Bury Me In Fire - Part 3
~
( Master Post )
Part 3
Driving back from Hazelton, PA, Dean became tangled in a web of his own thoughts.
The trees that flanked the narrow road of the 940 had just begun to turn. In the coming weeks, they'd be glorious in their fiery palette. The Appalachians were beautiful, if Dean Winchester ever noticed the beauty of things like leaves and hills. He sighed at the ridiculousness of it: Of course he noticed those things. He always had. There had been so many miles traveled in his lifetime, miles of forest, rock, lake, sky and concrete. For most of Dean's daily life, the world fleeing past his eyes was the only thing real.
It was his dad's fault, really. What was wrong with a nine-year-old pointing out the evident beauty of the natural world, fingers pointing to a sea of cherry trees in the full bloom of May? "Pretty," he'd said, and John had branded him with a glare, mouth stern as it decreed, "Flowers are for girls, Dean." After a long pause in which Dean had dropped his gaze to a point just beneath the glove compartment, eyes burning with restrained tears of shame, Dad had added, "Tough guys like you and me get cooler things than flowers, right Deano?" Dean had lifted his head to offer his father a smile. "Yes, sir," he'd replied, but had failed to meet Dad's eyes.
It had been like that, with Dad. Dean had spent as much time learning how to navigate his father's moods and opinions as he had learning to shoot, tackle and punch. He became a master of self-censorship by the age of eleven.
And guns were cool, for tough guys like him and Dad. So were smoking and drinking.
Dean pulled the Impala to the shoulder of the road, wheels sliding slightly into wild grass and weeds. He cut the engine, then fished out from his pockets the pack of cigarettes from this morning, his Zippo, and the flask of Jack that had become a permanent accessory to an every outfit he wore. After lighting a cigarette, he took a slow sip from the flask, and his world slipped into a mix of sweet smoke, wet burn, and glittering leaves.
Dad and Sam would both have freaked to see him like that. Aside from the obvious sin of smoking, drinking straight whiskey at two in the afternoon in the fucking car would not have gone over well. The last thing they needed, now or at any time in the past, would be for Dean to get arrested for drinking and driving with a fucking arsenal in the trunk. Dad would have strapped him good, and Sam? Well, Dean didn't know what Sam would do, but whatever it was, it would include a huge amount of freaking out. But Dad wasn't there, and for the moment, neither was Sam.
Dean began to feel guilty. Thinking these awful thoughts about his father, after all his father had done for him, had given up for him, could only be wrong. It wasn't that he didn't love his father; he'd loved him like a god. Still did. And he missed him. Fuck, how he missed him. Probably everyone who'd lost a father missed him, but Dean knew he was in thicker than that. He missed more than John; he missed Dad. He missed having that powerful man who always seemed to have an answer and a plan, who, through his own strength and passion, could lead Dean to anything terrifying and make Dean himself strong. He missed the safety his Dad had provided, the protection, the freedom of not having to be responsible for every damned thing.
And so, although there were things he definitely did not miss about his father, Dean still felt the lack of him profoundly. And wasn't that just another sign of his failure, to be almost thirty years old and still need his Daddy.
He took a last drag off the cigarette and, holding the smoke tight in his lungs, wet his tongue with the last drop of Jack.
He got back to Liberty shortly before four. Sam's rented Prius was there already, and Dean felt a bizarre surge of gladness and anxiety. He parked the Impala next to it, then headed for their suite.
Inside, he found Sam at the dining table, focused intently on the screen of his laptop.
"Hey," Dean greeted him.
Sam turned to him, smiling. "Hey," he said. He lifted his arms above his head and stretched his back. "How'd it go?"
Dean shrugged. "I didn't learn anything we didn't already know."
"Yeah, me neither."
Dean removed his jacket, tossed it onto the back of the couch, and approached the dining table. As he pulled out a chair, Sam said, "I was thinking."
Dean paused. Lifting an eyebrow, he asked, "Yes?"
Sam looked a bit sheepish for a moment, but after clearing his throat gently, he looked calmly determined. "Since it's still early, I thought you might want a nap before supper," he said.
Dean stood there, silent. He was tired of sighing, of rolling his eyes, of having to fight with Sam repeatedly.
Sam took his silence as resistance, it seemed. "I know you haven't been sleeping well. Some nights, I swear you haven't slept at all."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. His hand still on the chair, he challenged Sam with his gaze. "I'll take a nap if you shut up already."
Sam chuckled. "Deal."
As Dean turned to leave for the bedroom, Sam followed him, laptop in hand. Dean glanced back at him questioningly, but Sam just smiled and gestured toward the staircase. They ascended to the second floor in companionable silence.
