The Passenger: Chapter nine

[askellington]

Sam

Sam had a lot on his mind. Something about sex with Dean had him thinking about himself, thinking about Dean. Skinwalkers were two-spirited, he knew that much-not quite the same as weres, who had the ability to communicate with their beast, but pretty close. He knew ‘walkers-and weres-preferred their own company to that of humans, but ‘walkers were more extreme about it. Made it easier to trick with humans.

Sam frowned. Until now, anyway.

He knew halfbreed 'walkers were killed. He had no idea what weres or shifters did with their half-breeds, or even if they could mate with humans. He didn’t know much about himself at all, besides what he got from Shit and others like him. The books in the cabin's shelves made him curious-wondered if there was information in them about monsters who changed.

He was definitely not going to ask Dean-he was not having that human explain what it mean to be skinwalker to him-that would add to the heap of humiliation he already felt for being a fucking freak slave. So today, he was going to try to change again, and maybe a little bit if what Fast had tried to teach him would take hold.

Sam was a good ways into the woods now, counting on the trees and undergrowth to hide him from sight, though he'd probably feel Dean if he headed his direction anyways. It was just, he felt self-conscious. He couldn’t imagine standing in front of Dean and straining to become a monster under his eyes. Sam shook his head. Not the way to think of it, not if he wanted to find peace with his beast.

Deep enough into the wood, Sam came across a small, protected clearing, a natural circle made of shrubs and saplings. He stamped a circle into the snow before taking his clothes off and stacking them neatly to the side. It was cold enough to send a shiver through him; he was assaulted by a brief flash of memory-a short-sleeved, shiny pink dress, its hem stiff with ice, his hair hanging in his face, beads of ice on the ends clicking as he shivered-

He shook his head hard, chasing away lousy, worthless memories. He didn't need reminders like that right now. He needed calm, and some shit about centering himself if he correctly remembered what Fast had said. Sam did all the things Fast said to do-he closed his eyes and inhaled, scenting the snow, the trees, a few small animals, the soil they disturbed; marked them and let them go, they were part of him, but not the biggest part.

He felt the wind, nothing but bitter pinpricks of cold at first, then gradually felt the wind's gliding movement over his skin, the way it flowed over him like a loving touch. He heard the sound of the snow, squeaking quietly as it moved, of ice melting, drip...drip...drip….

breathe in breathe out...felt his heart beat, felt the breath inside, the pain inside, how it felt when it grew, how it felt to live with rage, RAGE all the time, how it felt right before the silver kicked in and want to KILL KILL THEM-

"Shit!" Sam stood the crushed-down snow, shivering, his animal teeth pricking the inside of his human mouth and bloody drool warm on his chin. His skin still felt like it was writhing over his bones like a worm on a hot plate. JeezusDamn it, he’d felt like he’d just been ripped from Seli’s hands. The hatred, the pain-it was so big it was torture, and he didn't know how this fucking change thing worked, or if he wanted to change; he hurt, and was terrified of changing at the same time. Fastmile had harped on calming himself, becoming one with his beast, how was that supposed to happen when anytime he relaxed the iron grip he had on himself all he could think of was blood and revenge?

He didn't even know if he had a full spirit inside him. Maybe these freakish half-reactions were all he had left. The thought was devastating. It made him feel like he was dragging a corpse around inside...no.

No, no, no. The beast was there. He was there inside, and whole. Sam knew he just had to-

"Sam! Where you at, Sammy?"

Get dressed and get back before Dean set the woods on fire looking for him.

=@=

"Baby, come on, let's get going. I wanna be back before dark."

"Coming," Sam yelled back. "I'm just getting my boots on. And I'm a fucking grown man, stop calling me baby, damn it."

Dean had decided that they'd need to restock what they could for whoever came after them, which Sam thought was too nice of him. Hell, let whoever came next get their own, like Dean and he had had to do. But, fine, Dean was right, guess it wasn't really nice to leave the cabin empty of whatever supplies were available. So, restock the wood, at least, and Dean planned to leave a jerrican of fatfuel behind. Dean was going to let the moles know about the broken spell they'd never managed to fix as soon as he got back to the chapter house.

Dean, Sam smirked. So responsible. Such a soft-hearted being.

They'd spent the first part of the morning dragging clumps of large fallen branches into a pile, and now Dean was now chopping the branches into manageable sections. Sam was watching him, fascinated by the way his cheeks glowed red with the exertion, and how the flush and the slight sheen of sweat made his eyes a bright green. He'd seen it before, looking up at Dean spread over him. Every time, just like now, Sam thought he looked so fucking pretty, it was heart-stopping.

Leaning on Lucille, Sam absently stroked her rust-pocked rear fender, thinking about fucking Dean so of course the guy looked up just in time to catch Sam's doofy grin. He shot Dean the bird when he cooed, "Look at you, loving on my Lucille."

