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Timestamp #7 - Land of Sky-Blue Waters 3/3, NC17, Dean/Sam
Land of Sky-Blue Waters (3/3)
by Maygra
Dean/Sam. NC17. More or less follows Dead Man's Curve. (For Allie who wanted 15 weeks later.)
Part of the Open Road Series of loosely affiliated stories: (Reminders of Echoes, Midnight at the Majestic, and Land of Trembling Earth).
Many thanks to demrepic and ruby_jelly for the beta,
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(20,604 words)
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They stayed away from the pool for a couple of days for the most part, and set to the gravel and painting, but it no longer felt like payment for a place to rest, more like penance for an unacknowledged failure. Either way, it left them both exhausted at the end of the day and achy in the mornings. Dean went down once, in daylight, with a heavy bar magnet and a small bag and tossed both in the trunk when he returned. The list got shorter and the days got longer and Sam put the last of the paint on the exterior walls while Dean sliced into the bathroom water lines and connected the washer to them. He put the small pile of their dirty clothes in and then packed them and Sam knew they'd be leaving soon, within a day or so.
Dean didn't try and stop him when he headed back to the pool toward dusk, only shrugged on his jacket and went with. He tucked the iron knife in the back of his jeans but left the filings.
It didn't immediately appear, and Sam crouched at the edge of the water, and dipped his hand into it, taking a handful to drink. Dean didn't stop him from doing it, but his fingers dug into the collar of Sam's shirt and jacket and held tight.
It was already getting dark, so no need for clouds to obscure too much light. Sam rocked back on his heels when the thing stood up, only a few feet from the edge of the bank. It held something in its hand but Sam couldn't see what. It started forward only to stop, and make that low hissing sound of displeasure and touched its own chest twice.
Sam had forgotten. He reached up to pull the talisman over his head and Dean hissed as well, in warning. "Just hold onto me," Sam said. The red cord at his wrist was no threat to the creature and when he set the necklace aside it came forward cautiously.
It offered no more than stones, two of them, worn smooth and hollowed through by water. Hag stones, wrapped in what looked like grasses but on touching them Sam realized they were strands of the thing's hair. Payment or thank you or curse, he didn't know, but he took them, and was even more surprised when one thin hand wrapped around his wrist lightly, not binding or grabbing, just barely holding him. Its skin was cool but not cold, wet and soft and supple like a snakeskin or eel. But even as he held it he could feel the wetness fading, the supple palm drying too quickly with nothing but Sam's body heat to warm it. He let it go and it dropped down, cupping water to pour over the stones in Sam's hands, before looking past him and up at Dean.
Then it drew away, sinking quickly into the water, and hidden by darkness.
Dean tugged at his collar. "Let's go," he said quietly, no command, merely a suggestion. Sam picked up his talisman settled it around his neck again. He fingered the stones and then offered one to Dean.
Dean hesitated, but took it, holding it up. His thumb didn't quite fit through the hole and the stone was irregularly shaped, not a perfect circle at all. He thrust it in his pocket and turned away.
Sam followed him, carrying his own stone in his hand, thumb rubbing the smooth stone. Like the water fae, the stone was already drying, heavy and cool, but not wet. It was likely the thing couldn't leave the water, or not for long. He couldn't be sure, but it would explain why it hadn't left, why it remained where it apparently no longer wanted to be.
Or maybe he had it all wrong. They were guessing at so much, following intuition rather than fact. It couldn't communicate with them, at least not directly, nor they with it, even though it seemed to understand well enough. They'd tried and failed, and there had been no recriminations, no retaliation.
Dean's hand came back up to rest on the back of his neck, thumb and fingers massaging the tendons gently for a moment, then just resting there as they made their way back to the cabin.
They'd used up most of the fresh food they'd brought, and Dean heated up a large can of stew, caught the local news and weather on one channel. They were predicting heavy rains and colder temperatures over the next few days. Dean said nothing but Sam was clear they'd leave in the morning, if only because the rain would make it nearly impossible to get the car out if the track got muddy. The last thing on the list was to fix the railing on the porch, and that would take them all of five minutes. Another ten or so to close off the valves on the propane tank and the water lines, let the hoses drain. They weren't so far into spring that there couldn't be another freeze this far north.
They cleaned up the dishes in silence, Sam washing and Dean drying and putting away. The cord on Sam's wrist turned dark, dark red in the water and tightened up some, some of the dye leeching out and leaving a red smear on his skin. Dean used the towel to wipe it away, then gave him push toward the bedroom. "I want to get an early start," he said. Sam didn't argue.
He didn't argue when Dean's arm slipped around him and his hips nudged into Sam's from behind either, stripping off clothes between kisses and the grip of Dean's hands on his upper arms. Dean's pendants jangled and sang softly when he urged Sam over on his belly, and Sam didn't need any other encouragement to spread wide, or lift his hips. His own pendant dug into his skin and he didn't so much mind that either.
Dean wasn't rough or bruising but he was urgent, frustrated maybe, and Sam shared it -- feeling not exactly helpless but unhelpful. Dean settling deep inside him in determined increments felt like they got something right, at least, no matter how odd or wrong it might look to anyone else.
"Still thinking too much, Sam," Dean panted into his ear, and pulled them both onto their sides so he could wrap his hand around Sam's dick, and urged Sam to help out here, Sammy. I'm not in this alone.
He wasn't. They weren't, either of them. In any of it, all of it. Sam hooked his leg back behind Dean's calves and pushed back. Let Dean tug at his hair and pull his head back, giving Dean access to this throat and jaw and went with what was here and now; the full, insistent throb in his ass and groin, the slick feel of Dean's hand on his cock and his own covering Dean's entirely. He reached back to find Dean's ass and choked on a laugh when Dean groaned deep and frustrated because Sam couldn't quite reach his hole no matter jokes about his Sasquatch height and reach. Dean thrust steady and sure, let Sam guide the rhythm of their hands, and pushed him flat on the bed so he could drive deeper, catching Sam just right on nearly every thrust.
Sam was still hard and aching and right on the edge when Dean came, pressing his forehead between Sam's shoulder blades, tightening his arms in and around him. His heart thudded loud and fast against Sam's back, body warm and sweaty and shuddering in a way that almost made Sam come just because as good a lover as Dean was, it was rare for him to be overcome or to gasp Sam's name out the way he was now, soft and pressed to Sam's skin.
Sam nudged his hand away, the tight coil in his belly and along his spine demanding release, and stroked hard and fast. Dean tucked his chin against Sam's shoulder and his hand slid under Sam's dick to squeeze his balls. "Come on, Sam…let me see it, let it go," he whispered and pressed the flat of his hand to the inside of Sam's thighs, opening him wider so he could see. It was right for all the wrong reasons, or maybe wrong for all the right ones. Dean's dick slipped out of him replaced by Dean's fingers and that more focused attention had Sam gasping and coming in a few seconds. Dean followed the aftermath, pressing deep, and twisting up and over to cover Sam's mouth with his own, then slumping down to rub Sam's thigh when he went boneless and so sated and sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open.
"Gonna have to wash the sheets again," Dean mumbled.
"Yeah." Sam didn't move though. He didn't hear any whispers or water, only the blood rushing back to where it normally resided.
His dreams were a mixed set of metaphors, stark and clear in imagery but less so in connections, a tracery of riding in the car, and floating on the waves at the beach. But he was too far back and when he headed to shore, his legs grew tired and his throat parched and he could get no closer until the ice came. It started at the shore and stretched outward, surrounding him and leaving him cold. He pressed against it and it cracked and splintered, sharp edges slicing into his palms, leaving them wet and pale, and he looked for Dean, needing help to ease the bleeding.
Red tinted windows looked on horizons he couldn't remember and he felt Dean's arms around him, carrying him -- only he felt too small, the road was bumpy and uneven, but not scary, like a sled ride and he wanted to laugh.
Light and heat sent the lacy ice retreating, and hurt his eyes, and he knew he cried out, only there was no sound, just the hissing of water against the flames, and the smell of smoke and blessed, cool release of water closing over his head, shutting out the light, muffling the sounds of voices and sirens and even Dean's voice promising it would be okay, Sammy…it'll be okay.
He woke with a start, sitting up quickly, heart pounding and throat closed over a sob that made his head ache. Dean came up as well, startled by Sam's sudden movement, hands already closing around Sam's shoulders.
There was a tattoo of sound above them. The rain had come -- lightly it sounded like, but steady, already dripping off the roof, soaking into the ground, seeping toward streams and rivers.