When Dean got to the bed, he dropped down onto it immediately. After laying his laptop on the small table near the giant window, Sam turned to look at Dean and shook his head. He walked to the dresser, pulled out a pair of light sweatpants and tossed them gently at Dean.
"You're not gonna sleep well in jeans and boots, Dean." When Dean remained motionless, struggling with whether to tell Sam where he could stick those sweatpants, Sam continued, "Come on. There's nothing wrong with getting comfortable."
That seemed logical enough for Dean, so he gave in. Stripping himself of his boots, socks, pants and overshirt, he tried not to watch Sam blatantly as Sam watched him. After Dean had pulled on the sweatpants, Sam stepped forward and pulled back the covers of the made bed. He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and Dean allowed him to guide him into bed. But, Dean thought, if Sam tried to tuck him in, there would be trouble. Dean had his limits.
Gratefully, Dean exhaled as Sam retreated to the table and sat in the plush chair nearest to his computer.
Sam, however, kept his gaze on Dean as Dean wriggled to find the comfy spot. "So, you just gonna watch me sleep?"
"Nah," Sam replied, somber. "I'm going to wait until you fall asleep and then I'm going to cuddle-rape you," he deadpanned.
Dean's head snapped up and was greeted with a slow smile from Sam.
"I'm gonna research, Dean," Sam said, breaking back into a low laugh.
Dean dropped his head back down onto the pillow, pulling the covers up high. He hoped that Sam hadn't detected his disappointment.
When Dean woke, the sun was skirting the horizon, sky red and clouds purple through the giant window. His stomach grumbled before he could sit up, and he remembered that all he'd had for lunch was whiskey and cigarettes. He glanced downward from the clouds to find Sam engrossed in whatever was on the computer screen too close to his eyes.
"Supper," Dean said.
Sam slipped out of his nerd trance glanced back at Dean. "D'you sleep okay?" he asked with a lazy smile.
"Yeah," Dean replied, and then realized that it was mostly true. There had been some streaks of crimson beneath his eyelids, but they were distant now, and Dean actually felt a little refreshed. "So, supper?" he repeated with an added hint of demand.
Sam chuckled. "Sure," he said.
Dean sat up, stretched until he felt a series of pops in his back, then rose. He dressed quickly, and in a short moment, they were on their way.
This was Dean's favorite time of year, the air warm and the breeze gentle, the sunsets typically dramatic as was the current one. Past the trees of the inn's property, they paused at the curb to wait for the last cars of rush hour to pass. A charming chocolate lab waited beside them, panting sweetly and gazing at its human. Dean smiled at it, wondering if it was a boy or girl, what its name was, and if its human would mind if he petted it. Then a fierce bark erupted across the street and Dean couldn't breathe. He glanced up, saw a German shepherd hurling a glare at what must have been the dog beside him, but felt to Dean like it was meant for him.
He tried to swallow, to move, to breathe, but he couldn't. His heart felt like it might burst through his chest, his lungs frozen. He gasped to pull in air and couldn't get any so he gasped harder. His stubborn lungs refused to open still and he tried to force breaths down in fast, ragged swallows. The effort to stand and gasp became too much, his head became too heavy, and he swayed. Sam caught him a second before his knees could smack the concrete.
"Dean." Dean realized Sam had been shouting but he hadn't heard him until the shouts had turned to exhalations of moist heat against his temple. "I've got you."
He leaned back against his brother's chest, unable to pull himself up no matter how hard he willed his muscles to flex. Sam stood bent forward with both arms steady under Dean's armpits for a few long seconds before setting Dean down onto the sidewalk. Keeping a hand on him, Sam swept around and crouched in front of him. He brought his free hand to Dean's face, grasping his chin. "Dean?"
Dean opened his eyes, not remembering having closed them. Sam's gaze was a mix of fear and worry.
"Hey, Sam." Dean was panting softly now and he summoned a weary smile for his brother.
Sam returned the smile with a dose of concern. He remained crouched with his hand resting on Dean's shoulder, waiting wordlessly for his big brother to calm. When Dean's breathing returned to a gentle ebb and flow, he said, "S'okay?"
"S'okay," Dean replied. He let Sam help him to his feet and accepted Sam's hand in his when strong fingers slipped through his own.
As they waited for a car to pass, Dean was struck by the feeling that he was being watched. He glanced around. Behind him, from the window in the foyer, he caught the scrutiny of the inn manager, Claire. She bent her head to the side, indulging in what appeared to be a moment of consideration before snapping out of it and stepping away from the window.