"Shut up, before I grab the other love of your life and shoot your balls off," Sam growled, fighting back a grin as Dean went off into laughter.

"Who, Baby? My little darlin' would never be a party to me losing my balls. Besides, she know how much you love them," Dean winked, and giggled as he dodged a snowball handily.

Sam decided he'd better do something more worthwhile then perv on Dean's ass, so he settled in to getting some coffee ready, setting the pot at the edge of the fire they'd built. He didn't mind doing these little things for Dean; he knew Dean would be craving something hot when he finished. He figured he might was well set up the bag of sandwiches they'd made as well-more smoked rabbit, along with some slices of cheese they'd found, and bread that had been frozen and forgotten by the last occupant-the douchebag.

The coffee was nearly ready by the time Sam got out a pair of metal mugs, and he set the sandwiches down on a flat-topped rock close to the fire to warm.

Glancing up at Dean, Sam saw that he had quite a pile of firewood ready and decided it was time to step in; he'd load Lucille up while Dean had his lunch, and then-

A crack coming from the woods behind him brought him to his feet. The noise came from the opposite side of the clearing. He stepped closer to the sound, stopped to listen and to sniff-a rabbit? A deer, maybe, it sounded heavy and the movement was higher up in the bush than a rabbit's-he jerked backwards, almost falling over, when something skittered out of the underbrush on all fours. Sam thought it was a coyote at first, until it lunged upright. With that movement, it hit him-the smell he'd never forget.

"Eater!" he shouted. "Dean!"

Dean wheeled about, already pulling Baby from her holster as he whirled towards Sam, primed to pull off a shot when he was struck, going down under the squirming weight.

It shouldn't be possible, but there they were, a whole whizbang of Eaters, milling about, getting in each others' way as they fought each other to take Dean down and finish him off, momentarily ignoring Sam for the prey that they already had in their clutches.

Sam sprinted towards him, ready to rip the monsters' arms off, when he was hit, hard; felt like that time a john ran his truck into him. Sam's feet flew out from under him, and teeth sank into the arm he'd thrown up to protect his throat; he screamed as the teeth ripped through fabric and down, and latched onto muscle. The Eater set its teeth in deeper and pulled, dragging Sam over the ground, smashing him into rocks and trees as it went scuttling for the deeper woods. Sam managed to pull loose, shredding what was left of his coat, and snatched up the monster trying to eat him. He snapped its stupid stalk of a neck with pleasure.

Sam ripped the shredded mess of coat hanging from him and tossed it away, ready to run for Dean when another Eater was on him. Knocking him forward with the violence of its unexpected attack, it slammed Sam's head full-force into a tree trunk.

Sam sank into blackness-a small part of him coaxing him to let go and sink all the way. He could have, but Sam knew monsters were ripping away at Dean while he was sinking into darkness. It was too much to bear. He beat against the sucking darkness, throwing his rage at it; he took the fear he'd felt when his mother died, all of the pain he experienced after that, every humiliation large and small, all his sorrow, every single crumb of the unknown, growing feeling he had for Dean, Dean who was trying to save him, Dean his mate. Sam turned it into a sword, and tore through the dark trying to drown him, ripped through the bonds holding him down.

Something changed deep inside of him, threw shackles off and grew.

Rowena had been right when she warned him changing might hurt-the pain like nothing he'd ever felt before, even that time a sorcerer had tried to harness his hidden power, whatever that was. He staggered upright, trying to get to his feet and get back to Dean, but his body insisted it was dying, that he wasn't breathing, even though he could feel breath hot in his throat, hear the panting breaths he took.

Sam took a step, fell again. This time, he couldn't get up.

A roar vibrated inside his head, and his whole self shivered. Something inside him whipped around crazily-it hurt like he was being clawed apart from the inside. Whatever it was in the dark hit him with a punch like a pile-driver. It yowled, WAKE UP.

He woke to waves of pain twisting his gut; the twisting, distorted feeling flowed over him and down each limb. His back, his neck, his head...his skin was first on fire, then ice-cold, then itched like he'd have to tear every square inch off, and then….

Then blessed relief poured over him in a warm, soothing wave that ended with a flick of his tail.

Tail? He opened his mouth, intending to say 'What the fuck?', but a bizarre, inhuman noise spilled out of him instead, paralyzing himself and the Eaters streaking toward him. A couple of the monsters turned on their heels, raced hell-bent away, but one ran straight at him, over-long tongue lolling out of a wet, open mouth, screeching like mad.

Sam reared back, spread his razor-tipped paws wide. His whiskers curled back with silent laughter, golden eyes narrowed. This was going to be fun.

Dean
Dean snapped awake-his dad was calling him, and boy, he was pissed. Dean staggered to his feet, trying to puzzle out if he'd fallen asleep on guard duty again, or fuck, did he forget to clean the damn guns? "Yeah, dad, I'm awake, I'm awake-"

Something smashed into him, bowling him over. Dean went with it, rolling until he was clear to jump to his feet with his Colt pointed outward into the dark. He heard a scream-Sam! He swung around, gun pointed, safety off, glaring into the night until he saw Sam.

