a runaway american dream
hey out there, whoever gifted me with extra userpics: you rock. harder than ac/dc, man, you shred. thanks ever so.
so a strange thing happened to me this past week or so in that i wrote two stories at the same time. that'll happen sometimes but usually one of them becomes more captivating and the other falls by the wayside. not so these! they have nothing at all to do with each other, and they are of vastly different styles and genres and it was really weird going back and forth between the two, believe you me. i am like mildly schizophrenic now because of it. but, anyways, there is this and there is the other.
Sam/Dean, prolly like R. AU after the very end of All Hell Breaks Loose 2. There's a simple premise here, 'cause you remember how Dean wasn't gonna tell Sam anything?
For Keeps For Good Forever
By Candle Beck
This is what Sam remembers.
He didn't kill Jake. He could have. (He should have.) His shoulder felt crushed, staved in. There was heavy blood gathering for a spectacular bruise across his jaw, hot and syrup-thick. Sam dropped the piece of iron he held. He breathed deep, splintered wood and mud and the peculiar ghostly smell of the rain falling on Cold Oak.
And then Dean called his name.
Sam went towards Dean's voice clutching his arm, not staggering but almost. The rain felt good, cool on Sam's panicked skin. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by something more constant. Dean had found him; Dean had come.
Dean was at the end of the road with a flashlight and a shotgun, flanked by Bobby. When he set eyes on Sam his stride faltered. From a distance, from where Sam was, he could see Dean's whole body give, a brief moment when he was slack with relief.
Sam shouted his brother's name. He was smiling, sickening waves of pain be damned. Dean had come.
Dean screamed, "Sam look out!" and something went into Sam's back. Something cored him, ripped through skin and muscle. Agony opened up white-hot like a collapsing star. It took his breath away.
And then Dean started running at him.
And that's about it.
*
Sam wakes up gasping. His lungs contract like there's cyanide in the air. It hurts, this breathing thing.
He's terrified. Stiff-skinned, wide-eyed, thin sweat breaking out all over his body. He thinks he must have been in the middle of a nightmare, but he can't remember it. Sam trembles on the bare mattress, clutching his head in his hands. After awhile it passes.
His back throbs, way down deep. His whole body aches. He doesn't know what day it is and he doesn't know where he is and he doesn't know where Dean is. But there are signs. Duffel bag ransacked in the corner, exploded open. Liquor bottle on the kitchen table, murky sunlight beaming through amber and glass. Sam finds bloodstained rags in the trash.
Dean will be back. All his stuff is here. Sam is here.
Sam moves around gingerly, waiting for his brother.
There's a wound in his back, but it looks weeks old. Sam is trying to remember the injury, trying to figure out how he could forget, and Dean comes back.
*
The look on Dean's face when he first saw Sam--something about that look never sat quite right with Sam.
*
Things start happening fast. They light out for Bobby's and Sam keeps pushing Dean for five miles an hour more. Dean shoots him pissed-off glances but there is something weak in the angle of his eyebrows, something unbelieving and awed. It makes Sam uncomfortable.
He concentrates on how he's going to track down Jake and cut out his motherfucking heart. Then the demon. Sam has an unholy universe of plans for the demon.
Bobby looks stunned to see them. Sam must have been a bloody mess the last time Bobby set eyes. There's lingering terror in his expression and Dean's too, and Sam wonders how close he came. No matter how hard he tries, he can't remember anything about that night.
And then Ellen is there. Now there's baffled relief among everything else on Dean's face. Sam hasn't had time to even begin mourning for the Roadhouse dead, and he's deeply happy to find Ellen isn't one of them.
They figure out the whats and wherefores and haul ass to Wyoming. Sam's back is aching (bizarre lessening ache, like the blood vessels are repairing at triple-speed and it hurts but it's kinda good too) and so he rides laid out in the back. He talks up to the back of Dean's head.
Dean keeps turning to look over his shoulder at Sam. Sam yells, "Dean! Road!" but it's in one ear and out the other with Dean just like always.
They stop for gas outside Casper, which is army green along the river and downright vibrant after hundreds of miles of gray badlands. Dean leans on the driver's door, looking down at Sam through the open back window. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, the sun on his face making him squint. Sam is anxious, fingers rapping on his stomach. He wants to be in motion.
Dean asks him if he feels okay. Sam says yeah. Dean reaches in the window and touches Sam's hair, short carding fingers then gone. Sam finds it a little strange, but doesn't say anything.
As they're driving out of town, Dean says, "Just. Be careful tonight, huh?"
Sam rolls his eyes. They're about to do battle with the forces of Hell; it's a little late for that kind of talk. But he gets that Dean is still kinda freaked out by Sam almost bleeding to death or whatever, so he says, "Okay, man." He turns his gaze to the sky, watches the power lines dip and run.
*
It all goes down much like Sam hoped.
He kills Jake once for going along with the demon's fucked up little homicidal reality show and sticking a knife in his back. Kills him again for what he put Dean through, those bloody rags. Kills him for putting a gun to Ellen's head. Kills him for opening the Devil's Gate.
Sam only stops pumping bullets into him because he doesn't want to have to stop and reload so soon.
There is chaos and fear all around them. The Gate is open and the dead are spilling out, flickering demons and spirits and those stuck halfway. It's overwhelming, but they make their last stand because that's why they came.
Sam is pinned to a tree for most of it, watching the yellow-eyed demon taunt and torture Dean, watching the blood creep down Dean's face. Sam strains and drives forward, but it's no good. He can't force his eyes shut, even when the demon steps back and levels the Colt at his brother.
Something vast and black surges through Sam. Rises up like a howl, power that doesn't seem to fit under his skin, pressing out and stretching his skin taut until Sam feels like he's shattering. He can see it; in that moment it's so clear.
The demon will kill Dean. It will be simple and unremarkable, a single etched bullet between Dean's pleading eyes. The demon will kill Dean and then he'll turn on Sam. This power, this force, Sam will use it to forge weapons from air, marshal his armies. Sam will kill the demon and then he will run into the Devil's Gate, past Bobby and Ellen trying to grab him, straight into Hell. Sam will find his brother, whatever the abominable pit the Colt sends him to, no matter if human eyes have never seen it and no one has ever walked free--Sam will bring him back.
But instead, there's this miracle.
John Winchester has climbed out of Hell. He saves his son's life, one more time for keeps. The fury and staggering terror flood out of Sam, leave him hollow and clean and amazed. That's his father. That's his dad over there. Sam knows they're going to win before he sees the Colt in his brother's hand.
A single gunshot, and the longest hunt is over.
*
In the aftermath, Sam and Dean stand at the car and talk stiltedly, uncertain. There is a crooked line of blood on Dean's forehead and Sam is staring. The power has come back as the adrenaline wears off, tingling under Sam's skin. It gets worse when he's looking at his brother and Sam can't stop looking at his brother.
"You. With Jake," Dean says haltingly. He's staring right back, almost unwilling.
Sam shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about it. It's weird hearing someone say I killed you. Weird seeing how plainly Jake believed it, how sure he was. It had slithered into Sam like ice down his collar, like a curse, but there were so many more important things to worry about. Jake's dead now and Sam doesn't have to listen to him anymore.
"He deserved it," Sam tells Dean. "Just fuckin' turned on me. We were kinda friends for a second or at least, like, comrades, and he still, he just turned like it was nothing."
Dean nods, swallowing. His eyes are desperately scanning Sam's face. It's disconcerting, a flush rising under Sam's collar. Dean looks incredible right now, wrecked conquering hero all dark hair and enormous jewel-colored eyes and that slash of red so sharp and bright in the dim. Sam has this bizarre thought, a sudden flash of biting Dean's worried mouth. He jerks against the car. That has never happened to him before.
"You're," Dean says, and then stops. His hands twitch towards Sam and Sam thinks Dean wants to hug him or check him for injuries or something like that. But Dean holds back, keeps that careful few feet of space between them. "I can't believe this happened."
Sam nods. "I know."
Dean darts a hard look at him. He keeps swallowing, keeps begging at Sam with his eyes and Sam doesn't know what that means. He doesn't know what Dean wants.
"I never thought it would happen like this," Dean says, his voice almost gone.
Sam nods again. It has been an unthinkable week. There's a cobweb clinging to the shoulder of Dean's coat and Sam plucks it off. Dean kinda flinches and Sam slips his hand under Dean's collar, not sure why but something about skin to skin, something about Dean's pulse in the cup of his palm. Sam curves his fingers around the back of Dean's neck and Dean's eyes flutter closed.
He'd let me, Sam thinks abruptly. He has no idea where that came from, but it crackles through him like heat lightning. He'd let me do anything.
They're still standing like that when Bobby and Ellen come over. Dean's eyes snap open and he tilts away but Sam leaves his hand where it is. He's got nothing to hide.
*
The country is full of demons. It's packed with ghosts and nightmares and curses laid like latticework, evil threaded through every day.
Sam and Dean hit the road. They go on a tear through the deep South, which has the longest and bloodiest history, the thickest heat Sam has ever known. Jobs stack up one after another. They smear together until Sam stops bothering to remember which state they're in.
Dean is in some crazy zone, fearless and unerring no matter what they're hunting. He's quick and without mercy, his grip so steady, his eye so keen. A machete in each hand and Dean is an artist. Sam flings quarters into the sky and Dean puts bullet holes through them. Ever since he shot the yellow-eyed demon, his aim has been nothing but true.