Dean turned back and looked at his feet. His boots were scuffed to hell and filthy. He'd clean them later tonight, maybe even polish them. Crossing the street and heading into the diner, he continued to avert all gazes.
Kat met them at the door to the diner. "Hey," she said, "the place is packed, but we saved your spot." She waved them toward the back of the diner, and sure enough, the booth they'd come to think of as theirs was free. "I'll bring your appetizers in a minute." She gave them a quick, warm smile and darted back to the kitchen.
They wove their way past overcrowded tables and unruly kids and when they arrived at their booth, Dean snorted as Sam burst into a wicked giggle. A handwritten card read, Reserved for the pretty one and his strapping young man.
Dean smirked at his brother as he sank onto the bench on his side. "Aw, they think you're pretty, Sammy."
Sam snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what they meant." Dropping onto his own bench, he added, "Next time, it's gonna say 'reserved for the pushy bottom and his toppy bastard'."
"I'm not that toppy, am I?" Dean asked, concerned.
"No, Dean, you're not," Sam replied, serious.
Kat appeared then and placed a small plate in front of each of them. "Here you go. I'll be right back with your beers," she said and disappeared into the crowd before they could question her.
"Um," Dean began.
"Yeah," Sam said.
"She did say 'appetizers', right?"
"Yeah."
They'd been to a slew of diners over the course of their lives, even some bistros and such, and they had never seen an appetizer like the one before them.
"Broccoli," Dean stated as though the statement would make sense of the reality or maybe even change it.
"Yup," Sam said, forking a large piece.
Dean, still perplexed, continued, "It doesn't even have cheese on it."
"Mm-hm," Sam mumbled as he took a mouthful. After swallowing, he added, "It's good, Dean." When Dean remained still, gazing at the broccoli in contemplation, Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean poked at it. It seemed firm, and it was really green, greener than any cooked broccoli Dean had ever seen, and looked like it might have butter on it.
"Just eat the fucking broccoli, already."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean replied. "Frau Pie Mistress probably won't give us dessert if we don't finish it." It wasn't a big deal, really. He'd just been caught off guard. With his fingers, he lifted a piece by its stem, bit off the treetop and confirmed that the diner's food magic was intact. "Hey, it is good."
Sam smiled at him. "Vegetables are your friend, Dean." He winked.
Dean laughed. He'd said that to Sammy plenty of times himself when they were kids and Dean had tried to get the mix of frozen carrots, peas, green beans, corn and, ugh, Lima beans down his little brother's throat. Sammy had been a growing boy then and Dean had been determined to make him grow as healthily as possible within the limits of his cuisine and their budgets. Eyeing the strapping young man on the other side of the table, Dean thought that maybe he shouldn't have insisted so strongly.
And anyway, vegetables that weren't stuffed with cheese, battered and fried might very well be Dean's friend these days.
By the time Kat returned with their beers - Flying Bison Aviator Reds, which gave Dean the mental image of giant, horned beasts thundering through the sky while spewing fire and wearing Steve McQueen's sunglasses, and he hoped that someone somewhere had that tattoo - they'd both finished their appetizers.
Kat cleared their empty plates, told them she'd be back with their mains in a jiffy, and disappeared again.
"Man, this place is packed."
Dean glanced up at the crowd, its limbs, heads and faces a blur of color and motion. The blur had swept past him on the way in, Dean still too rattled to notice its magnitude. Now that he'd calmed, he found it a little overwhelming, a dancing dragon eager to swallow him whole, sucking up all the air in the place and radiating heat. "Yeah," he said and touched his cheek to measure the fever in his skin. It was high.
"You okay?"
Dean shivered, then snapped his attention back to his brother. "I'm fine."
Sam stared at him, his eyes pouring worry. "We can leave," he said softly.
His gaze was as hot as the dragon's presence. Dean looked at the table, saw his beer and fondled the cold glass. Bringing the glass to his lips, he found a safe spot to look at on the seat back passed Sam's shoulder. He took a long, slow sip and welcomed the chill.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Sam shake his head. "If you don't talk to me, I can't help," Sam said.
Dean kept his gaze on its safe spot. "I don't want your help."
"That's because you think help and pity are the same, Dean." Sam's tone was urgent, almost aggressive, or so Dean felt. "They're not the same," Sam continued. "I don't want to help you because I feel sorry for you. I want to help you because I love you and I want you to be happy." He leaned in more closely, his hands falling onto Dean's and his head tilting to find Dean's eyes. "I can't be happy if you're not, Dean."
