Fundamental Image (2 of 2)
Fundamental Image
A Story in Six Sections of Unequal Length
iv.
..climax..
An hour later, they’re in a motel room, salted and warded, Sam still boneless and wrung out on a bed. Dean’s fishing the first aid kit out of one of the bags and drops it, then himself, on Sam’s bed. “Who first?” he asks, and Sam sees that Dean’s got a few cuts and bruises of his own. The fire keeping him warm, awake, flares up and burns him with rage. “What happened?” he asks, deceptively soft as he takes out the bottle of peroxide. Dean shrugs but says, “Couple of the flesh-eaters got me when I reached out.” He shrugs again, then stifles a whine of pain when Sam pours Holy Water in the cuts and rubs blessed thistle cream into the bruises on Dean’s arms and face.
“Take off your shirt,” he tells Dean about two beats after Dean should have, normally already would have. When Dean doesn’t make any move like he’s going to, Sam hisses through his teeth. “Yours first,” Dean finally says, just when Sam’s pondering how much he’d have to move to rip his brother’s shirt off. This time Sam growls, a little noise of warning, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he says. “We have to take care of what the damn loa did to you. I’m expendable on this mission; you’re not,” he adds and really, Sam doesn’t think that Dean should look so surprised when he’s flat on his back on the floor a second later, Sam straddling him. “You are not expendable,” Sam growls, face right in Dean’s. “You are never expendable,” and he punctuates his words with little nips of Dean’s jaw, neck, collarbones. “I need you,” he says in between full-out bites and the way that Dean groans Sam’s name a moment later, when Sam’s trying to chew off Dean’s earlobe, makes the fire in Sam’s blood rise hotter and deeper, until all he knows is Dean. “Need you,” he says again, shifting so that Dean can press up against him, laying the words at the altar of Dean’s lips.
Dean’s fingers dig into Sam’s hips like the loa dug into his mind, and some part of Sam is deeply pleased that fingerprints will turn into candy-coloured bruises later, tomorrow, marking him. So he kisses Dean again, hard, leaving bruises and cuts of his own, marking Dean’s lips, tasting Dean, pulling Dean’s tongue into his own mouth and sucking. Dean makes this noise, then, and turns his face away, fingers loosening their grip, and Sam leans closer and nuzzles the skin between his brother’s neck and chin and jaw. “Sammy,” Dean says, and so he licks Dean’s skin. The taste of salt-sweat and want, of dried blood and panic, of Dean fills Sam’s mouth and he thinks that the world will end, like this, unless he gets more. Even then, it might never be enough.
“Sammy, wait,” Dean says, hands trying to push him off now, so he growls and sits up, turns eyes dark with fury on his brother, who can’t seem to meet them. “Sammy, I get it, okay? I fucking get it. Just…get offa me and we’ll get cleaned up.” Sam shakes his head and deliberately shifts his hips, feeling Dean stretched out beneath him, bowline-taut apart from his cock, which is hard and straining. “No, Dean. You don’t get it,” and Dean looks at him, impossible flushed, from beneath the delicate curve of long golden eyelashes. “They told me, Dean,” Sam goes on, feeling for a moment the thick slow smile of Maman Brigitte. “That you’ve wanted me like this, for years.” Dean’s eyes close and the fight goes out of him, body turning limp as if playing dead. That won’t do, Sam doesn’t like that, so he draws his fingers down Dean’s side, then rubs a thumb over one of Dean’s cotton-covered nipples. Dean shudders, opens his eyes, and Sam leans down until their noses are bumping. “That you love me,” he says softly, “and that I broke your heart when I left you.” Dean groans, tries to turn his head away, but Sam’s holding his jaw, won’t let him. “I was stupid,” Sam murmurs, eyes fixed on Dean’s, ignoring the weak grunt his brother pushes out. “I was stupid to leave and stupid not to see it before this, but Dean,” he says, words made with iron, now, voice roaring with fire just like his bones, his skin, his soul. “Dean, I’m sorry, I understand, and I’m here.”
