Phoenix from the ashes - Part 2 - Sam/Dean, NC-17, bitch_jerkoff for kashmir1
Phoenix from the ashes, Sam/Dean, NC-17, bitch_jerkoff for kashmir1, go back to Part 1 for full headers and warnings.
The next morning, it's the knock on the door and Bobby's voice that tells them to swing their asses out of bed that wakens Sam. Dean stirs next to him but doesn't fully awake until Sam kisses his face lazily.
"Morning," Sam whispers, still tired after a night of bad sleep. He's nauseous, ready to puke any minute, knowing too well that his nerves are finally kicking in.
"Morning," Dean yawns, blinking sleepily.
Quickly, Sam tears himself away to search clean clothes for both he and Dean, he wants to get over with it already. After dressing, he turns to Dean on the bed and says, "you stay here until we come and get you, okay? I'm gonna go and talk to Bobby first, see if we need to prepare anything."
Dean nods at him, yawns once more and doesn't seem mad at all at the prospect of a little more sleep.
***
Sam finds Bobby standing in the kitchen, drinking a coup of coffee and talking to a stranger Sam's never met before. He assumes him to be Peter, the friend Bobby has been talking about. The man is everything Paster Jim was not. He's tall, he's well-trained, he's young. Sam thinks that he must be in his early thirties and he'd definitely call him attractive. Clearing his throat, Sam finally comes closer to the men.
"Hi," he says, holding his hand for the stranger to shake, "I'm Sam."
The man smiles, his eyes clear blue and curious, wide away. "Nice to meet you Sam. I'm Peter," he confirms what Sam already guessed. "Your brother Dean's still sleeping?"
Sam nods, a little relieved that apparently Peter has already been introduced to everything that happened and that he's up to date. He wants this nightmare to be over, he wants Dean to be all right. He wants them to be all right.
"I already filled Peter in, he knows everything," Bobby states the obvious. "Did you boys sleep okay?"
For a moment, Sam feels his cheeks burn, knowing he must be blushing. He doesn't know whether Bobby heard them last night, they weren't particularly trying hard to be quiet, but if Bobby does, he's not letting it show right now.
"Not really," Sam says honestly, "Dean didn't sleep well because of the fever and I'm pretty worried about Dean. And I don't mean to be rude but I wish we'd get over with everything already so that Dean... so that he can get better."
Sam's voice is quiet and it sounds tiny and lost even in his own ears. Peter comes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder before he squeezes it tightly. "I believe your brother will be all right, Sam," he tries to soothe.
"Yeah," Sam says hoarsely and forces himself to smile, first at Peter, then at Bobby. "Okay, what do we do now?"
Peter looks at Sam, then at Bobby, "you two get Dean, it's nearly seven, and I'll unpack everything I need. Hurry now."
By the time Sam and Bobby return with Dean, Sam at one side, Bobby at the other, dragging his limp body along, Peter is setting up a table, close to the kitchen table. It looks like one from the living room and Peter must have dragged it over into the kitchen.
Right now, he covers it with a white linen cloth and then he places two white candles onto it. In between those candles he puts down a crucifix. And in front of said crucifix, he puts down a bowl with what Sam assumes to be normal water or maybe even holy water, next to it a small flask with more liquid. Sam recognizes it as one of the falcons Bobby uses to keep holy water in. So, there you go with the holy water. And finally, there's another white cloth and a brass cruet with yet more liquid that Sam can't make out for sure.
He assumes though it's some kind of oil, that's at least what makes sense the most. Peter is murmuring something that Sam can't hear and if he had to guess - he's been friends with priests long enough - he'd say that he's blessing the liquid.
Though Dean sags down even more in their arms, neither Sam nor Bobby rush Peter to finish his prayers more quickly. When Peter's done, he looks at them, confident and radiating a certain calmness Sam hasn't felt in days.
"Okay, help Dean onto the table. Face this way," Peter commands gently, his fingers pointing to the table that he used to set up everything he needs.
When Sam and Bobby lay Dean down on the kitchen table, Dean groans miserably in pain. He's weak and worn out, barely awake even, his fever once again risen dramatically and his skin hot and sweaty. If Sam had the time to feel guilty that he and Dean had sex last night, the physical strain robbing his last bit of strength, yeah, if Sam had the time to feel guilty, then he definitely would.
Moving to the head of the table and crouching down in front of Dean, Sam smiles at him. Carefully, he brings a hand up to Dean's face, stroking the hot skin soothingly. Dean's eyes flutter open for a brief moment and there's the weak attempt of a smile on his face.
"Ready to get those fuckers off?" Sam asks, Dean's answer not surprising him the least.
"Fuck, yeah," Dean groans.
There's a huge lump in Sam's throat, so huge he can hardly breathe. He knows it's the nerves getting to him once more, the nausea he feels, the eagerness to be sick. He's scared. He's scared for Dean and he's not ashamed to admit it.
Maybe this is the last time he's going to look at Dean, maybe...
Sam doesn't even want to finish the thought as tears pool in his eyes.
There's a gentle and peaceful expression on Dean's face, another attempt at a smile.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean whispers, deliberately at a low voice, only for their ears to hear. "Remember that," he pauses, "that no matter what. I- I love you, dude. Okay?"
Sam can't help the smile that spreads across his face because only Dean can confess his love like this. Grabbing Dean's hand, Sam places a kiss on his palm and then whispers, "I know. I love you, too, Dean."
There's another moment of silence until Bobby clears his throat. Dean nods and closes his eyes and Sam gets up to stand next to Peter, who has been studying Dean's wings all the time while Sam was busy with... with maybe saying goodbye to Dean.
It's seven AM sharp and Sam makes a mental note to ask later whether Peter suggested the time. He wouldn't be surprised with seven being a holy number, but right now, he only hopes it'll work in their favor.
First, Peter grabs the crucifix from the table and comes to stand by Dean's head. Softly, Peter says some Latin words, flawless and without stuttering as if he were speaking Latin all the time. "Asspérges me, Dómine, hyssópo, et mundábor; lavábis me, et super nivem dealbábor. Miserére mei, Deus, secúndum magnam misericordiam tuam. Glora Patri, et Filii, et Spiritui Sancti."
Sam can hardly concentrate on what Peter's saying, getting only half of it. See, Sam's Latin is good, probably better than Dean's but his mind is occupied with different things, different worries. He randomly hears words about forgiving of sins, purification or mercy. Mercy, lots of mercy.
Peter repeats the prayer a few times and when he holds the crucifix close to Dean's mouth for Dean to kiss, Sam fears that Dean is going to be stubborn and not do it, maybe he's too weak to do it, even though the rite apparently requires it. Dean's never been the believer of them both but when he does what Peter lets pass off as kiss the cross, Sam's relieved.
Before he speaks the next prayer, Peter sprinkles holy water into the room, on Sam, on Bobby, on Dean. Sam knows the next prayer, the Confíteor, growing up with a priest being one of the closest friends of your father, spending more days and nights at his place than you could possibly ever count, kinda does this to you.
Sam closes his eyes and lets his mind slip to one of the times when they were are Pastor Jim's. It was a hot summer, Dean maybe 14 and Sam around 10. Everything was so carefree and normal back then. Their Dad left them with Jim because he didn't want to take them to whatever he was hunting, Sam can't even remember what it was. But he does remember the many times they sat with Pastor Jim on his porch, drinking sweet tea, munching a few cookies and talking about God and the good. Pastor Jim was never a preacher, not in that sense. Sure thing, he preached but he never had this condemnatory nature like other clericalists have. And that's why both Sam and Dean always loved coming to his place.
By the time, Sam tears himself away from the childhood memory, Peter is almost through with this prayer, Bobby murmuring along.
"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa," Sam prays, striking his chest three times, "Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper Vírginem, beátum Michaélem Archángelum, beátum Joánnem Baptístam, sanctos Apóstolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te, Pater, oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum."
Peter prays about remedy and rescue for soul and cure for Dean's health all while Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't even move. Sam wonders whether he fell back asleep, hoping that Dean didn't pass out from being out of the warmth of his bed for too long instead.
"In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti, exstinguátur in te omnis virtus diáboli per impositiónem mánuum nostrárum, et per invocatiónem gloriósae et sanctae Dei Genitricis Virginis Mariea, ejusqye inclytu Sponsi Joseph, et ómnium sanctórum Angelelórum, Archangelórum, Patriarchárum, Prophetárum, Apostolorum, Mártyrum, Confessórum, Virginum, atque ómnium simul Sanctórum," Peter says.
From the corner of his eyes, Sam sees the tension on Bobby's face, especially when Peter mentions the virtus diáboli, the demonic powers that should be extinguished from Dean's body. They all know that - maybe if Dean was still possessed, maybe by a demon strong enough to not show any signs of reaction to holy water, but only holy water in combination with holy words, there would have been no way for Dean to survive an exorcism in his current state. Even worse if the wings would have to be cut off after one. Without a doubt, it would have been his premature death.
That's why everyone holds their breath as Peter speaks the last prayer, releasing it when Dean shows no signs of possession.
"Sam," Peter says, turning to Sam, "come and lend me a hand now. I will continue with the anointing now."
At first Sam thinks he didn't hear correctly. An anointing? As in, extreme unction? Dean's not dying yet and it's also way too soon to give up on him. Sam's incredibly enraged within seconds, boiling with anger; he wants to argue that, now that Dean is already purified, he doesn't need an anointing on top. But a stern look from Bobby makes Sam swallow everything down before he even opens his mouth to speak. This is helping Dean none.