Sam says, "Christ, man, what the hell got into you," but he's grinning. He's clapping Dean on the back with both hands, tugging him back and forth. They're standing knee-deep in dead chupacabras.
Dean kind of pulls away from Sam. He smiles but it's not Dean's huge master-of-the-universe grin and it occurs to Sam that he hasn't seen that in awhile. Dean has been quieter since the Devil's Gate, dimmer. Sam is pretty sure he'll snap out of it, especially if the job keeps going so well.
Free, Sam thinks a week or so later, and it catches him off-guard. They're going ninety down a backcountry highway, the windows down and the music up, heading for a poltergeist in Macon County.
But that's just to fill the time. They could go anywhere, no longer in anyone's crosshairs. They could get out. They've done what they came to do, their parents avenged, Jess finally at peace, and Sam could hang it up if he wanted, just walk away. Sam turns the idea over, kinda blown away that it's taken six weeks for it to really hit him.
He looks over at Dean. His brother is slouched back, driving with his wrist. He looks tired and irritated; he hasn't been sleeping well since the Devil's Gate either.
Sam gets it suddenly. It is in fact blindingly obvious: Dean is scared Sam's gonna leave again. It explains his moodiness and his deference to Sam lately, the long pained looks Dean gives him when he thinks Sam isn't paying attention. It explains why Sam wakes up in the small hours of the morning and finds the other bed empty, white-gold light glowing around the bathroom door.
Sam has to hold back a laugh, turning his face towards the window. Stupid Dean, he mouths to the sweltering roadside. Sam was made for this work, and he knows that now.
*
They go to Mississippi. They go to Louisiana. They go to Arkansas, which Dean still pronounces phonetically, 'Ar-Kansas' like he has for as long as Sam can remember. Sam kills a werecat and almost loses an eye. He decapitates vampires with his brother's back flattened against his own. His knife sinks through corrupted flesh, jams up against bone. Sam is impossibly strong, ripping the blade up against the obstruction until it tears free.
The power runs in him like a current. Low-level electrical interference all day, static at his edges, and then when they're on a hunt it builds and throbs until he can feel it pouring out of his fingertips. He exorcises demons with the Latin thick and clogging in his mouth. It feels like he's being held back.
Dean acts twitchy after a successful hunt. They're in the car driving back, and Sam has both arms out the window, pouring a bottle of water over a rag and wiping tacky black blood off his hands. The wind pulls the loose water into a comet's tail, streaking back. Sam says something to Dean, "Dude, that was actually kinda fun," something idle that he hasn't given much thought.
Dean flinches. His hands flex on the wheel, small contraction like a heartbeat.
Little stuff like that. The flicker of Dean's eyes casting over Sam, searching him. The way he pushes his lower lip out with his teeth, hardens his features. New expressions on Dean's face that haunt Sam until he places it finally: that's what their dad looked like on a hunt.
Sam figures it's leftover adrenaline. He smiles at Dean, reassuring. They're both here, both alive. The monster is dead for one more night.
It usually works. Dean is always infected when Sam is in a good mood, reluctant but like he can't help himself. Sam's in a good mood a lot of the time, these days. They get some beers and stay up late watching random movies on HBO, making each other snigger with nonsensical dirty jokes. Sam's next-day injuries and bruises make themselves known, rising solid and sure under his skin.
I like this, Sam is always somewhat amazed to realize. Foggy three in the morning, Dean over there with his hand tucked under his shirt and his hair matted, a lazy half-smile on his face. Dean is watching Sam more than the television, and Sam is thinking, I would like to do this forever.
He's not leaving. He's never leaving.
*
At the end of the summer, they slip across the border into Mexico. There's no reason for it; the job just keeps sending them south, down into the point of Texas, and Dean takes it as a sign. He's tired of taking shit from rednecks when he's hustling pool, says, "Fuck, Sammy, least I won't be able to understand a Mexican dude if he wants to bitch me out."
Sam's pretty sure Dean has other reasons for wanting to flee the country. All that southern Gothic shit, the Spanish moss and rotting plantation houses, was bad enough, but then every small town in Texas looked exactly the same and it creeped them both out something fierce.
Neither of them really fits in anywhere. (Not that they ever have.) At least in Mexico they can blame it on not knowing the language.
They spend a small fortune on really good fake passports. They find a poorly-maintained border crossing and they abscond. Everything in Mexico is dirtier and hotter and more immediate.
Sam is driving because Dean has not slept the past couple of nights. He brushes it off when Sam asks, rubbing his hand across his face. There are heavy plum-colored rings under his eyes. He won't let Sam give him sleeping pills but when he starts nodding at the wheel he lets Sam take over.
Sam takes them along the coast. Dean dozes fitfully against the window, making little hurt sounds. When Sam reaches across and touches Dean's hair, the fine fading scar on his forehead, Dean settles. He breathes out like someone physically pressing the air out of his lungs.
Dean's insomnia started after the Devil's Gate. Sam thinks maybe something came out of Hell and latched on to him. Like the power that coursed through Sam, except Dean's is dark and crippled, saving its attacks for when he is most vulnerable. Dean won't talk about it, but Sam didn't expect any different.
The Gulf of Mexico is epic and smooth, wild blue flung in every direction. Warm salt smell in the air and down here, Sam thinks, down here they're gonna be okay.
*
They're an hour or so north of Tampico. The sun is rising over the water. Sam has been driving all night, feeling like he's been shoved through a needle. He has a deep and abiding headache.
He pulls the car over to the side of the road, facing the Gulf. Dean's asleep, held fast by a nightmare with his lips moving soundlessly. Sam watches him for a little while, the pink light growing on Dean's face. The pain in his head ebbs away, a lowering tide.
Sam shakes Dean awake. Dean blinks and straightens quick. His eyes bounce around, the car, Sam, the wide sprawl of the beach, cataloguing everything and locating the two of them in the universe. Dean's gaze ends up back on Sam, and he licks his lips. He looks nervous, uncharacteristic.
Sam's nervous too. Vibrations under his skin, his palms slick. He's going to do this thing now. He's going to see.
He slides closer to Dean. Dean tenses, eyes darting. "What?"
But he knows. Sam can see it in how his eyes go wide, how still he's become. Dean is breathing shallow and fast. He's staring at Sam's mouth.
"Dean," Sam says in a voice his brother has never heard from him. Dean jerks. The blacks of his pupils swell, edging out the green. Color rises on Dean's face like the dawn breaking over the two of them, here by the side of the road somewhere in Mexico.
Sam touches Dean's face. Dean whispers, "Don't," but he's swaying towards Sam and Sam doesn't think he means it.
He kisses Dean and Dean pushes into it immediately, opening his mouth to Sam's. It's rough, hard, teeth on Sam's lip, his hand spread out across the whole side of Dean's face. Dean's tongue is in his mouth and Sam could drown like this, never take another breath.
But Dean rips away, shaking his head and shaking everywhere, trembling. He's muttering, "No, that's not really you, can't-" and then he buries his face in his hands. His back shudders. Sam says his name, smooths his hand down the perfect trench of Dean's spine.
Sam can't keep his distance. He presses his face into the back of Dean's shoulder, feeling Dean try to wrench away but Sam's hand is on his hip and Dean's not going anywhere. Dean is blistering through his thin T-shirt, clean shift of muscle that Sam mouths his way across. Dean makes a strange choked noise.
"It's me, Dean," Sam says, his lips at Dean's ear. He hides his face in the curve of his brother's neck, wraps one arm around Dean's waist. Sam's all curled up around him, feeling raw and open. "I swear it's only me."
Dean shakes his head again, but his hand creeps up slow, so slow, and his fingers slide deep through Sam's hair.
*
Sam takes his mouth away from the hollow of Dean's hip. "Is this why you can't sleep?"
Dean's hand clenches in Sam's hair. Sam hisses through his teeth, craning his head to worsen the stinging pressure. His chin scrapes across the slick patch on Dean's hip and Dean moans, splayed out on the bed with his eyes screwed shut. He's not looking at Sam--he almost never looks at Sam when they're like this.
"This why, Dean?" Sam asks again. He sucks a bruise onto the soft skin, and Dean writhes faintly, open-mouthed and gasping. "You been thinking about this, all torn up. So sick, wanting to fuck your baby brother."
Dean's back arches. Sam tightens his grip on Dean's hips and slams him back down on the bed. He tongues the ridge of Dean's pelvic bone, sweat and soap. Slides his fingers across the shivering muscles of Dean's stomach. Twists his head until Dean starts pulling his hair again.
"Always lookin' at me," Sam murmurs. "Since the Devil's Gate, was that when it started?" He skims up Dean's body, nipping at his ribs, licking up the line of his sternum. Gets his face right next to Dean's, Dean's flushed panting desperate face, and Sam asks him in a rasp, "Or was that just when it started to show? You've wanted this, you. Jesus. How old was I, Dean? Sixteen? Fifteen?"
Dean is biting his lip. His face is turned away, his whole body craning towards Sam. Sam is jerking him off slow and careful and Dean's hips roll through each stroke. He's taut with panic and mortification and god knows what else, but he loves it. He has drawn blood on his lip for Sam to lick away. Sam can't get over how bad Dean wants him.
