Blue Skies From Rain Part 5 - Chapter 22

[lovesrain44]

 

Dean waited long enough for the orderly to lock them in their room before he grabbed hold of Sam and wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and pressed him hard up against the door. Shaking. His whole body was shaking and holding Sam was the only thing that kept him from spinning off into nothingness. Henriksen had fucking found them, as easily as if Dean had left a trail of breadcrumbs behind him. Maybe it had been the husked bodies sacrificed to the djinn’s dreams, maybe it had been the database so helpfully updated by Dr. Logan, Dean didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Henriksen had them, and his hate was as strong as ever. He’d lock them in separate cells, and he’d never, ever see Sam again.

Dean couldn’t even relax his throat enough to tell Sam any of this, or why he was clinging so hard, but Sam didn’t seem to need an explanation. He allowed himself to be pressed back and held, maybe too tightly, but his arms came around Dean like a blanket, solid warm bands, pulling Dean to him as he tucked Dean against him. Dean felt the hard bone of Sam’s jaw and realized that he was now where Sam so liked to be, tucked close, held safe. His mind kept twisting around what Henriksen could do, he was so scared he thought he might start pissing down his own leg, the way Sam had done.

“Dean?” asked Sam. It wasn’t a question in the normal sense, just wanting reassurance.

Dean opened his mouth and tried to give it, but could only remember the sharpness of his panic when he’d leaped to his feet to get Henriksen to shut the fuck up. Sam was so much better now, the last thing he needed was for someone who didn’t care about him to insist that he and Dean were brothers. Sam wasn’t ready. And somewhere, deep inside of him, Dean knew he wasn’t ready either.

“Well, Henriksen’s right about one thing,” said Sam, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“Huh?” he asked, his mouth muffled against Sam’s shirt.

“That you love me more than anything in the world,” said Sam. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be as worried about him taking us away. You’re worried about what he can do to us. To me.”

Right on the money. Sam was right on the money, even without the real memories of their encounters with Henriksen getting in the way. He let Sam stroke his hands up and down his arms, along his back, and then he pulled away. He looked up at Sam, who was looking down at him with quiet, still eyes.

It was in Sam’s eyes that he already that he knew how worried Dean was, how much Dean cared, even if Dean never said it to him. Which Dean couldn’t, not like Sam had said it. What he’d been doing with Sam had been for Sam, and the kind of love Sam was talking about was the kind that should never happen between brothers. That it had gone that way, Dean could chalk that up to them being in the hospital. It had been necessary; a way for him to get through to Sam, to keep him happy and calm till Dean could figure a way out for them. After which, well, they it would stop, this thing between them and that’s all there was too it. Once they were out of the hospital, the need for it would be over and then even Dean wouldn’t want it any more. That’s what he was counting on. What he hadn’t counted on was Henriksen forcing them to do it before they were ready. Before Dean was ready.

Someone knocked at the door, and Dean pushed Sam aside, a little roughly maybe, but it kept him from thinking too hard about that, and more about what they needed to do.

The door was unlocked from the outside, and Rubio stood there with a little cart and two trays of food. Dean saw that it was meatloaf and stewed tomatoes and mashed potatoes and his stomach didn’t want any of it. Even though, yes, there were two cartons of milk on each tray, and extra butter for Sam’s rolls, the way he liked them.

“Here’s supper,” said Rubio. “And meds. Make sure you take them.”

They stood back while Rubio trundled the cart halfway in and then set the trays on top of the dresser. Dean thought about making a break for it right then and there, but it was just at suppertime and there were always long lines of men going to the dining hall and far too many people would spot them.

“Try not to get too much food everywhere,” said Rubio. And then he backed the cart out and locked the door behind him. Not saying goodbye or anything, but maybe he didn’t know they were scheduled to leave the hospital, sometimes the lists got mixed up, and things went awry. That’s was how hospitals were.

“I don’t like meatloaf,” said Sam. “Especially not with stewed tomatoes.”

“Eat it anyway,” said Dean. He picked up the little paper cups with pills in them and took them directly to the toilet to flush them away. Then he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face, trying to still the pounding in his chest. As he was drying his face and hands on a towel, Sam stood in the doorway. He took a deep breath to keep calm; if he got worked up, he might telegraph that to Sam, and Sam didn’t need that.