Dean sucked in a rough breath. "That was a low blow, Sammy."
"I didn't mean it like that." Sam's voice had fallen to a loud, gruff whisper. "I'm not appealing to your notion of big brother responsibility. This isn't about 'take care of Sammy', for god's sake. I love you like breathing-"
"Oh god."
"-and I can't stand to see you suffering."
"Christ, Sam! Enough!" After his shouted whisper, Dean deflated. He sank back into his seat and dropped his chin to his chest. He didn't pull his hands away from Sam's, though, but wove his fingers between his brother's. "Just- Can we not fight right now?" He asked quietly. "I just wanna have dinner in peace."
Sam squeezed his hands, then offered him a sympathetic smile. "Sure, Dean," he said. "I'd like that, too." He looked wistful for a moment.
"Here you go, boys."
Kat's voice ruptured the moment and Dean was grateful. When he saw what she'd brought them for supper, he was struck by a warm sense of wonder.
She winked. "If you need anything else, wave me down," she said. "I'll bring you another round of beer in a few minutes."
She retreated again, but Dean barely noticed. He was as awed by their mains as he'd been baffled by their appetizers. "Sammy-"
"Sloppy joes?" Sam boomed, eyes as wide as Dean imagined his own were. "You were right, Dean - this place is magic."
Dean lifted his head to shift his beaming smile from the plate to his brother. "I fucking love this place," he said. Aside from the dancing dragon, he thought, but he didn't share that with Sam.
As with everything else at Athena's, the sloppy joes were perfect: delicious concoctions of rich sauce, startlingly tasty meat, and homemade crusty buns. There were even little strings of something onion-like, but Sam informed him that they were not leeks but likely shallots. Of course Sammy knew all about the world of snobby onions.
Accompanying the sandwiches were the sweet potato fries that Dean had been craving. He wondered if Kat, or Alec, or whoever made the menu or decided their orders had some sort of psychic prowess that went beyond knowing a person's thoughts to excavating the abandoned parts of minds to find unconscious desires. Well, unconscious desires of the culinary sort, which, admittedly, were some of Dean's most pronounced yearnings.
Dean took a bite of a fry. It was crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside, sweet and salty and perfect, although its beauty could possibly be augmented by something to dip it in.
He was distracted by the question of desire, then. Everything in his body and head was off, unhinged, malfunctioning. Why could he still eat? And enjoy what he ate so much? As an inkling about the safety of food as a sensual experience rose, it was interrupted.
"Sorry, I forgot your mayo," Dean heard before a small bowl of pale yellow creaminess was placed on the table. When he turned to look at Kat, she'd already been swallowed by the dragon.
He turned his attention back to the table. "Man," he said," this place is starting to creep me out."
"Why?" Sam's intense concern returned with a whiplash.
Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about the food, dumbass."
Sam's brow furrowed for a moment and then it seemed to click in his mind. "Were you just thinking you wanted some mayo?"
Dean made a sound that was half snort, half chuckle, and Sam grinned.
Dean calmed somewhat as they ate, and the dragon melted into a normal crowd of people. When the table beside them was cleared and new customers entered the booth, he was in a pleasant enough state to take notice of the people in detail. They were two women, youngish, both a little on the androgynous side, and carelessly attractive.
Dean liked lesbians. Not just the pseudo-lesbians of mainstream porn, but lesbians in general. He'd met a seventeen-year-old bulldyke, Blake, when he was off on his five-states trip, long before Sammy left him for Stanford. She'd been tiny, and uniquely cute despite her extreme butchness. At barely five feet two, and thin as a wisp, she'd managed to make Dean feel dainty without effort. She'd known more about cars than Dean did himself, loved AC/DC and deer hunting, and after a round of friendly teasing, they found their way to a dank bar. There, they'd spied a pretty girl of ambiguous sexuality and made a bet on which of them could get into her pants.
It turned out the girl, whose name slipped Dean's memory now, although straight, had been open-minded, and the three of them had ended up in a tangle of limbs and grunts back at Dean's motel room. He'd discovered then that lesbian sex was nothing like he'd seen in porn, and was so much more compelling. He'd had a threesome with two girls once before then, and a few since, but this had been a unique experience for him, both he and Blake focused on the pretty girl, each unconsciously trying to outdo the other at first, maybe, before landing into a true threesome, all of them entwined in what seemed in Dean's memory an impossible embrace. And while Blake had had no interest in Dean's dick, the long moments they'd shared licking and biting and grabbing each other lingered in Dean's mind as some of the most erotic of his lifetime, base and brutal but somehow tender, too.