"I know what you're thinking," Peter says with a wink, "we can discuss it later, once Dean is better."
Sam's cheeks feel hot and tight, he must be blushing again. That's another thing about priests that he learned from Pastor Jim; they're Goddamn mind readers.
"Yeah," Sam mumbles shyly as he comes to stand next to Peter.
Peter then hands him the cruet and Sam can finally see what's in it. Oil. A thick oil that Sam can't decipher through the smell. He assumes it's olive oil, pure or mixed with other oils, his guess merely based on the knowledge that it's common in church.
"Hold that for me," Peter orders and then dips his finger into the thick liquid.
"Per istam sanctam Unctiónem et suam piisimam misericórdiam, indúlgeat tibi Dóminus quidquid per visum," he prays, making the sign of the cross on both of Dean's eyelids.
He asks for the clean cloth that's still placed untouched and folded on the table. Sam reaches for it and after he hands it to Peter, Peter uses it to remove the oil from Dean's eyelids. Then, Peter continues, "per istam sanctam Unctiónem et suam piisimam misericórdiam, indúlgeat tibi Dóminus quidquid per audtiotum," this time, making the crosses on both of Dean's ears.
Dean groans miserably at the contact, clearly not enjoying the treatment. Sam wonders what's happening in his head, how he's perceiving things with the fever and whether he might want to get up and away from all this but can't because he's too weak.
First the eyelids, for forgiveness of every sin Dean might have committed through sight, then the ears for hearing. The nostrils for smell and Dean's full lips for taste and speech. Accidentally, Dean laps up some of the oil from his lips, as he touches them out of habit with his tongue - faster than Peter can wipe it away. Dean coughs at the taste and Peter smiles gently at him.
Peter finishes with anointing Dean's hands for sins committed through touch and his feet for the ability to walk. When Peter's making the signs of crosses on Dean's hands, Sam's skin feels hot once more. He has to think about the last time Dean sinned with those hands, has to think back about last night when they touched and bonded.
He can't lose Dean. He can't possibly lose Dean.
"Kyrie eléison. Christe eléison. Kyrie eléison," Peter chants softly until both Sam and Bobby join in. Mercy, yeah, mercy, that's what they need. They finish their prayers with a last Pater Noster and somehow Sam can't get rid off the feeling that Peter is shortening the rite quite a lot.
Sam's never been at an anointing of the sick before, but knowing the church, he imagines they usually take ages. But Dean's getting weaker and weaker, his skin grayer with each minute that passes and speeding things up a little is definitely an idea Sam agrees with.
"Amen," they all say together and then Peter nods at Sam and Bobby and walks over to the bowl with water to wash his hands. Sam places the cruet back on the table and then walks over to Dean.
Dean looks at him with glassy, tired eyes. "Am I dead yet?" he tries to joke and Sam only shakes his head, "no, but we're working on it."
Dean nods and closes his eyes again, resting his head on the table. Stealing a quick glance to the side and seeing that Peter's busy with cleaning up and Bobby left the room, Sam bends down and kisses Dean softly.
Sam straightens and when Bobby comes back in, he asks, "okay, what now?"
Bobby carries equipment with him, dumping everything onto the table that Peter just cleared up. There's a scalpel, various big knives and plenty of dressing material; gauze bandages and cotton pads. There's also a bottle containing a clear liquid, a disinfectant probably and stuff to patch Dean up, afterward.
And another bottle. A bottle all too familiar.
"Whiskey, Bobby?" Sam asks.
Looking at Dean, and how much he's ready to pass out, Sam doesn't think that whiskey or any other kind of alcohol is good for Dean right now.
Sure thing, Sam doesn't have a better idea on how to numb the pain, apart from the bit of morphine most hunters have at hand, which, you know, won't help all that much if you have something cut off. Morphine's given to lessen the pain and make it more bearable - it is and always will be a painkiller and that doesn't make it an anesthetic. A little bit of morphine won't make the amputation all fun.
Sam doesn't expect Bobby to have access to full medical equipment, like anesthetics, especially not practically over the night - but still, he doesn't like the idea of whiskey to drug Dean at all.
"Nah," Bobby shakes his head. "The whiskey's for us, once this is over. For Dean, I got this," he continues, retrieving a small bottle of what must be morphine from the pocket of his vest. He throws it into Sam's direction and Sam immediately understands that Dean's supposed to receive an injection if the pain becomes too much.
"Right," Sam nods. You know, as soon as this is through, Sam thinks they all deserve a glass of whiskey all right. "What do I do now?" Sam asks again.
"You stay over here and Peter will help me with the wings. Keep talking to Dean and make sure he stays conscious, Sam," Bobby says, reaching for the bottle of disinfectant and some cotton pads.
"Okay," Sam whispers hoarsely and then he walks back to Dean. He grabs one of the chairs and sits down on it. It's a lot more comfortable like this, being down on Dean's level, nearly face to face with him and no longer towering above him.
Sam's also fine with not having to help cut off the wings per se. Sure thing, they've patched each other up more times than a person should ever have to patch someone up and it's been bad, heaven help, it's been incredibly bad at times, but Sam's not sure he'd be able to handle it right now. He's content with sitting by Dean's side and trying to keep his mind occupied.
"Hey," Sam says, stroking a hand over Dean's sweaty face. Dean's eyes flicker open, a weak and gentle smile on his face.
"Ready?" Sam then asks one last time and when he looks over Dean's shoulder to see both Bobby and Peter nod at him, he quickly focuses back on Dean.
"Ready," Dean confirms.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam sees Bobby clean the area on the back where he'll be cutting. Quickly, he shifts his focus back to Dean. There's an awkward moment until Dean finally says, "talk to me, Sammy. Anything."
Talk. Yeah, talk. Talk, that Sam can do. He thinks hard about something to tell, but even though there are a million things racing through his mind right now, nothing's clear enough.
Sam's train of thoughts is interrupted when Dean cries out, loud and miserable. He didn't think there was that much energy left in Dean to make a sound like this and while it's somewhat comforting to know that Dean's a lot stronger than Sam gave him credit for, it's also downright upsetting because Dean shouldn't be in pain to begin with.
Sam doesn't have to look up and look away from Dean's face to know that Bobby started cutting off the wings. And then, out of the blue the wings unfold themselves with an incredible speed and force that Peter is hit hard and sent down to the floor. It's as if the wings had a life of their own, as if they acted out of reflex.
"Peter," Sam calls out but thank God, faster than he can get up, Peter's back on his feet, assuring that he's all right, while rubbing his head.
Sam's looking now at the root of the wings, where they are connected with Dean's back and there's already blood pooling where Bobby started cutting them. Before Sam can say something or get up to offer help, Peter climbs onto the table and onto Dean's back. He sits down on Dean's shoulders, his back to Sam, and tries to hold the wings as still as he can.
"Okay, everybody back to business," Peter shouts and everyone does as they are told.
Dean groans in pain again and Sam reaches for one of his hands to squeeze it firmly.
"You still with me, bro?" Sam asks and in fact, Dean seems more awake than he has in the last few hours. It's probably the adrenaline rushing through his body, the shock that shakes him that induces the last energy reserves to surface. Dean nods at him and when Sam asks whether he would like some morphine and that he can have a little bit, Dean shakes his head and grits out that it's still okay.
Talk, that's what Dean wants him to do, talk to him and take his mind off. All right then.
"You know what I hated when we were kids?" Sam smiles as he manages to catch Dean's attention. "Well, apart from the growing up on the road, living in dirty motel rooms and fighting a fight that I didn't consider ours, that is."
Sam has to force himself to keep smiling as the sound of feathers being rustled, bones being sawed through and cracked. It's a sickening sound and he fears he's going to throw up any minute. Dean cries out again, struggling hard now as he's in obvious pain. There are tears running down his cheeks and Sam thinks he's not to blame, not at all, the pain must be unbearable, despite Dean being numb and worn down.
"Sa-" Dean trails off, "Sammy. Mo- morphi-."
He doesn't have to speak further than that before Sam squeezes his hand again and nods at him, "hold on a sec. I'll get you some."
Quickly, Sam draws up an injection and stabs Dean in the arm. He only gives him a small dose and tells Dean that he can have some more if he needs it. Better safe than sorry, he thinks. It won't hurt to be a bit too cautious when it comes to medicine and Dean's current state. Dean looks at him as gratefully as he can with his face still grimaced with pain.
The sound of bones been cracked and cut through is still heavily in the room, mixed with the occasional grunt from Peter and Bobby as they fight with Dean's wings. Sam's close to puking again and in fact, he isn't handling the situation very well. But he has a job to do, has to watch out for Dean now and prove that he can watch out for Dean as well as Dean could for him all his life.
"So," Sam says again, his hand on Dean's cheek, turning Dean's face a little so that he's looking right at Sam. "As I was saying. What I hated when we were kids was how you'd let me win every once in a while."
Dean looks confused and Sam decides to help him remember a bit. "You know, Dean, when we were training. Fighting. When I was ten you let me win sometimes only that Dad wouldn't be so hard on me. I hated it."