"Nightmare?" Dean asked, strong hands flexing and contracting along Sam's shoulders, grounding him and easing the tension all at the same time.
Sam shook his head. "Not quite…just…ice and cold and fire. You carrying me away from the fire…"
Dean squeezed his shoulders and ruffled his hair. "It's been awhile since you have nightmares about Jess."
"It wasn't Jess. It was…I fell through the ice…did I ever fall through the ice? And the fire…"
"Jesus, Sam…" Dean said and shifted to sit beside him, pulling the blanket around. The room was chill. "Yeah, when you were about four. Just at the edge of a pond. Dad and I had you out again before you hardly got wet. Maybe three feet of water. Deep enough to scare us both. And the fire--"
"You were carrying me. Like in your arms. Not like with Jess…not having to push an pull me, just carrying me and running."
Dean blew out a breath. "I did…after Mom. I told you that."
"I remember it."
"You were six months old, Sam. There's no way you can remember it."
"I was too heavy…you almost fell. But you didn't. We were….it was bumpy. We were laughing."
Dean didn't say anything for a long moment. "I was scared. And yeah…I'd never carried you so far, or without Mom or Dad right next to me. I almost fell down the stairs. So I sat down and went down them on my butt, then ran outside. You…you were doing that…it was a thing you did when Dad or Mom would bounce you on their knees. Not really laughing, just a kind of sound…and you'd get this big toothless grin…" he stopped and leaned forward. "Sam…you couldn't…there is no way you can know that. You couldn't remember anything from being that young. I barely remember it."
"I wasn't scared. You carried me out of the pond too."
Dean got up suddenly, hunting for his jeans. "Yeah. Dad went to get the car warmed up, but your feet were wet and cold and you were crying. So I gave you a piggy-back ride to the car. You laughed then too. By the time we got you in the car and changed your boots and socks and pants, you hardly even remembered falling in the pond."
"Where are you going?" Sam asked as Dean found his shirt as well.
"That thing is in your head, Sam. In your head and scrounging around -- there's no other reason why or how you could remember any of this. Maybe the reason no one's ever said anything about it is because it's stealing memories, like it did the first time. Maybe that's what it does."
"You don't know that." Sam got up as well and found his own jeans, hurrying because Dean was already yanking on his boots with no socks.
"I knew we couldn't trust it. It doesn't get to be in your head, Sam. There's shit enough I can do about the things that do get in there, but this one I know how to deal with," he said and headed out, not waiting, even when Sam ran after him.
Dean wasn't messing around though. He came at Sam, fast and hard, eyes dark and jaw set. Sam wasn't expecting it, not the fist to his jaw or Dean grabbing his boots and tossing them out into the yard as far as he could. He grabbed up the bag of iron filings and his jacket and heading out into the darkness, the flashlight glinting back on the rain that was still falling steadily.
Sam swore and found his sneakers, his shirt and coat, and took off after Dean. He'd be lucky if he didn't break his neck, but he didn't dare hunt for the other flashlight, glad the path was mostly clear. And he yelled…screamed Dean's name. The rain soaked his hair and skin, the air frigid. They'd both end up with hypothermia, Dean blinded by his need to protect Sam from damn near everything, even when he couldn't.
His coat slapped against his hips as he ran, not nearly as water resistant as Dean's leather, and he felt it then, the hag stone in his pocket, wet hand closing over it.
What had been whispers in the cabin sounded like a roar in his ears now, the rush and rumble as the stream picked up speed, water sliding over rocks, and under ice sheets. He almost stumbled, the sound fading as the stone dried.
He pulled it out, letting the rain soak it again and reached up to pull the iron pendant off, shoving it in his pocket. "Dean! Wait! Please!" he yelled and kept moving forward.
…the stream started further north, flowing out of a lake and beyond that even further to mountains always capped with ice. When the water flowed quickly and deep it was easy to move back and forth, upstream and down…cold waters to warm. Roads and highways of water…here and there…
…but the way kept getting blocked, forcing them to detour, to find new routes…new roads…in between the water came the metals forged of earth and heat, poisoning the pathways…making the young one sicken and die and the older ones lethargic, unable to hunt to move. They needed the big waters. Needed to escape the ice and the iron. ..
…this was a bad path. It narrowed too quickly, was blocked just a short distance from the big deep waters…and before it could return, the way back was blocked as well…
…those that laid the iron could do so in the light, in the sun. They could walk the land without it shredding skin or drying flesh. They could move over earth like it and it's kin could move through water…
…it only wanted the deep water. To hunt and eat and be with it's kin…with its like. So far away… so few.
The rock was slick from the rain and Sam hit it without realizing he was still moving, still running. The fall jarred the stone from his hand, drove the breath out of his lungs. Then Dean was there, pulling him upright.
"Tell me you didn't…"
"The hell I didn't. It got out though, headed downstream."
"It will be trapped. It'll die."
"I'm not sorry about that. It can't get to you then," Dean said, getting a shoulder under Sam's to get him to his feet. Something hard dug into Sam's hip and he twisted, digging his hand into Dean's pocket to find the other stone.
It needed water, just like the creature did and Sam jerked away, thrusting his hand and the stone into the icy water. Dean was on him in an instant, pulling him back and Sam reached for the cords around his throat, pulling them up and off and dropping them to the rock.
He didn't even know it would work. Dean had only ever shown the most fleeting traces of being aware of anything beyond his five senses that wasn't but instinct.
"Get the fuck off me." he demanded and Sam didn't answer, only pressed palm and hand and stone to Dean's throat above the open neck of his shirt.
"Trust me," Sam hissed, grabbing for Dean and holding him as still as possible. "Just, please…"
Dean snarled out something rude and pushed back, starting to give Sam the dressing down Sam knew he probably deserved, but the words never came out. He blinked and breathed, breath steaming the air, rain drops clinging to his hair and face. He clutched at Sam's jacket, but no longer fighting him.
"It doesn't steal memories. It was just trying to find some way to explain. It'll die. These streams will run to trickles come summer and it won’t survive unless it gets to deeper water."
Dean jerked back, away from the stone. "It's not dangerous. They don't sing sailors to their deaths or lure children into the water to drown. It's not something to hunt," Sam said. "It's something to save."
Dean rubbed at his face, and stared at the pool. "Yeah. Okay…" he said, sounding stunned. "We can't chase it. Not through this. Come on," he said, decisively, and reached down to grab his pendants and the flashlight. "We can drive to the farm faster."
Sam didn't voice his fear that the road might be too sodden, or that the farm owners might not be too keen on having strangers roaring up their drive in the middle of the night.
But there were only a few hours until dawn, and the waters in the stream would be too shallow to protect the creature from the sun. He stuck close to Dean's side, both of them running as fast as they dared. Sam clutched at the stone and tried to will the creature to know that they'd misunderstood, that they hadn't meant to harm, except he didn't think the stone actually worked that way. It was meant to keep memories of a sort, to be remembered for what it was. To remember the waters.
Like every other type of shade he'd encountered or could be seen, leaving an impression, leaving a mark for good or bad. Everything left impressions; water on stone, or the care of a brother for an infant too young to know anything.
They didn't stop to change, although Sam grabbed towels and the half-full duffel of their clothes. Dean grabbed the extra flashlight and his keys and the maps.
The rain had been light so far and the Impala didn't mire although Sam thought they might have to hike at least part of the way back in if it got any worse. Dean cranked up the heat to keep them both from being made useless by exposure.
They found the road without much trouble -- there weren't that many -- and Dean cut the lights on the Impala the minute they spotted the dark shadow of the farm house against the sky, and the engine before they reached the driveway. "I hope to hell they don't have dogs," he muttered as they both slipped out of the car.
No dogs barked although a cow gave a low moo as they moved quickly along and then over the fence. They skirted the north end of the pond, Dean crossing the sluice gate to get to the other side, working their way upstream, to where the water flowed slowly. Twice Sam knelt by the stream, drinking the water, not sure if it really did anything or meant anything, but he had no idea what else to try, or if the creature could sense them close. They had no spells or rituals to summon it, no real way to call it.
"Sam," Dean hissed out softly, staring into the water at the very edge of the fence line, where it curled around and widened, a shallow pond of no more than three feet across, the waters stirred up by the rain and the silt rising.
Sam stared, trying to see, and finally caught a glimpse of something under the darkness, like wet cloth being tumbled in the water, twisting and forming odd shape, save it was drifting upstream, against the flow.
The water was no deeper than the pool was wide, soaking Sam to the skin and icy. He held the stone and dropped his hand into the water. "Please…Please…we want to help," he whispered.