Afterward, the three had drunk some beer and shared a joint that the girl had provided and talked late into the night. The girl - Annie, Dean remembered now - hadn't been into cars or AC/DC, but had already been a long-time member of a local gun club by the age of twenty-three, as well as a card-carrying member of the NRA. They'd made plans to go to the shooting range the next day, but in the morning, amidst thoughts of Blake, her awesomeness, her soft skin, rough hands and swagger, Dean had decided to skip town and head for the next state.
Dean's attention was brought back to the present as the conversation between the two women next to them became quietly frantic. Something was just off with the tone, and Dean's hunter instincts kicked in. He caught Sam's eye and indicated that Sam should focus on the couple with a subtle nod in their direction. Both men set themselves to listen for trouble.
"Can't you just leave it alone, already?" one of the women hissed.
Her partner, whose concern was growing into anger and distress, replied, "Sleeping poorly is one thing, but now you're burning yourself-"
"I told you, it was an accident!" she exclaimed through her clenched teeth.
The other woman's eyes narrowed. "One accident, I could buy, but it's been more than once." As the first woman began a protestation, she continued, "Don't even try to lie about it, Liss. I know."
The air around Dean began to feel thick again, and he hoped that Sam was concentrating strongly enough that he wouldn't be distracted by mental images of Dean or the current quickening of Dean's breaths.
"Okay, okay," Liss said.
Her partner relented with a softly spoken, "I'm just worried about you, that's all."
Liss continued. "I'm sorry, Megan. I don't even know what to say." After a tense pause, she offered, "I've just been having these nightmares."
"I know, baby," Megan whispered, encouraging her with an added, "but nightmares are just nightmares, they're not real, and maybe if you talk about them, it would help to get them out of your head."
Dean ignored Sam's pointed look and head tilt.
"Yeah, maybe," Liss replied, but she sounded doubtful.
"What do you see in your dreams? Just tell me one thing for starters," Megan continued, her tone gently imploring.
Liss paused again before speaking, and this time Dean heard her sniffle. Eventually, she said, "Red eyes. I see red eyes."
Dean's heart stopped heavy in his chest. As the women continued in hushed tones, Dean's mouth uttered, "She's next," before he had a chance to think about it.
Sam leaned in and said gently, "How do you know? These could just be normal nightmares."
It was too late to go back, so Dean added, "It's the red eyes." As Sam's eyes narrowed, Dean continued. "Red eyes, just like the guy in Schenectady."
"What? You didn't tell me about that." Sam's tone grew more suspicious. "Why would you hold back that key piece of the puzzle?"
Dean shushed him. "We gotta keep listening, in case there's more."
Sam sighed, but he acquiesced and sat back to resume listening to the couple. Dean had managed to brush him off for now, but it wouldn’t be long before Sam came prodding.
They finished their supper as quietly as they could, eavesdropping carefully on Liss and Megan. Dean tried to look inconspicuous, not wanting to draw the women's attention to his scrutiny. He focused intently on his food and managed to avoid Sam's gaze as well.
When the women left the diner, having divulged nothing else that was helpful to their case, the brothers followed. They trailed the couple down the fifty-five back to Swan Lake, which was barely a hamlet.
Dean pulled the Impala onto a small patch of grass beside the country road, where they could watch the ladies' cottage behind the cover of maple trees. It was dark out and getting late, but still the house lit up once the women had entered.
They checked for signs of paranormal activity, but the EMF reading was inconclusive and nothing appeared out of the ordinary. They settled in for a stakeout.
"Are you sure about this?"
"Yeah, Sam, I am." Dean kept his gaze on the house and its immediate surroundings. "I thought I'd told you about what that guy's widow said about his dreams, but I guess I must've forgotten."
Beside him, Sam huffed. "Right," he said, but he didn't press.
After an era of silent watching, Sam said, "Hey, what if this is like that mad scientist in Rockford?"
"What, the haunted asylum in Illinois where you shot me?"
Sam frowned, but moved on. "Yeah, like maybe it is a haunting, but the ghost is stationary and it's its victims, traveling through this area, that come to it somehow," he said.
"And then they get spirit-possessed or mind-controlled or whatever, and bring that ghost poison back home with them," Dean added. He was growing eager despite his unease.
"Yes, exactly," Sam replied, excited. "Then slowly, they go crazy and kill themselves, or the spirit inside them kills them and then shoots back to its haunt."
It felt right. "It would make sense," Dean said, thinking it out, "given that the deaths seem most like the vengeful spirit kind-"
"-and it accounts for the fact that the victims come from all over," Sam finished for him.