Sam smiles at Dean, stroking his face and squeezing his hand in reassurance every now and then. "You probably thought I didn't notice, Dad for sure didn't, but I wasn't an idiot." After a short pause, Sam adds with a little laugh, "I was so mad. You know, I wanted to beat you because I was stronger, better. Not because you let me."
Dean opens his mouth to say something but before he even can, he's interrupted by the clacking sound of something hitting the floor. When Sam spares a glance, he's not the least surprised to see a wing land right next to the table, bloody, torn and the black feathers sticking in every direction. If the situation weren't so serious, Sam would burst out laughing and call Dean a plucked chicken. But yeah, not the right moment to joke, instead his mind should be working on things to keep Dean awake and conscious.
Sam didn't really pay attention on what Bobby and Peter were saying to each other before but know he can't help but listen closely as Bobby tells Peter to press something to Dean's wound. Only when Dean cries out in pain again, Sam can finally concentrate on Dean again. He doesn't know why that's so hard, it should be easy to talk to Dean and make sure he stays awake, the cutting off the hard part, but now that Sam has to look into Dean's face, painted in agony, he's no longer sure he's got the easy part. He never knew that watching out for someone was that hard.
There's more tears running down Dean's face and even though Dean tries to be as quiet as possible, not letting his pain show, Sam can't really resent him showing some kind of reaction. He's only human after all.
"Want some more morphine?" Sam simply asks, concluding that one more small injection should be okay since Dean's more awake and conscious than he has been the last few hours due to the sudden rush of adrenaline. Dean nods and Sam's quick to give him another shot. Then Sam has another idea.
He gets up, his gaze never leaving Dean. Quickly, Sam removes his leather belt and folds it once. Looking at Dean, he says, "open up."
Sam strokes a hand over Dean's dry bottom lip, the lip that Dean has been worrying ever since they started this whole thing, the lip that is so close to splitting open to bleed. "Might be a good idea to relieve some of the pressure," Sam says as he slides the belt between Dean's lips and places it between Dean's teeth. Dean only nods at him before he bites down on the belt.
"You know," Sam says, sitting back down and his hand immediately reaching out for Dean to seek physical contact, "you know what I think the first thing you're going to do once you're better?"
Dean cries out in pain again, his cry muffled because of the belt in his mouth. After a moment, when the big wave of pain apparently passed, he shakes his head.
"I think you're going to drive the Impala," Sam says gently. "I saw the looks you gave me when I drove her here, even though you were supposed to be too weak to look at me angrily."
Dean manages something that could be called a snort, or something like a snort, and Sam simply takes this as Dean telling him that he's right. Suddenly, Dean's head rolls to the side and he mumbles something that Sam doesn't catch. Then Dean's eyes roll back in his head as he loses consciousness, his whole body becoming limp.
"Dean!" Sam yells, jumping to his feet.
Both Bobby and Peter look at him, immediately asking what's wrong. Stealing a quick glance at Bobby, Sam sees that his hands are bloody, bloody with Dean's blood. The urge to be sick returns once more, but now there's no time for that.
"He's unconscious!" Sam shouts in panic. It takes him a second to remember, but quickly he sits down again and - gently first - slaps Dean's cheek, a little harder when Dean doesn't wake up. When Dean wakes up again after a few good, hard slaps, Sam wants to hug and kiss him. Or cry.
"Okay," Sam whispers, taking a deep breath. Then he asks Dean "you with me again, buddy?"
Dean nods, barely moving his head, his eyes tired and exhausted.
"Good," Sam says. He looks towards Bobby and asks, "you nearly done?"
Sam prays that Bobby will say, yes, they're almost through and that they only need to patch Dean up now because he doesn't know whether Dean will wake up the next time he loses his consciousness. Thankfully, Bobby nods and says that the second wing should come off every second and that Dean needs to hang on only a little bit.
"Hear that?" Sam asks, turning back to Dean. "We're almost done. One step closer to riding your baby."
Once he finished the sentence, Sam blushes because of the ambiguity of what he just said. Not that right now is the perfect moment to think anything sexual, but you know, hopefully Dean is riding not only the car again. If Sam weren't so sure that Dean's not in the condition to do so, he'd say that there was just a sparkle in Dean's eyes.
By the time Sam finishes the thought, there's the clacking sound again as the second wing lands on the floor. Sam releases a sigh and squeezes Dean's hand again.
Dean closes his eyes once more but when Sam panics and pats his cheek to make sure he's not falling unconscious again, he forces them open again. There's the occasional wet sound of soaked through, deep red cotton pads and compress-like material being thrown onto the wooden kitchen floor. Bobby and Peter are muttering to each other and the time until Peter finally gets off Dean's back and the table, the time until they're apparently done seems endless to Sam.
From the corner of his eyes, Sam watches Bobby stitch Dean up. There will be two huge scars on Dean's back where the wings have been until shortly ago but as long as the wings are finally off, Sam's sure that Dean won't mind that much. Bobby cleans the area again and presses some more dressing material to it.
"He still awake?" Peter asks, coming around to stand next to Sam.
"Yeah, mostly," Sam says, stroking a hand over Dean's wet face. The tears and sweat mixed and Sam can't tell how much of it is tears. Dean blinks a few times, his eyes occasionally closing and then opening again.
Finally Sam remembers his belt still in Dean's mouth. As he removes it, he caresses over Dean's lips again and smiles exhaustedly. He grabs the bottle of morphine again and when he looks at Dean, he asks, "d'you think you're okay for now without more?"
Dean nods, probably numb from all the pain and then doped by the morphine he already received, so that in the end he's not feeling anything at all.
"Help me get him up, Sam," Bobby eventually says, his hands already around Dean's ankles and ready to pull him from the table. Getting Dean back into a warm bed is definitely a good idea, as well as cleaning the mess that is Bobby's kitchen.
Sam's arms hook underneath Dean's armpits as he steadies Dean when Bobby gets him off the table. When Dean stands, Sam holds him upright because he's too weak to support himself right now. Bobby tells Sam to hold Dean still for a moment until he can bandage his chest. Once they're done, they settle Dean in the room, giving him some more meds against the slight fever Dean's still having.
He doesn't really want to leave Dean alone now but Sam thinks he should at least return to the kitchen with Bobby and Peter and help them clean up. He doesn't close the door to Dean's room though so that he can rush to him, should he need to.
When he joins Bobby and Peter, Bobby thrusts a glass of whiskey into his hand, a relieved but tired grin on his face. "I know, Sam, that he's not out of the woods yet but I guess the worst is over. Dean's a fighter. He should be fine."
Sam takes a long drink from the glass, the hot liquid burning down his throat and easing some of the nausea he still feels after everything that happened. The thing is, he knows that Bobby is right. Mostly at least. Sometimes Sam fears that there isn't much of a fighter left in Dean, still Sam's going to have a say in that too. And if he has to, he'll smack some sense into Dean.
"Yeah," Sam whispers hoarsely. And then turning to Peter, he continues, "I can't thank both of you enough for what you have done for us. I-"
Sam trails off because everything he could say or do now would probably be cheesy and make them feel uncomfortable later. At the moment, he's simply relieved that the worst is over. Finishing his drink, Sam turns around and looks at the two, big wings that still lay on the floor. He moves to pick them up to start with some cleaning.
"Sam," Bobby says and when Sam turns around and looks at him, there's a gentle smile on Bobby's face. "Leave it, Sam. Go back to your brother and sit with him for a few hours. Peter and I will handle this. Call us if anything happens."
Sam doesn't know what to say, he probably shouldn't be so much like a little kid on Christmas Eve but he should rather insist on helping. "Bobby," he starts but doesn't get very far.
"Sam, I mean it. Now!" Bobby interrupts. "We'll talk later."
A huge grin spreads across his face as he nods. "If you insist. See you, Peter," Sam says with a wink and quickly jogs to Dean's room.
When Sam enters the room, Dean's still awake and he's trying to turn around a little. Dean lifts his head but as soon as Sam comes into focus and he can see that it's Sam, he only blinks tiredly. Sam then sits down on the edge of the bed and strokes softly over Dean's head.
"How d'you feel?" he asks, not really expecting much of an answer, not more than a grunt anyway.
"Light," Dean caws and after a moment he adds, "tired."
"Fair enough," Sam says, smiling gently. He bends down to kiss the side of Dean's face, something he's been dying to do all day.
Sam lets his lips linger for a moment and he has to smile again when Dean hums softly as soon as Sam sits back up. They remain silent for a bit and Sam already thinks that Dean finally drifted off, but then Dean says, "hey, Sammy." He pauses to moisturize his lips and then continues, "I meant everything I said."
If he has to be honest, Sam has no idea what Dean's talking about. He's just about to confess it when Dean clarifies himself. "I meant it when I said I love you."
An incredible heat spreads throughout Sam's body, warming him. He smiles at Dean and then he says, "yeah, I meant it too."
Sam kisses Dean again and when he sits back up again, he sees Dean nod at him and then close his eyes. He's not sure whether Dean still hears it as he says, "rest now. I'll be right here to watch out for you."
***
Dean sleeps for a few hours without many interruptions and Sam's content with just watching him rest and heal. He gives Dean a bit more morphine when Dean wakes up from pain, also grateful that the fever is continuously going down.
After a while Bobby comes in and brings some food for both Sam and Dean. They eat in silence and if Dean's appetite can be taken as an indicator, it's a clear sign that he's getting better already.
