SPN/J2 Big Bang: Sons o' Desolation (Sam/Dean, NC-17, Part 2/2)

[joans23]

Part 1

"Reckon I'd better go see Bobby about getting this off," Dean said one night after dinner, twisting the stiff bandage extending up his wrist in the loose fist of his left hand. "Could do with a decent shave too." A hand run across his jaw told him it was covered in patches of uneven stubble. The knife he scraped over his beard every morning could only do so much. His hair had also grown out much longer than he preferred to wear it - the shorter it was, the less dirt could cake in the sweaty strands.

Sam's head came up suddenly, Dean catching sight of the surprise clearly written all over his face before he could hide it. "Reckon you better," he said. "Guess we can skip the Blakes tomorrow - I'm sure they'll understand."

"No, you go ahead. I'm sure I can manage getting to town by myself."

"Of course you can. Could do with a trip to the store though. We're running a bit low on supplies, that's all."

"I could get it after I'm done," Dean offered.

"Fine," Sam said. He tore a bite out of another chicken leg.

Dean peered at the healthy pink tips of his fingers poking out of the disgusting cast and followed suit.

They set out in different directions at dawn, Sam spurring Enoch into a gallop without a word of greeting.

Most of the town was still sleeping when Dean intruded on the quiet. The barber's door was open though, Bobby leaning in the doorway the like he was expecting him.

"Come about the hand?" is all the greeting Dean got.

Dean nodded and followed him inside. Bobby made Dean sit down in the chair while he gathered his equipment. Cutting through the stiff material was hard, even with the massive scissors Bobby produced with a flourish. He had to break open the last part with his fingers and pry Dean's hand free with great effort.

"There," he said as Dean held up his hand, regarding the ghostly limb as if it belonged to someone else. "How's it feel?"

Dean closed it slowly into a tight fist, holding it for a count of ten before flexing his fingers open as wide as they'd go. It was stiff, slow, but there was no pain. He grinned up at Bobby in wonder. "Good," he replied.

Bobby huffed. "The more you use it, the better it'll be. Just don't overdo it on the first day, you idjit."

"I won't," Dean chuckled.

"Now, are you going to sit still long enough for a haircut, or do I need to tie you down?"

Dean raised his hands in surrender and relaxed into the chair.

He got back to the homestead with plenty of daylight to spare, his hand cramping slightly from holding onto the reins. It was a good hurt that Dean relished. He stabled and took care of his horse, then headed into the house with a spring in his step. Tonight he was going to cook up a proverbial feast; he felt like celebrating.

Dean's feast was congealing in the pan, grown cold and unappetizing, and still Sam wasn't home. Rationally, he knew Sam must've been held up at the Blake's, but he couldn't shake the nagging worry that had him jumping up at every small noise. After catching himself pacing to the front door and back, Dean lit the lamp and made his way to the barn. His saddle bags and guns were exactly where he left them.

Spreading what he needed out onto the kitchen table, Dean began stripping and cleaning his guns. It was the one place Dean could usually count on finding solace; in the sound and smell and slide of metal on metal. It refused to work. When he was done, Sam still wasn't back, so Dean sharpened all his knives. Every blade razor sharp, he went back to his guns, starting from the beginning. His hand was beginning to shake, his fingers refusing to do what he required of them.

"Already getting ready to leave?" Sam asked behind him and Dean jumped to his feet, the chair overturning and clattering onto the floor.

"Where have you been?" Dean asked. He was up in Sam's face, gripping Sam's shirt. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, taken aback. He grabbed onto Dean's hand and ripped it loose. "I was at the Blake's, you know that."

"You've never stayed out this late before," Dean said, hating the sound of his own voice.

"I wasn't aware that you were my keeper," Sam said, too calm.

"I'm not," Dean grated out through clenched teeth. God only knew why he was acting like this. Maybe Sam was right. It was high time he was on his way. This wasn't his life. "I'll be gone in the morning."

"No," Sam said, shrinking into himself some as the fight went out of him. "Don't do that."

"Why not? I don't belong here," Dean said.

"You could."

A log cracked loudly in the stove. Dean sat down heavily in his chair, surveying the arsenal he had littered across Sam's kitchen table.

"Sorry," he said, raking everything into a pile. "I'll get these out."

"I don't mind," Sam said, sitting down across from Dean. "Would you believe I don't know how to shoot one of these?"

Sam picked up Dean's pistol, curling his long fingers around the smooth hilt. It looked like he'd been born with it in his hand. It looked wrong.

"Would you," Dean hesitated. "Would you like me to show you?"

Sam nodded. "Tomorrow. After chores."

Sam laid the gun down between them, rested his hand a couple of inches from where Dean's was tracing a whorl in the wood of the table with his thumb nail.

"Where would you go if you left? After the man that killed your father again?"

Dean’s fingers froze and his head shot up. It was the first time Sam had brought it up. He'd half imagined that telling him the tale had been a product of his fevered brain.

"Yes. It'll be hard going too. I lost the trail I was following."

"Are you after him to stop him from killing again, or to avenge your father?"

"Both," Dean answered truthfully and snuck a glance at Sam. "Going after him cost my father his life. It's how he raised me. It's in my blood. Now, it's up to me to finish it."

"And when it's done? What then?"

"As I'm sure you're aware, Preacher, there are always more people that need saving."

Sam nodded and let it be. They sat like that for awhile before Sam stifled a yawn. Dean saw it and stood.

"We could ... you shouldn't have to sleep on the floor," Sam said.

"Sam," Dean said. There was more he could say. Should say. About how he had nothing to offer. Anyone. But he couldn't get much else out apart from the warning in his voice.

"I mean, there's enough room for another bed in here. Winter's coming."

"Winter's coming," Dean echoed.

He walked into the bedroom. The hard floor was already playing hell on his hip and shoulder by the time Sam followed after him.

They woke within a few breaths of each other the next morning. They rose wordless, settling into their familiar Saturday morning rhythm. After breakfast, they cleaned the house first, Dean sweeping while Sam cleaned out the stove. They moved outside next, their paths crisscrossing as they moved across the yard and through the barn.

"Come on," Sam said, leaning against Niyol's stall. He watched Dean slowly sliding his hand down her left foreleg, squeezing the back gently, but firmly, until she lifted her foot. Prying out the dirt took less than a minute, but then Dean took his time to carefully inspect it, checking it for cracks or injury.