He was struggling with something, something that was locked onto the arm Sam had up to protect his throat. It tore through Sam's coat, sending streamers of material dropping to the ground and a spray of blood in the air, black in the shadows under the trees. Dean blasted the dark shape and it dropped, just as the thing that had knocked him over the first time barreled into him again. He shot again, saw Sam was free, saw him yank something upright and break its neck, then rip off his shredded coat and throw it away.

A black shadow leaped out at Dean, mouth wide and teeth gleaming in the firelight. Jeez fuck-Eaters! How?

He was going to die out here in the snow, eaten by ugly fucking monsters who weren't even supposed to exist anymore, and just when life was getting good. Fucking Winchester luck….

"Sam," Dean whispered, closing his eyes. He fully expected never to open them again.

His plans to die quietly and bravely went out the window when one of the fuckers landed on his chest, pawing for a grip and shredding his jacket-and his chest, felt like. He couldn't hold back a scream when its claws went through his coat and into his chest. The damn freak smelled like shit and blood, and it screamed, wild and unhinged, right into his face before clamping down.

Dean howled, waiting for more pain to rip through him, but by a minor miracle, the Eater missed his neck, and instead hooked its teeth into Dean's collar. As the Eater threw its head back, the collar ripped loose, showering Dean with clouds of chopped feathers and fabric. All around him, he could see Eaters ganging up; their frantic moves blocking each other the only thing that had kept him from being eaten alive yet. The circle broke and Dean prepared himself for the end.

Instead of the monsters falling on him to tear him apart, the circle of Eaters went flying in every direction. Dean gasped and blinked frantically when a hot spray of blood and a small weight thumped down on him-a torn off Eater's hand landed palm-down on his face. He ripped it off and threw it-hard-and jumped to his feet, clutching at his chest in way that would have been embarrassing if he wasn't sure he was going to make it out of this shit alive.

A high-pitched, yowling sound filled the air and nearly made him piss himself-looking past the bits of Eater scattered around him he saw-

What the fuck was he seeing?

A huge black animal was ripping through the Eaters, their thin, sinewy bodies flying apart like they were being shot out of a shredder. The thing reared back, and one huge, blacker-than-black paw, tipped with razors, shredded an Eaters chest with one blow.

In minutes there were no active Eaters left-just body parts and shivering corpses, taking their time about dying.

The black thing flowed over red snow and bloody chunks, stopping when it was face to face with Dean. Dean blinked, trying to clear blood and gunk from his eyes. The thing eyed Dean. The amount of intelligence in the animal's eyes was unnerving. Gold, red, green, and blue wheeled in its eyes like wild fireworks. It blinked and the fireworks settled, green-blue-gray, eyes looked down on him. Eyes that were strangely familiar.

The narrow head dipped closer, neat, rounded ears flicked back and forth. Long, elegant whiskers curved towards him in a feline smile. It set a giant paw atop Dean and gently flexed, a deep rolling 'muuuhrr' thundering through its chest.

Purring?

Dean panted, fear slowly fading..."Sam?"

Sam
The Eaters were all down, dead or dying, so Sam grabbed the back of Dean's coat and started to pull Dean away from the corpses.

Dean let him know in no uncertain terms this was absolutely not a good idea. He screamed. "FUCK! Oh, asshole, fuck, that hurts JeezDamn it!" Dean made a pitiful sound; he whimpered,"Sammy, my chest hurts." before his eyes rolled back in a faint.

Sam yowled. Frantic with fear, he danced sideways away from Dean, before he managed to control himself.

Check him, stop crying, yes. His Dean needed him. He straddled Dean, sniffing at his face, his chest. Closing his eyes to concentrate, Sam pressed his nose against Dean's, testing to see if he was breathing,. He felt warm hands on his cheeks, and opened his eyes to see that Dean's were inches from his face.

"C'mon, Sammy, let go. It'll be okay now, I promise. Let him go and help me to the truck, alright? I really don't want to bleed to death out here."

Sam whined. Dean's chest was a mess of blood and meat and shredded fabric. And he'd probably made worse by bumping Dean over the ground. But what was he supposed to do? How to help?

The truck. Get there. But. No hands, no way to carry him. What? What?

Change! Yes, yes, change.

How…

How did he change back?

Staring down at Dean and finding his open eyes looking up at him, Sam froze. Dean's eyes were dark, glazed, but focused on him like magnets. "Fuck, you're beautiful," he muttered. "Eyes...like tha sun reflectin' offa fuckin' sea…."

His eyes closed and he slumped, dead-weight and out like a light. Sam was terrified-he wanted to to pick Dean up in his arms, Dean needed him, he needed Sam to carry him. A slight shudder started under his Sam's scalp, a creeping sensation bloomed between his shoulders and shivered down his spine, and finally swept him from nose to tail. Then there was no tail, and suddenly it was just him again, Sam, naked and wrapped around Dean, surrounded by dead monsters at the edge of their fire.

