SPN fic: The Secrets of Copper Country [Part Three and Epilogue]

[on_verra]

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Part Three

"Ugh." Sam comes to, no way of telling how long it's been. He's on his back about a dozen feet underground, and he can see the blue-gray sky through the hole where he fell in. He thinks back to the moments before, mentally retracing his steps. He wonders how many more of the weathered rock faces were actually man-made slabs, meant to forever cover the shallow remains of this abandoned mining exploration. At least he didn't end up a shattered corpse, hundreds of feet down.

His head throbs and he feels some sticky wetness where he touches his fingertips to his scalp. His whole body aches but he doesn't think anything's broken. He feels along the rough-hewn stone around him, gauging how difficult it will be to climb back out on his own. The shaft is maybe eight by ten across at its widest point, perhaps only two by two in other places. Sam was lucky to have landed on a wide ledge, a last platform before the floor cuts steeply and narrowly down another few feet.

He lies there a few moments longer, with nothing but the distant forest sounds above and the irregular drip-drip of water on stone to keep him conscious. He breathes in the chalky smell of shale and the metallic tang of his blood, and the earthier smells of rotting leaves and small animals that must have gotten in over the years, leaving their delicate bones behind. They snap like twigs where his palms press against them as he lifts himself into a sitting position.

Underneath, half-buried in a clump of foul soil, he feels something else, something larger and more defined. He could have mistaken it for a rock, but for the way it stuck and lifted ever so slightly with his movement. He leans back against the shaft wall and peers down, trying to make out the shape with his itchy, burning eyes. As his sight caught up with his touch, he realized what he had found. It was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass, and as he brushed the dirt away he could see that it was more than a ring; it was an old key, and it looked as if it had been buried down here a long time.

Stricken, Sam jumps to his feet. He nearly hits his head against some sharp rock edges. He looks at the key, almost frightened, as it hangs from his finger.

"It's..." His voice bounces against the mineshaft as he talks to himself. "Holy shit, it's..."

He looks at the key quite a long time. He turns it over and over, and thinks about it. Deep in the marrow of his bones, he already knows what it must be, and why it was thrown to rest for eternity at the bottom of a forgotten mineshaft.

Sam is not a man who asks for permission about things. All he thinks about the key is that if it is indeed the key to the closed garden, it's all he needs to find the door. It's not even because he wants to end whatever dark, exquisite magic has come over the Manor. It's only because the garden has been shut up for all those years that he wants to see inside of it, and so know, finally, what could possibly be so special inside. He wants to know, has to know, so that there can be nothing outside of his control and understanding. Not Dean, not this fucking place. Hell, nothing. Yes, he thinks, there is something significant to be learned here. His literally stumbling onto the key cannot be a coincidence. And it's like it means something that Dean's the one who led him there.

Tucking the heavy key into the back of his jeans as naturally as he would a gun, Sam starts trying to heave himself up and out of this hole. He doesn't have much success at first. Even his impressive height can't help him to find a foothold any lower than some thick old nails about five feet from the bottom, no doubt left hammered into the rock during the mining explorations.

He feels along the wall, grasping in the shadows for a good spot. Finally, he grabs on to a higher rock ledge and use it to swing his body up toward the nails, trying to get the edge of one boot to catch there. It takes a few tries before he has a secure angle, and then he's clinging to the wall, standing precariously on a set of nails as he searches for another small ledge to grab onto.

"Sam!"

It's right then that Dean's frantic voice booms down, and Sam nearly slips and falls again as he cranes his neck up to see his brother's head and shoulders outlined against the brightening sky.

"Sammy, are you okay? You gotta be okay, man!"

"Yeah, 'm okay! Just... just help me out of here!" He redoubles his efforts to climb up, and soon he's straining a hand up for Dean to pull tightly. Dean pulls with all the force he can muster, Sam's ragged hands smearing blood and dirt between them as he wedges himself upwards. Then he's out, and they both roll onto their backs, collapsing in the sun. Sam's hair sticks to his face and neck, and the key digs into the base of his spine, sparking a familiar, mild wave of nausea as it hits the old knife scar that still troubles him.