"Almost there," Dean said and quickly repeated the process until all four were done. "You sure?" he asked again as he exchanged the tools for his pistol and bandoleer.

"Yeah," Sam said and grinned with all the excitement of a twelve year old boy. "Come on."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Dean said and followed after with a grin of his own.

On the fence posts Sam had set up a few rusted tins, long since devoid of their pork and beans, dug up from the garbage heap while Dean wasn't looking. Dean checked his gun, looked over at Sam, checked it again. Sam came over to stand at Dean's side, hovering at Dean's elbow.

Dean opened the cylinder, filled the chambers one by one as Sam watched, rapt. He thumbed back the hammer, took up stance, deliberate and proper. His world narrowed to the sun on his back, the beating of his heart and Sam at his side. Dean exhaled and squeezed the trigger. One of Sam's cans went flying up into the air and Sam let out a loud whoop, thumping a huge hand down onto Dean's back.

"You ready to try?" Dean asked and held out the gun to Sam.

Sam switched his gaze, eyes big as saucers, between Dean's face and the gun in his hand.

"Here," Dean said. He brought up Sam's hand and pressed the pistol into his palm. Sam took it and Dean stepped back.

"Like this?" Sam asked, planting his feet wide.

"Yeah. No wait, turn a little. This way," Dean said. He maneuvered Sam into place with his hands on Sam's shoulders. They were impossibly wide and warm beneath his fingers.

"Thumb there... like that and this finger... here. That's it," Dean said, directing Sam's hold. Dean took a step back and watched as Sam held the gun awkwardly, pointing it somewhere between the ground and the target.

"And now?" Sam asked, turning his head to look at Dean.

"Now, aim."

"I don't," Sam said.

Dean took up his place behind Sam again, wrapping a hand around Sam's forearm and lifting it into place. His shirt stuck to his chest were it was pressed against Sam's back.

"Do you know a short passage? Something you can recite to yourself?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded mutely.

"Eye on the target, forget about everything else but what's in front of you and what's inside of you. Watch it, say the words and when you reach the end, let it out all the air in your lungs and squeeze the trigger."

Dean waited, his breathing synced with Sam's as they waited for Sam to find the quiet inside. He felt Sam take a deep breath, their chests expanding in unison. Sam exhaled and the gun jumped in his hand. The tin went flying into the air.

"I did it!" Sam yelled, twisting around in Dean space. Still holding the gun, he wrapped his arms around Dean and lifted him up onto his toes with an enthusiastic hug.

"Woah, woah," Dean warned and broke loose to take the loaded gun from Sam. "You sure did."

"That was incredible! I want to do it again!" Sam exclaimed.

Dean laughed. "Then go put the tins back up," he said. He watched Sam lengthen his stride, almost breaking out into a run. The constant ache that had taken up residence in his chest since the moment he first laid eyes on the preacher swelled and churned, like a stream transformed suddenly and dangerously into a raging river after the rains. Sam was a grown man, clearly capable of taking care of himself - hell, he'd taken pretty good care of Dean too - but Dean couldn't fight the overpowering urge to protect and keep Sam safe for the rest of his days, however few they may be.

Sam's next shot went wide, wildly ricocheting off the side of the barn.

"You're rushing," Dean said, smiling as Sam's shoulders dropped defensively. "Have you already forgotten everything I told you?"

"Maybe you need to show me again," Sam said softly. He straightened and waited, head bowed.

"Alright," Dean said and took up the offered space against Sam's back.

Sam lifted the pistol. Dean touched his hand, adjusting Sam's fingers slightly.

"Breathe," Dean said. "The Lord is my Shepherd. In." Sam's torso swelled. "I shall not want. Out."

"Is this what it's like?" Sam asked.

"What? He leadeth me beside still waters. In."

"Having a father, teaching you things."

"My dad put a gun in my hand when I was four years old," Dean said, his teeth biting at the words. "Now concentrate. He restoreth my soul. Out."

Sam listened. He breathed. A tin fell to the ground almost soundlessly.

Dean let him shoot three more times, loathe to waste any more bullets. He let Sam get off a couple of rounds with the rifle and shotgun too, bracketing Sam's back for the unexpected recoil. Sam clearly preferred the shotgun, repeatedly lifting it and aiming at imaginary targets before handing it back to Dean. Sam insisted he show him how to clean the guns too and he sat at the kitchen table doing just that while Dean cooked their dinner. They completed their tasks in easy silence, both intent on doing a good job.

The sun was setting, casting everything in a golden haze, when Sam cleared the table and took Dean's gear back to their usual place in the barn. Dean dished up and sat waiting at the table for Sam's return. He bowed his head, closing his eyes as Sam said grace and then they heartily dug into their meals, worn thin by a day of hard work and excitement.

"Coffee?" Sam asked after they'd done and cleared the table.

"Thank you," Dean replied, taking his seat at the table again as Sam poured them each a cup.

The air felt thick, like being in the eye of the storm, waiting for it to shift.

For better or worse, Dean was done waiting.

He stood slowly, the chair's legs scraping on the floor as it was pushed back. Dean began undoing the buttons on his shirt. Sam set down the kettle and turned towards him, eyes going a little wide. Dean peeled off his shirt, watched Sam watching him. He dropped the shirt to the floor and Sam's gaze trailed down with it. Not looking up, Sam's hands rose to his own buttons. For a moment it threw Dean, how quickly Sam followed, how easy it was, almost too easy. He'd expect to see the preacher torture himself, to fight more fiercely against the deception of his heart and cling more tightly to the collar he only wore on Sundays and to town. But this, this wasn't the preacher. This was Sam. Sam that sat in that hard chair in front of his bed for countless sleepless nights, Sam that truly cared for each and every person he helped, Sam that was good and strong and wanted Dean. Sam wasn't wearing anything underneath his shirt and as he revealed his naked skin to Dean, Dean peeled his undershirt up and over his head. Sam stood with his shirt in hand, waiting for Dean to catch up and together they let the garments drop to the floor.