He hadn't expected it to be so strong, hadn't expected it to attack. He should have though. It was desperate and afraid, maybe even angry. His feet got pulled right out from under him, and he heard Dean yell as the water closed over his head, was further aware when the small pool got more crowded, Dean's hand grabbing his jacket and pulling him upward so he could take a deeper breath.
It was slick like an eel and seemed able to flatten itself or expand. It had no claws but it had teeth, was slippery and frantic when it slipped away, heading further down stream. Dean made a grab for it, catching one thin ankle and pulling it back, ending up on his ass in the water but grimly determined not to let go until Sam could pin the flailing arms.
It struggled and mewed like a kitten, but out of the water it lost strength rapidly and gasped for air or words. Carefully Sam eased it partially back in the water but held on.
It watched them both with huge eyes that blinked only rarely, and that a filmy cover over the blackness of its eyes, more frog than fish.
"Now that we've got it, what the hell do we do with it?" Dean demanded through chattering teeth.
"I don't think it will survive the drive to the lake. Not unless we carry water with us," Sam said and twisted so the creature could get its face in the water. That seemed to calm it a little.
"Shit." Dean stared at it, dipped the thin legs down. "Look, it's the gates right? We get it past the pond and it should be able to follow the stream to the lake. That's what it needs, to get past the iron in the gates. It's a couple of hundred yards. It can survive that long…I got nothing else."
Sam didn't either. They moved, cradling the thing between them, warding off its struggles, dropping it into the water when it started gasping and the skin started to feel less slick and more scaly. The rain helped some, starting to come down more steadily. But they were both numb and shivering, pin pricks of pain starting in Sam's hands and feet from the cold.
A hundred feet from the first gate, the creature hissed and mewed again when they tried to soak it again and they backed up, further from the gates.
"Can you hold it?" Dean asked and Sam shifted his grip, not sure he actually could if it started fighting again, but that seemed to have left it, and it made a tiny broken sound until Dean cupped water in his hands and poured it over it. He stood up and shed his jacket, pulling off his shirt and soaking it, wrapping the wet cloth around the thing in Sam's arms. It jerked in surprise, but thin fingers clutched at the cloth. Dean put his jacket back on and held out his arms. "Oh, God. It's like carrying a big frog," he said but his grip was sure.
It let them trade places and Sam's jacket and shirt got the same watery treatment until the creature was completely swaddled in soaking wet cloth, like a beached dolphin.
Then they ran. Stumbling over the uneven ground and with numb legs, skirting the edge of the pond to the far side. Halfway there the thing started gasping again, turning it's face up into the rain, but it grew stiffer.
They were dead center at the edge of the pond and Dean veered in, along the mud slicked bank. Sam tried to steady him, and the water, this close to the edge was fouled and muddy. Sam backed in, wading into the muck, and they eased it down, carefully, hoping they were far enough from either gate for it to be safe.
The creature gurgled but didn't hiss when it first touched the water, and didn't fight as they lowered it deeper. It was like the reverse of drowning something, but neither the muck nor the iron framing the pond seemed to bother it. After a minute or so it reached up and touched Dean's face, lightly, a small pat, and they were off again.
Dean ran again, Sam struggling after. Dean had the thing clutched to his chest, strain in every movement of his body, in his legs and back. He went down once, to his knees and struggled up again, Sam reaching to catch him by his jacket and waistband, hauling him upward, and they kept on like that, past the other side of the pond, to the down stream flow…
Only to find a bare trickle or water in the stream bed, the gate closed. Sam headed back, looking for the release lever and pulling at it with slicked, numb hands. It groaned, half frozen and struggling against the settling of winter muck, but finally it gave way and the water rushed out, almost knocking Sam down. Water filled the channel, mud frothed and fast, a mini flood of icy cold. He wrestled with the gate lever, trying to cut the flow some, but either the gate needed work or he didn't have strength enough and he let it be, struggling out of the channel and crawling back up the bank.
A dozen yards away Dean was standing half in the stream, holding the pale thing, unwrapped from their clothes, in the water. It wasn't moving, or even trying to seek the flow and Sam half staggered and half crawled to his brother, hearing his voice rise and fall in the rush of water and the crack of thunder overhead as the rain started to ease off.
"Come on…you like the water. It's your thing," Dean was saying, but the thing lay like limp laundry in the water, looking more gray than white-pale. "It's gonna be okay…just give it a try. The water's cleaner down stream…" Dean was saying but Sam could only barely make out the words, Dean's teeth were chattering so hard.
They had no way to give CPR to a creature that breathed water and Sam reached for Dean. "Let it go…Dean…let go. We did all we could," he said, more concerned about Dean now than the thing in his arms. His brother could be so damn stubborn. "Let it go."
He pried Dean's arms loose, climbing into the stream once more. The first rush of water had eased some, the flow steadying out as the pond emptied. Dean finally did, opening his arms and the creature sank, them shifted with the current looking like drifting gray cloth in grayer water, twisting as it followed the stream. Sam tugged again and got them out. The sky was getting lighter toward the east, and they headed back, the fences almost defeating them, and grabbing at each other to stay upright and keep moving.
It was a miracle Dean hadn't lost the keys to the car but he found them, though it took a couple of tries for his numb hands to get the engine started and the heater running. Sam parceled out towels and tried to get them both dry and warm enough, finally pulling Dean against him. There wasn't much body heat to be shared and they were both soaked and covered in mud and God knew what else that had been dredged up from the bottom of the pond. The heat made the rank smell stronger, but Dean didn't even have the energy to bitch about how they'd get the smell out of the car. But his arms wrapped around Sam, both of them alternately huddled and stretched across the front seat.
Sam leaned his head against the window, leaving a smear of mud on the glass and watched the sun rise. He'd lost the stone, but the rush of water against his chilled skin remained, a yearning so deep for someplace to rest, for some distant home hitting him so hard that he knew it couldn't be his own.
He was there already, with Dean wrapped around him like a promise and pretty much everything he needed within reach. They'd be warm again, and on the road, and the lingering impressions they made were nothing they could control or force.
They could only be what they were meant to be and mostly that was together.
But he missed the quiet dark.
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The rain had stopped by the time they got back to the cabin and Dean eyed the track distrustfully, trying to keep the wheels off the rutted parts and on the grassy ones. He parked in front of the cabin instead of in the shed and they sat there, watching water drip from the trees under grey skies. Sam's had aches on top of aches, even though he wasn't cold any longer. There was a cut on his hand under the dirt and rust, but it wasn't bad and it wasn't bleeding any longer.
The cabin would be cold and neither of them were ready to leave the warmth of the car just yet.
Dean was slumped down in the seat, hands resting on the wheel. There was a streak of mud along his throat and across his chest. His leather jacket was going to need to be washed and oiled and even then Sam wasn't sure the rank smell of standing water and mud and manure would ever leave it.
Dean cut the engine and squinted up at where the sun was trying to break through. It failed and he finally shoved the door open with his arm and elbow.
He didn't say anything to Sam, just climbed the three steps up and went inside. It was always been difficult for Sam to know which of them took failures harder. He had his issues and Dean had his, and it wasn't really a competition, but he doubted Dean counted his wins as often as he counted his losses.
He scratched at some dried mud on his jeans and stared at the cabin. He was pretty sure Dean would head directly to the shower, which meant he had a few minutes and the car was still warmer than the air outside.
Sometimes they were just too late. That had always been true. There were times when they didn't hear about or figure out things in time to do any good, but usually there was always another one, someone else they maybe could save when ever what it was they hunted came back for another round. There was redemption in the numbers: that one or two or five may have already been lost, but it won’t be six more or ten more when they are finished. He doubted he had to worry about whether or not the little water creature's spirit would haunt the pool, but it would probably haunt them both for awhile.
He shivered and grabbed up the damp blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around himself, then nudged the car door open. The light wind made the blanket feel cooler and he hurried inside to escape it as much as the cold.
The fireplace was dark and the cabin as well; Dean hadn't even bothered to turn the lights on. He could hear the water though and the envy he felt for Dean and the hot water was something he could taste at the back of his throat, or maybe that was just a lingering bitterness. He dug for his heaviest sweatshirt and thick socks and went to lay wood in the fireplace, getting it started. He squatted in front of it, feeling weary and achy and seriously contemplating just dropping his body on the bed and damned be the mud and the dirt and sense of failure.
The water shut off and he shifted position, folding his legs up under him, staring at the fire even when Dean came up behind him, smelling of warm damp. "There's hot water left," Dean said and nudged his back with a knee. Then again, more gently, and left him.