"You're okay, you're okay," Dean pants. He's out-of-breath, not just from pulling Sam's weight, but more like he'd been running a long distance.

"Shouldn't have run from me..." Sam last reaches out blindly to fist Dean's shirt, keeping his hand there in a loose grip.

"Yeah, well, I had to do something. You were going all Jack Torrance on me," Dean tries to joke, but there's an awkward edge to it. "I... I, uh, made it down past the property line before I realized you weren't right behind me."

"Past the..." Sam knows dimly that this means something, that there's something very important about Dean crossing the property line. It flares in the back of his roiling mind, but only for a second before Dean speaks again.

"We're not going to talk about that right now," Dean mutters. He starts to rise, but Sam swiftly rolls over and traps him against the flat rock, fixing him in place with a strong arm and a manic glare.

"I found the key," Sam announces against Dean's shoulder. "In the mine. I found the key."

Dean swallows hard, then tentatively reaches up to touch Sam's arm. "That's great, that's... really great."

"Is that all you have to say?" Sam pins him down harder, bringing one leg over Dean's hips and not caring when Dean's whole body goes completely stiff and still. "Do you know how major this is?"

"Yeah, I do. I really do. You can solve this whole mystery now." Dean inches away and Sam lets him. This time it's Dean who pulls Sam up from the ground. "Phew, we'll have to cover up these holes. Somebody could really hurt themselves around here."

*~ *~*

His whole life, as far back as he can remember, Sam Winchester has seen a great deal of monsters and magic. He has known all the evils of this earth, supernatural or otherwise.

But what happens next is unlike anything he's ever seen before.

Still covered in the grit and grime of the earth, Sam and Dean hobble back through the forest, stopping when the garden walls come into view.

There is something different in the air now, the green veil of hanging vines and the very stones themselves pregnant with anticipation. Sam reaches back to pull the key from its place in the waistband of his torn and blackened jeans. He approaches the wall slowly and with ceremony, the way that he's approached Dean all of these nights. The parallel will not escape him later, but right now he only has eyes for the wall. He can feel Dean's presence a few feet behind him, but doesn't turn around.

The corroded metal in his hand seems to throb gently as he raises his arm out in front of his face. The motion is familiar, the muscle memory once ingrained in his polluted blood now set to a different purpose.

Different but perhaps not dissimilar, for he is still performing an exorcism of sorts.

As he stands there in the sun, arm outstretched, he still sees nothing but stone and thickly growing, glossy, dark green leaves. Then a wind blows up from behind him, strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of ivy. The stone beneath shimmers as if passed over by a wave of heat.

"Hey, look!" Dean gasps from somewhere behind him, and Sam does look as a glint of bright copper appears where before there was none. It's the knob of a door.

Sam lunges forward and grabs onto it for dear life, as the outline of an arched doorway begins to appear and then fully manifests as wood and metal. The swinging vines are hitting Sam everywhere, but his heart thumps and his hands shake a little in his delight and excitement as the toothed edge of the key finds its place in the lock. With all of his might, the key begins to turn.

And then Sam takes a long breath and looks behind him to see Dean. He is covered head-to-toe in black soot, drying mud, smeared blood and small cuts and bruises, but his eyes are shining with hope. Sam takes another long breath because he can't help it, and then shoves his shoulder against the door which opens slowly... so slowly...

Then Sam is standing inside the secret garden.

*~ *~*

It's like nothing he's ever seen before, in that it's nothing like what he expected.

He isn't sure what he expected, actually. Some kind of evil green pulsating vortex, maybe? Or the complete opposite - a place of stunning beauty and tangible power. But whatever else, Sam did not expect that this would be... just a garden. Very pretty, yeah, sure, like something out of one of those period movies with the Victorian costumes, wrought iron benches and fat cherub sculptures. But just a garden, though a bit wilder and more fully in bloom than the others that hadn't been locked.

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. And in the middle of this garden, surrounded by tall grass and purple thistles, Sam falls to his knees.

Sam falls to his knees, his mouth open on a silent wail as he's hit with the full impact of what's happened. It passes into him like a current, the knowledge of what this place has done to him, what it's let him become.

It all seems so obvious, now. Of course it does. Sam could kick himself for not putting it all together sooner.

