There's a Hole In You and Me Part III
Part II
The first day is exactly what Sam expected: counselors trying hard to hide their hangovers with an overabundance of enthusiasm, campers vying for the “best” activities, and Ms. Hamilton watching it all like a hawk. He spends the morning matching the buildings and beaches and dock to the map of the camp grounds he memorized earlier.
Sam figures Ms. Hamilton’s office is the most likely place to find information about the murders, but the campers aren’t allowed in the administration building unless they’re in trouble. At lunch time, Sam sees Ms. Hamilton speaking with the Camp nurse, Mrs. Hutchins. According to the map he procured a few days ago from the nearest town hall, the nurse’s office is only a few doors down from Ms. Hamilton’s office, which gives Sam a few options. He can try to sneak into the building when he knows Ms. Hamilton’s busy, find a way to get called to her office (probably by breaking the rules and getting lectured on good behavior) or fake some kind of illness.
He’s not bad at that last one - he’s got the fever-chills and hacking cough down pat - but he does love a good break-in.
Sam makes his attempt to break away from his group right after lunch, during the arts and crafts session when he sees Ms. Hamilton walking to the shoreline. He mentions going to the bathroom as the campers are being led out of the Big Barn, then slips out the side door and walks quickly around the building, hugging the wall and keeping out of sight.
The window to Ms. Hamilton’s office only takes one hard shove before it swings open. Sam slips through effortlessly, dropping catlike to the hardwood floor and holding his breath when he hears footsteps in the hall. Whoever it is goes by without stopping and Sam makes his way quickly to the wall of filing cabinets. They’re labeled by decade, going back to when the camp was first established. There’s one labeled 1940 and earlier and Sam pulls the first drawer open. There’s not much, mostly newspaper clippings and ancient paperwork. He’s only halfway through the pile when he hears the building door creaking open.
The clipping he’s reading is from an article from 1940, nine years before the first recorded murder that Sam’s aware of. It’s about renovations being made to the pier out on the lake and mentions that they will ameliorate the safety of the shore. The article references “the tragic drownings two summers prior” which situates them in the right time frame to be a part of the pattern and Sam is scanning quickly ahead, sure he’s going to get the details of the deaths, when he hears Ms. Hamilton’s voice directly outside the door.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath and tucks the folded article into the front of his jeans in case they check his pockets. He’s hauling himself up onto the window sill when he sees four counselors walking along the shore outside the building.
Faced with the choice between getting caught by one middle aged woman or four teenagers, Sam pastes on an innocent face and reaches for a convincing lie. Ms. Hamilton walks in the room with her head turned away, still yelling instructions down the hall, giving Sam time to step away from the window and toward the door.
By the time Ms. Hamilton is finished reprimanding Sam about wandering away from his cabin group without permission, he’s wearing a wounded puppy look like it’s going out of style and decides to add a trembling lower lip just in case. Sure enough, Ms. Hamilton’s stern expression softens and she sends him back outside with a warning and instructions to stick with his counselors from now on.
Sam waits until after dinner to read the article. Stan and Brad are busy bribing the other campers to clean the cabin and Sam has time to slip outside with a flashlight.
“Our community has been not only greatly saddened by the deaths of Anne-Louise and Lorraine Bucher...”
Sam scans ahead. Rule number 6: find out where they died and where they’re buried.
“The girls fell from the old pier on the West shore and drowned in seconds. Their father, Ralph Bucher, was present for the tragic incident and has chosen to fund the renovation project as a parting gift to the community. The shore belonged to the Bucher family for many generations before being sold...”
Sam tucks the article back into his pocket and quietly goes to bed. The other campers are still crowded around Stan and Brad like a small herd and Sam holds back a snort, settles for rolling his eyes to himself and lying back on his bunk.
He picked a bottom bunk when he arrived (better for sneaking out) and now he stares up at the stuffing leaking out of the mattress above him while he considers the information he’s just obtained. There were two deaths exactly ten years before the 1948 murder-suicide Sam had thought was the first. He’s missing the 1978 deaths - nothing on the record, but that doesn’t mean no one died - but aside from that one, he thinks he has them all, up to 1988 when two unidentified bodies washed up on the North shore.
He’s been planning to go check out the site of the 1948 killings, but now he’s thinking he might as well go straight to the pier and look for cold spots or ectoplasm. There’s always the off chance this isn’t a ghost, but Sam’s not betting on it - the perfectly timed murders, the fact that there are always two, the similarities between the victims - it all points straight to an angry spirit.