"Hot water left" was true mostly in spirit, but it was enough to get the worst of the mud out of his hair, to clean the filth out of the cut on his hand. Dean had coffee on by the time he emerged and he was staring into the refrigerator when Sam emerged.
"Eat, then leave?" Sam asked and Dean gave a distracted nod, but then closed the refrigerator without pulling anything out. Sam didn't comment. He wasn't that hungry anyway.
"Do you want to leave?" Dean asked him, idly fingering his coffee cup. Sam poured a mug for himself.
"I don't think it matters," he said, finally and watched Dean hoist himself up onto the counter. Sam topped off his cup. "My head goes with us, no matter what, you know? It's quiet here though. At least…" he shook his head. "I was going to say it should be now, but I don't think it's necessarily true. These things I see, the ones I sense, they're as much a part of me as you are. I don't think we can change that. I'm not sure we should."
Dean met his eyes for a long moment then dropped his gaze. "These things are killing you, Sam. Or they are going to get you killed. They fuck with your head, fuck with other things too, like your sleep and your focus. You don't even see it."
"But you do," Sam said quietly. "And maybe that's unfair, because I know it bugs you. I know it scares you," he said and for once Dean didn't shrug it off. "You've been looking out for me my whole life. Is this really any different?"
Dean didn't look up, but he didn't fidget either, his thumb stroked the rim of his coffee cup. Sam set his own cup down and stepped in closer, not sure what to do with Dean's calm or his silence. He put his hands on the outside of Dean's knees, rubbed the muscle there, just above the joint. "Hey."
When Dean finally looked at him, that same deep concern was there, but there was something behind, something helpless and exposed. Dean set his cup aside as well and hooked a finger under the red cord still tied around Sam's wrist. "I don't like what it does to you. Times when you are standing right in front of me, but whatever you're seeing -- you're gone, man. Just…gone. And I'm…I don't always know how to get you back or how to follow."
Sam wanted to tell him he didn't have to, that he knew, knew somewhere deep inside that he'd always find his way back. That wasn't something Dean would believe, wasn't something he'd necessarily trust even from Sam. Maybe especially from Sam. It wasn't in Dean to be able to wait, to be unable to do something, anything.
"I don't know how to fix it or shut it off," Sam said. "We could…there are all kinds of things we could try, binding rituals, blood magic…I'll do…I'll do whatever you want. I don't want to go where you can't follow either. And I can promise but…"
Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth quirking up but not really in humor. Sam smiled and nodded. "Yeah…I know."
Dean reached up and hooked a hand around the back of Sam's neck, drew his head down and until their foreheads were pressed together. He didn't say anything, only breathed with Sam for a moment, fingers rubbing against the nape of Sam's neck. Then he lifted his own head and pressed a kiss to Sam's skin, just at the hairline, before nudging him back. He said nothing, only took his coffee cup and headed into the bedroom. It was a request for space rather than an invitation, and Sam gave it to him.
A half hour of it at least, before Sam felt the tug and need for sleep and the couch looked unappealing when there was a perfectly good bed already warmed by his brother's body. He banked the fire, but brought in more firewood since the skies looked ready to dump more rain, and headed to bed.
Dean was sprawled on his stomach, and barely cracked an eye open when Sam settled in next to him, but a few hours later, when they both woke, feeling hungry and chilled, they'd both shifted to the center of the bed; sleeping with Dean's arms slung around Sam's stomach, half tucked into the front of Sam's jeans.
They put off lunch for an hour seeking a different kind of comfort and a different set of answers. Sam didn't make any promises and Dean didn't ask for any.
+++++
They stayed another two weeks, which was a week longer than Sam thought Dean could actually stand. He was restless and, if not short-tempered, at least less patient. They made one run into town to pick up more food and Sam did some poking to see if there was anything in local legend or Chippewa myth to explain the creature in the water, but what references he could find were too vague and generalized. No description of such a thing, spirit or otherwise.
Sam could almost believe it never happened except for the healing cut across his palm, the loss of three shirts, and the iron nail pendant that hung around his neck. Dean had salvaged his own from his pocket and taken it off the bull-head charm he wore. He'd filed the points down and restrung it, offering it to Sam over their delayed spaghetti dinner while asking him to pass the garlic bread, Sam had put it on then reached for seconds.
They'd walked to the pool together but nothing showed and nothing lingered and Sam couldn't find the hag stone he'd dropped, even though it should have been there. He didn't even tell Dean he was looking for it, but he noticed Dean's eyes tracked the ground as well, scanning over the rock.
The pool was significantly lower, even with the intermittent rain they'd had and Dean had crouched at the downstream side and studied, pointing out where trailing runoff had dislodged smooth stones and thicker branches. Neither of them said it but Sam was pretty sure the water fae had been damming the pool, securing its environment. He wondered if there would be anything but a shallow puddle come summer.
They left a couple of days after that, in the afternoon. Dean called Bobby to let him know they'd finished the list and to thank his friend for the use of the place, and ask him if he had anything they should look into. Bobby had a couple of things, and Dean decided Idaho was as good a place as any to get back into it. They hadn't been there in awhile.
"Can we stop by the lake?" Sam asked as the car cleared the rutted drive. Dean had glanced at him but didn't answer. Sam didn't press it; it was mostly curiosity and nothing urgent -- nothing drawing him there. Dean made the turn when he needed to and they drove past the farm house, got a wave from a woman at the end of the drive, checking her mailbox. Dean waved back but didn't slow.
There wasn't much to see. Huge portions of the lake were undeveloped and inaccessible, part of the tribal lands. They passed through Waskish Township, heading for Bemidji. There wasn't much there, but there was a gas station and post office, a restaurant that would have looked abandoned save for the neon Open sign in the window.
"You want to see anything, we probably need to wait until sunset," Dean said, and pulled into the restaurant parking lot.
There were actually a couple of people there, regulars, who apparently walked or worked close by although Sam couldn't say where. The coffee was strong and fresh and if the sandwiches they ordered weren't the best he'd ever eaten they weren't the worst either. Dean flirted with their fifty-something waitress which got her smiling and her cook-husband frowning. Tourists and fishing and farming were the topics of the regulars.
"Gonna be a pretty sunset," their hostess told them, looking out the windows, where already the sky was deepening to a red haze.
"Yeah? Spectacular?" Dean asked her and she nodded.
"You can take the Shore Road. Boat dock there and they don't mind if people get out and look Won't even charge you for it." She reached over to refill their coffee cups and Dean tilted his head, looking at the bracelet on her wrist. "That's an interesting stone."
It was not entirely round, more an irregular oval. She had it fastened on a more traditional and gaudy bit of beadwork. "Found that years ago, on the lake. People do, now and again, stones all smooth and worn right through the middle. You can buy ones that look better, all nice and round. But I've always liked this one. When I found it, it was all tangled up in some grasses."
"It's nice, really unique," Sam said and she smiled at him.
Dean thanked her. They finished their coffee and left her a tip that was half the cost of their meal. Dean didn't ask Sam if he wanted to go, just turned the car around and headed toward the lake again. It was impossible to get lost -- only one road and they found the promised dock but Dean drove past it, easing the car to the side of the road a half mile or so south.
By then the sunset had spread to full blood crimson, darkening to purple, glazed by gold. It made the lake water look red, even if that wasn't the reason for the name. It was calm and quiet, the shore lined with thick grass that extended into the water. They stopped just short of where the earth became marsh.
There were no stones here, hollowed or otherwise, and Sam crouched low, fingers dipping into where shallow water lapped at the grass.
"Don't you drink that," Dean warned and Sam rolled his eyes.
"I wasn't planning to," he said and wiped his hand on his jeans.
"What were you expecting, Sam?" Dean asked, curious rather than impatient.
Sam shrugged and stood up, rubbing at the red line on his palm. "Nothing, really. Hoping maybe."
"It might have made it. We were pretty close."
"Yeah, we were. It's a big lake, deep. I guess, one way or another, it got home."
"I guess so. If you're done communing with nature and lake spirits, though, I'd like to put some miles between this place and us," Dean said and turned back long strides already putting distance between him and the water.
"Dean..." Sam said and Dean stopped. Promises wouldn't help but it was all Sam had to offer. "One way or another, I'll get home too," Sam said.
Dean hesitated, looking over his shoulder, eyes scanning the water before coming back to rest on Sam's face. "Better if you never leave it," he said and headed back to the car.
Sam followed him, fingers trailing over the tall grasses.
He thought he heard whispers but he didn't linger to try and understand what they were saying.