"Sam, hey..." Dean comes up and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam shakes it off as if he's being burned.

"Oh my god, Dean! Oh my god," Sam chokes out, too shocked to manage much more than a hoarse whisper. "How can - how can you stand to touch me? What - " Sam lets himself fall forward onto his elbows, barely registers his face in the dirt and the impact of his right funny bone slamming into a stray rock. "After what I did to you!"

"Take it easy, it wasn't you. It was - "

"Of course it was me, man! What do you think, it was just the garden? Well it is just a fucking garden! I fucked up so bad, Dean. I... it didn't make me do anything that wasn't already - "

"Well, you and me both." Dean is crouched on the ground, too. He grabs the bloody collar of Sam's shirt with both hands and hoists him up onto his knees until they're face to face, never letting go. "I told you, I got past the property line. And it was just like Tamara said, remember? As soon as I got there, I, you know. Felt like normal again."

"And what, I'm supposed to feel normal now, since we unlocked some big fucking secret and broke some fucking spell? Well I guess I was never normal, Dean." Sam snorts, thinking to himself that if he were normal, he'd be even more completely hysterical by now. Instead he's beginning to feel a calm coalescing beneath his panic, a kind of perverse satisfaction at having everything he's ever suspected about himself confirmed. "Just some kind of demonic control freak who wants to fuck my brother."

"You're not a freak, man. And you're still in shock. The same thing happened to me..." Dean is speaking calmly, more calmly than Sam would have though him capable. "What did you think I was doing before? When you were down in that mineshaft for, like, two hours."

"Two..." Sam starts clicking more pieces into place. "How - "

It takes a minute for that to sink in, that Dean had been out from under the Manor's control since well before he dragged Sam out of that hole, just waiting for Sam to get on the same page.

"Can we not - I mean, can we talk about this later?" Dean stands and rubs a hand down his face, only making himself even dirtier. "I'm not trying to avoid anything or ignore your pain or whatever, not anymore. I just - look, we need to recover before we can think about this clearly. Alright?"

Sam pushes his hair off his face and tries to take a deep breath. The floral smell is so strong here, almost suffocating, but underneath it he can smell his brother. This is both disturbing and comforting, and Sam doesn't have the faintest idea what his own feelings are right now. They're a jumbled, twisted mess. All he wants to do is lean forward and melt into Dean, but he doesn't. He doesn't know how he'll ever be able to touch Dean again without hating himself.

"Yeah," says Sam. "Yeah, you're right."

"Okay. But there is one thing I have to do." Without further warning, Dean pulls a fist and punches Sam in the jaw hard enough to almost knock him out again.

"Fuck..." says Sam, falling sideways. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the soft earth, notices as some of it hits a small yellow flower and coats a few petals with red.

Then he pulls himself up to full height and locks eyes with Dean. For a moment, they simply stand there. If anyone happened upon this scene, they would find two very incongruous, bedraggled figures in that sunny green garden. But another gust of wind passes over and away into silence, and of course they are very much alone.

Neither of them says a word as they turn and walk together out of the garden. They leave the door wide open, key still dangling in the lock.

*~ *~*

"So."

"Uh, so."

It's the first time they've spoken in days. Sam hasn't left the house - hasn't even left his room except for a scant few food and bathroom breaks, and he doesn't think Dean has either. Sam could hear him pacing and shifting, tossing and turning in his room across the hall. They've passed each other in the stairwell a couple of times, sidling by like a couple of wary cats.

Now, Dean is knocking on Sam's door and Sam is letting him in. Dean sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, and Sam remembers with a pang the last time that Dean was in here. The taste and the feel of him; It's like a fever dream, now.

Sam has had plenty of time to think about everything, but he finds he can't think much beyond his feelings. And he still hasn't gotten much past what he first felt there in the garden, that he'd been stupid and selfish, and taken advantage of his brother's weakness in the worst possible way.

Living as it were, all by themselves in a cursed house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and a secret garden, had set in motion the events that led here. But Sam knows now that the true magic has been in the way it works slightly differently on everyone, depending on who they are. It strips away a person's more civilized qualities, those things that help them to hide their true, most primitive selves and to get along in the world. Thus laid bare, people tend to let loose the feelings and desires that they would otherwise keep trapped within. In Tamara's case it was guilt and despair. In Sam's it was... fuck was it ever something else entirely.