"Yeah." Dean almost smiled. The case was becoming less of a job and more of a personal urgency, so this breakthrough felt bigger than usual. "Now we just have to figure out where they're all going."
"Could be anything, almost anywhere," Sam said. He yawned, then stretched his back. "A haunted place or object somewhere in the Northeast."
"Well, it's a start," Dean replied. His mind was beginning to spin and his gaze was steady on the cottage, but he said, "Good job, Sammy," and punched his brother lightly in the shoulder. He felt Sam smile in return.
"And maybe," Sam continued, "the red eyes are actually a death omen."
Dean tried not to choke on his own breath.
"Just like in Baltimore with the dead dealer and the crooked cop, remember?"
Dean tried to reply, but all he could manage was a shaky nod.
But Sam hadn't finished. "Hell, maybe the pre-mortem burns are part of the death omen, like the wrist marks on the bodies in the Baltimore case." He turned in his seat to look at Dean head on, but Dean couldn't turn himself and face him. "Does that sound about right to you, Dean?"
"Stop it," Dean whispered.
"Not until you tell me about the red eyes."
Sam's demand hung in the air around them for the briefest time before the sound and light of an explosion broke the moment. In seconds, they were out of the car and dodging tree branches as they ran toward the house.
From outside a shattered window, they saw a kitchen ablaze and Megan at its doorway trying to gain access past the flames.
Dean stood paralyzed, absorbing the scene and the heat of the fire. After a beat, he heard Sam shout his name, then order him to call 911. Dean took out his phone and made the call, never once shifting his gaze away from the bright center of the fire. There was shouting, then movement in Dean's peripheral vision. He felt a hand grab the back of his jacket and then he was pulled into the safety of the cool dark.
Sam was bent over, trying to catch his breath, and Megan was on the ground, covered in soot but awake and breathing.
Dean came to his senses. "Shit, are you okay?"
Sam nodded. "Check on her," he said.
Dean squatted down next to the woman. "I'm okay," she said, and allowed Dean to help her up. She glanced at him, then looked at Sam, and her eyes narrowed. "Hey, you were at the diner," she said. "What the fuck is going on?"
Sam moved quickly. He pulled out a badge he had in his pocket and told her that her lover had been under surveillance. Before he could spin that into something more comforting, Megan burst into a rage.
"It's your fault she did this!" she yelled. "Why won’t you people just leave us alone? She didn't kill Sarah!" She leapt at Sam. "You drove her to this!" She pounded on Sam's chest twice before falling to her knees and sobbing. "Melissa didn't deserve this," she mumbled, "not this."
Sam grabbed Dean's arm and they took off.
Dean let Sam drive them back to Liberty. He was overwhelmed with visions of red eyes and fire. Thoughts of burn marks and shame, of past, present and future, pounded against his skull. He wasn't sure what crime he was guilty of to deserve this, either, or rather, which of the myriad crimes he'd committed, in this life or the other, was the one that had pushed him over the edge. Divine intervention or no, Dean was fucked. While an angel had the power to pluck him from the depths below, nothing could save him from his own private hell, he was sure. Whether he was actually on this arsonist spirit's hit-list or not, it didn't matter; it was all going to end bloody and scorched, one way or another.
He needed a drink. He knew, though, that liquor wouldn't kill the thing crawling through him at that moment. Maybe something harder was in order, if he could get it.
Dean found the ad on Craigslist while Sam was in the shower. Open-minded top, 42, 6'2", 240. Watersports, impact play, edgeplay, daddy for adult boys, groups. No scat. All limits respected. Come play with me. Cuddlebackville. Fucking Craigslist, Dean thought, smiling. He sent off an email with the details of what he was seeking and a photo snapped by the web-cam built into Sam's laptop.
A minute and a half later, he received the man's reply.
Dean closed the browser, jotted a note for Sam on a gas station receipt, grabbed his keys and jacket, and left.
Thirty-five minutes later, Dean turned off Route 209 and onto Lakeview Drive. It seemed that Cuddlebackville was less ville and more back, but the cabins and houses near the lake were set far apart and cloaked by forest. This would meet Dean's needs nicely. He found the property he was looking for and rolled down the drive to the house. He shifted into park, but took several deep breaths before cutting the engine.
When Dean reached the door, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. He took one final deep breath and, holding it, knocked on the door.
The man who answered Dean's knock looked just like his picture: tall, a little on the burly side, soft brown hair graying a bit at the temples. He smiled warmly and beckoned Dean to enter. Dean exhaled and passed through the doorway, his shoulder brushing the man's chest.