He heard Dean and that was enough.
~end~
by Maygra
Dean/Sam. NC17. More or less follows Dead Man's Curve. (For Allie who wanted 15 weeks later.)
Part of the Open Road Series of loosely affiliated stories: (Reminders of Echoes, Midnight at the Majestic, and Land of Trembling Earth).
Many thanks to demrepic and ruby_jelly for the beta,
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(20,604 words)
++++++
They stayed away from the pool for a couple of days for the most part, and set to the gravel and painting, but it no longer felt like payment for a place to rest, more like penance for an unacknowledged failure. Either way, it left them both exhausted at the end of the day and achy in the mornings. Dean went down once, in daylight, with a heavy bar magnet and a small bag and tossed both in the trunk when he returned. The list got shorter and the days got longer and Sam put the last of the paint on the exterior walls while Dean sliced into the bathroom water lines and connected the washer to them. He put the small pile of their dirty clothes in and then packed them and Sam knew they'd be leaving soon, within a day or so.
Dean didn't try and stop him when he headed back to the pool toward dusk, only shrugged on his jacket and went with. He tucked the iron knife in the back of his jeans but left the filings.
It didn't immediately appear, and Sam crouched at the edge of the water, and dipped his hand into it, taking a handful to drink. Dean didn't stop him from doing it, but his fingers dug into the collar of Sam's shirt and jacket and held tight.
It was already getting dark, so no need for clouds to obscure too much light. Sam rocked back on his heels when the thing stood up, only a few feet from the edge of the bank. It held something in its hand but Sam couldn't see what. It started forward only to stop, and make that low hissing sound of displeasure and touched its own chest twice.
Sam had forgotten. He reached up to pull the talisman over his head and Dean hissed as well, in warning. "Just hold onto me," Sam said. The red cord at his wrist was no threat to the creature and when he set the necklace aside it came forward cautiously.
It offered no more than stones, two of them, worn smooth and hollowed through by water. Hag stones, wrapped in what looked like grasses but on touching them Sam realized they were strands of the thing's hair. Payment or thank you or curse, he didn't know, but he took them, and was even more surprised when one thin hand wrapped around his wrist lightly, not binding or grabbing, just barely holding him. Its skin was cool but not cold, wet and soft and supple like a snakeskin or eel. But even as he held it he could feel the wetness fading, the supple palm drying too quickly with nothing but Sam's body heat to warm it. He let it go and it dropped down, cupping water to pour over the stones in Sam's hands, before looking past him and up at Dean.
Then it drew away, sinking quickly into the water, and hidden by darkness.
Dean tugged at his collar. "Let's go," he said quietly, no command, merely a suggestion. Sam picked up his talisman settled it around his neck again. He fingered the stones and then offered one to Dean.
Dean hesitated, but took it, holding it up. His thumb didn't quite fit through the hole and the stone was irregularly shaped, not a perfect circle at all. He thrust it in his pocket and turned away.
Sam followed him, carrying his own stone in his hand, thumb rubbing the smooth stone. Like the water fae, the stone was already drying, heavy and cool, but not wet. It was likely the thing couldn't leave the water, or not for long. He couldn't be sure, but it would explain why it hadn't left, why it remained where it apparently no longer wanted to be.
Or maybe he had it all wrong. They were guessing at so much, following intuition rather than fact. It couldn't communicate with them, at least not directly, nor they with it, even though it seemed to understand well enough. They'd tried and failed, and there had been no recriminations, no retaliation.
Dean's hand came back up to rest on the back of his neck, thumb and fingers massaging the tendons gently for a moment, then just resting there as they made their way back to the cabin.
They'd used up most of the fresh food they'd brought, and Dean heated up a large can of stew, caught the local news and weather on one channel. They were predicting heavy rains and colder temperatures over the next few days. Dean said nothing but Sam was clear they'd leave in the morning, if only because the rain would make it nearly impossible to get the car out if the track got muddy. The last thing on the list was to fix the railing on the porch, and that would take them all of five minutes. Another ten or so to close off the valves on the propane tank and the water lines, let the hoses drain. They weren't so far into spring that there couldn't be another freeze this far north.
They cleaned up the dishes in silence, Sam washing and Dean drying and putting away. The cord on Sam's wrist turned dark, dark red in the water and tightened up some, some of the dye leeching out and leaving a red smear on his skin. Dean used the towel to wipe it away, then gave him push toward the bedroom. "I want to get an early start," he said. Sam didn't argue.
He didn't argue when Dean's arm slipped around him and his hips nudged into Sam's from behind either, stripping off clothes between kisses and the grip of Dean's hands on his upper arms. Dean's pendants jangled and sang softly when he urged Sam over on his belly, and Sam didn't need any other encouragement to spread wide, or lift his hips. His own pendant dug into his skin and he didn't so much mind that either.
Dean wasn't rough or bruising but he was urgent, frustrated maybe, and Sam shared it -- feeling not exactly helpless but unhelpful. Dean settling deep inside him in determined increments felt like they got something right, at least, no matter how odd or wrong it might look to anyone else.
"Still thinking too much, Sam," Dean panted into his ear, and pulled them both onto their sides so he could wrap his hand around Sam's dick, and urged Sam to help out here, Sammy. I'm not in this alone.
He wasn't. They weren't, either of them. In any of it, all of it. Sam hooked his leg back behind Dean's calves and pushed back. Let Dean tug at his hair and pull his head back, giving Dean access to this throat and jaw and went with what was here and now; the full, insistent throb in his ass and groin, the slick feel of Dean's hand on his cock and his own covering Dean's entirely. He reached back to find Dean's ass and choked on a laugh when Dean groaned deep and frustrated because Sam couldn't quite reach his hole no matter jokes about his Sasquatch height and reach. Dean thrust steady and sure, let Sam guide the rhythm of their hands, and pushed him flat on the bed so he could drive deeper, catching Sam just right on nearly every thrust.
Sam was still hard and aching and right on the edge when Dean came, pressing his forehead between Sam's shoulder blades, tightening his arms in and around him. His heart thudded loud and fast against Sam's back, body warm and sweaty and shuddering in a way that almost made Sam come just because as good a lover as Dean was, it was rare for him to be overcome or to gasp Sam's name out the way he was now, soft and pressed to Sam's skin.
Sam nudged his hand away, the tight coil in his belly and along his spine demanding release, and stroked hard and fast. Dean tucked his chin against Sam's shoulder and his hand slid under Sam's dick to squeeze his balls. "Come on, Sam…let me see it, let it go," he whispered and pressed the flat of his hand to the inside of Sam's thighs, opening him wider so he could see. It was right for all the wrong reasons, or maybe wrong for all the right ones. Dean's dick slipped out of him replaced by Dean's fingers and that more focused attention had Sam gasping and coming in a few seconds. Dean followed the aftermath, pressing deep, and twisting up and over to cover Sam's mouth with his own, then slumping down to rub Sam's thigh when he went boneless and so sated and sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open.
"Gonna have to wash the sheets again," Dean mumbled.
"Yeah." Sam didn't move though. He didn't hear any whispers or water, only the blood rushing back to where it normally resided.
His dreams were a mixed set of metaphors, stark and clear in imagery but less so in connections, a tracery of riding in the car, and floating on the waves at the beach. But he was too far back and when he headed to shore, his legs grew tired and his throat parched and he could get no closer until the ice came. It started at the shore and stretched outward, surrounding him and leaving him cold. He pressed against it and it cracked and splintered, sharp edges slicing into his palms, leaving them wet and pale, and he looked for Dean, needing help to ease the bleeding.
Red tinted windows looked on horizons he couldn't remember and he felt Dean's arms around him, carrying him -- only he felt too small, the road was bumpy and uneven, but not scary, like a sled ride and he wanted to laugh.
Light and heat sent the lacy ice retreating, and hurt his eyes, and he knew he cried out, only there was no sound, just the hissing of water against the flames, and the smell of smoke and blessed, cool release of water closing over his head, shutting out the light, muffling the sounds of voices and sirens and even Dean's voice promising it would be okay, Sammy…it'll be okay.
He woke with a start, sitting up quickly, heart pounding and throat closed over a sob that made his head ache. Dean came up as well, startled by Sam's sudden movement, hands already closing around Sam's shoulders.
There was a tattoo of sound above them. The rain had come -- lightly it sounded like, but steady, already dripping off the roof, soaking into the ground, seeping toward streams and rivers.
"Nightmare?" Dean asked, strong hands flexing and contracting along Sam's shoulders, grounding him and easing the tension all at the same time.