“It’s going to be okay, isn’t it Dean?” Sam asked. His brows were drawn low and he leaned into the doorway like all he wanted was for Dean to tell him that yes, it was.

“C’mon,” said Dean. He pushed passed Sam, nudging him with his elbow, but gently. “Let’s eat, because I need to think. And you know I can’t think on an empty stomach.”

He took the trays with more stewed tomatoes on it and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the bed and put the tray on his knees. Sam did likewise, taking his fork up to take the tomatoes from his tray over to Dean’s. That was okay because as Dean looked at the tray, the food was already going cold, and his stomach told him that he wouldn’t be eating much of anything anyway, so it just didn’t matter about the tomatoes. But it made Sam feel better to account for them, just in case the lady from the dining hall was still checking on them, so Dean didn’t say anything.

Instead he started in on his meatloaf and the icy mashed potatoes, washing down each bite with some milk. He saved his roll and butter for last, and the last half of his second carton of milk so that he could chug it all down at once and feel the coolness of the milk coating his stomach.

He watched Sam struggle with his food. His hair hung over his eyes and his mouth was all screwed up as he concentrated eating what he simply did not want to eat. But he was eating it because Dean had told him to. Before, when they were brothers on the road, Sam was just as likely to question Dean as he was to obey him. And one day, they would get back to that, though how, Dean simply didn’t know. When Sam remembered what Dean had done to him, there would be no going back to what they’d had before. Or keeping what they had now.

He hoped that Sam would one day understand. And then forgive him. Until then, Dean would just keep doing what needed to be done.

“Sam,” he said, putting his fork on the tray and then the tray on the floor. He put a hand on each knee. “So here’s the deal.”

Sam looked up, chewing. “What?” he asked, around his food.

“I’m going to tell you a memory, so you’ll know what’s going on, okay?”

"A memory?” Sam asked. “One of yours?”

“Yeah. So here it is.” Dean took a deep breath. “I remember Henriksen. I remember him so fucking well. Henriksen hates us. Our family, I mean, our families live off the grid and we hunt all these things he mentioned and more besides. He doesn’t like us doing that. When he picks us up tomorrow, he’s going to lock us away in separate cells on different sides of the country, and we’ll never see the light of day again. Understand?” Dean’s throat felt dry, and he wanted more milk, or water, or anything to wash down the panic.

“Uh-huh.” Sam swallowed his mouthful of food and then put his fork down on the tray. Then he put his tray down and looked right at Dean. Like he was ready to do whatever Dean said at a moment’s notice. “And I’d never see you again.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. Obviously to Sam that was the worst part. Sam had made it clear, if not in exactly those words, but in everything he did, that he wouldn’t care if he was locked up in the bottom of a mine, as long as Dean was with him. Something hard and sharp worked its way up Dean’s throat. He had to swallow it back down just as hard. “So we don’t want that. Which means we need to get out of here before then. Before tomorrow noon.”

“You mean escape,” said Sam. It wasn’t the first time they’d talked about this, but Dean could tell that Sam knew he meant business and that soon Sam was going to have to put his money where his mouth was and decide when Dean walked out of there whether he was going to go with Dean or stay and maybe get left behind forever.

“Yeah. We’re going to escape. I’ve got a way-I can pick locks with paperclips. You ever remember me doing that?”

“No,” said Sam. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t. But if you say you can, then, I believe you.”

Sam would probably believe him if Dean told him he could fart rainbows out of his ass at this point. Which was fine, as long as Sam followed Dean and did what Dean told him, right up to the point where his memory returned, that’s all Dean wanted. They had to get out before Henriksen got them in his clutches, because after that, it would be all over.

“So what we need to do is get some rest, because when it gets quiet, when the shift changes later, I’m going to get us out of here.”

“And we’re going to sneak out that window,” said Sam.

“Right,” said Dean, feeling himself smile, pleased that Sam remembered. “Right out that window. And we’ll get far away, far away so that Henriksen will never find us.”

Sam opened his mouth like he had lots of questions he wanted to ask, but Dean’s rule had always been that Sam had to remember for himself, so he steeled himself for the questions. Steeled himself to refuse Sam.