Dean surveyed the space around him. There were two windows with wood slat blinds, an overstuffed couch, a couple of armchairs, a fireplace with some pictures on the mantle.
"My daughter," the man said. When Dean turned to look at him, he continued, "She just started her first year at Columbia." He smiled, pride written clearly on his face.
"Cool," Dean replied. "So, how do you want to do this?"
"In here's good, if that works for you."
Dean nodded and took off his jacket, placing it on the armchair nearest to him. He looked back at the man questioningly.
"I'd like you over the back of the couch," the man said. "Lower your jeans first, then your underwear, then bend over and grip the seat cushion."
Dean followed the man's instructions slowly but without flourish.
The man drew in an appreciative breath, then continued. "I thought I'd warm you up with my hand, and then I've got some floggers you can choose from."
Dean lifted his chest and glanced over his shoulder. His gaze focused in on the man's hips. "Your belt," he said.
The man's eyes widened, his hands dropping to the waistband of his jeans. His thumbs dipped under the thick brown leather of his belt, the pads of his fingers gliding along the worn and cracked surface of its front. "If that's what you want," he replied. "Before we get started, though, I need to know your safeword."
Dean bit his lip, then uttered, "Sandman," but the word fell through the air at the sound of the door bursting open. Dean jerked up as the man whipped his head around.
Sam thundered in, then stopped dead, incredulous fury rising like smoke from his face.
"What the fuck, Dean?"
Dean was struck suddenly with a mental image of the scene before Sam's eyes: the man handling his belt buckle as Dean faced the couch back, pants around his ankles, naked ass twitching in the air.
"It's not what it looks like!" Dean yelped, whisking up his jeans and boxer-briefs as briskly as he could.
"I can't believe you'd even try that on me." Sam was at his side in two monster steps, gripping and yanking him by the elbow. "We're leaving," he said, dragging Dean behind him.
"Hey," the man cautioned, "there's no call for that." Sam glowered at him, and he turned his attention to Dean. "You don't have to go with him, son. Just say the word," he said.
Dean smiled weakly. "No, man, it's okay." He followed behind Sam, not even attempting to free himself of his brother's hold. As they neared the doorway, he added over his shoulder, "Sorry."
Dean let Sam manhandle him towards the Impala. "How'd you get here?" he asked as Sam opened the passenger side door.
"Sit your ass down and shut your mouth," Sam said gruffly. He guided Dean roughly into the car, and when Dean continued, "How did you even know-" Sam stilled, and Dean froze in kind.
"I'm serious, Dean," Sam growled.
Dean shut his mouth and slid down in his seat.
Back on the 209, after several silent minutes, Sam said, "You didn't clear the history." He glanced in Dean's direction. "You didn't even log out of your email, dumbass."
Dean blushed, but turned to Sam. "You read my email? Then you know what I was there for."
"I saw the ad, the guy's message," Sam said, glaring at the rearview mirror as the car picked up speed. "I know what you were there for."
I'd love to. 17 south to 209 west. Left on Lakeview. Left side, #170. Can't wait.
The Impala flew past a coupe ahead, then jerked back into its lane. Dean sighed and tried again. "Sam-"
"I can't believe you, Dean. You come back all fucked up, and you don't want to be touched, fine. I get it, and it's okay. But now you're ready and willing to let some perv from Craigslist fuck your ass?"
"Spank," Dean whispered, and when Sam's eyes narrowed, he continued a touch more loudly, "spank my ass, not fuck it."
Just looking for a spanking, a real one, nothing else. Interested?
Sam's head spun to face Dean just as the car veered onto the shoulder of the road. "What?"
Dean fixed his gaze to the illuminated trees ahead. Sam righted the car, sighed, and they continued on their way. As they passed the sign for Haven, Sam dropped his hand to Dean's knee and squeezed gently.
When they arrived at the inn, Sam pulled around to the back of the building and parked. After guiding Dean inside their suite with a hand settled loosely on his hip, Sam closed the door quietly, then hustled Dean up the stairs to the bedroom.
Dean trod solidly into the room and away from his brother, flinging his jacket, then overshirt, onto a chair. He'd almost made it to the bathroom when he heard a soft "Dean?" rise behind him.
"We're not talking about this, Sam," Dean said without turning to face his brother. He pressed forward toward the bathroom again.
"I don't want to talk about it." After a pause, Sam continued more firmly. "I want to deal with it."
Dean turned his head to the side, staring at the wall. "What?"