He’s still in that early part of a hunt, where it feels like he’s making headway and moving forward.
***
The following week is a nerve-wracking mix of boredom and sharp tension. Sam spaces out for most of the activities, only perking up when there’s a chance he could get away for a few minutes. Every opportunity is quickly crushed by Stan, Brad, or, on more than one occasion, Dean - the green eyed counselor Sam dubbed Freckles in his head. Sam has a feeling Ms. Hamilton told the guy to keep an extra eye on him because it feels like every time he turns around there are quick green eyes tracking him like a hawk. There’s something between hunger and heat, curiosity and amusement behind that gaze that Sam can’t place.
He hasn’t gotten a chance to pull the puppy dog eyes on the guy; as soon as Sam knows he’s being watched, Dean’s gaze moves on.
***
Dean watches the Campbell kid try to peel away from his cabin group again. He’s eyeing his counselors shiftily while he slows his stride until he’s at the back of the group, falling behind as they make their way to the lake. It’s the third time Dean thinks Ms. Hamilton has this kid pegged completely wrong.
She pulled a few counselors aside the second day of camp to let them know that one of the campers was having trouble staying with his own group. Watching him now, Dean can’t help but wonder how Ms. Hamilton could have possibly thought the kid was wandering off on accident - it’s not only clear to Dean that he’s doing it on purpose, but also that he’s pretty damn good at it.
Something about him - something about the way he slouches his tall, skinny body down like he’s trying to hide in plain sight - tugs at Dean’s attention until he finds himself spending at least as much time watching him as he does overseeing his own campers. It’s not just the way he holds himself, either. He seems almost disconnected from the rest of the camp, a wolf among dogs: always watching but never really interested.
***
When Sam finally manages to get to the pier, it’s after dark and there’s another big bonfire happening on the other side of camp. This time, he ensured that every counselor was thoroughly preoccupied before making his escape: Brad’s busy trying to sneak an arm around Rachel while Stan good naturedly helps campers drag more logs to the edge of the fire pit. Dean is deep in conversation with Sharkface and Sam determinedly ignores the gnawing desire to stay and watch, maybe wander closer, listen to Dean’s unexpectedly gravelly voice as he undoubtedly flirts with her.
Instead, Sam edged away from the light and threw one last glance around the fire at the faces bathed in yellow firelight. Not one was looking his way - campers and counselors alike completely entwined in their happy, horror-free existence, not sparing a second thought to the empty seat Sam left behind.
He turned away before he could start feeling sorry for himself - that’s not something he does, not ever - and walked quickly into the woods without looking back. There was enough light from the moon to guide him through the trees to the shore, where he stands now.
The lake is black and still, barely-there waves lapping at the rocks near the pier. Sam pulls out his EMF meter as he approaches the near end of the pier, the damp smell of lakewater and wet wood filling his nose. He starts a weaving pattern, back and forth along the shoreline toward the pier and up onto it, covering as much ground as possible.
There’s nothing, not even a blip. He hasn’t seen a drop of ectoplasm anywhere. Sam is staring hard at his EMF meter when a shout nearly startles him into dropping it.
“Hey!”
It’s the freckly counselor; Sam can tell without looking. He does look up though, once the note of panic in the guy’s voice registers.
Dean’s already partway down the shore, half-running, half-tripping his way to the pier. Sam tucks his EMF meter away and watches, increasingly puzzled, until the guy finally reaches him. He’s standing too close, hands hovering above Sam’s shoulders like he wants to grip them but knows he shouldn’t.
“You can’t just take off like that,” he says. Sam opens his mouth but there’s no sound, no easy lie presenting itself. His mind is bouncing off the edges of this situation, caught between wanting to ask what this guy’s problem is and indignation at the implication that Sam can’t handle being out in the woods alone.
The guy’s watching him a little too closely, his eyes scanning Sam’s face like there’s some kind of answer hidden just beneath the surface. Their eyes meet and it’s like Sam’s brain comes back online, only this time it’s too late to come up with a good excuse. It’s okay; he has other ways of getting out of this.
“Just wanted to get some air,” Sam breathes, taking a step forward. He can see Dean hesitate, can see the very moment he notices how close they are and the way Sam’s angling his body into his personal space. It’s a risk but Sam knows how to use any advantage he can get and he’s seen the way this guy looks at him. There’s a lot more there than concern.
“Campfire’s in the middle of a forest and you needed to get air?”
Sam hides his surprise at how quickly the guy recovered behind a broad smile.