But Sam only asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to finish eating as much as you can. At least the milk and the bread. And then we have to go to bed. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.”

Nodding, Sam reached for one of his cartons of milk.

Watching Sam concentrating on his supper, Dean felt the pull in his chest, the one that led to the dark places where the only bright thing was Sam. Sam who said he loved him, Sam who trusted him. All of it stirred together with something fierce and powerful, and all he wanted to do was pull Sam to him and whisper things that only Sam’s heart would hear. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. It would be a distraction that neither of them needed. But he could feel it, just for now. Once they got out of the hospital. That’s what Dean promised himself. Then it would stop.

*

Sam took off his clothes and put on his p.j.’s. Then he put his clothes back on, including both pairs of socks, keeping his eyes on Dean the whole time as he did the same thing. Sam felt a lot warmer with all the layers and it occurred to him to wonder why the hospital was always so damn chilly, it seemed stupid to keep the patients living in what was practically an ice box.

Dean didn’t seem to mind, though. He was fine rain or shine. Sam smiled, thinking about this.

“We’re going to go to bed,” Dean said now. “Even before the chime, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam said. His stomach was curling around itself a little at the thought of what they were going to do. He watched Dean get his five paper clips out from the drawer and place them on top of the dresser. Then he turned to look at Sam.

“Okay,” he said. “Bedtime.”

It was still the favorite part of Sam’s day, that moment when he lay next to Dean, their heads towards each other on the pillow. But when he reached for Dean, Dean pushed his hands back and pulled the covers over his chest.

“Not-not now, Sam,” he said. His eyes sparkled in the light of the overhead bulb, which burned brightly. “I know we probably won’t sleep-“

“I’m not sleepy at all,” said Sam

“-right but we need to rest and I need to think. I need to make sure I thought of everything. So.”

It made sense, but Sam found himself frowning. Then Dean reached out and stroked his arm, with the edges of his fingers, up and down.

“C’mon, Sam. For me?”

It was hard to resist the soft coaxing feel of Dean’s voice. It made him feel like he would do anything Dean asked. So he rolled towards Dean, but kept his distance as he clasped his hand around Dean’s elbow, keeping his fingers loose so Dean could roll away and face the wall if he wanted to.

“Sleep now,” said Sam, agreeing.

*

He never even heard the lights-out chime, though how he managed to fall asleep with the lights still on was something else. But he had. Dean was shaking him awake, and when Sam opened his eyes, Dean was a long, warm grey line in the dark, nudging and pushing him to get out of bed. Sam moved his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, his toes feeling for his slip-on sneakers, his jaw cracking as he yawned. He watched Dean put on his sneakers and rub his hands through his hair, making it stand straight up.

As Sam stood up, Dean grabbed his arm. “I need you to remember,” said Dean, his mouth brushing against Sam’s ear so softly the skin along the side of his neck started to tingle. “If I pull you, come. If I hold you, stop. If I push you, you run and keep running, okay? And don’t say anything till we’re beyond the fence. If we get caught, don’t say anything at all.”

These were instructions Dean had give him at least five times while they’d lain in bed before Sam had fallen asleep. He opened his mouth, still half groggy, but remembered in time to keep his yap shut, like Dean said, and only nodded. He cupped his hand over Dean’s hand on his arm and squeezed with his fingers.

“Good,” said Dean. “Now, stick close.”

Dean grabbed up the paperclips and stuck four of them along the waistband of his boxers. Sam couldn’t see exactly what Dean was doing but knew he must be unfolding the paperclip like he’d talked about and was now sticking it in the keyhole of the lock on the door, wiggling it around till it clicked. Sam could feel Dean’s elbows against his side as Dean did something with both of his hands, and then the lock clicked again. A second later, the door swung open.

Sam was suddenly wide awake. His heart thumped loud, like he remembered reading about in books, so loud he figured if someone were nearby they might be able to hear it. But it was only loud in his own ears, it was the rushing of blood past his eardrums, was all. Still his breath was pretty ragged as he stuck close to Dean and tried to match his movements as they both slid along corridor wall and down the side staircase.