"The way I see it, taking off to the middle of nowhere without telling me where you were going, to meet a total stranger alone, where god knows what could have happened-"
"I can take care of myself, Sam. After everything we've faced, I can't believe you'd even doubt-"
"Don't interrupt me, Dean," Sam said with greater force. "God knows what could have happened. The guy could have beaten you raw, wanted to tie you down for it, or drugged you, and then done whatever he wanted. There could have been a whole gang of guys waiting for you, Dean, and then what?"
Dean sighed and finally turned to face his brother. "None of that happened, and if it had I could have handled it. Besides, I thought we weren't gonna talk about it," he said wearily.
"We're not. I'm just saying, Dean. It was a stupid thing to do, a dangerous thing. If you'd done that while Dad was here, he would've whupped your ass good."
Something fluttered in Dean's belly. "Dad's not here."
Sam smiled indulgently, but the resolve in his voice remained strong. "Yeah," he said, "but I am."
Dean swallowed thickly. His gaze locking on Sam's, heart pummeling his ribcage, Dean breathed, "Okay."
Sam's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but his gentle smile didn't waver. He walked over to the bed and sat on the foot of it, feet planted firmly on the floor, thighs spread slightly.
"Come here."
After a ragged inhale, Dean crossed the room and stood before his brother.
"Take off your boots."
Dean complied, then set his boots down lightly by the side of the bed and lined them up exactly.
"Now drop your pants."
Dean's hands fell to his belt buckle. He fingered it briefly before unfastening it, then withdrew the belt from its loops and deposited it carefully on the bed next to Sam. He undid the button of his jeans, drew down the zipper, and slid the denim down his thighs to his knees.
Sam tapped his own right thigh. "Over."
Dean bent at the waist and reached across his brother's lap, resting his weight partially on Sam's legs, partially in his elbows on the bed. He let Sam maneuver him until they were both comfortable enough, Dean's behind high, his toes on the ground.
Then Sam patted Dean lightly. "Raise your hips."
Dean obeyed, and Sam took the waistband of his underwear gently between his fingers, pulling the worn cotton down to meet his jeans. Sam's hands came back up, one to rest on Dean's lower back, one to hold the backs of his thighs.
"Why are you being spanked, Dean?"
Dean couldn't stop the shiver that ran down his spine. "Because I lied to you about where I was going, and because I put myself in danger," he answered, swallowing over the lump in his throat.
Dean heard a slow exhale, and then Sam said, "Okay."
A moment later, a stout mass smacked against Dean's cheek, leaving behind a mild warmth.
Sam's large hand descended again and again, in a steady rhythm, dealing each inch of Dean's bottom its due warmth and sting.
As the heat built to a fierce bite, Sam increased the pace and force, until each blow was punctuated by a grunt escaped from Dean's lips. When Sam hefted him forward, wresting Dean's toes from the ground, drawing his rear-end higher in the air, and began smacking the crease where his thighs met his cheeks, Dean choked on those grunts.
Struggling to breathe, he found his hips moving of their own accord, wriggling to avoid the blows. His arm flew behind him, hand trying to cover his sore parts, but the hand Sam had rested on Dean's waist caught it and pinned it against his lower back.
Sam resumed the spanking with frantic speed but lessened force, delivering quick, stinging slaps to Dean's buttocks and upper thighs, and Dean was overcome. He gave into the sobs that had threatened his chest since Sam's first command. Sam dealt him four more blows, driving the tears out of him, then released his wrist and dropped his own hand to Dean's back. He rubbed circles into Dean's damp t-shirt, and, gripping Dean's thighs gently with his other hand, ran his thumb in slow stripes along the crease between them.
Dean had no idea how long he'd lain over his brother's thighs, trembling, but when he finally quieted, Sam turned him over and lifted him into his lap. Dean winced at the impact of his burning skin against rough denim, then curled his shoulders and buried his face into the crook of Sam's neck. Sam's strong arms encircled him, and Dean allowed himself to be held for an era before pulling away and wiping his eyes and nose with his forearm. He let out a ragged chuckle, then said, "Sorry."
Sam replied, "Don't be." He brought his hand to Dean's face, brushed his knuckles softly against the wet skin beneath Dean's eye. "From now on, if you need something, you come to me." There was so much tenderness in Sam's gaze that after a breathless moment, Dean had to look away.
Sam sighed, pulled him in for a quick kiss to his temple. "Let's get you to bed," he murmured. He reached down and pulled the jeans past Dean's feet, then stood him up and drew his boxer-briefs back up, careful when they passed Dean's rear-end. Sam placed a hand on Dean's flank and guided him onto the bed, belly down.
Dean heard Sam say, "I'm going to get some arnica cream for you," but he was asleep before Sam returned.
Part 4