Once they're done, Sam brings their empty plates to the kitchen where he finds Bobby and Peter. No one's saying anything for a moment, all three of them simply smiling tiredly.
"Um," Sam eventually says, "Bobby, Peter, I can't thank you enough again for what you did for Dean and me."
Sam's known Bobby all his life and he knows that Bobby's not big on words, never has been and probably never will. He's not the least surprised when Bobby just grunts a "don't mention it" in his direction.
"I was happy to help," Peter says, coming closer to shake Sam's hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you and your brother. I wish you all the best."
They say their goodbyes and when Peter has left, Sam turns back to Bobby to say, "I think I should get back to Dean."
That's when Bobby argues that Sam should get some sleep himself, that he can take over and watch over Dean since he already had a nap after they cleaned up. Sam doesn't let himself be convinced easily and at a certain point he's sure Bobby's going to knock him out any minute himself, but finally Sam realizes that he's dead tired and that he really should take a nap, at least a short one.
Bobby nods when Sam agrees and moves to Dean's room, promising Sam to wake him up if anything happens. With Bobby out of sight, Sam finds himself a spare bedroom, the one their Dad always used to sleep in, and lets himself fall face first on the mattress. Within seconds he's dead to the world, his sleep as dreamless and relaxing as it hasn't been for days.
***
They stay at Bobby's for a few more days and each day, Dean gets a little better, gets a little more like himself. He's still weak, that's why they're still here, but he's at least already able to leave the bed and walk around the cabin all by himself. Today they looked at the wings one last time before Bobby finally burned them - the burden. They were still there in their black glory, beautiful and impressive. Dean said that he can't believe they caused him so much pain and all Sam could do was agree.
Later that day, Bobby pulled the stitches and surprisingly, Dean hasn't tried to look at his back at all yet, ever since the wings came off. They're lying in bed now - Bobby didn't even ask why Sam and Dean are using only one of the two beds and why the other was never unmade - Sam stroking absent-mindedly through Dean's hair.
"The scars are gonna be huge, aren't they?" Dean asks out of the blue.
Sam's almost asleep already so it takes him a few moments until he can force his brain to come up with a reply. "Yeah, I guess."
They're lying chest to chest, Sam on his back, Dean half on top of him. Dean's back is still sore of course, that's why he's on his belly.
"I don't mind," Dean says then to Sam's surprise. In the past, Dean's been very conscious about his looks, caring about his appearance and how others see him. Sam always thought that Dean hated the scars that were inevitable in the job.
"You know," Dean then explains, "at least I get to live. I- I'm not quite ready to go. I think."
He whispers when he finishes his sentence and Sam can barely hear him. Dean's confession is the total contrary to the self-destructiveness Dean has been signalizing before this happened when he was willing to just go without much of a fight.
It warms Sam from the inside that apparently some of the fighter Dean once was has been revived, surfaced and brought along new energy. Sam grins broadly - probably looking like a total moron, he doesn't care. "Wasn't quite ready to let you go either," he says and then pulls Dean in for a heated kiss.
Their tongues battle for dominance, each trying to win control. There's nothing soft and tender as they suck and bite, soon moaning into each other's mouth. They press their tongues together, no fine technique or state of the art, just raw and deep passion, the need to feel after nearly losing each other so overwhelming that there's no place for doing this any differently now.
Sam's hands tangle with Dean's, their fingers linking and just holding, holding close. Sam then loosens the grip to stroke over Dean's skin, first running his hand through Dean's hair, down to his neck, over his broad shoulders and spot on the back where the wings were. He's very careful when he touches, paying attention to not use too much pressure and when Dean writhes against him, panting little words of need into his ear, he finally moves down the short of Dean's back to his ass.
Dean sucks at Sam's neck, biting and licking at the skin and Sam's sure that there'll be a huge bruise tomorrow. He doesn't care, can't care when Dean against him feels so good, so delicious as he writhes and grinds against Sam.
Sam's already hard, so much tension retained, physically and emotionally, threatening to spill free. When Dean's erection brushes against his, Sam has to huff a slight laugh because it's not any different for Dean. So much want.
"Sammy," Dean groans against Sam's skin before he sits up to straddle Sam. "Need you inside me. Please."
Dean presses his ass down against Sam's crotch, Sam's cock sliding into the crease, only separated by two worn out layers of clothing. The movement of Dean's hips, the way he rolls them teasingly slow and sinful doesn't stop as he practically rides Sam dry.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam chants - not much convincing needed.
While Sam turns over to search for the lube, Dean already removes his boxers and once he's done, he hooks his fingers underneath the material of Sam's. You could easily find something funny in Dean's eagerness, but Sam really doesn't, not when he's so hard, so needy and eager himself.
"How- how d'you want it?" Sam moans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to take away some of the stimulation - Dean stroking a hand up and down his own full cock, giving Sam a little show as he pleasures himself.
"Stay just like this," Dean says and bends over to kiss Sam.
Sam opens his eyes again when Dean breaks the kiss and nods at Dean. When Dean holds out his hand for the lube, Sam passes it to him without a word. With eyes wide open, Sam watches as Dean licks his swollen lips, red from Sam biting them. Dean then squeezes some of the liquid onto his fingers, a frown of concentration on his face. Just as Sam wants to reach out and stroke away the lines on Dean's forehead, Dean's hand moves to Sam's cock, stroking up and down and slicking him up good.
A loud moan escapes Sam's lips, the firm pressure a delicate and pleasing stimulation. He always loved it when Dean stroked his cock, there's something about it, the little flicker he does with his wrist whenever he reaches the head, the way he uses his thumb to smear pre-come just right. Usually, Dean can get Sam off like this within few minutes.
"Dean," Sam groans, not wanting it to be over before he even can push inside Dean.
Dean bites his lower lip in concentration, but then he says, "yeah, I know. Need to feel you now. Need you."
Before Sam can say anything to that, Dean lifts his hips a little and reaches for Sam's cock once more. He places it against his entrance and then slowly sinks down, taking Sam in all in one go and taking a deep breath as he does so.
Sam has to bite his knuckles so that he doesn't scream, the sensation so good that he almost comes right here and now. Dean is tight and hot around him, all the forbidden, sinful pleasure that he shouldn't be.
Dean's eyes are squeezed shut and he takes a few more deep breaths without moving. Sam wants to ask whether he's hurt Dean, whether this is too rough but right in the moment Sam wants to speak, Dean lifts his hips slightly. When Dean moves back down, until his ass touches Sam's thighs again, a moan escapes from Dean's throat, low and needy.
Sam fears he's already coming but worrying about Dean and the fear buried so deep inside him is overwhelming him a little now in more than one way. Dean places his hands on Sam's chest for leverage as he fucks himself on Sam's cock, steadily up and down.
"Is this all right?" Sam asks, his hands moving to Dean's hip to help him support his weight a little. He knows that Dean's still weak and that's why he thinks that Dean might need a bit help. But Dean only groans at him, "fuck, yeah."
They both pant and moan as their arousal increases, threatening to wash over them way too soon. One of Sam's hands moves to Dean's cock, deep red and leaking. Sam always loved the feeling of Dean in his hand, thick and heavy, pulsing and vibrating with life and power. It isn't any different now and while Sam strokes Dean's dick, his other hand comes up to the back of Dean's neck to draw him in for another messy kiss.
This time, there's way too much spit, they're even drooling a little and the awkward angle breaks Dean's rhythm. In the end, nothing is fitting anymore, not the pace Dean set to fuck himself on Sam's dick, not the pace Sam set to stroke Dean's cock. Neither seems to mind as they move against each other, getting closer to sweet release with each stroke.
Sam comes first with a soft cry, spilling inside Dean. His grip on Dean's cock tightens a bit and his hand moves faster. In their current position, Dean riding him so sinfully, it's nearly impossible for Sam to hit Dean's prostate but Dean seems to be having fun nonetheless as he simply continuous to move, not stilling or slowing down.
"Fuck, Sammy, fuck, fuck, fuck." Dean's head falls back, exposing his long, sweaty neck. It's tempting, inviting to bite down and suck a bruise, some kind of payback for the one Sam will be having come the next day. But before Sam can pull Dean down again, Dean groans low and loud, spilling over Sam's hand and chest.
When Dean pulls out, he winches a little bit and then immediately he lies back down, next to Sam. They don't speak for a while and Sam's fascinated to watch Dean bend down and lick his own come from Sam's fingers and chest and moan at the taste.
Dean cranes his neck again, capturing Sam's lips in another kiss. The taste of Dean is only faint in Sam's mouth and he makes a mental note to suck Dean off in the Impala once they leave Bobby's and are at least out of sight. Sam doesn't say anything when Dean buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck, just lets him hide and seek the contact.
It only takes a few moments of stroking a soothing hand through Dean's hair until Dean falls asleep, snoring softly and evenly. While he watches Dean sleep, Sam thinks about the events of the last days, the turns everything took and how it easily could have ended differently, could have ended for the worse.
He's not only grateful that Dean didn't die, no, what he's even more grateful for is that something inside Dean has been re-born, something so essential Dean, like Phoenix from the ashes.
Dean's will to live.
- End
Some more author notes: For the rite that Peter is performing on Dean, I had to rely on an online source because even though I’ve witnessed an Anointing of the Sick, given to a family member of mine almost 10 years ago, I couldn't recall the details. Also, I never learned Latin at school and hence was a lost case. ;) So after some googling, I came across this website which gives great insight into the topic and also a translation of the various Latin prayers.