“Too many people back there, you know?” Sam asks, looking up at Dean through his lashes. “It’s more private out here.”
The words don’t mean much but the way Sam brings his hand up to stroke along Dean’s chest leaves little doubt as to what he’s offering. Dean’s eyes widen fractionally and he freezes for a moment before wrapping a hand around Sam’s wrist and carefully pulling it away from himself.
“We should get back to the cabins, it’s almost lights out.” Dean says it in what Sam supposes is an attempt at a neutral monotone but comes off as more of a plea.
“Anything I can do to convince you not to tell Ms Hamilton I was out here?” Sam asks with what can only be described as a leer. It’s a last resort and he’s not sure why he’s still pushing this angle but at this point he doesn’t think he can quite afford to get himself into any more trouble.
Dean’s blinking at him like he isn’t sure whether to believe what he’s seeing.
“Aren’t you, like, twelve?”
Sam opens his mouth to disagree - probably with a few choice swear words thrown in for good measure - and only catches himself just in time. He’s registered at the camp with a false birth date - he can’t really pass for a twelve year old, but it isn’t too crazy, scrawny as he is, if you’re not standing too close. He shuts his mouth and shrugs like the age difference doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, not really, but he guesses twelve and nineteen are just a little too far for Dean’s taste. Can’t blame him for that one.
"C'mon, let's go," Dean says, and turns to walk away. Sam can't quite summon the strength to do anything about it so he follows the counselor back to camp. Dean leaves him at his cabin with a quiet, "Good night, Sam," and Sam's reply sticks in his throat.
He curls up in his bed after slipping the EMF meter back into his duffel and quickly undressing. He knows he should be disappointed that he hasn't found anything yet - the lake idea was a total bust, really - but something about the way Dean said his name... It makes Sam feel warm, makes him want to hear it again. He knows he'll be in trouble tomorrow, is already coming up with some excuses as to why he left the bonfire in the back of his mind, but for now he focuses on the way Dean watched him out on the lake.
He's sure Dean wanted him. Sam hasn't gotten this far without learning how to use other people's desires against them and this is just another tool in which he's well versed. Dean didn't take him up on it, though. He called Sam out on his age, which Sam supposes he should have remembered before making the offer. Of course, in his experience, guys don't really care how old you are if you're offering to suck them off. Which Sam didn't actually explicitly state, but now that he's thinking about it, he definitely would have.
But this guy just blew him off like it was nothing. Sam finds himself getting angrier and angrier the longer he thinks about it - this Dean guy isn't exactly hiding the fact that he wants Sam - staring at a guy's lips for several minutes straight across a crowded room sends a pretty clear message - but he won't do anything. It's infuriating, not only because Sam could use a good fuck, now that he can't stop thinking about it, but also because this would be an advantage Sam could really use.
A counselor would do almost anything to keep his superiors from finding out he fucked a camper (a camper who's supposedly twelve years old, no less). Counselors have open access to every inch of this camp - no one would question Dean walking into the administration building, even into Ms Hamilton’s office, to grab something. A form. A fucking paperclip.
Yeah, Sam could really use that. And considering the way Dean had refused to meet his eye on the walk back to camp, Sam thinks it's still worth another shot.
***
Dean can't sleep. He can't believe the kid is twelve, for one. The camp records may say it’s true - doesn’t mean Dean has to believe it.
He did the responsible thing and reported Sam to Brad and Stan after dropping Sam off at their cabin, explaining that he'd found the kid at the lake and that he said he'd wanted to get away from the crowd at the campfire. It's a shoddy excuse at best but given the fact that Brad and Stan didn't notice their camper was missing, Dean thinks Sam has about a 50/50 chance of getting away with it.
None of that explains why Sam was actually missing. He certainly didn't explain it to Dean and Dean doesn't think he'll tell anyone the truth, not even if Ms Hamilton's the one asking.
Maybe it's drugs.
He's twelve.
No, he's really not. So, drugs.
Maybe he was meeting one of the other counselors.
Dean's not prepared for the white hot anger that bursts through him at the thought. Granted, the thought of any counselor fucking with any camper disgusts him. Clearly Sam was open to it, though. And Dean can think of a few of the guys who wouldn't mind getting their dicks wet while they're all shacked up here in the woods.
Now Dean definitely can't sleep. He's going over every male counselor in camp in his mind, deciding who he needs to keep an eye on, when he finally gives up and decides to report Sam to Ms Hamilton himself. It's the only way of ensuring the kid is properly protected.