Sam had seen everything he could have wanted of Dean's bare chest when he was tending to his wounds, but it was Dean's first chance at a glance of anything below Sam's neck. Sam's chest and stomach were a labyrinth of clearly defined muscle beneath unmarked pale skin and Dean allowed his eyes to roam across every inch of it. Sam waited for Dean to look up at him before going for the button on his pants. Eyes not leaving Dean's, he peeled them off his hips and down his thighs, lifting first one leg and then the other as he stepped out of them. His dick hung soft but thick between his legs. Dean blinked slowly, heart full of the trust Sam was placing in him and dropped his jeans as well. He took a step towards Sam, and then Sam took a matching one towards him. They were close enough to touch. Dean shivered at the evening air cooling his backside and he could see the goose bumps on Sam's skin, his nipples two hard stubs.

Sam took the final half-step that was needed to bring their chests flush together. They were there, on the brink, both still giving the other an out, a chance to back away. Dean wasn't going to take it. He lifted his face, closed his eyes when Sam dropped his forehead against Dean's. Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, Sam's fingertips brushed the side of Dean's neck. Closing his eyes, Sam swayed forward and away. Dean swallowed, his throat dry like three days into a trail through the desert. Dean knew there would be no doubt as to what they were about if someone would happen by to see them at that moment - it would mean death to the two men, naked as the day they were born, kept a breath apart only by the diminishing threat of a whispered declination. The danger only seemed to fuel his desire and Dean felt his cock begin to fill.

Dean took Sam's hand.

"Time for bed," he said, and Sam nodded, their usual exchange before retiring gaining new weight as Dean led Sam towards the bedroom.

Pushing Sam down onto the bed, Dean left his side to quickly add a few more logs to the fire, ensuring they'd be warm until sunrise. As the flames licked against the hissing protests of the new wood, Dean watched Sam settle onto his back, stroking his cock to full hardness, heavily lidded eyes not leaving Dean for an instant. When Dean came back to the bed, Sam let go of his cock, letting it curve up against his stomach as he held out the hand he'd been using to Dean. Dean took it, brought it up to his mouth to lick the bitterness of precome from each digit as he climbed up over Sam, settling over him with his knees bracketing Sam's hips.

The fire cast beautiful shadows over Sam's features, threw sparks in the black pools of his eyes as he looked up at Dean. Sam lifted his other hand, trembling slightly as he searched uncertainly for a place to touch Dean. Dean took hold of his wrist and placed Sam's hand high on his thigh, unable to help the small rock of his hips as Sam's fingers slid further up towards that tender patch of skin where his leg met his body.

The touch of Sam's hand brought down the last of Dean's defenses, bowed his back like all the marrow had been sucked from his bones and nothing remained to keep him upright. Their cocks lay touching on Sam's stomach, the thin skins catching against each other with every twitch of their hips, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through him. Sam dragged his hand from Dean's grasp, wrapped it around both of them. Mouth open as he gasped for breath, Dean squeezed his eyes shut as Sam started jerking them off, the brutal slide of Sam's spit slicked hand and the drag of his hot flesh against Dean almost enough to undo him. He grabbed Sam's wrist, held it frozen mid stroke as he tried to remember his own name.

"Slow," Dean said. "Easy."

He let go of Sam and Sam did as he asked, tightly squeezing around the bases of their dicks before slowly moving up to do the same around the heads, forcing twin beads of precome to ooze from the tips. Dean caught the moisture on his fingertips before Sam could spread it over them, adding some of his own spit before reaching behind himself and rubbing around his hole, steady pressure over the puckered flesh until it relaxed and opened under his probing finger. He pushed it in to the first knuckle, cursed at how good it felt, and slid it all the way in. It didn't hurt, not yet, but it only was one finger. Sam was watching with wide eyes.

"Wanna help?" Dean smirked.

Sam nodded and Dean made him let go of their cocks, took Sam's hand and guided it to Sam's mouth. Sam's lips parted and Dean pushed the first two fingers of his right hand inside. Sam sucked at them, swirled his tongue over and around and between them as he pushed them in and out of his mouth, getting them nice and wet. All Dean could do was watch and pray that he didn't lose it before he could take Sam inside himself. Dean tugged Sam's hand free, lifted up some more to give Sam space to reach between his legs and slide his fingers in alongside Dean's. Three fingers were distinctly more uncomfortable than one, and Dean bit down hard on his bottom lip.

"Sorry," Sam said and began to withdraw his hand.

"No, it's good," Dean said, stopping him and grinding down on their combined digits, twisting and stretching as best he could.

Dean withdrew to add more spit, feeling hollow and empty when Sam did the same. He let Sam work him loose, holding back the laugh that threatened to spill over at the look of intense concentration on Sam's face, until every other slide of Sam's fingers rubbed along that place inside Dean that had him biting back blasphemous curses so hard his teeth ached with it and he could wait no longer to have Sam fill him up completely. Dean shuffled forward a few inches and took hold of Sam's wrists again, placing Sam's hands on his hips and allowing Sam to pull him closer. Taking hold of Sam's cock with one hand and bracing himself with the other, Dean sat back, fitting the head of Sam's cock against his hole. He moved his hips in small tight circles, teasing himself with the slick head of Sam's cock before finally sliding down, letting the weight of his body impale him fully on Sam's cock. Despite the preparation, the stretch and resulting burn forced the air from Dean's lungs and tears stung his eyes. His drawn out groan sounded very loud to his own ears, even with Sam's harsh breathing filling the silence. It was the best thing he'd ever felt in his life. Leaning back to rest his hands on Sam's thighs, feeling the muscles flutter beneath his palms like a horse ridden too long and hard, Dean opened himself up to Sam, let him see everything. The vulnerable stretch of his throat, the map of scars on his chest that led him to this moment, his cock jutting out proudly from his body, Sam's splitting him open the rest of the way. Everything he felt was right there, unhidden, undiluted, etched on his face, for Sam.

Sam's back arched, his legs almost bucking Dean off as he dug in his heels. He looked to Dean for guidance again, still worried about doing it right, making it good. Nothing in Dean's experience could've prepared him for this, for being the cause of Sam's debauchery and still wanting more. He brought his weight forward and rested his hands on Sam's chest, using the leverage to ride Sam's dick.

"Like this," Dean said. "Just like this." Sam tightened his hold of Dean's hips and forced him down harder, faster even as he sped up the movement of his own hips as he fucked up into Dean.