Dean searches Sam’s eyes, whimpers after a moment and leans up, blindly searching for Sam’s mouth, and so Sam helps him, knocks their heads together and their mouths follow, latching on and not letting go. Sam’s hands find the hem of Dean’s shirt and go under, palms skimming over sweat-slick skin, tracing out the contours of old scars and fresh scrapes, committing them to memory. It isn’t enough, though, so he pushes Dean’s shirt off, interrupting the kiss for a split-second and then longer as he pushes his hips down and starts nibbling his way across Dean’s chest. When Sam’s tongue finds the first nipple, Dean arches up, tangles his hands in Sam’s hair, and says, “Jesus Christ,” in a tone somewhere between good-times-soft and nearly dead, and when Sam’s teeth graze and pull the other one, Dean tenses, keens, and comes. At that moment, Sam pushes sideways with his mind and tangles himself in Dean, surrounding his mind with everything Dean’s feeling, drowning in waves of want and fatigue and heart-breaking worry and a love so intense that Sam’s mind bends under the pressure.
He’s always thought Dean was like earth, steady and dependable and there, built to last and never stop, the inexorable process of continents drifting away from Pangaea, but here, in Dean’s mind like this, with his brother wide open beneath him, he realises how wrong he’s been. Dean’s not earth, he’s water, cold and focused like ice on hunts, thin and ephemeral like steam, running around every obstacle in his way like rives have changed landscapes for millennia. And his love for Sam, his absolute need and willingness to take whatever Sam will offer just to have something, is deeper than any ocean could ever be, deep enough, even, to handle Sam’s raging fire and not get scorched. It’s enough to make Sam laugh, that he could have been so wrong, for so long, and he unwinds his mind from Dean’s, exultant, and rolls off of his brother, laying on the floor, one long line of his body pressed against Dean, sharing warmth.
“Dude,” Dean finally says, a minute or year later. “I just came in my pants. I haven’t done that since I was fifteen.” Sam hums, doesn’t move. “Sammy…” Dean begins, then stops. “I know,” Sam says. “I know, Dean.”
--
It takes them time to get moving, and when Dean finally shuts the bathroom door behind him, Sam’s regained enough equilibrium to crawl back to the bed and take off his shirt, begin studying the splits in his skin from Ti-Jean. They’re in writhing lines, snaked all over his arms and chest, and he can feel more on his back, legs. He douses the ones he can reach with peroxide and Holy Water, just in case, laying out band-aids for later, after he’s washed off the stray tangles of blood and satellites of brick dust painted on his skin. Next, the knife he used to open the vévé, watching as he wipes blood off with a rag once white, now pink, tattered and soft, and soon it’s ready to be sharpened. The whetstone fits in his hand like it was made to and the smell of metal soothes him, because knives have always been his weapon of choice, always given him some measure of comfort with their grip-worn handles, the way the blade heats up pressed against his skin, sings under his touch. It doesn’t require thought to do this, doesn’t need his attention and yet Sam gives it, until the bathroom door creaks open and he looks up.
Dean’s leaning in the doorway, one arm propped up against the crackling white-painted wood, a towel slung low across his hips, a bigger smirk than Sam’s ever seen stretched across his lips. Dean does this little nod thing, more a twitch of eyebrow and flex of jaw than anything, and Sam can’t help the noise he makes, eyes tracing over Dean. His brother’s hair is wet, spiked up, and there are small drops of water clinging to those eyelashes Dean’s looking through. He can see the scars now, sees what he felt before, the knotted upraise of what must have been a bullet, a web of white faded lines that look like knives or claws, and the silvery imprints of rock salt imploded on a broad, tanned chest. Sam feels a moment’s deep regret before fire explodes in his veins, Dean shifting, the too-small towel slipping a little to one side and showing Sam the curve of Dean’s hipbone, the lean lines of his thigh and calf, the tension underneath the cockiness. Sam flows upwards, the knife and whetstone forgotten where he drops them, another noise lodged in his throat, choking him. Dean’s head tilts down, eyes peering coyly at Sam through eyelashes almost too thick and long and perfect to be human, and Sam takes one step forward before he falls to his knees, holding his head.