"Jee-Jeez-Jeeezus." Sam stuttered with the sudden cold. Here he was, stark-naked and out of luck, since he'd reduced his clothes to a tangle of rags between the Eaters and his changing. He swiveled around, and spotted Lucille not far off. They'd been dragged only a short distance-there at least was a little bit of luck. He hefted Dean in his arms, and walked carefully, but quickly, as he could.

He got Dean into the truck without spilling too much more blood. Dean's head lolled on his shoulder, thumping against the window as Sam propped him up and wrapped him in the blanket they kept in the cab. Sam ran around to the driver's side, cringing when his naked ass touched the ice-cold vinyl seat. He could feel his damn junk trying to shrink up inside him. How the fuck did the heater thing work?

Well, first turn the truck on. "Yes, okay. Here we go." Sam stared at the wheel, the keys dangling in the ignition, waiting to be turned. "Fuck me."

He had no idea what to do next. All this time they'd been stuck out on this mountain-side and neither one of them had ever thought to say, 'Hey, know what? Driving lessons might come in handy'. FUCK.

Throwing up a prayer to anything listening, Sam turned the key, and Lucille rumbled to life, sounding put out that Dean wasn't behind the wheel. "C'mon, girl, you know me, you like me, I make Dean haa-appyy…" he crooned to her, and tried to remember what Dean did when he drove. Damn it, he should have spent less time staring at Dean's dick-

He put his foot on the little pedal, pressed it down and wrestled with the stick thing on the steering wheel, yanking it until it reached D because that meant drive, like he knew the R meant go backwards. Sam had no idea what the N meant but he didn't need that-he needed to go forward, like, right now. He switched his foot to the pedal that made the truck move forward-it shot forward, scaring him, so he slammed his foot on the other pedal, which brought them to a stop-hard. "Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-"

They moved forward, and this time, Sam tried to ease his foot to the pedal, but wasn't terribly successful at the easing business. At least he kept them moving.

It was terrifying. Slamming forward, slamming to a stop when he was afraid they were going too fast, yanking the wheel back and forth to make it follow the long curve in the road, but finally, JeezThank, they were on the road to the cabin, which he'd not noticed until this very fucking damn minute was a washboard of ruts, and also filled with holes that Dean had somehow always missed, but he hit every fucking one. He kept glancing at Dean in a panic, terrified that he was killing him by slamming him around the cab.

Finally, Sam came to one final, complete stop-he was practically standing on the stopping pedal when he turned the truck off. Lucille screeched at him-she must hate his guts now, but Dean was what mattered right now, all that mattered. Sam leaped out of the truck and ran around to the side, pulling Dean free as gently as he could.

It was a shaky, frightening walk, up the porch stairs, praying not to slip on a patch of ice, then staring at the front door and wondering how he was going to get inside with his hands full. He set Dean carefully, carefully on his feet and almost cheered when the door swung open without him dropping Dean. He glanced at the stairs and decided fuck no, he'd only make things worse than they were now.

Sam set Dean up on the couch as gently as he could before grabbing a knife from the kitchen to slice free the remnants of Dean's coat and shirts.

Dean was lucky-the Eater had shredded his clothes, but only scratched him, thank Jeezus for that silly puffy coat. Of course, those scratches went pretty deep, and Sam, going by the only first aid he'd ever learned to give, dumped a shit-load of alcohol on them. Dean squirmed and moaned in his sleep, but thankfully, never fully woke.

Sam sprinted up to their bedroom, tearing through the room and through Dean's bag until he found a first aid kit, sent up thanks to whatever might be listening when he found needles and sutures inside. Lucky for him and Dean both, at least one of the owners had been okay with teaching Sam some basic stuff, like how to do stitches. 'Course, that was mostly because he was a drunk, and rarely had the steady hand needed for it.

Sam gathered the bag and a few towels, and ran out the door, sprinting back into the room to throw on a pair of Dean's jeans and a t-shirt before hurrying downstairs again. Clothes could be soothing, sometimes. And warm,

Downstairs, he mopped up the mess of blood and alcohol from Dean's chest and inspected the wounds. Dean had been very lucky-the monster's claws had mostly skated across the surface of his skin, and only hooked deep in a couple of places. Dean needed cleaning, and bandages, and only a few stitches. Sam dropped his head against an unmarked spot on Dean's shoulder, breathing deep. It hit him all at once-his own injury, burning as the skin and muscle worked hard to knit itself together, being afraid he'd lost Dean, meeting again the frightening monster of his pup-hood.

Sam sat staring at Dean, watching him sleep, remembering how he'd felt when he thought Dean was going to be eaten. How his whole body vibrated with knowing that Dean was mate. He didn't know a damn thing about himself, about skinwalkers at all-but he knew that Dean was his, and that he couldn't live without him, wouldn't want to.