"Dean," Sam said and looked at him, eyes mirroring everything Dean was feeling. Dean leaned forward, shifting his weight onto the fists he had pressed into the mattress on either side of Sam's head, hips stuttering and almost losing their rhythm, but not stopping. His knees protested, a warning pain shooting up his legs and spreading numbingly into his hips. Sam snaked a hand between them, taking Dean's mind off the pain by taking hold of his cock and jerking it in time with Dean's movements. Sam lifted his head, intently watching the movement of his hand and his face was right there, mouth right there, lips open and spit slicked and bitten raw. This part was unfamiliar, an intimacy that Dean hardly ever allowed himself to want, to have. Dean bent his arms, leaned down even further, felt Sam's cock pulling out until only the head was caught inside and clenched, holding him there as he sealed his mouth over Sam's. Sam surged up into the kiss, some final barrier in him coming down as well. He opened his mouth to Dean's tongue with a gasp, let Dean lick inside and taste all of him. Sam pushed his hips down, and up, not letting Dean stop, but not letting go of his mouth either, pressing into Dean's kiss with everything he had.

Pulling back slightly to suck at Sam's top lip, Sam did the same and latched onto his bottom one, letting Dean lead him, show him what to do. His hold on Dean never wavered, knotting bruises into Dean's skin as Dean opened his mouth again, letting Sam inside. Sam moaned and Dean opened his mouth wider, letting Sam plunder his mouth, until he couldn't hold back any longer and sucked on Sam's tongue like it was the air he needed to survive.

Dean was drowning in Sam, Sam everywhere around him and under him and inside him, so much, too much and he broke away, taking deep shuddering breaths to calm himself. Tangling his fingers with Sam's where they were still wrapped around Dean's cock, he sped up their strokes, willing the end to come before he shattered into more pieces than there were stars in the night sky.

"Stay with me," Sam muttered against his mouth and curling a hand around Dean's neck, pulled him down into another kiss. Dean groaned his curses into Sam's mouth, grabbing at the hand Sam was holding him in place with, felt his orgasm uncoiling from the pit of his belly. His hips faltered, lost their way as he thrust once more into their merciless hands and came, shooting come up and over Sam's chest, watching helplessly as some landed on Sam's neck and chin.

He tried to get the rhythm back, but Sam flipped them, loomed over him as he pushed Dean deeper into the bed. Dean spread his legs wider, making more room for Sam as Sam fucked into him hard. Each thrust pushed a little bit more of the air from his lungs, leaving his mouth in wordless grunts, and forced him up higher until he had to lift his hands and push against the headboard to keep his head from bashing into it. Dean felt raw, stretched wide and ripped open, the feeling of Sam plowing into him again and again becoming too much, building up into a crescendo of almost unbearable pain and pleasure and then Sam buried his head in the space between Dean's neck and shoulder, fit it there like they were molded together since birth and came with Dean's name exploding from his mouth.

In the aftershocks, Sam thrust against him a few more times, trying to get even deeper into Dean, unwilling to ever come apart from him again.

Dean shushed him, cradled Sam against his chest until his breathing evened and he pulled out of Dean. He rolled off and onto his side, blanketing Dean on the narrow cot until Dean wiggled out from under him.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked.

"Need to get cleaned up," Dean replied. He found a couple of rags in the kitchen, cleaned himself as best he could, and brought one back for Sam. Sam lay on his back, arm thrown up over his eyes when Dean returned. For a moment Dean thought he'd fallen asleep, but he lifted his arm and regarded Dean with dark unreadable eyes as he wiped his come from Sam's body. Sam's hand shot out and wrapped tightly around his wrist when he finished and tried to move away.

"Come here."

"Bed. Tired, Sammy," Dean said.

"You're not leaving," Sam said and pulled Dean down into the space he made for him.

The bed was too narrow for them to lay comfortably together, but Dean didn't say anything. He let Sam throw an arm around his middle as he pulled Dean's back tight against his front. Between one breath and the next, he was asleep.

†

Sam moving around the room woke him early. The sun wasn't up yet, the white of Sam's collar seeming to glow in the near dark.

"Go back to sleep," Sam said, leaving what he was busy with to walk over and press a kiss to Dean's mouth.

"Church?" Dean asked, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

Sam hummed in agreement, gave Dean another kiss and got his jacket from the wardrobe.

"Can I ... Is it alright if I come with you?" Dean asked. He couldn't remember ever being in a church. Maybe his mother took him when she was still alive, but his father never set foot in one that Dean knew of.

"I'd like that," Sam said. He was smiling. "I'll saddle the horses while you get dressed."

Dean didn't have much to choose from, but he picked the cleanest that he had. Sam was feeding the horses slices of apple, holding onto Niyol's brindle to keep her from biting at Enoch. They set off side by side, the horses moving at an easy gait that kept bumping their legs together.

At the church, Sam led their horses to the back and left Dean on the steps out front while he went inside to prepare. Dean stood his ground, lifted his hat and nodded politely as people passed him, filling the church from the front. By and by, a small boy came out to pull on the frayed rope hanging from the belfry and rang the bell. Dean felt it vibrate through his bones and set his teeth on edge. He took off his hat, folded the rim into his hand, and turned to step inside. A woman in her late fifties, hard as steel beneath her starched bonnet and black dress, came up behind him. Dean glanced back at her and in that instant her foot slipped on the first step. He was there, hand clutched around her elbow and she barely faltered.

"Why, thank you, Mister?" she said, stopping to look at him. Something about her face stopped Dean in his tracks, too.

"Winchester," he said. "Dean."

Dean watched the color drain from her face as her legs gave way beneath her. He caught her again, getting an iron grip on her lifeless arms.

"Woah, easy there," he said.

"I'm alright," she said, but she put a hand on his arm when he released her and would not let him go. Dean escorted her inside, and took a seat in the back next to her. All eyes were fixed on Sam already. He was standing in front of his congregation, Bible in hand and Dean could not look away. Sam was saying something about the man being judged rather than his offering, but Dean wasn't paying attention to the words. They said a prayer and Dean bowed his head, but kept his eyes open. From the corner of his eye, he spied a flicker of movement and he caught the woman next to him staring at him. She looked away and closed her eyes so quickly that for a moment Dean thought he had imagined it. After they'd sung the last hymn, Dean stood to the side to let the woman pass before him, but she only took hold of his arm again. He had no choice but to lead her outside and let her direct them to a spot of shade under the rich red-brown of a flowering dogwood.