The pain doesn’t last long, going as suddenly as it came, leaving behind a barrage of images in his mind and the wounds all over his body are bleeding again, split open a little deeper. “Fuck,” he breathes, eyes not seeing anything until Dean crouches down in front of him, the combination of seeing and smelling Dean jogging Sam out of his daze. “Witch?” Dean asks, eyes fixed on the fresh blood on Sam’s skin and growing darker. “Or vision?” Sam shakes his head, winces at the pain that causes. “Loa,” he says, and this time it’s Dean who growls, stands up and pushes Sam into the bathroom. “Damn fucking spirits need to leave you the fuck alone,” Dean’s muttering, that and variations, as his fingers make quick work of undressing Sam, who’s forehead is pressed against cool tile. “Ti-Jean’s only trying to help,” Sam says, “sort of. He rides hard, that’s all.” Dean helps Sam into the shower, turns the water on, and says, “Only person riding you now is me,” all possessive teeth and jealous lips, and Sam nods, closes his eyes. “Vice versa, Dean.” He can almost hear Dean relax, listens as Dean puts on boxers and a shirt, and he’s suddenly so tired that when Dean says, “But lemme guess, tonight you have a headache?” all he can do is nod stupidly and say, “…Yeah.”
--
The first thing he hears is the whine of the air conditioner and as he burrows closer to the other person in the bed, he wonders why anyone here even bothers, he’s so hot and any shower he took last night is proving to be pointless. His mind drifts for a minute, thinking of the air conditioner working overtime, cranked up all the way and yet still not enough to combat Louisiana heat slipping through the wall, under the door and windows. But then, as he wakes up a little more, he realises that he’s curled around someone, nose in someone’s neck, arm laying across someone’s stomach, one leg wedged between someone else’s. He sniffs, inhales, and smiles. “Don’t grin like that,” Dean says, voice laced with sleep and an edge of worry. “You denied me sex last night. We’re in a fight.” Sam laughs, “And yet we’re in the same bed, something I’m not responsible for because there are two in this room and I distinctly remember getting in the shower but not out.”
Dean turns his head and looks at Sam, who reads apprehension in his older brother’s eyes and anxiety in the line of his jaw, so Sam leans up, easy as can be, and this time the kiss is soft, dredged with sleep and drenched in wet heat even before Dean’s tongue swipes Sam’s lower lip and slips inside Sam’s mouth. They kiss, lazy and languid, for long minutes, until Sam can feel tension drift out of Dean’s body and his hand has moved back onto Dean’s bare stomach and is travelling lower, soft and careful. He runs his fingers through the hair leading south from Dean’s navel and shudders when Dean’s hand mirrors the action on his body, grazing his nails lightly across Sam’s skin. “When did you,” Sam asks, then, as Dean’s fingers trace around his balls, forgets what he was saying. It only seems to make sense to do the same thing to Dean or one better, so he lets his fingers dance over Dean’s cock, listening to Dean’s breathing get deeper, harder, as Dean says, “Too hot to sleep with them on. You’re like a fucking furnace, Sammy.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, can’t speak, not when Dean’s stroking him, hard and firm and tight pulls, almost painful but not quite. It’s difficult enough to keep his grip on Dean’s cock when all of the blood in his body’s flowing straight to his dick, but he’s harder than he’s ever been before. His hips jerk, matching the little whimper he’s making, and Dean laughs against his hair. That seems unfair, so Sam tightens his own grip to match and soon no one’s laughing, too caught up in hands and lips and when they come, Sam first and Dean not far behind, their eyes are open and sun’s lighting a room already hot and smelling of sweat and sex. “We should move,” Dean says. “Shower,” he adds, before pulling Sam closer, arm around him. “Yeah,” Sam says, burrowing as close to Dean as he can. “We’ll get there.”
--
The diner where they end up for breakfast is a dive, but the syrup on their griddlecakes is cold and the grits are steaming, an ancient fan in each corner whirling the day away while a screen door that creaks and slams shut with a bang counts out the minutes. Sam thinks it should be more uncomfortable, him and Dean sitting across from each other eating breakfast two hours after jerking each other off, but it isn’t. Dean’s hoarding the jelly and flirting with the waitress in between giving Sam these heated, knowing looks, and Sam’s trying to remember the best way to get rid of a vaudun mambo’s power as he eats his melon, licking the juice off of his fingers and lips every time Dean looks at him. When he eyes the banana, still in its peel, Dean kicks him under the table and Sam smiles his own version of shit-eating-grin and asks, quietly, “So what are you thinking-should we just burn her or what?” Dean stares, shakes his head, gets up and pays the bill.