And there was one other thing that he'd somehow managed to shove to one corner of his mind as he wrestled Lucille down the road with the most precious cargo in all the world….

He'd changed! And he wasn't a dog of any kind. Somehow, being able to change had unlocked a memory long buried; Seli-ma had been a cougar as well, and she'd been lovely, lithe and all shades of gold, like her hair-like the reflection of the moon on water. And of course he'd been different from her-of course. All black, like the night, from nose to tail-tip. An outward sign of how different he was from everyone else. He thought about it, rolled it over in his mind, batting it this way and that and decided that he was glad to finally know his beast, and he didn't care anymore that he was a freak. He was his own being, with a beautiful beast and an amazing mate. Life was the best it had ever been, way, way better than a freak like him deserved.

=@=

Dean picked at the itchy stitches on his chest and sighed dramatically.

Sam had come to realize a bored, achy, Dean was a dangerous Dean-a Dean who had apparently got into the liquor, and that pissed Sam off. Alcohol and painkillers didn't mix-a lesson he was sure Dean must have learned at some point hunting with his dad.

Sam slapped Dean's hand away from his chest a few times before Dean finally threw his head back with a frustrated huff. After a long minute, he asked, "So...turns out you're not a dog. How about that? You're a cat. A cougar...a black one. A huge, black cougar with huge green more than just green? eyes. Hunh, I'm tellin' you, this whole escapade just gets better and better. I mean, you being a cougar's not crazy. Skinwalkers can be anything, Rowena said so-bear, wolf, otter. I don't know about cows, never heard about cows. Cow walkers. Heh-heh. That'd be funny...or chickens! Giant old chickens...would a skinwalker-chicken lay eggs? Can they lay eggs? And if they could, would they?"

"Oh my Jeezus, shut up, Dean."

"Why? I'm just thinking, and speaking of thinking, you know what? I think I like that mole, riii-iight there-"

Dean reached out and stabbed Sam a few times in the face, trying to tap the mole he was fixated on, finger wavering from Sam's nose to his cheek to dangerously close to his eye. Sam snorted, waved Dean's hand away like it was a bothersome gnat. "Okay, that's it. Nap time for Dean."

He pushed Dean back onto the bed, where he curled up like a pup, snuffling happily into his pillow. "You take good care of me. Love you." He flailed a hand in Sam's general direction, slapping his knee. Sam winced, waiting for it to throb in pain, but it didn't. All he felt was Dean's warm fingers stroking aimlessly over his kneecap.

"Uh-hum. You too," he murmured, tucking Dean's hand under the blanket. In seconds, he was snoring away.

"JeezusThank," Sam muttered. He stared at Dean for a moment. Shrugged. Stripped out of his clothes and concentrated on feeling...smooth was the only way he could describe it. That creeping, warming feeling, swept over him, and he was on four feet again. He jumped up onto the bed, slithering and swaying until he got in the most comfortable position -close to Dean without hurting him, and joined him in sleep, one ear out for trouble, and his furry chin resting on Dean's thigh.

=@=

"Hrrr…" One singular beam of demonic sunlight made it through the blinds-just bright enough to drag Sam out of his comfy sleep. He woke, growling softly under his breath, wiping at his face, and realizing what poked him in the eye was a finger, not a paw. Sometime during the night, his beast had receded, and that worried him. Was that normal? Or was it a loss of control? How much control did he have over his beast, he wondered. Was that even the right word?

What would it be like to let his beast roam free? He really should know what that felt like, shouldn't he? He should do a little...practice or something. Get comfortable, find out what it meant to share spirits.

Sam slipped out of bed, not bothering to throw anything on-he was only going to change, and there was no one around for miles, since the pack moved on a few weeks ago. He trotted out the door, cursing softly under his breath when his feet left the porch and hit bare ground. The cold he could deal with, but the way the mud squished between his toes-"Gack." So fucking gross.

Sam picked up the pace and before long, he was in a thick section of wood-nothing but broken, winter killed underbrush around him. He stamped down snow and shoved branches aside, to give himself space if he needed it. And now...Sam took a deep breath. Now he was nervous for some reason. "Okay, okay, you've done this, it's a snap, just...let go," Sam mumbled, shaking himself out, from shoulders to fingertips, and breathing deeply. In his mind, Dean was smiling at him, murmuring, 'Do it. Just let go, Sammy'….

Sam breathed in, slowly, deliberately, and then, a wave of warmth swept over him. He fell forward, dropping to hands and knees on the slush, not even registering the gooey, thick mud, and dirty snow. Sam shivered, feeling the change as a long rolling wave that ended with-a flick of his tail.

"Mhuuurr." Felt good, nice, smooth, like sliding on ice down a long, straight, river. Here he was, all over, outside and in. Good.