Dean’s plan had been straightforward. First get the keys and some necklace he wanted from Dr. Logan’s office. Then, second, get downstairs to the broken window. And third, slide out the broken window and into the outside world. Easy. Dean had made it sound easy.

The first part was. The main corridor to Dr. Logan’s office was half-dim with nighttime lighting, and the circles of muted dark were easily twice the size of the brighter areas, but the coolness of the air seemed to absorb a lot of that. There was no one in the main hall. As they hurried to the end of the corridor, Sam heard voices coming from the open stairwell by the main door, and he could see Dean’s face by the light coming in from the windows from the parking lot. Dean shook his head. Sam knew that meant he wasn’t to pay attention to the voices and that he was to stick close. So he did.

He kept right on Dean’s heels, close enough to feel Dean’s arms reaching for the next paperclip, unbending it as he bent over and Sam hung close. He watched Dean’s fingers at the lock, heard the click. It was almost surreal the speed with which Dean moved, and he liked thinking about that. About Dean’s hands, his fingers, warm on Sam’s skin, or tangled in Sam’s hair. It was much better to focus on Dean’s hands instead of being in Dr. Logan’s office without any lights on. The bright, sunny room he’d been in several times was now dark and empty, and the sounds Dean was making as he went through the drawers banged in Sam’s ears.

But he didn’t tell Dean to hush or be quiet. Dean knew how much noise he was making, obviously. The keys to the car, the black car Dean talked about, were important. No one else should have them. But the necklace, that was another thing. Dean had barely mentioned it, like it was a secret he felt he should keep from Sam. When Dean pulled the necklace out, Sam wanted to ask him. But the look on Dean’s face as he looked away, muscles tight and his eyes unfocused as though on some long ago memory as he put the necklace over his head and settled it against his skin under his shirt made Sam keep his mouth shut. Dean would tell Sam one day, or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter to Sam, as long as he had Dean.

Then, a second later, Dean was rushing at him, pushing him out the door to the office, letting it snap shut and lock behind them as they hurried towards the door to the stairwell to the basement. Dean tried the handle and it wasn’t even locked. He looked at Sam, the glow of the reflection off the floor giving his face a weird cut look, like half of him was made of darkness, the other half, some clownishly bright smile. Sam didn’t know what Dean was thinking, but he knew what he was thinking. Dean had said he’d tested the basement doors before and they were always locked. Always. That this one wasn’t was strange. Sam’s mouth went dry, like he’d been running.

He wanted to ask, isn’t this weird?, and as Dean looked at him, he felt that Dean rather wanted to ask the same thing. But the rule was still in place. You couldn’t just break rules for no reason. You had to have a really good reason. But still, Dean looked frozen in place, and so Sam reached out his hand, and, with his hand on top of Dean’s hand, slowly turned the knob.

This seemed to wake Dean up, because he elbowed Sam out of the way a bit to open the door, and tugged on Sam’s shirt to get him to follow. Sam did, down the cement stairs and along the completely dark passageway that smelled like basement and old paper, and that dank smell of mice nest that felt oddly comfortable. He almost wanted to linger, but Dean was moving, kept moving, and Sam had to keep up. He realized he was hot, almost too hot, but there wasn’t time to stop and lean against the cool cement wall to make the feeling go away. And suddenly, he wanted them to toss this idea out on its ear and go back to their rooms. Surely Henriksen would let them stay together? Did they have to be outlaws on the run to stay together?

He was starting to feel all rattled inside when the got to the door at the end of the passage. Dean was muttering to himself, numbers, it sounded like. Then he turned around and backed up and Sam realized they’d gone one door too far. At the next to the last door, Dean stopped again and tried the knob. It was locked, but in the dark, Sam could hear him pulling the next paperclip from his boxers, and while the unbending of it was absolutely silent, the click in the lock was not. In fact, it sounded rather loud.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, unable to keep his yap shut one second longer. “We should go back.”

Dean didn’t say anything, and Sam couldn’t tell if he was looking or listening or what. He tugged on Dean’s shirt in the dark.

“Dean.”