Dean doesn't like it - it means more people watching Sam, possibly more people for Sam to casually offer his services to, but it also means Sam probably won't be able to wander off like he did tonight.
***
Sam walks out of his second talk with Ms Hamilton wearing an apologetic smile and deliberately tearful eyes. The moment he steps out of her eyesight, he allows himself one quiet, contained, "God fucking dammit fuck," hissed between clenched teeth before making his way back to Brad.
"Probably shouldn't ditch us again, huh buddy?" Brad says, and Sam could swear the guy is gloating. It's fucking enraging but Sam can't do anything but shrug like he doesn't even care that someone clearly ratted him out and Sam's pretty sure who that someone is.
***
It takes Sam another week to get Dean alone again. He's been lingering around the counselors, listening in whenever he can in an effort to find a moment when Ms Hamilton leaves her office for more than an hour. He figures there's got to be either another location or an object tied to the spirit that's doing this, and the only way he's going to find it without going through the files in that cabinet more thoroughly is if someone lets something slip.
His eavesdropping has an unintended outcome, though. He overhears Dean and Dave in the entrance of the Big Barn planning to meet Rachel and Leah out in the woods after lights out on Thursday night. Sam’s standing just inside the building, pretending to look at fliers on the bulletin board while he strains to catch Dave’s excited words and Dean’s low-pitched gritty voice.
Sam watches them through that day, sees Dave convince one of the other counselors to watch their campers with a wink that hints at what he’s hoping to get out of this secret meetup. Sam figures now’s as good a time as any to go after Dean.
Sam can get obsessive about things sometimes. When he has a goal, he locks on it and doesn’t let up until he gets the job done. It’s never really been an issue with an actual person before, but it’s the same deal - he’ll get what he’s after, one way or another.
Sam wants to sneak out earlier but the guys in his cabin won't fall asleep. They're playing poker by the light of a few flashlights, Brad and Stan pretending not to notice from behind the partition. Sam watches the boys for a few minutes, concludes that most of them don't even know the basics of poker, and settles in to wait.
He finds himself imagining what Dean's doing out there with Leah and Rachel. He wonders if any of the other counselors are out there, if there are any guys for Dean. Maybe Dean likes girls, too. Maybe Dean's pressing Leah into the grass, one hand inching up her skirt and another cradling the back of her head as he shoves his tongue down her throat. Sam's noticed Dean's thick, freckled fingers - he bets they'd get a girl off almost as well as his tongue.
By the time the guys are asleep Sam's had to talk himself down from a hard on twice, and he’s only been half successful. He slips his shoes on once he's outside the cabin door and jumps lightly to the soft forest floor before taking off at a jog. He tells himself he's hurrying in order to minimize the likelihood of getting caught out of bed, but if he's honest with himself, he's hoping to get a chance to watch Dean with... whoever. Even if the thought makes him irrationally angry, he needs to see it.
The only ones left at the firepit are Dave and Rachel, and they're so tightly wrapped up in each other that Sam's in no danger of getting caught as he gets closer, scans the rest of the clearing for a sign of Dean. Nothing.
"Goddammit," Sam hisses, backing away from the clearing. He might as well check Dean's cabin before going back to bed, just in case the counselor's bed is empty. This night might not have been a waste after all, if he can just track down an errant camp counselor and get him to... Yeah, Sam's not sure who's making the decisions tonight, his brain or his dick, but as long as it's getting him closer to finding out what's in Ms. Hamilton's file, he's fine with it.
Dean's not in his bed, though Katie is. She must be watching Dave and Dean’s campers. Sam barely avoids being seen and practically runs down the path away from Dean's cabin. He slows down once he's out of sight and takes a moment to think. There are plenty of places a person could go to at night here at Camp Blackwater, but very few places a person would actually want to be.
Sam heads for the lakeshore. There are no trees so he'll be able to spot Dean immediately if he's anywhere in the vicinity. If not, Sam figures he can swing by Ms. Hamilton's office to check if the lock's easy to pick - it's right by the lake.
Dean's jogging along the edge of the water, head turning back and forth like he's looking for something. Sam stays in the relative shadow of the trees for a moment longer, trying to spot whatever Dean's running after, but nothing jumps out at him. When he finally steps forward with a barely audible rustle of cloth, Dean's head snaps in his direction and he practically sprints to Sam.