"You coulda had me," Sam whispers. A groan escapes his brother, bit off. Sam grins. "Anytime, Dean. Anywhere."
Sam kisses him deeply. Dean turns in to it fiercely, frantic and hot, dragging at Sam's mouth. Dean wants him to stop talking, Sam knows, but it's too much fun.
"And you have me now." Sam thumbs at Dean's lower lip, wishing he would open his eyes. "You can sleep because you have me now and it's for keeps." He presses aimless open-mouthed kisses to Dean's jaw and his cheek and the secret place under his ear. Dean's face is damp and tastes like a stronger salt. "Dean, hey Dean. It's for good, okay. It's forever."
He has to convince Dean of these things. It might take years, decades, but Dean will believe him in the end.
Sam kisses his brother again. Dean is crying, but he kisses him back.
*
They end up farther south than Sam has ever been before, deep into the jungle. The days are abnormally long, infusing the land with so much heat it drips, the tropical trees wet with color. Huge bugs divebomb them whenever they get out of the car.
Dean keeps trying to remember more than the first verse of Van Halen's 'Panama,' even after they're back in Costa Rica. He mumbles snatches under his breath, rapping his fingers on the wheel. Sam hums along sometimes. He's sick to death of the song, but it makes Dean happy.
They don't hunt much while they're south of the border. Sam has picked up enough Spanish to get by, but research is a different story. Sometimes they can piece together a local legend from bar chatter, and they'll check it out just for safety's sake. They kill a few black cadejos. Sometimes Sam gets a bad feeling about an Aztec ruin and when Dean turns on the EMF reader it lights up like a pinball machine.
But mostly they just drive around. Nothing is like anything Sam has ever seen before. Different animals, different trees. The sky is a different color blue.
Sam doesn't know why Dean is letting them stay off the job this long. He thinks it must have to do with the sex, or the toll the sex is taking on Dean's already beleaguered psyche. Dean is still terrified most of the time, agreeing to whatever Sam thinks is best. Sam doesn't take advantage too often, but they've earned a reprieve. The power inside of Sam is banked, left to a low thrum.
They go days seeing no one but each other. Sam has Dean pull over so they can fool around in the full light of day. Dean wears this dizzy stunned expression on his face when Sam's got him flat on his back. He still keeps his eyes closed throughout, shoves the side of his hand in his mouth before he can moan his brother's name. His fair skin burns and peels and tiny pieces of him stick to the palms of Sam's hands.
Sam tells him a hundred times, not going anywhere, love this, can't leave, but Dean just presses his lips into a seam and shutters his face.
This is just how Dean is. He can't believe that anything of lasting good could ever happen to them. Being content makes him skittish. He hasn't yet forgiven himself for wanting Sam; Sam thinks a part of him probably never will. All Sam can do is stick around, keep trying to tell him.
They're squatting in an abandoned hovel somewhere near the ocean in Guatemala. Sam finds a couple of shipping pallets and layers them thickly with the Indian blankets they've acquired since motels became a rarity. He and Dean lie around in their shorts, on their sides bent towards each other like a pair of quotes.
Dean's eyes are closed and smooth, the stress lines erased from around his mouth. Sam has a hand on Dean's cheek, just resting there.
"Dean," Sam says. Dean's eyebrows tick slightly but he doesn't open his eyes. Sam passes his fingers across Dean's eyelids, gentle and cautious feeling the whir under delicate skin. "What can I do to convince you?"
Dean is still for a moment, frozen, and then his eyes open, slow like magic. Sam's breath catches; it's like he's never seen that color before.
"It's not up to you," Dean tells him. His voice is small and hoarse, and he kisses Sam suddenly, a wrecking kind of kiss. Dean rolls his forehead on his brother's, breathing shallowly. "Let's go home, Sammy, what do you say."
So, six months after the Devil's Gate opened, Sam and Dean return to America.
*
Sam wants snow for Christmas. Dean says, "You want snow, I'll show you snow," and drives to Wisconsin.
They stop outside of Madison. After one night, one storm, they emerge to find the Impala buried in white up to her windshield wipers. Sam pulls Dean back into the motel room. Dean makes vague outraged noises. He doesn't want to leave his car like that, they've got to find a garage or something.
"No way," Sam says. "We're ordering food. Not going out in that."
He pushes Dean into one of the frayed rust-colored armchairs. Dean sprawls out, knees bent and bowed. His eyebrows are pinched together, lip curled up a little. His feverish tan has faded since they got back north, eyes bright in his pale face again.
"Thought you wanted snow, man. Think that qualifies."
Sam shakes his head, pulling the other chair over so that Dean will be within reach. "I just like to look at it from someplace warm. There's football, anyway. And we should fuck around some later."
Dean blushes, rolls his eyes. He doesn't answer, but it's not like Sam was holding his breath. He's trying to make it normal, unexceptional, an everyday kind of thing. Back on their native soil, Dean is still anxious, doubtful until Sam takes Dean's hands and shoves them under his shirt. Back on the highways and in the motel rooms where they grew up, it must feel more real to Dean. He's always braced for a shock, as if he expects their father to walk in on them. Sam supposes it's not wholly unreasonable, considering they have no idea where John's spirit ended up after that night.
But Sam knows how to wear Dean down. He's had decades of practice.
They leave the curtains open. Snow falls on and off all day long and at times the sun comes out and the glare off the white is like a supernova in the parking lot. Dean keeps getting up to check on the Impala. He says when they get somewhere with a civilized weather pattern he's gonna start teaching Sam how to take care of her.
Sam's not really paying attention, scanning through the channels at warp speed. He glances at his brother framed in the searing window. "Why? You never let me touch her if something's wrong."
Dean doesn't answer. Sam doesn't think much of it, idly daydreaming about pressing Dean against the glass, see him surrounded by all that white light.
They don't have a tree or anything like that, but Sam braves the weather for the minimart and comes back with egg nog in cardboard cartons, candy and dirty magazines for Dean. Dean has a fifth of whiskey, and after they're pretty drunk he says, "Merry Christmas, Sam," and gives Sam his favorite gun.
Sam tries to say no, but Dean insists.
*
A week buried in the snow, and they get antsy for more reasons than the emotional. They head south and west, looking for work.
There is a pattern of freak fatal dust devils in New Mexico. Skinny compact tornados sucking people up and hurling them dozens of feet back to the rocky ground, winds flaying the skin, too intense to be so short-lived and small. Sam thinks it's a chindi, a vengeful Navajo spirit. They're outside Santa Fe, where it is epically cold but dry.
They're going slow, getting back into the rhythm. Sam spends a day in the library with Dean sitting at the table across from him reading old issues of Boys' Life. In the past Dean would just leave Sam to it, but since the Devil's Gate he hasn't done well when Sam is out of his eyeline.
They're stopped for gas on the way to the reservation to do some interviews, and the dust devil touches down. It's formed whole cloth of air and red dust, coalescing suddenly. It comes streaking right for them (sentient, Sam thinks, that's just awesome) and Dean is in the open, coming back from the little store.
Sam shouts. He sees Dean jolt and his face drop open as he spots the dust devil tearing out jagged strips of land and asphalt. Sam runs for him. He's calculating hectically, how far away the storm is and how fast it's moving, how far and how fast he is himself. He barrels into Dean, an armful of junk food and soda scattering. The twister grabs at Dean, hauling him away from Sam and the power slams back full-tilt.
He makes a savage sound. Nobody is taking Dean from him. Sam has one hand gripping Dean's belt, the metal of the buckle imprinting into his palm. He draws Dean's body into a long bow, the devil wind dragging at him from behind. Dean's boots aren't touching the ground, and his huge freaked-out eyes are once again level with Sam's.
Sam rips his brother out of the storm.
They fall back into the gas station store, collapsing in a heap as the door crashes shut. Sam's head ricochets off a candy rack and chocolate bars go cartwheeling everywhere. Dean is half on top of him. His elbow is in Sam's throat, so Sam shoves him off.
He pins Dean to the dirty linoleum and puts his hands on Dean's face, his neck, his chest. Sam is breathing hard, shuddering under the force of it. Dean lies back passive, watching Sam intently. He doesn't say I'm okay and he doesn't say quit it Sammy you big girl.
Sam confirms Dean's heartbeat and his pulse and then does it again and again until at last he's satisfied. He sits back, takes his hands off Dean and runs them shakily through his hair. Dust clouds down, powders on Dean's shirt.
Sam says, "Jesus Christ, Dean, you're gonna get yourself killed and then what the fuck will I do," and it's just by rote, without heat or intent because it was hardly Dean's fault this time. But Dean looks stricken all the same.
*
Sam wakes up in the middle of the night. It's not clear why at first.
He rolls over to check on Dean and finds his brother sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and his head bowed. Dean's naked, silver-colored in the moonlight leaking through the curtains. Sam mumbles his name, brushes his fingertips across the small of Dean's back.
"Shouldn't have done this," Dean says softly, mostly to himself.
Sam is half-asleep. He has fit his fingers into the notches of Dean's spine. "C'mere."
Dean's head shakes minutely. A little shiver runs through him. "Worst thing I could have done," he whispers.
"Shut up, Dean, c'mere." Sam wants Dean to turn, bend down over him. He stretches out against the sheets. Everything is happening so slowly.