He dashed away, deeper into the woods, searching out all the lovely smells streaming through his nose, his eyes picking out the smallest movement, from a small mouse sprinting up a tree trunk, to the gray flick of a coyote's tail heading quickly in a direction away from him. Coward. He coughed out a combination of chuckle and purr, and kept moving.

There, a scent. Food, or soon to be, and at that moment, his stomach howled. He tossed his head, sniffing deeply. There, towards the edge of the woods-and leaped off after it. They zigged and zagged, over bushes and weaving through tree trunks, leaping over logs and skating through puddles of mud as a desperate rabbit tried to escape him.

He put on a burst of speed, and snagged the rabbit as they both leaped into the air to clear a tumble of fallen branches-tripped into the rabbit actually, and instinctively gripped it in his paws. It wiggled and jerked, and he dug his claws in deeper, accidentally tearing bits off until the rabbit finally went still-its rapidly beating heart slowing with blood-loss.

He dropped it, tilting his head at the tangled length of fur and bones and blood. He dipped his head, meaning to pick it up, but accidentally crushed the little skull. His mouth filled with blood, and hair and bone-he dropped it again, and stopped before trying to clear his mouth. It was food, right? It was...his. Prey, it was...breakfast. Breakfast! For his mate.

Mate...he purred, the sound echoing around the small clearing. Mate, smelled so good, felt so good. His mate needed breakfast. He would bring it.

He picked up the poor shredded rabbit, and headed proudly to the cabin.

At the porch steps, he dropped the rabbit, troubled. His mate wouldn't, or couldn't, eat raw meat. Bad.

He'd need hands to cook this meat. He dipped his head, staring at the raw meat, licking his lips, and thinking, 'this raw meat, the taste...not so good? shouldn't it taste better?' He did a feline equivalent of a shrug, and closed his eyes, preparing to change for his mate.

=@=

"Um...thanks for the rabbit...stew, I guess?"

Sam stared at the bowl of clear soup, at the few shreds of meat floating in it, the overabundance of carrots. He could feel his cheeks burn as he blushed. "Yeah, you're uh, welcome...yeah."

The changing thing was easier as he thought it'd be, but fine motor skills were definitely beyond his range yet. The mangled rabbit he'd brought back had barely retained enough meat on its bones to add any flavor or protein to the soup Sam had tried to make.

The way what was left of the rabbit looked had Dean-Dean, of all people-going green when he dropped it on the kitchen counter. It really had looked kind of horrible. And raw rabbit hadn't tasted at all like Sam had expected, either. He thought that in his wild form he'd love it, all that meat and fresh blood. But all it was was...edible. Sort of. So much for blood lust.

Sam shuddered, and scrubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth again. Sighing, he glanced over at Dean, sitting at the counter, trying to eat the soup and totally unaware of Sam's small identity crisis.

Dean was staring out of the kitchen window, a little smile on his face, bobbing his head to one of his music tapes; Sam could just catch a rumbling beat, and something about 'round my back door' through the earmuff things on a string he wore. Every few seconds, he'd sip broth and occasionally spear a chunk of carrot from the stew. He looked kind of goofy, what with the little smile, and his cheeks stuffed with mashed carrots. Mostly though, he looked content, and really, really, really pretty, the way the sun hit his eyelashes….

Sam glanced down at his own bowl of watery soup, then at Dean smiling, and shrugged. He'd do better next time. He could do this.

Dean looked up with an even wider grin and said, "Really though, thanks for lunch, babe. It's really...warm."

Sam just threw his head back and laughed. JeezusKris-he loved this man.

Wait. What? Loved?

=@=

"It stay...stayeth the be-bleeding of wonds--wounds--and clen-cleaneth ulkers-ulcers and sores." Sam frowned at the line in the crumbly, yellow book. Herbs. Who knew they could be so aggravating? Still, when a time came that Dean was mauled because he couldn't be bothered to think before acting, knowing what herbs to use, and exactly how to use them, would come in handy.

Sam stopped, rewound the thought in his head, and laughed at himself. What the fuck-way back at the end of SpringDay, when Dean rescued him, he wouldn't even have been be able to read the darn book, and now here he was, having the nerve to complain the book was boring. He glanced over at Dean and found him looking over the back of the couch, one of those molar exposing grins on his face, and his eyes dancing with pride. Sam immediately felt better.

"Wow. You're good, babe. I think you've got this reading thing down. I knew you would, smart kid like you. Beauty and brains. And brawn. Damn, I hate you got so tall, how the hell did that happen?"

"I'd say somebody took good care of me this WinterDay." Sam said, and maybe he stretched a little, came up on his toes just a smidge. It felt good to be able to rest his chin atop Dean's head, funnier still to hold him out of reach with one arm. Dean giggled, fully aware of Sam and his sense of humor, and how much Sam liked making him laugh.

"Yeah." Dean's grin simmered to a warm smile. "It was my pleasure. Sasquatch. Oh-excuse me, Bagheera."