Sam shook his head. "Not quite…just…ice and cold and fire. You carrying me away from the fire…"
Dean squeezed his shoulders and ruffled his hair. "It's been awhile since you have nightmares about Jess."
"It wasn't Jess. It was…I fell through the ice…did I ever fall through the ice? And the fire…"
"Jesus, Sam…" Dean said and shifted to sit beside him, pulling the blanket around. The room was chill. "Yeah, when you were about four. Just at the edge of a pond. Dad and I had you out again before you hardly got wet. Maybe three feet of water. Deep enough to scare us both. And the fire--"
"You were carrying me. Like in your arms. Not like with Jess…not having to push an pull me, just carrying me and running."
Dean blew out a breath. "I did…after Mom. I told you that."
"I remember it."
"You were six months old, Sam. There's no way you can remember it."
"I was too heavy…you almost fell. But you didn't. We were….it was bumpy. We were laughing."
Dean didn't say anything for a long moment. "I was scared. And yeah…I'd never carried you so far, or without Mom or Dad right next to me. I almost fell down the stairs. So I sat down and went down them on my butt, then ran outside. You…you were doing that…it was a thing you did when Dad or Mom would bounce you on their knees. Not really laughing, just a kind of sound…and you'd get this big toothless grin…" he stopped and leaned forward. "Sam…you couldn't…there is no way you can know that. You couldn't remember anything from being that young. I barely remember it."
"I wasn't scared. You carried me out of the pond too."
Dean got up suddenly, hunting for his jeans. "Yeah. Dad went to get the car warmed up, but your feet were wet and cold and you were crying. So I gave you a piggy-back ride to the car. You laughed then too. By the time we got you in the car and changed your boots and socks and pants, you hardly even remembered falling in the pond."
"Where are you going?" Sam asked as Dean found his shirt as well.
"That thing is in your head, Sam. In your head and scrounging around -- there's no other reason why or how you could remember any of this. Maybe the reason no one's ever said anything about it is because it's stealing memories, like it did the first time. Maybe that's what it does."
"You don't know that." Sam got up as well and found his own jeans, hurrying because Dean was already yanking on his boots with no socks.
"I knew we couldn't trust it. It doesn't get to be in your head, Sam. There's shit enough I can do about the things that do get in there, but this one I know how to deal with," he said and headed out, not waiting, even when Sam ran after him.
Dean wasn't messing around though. He came at Sam, fast and hard, eyes dark and jaw set. Sam wasn't expecting it, not the fist to his jaw or Dean grabbing his boots and tossing them out into the yard as far as he could. He grabbed up the bag of iron filings and his jacket and heading out into the darkness, the flashlight glinting back on the rain that was still falling steadily.
Sam swore and found his sneakers, his shirt and coat, and took off after Dean. He'd be lucky if he didn't break his neck, but he didn't dare hunt for the other flashlight, glad the path was mostly clear. And he yelled…screamed Dean's name. The rain soaked his hair and skin, the air frigid. They'd both end up with hypothermia, Dean blinded by his need to protect Sam from damn near everything, even when he couldn't.
His coat slapped against his hips as he ran, not nearly as water resistant as Dean's leather, and he felt it then, the hag stone in his pocket, wet hand closing over it.
What had been whispers in the cabin sounded like a roar in his ears now, the rush and rumble as the stream picked up speed, water sliding over rocks, and under ice sheets. He almost stumbled, the sound fading as the stone dried.
He pulled it out, letting the rain soak it again and reached up to pull the iron pendant off, shoving it in his pocket. "Dean! Wait! Please!" he yelled and kept moving forward.
…the stream started further north, flowing out of a lake and beyond that even further to mountains always capped with ice. When the water flowed quickly and deep it was easy to move back and forth, upstream and down…cold waters to warm. Roads and highways of water…here and there…
…but the way kept getting blocked, forcing them to detour, to find new routes…new roads…in between the water came the metals forged of earth and heat, poisoning the pathways…making the young one sicken and die and the older ones lethargic, unable to hunt to move. They needed the big waters. Needed to escape the ice and the iron. ..
…this was a bad path. It narrowed too quickly, was blocked just a short distance from the big deep waters…and before it could return, the way back was blocked as well…
…those that laid the iron could do so in the light, in the sun. They could walk the land without it shredding skin or drying flesh. They could move over earth like it and it's kin could move through water…
…it only wanted the deep water. To hunt and eat and be with it's kin…with its like. So far away… so few.
The rock was slick from the rain and Sam hit it without realizing he was still moving, still running. The fall jarred the stone from his hand, drove the breath out of his lungs. Then Dean was there, pulling him upright.
"Tell me you didn't…"
"The hell I didn't. It got out though, headed downstream."
"It will be trapped. It'll die."
"I'm not sorry about that. It can't get to you then," Dean said, getting a shoulder under Sam's to get him to his feet. Something hard dug into Sam's hip and he twisted, digging his hand into Dean's pocket to find the other stone.
It needed water, just like the creature did and Sam jerked away, thrusting his hand and the stone into the icy water. Dean was on him in an instant, pulling him back and Sam reached for the cords around his throat, pulling them up and off and dropping them to the rock.
He didn't even know it would work. Dean had only ever shown the most fleeting traces of being aware of anything beyond his five senses that wasn't but instinct.
"Get the fuck off me." he demanded and Sam didn't answer, only pressed palm and hand and stone to Dean's throat above the open neck of his shirt.
"Trust me," Sam hissed, grabbing for Dean and holding him as still as possible. "Just, please…"
Dean snarled out something rude and pushed back, starting to give Sam the dressing down Sam knew he probably deserved, but the words never came out. He blinked and breathed, breath steaming the air, rain drops clinging to his hair and face. He clutched at Sam's jacket, but no longer fighting him.
"It doesn't steal memories. It was just trying to find some way to explain. It'll die. These streams will run to trickles come summer and it won’t survive unless it gets to deeper water."
Dean jerked back, away from the stone. "It's not dangerous. They don't sing sailors to their deaths or lure children into the water to drown. It's not something to hunt," Sam said. "It's something to save."
Dean rubbed at his face, and stared at the pool. "Yeah. Okay…" he said, sounding stunned. "We can't chase it. Not through this. Come on," he said, decisively, and reached down to grab his pendants and the flashlight. "We can drive to the farm faster."
Sam didn't voice his fear that the road might be too sodden, or that the farm owners might not be too keen on having strangers roaring up their drive in the middle of the night.
But there were only a few hours until dawn, and the waters in the stream would be too shallow to protect the creature from the sun. He stuck close to Dean's side, both of them running as fast as they dared. Sam clutched at the stone and tried to will the creature to know that they'd misunderstood, that they hadn't meant to harm, except he didn't think the stone actually worked that way. It was meant to keep memories of a sort, to be remembered for what it was. To remember the waters.
Like every other type of shade he'd encountered or could be seen, leaving an impression, leaving a mark for good or bad. Everything left impressions; water on stone, or the care of a brother for an infant too young to know anything.
They didn't stop to change, although Sam grabbed towels and the half-full duffel of their clothes. Dean grabbed the extra flashlight and his keys and the maps.
The rain had been light so far and the Impala didn't mire although Sam thought they might have to hike at least part of the way back in if it got any worse. Dean cranked up the heat to keep them both from being made useless by exposure.
They found the road without much trouble -- there weren't that many -- and Dean cut the lights on the Impala the minute they spotted the dark shadow of the farm house against the sky, and the engine before they reached the driveway. "I hope to hell they don't have dogs," he muttered as they both slipped out of the car.
No dogs barked although a cow gave a low moo as they moved quickly along and then over the fence. They skirted the north end of the pond, Dean crossing the sluice gate to get to the other side, working their way upstream, to where the water flowed slowly. Twice Sam knelt by the stream, drinking the water, not sure if it really did anything or meant anything, but he had no idea what else to try, or if the creature could sense them close. They had no spells or rituals to summon it, no real way to call it.
"Sam," Dean hissed out softly, staring into the water at the very edge of the fence line, where it curled around and widened, a shallow pond of no more than three feet across, the waters stirred up by the rain and the silt rising.
Sam stared, trying to see, and finally caught a glimpse of something under the darkness, like wet cloth being tumbled in the water, twisting and forming odd shape, save it was drifting upstream, against the flow.
The water was no deeper than the pool was wide, soaking Sam to the skin and icy. He held the stone and dropped his hand into the water. "Please…Please…we want to help," he whispered.