"Gonna hate me later, you should-" and Dean cuts himself off. He breathes unevenly for a few seconds. Sam can see his hands, see how he's pushing the ring around his finger.
"Don' be stupid," Sam says. He scratches at Dean's hip. "Can't hate you, not possible. No matter what you try you're stuck with me."
Dean looks over his shoulder. His face is in shadows, his eyes and mouth heavy. Sam has to hold his breath; it's just not right, what Dean does to him. Sam tries to smile, let Dean know he's sure, he'll always be sure. Dean's face twists and Sam doesn't know what he's doing wrong.
Dean gets up and puts his shorts back on. Jeans and shirt and socks and boots and coat. Dean reassembles, one piece at a time. Sam watches, something eerie and hot curling in his stomach. At the door, Dean turns to say:
"You don't know shit, Sam,"
and then he leaves.
*
Dean is not gone for long. He comes back just after dawn with coffee and donuts. Kinda sheepish, as if he's done something stupid, and not talking much. Sam tries not to show his worry and irritation. Six hours is the longest they've gone without seeing each other since the Devil's Gate.
They get back on the road again. Swift even pour of asphalt in front of them, the wind pounding through the open windows, and Sam calms down a little. He wants tell Dean that it's okay, he gets it. This is a lunatic course. Nobody lives like they do, ever in motion and sodden with death and evil. Nobody locates all the happiness in the world in their brother's body. They're so far off the map, out here with the monsters.
Sam can't expect Dean to just take that in stride. He knows Dean. Dean's mind is made up of trapdoors and guillotines. He's physically unable to take anything on faith, and it's impossible to reckon this thing between them; for all that it's the greatest love Sam has ever known, it's difficult to explain.
So Dean's having some kind of protracted mental breakdown, but Sam's been through that before. He lets Dean play the same tape for four hundred miles. Just over the California border, he puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck and leaves it there.
They'll be all right. They've got time.
*
It's springtime now. They're winding through the West, where it's mild and clear and the landscape seems to jump at them like a 3-D movie. They slaughter a den of bloody-eyed bears in the lower Sierras. Waste some zombies in the alkali flats of Utah. Salt and burn the better part of a wagon train in the Nevada desert. In Las Vegas they run into their first demon in half a year.
It's possessing a prostitute. Johns keep showing up dead from blood loss, castrated but that's too surgical a word for the great chunks of flesh torn out of each corpse. Dean goes green in the morgue and looks like he's about to faint. Sam makes some excuse and hustles them out of there. Dean's legs give out in the basement hallway and he falls into a molded plastic chair, holding his head in his hands.
Sam gets him water and coffee because he's not sure which one Dean will want. Dean waves him away, scraping his nails hard over his scalp. His eyes are shut tight.
"We'll get her, Dean," Sam says, setting the cups down. He feels like he's towering over Dean, all hunched over like that. "That. That was really gross, I know, but we'll catch the bitch, make her pay."
Dean exhales, a little explosion. "Jesus, Sam, quit talkin' like that."
"What?" Sam could have said so much worse. He touches Dean's hair but Dean pulls away immediately. Dean's shaking his head, holding his shoulders stiff and straight.
"Just don't need to see that shit right now," Dean mumbles. He rubs his eyes so hard it looks painful. He looks really tired.
Sam's never known Dean to be squeamish, but it's been a long year. Sam has changed in elemental ways. They both must have.
He takes Dean back to the motel so they can get out of their detective suits. Dean's kinda touchy and snappish still, and Sam ends up tying him to the bed with their neckties just so that he'll quit fighting it already. Sam puts his mouth on every part of Dean, until Dean is slick with sweat and twisting helplessly under him. When Sam says, "Look at me," Dean's eyes fly open, and Sam is stunned that it's that simple.
The knots in the ties are stony little nubs by the end of it, yanked tight by Dean in the grips, and Sam has to cut him free. He pushes Dean onto his stomach and rubs his shoulders until he's miles asleep. Then Sam goes to deal with the demon alone.
It's better, sometimes, when Dean's not there to watch him. Sam can just let go. He can do what comes naturally.
*
In April, it rains for a week straight. Sam and Dean hole up in a condemned bowling alley that was haunted when they first got here but isn't anymore. They're a little short on cash since Dean kitted the Impala out with four brand-new Goodyears.
The bowling alley isn't so bad. There's a movie theatre popcorn maker that Dean tinkers with for an afternoon and has working by dinner. They eat like children, all candy and Wonder Bread and popcorn with chocolate sauce. They launch themselves down the laminated wood of the lanes, spinning and sliding on their backs trying to knock down the pyramid of empty bottles in place of pins.
They sleep behind the counter with the shoe cubbies, on the thick pad of their Indian blankets. Just because quarters are so close, Dean lets Sam toss an arm over his stomach, nudged up along his side. Sam always falls asleep before Dean, concentrating on the feel of Dean's fingers tracing skeptically over his arm. Most of the time when he wakes up, Dean has gone for coffee already.
The rain thunders on the bowling alley roof. Dean and Sam play cards at the snack-bar tables and Sam cheats without Dean noticing. Dean stares at Sam almost constantly, this distant hungry expression like he's trying to burn the image of Sam on his mind.
Sam smirks, preens and poses. He wants to hear Dean laugh and sometimes Dean does. Sometimes Dean presses Sam against the nearest vertical surface and Sam likes that too.
All the windows are boarded up except the one they pried open to get in. It's in the back, a dusty storage room littered with golf pencils and scraps of pink insulation. They were able to jimmy it without breaking the glass, and now Sam lays a blanket down under it and coaxes Dean back.
Dean is suspicious, squinting up at the rain pattering on the window, but he's pliant when Sam strips his shirt off him, lays him down. The rain falls in shadows across Dean's bare chest. Nearly-there flickers of ash-gray run smooth along the lines of his ribs.
Sam breathes out slow through his teeth. This is what Dean does to him, makes him silent and slow and stupid, staring at a dull reflection of the rain. Dean's watching him, hitching around a little, and eventually he says rough, "Come on, come here you son of a bitch."
Sam falls into him, thinking, this is what you do.
*
They're heading to South Dakota because Dean said it's been too long since they've seen Bobby, and he's right. It's the perfect time of year, the breaking point between spring and summer. There will be weeds and wild roses grown up like ivy on the wrecks in Bobby's salvage yard. Sam is looking forward to that, and to the chili that is Bobby's one specialty, and he's riding with his elbow out the window, face to the sun.
Dean is getting better by the day, easier and quicker to smile at Sam, less likely to flinch when Sam touches him. A few nights ago, after they killed a werewolf Dean pulled into a gas station for the sole reason of blowing Sam in the bathroom. There is still a franticness in how Dean kisses him, how he grips Sam so tensely, this lifelong terror, but sometimes Sam can lull him, slow him down and make him see.
They stop for the night in Sioux City. Watching reruns and eating pizza, Sam gets to thinking and after a minute he does the math and says in surprise, "Hey Dean."
Dean grunts from the other bed. Sam looks over at him, spread out like a wish. He smiles, pretty much all the way gone on his brother.
"In three days, it'll be a year since Hellsgate," Sam tells him.
Dean starts. A piece of pizza crust falls on the floor. Dean stares at Sam, white-eyed and still. Sam half-smiles.
"Seems crazy, right? All this stuff that's happened?"
Another moment of spooky quiet from Dean, and then Sam watches his throat dip as he swallows. Dean's fist is wrenched in the sheets, knuckles pale as linen. He puts on a little smirk.
"Time flies when you're having fun," Dean says. His voice is a little hoarse.
Sam shakes his head, still kind of astounded. "I feel like we killed the demon just yesterday, you know?"
Dean doesn't answer for a second, then he says, "Yeah."
They both fall quiet, polishing off the pizzas and trading a bottle back and forth. Dean keeps sneaking these looks at Sam, thinking he's being sly but Sam sees right through. There's a crazy glow in Dean's eyes tonight.
Dean turns off the lights and Sam takes off his shirt. Dean crawls into his bed, crawls over him and they fit just right together, carved and slotting in place. Sam breathes out hot into Dean's throat, arms banded across his brother's back. Dean makes the most incredible sounds.
And he slides both hands into Sam's hair, tips Sam's face up and clean in the faint broken streetlight. Dean holds Sam still, their mouths an inch apart.
"It was worth it," Dean tells him. His eyes are so bright it's terrifying. "Want you to remember, Sammy, you gotta remember that it was worth it. Okay?"
Dean kisses him. Sam cranes up into it, his mouth bitten open. Dean's hands buried in his hair, cradling his head, and Sam can't move like he wants. He can barely move at all. Dean presses his face into Sam's cheek, his breath shuddering.
"Tell me it's okay, Sam, tell me you'll remember."
Sam nods blindly, hardly understanding the question. He swears, pleads. Whatever Dean wants, whatever he needs. There is nothing Sam wouldn't do for him.
Dean takes him all the way down, until Sam has forgotten the season and their coordinates and their last name. None of that stuff matters. There is no outside world, nothing to track or catch or kill. Nobody left to save, just Sam and Dean amid the wrecked sheets.
Sam drifts off with his head on his brother's chest, joyful and warm. He falls so fast, led by Dean's quick-beating heart and somewhere way far off, the baying of hounds.