Sam cast him a confused look, wondering what a baggerah was, but Dean just waved his hand and chuckled. "Boy, wait until we get to Bobby's non-working-just-for-fun library. It's gonna be like a Name Day party every day for you."

Sam sighed. Name Day? That must be something good, judging by Dean's grin. Of course, it was another thing Sam knew nothing about, but that Dean took for granted he did.

Dean got up from the couch, wincing slightly. Though the tears on his chest had healed nicely-clean and smooth-Sam could tell by the way Dean moved they still pulled a bit, just enough to remind Sam and Dean both of how close Dean had come to falling to the Eaters. Sam hated them for that. At times like this, he hated himself for healing so well, and wished he could pass it to Dean.

Sometimes, when Dean was deep in sleep, Sam would lightly trace the scars on Dean's body, following the traces of claws, teeth, and human weapons had left there. The story of Dean's life was told in his skin-Sam's was nearly a blank book. He had a scar; one or two that could be seen, but most he carried deep inside, where no one would ever see. The blessing, and curse, of a skinwalker's healing ability.

=@=
"Hey, Sam."

Sam looked up at Dean-he'd been watching as Dean as disassembled Baby, working an oily rag around the gun's various parts, neatly laid out on a towel in front of him. Sam was supposed to be taking notes on how to clean the gun; he had been shooting with her, because Dean insisted. He'd told Sam more of her history while they worked on target practice. Sam knew that she was a Colt 1911, that her grips were ivory, just like Sam had thought when he'd first seen the gun. He knew that Dean's dad had found her one day on the side of the road, looking like she'd been carefully placed there by someone, as if he'd been meant to find her.

His dad never named her, Dean said, but when Dean was a little kid, his dad had had a big old black car he'd called Baby. When Dean was gifted the Colt, he'd started calling her Baby, after the original. The original Baby had been lost; crashed in a ditch on a terrible hunt gone wrong. Dean barely recalled that car now. He just had vague memories of having felt at home in her, safe, and secure, when he was a little kid.

Then one day his dad came chugging up in Lucille, ugly as sin, but hardy as fuck, and Dean had fallen in love. Sam thought it was cute the way Dean named everything. Sam, he would have called the gun Gun and the truck Truck, and been okay with that. Though here he was, spending one WinterDay season with Dean, and now he was calling both hunks of metal 'she' like a damn fool.

Dean pushed the parts towards Sam, and cocked an eyebrow, meaning for Sam to assemble his Baby again. While he did that, Dean said, "We'll be moving out in a few days. Time to get out and face the world. And keep the MoLs from docking my pay. Late delivery, ate up half-goods-I hope they're not gonna be the prissy little shits they can be."

Sam stopped, his hands frozen on the Colt. "Well. Could give them something unique, like a-"

"Fucking finish that stupid thought, and I knock you off your feet-I can still take you, Bagheera."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"I do, Sam. And after everything you've been through in this life, if you think for one minute Imma let you go to a group like the Men of Letters, you're nuts. I know it probably doesn't mean to you what it means to me, but I love you. And not like, 'I love you man', I mean, I...y'know, love you. Sorry, sorry, you don't have to say anything. I know our whole hooking up, this whole time spent together is all about 'maybe' to you, but it's not like that to me. Don;t you worry, though, I'd never force my feelings on you. Okay?"

Sam silently checked everything was reassembled correctly, checking the slide action, and that the safety was on. Dean nodded approvingly, and Sam passed the gun back, letting Dean insert the magazine. Sam waited until he had Dean's attention again. He said,"You know how weres and skinwalkers are made to find a partner and mate for life? How most of them are physically incapable of being with anyone other than their mate after that?"

Dean nodded, and Sam took a deep breath before going on.

"And you know humans don't have that drive to mate for life in that way, so can't ever be mated like that to a super?"

"Yeah, Sam I get it-you don't want more than Maybe with me, you just want to fuck around. Okay, I get it."

"No! I'm telling you, no matter what the lore says, or the Men of Letters say, as far as you and me go, we're mated. You understand? As far as I'm concerned, as far as my beast is concerned, we're mates. It's all I need to know. I love you too."

Dean stared at Sam for so long, Sam began to wish he'd kept his mouth shut. What exactly had Dean meant by I love you then?

"Sam, I never ever thought there'd be a point in my life where I'd say this, and mean it with every single molecule of my being but, JeezusThank!" Dean tipped his head back and yelled at the ceiling, as loud as he could,"THANK YOU."

Sam stood, his hands planted wide on the counter, and waited for Dean to come to him. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, and held him tightly. Sam felt his breath against his neck, warm and shaky with emotion that Sam felt, too, He held back, blinked back the stinging in his eyes and echoed silently what Dean said-thank you.



Phoenix1966

Dean
It was time-the snow had almost completely retreated, though it was still cold enough that most of the mud was still a little frozen. Soon, it would warm up enough to bring a whole new set of problems-driving rain, mudslides, flash flood. So, this was it; it time to go.