The next morning, it's the knock on the door and Bobby's voice that tells them to swing their asses out of bed that wakens Sam. Dean stirs next to him but doesn't fully awake until Sam kisses his face lazily.
"Morning," Sam whispers, still tired after a night of bad sleep. He's nauseous, ready to puke any minute, knowing too well that his nerves are finally kicking in.
"Morning," Dean yawns, blinking sleepily.
Quickly, Sam tears himself away to search clean clothes for both he and Dean, he wants to get over with it already. After dressing, he turns to Dean on the bed and says, "you stay here until we come and get you, okay? I'm gonna go and talk to Bobby first, see if we need to prepare anything."
Dean nods at him, yawns once more and doesn't seem mad at all at the prospect of a little more sleep.
***
Sam finds Bobby standing in the kitchen, drinking a coup of coffee and talking to a stranger Sam's never met before. He assumes him to be Peter, the friend Bobby has been talking about. The man is everything Paster Jim was not. He's tall, he's well-trained, he's young. Sam thinks that he must be in his early thirties and he'd definitely call him attractive. Clearing his throat, Sam finally comes closer to the men.
"Hi," he says, holding his hand for the stranger to shake, "I'm Sam."
The man smiles, his eyes clear blue and curious, wide away. "Nice to meet you Sam. I'm Peter," he confirms what Sam already guessed. "Your brother Dean's still sleeping?"
Sam nods, a little relieved that apparently Peter has already been introduced to everything that happened and that he's up to date. He wants this nightmare to be over, he wants Dean to be all right. He wants them to be all right.
"I already filled Peter in, he knows everything," Bobby states the obvious. "Did you boys sleep okay?"
For a moment, Sam feels his cheeks burn, knowing he must be blushing. He doesn't know whether Bobby heard them last night, they weren't particularly trying hard to be quiet, but if Bobby does, he's not letting it show right now.
"Not really," Sam says honestly, "Dean didn't sleep well because of the fever and I'm pretty worried about Dean. And I don't mean to be rude but I wish we'd get over with everything already so that Dean... so that he can get better."
Sam's voice is quiet and it sounds tiny and lost even in his own ears. Peter comes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder before he squeezes it tightly. "I believe your brother will be all right, Sam," he tries to soothe.
"Yeah," Sam says hoarsely and forces himself to smile, first at Peter, then at Bobby. "Okay, what do we do now?"
Peter looks at Sam, then at Bobby, "you two get Dean, it's nearly seven, and I'll unpack everything I need. Hurry now."
By the time Sam and Bobby return with Dean, Sam at one side, Bobby at the other, dragging his limp body along, Peter is setting up a table, close to the kitchen table. It looks like one from the living room and Peter must have dragged it over into the kitchen.
Right now, he covers it with a white linen cloth and then he places two white candles onto it. In between those candles he puts down a crucifix. And in front of said crucifix, he puts down a bowl with what Sam assumes to be normal water or maybe even holy water, next to it a small flask with more liquid. Sam recognizes it as one of the falcons Bobby uses to keep holy water in. So, there you go with the holy water. And finally, there's another white cloth and a brass cruet with yet more liquid that Sam can't make out for sure.
He assumes though it's some kind of oil, that's at least what makes sense the most. Peter is murmuring something that Sam can't hear and if he had to guess - he's been friends with priests long enough - he'd say that he's blessing the liquid.
Though Dean sags down even more in their arms, neither Sam nor Bobby rush Peter to finish his prayers more quickly. When Peter's done, he looks at them, confident and radiating a certain calmness Sam hasn't felt in days.
"Okay, help Dean onto the table. Face this way," Peter commands gently, his fingers pointing to the table that he used to set up everything he needs.
When Sam and Bobby lay Dean down on the kitchen table, Dean groans miserably in pain. He's weak and worn out, barely awake even, his fever once again risen dramatically and his skin hot and sweaty. If Sam had the time to feel guilty that he and Dean had sex last night, the physical strain robbing his last bit of strength, yeah, if Sam had the time to feel guilty, then he definitely would.
Moving to the head of the table and crouching down in front of Dean, Sam smiles at him. Carefully, he brings a hand up to Dean's face, stroking the hot skin soothingly. Dean's eyes flutter open for a brief moment and there's the weak attempt of a smile on his face.
"Ready to get those fuckers off?" Sam asks, Dean's answer not surprising him the least.
"Fuck, yeah," Dean groans.
There's a huge lump in Sam's throat, so huge he can hardly breathe. He knows it's the nerves getting to him once more, the nausea he feels, the eagerness to be sick. He's scared. He's scared for Dean and he's not ashamed to admit it.
Maybe this is the last time he's going to look at Dean, maybe...
Sam doesn't even want to finish the thought as tears pool in his eyes.
There's a gentle and peaceful expression on Dean's face, another attempt at a smile.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean whispers, deliberately at a low voice, only for their ears to hear. "Remember that," he pauses, "that no matter what. I- I love you, dude. Okay?"
Sam can't help the smile that spreads across his face because only Dean can confess his love like this. Grabbing Dean's hand, Sam places a kiss on his palm and then whispers, "I know. I love you, too, Dean."
There's another moment of silence until Bobby clears his throat. Dean nods and closes his eyes and Sam gets up to stand next to Peter, who has been studying Dean's wings all the time while Sam was busy with... with maybe saying goodbye to Dean.
It's seven AM sharp and Sam makes a mental note to ask later whether Peter suggested the time. He wouldn't be surprised with seven being a holy number, but right now, he only hopes it'll work in their favor.
First, Peter grabs the crucifix from the table and comes to stand by Dean's head. Softly, Peter says some Latin words, flawless and without stuttering as if he were speaking Latin all the time. "Asspérges me, Dómine, hyssópo, et mundábor; lavábis me, et super nivem dealbábor. Miserére mei, Deus, secúndum magnam misericordiam tuam. Glora Patri, et Filii, et Spiritui Sancti."
Sam can hardly concentrate on what Peter's saying, getting only half of it. See, Sam's Latin is good, probably better than Dean's but his mind is occupied with different things, different worries. He randomly hears words about forgiving of sins, purification or mercy. Mercy, lots of mercy.
Peter repeats the prayer a few times and when he holds the crucifix close to Dean's mouth for Dean to kiss, Sam fears that Dean is going to be stubborn and not do it, maybe he's too weak to do it, even though the rite apparently requires it. Dean's never been the believer of them both but when he does what Peter lets pass off as kiss the cross, Sam's relieved.
Before he speaks the next prayer, Peter sprinkles holy water into the room, on Sam, on Bobby, on Dean. Sam knows the next prayer, the Confíteor, growing up with a priest being one of the closest friends of your father, spending more days and nights at his place than you could possibly ever count, kinda does this to you.
Sam closes his eyes and lets his mind slip to one of the times when they were are Pastor Jim's. It was a hot summer, Dean maybe 14 and Sam around 10. Everything was so carefree and normal back then. Their Dad left them with Jim because he didn't want to take them to whatever he was hunting, Sam can't even remember what it was. But he does remember the many times they sat with Pastor Jim on his porch, drinking sweet tea, munching a few cookies and talking about God and the good. Pastor Jim was never a preacher, not in that sense. Sure thing, he preached but he never had this condemnatory nature like other clericalists have. And that's why both Sam and Dean always loved coming to his place.
By the time, Sam tears himself away from the childhood memory, Peter is almost through with this prayer, Bobby murmuring along.
"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa," Sam prays, striking his chest three times, "Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper Vírginem, beátum Michaélem Archángelum, beátum Joánnem Baptístam, sanctos Apóstolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te, Pater, oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum."
Peter prays about remedy and rescue for soul and cure for Dean's health all while Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't even move. Sam wonders whether he fell back asleep, hoping that Dean didn't pass out from being out of the warmth of his bed for too long instead.
"In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti, exstinguátur in te omnis virtus diáboli per impositiónem mánuum nostrárum, et per invocatiónem gloriósae et sanctae Dei Genitricis Virginis Mariea, ejusqye inclytu Sponsi Joseph, et ómnium sanctórum Angelelórum, Archangelórum, Patriarchárum, Prophetárum, Apostolorum, Mártyrum, Confessórum, Virginum, atque ómnium simul Sanctórum," Peter says.
From the corner of his eyes, Sam sees the tension on Bobby's face, especially when Peter mentions the virtus diáboli, the demonic powers that should be extinguished from Dean's body. They all know that - maybe if Dean was still possessed, maybe by a demon strong enough to not show any signs of reaction to holy water, but only holy water in combination with holy words, there would have been no way for Dean to survive an exorcism in his current state. Even worse if the wings would have to be cut off after one. Without a doubt, it would have been his premature death.
That's why everyone holds their breath as Peter speaks the last prayer, releasing it when Dean shows no signs of possession.
"Sam," Peter says, turning to Sam, "come and lend me a hand now. I will continue with the anointing now."
At first Sam thinks he didn't hear correctly. An anointing? As in, extreme unction? Dean's not dying yet and it's also way too soon to give up on him. Sam's incredibly enraged within seconds, boiling with anger; he wants to argue that, now that Dean is already purified, he doesn't need an anointing on top. But a stern look from Bobby makes Sam swallow everything down before he even opens his mouth to speak. This is helping Dean none.