He hadn't expected it to be so strong, hadn't expected it to attack. He should have though. It was desperate and afraid, maybe even angry. His feet got pulled right out from under him, and he heard Dean yell as the water closed over his head, was further aware when the small pool got more crowded, Dean's hand grabbing his jacket and pulling him upward so he could take a deeper breath.
It was slick like an eel and seemed able to flatten itself or expand. It had no claws but it had teeth, was slippery and frantic when it slipped away, heading further down stream. Dean made a grab for it, catching one thin ankle and pulling it back, ending up on his ass in the water but grimly determined not to let go until Sam could pin the flailing arms.
It struggled and mewed like a kitten, but out of the water it lost strength rapidly and gasped for air or words. Carefully Sam eased it partially back in the water but held on.
It watched them both with huge eyes that blinked only rarely, and that a filmy cover over the blackness of its eyes, more frog than fish.
"Now that we've got it, what the hell do we do with it?" Dean demanded through chattering teeth.
"I don't think it will survive the drive to the lake. Not unless we carry water with us," Sam said and twisted so the creature could get its face in the water. That seemed to calm it a little.
"Shit." Dean stared at it, dipped the thin legs down. "Look, it's the gates right? We get it past the pond and it should be able to follow the stream to the lake. That's what it needs, to get past the iron in the gates. It's a couple of hundred yards. It can survive that long…I got nothing else."
Sam didn't either. They moved, cradling the thing between them, warding off its struggles, dropping it into the water when it started gasping and the skin started to feel less slick and more scaly. The rain helped some, starting to come down more steadily. But they were both numb and shivering, pin pricks of pain starting in Sam's hands and feet from the cold.
A hundred feet from the first gate, the creature hissed and mewed again when they tried to soak it again and they backed up, further from the gates.
"Can you hold it?" Dean asked and Sam shifted his grip, not sure he actually could if it started fighting again, but that seemed to have left it, and it made a tiny broken sound until Dean cupped water in his hands and poured it over it. He stood up and shed his jacket, pulling off his shirt and soaking it, wrapping the wet cloth around the thing in Sam's arms. It jerked in surprise, but thin fingers clutched at the cloth. Dean put his jacket back on and held out his arms. "Oh, God. It's like carrying a big frog," he said but his grip was sure.
It let them trade places and Sam's jacket and shirt got the same watery treatment until the creature was completely swaddled in soaking wet cloth, like a beached dolphin.
Then they ran. Stumbling over the uneven ground and with numb legs, skirting the edge of the pond to the far side. Halfway there the thing started gasping again, turning it's face up into the rain, but it grew stiffer.
They were dead center at the edge of the pond and Dean veered in, along the mud slicked bank. Sam tried to steady him, and the water, this close to the edge was fouled and muddy. Sam backed in, wading into the muck, and they eased it down, carefully, hoping they were far enough from either gate for it to be safe.
The creature gurgled but didn't hiss when it first touched the water, and didn't fight as they lowered it deeper. It was like the reverse of drowning something, but neither the muck nor the iron framing the pond seemed to bother it. After a minute or so it reached up and touched Dean's face, lightly, a small pat, and they were off again.
Dean ran again, Sam struggling after. Dean had the thing clutched to his chest, strain in every movement of his body, in his legs and back. He went down once, to his knees and struggled up again, Sam reaching to catch him by his jacket and waistband, hauling him upward, and they kept on like that, past the other side of the pond, to the down stream flow…
Only to find a bare trickle or water in the stream bed, the gate closed. Sam headed back, looking for the release lever and pulling at it with slicked, numb hands. It groaned, half frozen and struggling against the settling of winter muck, but finally it gave way and the water rushed out, almost knocking Sam down. Water filled the channel, mud frothed and fast, a mini flood of icy cold. He wrestled with the gate lever, trying to cut the flow some, but either the gate needed work or he didn't have strength enough and he let it be, struggling out of the channel and crawling back up the bank.
A dozen yards away Dean was standing half in the stream, holding the pale thing, unwrapped from their clothes, in the water. It wasn't moving, or even trying to seek the flow and Sam half staggered and half crawled to his brother, hearing his voice rise and fall in the rush of water and the crack of thunder overhead as the rain started to ease off.
"Come on…you like the water. It's your thing," Dean was saying, but the thing lay like limp laundry in the water, looking more gray than white-pale. "It's gonna be okay…just give it a try. The water's cleaner down stream…" Dean was saying but Sam could only barely make out the words, Dean's teeth were chattering so hard.
They had no way to give CPR to a creature that breathed water and Sam reached for Dean. "Let it go…Dean…let go. We did all we could," he said, more concerned about Dean now than the thing in his arms. His brother could be so damn stubborn. "Let it go."
He pried Dean's arms loose, climbing into the stream once more. The first rush of water had eased some, the flow steadying out as the pond emptied. Dean finally did, opening his arms and the creature sank, them shifted with the current looking like drifting gray cloth in grayer water, twisting as it followed the stream. Sam tugged again and got them out. The sky was getting lighter toward the east, and they headed back, the fences almost defeating them, and grabbing at each other to stay upright and keep moving.
It was a miracle Dean hadn't lost the keys to the car but he found them, though it took a couple of tries for his numb hands to get the engine started and the heater running. Sam parceled out towels and tried to get them both dry and warm enough, finally pulling Dean against him. There wasn't much body heat to be shared and they were both soaked and covered in mud and God knew what else that had been dredged up from the bottom of the pond. The heat made the rank smell stronger, but Dean didn't even have the energy to bitch about how they'd get the smell out of the car. But his arms wrapped around Sam, both of them alternately huddled and stretched across the front seat.
Sam leaned his head against the window, leaving a smear of mud on the glass and watched the sun rise. He'd lost the stone, but the rush of water against his chilled skin remained, a yearning so deep for someplace to rest, for some distant home hitting him so hard that he knew it couldn't be his own.
He was there already, with Dean wrapped around him like a promise and pretty much everything he needed within reach. They'd be warm again, and on the road, and the lingering impressions they made were nothing they could control or force.
They could only be what they were meant to be and mostly that was together.
But he missed the quiet dark.
++++
The rain had stopped by the time they got back to the cabin and Dean eyed the track distrustfully, trying to keep the wheels off the rutted parts and on the grassy ones. He parked in front of the cabin instead of in the shed and they sat there, watching water drip from the trees under grey skies. Sam's had aches on top of aches, even though he wasn't cold any longer. There was a cut on his hand under the dirt and rust, but it wasn't bad and it wasn't bleeding any longer.
The cabin would be cold and neither of them were ready to leave the warmth of the car just yet.
Dean was slumped down in the seat, hands resting on the wheel. There was a streak of mud along his throat and across his chest. His leather jacket was going to need to be washed and oiled and even then Sam wasn't sure the rank smell of standing water and mud and manure would ever leave it.
Dean cut the engine and squinted up at where the sun was trying to break through. It failed and he finally shoved the door open with his arm and elbow.
He didn't say anything to Sam, just climbed the three steps up and went inside. It was always been difficult for Sam to know which of them took failures harder. He had his issues and Dean had his, and it wasn't really a competition, but he doubted Dean counted his wins as often as he counted his losses.
He scratched at some dried mud on his jeans and stared at the cabin. He was pretty sure Dean would head directly to the shower, which meant he had a few minutes and the car was still warmer than the air outside.
Sometimes they were just too late. That had always been true. There were times when they didn't hear about or figure out things in time to do any good, but usually there was always another one, someone else they maybe could save when ever what it was they hunted came back for another round. There was redemption in the numbers: that one or two or five may have already been lost, but it won’t be six more or ten more when they are finished. He doubted he had to worry about whether or not the little water creature's spirit would haunt the pool, but it would probably haunt them both for awhile.
He shivered and grabbed up the damp blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around himself, then nudged the car door open. The light wind made the blanket feel cooler and he hurried inside to escape it as much as the cold.
The fireplace was dark and the cabin as well; Dean hadn't even bothered to turn the lights on. He could hear the water though and the envy he felt for Dean and the hot water was something he could taste at the back of his throat, or maybe that was just a lingering bitterness. He dug for his heaviest sweatshirt and thick socks and went to lay wood in the fireplace, getting it started. He squatted in front of it, feeling weary and achy and seriously contemplating just dropping his body on the bed and damned be the mud and the dirt and sense of failure.
The water shut off and he shifted position, folding his legs up under him, staring at the fire even when Dean came up behind him, smelling of warm damp. "There's hot water left," Dean said and nudged his back with a knee. Then again, more gently, and left him.