THE END
damn! that was kinda mean. no worries, the other one is equally as uplifting, i promise.
so a strange thing happened to me this past week or so in that i wrote two stories at the same time. that'll happen sometimes but usually one of them becomes more captivating and the other falls by the wayside. not so these! they have nothing at all to do with each other, and they are of vastly different styles and genres and it was really weird going back and forth between the two, believe you me. i am like mildly schizophrenic now because of it. but, anyways, there is this and there is the other.
Sam/Dean, prolly like R. AU after the very end of All Hell Breaks Loose 2. There's a simple premise here, 'cause you remember how Dean wasn't gonna tell Sam anything?
For Keeps For Good Forever
By Candle Beck
This is what Sam remembers.
He didn't kill Jake. He could have. (He should have.) His shoulder felt crushed, staved in. There was heavy blood gathering for a spectacular bruise across his jaw, hot and syrup-thick. Sam dropped the piece of iron he held. He breathed deep, splintered wood and mud and the peculiar ghostly smell of the rain falling on Cold Oak.
And then Dean called his name.
Sam went towards Dean's voice clutching his arm, not staggering but almost. The rain felt good, cool on Sam's panicked skin. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by something more constant. Dean had found him; Dean had come.
Dean was at the end of the road with a flashlight and a shotgun, flanked by Bobby. When he set eyes on Sam his stride faltered. From a distance, from where Sam was, he could see Dean's whole body give, a brief moment when he was slack with relief.
Sam shouted his brother's name. He was smiling, sickening waves of pain be damned. Dean had come.
Dean screamed, "Sam look out!" and something went into Sam's back. Something cored him, ripped through skin and muscle. Agony opened up white-hot like a collapsing star. It took his breath away.
And then Dean started running at him.
And that's about it.
*
Sam wakes up gasping. His lungs contract like there's cyanide in the air. It hurts, this breathing thing.
He's terrified. Stiff-skinned, wide-eyed, thin sweat breaking out all over his body. He thinks he must have been in the middle of a nightmare, but he can't remember it. Sam trembles on the bare mattress, clutching his head in his hands. After awhile it passes.
His back throbs, way down deep. His whole body aches. He doesn't know what day it is and he doesn't know where he is and he doesn't know where Dean is. But there are signs. Duffel bag ransacked in the corner, exploded open. Liquor bottle on the kitchen table, murky sunlight beaming through amber and glass. Sam finds bloodstained rags in the trash.
Dean will be back. All his stuff is here. Sam is here.
Sam moves around gingerly, waiting for his brother.
There's a wound in his back, but it looks weeks old. Sam is trying to remember the injury, trying to figure out how he could forget, and Dean comes back.
*
The look on Dean's face when he first saw Sam--something about that look never sat quite right with Sam.
*
Things start happening fast. They light out for Bobby's and Sam keeps pushing Dean for five miles an hour more. Dean shoots him pissed-off glances but there is something weak in the angle of his eyebrows, something unbelieving and awed. It makes Sam uncomfortable.
He concentrates on how he's going to track down Jake and cut out his motherfucking heart. Then the demon. Sam has an unholy universe of plans for the demon.
Bobby looks stunned to see them. Sam must have been a bloody mess the last time Bobby set eyes. There's lingering terror in his expression and Dean's too, and Sam wonders how close he came. No matter how hard he tries, he can't remember anything about that night.
And then Ellen is there. Now there's baffled relief among everything else on Dean's face. Sam hasn't had time to even begin mourning for the Roadhouse dead, and he's deeply happy to find Ellen isn't one of them.
They figure out the whats and wherefores and haul ass to Wyoming. Sam's back is aching (bizarre lessening ache, like the blood vessels are repairing at triple-speed and it hurts but it's kinda good too) and so he rides laid out in the back. He talks up to the back of Dean's head.
Dean keeps turning to look over his shoulder at Sam. Sam yells, "Dean! Road!" but it's in one ear and out the other with Dean just like always.
They stop for gas outside Casper, which is army green along the river and downright vibrant after hundreds of miles of gray badlands. Dean leans on the driver's door, looking down at Sam through the open back window. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, the sun on his face making him squint. Sam is anxious, fingers rapping on his stomach. He wants to be in motion.
Dean asks him if he feels okay. Sam says yeah. Dean reaches in the window and touches Sam's hair, short carding fingers then gone. Sam finds it a little strange, but doesn't say anything.
As they're driving out of town, Dean says, "Just. Be careful tonight, huh?"
Sam rolls his eyes. They're about to do battle with the forces of Hell; it's a little late for that kind of talk. But he gets that Dean is still kinda freaked out by Sam almost bleeding to death or whatever, so he says, "Okay, man." He turns his gaze to the sky, watches the power lines dip and run.
*
It all goes down much like Sam hoped.
He kills Jake once for going along with the demon's fucked up little homicidal reality show and sticking a knife in his back. Kills him again for what he put Dean through, those bloody rags. Kills him for putting a gun to Ellen's head. Kills him for opening the Devil's Gate.
Sam only stops pumping bullets into him because he doesn't want to have to stop and reload so soon.
There is chaos and fear all around them. The Gate is open and the dead are spilling out, flickering demons and spirits and those stuck halfway. It's overwhelming, but they make their last stand because that's why they came.
Sam is pinned to a tree for most of it, watching the yellow-eyed demon taunt and torture Dean, watching the blood creep down Dean's face. Sam strains and drives forward, but it's no good. He can't force his eyes shut, even when the demon steps back and levels the Colt at his brother.
Something vast and black surges through Sam. Rises up like a howl, power that doesn't seem to fit under his skin, pressing out and stretching his skin taut until Sam feels like he's shattering. He can see it; in that moment it's so clear.
The demon will kill Dean. It will be simple and unremarkable, a single etched bullet between Dean's pleading eyes. The demon will kill Dean and then he'll turn on Sam. This power, this force, Sam will use it to forge weapons from air, marshal his armies. Sam will kill the demon and then he will run into the Devil's Gate, past Bobby and Ellen trying to grab him, straight into Hell. Sam will find his brother, whatever the abominable pit the Colt sends him to, no matter if human eyes have never seen it and no one has ever walked free--Sam will bring him back.
But instead, there's this miracle.
John Winchester has climbed out of Hell. He saves his son's life, one more time for keeps. The fury and staggering terror flood out of Sam, leave him hollow and clean and amazed. That's his father. That's his dad over there. Sam knows they're going to win before he sees the Colt in his brother's hand.
A single gunshot, and the longest hunt is over.
*
In the aftermath, Sam and Dean stand at the car and talk stiltedly, uncertain. There is a crooked line of blood on Dean's forehead and Sam is staring. The power has come back as the adrenaline wears off, tingling under Sam's skin. It gets worse when he's looking at his brother and Sam can't stop looking at his brother.
"You. With Jake," Dean says haltingly. He's staring right back, almost unwilling.
Sam shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about it. It's weird hearing someone say I killed you. Weird seeing how plainly Jake believed it, how sure he was. It had slithered into Sam like ice down his collar, like a curse, but there were so many more important things to worry about. Jake's dead now and Sam doesn't have to listen to him anymore.
"He deserved it," Sam tells Dean. "Just fuckin' turned on me. We were kinda friends for a second or at least, like, comrades, and he still, he just turned like it was nothing."
Dean nods, swallowing. His eyes are desperately scanning Sam's face. It's disconcerting, a flush rising under Sam's collar. Dean looks incredible right now, wrecked conquering hero all dark hair and enormous jewel-colored eyes and that slash of red so sharp and bright in the dim. Sam has this bizarre thought, a sudden flash of biting Dean's worried mouth. He jerks against the car. That has never happened to him before.
"You're," Dean says, and then stops. His hands twitch towards Sam and Sam thinks Dean wants to hug him or check him for injuries or something like that. But Dean holds back, keeps that careful few feet of space between them. "I can't believe this happened."
Sam nods. "I know."
Dean darts a hard look at him. He keeps swallowing, keeps begging at Sam with his eyes and Sam doesn't know what that means. He doesn't know what Dean wants.
"I never thought it would happen like this," Dean says, his voice almost gone.
Sam nods again. It has been an unthinkable week. There's a cobweb clinging to the shoulder of Dean's coat and Sam plucks it off. Dean kinda flinches and Sam slips his hand under Dean's collar, not sure why but something about skin to skin, something about Dean's pulse in the cup of his palm. Sam curves his fingers around the back of Dean's neck and Dean's eyes flutter closed.
He'd let me, Sam thinks abruptly. He has no idea where that came from, but it crackles through him like heat lightning. He'd let me do anything.
They're still standing like that when Bobby and Ellen come over. Dean's eyes snap open and he tilts away but Sam leaves his hand where it is. He's got nothing to hide.
*
The country is full of demons. It's packed with ghosts and nightmares and curses laid like latticework, evil threaded through every day.
Sam and Dean hit the road. They go on a tear through the deep South, which has the longest and bloodiest history, the thickest heat Sam has ever known. Jobs stack up one after another. They smear together until Sam stops bothering to remember which state they're in.
Dean is in some crazy zone, fearless and unerring no matter what they're hunting. He's quick and without mercy, his grip so steady, his eye so keen. A machete in each hand and Dean is an artist. Sam flings quarters into the sky and Dean puts bullet holes through them. Ever since he shot the yellow-eyed demon, his aim has been nothing but true.
