poor, he was free.

That had to count for something, right?

Sam tapped a one-two-three rhythm out on his knee, as he waited for Dean to slip deeper and deeper into sleep. The music tape he played was now hissing quietly to itself. He reached over and pushed the button he'd seen Dean push to make it work. It clicked and went silent. Good. He didn't want the music tape to get damaged. Dean seemed to like it a lot.

Sam got up quietly, grabbing his few things to roll into his blanket, grabbed an extra one to toss over Dean. He laid it out over Dean and then leaned down to touch the amulet around Dean's neck. That was the last thing he'd worked for...well, wasn't really work, but still...he patted it carefully and made a move to head out past the dimming fire.

"Hey, where ya goin'?" He looked back and Dean was leaning up on one elbow, his face soft, confused, and about a dozen lifetimes younger. He blinked, and suddenly his eyes went wide, the pupils huge in the dim light and fuck if he didn't look like a little lost pup, damn it, Sam cursed to himself.

"I'm...I'm…" He shrugged, dropped his blanket. "Nowhere. Gonna take a piss. Be right back."

Dean was struggling upright, caught in the blanket. He seemed firmly stuck in pup-mode, or something. At any rate, it was pinging some almost dead sense of protectiveness Sam could have sworn didn't exist in him.

"Wait," Dean muttered, flailing around in the blanket, and Sam snapped.

"What the fuck for? Are you gonna hold my dick for me?"

Dean deflated, he dropped his eyes, those soft lips going even softer. He huffed, swiped a hand across his forehead, skimming ragged bits of hair back, and Sam just hated the way it made him look. The guy was not a fucking pup, he was not fucking pack or fuckin' anything to him-

"Just." Dean huffed, and laid back down. "Don't leave, okay?"

Sam wouldn't have heard him if his hearing was on par with a regular human's. He had a feeling he was meant to hear that, though. He bet Dean just couldn't bring himself to say it louder, afraid of being shot down, or worse, ignored.

Well.

Sam shrugged again, picked up his blanket, and dropped it next to Dean. He shook it out, turned it so the strawberries were in the front and the little girl in the big baggy hat was next to his skin. "Go back to sleep, Dean."

"Thought you had to piss?"

"Don't fucking worry about my bladder, okay?"

"Bitch."

"What the fuck ever, jerk-off." Sam snorted, but was smiling as he went to sleep; felt like he could hear Dean's smile in his voice.



phoenix1966

Chapter six