"What are you doing out here?" Sam asks casually before Dean can reach him. There's a hard intensity on Dean's face that puts Sam on edge, and he's trying not to acknowledge it but in a couple of seconds Dean will reach him. Sam's hand starts inching toward the knife in his pocket, but Dean stops a few feet away, breathing hard and shaking slightly.
"Why aren't you in bed?" he asks, ignoring Sam's question.
"Why aren't you in bed?" he parrots back with a smile and a small step forward.
"I'm serious, I checked on your cabin earlier and you were just gone. You can't just do that,
Sam. We have these rules for a reason, this area's not safe for a kid all alone out at night."
Sam bristles at the word 'kid' but he pushes past it.
"Aw, were you worried about me? Don't worry, I'm safe now that you're here." Sam says it honey sweet, lays it on thick and expects Dean's chest to swell with idiotic pride at the flattery. Instead, he gets an annoyed frown.
"And stop doing that. Seriously, I don't know what you're trying to do but it's not working, so cut it out."
Sam grins and takes another step forward, bringing them nearly chest to chest. Dean doesn't back down.
"C'mon, Dean. I know what you want, you know what you want... All you have to do is reach out and take it." He murmurs the words against Dean's pulse, one hand traveling up Dean's well muscled arm and the other gently molding itself to Dean's hipbone.
Dean takes a shaky breath and Sam grins against his warm throat, sharp teeth grazing soft skin. He slides his hand up to Dean's shoulder and down his chest, down and down until it's resting just above Dean's belt. Dean's frozen against him and Sam's not sure what'll happen next, only that he needs to push Dean, needs to find out. He drops his hand lower to cup over the obvious bulge in Dean's pants, feels heat bleeding through fabric and sudden, jerky motions beneath his palm.
Then Dean's shoving at Sam's chest, hard enough to send him reeling back. He'd be on the ground without his training, and he falls into a defensive stance within the blink of an eye while Dean stares wide eyed at him.
***
Dean's breathing too fast like he just sprinted down the whole shore and he's so hard he swears he can feel the blood throbbing through his dick. This is so wrong. Dean's brain is already miles ahead, imagining getting kicked out of camp, picturing his dad's face when he hears why. All he can think is that he needs to get away from this kid, and somehow that's the last thing he wants.
Sam's standing a few yards away, loose fists curled at his sides and slanted hazel eyes focused on Dean. Dean starts to take a step back and Sam's lip curls.
"Why are you lying to yourself? Is it the age thing? I'm not-" Sam cuts himself off, eyes widening before they narrow. The sheer anger behind that look snaps something in Dean and he takes a step forward.
"What is your deal, man? There's plenty of kids your own age here. What, you got a thing for older guys?"
"Don't call me a kid," Sam says, voice low and dangerous. Dean laughs harshly, right in Sam's face.
"Dude, what are you, twelve? Thirteen? You are a kid." It's mean, both Dean's mocking tone and the words he's sending like jabs. The sick thing is that behind the urge to taunt and provoke, Dean's aching for Sam to tell him he's not really that young. It's so wrong it's twisting his guts right up but he can't seem to help it.
Sam looks enraged, though, and unlikely to answer as he takes another step forward and launches a fist at Dean's face. Dean knows enough to take a big step back so it barely clips him, but he's only been in a few fights and none of them were with angry, skinny campers. Dean's only worried about Sam hurting himself for the first few seconds - right up until he gets an elbow to the stomach and somehow Sam drops him to the ground. That's when Dean finally realizes he should probably fight back because this kid is way stronger than he appears.
Dean manages to shove Sam off him long enough to catch his breath, but the kid launches himself right back at Dean and knocks him to the dusty ground again. Dean rolls them over, pinning Sam far more easily than he should be able to, and gets one hand wrapped around Sam's wrist.
Dean can feel Sam's wiry body beneath him, all angles and lean muscle. He's taller than he looks, Dean realizes; he must slouch all the time. He's also pressing himself up against Dean and it's starting to feel so good Dean shifts unconsciously.
Sam huffs a breath up into Dean's face and grins.
"This how you want it? Wanna hold me down while we --"
"Shut up," Dean snarls and throws himself back. He scrambles away from Sam and gets to his feet just as voices carry across the shore to the boys.
"Dean! Did you find him?" It's Brad and behind him is Katie, both of them running towards Dean. The counselors barely have time to notice Sam, still lying on the ground, when Ms. Hamilton appears in the doorway to her cabin.
"What is going on out here?" she asks, an air of absolute outrage in her tone. Sam meets Dean's eye for a moment before looking away.
***
Part IV