Sam says, "Christ, man, what the hell got into you," but he's grinning. He's clapping Dean on the back with both hands, tugging him back and forth. They're standing knee-deep in dead chupacabras.
Dean kind of pulls away from Sam. He smiles but it's not Dean's huge master-of-the-universe grin and it occurs to Sam that he hasn't seen that in awhile. Dean has been quieter since the Devil's Gate, dimmer. Sam is pretty sure he'll snap out of it, especially if the job keeps going so well.
Free, Sam thinks a week or so later, and it catches him off-guard. They're going ninety down a backcountry highway, the windows down and the music up, heading for a poltergeist in Macon County.
But that's just to fill the time. They could go anywhere, no longer in anyone's crosshairs. They could get out. They've done what they came to do, their parents avenged, Jess finally at peace, and Sam could hang it up if he wanted, just walk away. Sam turns the idea over, kinda blown away that it's taken six weeks for it to really hit him.
He looks over at Dean. His brother is slouched back, driving with his wrist. He looks tired and irritated; he hasn't been sleeping well since the Devil's Gate either.
Sam gets it suddenly. It is in fact blindingly obvious: Dean is scared Sam's gonna leave again. It explains his moodiness and his deference to Sam lately, the long pained looks Dean gives him when he thinks Sam isn't paying attention. It explains why Sam wakes up in the small hours of the morning and finds the other bed empty, white-gold light glowing around the bathroom door.
Sam has to hold back a laugh, turning his face towards the window. Stupid Dean, he mouths to the sweltering roadside. Sam was made for this work, and he knows that now.
*
They go to Mississippi. They go to Louisiana. They go to Arkansas, which Dean still pronounces phonetically, 'Ar-Kansas' like he has for as long as Sam can remember. Sam kills a werecat and almost loses an eye. He decapitates vampires with his brother's back flattened against his own. His knife sinks through corrupted flesh, jams up against bone. Sam is impossibly strong, ripping the blade up against the obstruction until it tears free.
The power runs in him like a current. Low-level electrical interference all day, static at his edges, and then when they're on a hunt it builds and throbs until he can feel it pouring out of his fingertips. He exorcises demons with the Latin thick and clogging in his mouth. It feels like he's being held back.
Dean acts twitchy after a successful hunt. They're in the car driving back, and Sam has both arms out the window, pouring a bottle of water over a rag and wiping tacky black blood off his hands. The wind pulls the loose water into a comet's tail, streaking back. Sam says something to Dean, "Dude, that was actually kinda fun," something idle that he hasn't given much thought.
Dean flinches. His hands flex on the wheel, small contraction like a heartbeat.
Little stuff like that. The flicker of Dean's eyes casting over Sam, searching him. The way he pushes his lower lip out with his teeth, hardens his features. New expressions on Dean's face that haunt Sam until he places it finally: that's what their dad looked like on a hunt.
Sam figures it's leftover adrenaline. He smiles at Dean, reassuring. They're both here, both alive. The monster is dead for one more night.
It usually works. Dean is always infected when Sam is in a good mood, reluctant but like he can't help himself. Sam's in a good mood a lot of the time, these days. They get some beers and stay up late watching random movies on HBO, making each other snigger with nonsensical dirty jokes. Sam's next-day injuries and bruises make themselves known, rising solid and sure under his skin.
I like this, Sam is always somewhat amazed to realize. Foggy three in the morning, Dean over there with his hand tucked under his shirt and his hair matted, a lazy half-smile on his face. Dean is watching Sam more than the television, and Sam is thinking, I would like to do this forever.
He's not leaving. He's never leaving.
*
At the end of the summer, they slip across the border into Mexico. There's no reason for it; the job just keeps sending them south, down into the point of Texas, and Dean takes it as a sign. He's tired of taking shit from rednecks when he's hustling pool, says, "Fuck, Sammy, least I won't be able to understand a Mexican dude if he wants to bitch me out."
Sam's pretty sure Dean has other reasons for wanting to flee the country. All that southern Gothic shit, the Spanish moss and rotting plantation houses, was bad enough, but then every small town in Texas looked exactly the same and it creeped them both out something fierce.
Neither of them really fits in anywhere. (Not that they ever have.) At least in Mexico they can blame it on not knowing the language.
They spend a small fortune on really good fake passports. They find a poorly-maintained border crossing and they abscond. Everything in Mexico is dirtier and hotter and more immediate.
Sam is driving because Dean has not slept the past couple of nights. He brushes it off when Sam asks, rubbing his hand across his face. There are heavy plum-colored rings under his eyes. He won't let Sam give him sleeping pills but when he starts nodding at the wheel he lets Sam take over.
Sam takes them along the coast. Dean dozes fitfully against the window, making little hurt sounds. When Sam reaches across and touches Dean's hair, the fine fading scar on his forehead, Dean settles. He breathes out like someone physically pressing the air out of his lungs.
Dean's insomnia started after the Devil's Gate. Sam thinks maybe something came out of Hell and latched on to him. Like the power that coursed through Sam, except Dean's is dark and crippled, saving its attacks for when he is most vulnerable. Dean won't talk about it, but Sam didn't expect any different.
The Gulf of Mexico is epic and smooth, wild blue flung in every direction. Warm salt smell in the air and down here, Sam thinks, down here they're gonna be okay.
*
They're an hour or so north of Tampico. The sun is rising over the water. Sam has been driving all night, feeling like he's been shoved through a needle. He has a deep and abiding headache.
He pulls the car over to the side of the road, facing the Gulf. Dean's asleep, held fast by a nightmare with his lips moving soundlessly. Sam watches him for a little while, the pink light growing on Dean's face. The pain in his head ebbs away, a lowering tide.
Sam shakes Dean awake. Dean blinks and straightens quick. His eyes bounce around, the car, Sam, the wide sprawl of the beach, cataloguing everything and locating the two of them in the universe. Dean's gaze ends up back on Sam, and he licks his lips. He looks nervous, uncharacteristic.
Sam's nervous too. Vibrations under his skin, his palms slick. He's going to do this thing now. He's going to see.
He slides closer to Dean. Dean tenses, eyes darting. "What?"
But he knows. Sam can see it in how his eyes go wide, how still he's become. Dean is breathing shallow and fast. He's staring at Sam's mouth.
"Dean," Sam says in a voice his brother has never heard from him. Dean jerks. The blacks of his pupils swell, edging out the green. Color rises on Dean's face like the dawn breaking over the two of them, here by the side of the road somewhere in Mexico.
Sam touches Dean's face. Dean whispers, "Don't," but he's swaying towards Sam and Sam doesn't think he means it.
He kisses Dean and Dean pushes into it immediately, opening his mouth to Sam's. It's rough, hard, teeth on Sam's lip, his hand spread out across the whole side of Dean's face. Dean's tongue is in his mouth and Sam could drown like this, never take another breath.
But Dean rips away, shaking his head and shaking everywhere, trembling. He's muttering, "No, that's not really you, can't-" and then he buries his face in his hands. His back shudders. Sam says his name, smooths his hand down the perfect trench of Dean's spine.
Sam can't keep his distance. He presses his face into the back of Dean's shoulder, feeling Dean try to wrench away but Sam's hand is on his hip and Dean's not going anywhere. Dean is blistering through his thin T-shirt, clean shift of muscle that Sam mouths his way across. Dean makes a strange choked noise.
"It's me, Dean," Sam says, his lips at Dean's ear. He hides his face in the curve of his brother's neck, wraps one arm around Dean's waist. Sam's all curled up around him, feeling raw and open. "I swear it's only me."
Dean shakes his head again, but his hand creeps up slow, so slow, and his fingers slide deep through Sam's hair.
*
Sam takes his mouth away from the hollow of Dean's hip. "Is this why you can't sleep?"
Dean's hand clenches in Sam's hair. Sam hisses through his teeth, craning his head to worsen the stinging pressure. His chin scrapes across the slick patch on Dean's hip and Dean moans, splayed out on the bed with his eyes screwed shut. He's not looking at Sam--he almost never looks at Sam when they're like this.
"This why, Dean?" Sam asks again. He sucks a bruise onto the soft skin, and Dean writhes faintly, open-mouthed and gasping. "You been thinking about this, all torn up. So sick, wanting to fuck your baby brother."
Dean's back arches. Sam tightens his grip on Dean's hips and slams him back down on the bed. He tongues the ridge of Dean's pelvic bone, sweat and soap. Slides his fingers across the shivering muscles of Dean's stomach. Twists his head until Dean starts pulling his hair again.
"Always lookin' at me," Sam murmurs. "Since the Devil's Gate, was that when it started?" He skims up Dean's body, nipping at his ribs, licking up the line of his sternum. Gets his face right next to Dean's, Dean's flushed panting desperate face, and Sam asks him in a rasp, "Or was that just when it started to show? You've wanted this, you. Jesus. How old was I, Dean? Sixteen? Fifteen?"
Dean is biting his lip. His face is turned away, his whole body craning towards Sam. Sam is jerking him off slow and careful and Dean's hips roll through each stroke. He's taut with panic and mortification and god knows what else, but he loves it. He has drawn blood on his lip for Sam to lick away. Sam can't get over how bad Dean wants him.