"Hot water left" was true mostly in spirit, but it was enough to get the worst of the mud out of his hair, to clean the filth out of the cut on his hand. Dean had coffee on by the time he emerged and he was staring into the refrigerator when Sam emerged.
"Eat, then leave?" Sam asked and Dean gave a distracted nod, but then closed the refrigerator without pulling anything out. Sam didn't comment. He wasn't that hungry anyway.
"Do you want to leave?" Dean asked him, idly fingering his coffee cup. Sam poured a mug for himself.
"I don't think it matters," he said, finally and watched Dean hoist himself up onto the counter. Sam topped off his cup. "My head goes with us, no matter what, you know? It's quiet here though. At least…" he shook his head. "I was going to say it should be now, but I don't think it's necessarily true. These things I see, the ones I sense, they're as much a part of me as you are. I don't think we can change that. I'm not sure we should."
Dean met his eyes for a long moment then dropped his gaze. "These things are killing you, Sam. Or they are going to get you killed. They fuck with your head, fuck with other things too, like your sleep and your focus. You don't even see it."
"But you do," Sam said quietly. "And maybe that's unfair, because I know it bugs you. I know it scares you," he said and for once Dean didn't shrug it off. "You've been looking out for me my whole life. Is this really any different?"
Dean didn't look up, but he didn't fidget either, his thumb stroked the rim of his coffee cup. Sam set his own cup down and stepped in closer, not sure what to do with Dean's calm or his silence. He put his hands on the outside of Dean's knees, rubbed the muscle there, just above the joint. "Hey."
When Dean finally looked at him, that same deep concern was there, but there was something behind, something helpless and exposed. Dean set his cup aside as well and hooked a finger under the red cord still tied around Sam's wrist. "I don't like what it does to you. Times when you are standing right in front of me, but whatever you're seeing -- you're gone, man. Just…gone. And I'm…I don't always know how to get you back or how to follow."
Sam wanted to tell him he didn't have to, that he knew, knew somewhere deep inside that he'd always find his way back. That wasn't something Dean would believe, wasn't something he'd necessarily trust even from Sam. Maybe especially from Sam. It wasn't in Dean to be able to wait, to be unable to do something, anything.
"I don't know how to fix it or shut it off," Sam said. "We could…there are all kinds of things we could try, binding rituals, blood magic…I'll do…I'll do whatever you want. I don't want to go where you can't follow either. And I can promise but…"
Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth quirking up but not really in humor. Sam smiled and nodded. "Yeah…I know."
Dean reached up and hooked a hand around the back of Sam's neck, drew his head down and until their foreheads were pressed together. He didn't say anything, only breathed with Sam for a moment, fingers rubbing against the nape of Sam's neck. Then he lifted his own head and pressed a kiss to Sam's skin, just at the hairline, before nudging him back. He said nothing, only took his coffee cup and headed into the bedroom. It was a request for space rather than an invitation, and Sam gave it to him.
A half hour of it at least, before Sam felt the tug and need for sleep and the couch looked unappealing when there was a perfectly good bed already warmed by his brother's body. He banked the fire, but brought in more firewood since the skies looked ready to dump more rain, and headed to bed.
Dean was sprawled on his stomach, and barely cracked an eye open when Sam settled in next to him, but a few hours later, when they both woke, feeling hungry and chilled, they'd both shifted to the center of the bed; sleeping with Dean's arms slung around Sam's stomach, half tucked into the front of Sam's jeans.
They put off lunch for an hour seeking a different kind of comfort and a different set of answers. Sam didn't make any promises and Dean didn't ask for any.
+++++
They stayed another two weeks, which was a week longer than Sam thought Dean could actually stand. He was restless and, if not short-tempered, at least less patient. They made one run into town to pick up more food and Sam did some poking to see if there was anything in local legend or Chippewa myth to explain the creature in the water, but what references he could find were too vague and generalized. No description of such a thing, spirit or otherwise.
Sam could almost believe it never happened except for the healing cut across his palm, the loss of three shirts, and the iron nail pendant that hung around his neck. Dean had salvaged his own from his pocket and taken it off the bull-head charm he wore. He'd filed the points down and restrung it, offering it to Sam over their delayed spaghetti dinner while asking him to pass the garlic bread, Sam had put it on then reached for seconds.
They'd walked to the pool together but nothing showed and nothing lingered and Sam couldn't find the hag stone he'd dropped, even though it should have been there. He didn't even tell Dean he was looking for it, but he noticed Dean's eyes tracked the ground as well, scanning over the rock.
The pool was significantly lower, even with the intermittent rain they'd had and Dean had crouched at the downstream side and studied, pointing out where trailing runoff had dislodged smooth stones and thicker branches. Neither of them said it but Sam was pretty sure the water fae had been damming the pool, securing its environment. He wondered if there would be anything but a shallow puddle come summer.
They left a couple of days after that, in the afternoon. Dean called Bobby to let him know they'd finished the list and to thank his friend for the use of the place, and ask him if he had anything they should look into. Bobby had a couple of things, and Dean decided Idaho was as good a place as any to get back into it. They hadn't been there in awhile.
"Can we stop by the lake?" Sam asked as the car cleared the rutted drive. Dean had glanced at him but didn't answer. Sam didn't press it; it was mostly curiosity and nothing urgent -- nothing drawing him there. Dean made the turn when he needed to and they drove past the farm house, got a wave from a woman at the end of the drive, checking her mailbox. Dean waved back but didn't slow.
There wasn't much to see. Huge portions of the lake were undeveloped and inaccessible, part of the tribal lands. They passed through Waskish Township, heading for Bemidji. There wasn't much there, but there was a gas station and post office, a restaurant that would have looked abandoned save for the neon Open sign in the window.
"You want to see anything, we probably need to wait until sunset," Dean said, and pulled into the restaurant parking lot.
There were actually a couple of people there, regulars, who apparently walked or worked close by although Sam couldn't say where. The coffee was strong and fresh and if the sandwiches they ordered weren't the best he'd ever eaten they weren't the worst either. Dean flirted with their fifty-something waitress which got her smiling and her cook-husband frowning. Tourists and fishing and farming were the topics of the regulars.
"Gonna be a pretty sunset," their hostess told them, looking out the windows, where already the sky was deepening to a red haze.
"Yeah? Spectacular?" Dean asked her and she nodded.
"You can take the Shore Road. Boat dock there and they don't mind if people get out and look Won't even charge you for it." She reached over to refill their coffee cups and Dean tilted his head, looking at the bracelet on her wrist. "That's an interesting stone."
It was not entirely round, more an irregular oval. She had it fastened on a more traditional and gaudy bit of beadwork. "Found that years ago, on the lake. People do, now and again, stones all smooth and worn right through the middle. You can buy ones that look better, all nice and round. But I've always liked this one. When I found it, it was all tangled up in some grasses."
"It's nice, really unique," Sam said and she smiled at him.
Dean thanked her. They finished their coffee and left her a tip that was half the cost of their meal. Dean didn't ask Sam if he wanted to go, just turned the car around and headed toward the lake again. It was impossible to get lost -- only one road and they found the promised dock but Dean drove past it, easing the car to the side of the road a half mile or so south.
By then the sunset had spread to full blood crimson, darkening to purple, glazed by gold. It made the lake water look red, even if that wasn't the reason for the name. It was calm and quiet, the shore lined with thick grass that extended into the water. They stopped just short of where the earth became marsh.
There were no stones here, hollowed or otherwise, and Sam crouched low, fingers dipping into where shallow water lapped at the grass.
"Don't you drink that," Dean warned and Sam rolled his eyes.
"I wasn't planning to," he said and wiped his hand on his jeans.
"What were you expecting, Sam?" Dean asked, curious rather than impatient.
Sam shrugged and stood up, rubbing at the red line on his palm. "Nothing, really. Hoping maybe."
"It might have made it. We were pretty close."
"Yeah, we were. It's a big lake, deep. I guess, one way or another, it got home."
"I guess so. If you're done communing with nature and lake spirits, though, I'd like to put some miles between this place and us," Dean said and turned back long strides already putting distance between him and the water.
"Dean..." Sam said and Dean stopped. Promises wouldn't help but it was all Sam had to offer. "One way or another, I'll get home too," Sam said.
Dean hesitated, looking over his shoulder, eyes scanning the water before coming back to rest on Sam's face. "Better if you never leave it," he said and headed back to the car.
Sam followed him, fingers trailing over the tall grasses.
He thought he heard whispers but he didn't linger to try and understand what they were saying.
He heard Dean and that was enough.
~end~