Dean continued to ignore him, continued to work on the lock, which finally snapped open. Dean opened the door, pushing it inward, and yanked Sam into the room with him, shutting the door quietly behind him. He still didn’t say anything, but the hard edge to his breathing told Sam enough. Dean was pissed, and rightfully so. Sam bit on his lower lip, and tried not to say anything else, it was already bad enough.

There was light now, coming in through the window that Sam knew was the right one. It had the same metal cross bracing, the same little squares. Dean was doing something in the half-dark, it looked like he was dragging a box for them to stand on, so Sam went to help him. Dean let him, and Sam figured he wasn’t much help, but it was better than standing around. Besides, it let him get close to Dean, shoulder to shoulder for a minute, soaking in Dean’s calm.

It wasn’t so bad until Dean propped the window open with a something, and hopped up on the box, his hands on the ledge. Outside, beyond Dean, it was raining, the drops cutting through the light and into the grass like grey blades. All at an angle, like the wind was blowing. A gust of cold air shot into the room. It was then Sam realized his knees were banging together and his heart was speeding up fast enough to be uncomfortable.

His mouth opened but just then, Dean swung up his leg, and bracing himself on one elbow, swung the other leg up, and slipped through the window. Only half of him showed now, his shoulder, and one arm. He reached in through the window towards Sam.

“C’mon, Sam.” His whisper was rough, as if he were mad at himself for breaking the no talking rule. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Sam couldn’t move. He wanted Dean to come back in through that window so they could go back upstairs and into their room. He knew Dean had left the door to their room ajar, it would be so easy to return there. To the four walls, and the two narrow beds. To the place where he knew Dean, and knew Dean loved him. Out there in the world? Maybe not so much. There was so much Dean could return to that didn’t involve Sam.

“Sam!” Now Dean’s voice had risen and he laid his head down on the wet grass, ignoring the rain and the poky ends of the grass against his face so that he could reach for Sam.

“C’mon. I know you’re scared. Come with me.”

Sam swallowed. Dean was brave, so very brave. He looked at Sam, his shoulders twisting in through the opening of the window, and Sam thought that he was on the verge of climbing back into the room to give Sam a hug and maybe a kiss and whatever else he might need to bolster up his courage to go with Dean. In that second, Sam knew he had to pony up and climb out that window. They didn’t have the time Dean was willing to give him, they had to leave now. Besides. He wanted to be as brave as Dean.

He let Dean pull on his arm as he stepped on the box and lifted himself on the ledge. He swung first one leg through and then the other. Then he was flat on the wet grass, soaked through in seconds, teeth chattering, the rain coming down like hard pellets as Dean swung the window closed and got to his feet.

Then he was standing over Sam, looking down, the light from the floodlights high on the second floor bathing his hair in glints and spikes. His eyes were dark, and as he reached down to pull Sam to his feet, he was smiling. It was a real smile, and the lights stroked his lips with shadows, and Sam moved in, kissing that mouth, closing his eyes, just for a second. Feeling the rain on the side of his face, and a memory, of another time, he’d been following someone, feeling a rain just like this one, and they’d been arguing. He felt himself tighten and then Dean pushed at him a little, and Sam opened his eyes. Dean’s face was close to his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Sam,” he said, sighing.

Then, with a hard pull on Sam’s arm, Dean started to move. Across the lawn and towards the white fence that stuck up out of the dark lawn like reaching teeth. He was moving fast and Sam almost had to run to keep up with him. Their feet slipped on the grass, and mud splattered up at them. They couldn’t slip and waste time, they couldn’t. They had one chance and this was it. When Dean sped up, Sam did too, and in a second, they were at the gap in the fence. There were more stones gone, but more plastic fence posts in place, so the gap was a little narrower. But not too narrow to slip through.

For a second, Dean paused, turning to look over Sam’s shoulder at the hospital. Sam looked with him, squinting as he faced the bright floodlights, wincing as the rain hit him full on in the face. The hospital was lit from a few windows, but most of them were dark, and there was no sound except for the sharp hiss of rain on the leaves as the trees slapped each other in the growing wind.

“Let’s go,” said Dean, from behind him.