"You coulda had me," Sam whispers. A groan escapes his brother, bit off. Sam grins. "Anytime, Dean. Anywhere."
Sam kisses him deeply. Dean turns in to it fiercely, frantic and hot, dragging at Sam's mouth. Dean wants him to stop talking, Sam knows, but it's too much fun.
"And you have me now." Sam thumbs at Dean's lower lip, wishing he would open his eyes. "You can sleep because you have me now and it's for keeps." He presses aimless open-mouthed kisses to Dean's jaw and his cheek and the secret place under his ear. Dean's face is damp and tastes like a stronger salt. "Dean, hey Dean. It's for good, okay. It's forever."
He has to convince Dean of these things. It might take years, decades, but Dean will believe him in the end.
Sam kisses his brother again. Dean is crying, but he kisses him back.
*
They end up farther south than Sam has ever been before, deep into the jungle. The days are abnormally long, infusing the land with so much heat it drips, the tropical trees wet with color. Huge bugs divebomb them whenever they get out of the car.
Dean keeps trying to remember more than the first verse of Van Halen's 'Panama,' even after they're back in Costa Rica. He mumbles snatches under his breath, rapping his fingers on the wheel. Sam hums along sometimes. He's sick to death of the song, but it makes Dean happy.
They don't hunt much while they're south of the border. Sam has picked up enough Spanish to get by, but research is a different story. Sometimes they can piece together a local legend from bar chatter, and they'll check it out just for safety's sake. They kill a few black cadejos. Sometimes Sam gets a bad feeling about an Aztec ruin and when Dean turns on the EMF reader it lights up like a pinball machine.
But mostly they just drive around. Nothing is like anything Sam has ever seen before. Different animals, different trees. The sky is a different color blue.
Sam doesn't know why Dean is letting them stay off the job this long. He thinks it must have to do with the sex, or the toll the sex is taking on Dean's already beleaguered psyche. Dean is still terrified most of the time, agreeing to whatever Sam thinks is best. Sam doesn't take advantage too often, but they've earned a reprieve. The power inside of Sam is banked, left to a low thrum.
They go days seeing no one but each other. Sam has Dean pull over so they can fool around in the full light of day. Dean wears this dizzy stunned expression on his face when Sam's got him flat on his back. He still keeps his eyes closed throughout, shoves the side of his hand in his mouth before he can moan his brother's name. His fair skin burns and peels and tiny pieces of him stick to the palms of Sam's hands.
Sam tells him a hundred times, not going anywhere, love this, can't leave, but Dean just presses his lips into a seam and shutters his face.
This is just how Dean is. He can't believe that anything of lasting good could ever happen to them. Being content makes him skittish. He hasn't yet forgiven himself for wanting Sam; Sam thinks a part of him probably never will. All Sam can do is stick around, keep trying to tell him.
They're squatting in an abandoned hovel somewhere near the ocean in Guatemala. Sam finds a couple of shipping pallets and layers them thickly with the Indian blankets they've acquired since motels became a rarity. He and Dean lie around in their shorts, on their sides bent towards each other like a pair of quotes.
Dean's eyes are closed and smooth, the stress lines erased from around his mouth. Sam has a hand on Dean's cheek, just resting there.
"Dean," Sam says. Dean's eyebrows tick slightly but he doesn't open his eyes. Sam passes his fingers across Dean's eyelids, gentle and cautious feeling the whir under delicate skin. "What can I do to convince you?"
Dean is still for a moment, frozen, and then his eyes open, slow like magic. Sam's breath catches; it's like he's never seen that color before.
"It's not up to you," Dean tells him. His voice is small and hoarse, and he kisses Sam suddenly, a wrecking kind of kiss. Dean rolls his forehead on his brother's, breathing shallowly. "Let's go home, Sammy, what do you say."
So, six months after the Devil's Gate opened, Sam and Dean return to America.
*
Sam wants snow for Christmas. Dean says, "You want snow, I'll show you snow," and drives to Wisconsin.
They stop outside of Madison. After one night, one storm, they emerge to find the Impala buried in white up to her windshield wipers. Sam pulls Dean back into the motel room. Dean makes vague outraged noises. He doesn't want to leave his car like that, they've got to find a garage or something.
"No way," Sam says. "We're ordering food. Not going out in that."
He pushes Dean into one of the frayed rust-colored armchairs. Dean sprawls out, knees bent and bowed. His eyebrows are pinched together, lip curled up a little. His feverish tan has faded since they got back north, eyes bright in his pale face again.
"Thought you wanted snow, man. Think that qualifies."
Sam shakes his head, pulling the other chair over so that Dean will be within reach. "I just like to look at it from someplace warm. There's football, anyway. And we should fuck around some later."
Dean blushes, rolls his eyes. He doesn't answer, but it's not like Sam was holding his breath. He's trying to make it normal, unexceptional, an everyday kind of thing. Back on their native soil, Dean is still anxious, doubtful until Sam takes Dean's hands and shoves them under his shirt. Back on the highways and in the motel rooms where they grew up, it must feel more real to Dean. He's always braced for a shock, as if he expects their father to walk in on them. Sam supposes it's not wholly unreasonable, considering they have no idea where John's spirit ended up after that night.
But Sam knows how to wear Dean down. He's had decades of practice.
They leave the curtains open. Snow falls on and off all day long and at times the sun comes out and the glare off the white is like a supernova in the parking lot. Dean keeps getting up to check on the Impala. He says when they get somewhere with a civilized weather pattern he's gonna start teaching Sam how to take care of her.
Sam's not really paying attention, scanning through the channels at warp speed. He glances at his brother framed in the searing window. "Why? You never let me touch her if something's wrong."
Dean doesn't answer. Sam doesn't think much of it, idly daydreaming about pressing Dean against the glass, see him surrounded by all that white light.
They don't have a tree or anything like that, but Sam braves the weather for the minimart and comes back with egg nog in cardboard cartons, candy and dirty magazines for Dean. Dean has a fifth of whiskey, and after they're pretty drunk he says, "Merry Christmas, Sam," and gives Sam his favorite gun.
Sam tries to say no, but Dean insists.
*
A week buried in the snow, and they get antsy for more reasons than the emotional. They head south and west, looking for work.
There is a pattern of freak fatal dust devils in New Mexico. Skinny compact tornados sucking people up and hurling them dozens of feet back to the rocky ground, winds flaying the skin, too intense to be so short-lived and small. Sam thinks it's a chindi, a vengeful Navajo spirit. They're outside Santa Fe, where it is epically cold but dry.
They're going slow, getting back into the rhythm. Sam spends a day in the library with Dean sitting at the table across from him reading old issues of Boys' Life. In the past Dean would just leave Sam to it, but since the Devil's Gate he hasn't done well when Sam is out of his eyeline.
They're stopped for gas on the way to the reservation to do some interviews, and the dust devil touches down. It's formed whole cloth of air and red dust, coalescing suddenly. It comes streaking right for them (sentient, Sam thinks, that's just awesome) and Dean is in the open, coming back from the little store.
Sam shouts. He sees Dean jolt and his face drop open as he spots the dust devil tearing out jagged strips of land and asphalt. Sam runs for him. He's calculating hectically, how far away the storm is and how fast it's moving, how far and how fast he is himself. He barrels into Dean, an armful of junk food and soda scattering. The twister grabs at Dean, hauling him away from Sam and the power slams back full-tilt.
He makes a savage sound. Nobody is taking Dean from him. Sam has one hand gripping Dean's belt, the metal of the buckle imprinting into his palm. He draws Dean's body into a long bow, the devil wind dragging at him from behind. Dean's boots aren't touching the ground, and his huge freaked-out eyes are once again level with Sam's.
Sam rips his brother out of the storm.
They fall back into the gas station store, collapsing in a heap as the door crashes shut. Sam's head ricochets off a candy rack and chocolate bars go cartwheeling everywhere. Dean is half on top of him. His elbow is in Sam's throat, so Sam shoves him off.
He pins Dean to the dirty linoleum and puts his hands on Dean's face, his neck, his chest. Sam is breathing hard, shuddering under the force of it. Dean lies back passive, watching Sam intently. He doesn't say I'm okay and he doesn't say quit it Sammy you big girl.
Sam confirms Dean's heartbeat and his pulse and then does it again and again until at last he's satisfied. He sits back, takes his hands off Dean and runs them shakily through his hair. Dust clouds down, powders on Dean's shirt.
Sam says, "Jesus Christ, Dean, you're gonna get yourself killed and then what the fuck will I do," and it's just by rote, without heat or intent because it was hardly Dean's fault this time. But Dean looks stricken all the same.
*
Sam wakes up in the middle of the night. It's not clear why at first.
He rolls over to check on Dean and finds his brother sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and his head bowed. Dean's naked, silver-colored in the moonlight leaking through the curtains. Sam mumbles his name, brushes his fingertips across the small of Dean's back.
"Shouldn't have done this," Dean says softly, mostly to himself.
Sam is half-asleep. He has fit his fingers into the notches of Dean's spine. "C'mere."
Dean's head shakes minutely. A little shiver runs through him. "Worst thing I could have done," he whispers.
"Shut up, Dean, c'mere." Sam wants Dean to turn, bend down over him. He stretches out against the sheets. Everything is happening so slowly.