Sam and Dean may both have been under the influence of this place, but no matter what Dean may have said at first, Sam is sure that the more time his brother has to process what went on between them, the more disgusted he will be.

"Lovely weather we're having," half-jokes Dean, breaking Sam's rumination. Dean's palms are flat on his thighs, fingers curling down over his knees as he looks at the floor. He looks thin and distracted, and he's wearing what must be his last set of clean clothes at this point.

One thing that Sam knows for sure is that he has no idea how long they've been here. It has to be well over the month that Tamara promised. Probably more like two.

"Yeah," Sam huffs out with a soft, humorless laugh, not knowing what to say. He's said enough already and what he really needs is for Dean to take the lead right now. Otherwise he's only going to dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole. "Lovely."

"I, uh. Do you want to come out to the garden with me?"

Sam has gone over to the window, staring outside so that he won't be staring at Dean. He leans his forehead against the glass and rubs his thumb along one of the old screw holes in the lacquered wood frame, where they'd removed one of the thick iron bars. It was one of the first things they did when they'd settled in, and Sam thinks it no small irony. And they have yet to do the bars on the outside, too.

"Sam? Come on, man, we got inside, but we still don't know what caused this thing."

Dean is right. It's not good enough to just declare that the curse has been lifted. It's their job to try and make sure that it never happens to anyone else, ever again. Everything else can wait, like it always does. Until it can't wait anymore.

Sam sighs and turns around. "Yeah, I know."

*~ *~*

They take the long way around from the front doors, just like Sam did the very first time he approached the garden. The main courtyard is looking beautiful now, though it will still need to be cleaned up a bit. The exposed statues are standing tall and graceful on their carved stone bases among rich spring plants and rough, mossy paving stones. An allegorical figure here, some character from Greek myth there.

The stone benches in the rear yard form a large square around the dancing-girl fountain, which is empty now but for an inch of dirt, and the old cider-apple trees are starting to break out into those delicate pink blossoms that always fly away at the lightest touch.

The shrubbery has grown taller without all that snow to hold it back, and it takes Dean a minute to locate the gap that Sam remembers marks the beginning of the pathway which runs along the garden walls.

Bypassing the door into the first of the sequential gardens, which will have to be mucked out some other time, they head directly for the secret garden. The door hasn't disappeared, hasn't moved from how they left it, but Sam never thought it would.

The place is a wilderness of gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side are sheaves of lilies standing together. Early roses climb and hang and cluster between the patches of daffodils and purple thistles that Sam saw before. The gentle sunshine makes the green hues of the vines, trees and grasses glint as if they've been dipped in gold, and the few copper statues set into alcoves all around the walls shine like temple icons.

It really is one of the most beautiful places that Sam has ever been. If he were to re-imagine Eden now, it would look something like this.

Not that he would deserve to be there.

"Stop it, man." As if reading his mind, Dean jostles him with an elbow. "Whatever you've got going on in that giant brain. Just, let's get a closer look around."

Dean pulls the EMF meter from his jacket. He must have retrieved it from the Impala when Sam wasn't paying attention. It doesn't tell them anything much, but they keep it on as they walk forward.

Far in the back corner, hidden by a wide tree and built into the wall itself, is a small stone shed, with a copper-handled iron shovel leaning up against it. A gardeners' toolshed, then. But Sam has a weird feeling about it, hitting him like a miasma, and he motions for Dean to come over and check it out.

"Is it locked? Another mystery wrapped inside an enigma," Dean starts to joke weakly again but Sam remains silent. Dean rolls up his sleeves and pulls open the door.

Inside, in a dark cell that's lined with tools and can't be more than four feet square, there is a small wooden table with a chair. On the table there lie a book, the waxen remains of a candle, and a copper bowl containing some dried up herbs and flakes of rust-red blood. And in the chair, sitting as if waiting for supper, is the well-preserved corpse of a man.