"I know what you're thinking," Peter says with a wink, "we can discuss it later, once Dean is better."
Sam's cheeks feel hot and tight, he must be blushing again. That's another thing about priests that he learned from Pastor Jim; they're Goddamn mind readers.
"Yeah," Sam mumbles shyly as he comes to stand next to Peter.
Peter then hands him the cruet and Sam can finally see what's in it. Oil. A thick oil that Sam can't decipher through the smell. He assumes it's olive oil, pure or mixed with other oils, his guess merely based on the knowledge that it's common in church.
"Hold that for me," Peter orders and then dips his finger into the thick liquid.
"Per istam sanctam Unctiónem et suam piisimam misericórdiam, indúlgeat tibi Dóminus quidquid per visum," he prays, making the sign of the cross on both of Dean's eyelids.
He asks for the clean cloth that's still placed untouched and folded on the table. Sam reaches for it and after he hands it to Peter, Peter uses it to remove the oil from Dean's eyelids. Then, Peter continues, "per istam sanctam Unctiónem et suam piisimam misericórdiam, indúlgeat tibi Dóminus quidquid per audtiotum," this time, making the crosses on both of Dean's ears.
Dean groans miserably at the contact, clearly not enjoying the treatment. Sam wonders what's happening in his head, how he's perceiving things with the fever and whether he might want to get up and away from all this but can't because he's too weak.
First the eyelids, for forgiveness of every sin Dean might have committed through sight, then the ears for hearing. The nostrils for smell and Dean's full lips for taste and speech. Accidentally, Dean laps up some of the oil from his lips, as he touches them out of habit with his tongue - faster than Peter can wipe it away. Dean coughs at the taste and Peter smiles gently at him.
Peter finishes with anointing Dean's hands for sins committed through touch and his feet for the ability to walk. When Peter's making the signs of crosses on Dean's hands, Sam's skin feels hot once more. He has to think about the last time Dean sinned with those hands, has to think back about last night when they touched and bonded.
He can't lose Dean. He can't possibly lose Dean.
"Kyrie eléison. Christe eléison. Kyrie eléison," Peter chants softly until both Sam and Bobby join in. Mercy, yeah, mercy, that's what they need. They finish their prayers with a last Pater Noster and somehow Sam can't get rid off the feeling that Peter is shortening the rite quite a lot.
Sam's never been at an anointing of the sick before, but knowing the church, he imagines they usually take ages. But Dean's getting weaker and weaker, his skin grayer with each minute that passes and speeding things up a little is definitely an idea Sam agrees with.
"Amen," they all say together and then Peter nods at Sam and Bobby and walks over to the bowl with water to wash his hands. Sam places the cruet back on the table and then walks over to Dean.
Dean looks at him with glassy, tired eyes. "Am I dead yet?" he tries to joke and Sam only shakes his head, "no, but we're working on it."
Dean nods and closes his eyes again, resting his head on the table. Stealing a quick glance to the side and seeing that Peter's busy with cleaning up and Bobby left the room, Sam bends down and kisses Dean softly.
Sam straightens and when Bobby comes back in, he asks, "okay, what now?"
Bobby carries equipment with him, dumping everything onto the table that Peter just cleared up. There's a scalpel, various big knives and plenty of dressing material; gauze bandages and cotton pads. There's also a bottle containing a clear liquid, a disinfectant probably and stuff to patch Dean up, afterward.
And another bottle. A bottle all too familiar.
"Whiskey, Bobby?" Sam asks.
Looking at Dean, and how much he's ready to pass out, Sam doesn't think that whiskey or any other kind of alcohol is good for Dean right now.
Sure thing, Sam doesn't have a better idea on how to numb the pain, apart from the bit of morphine most hunters have at hand, which, you know, won't help all that much if you have something cut off. Morphine's given to lessen the pain and make it more bearable - it is and always will be a painkiller and that doesn't make it an anesthetic. A little bit of morphine won't make the amputation all fun.
Sam doesn't expect Bobby to have access to full medical equipment, like anesthetics, especially not practically over the night - but still, he doesn't like the idea of whiskey to drug Dean at all.
"Nah," Bobby shakes his head. "The whiskey's for us, once this is over. For Dean, I got this," he continues, retrieving a small bottle of what must be morphine from the pocket of his vest. He throws it into Sam's direction and Sam immediately understands that Dean's supposed to receive an injection if the pain becomes too much.
"Right," Sam nods. You know, as soon as this is through, Sam thinks they all deserve a glass of whiskey all right. "What do I do now?" Sam asks again.
"You stay over here and Peter will help me with the wings. Keep talking to Dean and make sure he stays conscious, Sam," Bobby says, reaching for the bottle of disinfectant and some cotton pads.
"Okay," Sam whispers hoarsely and then he walks back to Dean. He grabs one of the chairs and sits down on it. It's a lot more comfortable like this, being down on Dean's level, nearly face to face with him and no longer towering above him.
Sam's also fine with not having to help cut off the wings per se. Sure thing, they've patched each other up more times than a person should ever have to patch someone up and it's been bad, heaven help, it's been incredibly bad at times, but Sam's not sure he'd be able to handle it right now. He's content with sitting by Dean's side and trying to keep his mind occupied.
"Hey," Sam says, stroking a hand over Dean's sweaty face. Dean's eyes flicker open, a weak and gentle smile on his face.
"Ready?" Sam then asks one last time and when he looks over Dean's shoulder to see both Bobby and Peter nod at him, he quickly focuses back on Dean.
"Ready," Dean confirms.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam sees Bobby clean the area on the back where he'll be cutting. Quickly, he shifts his focus back to Dean. There's an awkward moment until Dean finally says, "talk to me, Sammy. Anything."
Talk. Yeah, talk. Talk, that Sam can do. He thinks hard about something to tell, but even though there are a million things racing through his mind right now, nothing's clear enough.
Sam's train of thoughts is interrupted when Dean cries out, loud and miserable. He didn't think there was that much energy left in Dean to make a sound like this and while it's somewhat comforting to know that Dean's a lot stronger than Sam gave him credit for, it's also downright upsetting because Dean shouldn't be in pain to begin with.
Sam doesn't have to look up and look away from Dean's face to know that Bobby started cutting off the wings. And then, out of the blue the wings unfold themselves with an incredible speed and force that Peter is hit hard and sent down to the floor. It's as if the wings had a life of their own, as if they acted out of reflex.
"Peter," Sam calls out but thank God, faster than he can get up, Peter's back on his feet, assuring that he's all right, while rubbing his head.
Sam's looking now at the root of the wings, where they are connected with Dean's back and there's already blood pooling where Bobby started cutting them. Before Sam can say something or get up to offer help, Peter climbs onto the table and onto Dean's back. He sits down on Dean's shoulders, his back to Sam, and tries to hold the wings as still as he can.
"Okay, everybody back to business," Peter shouts and everyone does as they are told.
Dean groans in pain again and Sam reaches for one of his hands to squeeze it firmly.
"You still with me, bro?" Sam asks and in fact, Dean seems more awake than he has in the last few hours. It's probably the adrenaline rushing through his body, the shock that shakes him that induces the last energy reserves to surface. Dean nods at him and when Sam asks whether he would like some morphine and that he can have a little bit, Dean shakes his head and grits out that it's still okay.
Talk, that's what Dean wants him to do, talk to him and take his mind off. All right then.
"You know what I hated when we were kids?" Sam smiles as he manages to catch Dean's attention. "Well, apart from the growing up on the road, living in dirty motel rooms and fighting a fight that I didn't consider ours, that is."
Sam has to force himself to keep smiling as the sound of feathers being rustled, bones being sawed through and cracked. It's a sickening sound and he fears he's going to throw up any minute. Dean cries out again, struggling hard now as he's in obvious pain. There are tears running down his cheeks and Sam thinks he's not to blame, not at all, the pain must be unbearable, despite Dean being numb and worn down.
"Sa-" Dean trails off, "Sammy. Mo- morphi-."
He doesn't have to speak further than that before Sam squeezes his hand again and nods at him, "hold on a sec. I'll get you some."
Quickly, Sam draws up an injection and stabs Dean in the arm. He only gives him a small dose and tells Dean that he can have some more if he needs it. Better safe than sorry, he thinks. It won't hurt to be a bit too cautious when it comes to medicine and Dean's current state. Dean looks at him as gratefully as he can with his face still grimaced with pain.
The sound of bones been cracked and cut through is still heavily in the room, mixed with the occasional grunt from Peter and Bobby as they fight with Dean's wings. Sam's close to puking again and in fact, he isn't handling the situation very well. But he has a job to do, has to watch out for Dean now and prove that he can watch out for Dean as well as Dean could for him all his life.
"So," Sam says again, his hand on Dean's cheek, turning Dean's face a little so that he's looking right at Sam. "As I was saying. What I hated when we were kids was how you'd let me win every once in a while."
Dean looks confused and Sam decides to help him remember a bit. "You know, Dean, when we were training. Fighting. When I was ten you let me win sometimes only that Dad wouldn't be so hard on me. I hated it."
Sam smiles at Dean, stroking his face and squeezing his hand in reassurance every now and then. "You probably thought I didn't notice, Dad for sure didn't, but I wasn't an idiot." After a short pause, Sam adds with a little laugh, "I was so mad. You know, I wanted to beat you because I was stronger, better. Not because you let me."