"I see you managed to find my mama," Sam said, walking up to them. He gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Hello, Ma."

"Mister Winchester was kind enough to lend me a hand when I stumbled on that crooked step that you still haven't fixed," the woman, Sam's mother, said. She was speaking to her son, but kept her eyes on Dean. He carefully kept his face blank, not reacting to the news of her relation to Sam.

"It was my pleasure, Ma'am," Dean said, giving her a little smile. "Please call me Dean."

"Dean," she said and the dust the slight breeze kicked up made her eyes water. She blinked them away. "I must repay your kindness. Missouri is probably cooking up a storm already, so you're invited to lunch. No, I insist," she said when he opened his mouth to protest. "Sam will show you the way."

"I'm sorry," Dean said once she'd gone. "I didn't know."

"It's alright," Sam said and gave a quiet chuckle. "I wanted her to meet you anyway."

Dean could only stare after him as Sam moved on to the next clump of gathered churchgoers. He took up his place in the shade again. Sam had a kind word and a friendly smile for everyone, bending down for the old ladies to gossip in his ear, ruffling the hair of the little ones as they hid behind his long legs.

When Sam was accompanying the last family towards their buggy, Dean went round back to get the horses. Sam took Enoch's from Dean and swung into his saddle with a tired sigh. He set off at a gallop and Dean had to dig his heels into Niyol's flanks to catch up.

They could hear the old clock chime twelve from deep inside the hollows of the Campbell house when they arrived. An old man Sam introduced as Rufus took their horses. He scowled at Dean and gave Sam a toothless grin. From somewhere under his saddle Sam produced half a fifth of whiskey which Rufus quickly concealed beneath his coat.

"If you get caught with that, you didn't get it from me," Sam said.

"Get what?" Rufus asked, spreading his calloused fingers wide and showing off his empty palms.

Sam sent him on his way with a pat on the back and led Dean up the steps to the front door.

"Master Sam!" a booming voice called out as a large black woman spilled out onto the porch. "You haven't been to see us in much too long."

Dean dropped his hand from where it had risen to his bare hip. He felt acutely aware of being unarmed and defenseless.

"Missouri!" Sam greeted back and folded her into a tight hug. "It's good to see you too, dear heart."

"And who's this?" she asked, peering past Sam.

"Dean Winchester," Sam's mother said, coming up behind Missouri.

"Miss Mary?" Missouri asked, eyes wide above the hand she had clamped over her mouth.

"There'll be none of that, Missouri. Let the boys inside," Mary said, holding the door open.

Dean was starting to sweat under the warming midday sun and Missouri's intense scrutiny until she visibly shook off the peculiar shock that had taken hold of her. "You better come in so I can feed you. Too thin," she said, shaking her head. "Just make sure to wipe your feet before you traipse mud all over my clean floor, boy."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said and they dutifully stomped the dirt from their boots before following inside.

The table was already set and seeming to groan under the weight of the steaming dishes filling every inch of it. Missus Campbell took her seat at the head of the table. Missouri handed them each a warm cloth which Dean used to wipe the dust from his hands after he saw Sam doing the same.

"This is too much, Ma," Sam said. He took the seat to her right and left the one on her other side for Dean.

"A mother can't feed her son? And his friend?" she asked, looking at Dean. "Now say grace before the food gets cold. Missouri spent the whole morning in front of the hot stove and she won't be too happy with you ruining all her hard work."

Sam rested his clasped hands on the table and waited for them to do the same and drop their heads before saying a quick prayer. His voice flowed through the silence soft and warm.

"Amen," his mother echoed after he ended the prayer.

"Amen," Dean said. Sam looked at him and smiled. Dean couldn't look away; he would do anything to keep Sam smiling like that.

They filled their plates, barely making a dent in the abundance of food, Mary watching fondly as they ate. They filled them again, swapping dishes across the table.

"Please pass the carrots," Sam said and Dean handed it over. "Thanks," Sam said and pressed his foot against Dean's under the table.

Dean choked on his mouthful of chicken and peas. He tried to draw breath and just managed to get more food down the wrong way.

"Sam, get him some water!" Mary said and Sam jumped up to comply.

He thumped Dean on his back and handed him the glass when Dean managed to stop coughing. Dean took a long drink.

"Better now?" Sam asked, his hand still on Dean's back.

"Yes, thank you," Dean said.

Sam squeezed his shoulder, lingering a moment too long and went back to his seat. Dean smiled in spite of himself and then tried to hide it behind his hand. Sam's mother was looking at him when he dared meet her eyes again thought and Dean knew that she'd seen.

"Sorry about that, ma'am. Didn't mean to interrupt this fine lunch."

"That's alright," she said after staring at him for a long second. She took the napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. "Sam, Missouri mentioned having some trouble with the stove. Would you take a look? Dean, why don't you let me show you around the farm? I find myself in need of a brisk walk after that meal."

"Yes, ma'am," the boys answered in unison and Sam left, not noticing the change in mood and laughing quietly to himself.

Dean offered her his arm and she directed him out towards the barn. It was stifling inside despite the cooling temperature outside, the steamy air smelling of livestock and clean straw. She took a seat on a hay bale not far from the open door where a slight breeze could still be felt and patted the space next to her.

"Come sit down," she said.

Dean did. He knew what this was about. "It's not what you think, Missus Campbell," he started.

"I think it is. I'm no fool, Dean. But there's something you have to know before... I just hope it's not too late already," she said. She visibly steeled herself and took his hand. "Dean... I... Campbell is my maiden name. I took it back after... My married name was Winchester, Dean. You... you're my son."

"What?" Dean said. He stumbled to his feet, took a few steps back. "No."

"This is not how I wanted to tell you," she said.

"Why are you saying this?" Dean asked. He was fighting to breathe, his chest refusing to open up and accept the air he was pulling in with desperate gasps.

"I knew the moment I saw you. At first I couldn't believe it either, but somehow God has brought my long lost child back to me." She lifted a hand, reached out to Dean and let it fall back into her lap when Dean could only stare at it in horror, a tear making its way down her cheek.