Sam turned and watched Dean leap through the gap, disappearing in the darkness beyond. Sam’s heart thudded, he was shivering all over, but something in his stomach sparkled, moving up into him like tiny lights. Energy, spreading as he pushed off his heels and into the gap. The slope on the other side of the fence gave way and he slid down it, arms out, trying to keep his balance. When he hit the bottom of the slope, water splashed under his feet, and he almost felt the water pulling at his shoes, but Dean was there. Wrapping his arms all around Sam, pulling Sam close. Sam realized he was laughing, out loud, right into Dean’s ear.

“Told you this was a good idea,” said Dean. His mouth smiling and warm against Sam’s skin.

The rain felt like icicles and the wind howled. There was no going back, but Sam knew he didn’t want to.

*

They waded through dark water, sloshing with every step along the flooded riverbank. There were dim shapes of trees on the river side of them, and where they were was the path, with the rest of the bank rising up along their right, thick with brush and long trailing vines. Periodically, lightning flashed to show them how the path rose above the waterline, only to dip down again as they went, wetting them practically up to their knees. Sam thought that maybe they should go to higher ground and not walk so close to the river that seemed to be rising as the rain kept falling.

But then he tried to think about it like Dean would, that the river would hide their tracks and their scent, and the longer they did this, the further they could get without leaving a trace of the way they’d gone. Sam knew this, and whether it was from a book or from something he’d done with Dean or his brother at one point, he didn’t know. He just knew that even though his head was ducked down into his chest, he was cold through, and the underside of his chin was the only warm spot on him. His cotton clothes were soaked and sticking to him and the chill was eating at him as easily as if he were naked, gnawing its way into his bones, leaving him shivering, different parts of him twitching in an earnest desire to keep warm. His hands were as far up their sleeves as they would go, but it wasn’t helping. As for his feet, he couldn’t feel them at all. For all he knew, he might have lost his shoes.

He focused on Dean, on the dark outline of those shoulders only one foot ahead of him, head down, walking, always walking. For an hour or more this went on, until the rain started to let up and it didn’t seem like it was quite so dark. But even as the rain let up, Sam felt a surge of energy against his legs and thought that the water was continuously up to his knees now. Was the river rising?

“You okay, Sam?” asked Dean over his shoulder, not slowing his pace.

“Right as rain,” said Sam, saying it before he thought it. This earned him a small laugh from Dean, as he paused and looked back at Sam. Sam could barely see his face, and his teeth were chattering so hard, he thought he’d missed what Dean said.

“What?” he asked.

“We gotta go up,” said Dean. “I don’t know, I think the river is rising.”

“I think so too,” said Sam, his front teeth clicking together hard. His lips were so numb, he couldn’t feel his tongue against them. “How far?”

“Two miles, maybe,” said Dean. “Let’s go up, and see.”

Eager, Sam turned to go up the bank, away from the rush of water only inches on the other side of the trees. In the dark, he stepped on a loose rock and slipped, and had to grab whatever he could to stay upright. Beside him, Dean was doing the same, holding on to the damp underbrush, shoving his heels into the mud, slipping sideways, grabbing again. Moving on. Up. Up the bank, to where the ground was flat and if not completely dry, still dryer than walking along the river. At the last bit, Dean shoved himself up, and then turned to reach out his hands towards Sam.

“Up,” said Dean. Sam grabbed Dean’s hands, feeling the bare heat under the grit and cold. He wanted to stand there for a minute to catch his breath, but Dean was already moving on, across the flat grassy field at the top of the bank. Sam oriented himself upright and followed.

Away from the river, the wind cut across the grasses and the sky and into their skins, knife cold, and Sam ached like his bones were twisting to get away. There was a road, Sam could see the empty straight lines of the blacktop, outlined by the line of trees on the other side. But they couldn’t follow the road, not yet, so he crossed the small field behind Dean, and into the low brush and dark, scraggly trees. The wet leaves slapped water into their faces, and Sam figured they couldn’t get any wetter so it didn’t matter.

“You gonna make it, Sam?” asked Dean at one point, turning back to look at him as he held a branch out of the way.

“Cold,” was all Sam could manage to say. He was so cold, he ached all over, couldn’t feel his hands now, and he just wanted to lie down and sleep. He couldn’t really see Dean’s expression, but figured that was okay, he knew what Dean’s face was saying. What it always said, how he was looking out for Sam, something sparking brightly in his eyes as his mouth tried not to smile.