His leather-dry skin is stretched thin over his bones, except where it's split open lengthwise at each wrist. On the floor beneath his dangling right arm lies the knife that he used to do it. He is wearing the patched and rough clothing of a gardener, but the knife is finely made. Its handle is inlaid with copper, of course, and its silvery blade is still razor-sharp when Dean retrieves it.

The sunlight streaming in gives the scene a luminous appearance, like a Vermeer, but Sam's eyes are drawn straight to the book on the table. It's thick and ancient, with a corded ribbon marking some place inside. When he opens it, he recognizes the language as Latin, though there are messy margin notes in a spidery English hand.

"I guess we salt and burn..." says Dean as he places the knife next to the book on the table. Then her leans in to read over Sam's shoulder. "Uh, does that mean what I think?"

Pro Perficio Gaudium Eternum

Sam backs out of the doorway, back into the sunlight. He laughs once, then again, and before he can help himself he's laughing uncontrollably.

"Oh man, I'm sorry, but man," he manages between gulps of air. "That is... that's not even funny."

"So something went wrong?" Dean looks dumbfounded by Sam's nervous laughter. "Or, uh, I guess that would be an understatement."

"This was supposed to be some kind of happiness spell, Dean. A happiness spell." He has stopped laughing. "So, yeah, I'd say something went wrong."

Dean retrieves the book from the table and brings it out into the light for a better look. He hands it to Sam. "You're better with this stuff."

Sam isn't sure if Dean means Latin or witchcraft, but he doesn't ask. He just squints at the text.

"It looks like the idea was to keep this place in a kind of stasis. Used copper as a conduit, maybe because there's so much of it lying around. But he should have known that anything involving blood ritual can't be good. The spell couldn't just keep the garden in full summer bloom forever without taking the energy from somewhere else."

Dean just blinks for a moment. "I don't think it's that simple. It wasn't exactly happy energy that it took."

Sam could say a million things to that, but what comes out is, "I wonder why he did it."

"It's kind of obvious, isn't it? The gardener was the only one who stayed here with the widow for 20 years after Alexander died, right? A guy that loyal, he had to have been in love with her or something. It must have been a hard life up here, and he gave his trying to preserve something that she loved."

That actually makes a lot of sense. It also makes sense that Dean could relate to it, considering the care he takes preserving the things he loves which hold some meaning for him. And Sam's heart clenches painfully in his chest to hear Dean talk about love and loyalty.

Sam just stares at him until he looks away, face coloring slightly.

"He sure chose a shitty way of doing it, though." Dean kicks at the ground. "And seriously, the gardener? That's like finding out the butler did it."

Sam can't help a chuckle at that, and suddenly he feels better, like everything might somehow be okay. Like, if Dean's sense of humor is coming back, maybe it can help heal them both, just as it always has. Maybe forgetting this whole thing really is the way to go.

Dean has the meter out again, but there's no EMF coming from the shed, either. "I don't think the place is haunted anymore, if it ever was."

"No, it was probably just the spell. And that's broken now. If we're careful not to damage the garden, we should probably salt and burn the shed just to be safe."

"Yeah, Sammy," says Dean as he smiles more brightly than he has in a long time. "Burn your wicked gardener to the ground."

*~ *~*

Late in the afternoon, deed done, Sam goes up to the third floor viewpoint window. He looks across the yard and gardens, and he can see a bit of smoke still curling up from the little stone shed, the last glowing embers safely burning themselves out. A gentle wind rustles across the forest, and in the distance he thinks he sees the deep blue and vast waters of Lake Superior.

When he reaches down to pull open the window, he notices that Dean's single fingerprint is still there on the glass. He pulls his sleeve over the heel of his hand to wipe it away, but hesitates, and finally decides to leave it there. It's a small comfort, this visible mark of Dean's touch. He hovers his own fingers over it, feeling close to his brother and hating himself for being so sentimental about what he knows is an unnatural, ugly desire.

He's got the window open and is examining the join of the iron bars to the outer stone when Dean comes up the hall behind him.

"Hey."

"Hey," says Sam without turning around, just fiddling self-consciously with the metal like he's been caught red-handed having bad thoughts.

"I, uh, I got some of those bars off already. In the kitchen. You just need this one Allen wrench - I can show you if you want."