The two of them walk out slowly, too hot to move any faster, strolling into heat so thick and still it’s like a brick wall. They’re wearing jeans and t-shirts, the thinnest cotton they could find, but it’s not thin enough, sticking to skin like glue, outlining muscles and broad shoulders, and Sam, following Dean, isn’t sure if he should be watching Dean’s ass or the way Dean’s shirt clings to his back. When they get to the Impala, Dean looks over the car’s roof and mutters, just loud enough for Sam to hear, “Stop staring, unless you want me to fuck you right here, right now,” before getting in and slamming the door. Sam looks where Dean was just standing, laughs a little, and gets in the Impala, listening as Dean’s mumbling gets drowned out by Zeppelin.
They drive until there’s nothing around them but bayou and kudzu, and Dean says, “So, what now, research boy?” Sam takes out the map and crystal again. “Last night, when I was looking for safe roads, there was a clear section of New Orleans, away from the witch. It’s safe there, maybe another mambo,” he says. “We should talk to her, see if all we need to do is get rid of the witch’s hounfor or if we’ll have to kill her.” Dean says nothing for a moment, eyes searching the road. “You’re sure it’s safe there?” Sam closes his eyes, focuses on the protected spot he felt before, and nods. “Yeah, it’s safe.” He hears smiles, smells gardenias and magnolias and an underlying wave of angelica. “She’s expecting us,” he adds, looking at Dean. Dean looks over, raises an eyebrow, and says, “Right. Guess we can’t ignore an invitation,” as he steps on the gas and drives into the city.
They pull up in front of a house in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of the Fourth Ward, still not entirely rebuilt from Katrina, and an entire street of people, grandparents and toddlers and every age in between, watches them walk up the steps to the porch. That same sickly sweet smell of flowers wafts out of the house, idling in the motionless air, and just when Sam’s about to knock, a young woman opens the door. “Grandmère’s been expecting you for hours,” she says, holding the door open, and Sam feels calm walking inside, soothed by the fire-wheels and water-lilies he sees around the house. The girl disappears somehow as he and Dean look around at the barely filled house, save a couple ratty old couches and chairs, some paintings on the walls, and all of those flowers, falling out of baskets and pots and bowls. Dean moves closer to Sam, reaching for a gun, so Sam takes Dean’s hand, kisses tense knuckles. “Safe,” he murmurs, then, “Follow me.”
“Not going anywhere else,” Dean mutters, snatching his hand back, action softened by the look he gives Sam. Sam smiles and walks through the hallway as if he’s been there before, not looking to the sides, to the doors along with walls or the paintings on them, just straight back to the kitchen. There’s a woman there, her back to them as she stitches angelica and sage sachets together. “Well, come on ‘round so’s I can see you,” she says, voice clear and loud in the quiet, and Sam moves, Dean right there next to him. She looks like an Old World queen with aristocratic beauty, arched eyebrows and shadowed liquid eyes to match skin as dark as the gardenias around her are white. “Sit, lanmò,” she says, “and your brother too. I’ve been waiting for you.” And something happens when she says that, like power rising up around them, cool and airy. Sam smiles, says, “So who’s the earth, then?” and she nods to a container of cornmeal and brick-dust. Sam’s smile fades a little and Dean frowns, though whether it’s because he’s not following or because Sam’s not smiling anymore, Sam doesn’t know.
“What d’you have to tell us?” Dean asks, and Sam lays a hand on his brother’s knee under the table. “Aya, no one likes having the loa ride someone they love,” she says, and if anything, Dean tenses further. “They’re not on him now,” Dean says, and looks at Sam, who says, “Dominus tecum.” Dean replies absently, “Fiat Dei voluntas,” before asking her, “What do you mean?” She takes the needle she’s using to sew and points it at Sam, gesturing at the scabbed-over scrapes visible on his arms. “They’ve still got their hooks in you, one of them Petro boys and Maman both. Dhambala s’well, but he’s waiting ‘til you get to Marinette and her little horse. Gasoline fire itself ain’t gonna work this time; you’ll need the Rada’s help and Ti-Jean’s not so happy with his little sister.” Sam nods, asks, “What do we have to do and how?” She looks at him, with eyes so dark and deep they could catch a man and keep him for years, and he feels the fire throb inside of him as she says, “Not a gasoline fire, that’s for damn sure.”