They tossed their bags into Lucille's bed, securing what was left of the Menaletters tithe in her truck box. After the MoL goods were secured, Dean went down to the basement to dig up the hex bags Luther had made for Bobby.

Pulling them out of the crumbly, dry soil, he brushed them clean as possible. He blew the last few grains from the bags, and they instantly looked brand new. It felt like they were vibrating on his palm, just dying to grant a wish or destroy an enemy. He was glad they weren't the kind of thing he usually dealt with. Despite feeling that they were...well disposed towards him, they creeped him out. He happily tucked them back into the mail bag. The moment they were and secured, Dean could feel the bags' magic leaving the cabin; felt like a protecting presence drifting away. Their magic had been mild, muted by being buried, but the feeling of security he and Sam had felt probably came from the bags-whatever they were for, they were definitely going to be powerful in skilled hands.

Dean trotted up the stairs, the sealed bag bouncing against his back. He giggled when he cleared the stairs and saw his boy, and what he was doing.

Sam was practically dancing around the cabin, gathering their stuff, singing to himself. Dean watched-this hardly seemed like the same boy he'd stumbled into this place with at the end of last SpringDay. Sam caught him looking and tossed his hair back. Grinning at Dean, he said, "I checked our room, tidied up, took the peanut butter, a couple of coats, oh, and stole the porn maga-zine and put it in your bag."

"See? Dean said. "Beauty and brains, beauty and brains." He strolled past Sam and slapped his ass. "And sticky fingers, too? Fucking lucked out hard, I did."

Out in the clearing in front of the cabin, Dean stopped, dropped a pinch of orange-tinted powdered amber into his palm, blew it into the air and muttered, "tego" and the cabin shimmered out of sight.

Sam stood staring narrow-eyed at the blank spot for a bit, before saying, "When we fist pulled in here, it took longer to un-hide the cabin, with hands, and piling the powder just so, and then the Latin, and the blowing powder all over-here just now, you flung the powder out all whatthefuckever, and only said one word. Umm…" his forehead wrinkled. "Hide?"

"Well, I uh," Dean coughed. "Y'know, was maybe showing off a little…"

"Such a dork," Sam said, fondness coloring his tone. "Anyway, this time I get to pick the music, right?" he crowed, and took off running towards the truck; Dean ran after, shouting at him.

"No! Never! It's my truck, Sam. Driver picks the music!"

Sam paid him no mind. He jumped in, and shoved a tape into the deck, laughing in a way Dean hadn't known he could. It was definitely an evil laugh. And then to make it worse, the tune rolling out of Lucille's speakers, a little tinny with age, made him groan. "Aww, Sam. I hate this one, I can't even believe I kept this cassette. Do you know how many times I had to listen to it? Sometimes, Dad had shit taste."

"Shhh-" Sam said as the opening bars gave way to lyrics, I am a passenger, and I ride and I ride... "I like it. I don't understand everything he says, but I like it."

He was quiet and Dean glanced over to check if he'd fallen asleep already. But he was staring out the window, his head tilted to the sky, and tapping his knee in time with the beat. He glanced over at Dean, smiled wide in that way Dean loved to see.

"Hey, Dean, do you know what an ocean is?"

"An ocean? You don't...well, yeah, it's. It's like a lake, only really salty, and so huge you can't even see the other side of it. I saw the ocean once. It was a little scary, it was so big, and the water moved constantly. The bank was a giant, flat stretch of sand, and went on for miles and miles, past the point I could see. It smelled...weird, a little fishy, salty, I'm not sure how to describe that. You could feel the salt on your lips when you licked them, and the wind kept throwing ocean mist in your face. Walking on the banks was like trying to walk through sugar. Didn't taste like sugar though," he laughed, "and boy, not something you wanted to get in your ass crack-"

"Okay, thanks! Does everything boil down to sex for you?"

Dean thought about that, before shrugging. "Yes?"

Sam laughed. "You are such a hound. Never mind the ocean, then, Dean."

Dean pulled over to the side of the road, carefully steering Lucille to a safe place he could put her into park. He tapped Sam's knee, asked him to go into the glove compartment. "There's a map in there, get it out for me, please?"

He took the map, and unfolded it across their laps with a smile. It was hand-drawn, something he'd been working on for years-ever since he'd been dragged into the Men of Letters life by Bobby. "This map is something I've been working on my own, quite a long time now. I've been a lot of places, and I've marked them all here. There're a lot of places I haven't been. I've been thinking...maybe you want to see some places too. After we've seen the ocean?"

"What about Bobby's hex bags? The MenofLetters' mail?"

"All that will be here when we get back. Whataya say?"

Sam grinned, wide as he could, his heart felt like it was filling his chest. "Okay, yeah. Sounds good."

Dean winked and threw Lucille back into drive. "Okay then. Road trip-never mind, I'll explain later."



phoenix1966
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Epilogue