Dean opens his mouth to say something but before he even can, he's interrupted by the clacking sound of something hitting the floor. When Sam spares a glance, he's not the least surprised to see a wing land right next to the table, bloody, torn and the black feathers sticking in every direction. If the situation weren't so serious, Sam would burst out laughing and call Dean a plucked chicken. But yeah, not the right moment to joke, instead his mind should be working on things to keep Dean awake and conscious.
Sam didn't really pay attention on what Bobby and Peter were saying to each other before but know he can't help but listen closely as Bobby tells Peter to press something to Dean's wound. Only when Dean cries out in pain again, Sam can finally concentrate on Dean again. He doesn't know why that's so hard, it should be easy to talk to Dean and make sure he stays awake, the cutting off the hard part, but now that Sam has to look into Dean's face, painted in agony, he's no longer sure he's got the easy part. He never knew that watching out for someone was that hard.
There's more tears running down Dean's face and even though Dean tries to be as quiet as possible, not letting his pain show, Sam can't really resent him showing some kind of reaction. He's only human after all.
"Want some more morphine?" Sam simply asks, concluding that one more small injection should be okay since Dean's more awake and conscious than he has been the last few hours due to the sudden rush of adrenaline. Dean nods and Sam's quick to give him another shot. Then Sam has another idea.
He gets up, his gaze never leaving Dean. Quickly, Sam removes his leather belt and folds it once. Looking at Dean, he says, "open up."
Sam strokes a hand over Dean's dry bottom lip, the lip that Dean has been worrying ever since they started this whole thing, the lip that is so close to splitting open to bleed. "Might be a good idea to relieve some of the pressure," Sam says as he slides the belt between Dean's lips and places it between Dean's teeth. Dean only nods at him before he bites down on the belt.
"You know," Sam says, sitting back down and his hand immediately reaching out for Dean to seek physical contact, "you know what I think the first thing you're going to do once you're better?"
Dean cries out in pain again, his cry muffled because of the belt in his mouth. After a moment, when the big wave of pain apparently passed, he shakes his head.
"I think you're going to drive the Impala," Sam says gently. "I saw the looks you gave me when I drove her here, even though you were supposed to be too weak to look at me angrily."
Dean manages something that could be called a snort, or something like a snort, and Sam simply takes this as Dean telling him that he's right. Suddenly, Dean's head rolls to the side and he mumbles something that Sam doesn't catch. Then Dean's eyes roll back in his head as he loses consciousness, his whole body becoming limp.
"Dean!" Sam yells, jumping to his feet.
Both Bobby and Peter look at him, immediately asking what's wrong. Stealing a quick glance at Bobby, Sam sees that his hands are bloody, bloody with Dean's blood. The urge to be sick returns once more, but now there's no time for that.
"He's unconscious!" Sam shouts in panic. It takes him a second to remember, but quickly he sits down again and - gently first - slaps Dean's cheek, a little harder when Dean doesn't wake up. When Dean wakes up again after a few good, hard slaps, Sam wants to hug and kiss him. Or cry.
"Okay," Sam whispers, taking a deep breath. Then he asks Dean "you with me again, buddy?"
Dean nods, barely moving his head, his eyes tired and exhausted.
"Good," Sam says. He looks towards Bobby and asks, "you nearly done?"
Sam prays that Bobby will say, yes, they're almost through and that they only need to patch Dean up now because he doesn't know whether Dean will wake up the next time he loses his consciousness. Thankfully, Bobby nods and says that the second wing should come off every second and that Dean needs to hang on only a little bit.
"Hear that?" Sam asks, turning back to Dean. "We're almost done. One step closer to riding your baby."
Once he finished the sentence, Sam blushes because of the ambiguity of what he just said. Not that right now is the perfect moment to think anything sexual, but you know, hopefully Dean is riding not only the car again. If Sam weren't so sure that Dean's not in the condition to do so, he'd say that there was just a sparkle in Dean's eyes.
By the time Sam finishes the thought, there's the clacking sound again as the second wing lands on the floor. Sam releases a sigh and squeezes Dean's hand again.
Dean closes his eyes once more but when Sam panics and pats his cheek to make sure he's not falling unconscious again, he forces them open again. There's the occasional wet sound of soaked through, deep red cotton pads and compress-like material being thrown onto the wooden kitchen floor. Bobby and Peter are muttering to each other and the time until Peter finally gets off Dean's back and the table, the time until they're apparently done seems endless to Sam.
From the corner of his eyes, Sam watches Bobby stitch Dean up. There will be two huge scars on Dean's back where the wings have been until shortly ago but as long as the wings are finally off, Sam's sure that Dean won't mind that much. Bobby cleans the area again and presses some more dressing material to it.
"He still awake?" Peter asks, coming around to stand next to Sam.
"Yeah, mostly," Sam says, stroking a hand over Dean's wet face. The tears and sweat mixed and Sam can't tell how much of it is tears. Dean blinks a few times, his eyes occasionally closing and then opening again.
Finally Sam remembers his belt still in Dean's mouth. As he removes it, he caresses over Dean's lips again and smiles exhaustedly. He grabs the bottle of morphine again and when he looks at Dean, he asks, "d'you think you're okay for now without more?"
Dean nods, probably numb from all the pain and then doped by the morphine he already received, so that in the end he's not feeling anything at all.
"Help me get him up, Sam," Bobby eventually says, his hands already around Dean's ankles and ready to pull him from the table. Getting Dean back into a warm bed is definitely a good idea, as well as cleaning the mess that is Bobby's kitchen.
Sam's arms hook underneath Dean's armpits as he steadies Dean when Bobby gets him off the table. When Dean stands, Sam holds him upright because he's too weak to support himself right now. Bobby tells Sam to hold Dean still for a moment until he can bandage his chest. Once they're done, they settle Dean in the room, giving him some more meds against the slight fever Dean's still having.
He doesn't really want to leave Dean alone now but Sam thinks he should at least return to the kitchen with Bobby and Peter and help them clean up. He doesn't close the door to Dean's room though so that he can rush to him, should he need to.
When he joins Bobby and Peter, Bobby thrusts a glass of whiskey into his hand, a relieved but tired grin on his face. "I know, Sam, that he's not out of the woods yet but I guess the worst is over. Dean's a fighter. He should be fine."
Sam takes a long drink from the glass, the hot liquid burning down his throat and easing some of the nausea he still feels after everything that happened. The thing is, he knows that Bobby is right. Mostly at least. Sometimes Sam fears that there isn't much of a fighter left in Dean, still Sam's going to have a say in that too. And if he has to, he'll smack some sense into Dean.
"Yeah," Sam whispers hoarsely. And then turning to Peter, he continues, "I can't thank both of you enough for what you have done for us. I-"
Sam trails off because everything he could say or do now would probably be cheesy and make them feel uncomfortable later. At the moment, he's simply relieved that the worst is over. Finishing his drink, Sam turns around and looks at the two, big wings that still lay on the floor. He moves to pick them up to start with some cleaning.
"Sam," Bobby says and when Sam turns around and looks at him, there's a gentle smile on Bobby's face. "Leave it, Sam. Go back to your brother and sit with him for a few hours. Peter and I will handle this. Call us if anything happens."
Sam doesn't know what to say, he probably shouldn't be so much like a little kid on Christmas Eve but he should rather insist on helping. "Bobby," he starts but doesn't get very far.
"Sam, I mean it. Now!" Bobby interrupts. "We'll talk later."
A huge grin spreads across his face as he nods. "If you insist. See you, Peter," Sam says with a wink and quickly jogs to Dean's room.
When Sam enters the room, Dean's still awake and he's trying to turn around a little. Dean lifts his head but as soon as Sam comes into focus and he can see that it's Sam, he only blinks tiredly. Sam then sits down on the edge of the bed and strokes softly over Dean's head.
"How d'you feel?" he asks, not really expecting much of an answer, not more than a grunt anyway.
"Light," Dean caws and after a moment he adds, "tired."
"Fair enough," Sam says, smiling gently. He bends down to kiss the side of Dean's face, something he's been dying to do all day.
Sam lets his lips linger for a moment and he has to smile again when Dean hums softly as soon as Sam sits back up. They remain silent for a bit and Sam already thinks that Dean finally drifted off, but then Dean says, "hey, Sammy." He pauses to moisturize his lips and then continues, "I meant everything I said."
If he has to be honest, Sam has no idea what Dean's talking about. He's just about to confess it when Dean clarifies himself. "I meant it when I said I love you."
An incredible heat spreads throughout Sam's body, warming him. He smiles at Dean and then he says, "yeah, I meant it too."
Sam kisses Dean again and when he sits back up again, he sees Dean nod at him and then close his eyes. He's not sure whether Dean still hears it as he says, "rest now. I'll be right here to watch out for you."
***
Dean sleeps for a few hours without many interruptions and Sam's content with just watching him rest and heal. He gives Dean a bit more morphine when Dean wakes up from pain, also grateful that the fever is continuously going down.
After a while Bobby comes in and brings some food for both Sam and Dean. They eat in silence and if Dean's appetite can be taken as an indicator, it's a clear sign that he's getting better already.
Once they're done, Sam brings their empty plates to the kitchen where he finds Bobby and Peter. No one's saying anything for a moment, all three of them simply smiling tiredly.