"It can't be," Dean managed to say. "My father."

"John Winchester. Took you from me the day Sammy turned six months old," she said. She kept talking, her beautiful face crumbling and voice fading in places, but Dean couldn't hear much past the blood roaring in his ears. He heard his horse neigh close by, was aware of movement outside, life going on despite this nightmare he was caught up in. Not even a day had passed since he'd been with Sam, could still feel the ache between his legs.

Sam was his brother.

Dean did the only thing he could think to do. He ran.

Niyol was used to Dean coming at her in a mad dash, taking his saddle in a flying leap. She was ready and exploded forward as soon as he wrapped the reins in his hands. He heard voices calling out after him, pleading with him to stay, but he only dug his heels deeper into Niyol's sides.

"... frontier man, born to be wild ... couldn't be tied down ..."

Dean heard her voice echoing in his ears as he laid low against Niyol's neck. Dead crickets and stalks of wheat flew up under the thundering of her hooves.

"... only wanted a better life for you ..."

His mother. She was so beautiful. All the nights he dreamed of her as a little boy, building her up in countless fantasies, and she outshone them all.

"... refused to raise his sons like that ..."

He had a home, once. A family. It didn't make any sense. He didn't want to think about it. It couldn't be.

"... made sure we were gone before he came back for Sam..."

He didn't know who to hate.

Dean dismounted before his horse even came to a full stop, stumbling forward a few steps to tie her up, hands blindly moving to complete the task as he struggled to get his eyes to focus properly. He stood with his hand on Niyol's neck. He knew what he should do. He should go into the barn, strap on his guns and never look back.

He had a mother. He had a brother.

Dean tied her reins to the porch railing. He went out back and got an armful of wood. He carried it inside and kindled the stove.

Sam arrived a few minutes later. "Where did you go?"

Dean got up to pour Sam a cup of coffee. He put it down across the table and sat back down in his seat, wrapping his hands around his own.

"Needed to go," Dean said.

"That's what my mother said. You just left without telling me?"

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

Sam sat down and reached across the table to touch Dean's hands. Dean pulled them back and held them in his lap.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked. Dean didn't dare look to see the hurt written all across Sam's face, the hurt he put there. It was nothing compared to what it would be if he knew the truth.

"Nothing. I'm sorry," Dean said again. He didn't know what else to say.

They finished their coffee in silence and then Dean left to stable the horses. Sam didn't follow. Dean stayed out until the sun set, doing unnecessary chores in quiet solitude. They had a cold dinner of bread and chicken that Missouri had sent with Sam, then retired to bed. Dean removed his boots and took his place in front of the fire, firmly turning his back on Sam without a word. Sam didn't say anything either and blew out the lamp shortly after.

They danced around each other for the next couple of days; Dean trying to resume their previous routine, but drawing back whenever Sam tried for more. By the third day, Sam had had enough and cornered Dean in the barn.

He slammed Dean up against the door. Dean struggled and grabbed at Sam's hands. Sam jammed his arm across Dean's shoulders and forced him back. He had his mouth over Dean's. He was hard against Dean's hip. Dean felt the hunger in Sam, God help him, felt the hunger in himself. He recognized the desperation in Sam's tongue seeking entrance and fought with everything in him not to give in. He shoved Sam back with all his might, swung wild and caught his fist across Sam's mouth. Sam's lip split and spilled a streak of blood down his chin. Sam wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Sam swore and Dean blinked at him stupidly. His hand ached.

"You've been like this ever since Sunday. I don't understand what went wrong."

"I changed my mind."

"Bullshit. If you don't want it, then what are you still doing here?"

"I want to stay," Dean whispered.

"Why?" Sam was screaming at him. His face was twisted, caught between hurt and betrayal. He grabbed hold of Dean again and shoved him back. "Why?"

"Because you're my brother!" Dean yelled, only realizing the moment the words flew from his mouth what he'd done.

"I'm your... What?" Sam backed away, shaking his head. "That's impossible."

"I know," Dean said. "But your mother. Our mother. She."

"Don't call her that."

"She said... And she knows things. Knows my father. Why would she lie?"

"She never even told me I had a brother, and now you," Sam said. "You claim she told you this?" He was pale, shivering despite the thickness of his coat.

"I think... It makes sense, how I felt like I'd known you my whole life the moment I met you. I think it's the truth." Dean said, touching Sam's arm.

"No," Sam said and jerked away, doubt slowly making place for acceptance and then more quickly the need for penance. "We ... have to ask God for forgiveness. I thought it was bad enough, loving another man. I knew God would punish me for it one day, but I accepted it. It was worth it. But I... my own brother. We're all damned."

Dean shook his head, drops of water flying from the tips of his lashes.

"Brother, I'm godless," he said. How could he ask for forgiveness for a sin he still wanted with every breath?

"Then I'll pray for you."

Dean shook his head again.

"It's no use. My place in hell is assured."

"What else can we do?" Sam asked, defeated, huge eyes pleading with Dean to somehow make it right.

"The only thing we can," Dean said. He endured Sam's silence until Sam turned away. He listened to Sam's footsteps fading across the yard and flinched at the definitive slam of the front door.

It was easier to pack than Dean thought. All of his gear was still in the barn. Only a few pairs of pants and shirts remained in the house and those Dean would miss, but he could replace them eventually. For the first time since Sam brought him here, bruised and bloody, Dean took up his guns with intent. For the first time the weight of them against his hips felt wrong.

Dean swung up into his horse and steered her towards town. He was leaving behind everything he had ever wanted, everything he would ever care about. Was this how his father felt, forced to turn back empty handed, the wife and son he came looking for long gone?

Dean didn't look back.

†

The streets were eerily quiet when Dean rode into town. An old man spotted him and broke into a loping run, disappearing into the post office. Dean made his way to the barber keeping a wary look out.

"What do you want?" Bobby asked, only cracking open the door a few inches.

"I came to see about settling my debts," Dean said.

"Ain't got none. Preacher paid them weeks ago."

"He did what?"

"Said you was working for him." Bobby shrugged. "Anything else?"

"Know if the saloon's open? Could do with a shot of whiskey."