"Yeah, thanks. That would be great." They're both obviously stalling.

"Listen, can we... can we talk?" And so it is Dean who will move this forward after all. Sam breathes a sigh that's equal parts relief and apprehension.

"Yeah." Sam turns around to see that Dean's expression is open and pleading. And Sam's not sure if he's ever quite realized Dean's eyes could take on that precise shade of green.

"Come on. I don't wanna do this standing up here." Dean gestures with his head and shoulder toward the stairs.

For some reason, Sam assumed that they would be going back outside, but on the second-floor landing, their way is blocked by cardboard boxes stacked high and wide. Sam can see bits of dark velvet and embroidered cotton sticking out from where the boxes are open, recognizing some of the clothes he'd found during his first explorations around the Manor.

Dean notices his pause and explains. "Figured we should clear all this out, see if Tamara's friend wants it sold or sent to a museum or something."

They pass the boxes and Sam sees that they're headed for Dean's bedroom. For a moment he's surprised, but then it occurs to him that Dean would probably feel most comfortable here, in the space he's marked out for himself alone. There's a chair in here, and they never... well, that wasn't in here.

Sam sits himself in the chair, while Dean remains standing with his hand on the door for a moment before closing it. Sam notices a tear in the textured wallpaper near the doorknob, and focuses on that.

Dean walks forward until he's about five feet away, and then he speaks.

"Everything you said before was true."

Sam blinks a couple of times, not following. "Before, when?"

"Before you broke the spell in the garden. You were right about everything. It was... nothing happened that I didn't want. And as fucked-up as it is, I'm kinda grateful that it's out in the open now."

Sam felt himself going into a panic. Dean could not possibly be saying what it sounds like he's saying.

"But, Dean," he manages in a cracked voice, "what I did - "

"Was what I needed. Fuck, it was what we both needed. There are no victims or villains here, so stop punishing yourself."

Sam is shocked stupid by these words coming out of his brother's mouth. "I, uh. I need to think about this."

"No, you don't." Dean sighs deeply, like he's talking to a child and losing his patience. "You think too damn much. So much you don't even sleep. I think that's partly what started this in the first place, why you couldn't recognize that there was something wrong with you."

"Something wrong with me, huh," Sam snorts.

"Jesus, that's not what I meant."

"Well then what did you mean?"

Dean moves forward so fast that Sam braces himself to be punched in the face again, but as his brain catches up with his nerves he realizes that Dean is straddling his lap and... Dean is kissing him. Their mouths are closed but there is no mistaking the press of Dean's lips for what it is. It lasts all of five seconds before Dean pulls back slightly, hands clutching Sam's shirt like he's holding onto a lifeline.

"I meant - maybe it took a spell for us to get here, and the way it happened was fucked up. I'm not denying that. But now that we're here, and we're clear... I want this. I think we both have..." Dean pauses to take a shaky breath. "Long time coming, man. So stop thinking so hard, and stop playing the martyr. It is what it is. I don't - I don't see why we can't just have it."

Sam is going to keep thinking about this. Probably for years. No matter what happens now, over-thinking is just part of who he is. But Dean does have a point. There is no way that Sam can deny it when his body are already responding to the warmth of Dean's, heavy and strong and powerful against him. Dean must notice it, too, because when Sam next exhales, Dean takes it as a cue to lean into Sam's mouth again, this time with softer lips and one hand sliding around to cup the back of Sam's skull.

Sam's mind reels, a million thoughts and feelings warring for attention. Guilt and failure, a lifetime of denial and love and confusion. All of the sacrifices that Dean has made. His 40 years in Hell, and the astonishing self-awareness that he's slowly developed since his return and the shit that happened after - which Sam is only just now starting to fully appreciate. The wrongness of it all, and also the rightness. How fucked-up this is, and how inevitable.

"God, Dean..." Sam moans and holds tightly to his brother.

"If you're gonna apologize again, shut it," says Dean between heavy breaths and light but heated kisses to the side of Sam's face and neck. "Right now I just need you to touch me."