Dean turned as Sam slipped by the branch and they kept walking until they got to a group of houses, all clustered along the road and down along the slope towards the river. It had stopped raining completely now and a bit of moonlight had come out to light their way. That, along with the odd streetlight and porch light made it almost bright enough to see.

“We could find a clothesline, take some clothes,” said Dean, whispering as he pulled Sam to him to keep them both on the shadows.

Stealing. Dean was talking about stealing. Of course, Sam might be remembering it wrong, but stealing was against the law. Then again, so was escaping right out from beneath the noses of the FBI. “Those’ll be wet,” said Sam.

“Something from a garage or a shed, then,” said Dean. “We got to get something warmer to wear, plus we still look like what we are. Which is escapees from the loony bin.”

Sam tried to laugh but he was clamping his jaw closed so tightly he couldn’t manage it. Dean wasn’t complaining so he wouldn’t either. Besides, there was no help for it. Maybe stealing clothes was a good idea.

“Hey,” said Dean. He was right up against Sam now and he reached out to put his fingers against Sam’s face. “You’re like ice.”

“So’re you,” said Sam, his chest shuddering.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“You didn’t,” said Sam.

“Damnit,” said Dean. He pulled Sam close. “You could come with me to do this, or you could stay here, out of the wind.”

Sam thought about this for a minute, his eyes scanning the narrow street that paralleled the river and laced between the houses like a muddy string. “I’m holding you back,” he said. He didn’t know how to pick a lock with a paperclip and he certainly didn’t know how to steal anything.

That Dean could, that Dean was obviously willing to didn’t make him think twice about how he felt about Dean. He still loved Dean. But it was a surprise, like the paperclips had been. He supposed it wouldn’t be the last surprise that Dean would show him, and these odd talents of Dean’s didn’t make him a bad person. Besides, Sam knew that he’d not come all this way and trusted him with as much as he had just to start making judgments in the middle of the night somewhere north of-where was it, Bath? In the rain.

Dean seemed to sense his hesitation, but Sam leaned into his shoulder. “I’ll go with you. I don’t know if I’ll be of any help but-”

He felt Dean’s nose, cold against the coldness of his skin, the scent and mud and of Dean clinging to him. “You don’t have to do a thing,” said Dean. “Except-”

“I know,” said Sam. “Except keep my yap shut.”

He followed Dean as Dean crept along the edge of the muddy lane, looking at houses, testing doors on sheds, peering in windows. Every now and then they heard the far-off roll of thunder. But except for the wind whispering around the corners of buildings and finding every single gap in their clothes, the little group of houses was quiet.

It was when the road took them to the river’s edge that Sam could see why. Half of the town was flooded out, and the road they were standing on ended sharply under the water. Someone had put a warning sign with blinking orange lights on the road, and overhead, there was a bright, white floodlight attached to a telephone pole. They could see ragged stumps of bridge pylons and tops of houses, mostly underwater, and the occasional tree stump clogging the edge of the river.

“They got flooded out,” said Sam. It seemed strange to think that all the while him and Dean had been locked in the institution that the rain had washed people right out of their houses and they never knew. The world had continued to go on without them, but he didn’t know how that would change, now that he and Dean were in it. “Where are we?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Looks like we got our pick of houses, though,” he said. “Let’s try some doors.”

It was almost surreal tying so many doors, opening them rather than knocking or ringing doorbells, which is what Sam remembered that regular people did. But he and Dean weren’t regular, at least not at the moment, and Dean seemed to think that they could just find some clothes that would fit them and take them, and everything would be fine. Well, dry clothes would be warmer, so that was something. So Sam kept trying doors. Dean took one side of the street and he took the other.

After about five doors and one shed later, Dean hissed at him, and Sam hunched his shoulders against the cut of the wind, and hurried across the muddy street, his feet smashing through puddles. When he got there, Dean was standing there with the side door open to a little house that seemed to lean to one side.

“The garage was full of tools,” said Dean, “so I’m thinking we could find something.”