"Gonna hate me later, you should-" and Dean cuts himself off. He breathes unevenly for a few seconds. Sam can see his hands, see how he's pushing the ring around his finger.
"Don' be stupid," Sam says. He scratches at Dean's hip. "Can't hate you, not possible. No matter what you try you're stuck with me."
Dean looks over his shoulder. His face is in shadows, his eyes and mouth heavy. Sam has to hold his breath; it's just not right, what Dean does to him. Sam tries to smile, let Dean know he's sure, he'll always be sure. Dean's face twists and Sam doesn't know what he's doing wrong.
Dean gets up and puts his shorts back on. Jeans and shirt and socks and boots and coat. Dean reassembles, one piece at a time. Sam watches, something eerie and hot curling in his stomach. At the door, Dean turns to say:
"You don't know shit, Sam,"
and then he leaves.
*
Dean is not gone for long. He comes back just after dawn with coffee and donuts. Kinda sheepish, as if he's done something stupid, and not talking much. Sam tries not to show his worry and irritation. Six hours is the longest they've gone without seeing each other since the Devil's Gate.
They get back on the road again. Swift even pour of asphalt in front of them, the wind pounding through the open windows, and Sam calms down a little. He wants tell Dean that it's okay, he gets it. This is a lunatic course. Nobody lives like they do, ever in motion and sodden with death and evil. Nobody locates all the happiness in the world in their brother's body. They're so far off the map, out here with the monsters.
Sam can't expect Dean to just take that in stride. He knows Dean. Dean's mind is made up of trapdoors and guillotines. He's physically unable to take anything on faith, and it's impossible to reckon this thing between them; for all that it's the greatest love Sam has ever known, it's difficult to explain.
So Dean's having some kind of protracted mental breakdown, but Sam's been through that before. He lets Dean play the same tape for four hundred miles. Just over the California border, he puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck and leaves it there.
They'll be all right. They've got time.
*
It's springtime now. They're winding through the West, where it's mild and clear and the landscape seems to jump at them like a 3-D movie. They slaughter a den of bloody-eyed bears in the lower Sierras. Waste some zombies in the alkali flats of Utah. Salt and burn the better part of a wagon train in the Nevada desert. In Las Vegas they run into their first demon in half a year.
It's possessing a prostitute. Johns keep showing up dead from blood loss, castrated but that's too surgical a word for the great chunks of flesh torn out of each corpse. Dean goes green in the morgue and looks like he's about to faint. Sam makes some excuse and hustles them out of there. Dean's legs give out in the basement hallway and he falls into a molded plastic chair, holding his head in his hands.
Sam gets him water and coffee because he's not sure which one Dean will want. Dean waves him away, scraping his nails hard over his scalp. His eyes are shut tight.
"We'll get her, Dean," Sam says, setting the cups down. He feels like he's towering over Dean, all hunched over like that. "That. That was really gross, I know, but we'll catch the bitch, make her pay."
Dean exhales, a little explosion. "Jesus, Sam, quit talkin' like that."
"What?" Sam could have said so much worse. He touches Dean's hair but Dean pulls away immediately. Dean's shaking his head, holding his shoulders stiff and straight.
"Just don't need to see that shit right now," Dean mumbles. He rubs his eyes so hard it looks painful. He looks really tired.
Sam's never known Dean to be squeamish, but it's been a long year. Sam has changed in elemental ways. They both must have.
He takes Dean back to the motel so they can get out of their detective suits. Dean's kinda touchy and snappish still, and Sam ends up tying him to the bed with their neckties just so that he'll quit fighting it already. Sam puts his mouth on every part of Dean, until Dean is slick with sweat and twisting helplessly under him. When Sam says, "Look at me," Dean's eyes fly open, and Sam is stunned that it's that simple.
The knots in the ties are stony little nubs by the end of it, yanked tight by Dean in the grips, and Sam has to cut him free. He pushes Dean onto his stomach and rubs his shoulders until he's miles asleep. Then Sam goes to deal with the demon alone.
It's better, sometimes, when Dean's not there to watch him. Sam can just let go. He can do what comes naturally.
*
In April, it rains for a week straight. Sam and Dean hole up in a condemned bowling alley that was haunted when they first got here but isn't anymore. They're a little short on cash since Dean kitted the Impala out with four brand-new Goodyears.
The bowling alley isn't so bad. There's a movie theatre popcorn maker that Dean tinkers with for an afternoon and has working by dinner. They eat like children, all candy and Wonder Bread and popcorn with chocolate sauce. They launch themselves down the laminated wood of the lanes, spinning and sliding on their backs trying to knock down the pyramid of empty bottles in place of pins.
They sleep behind the counter with the shoe cubbies, on the thick pad of their Indian blankets. Just because quarters are so close, Dean lets Sam toss an arm over his stomach, nudged up along his side. Sam always falls asleep before Dean, concentrating on the feel of Dean's fingers tracing skeptically over his arm. Most of the time when he wakes up, Dean has gone for coffee already.
The rain thunders on the bowling alley roof. Dean and Sam play cards at the snack-bar tables and Sam cheats without Dean noticing. Dean stares at Sam almost constantly, this distant hungry expression like he's trying to burn the image of Sam on his mind.
Sam smirks, preens and poses. He wants to hear Dean laugh and sometimes Dean does. Sometimes Dean presses Sam against the nearest vertical surface and Sam likes that too.
All the windows are boarded up except the one they pried open to get in. It's in the back, a dusty storage room littered with golf pencils and scraps of pink insulation. They were able to jimmy it without breaking the glass, and now Sam lays a blanket down under it and coaxes Dean back.
Dean is suspicious, squinting up at the rain pattering on the window, but he's pliant when Sam strips his shirt off him, lays him down. The rain falls in shadows across Dean's bare chest. Nearly-there flickers of ash-gray run smooth along the lines of his ribs.
Sam breathes out slow through his teeth. This is what Dean does to him, makes him silent and slow and stupid, staring at a dull reflection of the rain. Dean's watching him, hitching around a little, and eventually he says rough, "Come on, come here you son of a bitch."
Sam falls into him, thinking, this is what you do.
*
They're heading to South Dakota because Dean said it's been too long since they've seen Bobby, and he's right. It's the perfect time of year, the breaking point between spring and summer. There will be weeds and wild roses grown up like ivy on the wrecks in Bobby's salvage yard. Sam is looking forward to that, and to the chili that is Bobby's one specialty, and he's riding with his elbow out the window, face to the sun.
Dean is getting better by the day, easier and quicker to smile at Sam, less likely to flinch when Sam touches him. A few nights ago, after they killed a werewolf Dean pulled into a gas station for the sole reason of blowing Sam in the bathroom. There is still a franticness in how Dean kisses him, how he grips Sam so tensely, this lifelong terror, but sometimes Sam can lull him, slow him down and make him see.
They stop for the night in Sioux City. Watching reruns and eating pizza, Sam gets to thinking and after a minute he does the math and says in surprise, "Hey Dean."
Dean grunts from the other bed. Sam looks over at him, spread out like a wish. He smiles, pretty much all the way gone on his brother.
"In three days, it'll be a year since Hellsgate," Sam tells him.
Dean starts. A piece of pizza crust falls on the floor. Dean stares at Sam, white-eyed and still. Sam half-smiles.
"Seems crazy, right? All this stuff that's happened?"
Another moment of spooky quiet from Dean, and then Sam watches his throat dip as he swallows. Dean's fist is wrenched in the sheets, knuckles pale as linen. He puts on a little smirk.
"Time flies when you're having fun," Dean says. His voice is a little hoarse.
Sam shakes his head, still kind of astounded. "I feel like we killed the demon just yesterday, you know?"
Dean doesn't answer for a second, then he says, "Yeah."
They both fall quiet, polishing off the pizzas and trading a bottle back and forth. Dean keeps sneaking these looks at Sam, thinking he's being sly but Sam sees right through. There's a crazy glow in Dean's eyes tonight.
Dean turns off the lights and Sam takes off his shirt. Dean crawls into his bed, crawls over him and they fit just right together, carved and slotting in place. Sam breathes out hot into Dean's throat, arms banded across his brother's back. Dean makes the most incredible sounds.
And he slides both hands into Sam's hair, tips Sam's face up and clean in the faint broken streetlight. Dean holds Sam still, their mouths an inch apart.
"It was worth it," Dean tells him. His eyes are so bright it's terrifying. "Want you to remember, Sammy, you gotta remember that it was worth it. Okay?"
Dean kisses him. Sam cranes up into it, his mouth bitten open. Dean's hands buried in his hair, cradling his head, and Sam can't move like he wants. He can barely move at all. Dean presses his face into Sam's cheek, his breath shuddering.
"Tell me it's okay, Sam, tell me you'll remember."
Sam nods blindly, hardly understanding the question. He swears, pleads. Whatever Dean wants, whatever he needs. There is nothing Sam wouldn't do for him.
Dean takes him all the way down, until Sam has forgotten the season and their coordinates and their last name. None of that stuff matters. There is no outside world, nothing to track or catch or kill. Nobody left to save, just Sam and Dean amid the wrecked sheets.
Sam drifts off with his head on his brother's chest, joyful and warm. He falls so fast, led by Dean's quick-beating heart and somewhere way far off, the baying of hounds.
THE END
damn! that was kinda mean. no worries, the other one is equally as uplifting, i promise.