"It's closed," Ellen's voice came from inside.

Bobby cast a look over his shoulder and then opened the door wider. "Better take your horse to the back," he said. "Don't want it seen on the street."

Dean did as he was told and went in by the back door Bobby unlatched for him.

The interior was dark, all the windows shuttered. Ellen was sitting at the small table and chairs that Bobby had set up in the corner for his doctoring, a single candle illuminating her bruised and battered face. The tools of Bobby's trade were spread before her, the pungent odor from countless open vials and pots stinking up the place and making Dean's eyes water.

"What happened?"

"What do you care. Went off and forgot all about our arrangement."

Dean didn't mention how the arrangement didn't count for much the moment he got hurt.

"What happened," he asked again.

"They raided the saloon last night," Ellen said, wincing as she touched a hand to the cut above her right eye. "Took my money, whiskey, guns. And a few of the girls."

"Jo?"

Ellen shook her head. "Thank the Lord, we had a fight and she was off somewhere, sulking." Tears nevertheless filled her eyes and threatened to spill over. "Don't reckon I'll lay eyes on any of 'em again."

Dean felt the warring of familiar emotions, like he had once again only just rode into town and no time had passed at all. He had somewhere else to be, had let the trail for his father's killer grow cold for much too long, but he couldn't leave until the job was done. And if he was going to get as far away from Sam as possible, he needed the money.

"I'll take care of it," Dean said.

"You and what posse?" Bobby asked. "Don't be stupid, boy. It was a fool's hope from the start. There was never anything to be done. Go back out to the preacher's place, you out there might be able to scare 'em off if they target it."

And there was the truth of it. Dean couldn't leave until he was sure Sam and his mother were safe.

"Which way did they go?" he asked Ellen.

"South," she said. "Towards the Culter place, though he’s not there. Gone off to Boston for business of some sort a few days ago."

Dean nodded. It was as he had thought. He pressed his hat down onto his head and strode towards the door.

"You're gonna get yourself killed. And what am I supposed to tell the preacher when he comes looking for his help?"

"He won't. But, if I don't come back, tell him..."

"What?"

I love him, Dean felt the words in his heart, words he could never say. "Nothin'," he said.

The wind had picked up while he was inside, kicking up storm clouds on the horizon.

"It'll be dark soon. And it's going to rain," Bobby said behind him. "I have a cot out back, why don't you stay the night? Yours is a business for daylight."

The rain might have come to help him. It might not.

Dean nodded and followed Bobby back inside. Ellen left shortly after, hurrying to the saloon before the night caught her outside. Bobby shared his dinner of bread and beans, and then produced an earthen jug of piss poor whiskey from under the table. Dean held onto the glass Bobby handed him, warming the amber liquid between his palms.

"Ain't gonna do you no good staring at it, boy," Bobby said, drinking and refilling his glass.

Dean drank, letting the whiskey burn its way down his throat and settle sharp and heavy in his stomach but shook his head when Bobby offered more.

No matter how much he wanted it, he needed a clear head on his shoulders if there was killing to be done.

Bobby drank a few more shots, stowed his whiskey, and showed Dean to his bed. Dean lay down on top of the blankets, still fully clothed, and listened as the thunder rolled in, bringing soft rain that pelted down insistently onto the roof. The roof was leaking in the corner and water dripped down into the bucket left to catch it. The rain stayed and when Dean judged it to be dawn, he rose and woke Bobby to relatch the door behind him.

His oil slick coat was rolled up in one of the saddle bags and Dean put it on before swinging up onto his horse.

"Let's go, girl," he said.

The rain pelted down on Dean, plopping into the mud below Niyol's hooves. Lightning struck a dead tree to his left and when Dean lifted his head to the smoking top, the water slid down his neck, soaking his shirt. He cursed and spurred his horse on through the slippery mess.

He didn't bother hiding, tracking through the trees; he kept to the road until he came within sight of the ranch's gates. Dean led his horse a little way into the brush and tied her to a low branch. It didn't take long to reach the main house on foot. Light spilled from the kitchen windows out into the gloom of the morning and Dean could hear a number of men, six he thought, raucously laughing. The heavy rain probably meant a rare day off for them - it was hard work wreaking havoc in a deluge.

This was going to be easy.

The rain masked his advance, brought him to within a few steps of the house. They could not hear him, but he also could not hear the footsteps dogging his, until it was too late.

The shot rang out and Dean fired even as he turned. The bastard that shot at him fell to his knees, hands clutching at the gaping hole in his chest, even as Dean felt the result of the dying man's effort burning hot into his back. Stupid not to expect a lookout, Dean berated himself, but it was too late for that.

Alerted by the shots, the men had started pouring out of the kitchen, keeping low with their guns thrust out in front of them. Dean had to take cover quickly, diving behind the horses' water trough. They opened fire, splinters of wood erupting into the air as it sprung leak upon leak. Dean crawled forward, cold mud seeping through his clothes and sticking to his face.

He peeked past the edge and saw a tall, skinny man with lank black hair sticking to his face turn his head to shout over at his equally tall and skinny companion. The exposed stretch of his neck made for an easy target and Dean’s shot hit in an explosion of red. He fell to his knees, his friend’s eyes growing wide before wildly opening fire on where he thought Dean was. Dean got him right between the eyes.

Two down, the gun fight halted abruptly as the gang regrouped. Dean got his knees up under him and keeping as low as possible, sprinted over to the skeleton of the wagon at his back. Immediately more shots rang out and one caught Dean in the meaty bunch of his thigh. He went down with a curse, plowing through the mud, but ending behind the scant cover of a wheel.

Dean blinked the rain out of his eyes. He reloaded, practiced fingers flying without thought. There was movement on both sides of the barn. Dean got the one on the left in the chest and the Sioux on the right charged at Dean with a wild war cry exploding from his lips. It cut off abruptly when Dean pumped three bullets into him, dropping him into the mud to stare up into the rain with sightless eyes.

Reload. Move.

As Dean suspected, they were circling behind him and another bullet found him, burrowing deep into his shoulder before Dean could find shelter around the back of the house.

"Fuck," Dean said, his voice sounding too loud in the chill of the morning despite the report of gunfire still ringing in his ears.

"Come out," a high-pitched voice commanded, "and we’ll kill you quick."