With his heart hammering in his throat, Sam followed Dean into the empty kitchen of the dark house, the smell of mold whapping him in the face, and the sound of something scurrying away in the dark making him want to step right back outside. But Dean wasn’t hesitating, no, Dean was walking through the dark like he’d lived there all his life, not worried at all. Not about the dark, or the mice, or the mold. Or, maybe, not even ghosts. Sam hadn’t thought about ghosts in a long time but he was thinking about them now. It was the perfect recipe, and because the town was probably all empty, no one would hear them scream.

“D-dean?”

“Shhh,” said Dean. That meant, keep your yap shut, Sam.

Sam pushed close and tried not to breathe too loud, because maybe then Dean would send him back outside. And who knew what lurked out there.

Dean went into every room, and finally they found the laundry room, and with a low sound in his throat, Dean reached back to pat Sam.

“I know it’s dark, but feel around.”

There was enough light coming through the window, though, that after a moment it was almost as bright as their room back at the institution. Not enough to read by, but enough to get around. Sam spotted something hanging on the wall, and when he went over, he discovered there were two jackets made of denim, one lined with flannel and one lined with wool. He handed the flannel one to Dean because it was softer. Then Dean held up a pair of pants to Sam.

“Didn’t quite make it to washday,” Dean said, keeping his voice low. “But try them anyway.”

The pants were stiff in places and smelled like glue or paint, Sam wasn’t sure. But as Dean found himself a pair of pants, too, Sam obediently changed out of his damp, thin cotton pants and p.j.’s.

His hands along his bare thighs were so numb, it felt like he was touching someone else’s leg. Then he slipped the jeans on over his still-damp boxers.

“Hey,” said Dean. “I found socks and boots.”

The socks smelled bad, like old goat or something, but Sam held his breath and put them on because Dean was holding out a pair of black boots, and he knew if he put the socks on, and then the boots, he’d be a whole lot warmer.

They got dressed in their borrowed finery in silence, and once the boots were on and laced up, the smell wasn’t so bad. And the pants could be excused from being stiff because they were thick and warm. The denim jacket, when he put it on, was stiff like the pants, and Sam suspected the person, a man, probably, had caulked or painted a house. He didn’t know how he knew, just that the smell and the stiffness was familiar. Dean rolled up their cotton clothes from the hospital and stuffed them under the table and kicked them hard.

“Let’s go,” said Dean.

They went back out through the kitchen, and though they looked in the cupboards and the fridge, there wasn’t any food.

“I don’t want to hang around too long,” said Dean, “but I’d like to keep looking in the other houses for food we can carry and eat as we go, okay? Water, beef jerky, crackers, stuff like that.”

Sam’s stomach was too cold still to be hungry, but he nodded his head he shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. They were lined with wool which was, by some miracle, still soft. “Okay,” he said as he followed Dean out of the door and back into the fresh air.

They checked houses as they went, always keeping sight of the river on their left. In one house, where the mold covered the entire of one wall of the living room, they found crackers in the cupboard, still sealed in their box. In another house, there was a canteen that they tried to fill with water at the sink, only the plumbing wasn’t working. But then they found bottles of water, which they stuffed in the plastic grocery sack Dean had found. Sam found some beef jerky, and then Dean discovered two cans of pineapple, complete with pop tops so they didn’t even need a can opener. When Dean found a hunting knife in someone’s garage, he tipped his head at Sam.

“We should head out,” he said.

Dean could probably walk all night, and if that’s what he wanted to do, Sam was willing to follow where he led. Dean opened the door and gestured Sam out like he was the doorman or something, with a little bow and sweep of his hand.

Sam decided that it was okay. They’d only stolen what they’d needed, and they hadn't not broken anything to do it. They’d only taken two pairs of everything and that out of dire need, so it wasn’t quite like real stealing.

They walked along the lane as it worked its way between the houses in fits and starts until they were out along the road again, and away from the streetlights. The road slashed like a long shadow through the darkness.

“We go left, I think,” said Dean. “Watch for cars. We’ll find a path in the woods, if we can.” He looked at Sam, his eyes sparkles in the dark. For Dean this was fun, apparently, so Sam didn’t say that he was tired, and yes, he was hungry, and no, he didn’t want to keep walking. If Dean could do it, so could he.

“Stay close, Sam,” said Dean.

So Sam did.

Chapter 23

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post