"Um," Sam eventually says, "Bobby, Peter, I can't thank you enough again for what you did for Dean and me."
Sam's known Bobby all his life and he knows that Bobby's not big on words, never has been and probably never will. He's not the least surprised when Bobby just grunts a "don't mention it" in his direction.
"I was happy to help," Peter says, coming closer to shake Sam's hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you and your brother. I wish you all the best."
They say their goodbyes and when Peter has left, Sam turns back to Bobby to say, "I think I should get back to Dean."
That's when Bobby argues that Sam should get some sleep himself, that he can take over and watch over Dean since he already had a nap after they cleaned up. Sam doesn't let himself be convinced easily and at a certain point he's sure Bobby's going to knock him out any minute himself, but finally Sam realizes that he's dead tired and that he really should take a nap, at least a short one.
Bobby nods when Sam agrees and moves to Dean's room, promising Sam to wake him up if anything happens. With Bobby out of sight, Sam finds himself a spare bedroom, the one their Dad always used to sleep in, and lets himself fall face first on the mattress. Within seconds he's dead to the world, his sleep as dreamless and relaxing as it hasn't been for days.
***
They stay at Bobby's for a few more days and each day, Dean gets a little better, gets a little more like himself. He's still weak, that's why they're still here, but he's at least already able to leave the bed and walk around the cabin all by himself. Today they looked at the wings one last time before Bobby finally burned them - the burden. They were still there in their black glory, beautiful and impressive. Dean said that he can't believe they caused him so much pain and all Sam could do was agree.
Later that day, Bobby pulled the stitches and surprisingly, Dean hasn't tried to look at his back at all yet, ever since the wings came off. They're lying in bed now - Bobby didn't even ask why Sam and Dean are using only one of the two beds and why the other was never unmade - Sam stroking absent-mindedly through Dean's hair.
"The scars are gonna be huge, aren't they?" Dean asks out of the blue.
Sam's almost asleep already so it takes him a few moments until he can force his brain to come up with a reply. "Yeah, I guess."
They're lying chest to chest, Sam on his back, Dean half on top of him. Dean's back is still sore of course, that's why he's on his belly.
"I don't mind," Dean says then to Sam's surprise. In the past, Dean's been very conscious about his looks, caring about his appearance and how others see him. Sam always thought that Dean hated the scars that were inevitable in the job.
"You know," Dean then explains, "at least I get to live. I- I'm not quite ready to go. I think."
He whispers when he finishes his sentence and Sam can barely hear him. Dean's confession is the total contrary to the self-destructiveness Dean has been signalizing before this happened when he was willing to just go without much of a fight.
It warms Sam from the inside that apparently some of the fighter Dean once was has been revived, surfaced and brought along new energy. Sam grins broadly - probably looking like a total moron, he doesn't care. "Wasn't quite ready to let you go either," he says and then pulls Dean in for a heated kiss.
Their tongues battle for dominance, each trying to win control. There's nothing soft and tender as they suck and bite, soon moaning into each other's mouth. They press their tongues together, no fine technique or state of the art, just raw and deep passion, the need to feel after nearly losing each other so overwhelming that there's no place for doing this any differently now.
Sam's hands tangle with Dean's, their fingers linking and just holding, holding close. Sam then loosens the grip to stroke over Dean's skin, first running his hand through Dean's hair, down to his neck, over his broad shoulders and spot on the back where the wings were. He's very careful when he touches, paying attention to not use too much pressure and when Dean writhes against him, panting little words of need into his ear, he finally moves down the short of Dean's back to his ass.
Dean sucks at Sam's neck, biting and licking at the skin and Sam's sure that there'll be a huge bruise tomorrow. He doesn't care, can't care when Dean against him feels so good, so delicious as he writhes and grinds against Sam.
Sam's already hard, so much tension retained, physically and emotionally, threatening to spill free. When Dean's erection brushes against his, Sam has to huff a slight laugh because it's not any different for Dean. So much want.
"Sammy," Dean groans against Sam's skin before he sits up to straddle Sam. "Need you inside me. Please."
Dean presses his ass down against Sam's crotch, Sam's cock sliding into the crease, only separated by two worn out layers of clothing. The movement of Dean's hips, the way he rolls them teasingly slow and sinful doesn't stop as he practically rides Sam dry.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam chants - not much convincing needed.
While Sam turns over to search for the lube, Dean already removes his boxers and once he's done, he hooks his fingers underneath the material of Sam's. You could easily find something funny in Dean's eagerness, but Sam really doesn't, not when he's so hard, so needy and eager himself.
"How- how d'you want it?" Sam moans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to take away some of the stimulation - Dean stroking a hand up and down his own full cock, giving Sam a little show as he pleasures himself.
"Stay just like this," Dean says and bends over to kiss Sam.
Sam opens his eyes again when Dean breaks the kiss and nods at Dean. When Dean holds out his hand for the lube, Sam passes it to him without a word. With eyes wide open, Sam watches as Dean licks his swollen lips, red from Sam biting them. Dean then squeezes some of the liquid onto his fingers, a frown of concentration on his face. Just as Sam wants to reach out and stroke away the lines on Dean's forehead, Dean's hand moves to Sam's cock, stroking up and down and slicking him up good.
A loud moan escapes Sam's lips, the firm pressure a delicate and pleasing stimulation. He always loved it when Dean stroked his cock, there's something about it, the little flicker he does with his wrist whenever he reaches the head, the way he uses his thumb to smear pre-come just right. Usually, Dean can get Sam off like this within few minutes.
"Dean," Sam groans, not wanting it to be over before he even can push inside Dean.
Dean bites his lower lip in concentration, but then he says, "yeah, I know. Need to feel you now. Need you."
Before Sam can say anything to that, Dean lifts his hips a little and reaches for Sam's cock once more. He places it against his entrance and then slowly sinks down, taking Sam in all in one go and taking a deep breath as he does so.
Sam has to bite his knuckles so that he doesn't scream, the sensation so good that he almost comes right here and now. Dean is tight and hot around him, all the forbidden, sinful pleasure that he shouldn't be.
Dean's eyes are squeezed shut and he takes a few more deep breaths without moving. Sam wants to ask whether he's hurt Dean, whether this is too rough but right in the moment Sam wants to speak, Dean lifts his hips slightly. When Dean moves back down, until his ass touches Sam's thighs again, a moan escapes from Dean's throat, low and needy.
Sam fears he's already coming but worrying about Dean and the fear buried so deep inside him is overwhelming him a little now in more than one way. Dean places his hands on Sam's chest for leverage as he fucks himself on Sam's cock, steadily up and down.
"Is this all right?" Sam asks, his hands moving to Dean's hip to help him support his weight a little. He knows that Dean's still weak and that's why he thinks that Dean might need a bit help. But Dean only groans at him, "fuck, yeah."
They both pant and moan as their arousal increases, threatening to wash over them way too soon. One of Sam's hands moves to Dean's cock, deep red and leaking. Sam always loved the feeling of Dean in his hand, thick and heavy, pulsing and vibrating with life and power. It isn't any different now and while Sam strokes Dean's dick, his other hand comes up to the back of Dean's neck to draw him in for another messy kiss.
This time, there's way too much spit, they're even drooling a little and the awkward angle breaks Dean's rhythm. In the end, nothing is fitting anymore, not the pace Dean set to fuck himself on Sam's dick, not the pace Sam set to stroke Dean's cock. Neither seems to mind as they move against each other, getting closer to sweet release with each stroke.
Sam comes first with a soft cry, spilling inside Dean. His grip on Dean's cock tightens a bit and his hand moves faster. In their current position, Dean riding him so sinfully, it's nearly impossible for Sam to hit Dean's prostate but Dean seems to be having fun nonetheless as he simply continuous to move, not stilling or slowing down.
"Fuck, Sammy, fuck, fuck, fuck." Dean's head falls back, exposing his long, sweaty neck. It's tempting, inviting to bite down and suck a bruise, some kind of payback for the one Sam will be having come the next day. But before Sam can pull Dean down again, Dean groans low and loud, spilling over Sam's hand and chest.
When Dean pulls out, he winches a little bit and then immediately he lies back down, next to Sam. They don't speak for a while and Sam's fascinated to watch Dean bend down and lick his own come from Sam's fingers and chest and moan at the taste.
Dean cranes his neck again, capturing Sam's lips in another kiss. The taste of Dean is only faint in Sam's mouth and he makes a mental note to suck Dean off in the Impala once they leave Bobby's and are at least out of sight. Sam doesn't say anything when Dean buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck, just lets him hide and seek the contact.
It only takes a few moments of stroking a soothing hand through Dean's hair until Dean falls asleep, snoring softly and evenly. While he watches Dean sleep, Sam thinks about the events of the last days, the turns everything took and how it easily could have ended differently, could have ended for the worse.
He's not only grateful that Dean didn't die, no, what he's even more grateful for is that something inside Dean has been re-born, something so essential Dean, like Phoenix from the ashes.
Dean's will to live.
- End
Some more author notes: For the rite that Peter is performing on Dean, I had to rely on an online source because even though I’ve witnessed an Anointing of the Sick, given to a family member of mine almost 10 years ago, I couldn't recall the details. Also, I never learned Latin at school and hence was a lost case. ;) So after some googling, I came across this website which gives great insight into the topic and also a translation of the various Latin prayers.