That gets another moan from Sam, who stands up to full height never letting go, and lays them out on Dean's bed in one smooth movement. He's aligned over Dean's spread thighs, the denim of their jeans rough and hot between them. Then he freezes and looks down into Dean's eyes, pupils blown and the green of his irises reminding Sam once more of that perfect garden.

"Dean, are you sure? I don't want to -"

"What, take control? Yes you do. And I fucking love it."

*~ *~*

They're just about finished now with whatever work was left to do around the house. Cracks have been plastered, rooms inventoried, boxes packed and labeled, laundry washed and hung to dry outside.

Dean even outdoes himself by cleaning out the carriage house. As a reward, Sam fucks him right there, licks him open and makes him beg so pretty on the hood of the Impala.

They go back to eating all their meals together. They're both ravenous, but there's still food in the kitchen. Meat in the freezer, and neat jars and cans all lined up in the pantry. Not tons left, but way more than there should be by now. Sam reckons that whatever mild stasis the spell had them under must have extended to include their need to eat. They're also sleeping in the same room, and often showering together. Though this does not actually do much to keep the water from going cold before they're through.

*~ *~*

They're in the parlor behind the kitchen, and Sam is thinking about threatening Dean with bodily harm if he plays "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" one more fucking time, except that it would probably not be much of a deterrent. Dean is sprawled in his favorite chair, feet on the ottoman. He looks completely relaxed in the golden afternoon light, but keeps shooting Sam little glances from under his eyelashes that are driving Sam crazy in an entirely different way than the music.

Dean was trying to get the dancing-girl fountain to run earlier, even brought up one of the water pumps from the basement to see what that might do, but he gave up once Sam convinced him the entire stone patio would need to be torn up to check on the pipes. Sam dragged him, cursing, out to the garden, where they ate lunch and lounged in the sun for a while before coming inside. They both really love spending time in the old secret garden, and Sam wonders if it has as much to do with what it has given them as with the beauty of the garden itself.

Sam lowers the volume on the record, but doesn't turn it off.

Dean doesn't protest, just smirks. "Something on your mind, Sam?"

"Actually, I was thinking - maybe we should drive down into town. See what day it is, at least. I mean, who knows how long we've been up here? Tamara should have been in touch a while ago. There could be something wrong."

"Aw, and here we are, finally relaxing." Dean's eyebrows come together and he pushes himself upright in the chair. "But I guess you're right. We'll go tomorrow. One more night won't change anything."

"Okay. Yeah, tomorrow. We can spend the morning in the garden, and then after lunch we'll drive."

If he's honest with himself, Sam is worried about leaving this place, about what it will mean for him and Dean to be back out in the world. Life is going to get even harder if they have to hide this thing between them from everyone they meet, everyone they know - no matter that the list is so short now.

Intellectually, Sam knows it's not painted right on his forehead in big neon letters. But if either one of them - especially Dean - starts to feel like it is, this could all come tumbling down like a house of cards.

To his credit, Sam does try not to think about that. Not even late in the night, when he's marking his love and need into Dean's smooth flesh like a benediction. He gives as good as he gets.

*~ *~*

As it turns out, they don't make it back to civilization before it comes to them.

They're lying in the grass in the garden, sides pressed together in a way that would seem innocent for children but is rather suspect for two grown men, when Dean goes stock-still.

"Uh, Sam..." he says in a husky whisper.

"Yeah?" And that's when Sam sees Bobby in the arched doorway, just watching them. There's no telling how long he's been there.

"Hey, Bobby!"

"Bobby, man, is that you?"

"When did you get here?"

"Did you come up with Tamara?"

Sam and Dean are talking over each other as they scramble to their feet and move toward where Bobby is still staring at them, looking about as bemused as it's possible for Bobby to look.

"Dean. Sam." He takes off his soiled baseball cap, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and puts the cap back on. "Morning."

"We were just - "

"I don't want to know. Really." And that's when he breaks into a big smile. "But damn, it's great to see you boys!"

*~ *~*

Bobby did indeed drive up with Tamara, and the four of them gather in the front entrance, grand doors open to let in a nice fragrant breeze from the courtyard.

"Love what you've done with the place," says Tamara with a knowing wink. "It feels so light and welcoming!"