"And if I don’t?" Dean asked, tracking the origin of the generous offer.

"Then before the end you’ll beg us for mercy like the little bitch that you are."

Dean aimed low, fired twice, making a small adjustment between shots, and waited. For a moment there was silence, then the branches of the small copse of poplars creaked and broke as his would-be Samaritan fell forward into them.

One left.

"You gonna keep hiding or are we finishing this as men?" Dean called. The man already knew where Dean was, he had nothing to lose.

Silence. No movement. The wound in his shoulder was a deep hot ache, the one in his back numbing him from the waist down except for where the blood was pouring hotly down from his thigh. Dean didn’t know how long he had before the loss of blood impaired his abilities, a dragging leg and useless arm already slowing him down. At least it wasn’t his right side.

Dean took a step into the open, taking the risk to draw his fire and fell back with a yell when the bullet sped past his face.

That ought to do it.

Dean dug deep and sped round the back of the house as fast as he could, coming around the corner and jumping up onto the porch as the man strode across the yard to check on his kill. Caught in the open, he barely had time to lift his gun before Dean put him down with a single shot through the heart. Dean sagged back against the clammy boards, holstering his gun. Bobby was going to be pissed that he had to patch him up again, but this time Dean would be leaving as soon as he was done. He resolutely kept his thoughts away from the preacher.

A coyote howled in the distance, raising Dean's hackles. He shook his head as if to clear it.

He was halfway down the steps when the door swung open behind him and the shot rang out, once again piercing his back. Dean stumbled and rolled the rest of the way down, digging out his pistol even before he came to a stop.

Another shot rang out, hitting his right shoulder and his hand plopped down into the mud. Dean tightened his fingers and kept his grip on the gun.

"Culter," he forced out between clenched teeth. He’d made a fatal mistake, relying on Ellen's information and believing the man to be gone.

"The one and only," he said and shot Dean in the stomach.

Dean jerked, his body refusing to do much more.

"You’ve gone and cost me six good men, Mister Winchester. Not even good for it." He bent down, twisting his fingers in Dean’s wet hair and forcing his head back. Dean bared his teeth at him, blood bubbling up from his throat and dribbling down his chin. "Gonna have to take it out of the preacher’s ass," Culter said. "At least you broke him in good, shouldn’t have too much trouble getting him to bend over."

Dean let out a snarl and gathered all his strength, lifting the gun Culter hadn’t bothered to kick away and pressed it into his guts.

"You’ll never lay a hand on him," Dean said and pulled the trigger.

Culter clutched at his belly and fell backwards. Dean turned his head and spit out a mouthful of blood. He rolled onto his side, listening to the man dying beside him, and slowly got to his feet. Standing over him, Dean stuck his gun into his holster. It was empty and he hadn’t the strength to reload it. Culter stared up at him, triumph relighting the dying fire in his eyes as he lifted his pistol towards Dean’s head. Dean took a shuddering breath. He called up Sam’s face and waited.

One breath. Two. The gun fell from limp fingers, Culter’s lifeless hand thumping down onto his chest. Dean’s body jerked from the shot that never came. He fought to keep his footing. If he went down now, he wouldn't get up again.

Dean let out a thin whistle, his lips at first refusing to mold around the breath he was forcing past them. He heard Niyol snicker behind him and soon she pressed the softness of her nose into his hand. Dean took hold of the reins, bit down on the pain that cut into his body like it was being strung up with barbed wire as he swung himself up into the saddle.

He knew what it was now, this thing that lived in his chest. That it was wrong and sick and would damn him to hell. He’d left because he would not force this sin on his brother any longer. But still, as he felt the life slowly drain out of him, all he wanted was to feel Sam’s hands on him once more.

To his right lay the town and scant hope. "Take me home, girl," he said and tugged the reins left.

†††

Sam finished saddling Enoch and turned to rush back into the house for his hat. He didn’t have the time to waste, every minute Dean was getting farther ahead of him, but he had little choice. In his haste, he’d left it in the house before and now his wet hair kept falling into his eyes, blinding him.

He heard a horse and rider approaching and stopped, shielding his eyes as he peered into the downpour. Through the curtain of water, a black horse suddenly appeared in front of him, still galloping hard. Sam shot out a hand to catch the reins a moment before he recognized Niyol and the rider slid from his saddle, landing at Sam’s feet in a crumpled heap.

Sam fell to his knees beside the body, his breath already seizing in his throat. Please, God, no, he silently begged.

"No!" he screamed out loud when the man moved, trying to get to his feet. Sam turned him over onto his back. Dean’s once vibrant eyes were now a murky green, staring up at him.

"Dean," Sam said.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, barely a whisper. Dean blinked slowly, trying to fix his gaze on Sam.

"I'm here, Dean." Sam touched his hands to Dean’s wounds, trying to keep everything inside. There was so much blood, getting washed away by the rain and soaking into Sam's clothes.

"Sorry," Dean managed, the rest swallowed by a racking cough that welled more blood in his mouth. It spilled over his chin as Sam tried to pull him closer.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Sam told him. "Love you, Dean. Please."

He kissed Dean’s lips, called his name, shook him by his shoulders and held him tightly as he plead and promised, but it was all in vain.

Dean was gone.

†

It was still raining two days later when Sam buried Dean, the preacher and the stranger alone up on the hill.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

His mother had taken to her bed, held beneath the healing mists of sleep by some kind of potion Missouri had concocted. It was fine by him, Sam didn't want anyone else there anyway. Dean was his alone. Sam ripped the collar from his shirt, cast it aside with his jacket. The rain soaked through his shirt in seconds, sticking it to his skin as he picked up the shovel.

"He leadeth me beside still waters."

The mud was heavy in the shovel, and it was hard to keep it on long enough to get it into the hole.

"He restoreth my soul."

Sam choked on the words, swallowed hard and forced himself to continue.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me."

The cross Sam hammered into place with a rock was plain, two wooden planks nailed together. The wood was rough and unpolished and it bore no name.

"Thy loving kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Sam retrieved his jacket, wet and slick with mud. The collar, no longer white or stiff, he left where it lay.

"Amen."

Sam lay down his Bible and took up Dean’s guns. Somewhere out there was his brother’s unfinished business.

And he had yellow eyes.



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