"Yeah, well, we had plenty of time." Dean's being sarcastic, and Sam elbows him good-naturedly.

"I'm so sorry about that. I tried to come back sooner, but the roads were completely washed out, down at the bottom of the hill! We couldn't even get close until now. You didn't know?"

"No, uh, we never tried taking the car out."

"But you must have done - it's been over three months!"

They're all silent for a beat, and then Dean coughs once into his hand.

"Well..." says Sam, looking at Dean. "I guess time flies. Must have had something to do with the spell."

"Huh," says Bobby suddenly. "I think we'd like to hear more about that, if you don't mind."

"Me too." Tamara nods and beams as she looks around. "Then we'll stay the night and head out of here tomorrow. The electricians should be coming in soon to start more preparations for the hotel. And I'll have to find someone from the museum to go through those boxes. I'm sorry it's all so abrupt!"

They make their way around the ground floor, Sam talking about the hunt, such as it was, and Dean pointing at things and detailing all of the work that they'd done on the house. He sounds really proud. And happy.

When Sam gets to the part about the old spell book, Bobby makes a few suggestions about its origins, and tells of a few other haunts he's heard about in the area over the years. If Bobby knows there's anything more to Sam and Dean's story here, he doesn't say a word.

When it's time to turn in for the night, Bobby takes the couch in the small kitchen parlor, but once Tamara climbs the stairs Dean offers her his room, claiming that he's just changed the sheets.

"It's cool, I'll just bunk with Sam. Not like we won't be back to sharing motel rooms anyway, soon as we hit the road."

It's all Sam can manage to keep the grin off his face before the door closes.

Epilogue

A visitor to the Keweenaw on a certain fine spring day might come to fish or to hike, to admire the many waterfalls and look-out points the region has to offer, or to explore what the local County Historical Society as well as the Visitors' Bureau calls the Copper Country Trail, with its well-preserved old buildings and historical museums and exhibits just this side of cheesy. Some of the attractions would just now be opening for the season. There might be a lot of families out in their SUVs and station wagons; it's a great place to bring the kids.

A visitor might see the same tourists throughout the day, as all newcomers tend to make the same stops. Mohawk, Copper Harbor. Eagle Harbor. Perhaps the same folks at the gas station after breakfast are in the diner at lunch. Everyone nods politely in recognition, maybe makes small talk about where they're from or where they're headed next. Some of them might be here to rekindle distant memories, to show their own kids where great-grandpa lived and worked a hundred years ago.

On a certain fine spring day, there might be a couple of guys in a window booth at the diner. One of them keeps glancing out the window at what must be his car. It's a classic, black and sleek and obviously well cared for.

He's smiling while he rubs at the red vinyl seat and marvels loudly at how the booth is made from actual oak, but looks annoyed when he notices the antique copper pots and pans on the walls. The other one looks as him fondly but not without exasperation. Their order comes - one burger with everything and one large spinach and cheese omelette, fresh fruit on the side - and they continue talking quietly between bites.

The taller guy, the one with the messy brown hair, kicks the other one under the table, but that doesn't stop his flirting with the waitress. She's an older woman with graying hair who blushes furiously. She might be blushing under the attention of such a good-lucking young man, but it could also be her confusion and lack of experience with this sort - the sort who rubs gentle circles with his thumb into another guy's wrist behind their steaming mugs of coffee.

Windows rolled down and radio blaring, their car is one of many which pass collapsed structures and proud monuments alike as they amble along the northern shore of the peninsula, maps and brochures spread out on the dash and spilling into the footwell. They listen to the mining-era ghost stories told by the tour guides, chuckling along with the rest of the group at the absurdity of most tales, but sharing meaningful looks over a few.

At the end of the day, they pick up a few beers and clink bottles in front of the sunset on Lake Superior. They watch the red-orange-purple colors meeting the deep blue water and the quietly darkening lands in the distance beyond. Anyone who really knew them might say they look happier and more relaxed than they've looked in years, but there are few left who could make that claim.

They get back on the road and head off to who knows where. They may not be sure where they're going next, but what's important now, as they drive away from the end of the world, is that they're still together.

And if they argue later about where to stop for the night or whether to drive east or west... well, that's beside the point.

END

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