“I have to push on her power again,” Sam says as she goes back to sewing, and he thinks about the words, savours them, studies them. “Like before, but this time with the loas’ help. My fire against her witchfire.” Dean’s about ready to jump out of his chair, it’s easy for Sam to see, the way his brother’s fidgeting, foot tapping on the cracked linoleum, fingers keeping Metallica-rhythm on his legs, the steady clench-unclench of muscles in Dean’s jaw. “And while Sam’s doing the spook shit, what am I doing?” and Dean ignores Sam’s entreating look, the knock of knee against knee. Her eyes flick up, look at Dean, then go back to the sewing. “Why, sugar,” she drawls, “I’d rather thought you’d be keeping him alive.”
v.
..reversal..
They leave the house after lunch, jambalaya and sweet tea and a crowded kitchen of the woman’s family and neighbours, trunk full of candles, pictures, flowers, a dead chicken, a Tupperware container of brick-dust and cornmeal, another of blood, their own little travelling vaudun altar, waiting for land. “How close can you get us?” Dean asks, and Sam smiles, strained already, even though they’ve got half a city to go before they’re in the mambo’s territory. “Her front fucking porch,” Sam says, holding an angelica sachet in the same hand as his favourite knife. He might feel stupid, but Dean’s got one hand on the wheel and one on his favourite 9mm, so his sachet’s in a pocket and Sam knows the smell will linger for weeks, no matter how many times they wash those jeans. Dean looks worried but he drives, and they both fall silent, getting ready for the hunt, preparing themselves like they always do, a ritual that comforts Sam even as he has one eye locked on the shimmering lines of a mambo’s power.
The Impala turns down a street in the Ninth Ward, near Irish Bayou, and Sam grits his teeth. Dean looks over and says, “This’s her mailing address, huh? Looks like she could get away with some serious shit here,” and Sam glances out of the window, sees empty, once-flooded houses and wilting trees. “No one ever came back,” he says, and Dean laughs. “Wonder why,” Dean says, and after a moment, Sam says, “She’s halfway up the street, on the left. It doesn’t make sense, though. Why send her students and familiars away? She knows we’re here, knew we were coming.” Dean pulls the Impala over and parks it. “No idea, but I’m not gonna turn down a gift like that. You do your thing, I’ll do mine, and we’ll get out of here before anyone notices.” Sam smiles at Dean, weakly, and Dean leans over, gives Sam a kiss. “Nothing’s gonna happen except we kill the bitch,” he says, thumb skimming over Sam’s cheek. “And when this is done, we’re going to Maine or Canada or someone that isn’t hot as hell, and lay in bed for days.” Sam’s smile gets stronger as he nods, brushes his lips across Dean’s forehead. “I’ll even let you pay,” he agrees.
Dean snorts and they get out of the Impala, open the trunk. Sam reaches for the dust and chicken, then pauses, almost touching them but not quite. He can feel fire come to the surface of his skin, feels his blood pound sluggishly through his veins, feels the thrumming in his head begin. “They’re coming,” he whispers, as his skin begins to crack and Ti-Jean’s marks drip warm, burning blood. Dean grabs another gun, a tub of salt, a pack of matches, and closes the trunk. “Middle house, on the left,” he says in confirmation, and kisses Sam like the first time, demanding and unapologetic, before heading for the house. Sam watches him go, manages to move away from the Impala, and then the loa are there.
Ti-Jean falls on him hard, and Sam drops to the ground, scraping his hands on the gravel. Focus! the loa orders, slapping Sam’s mind around, and no amount of camphor and menthol from Maman Brigitte makes it hurt any less. He’s crackling now with fire, under the pressure, and only Dhambala’s hand, guiding him to the psychic plane keeps him together. One step sideways with three loa hanging on to him, claws deep in him, and he’s there and the mambo, lit up with shades of her own rider, is there, right there in front of him. She’s sparking with witchfire and the rest of the psychics are keeping their distance, but he can see a group to one side, an old loa hovering around them, watching and praying. You here to learn, chile? she asks, looking at the loa spiralling in him, and then adds, Looks like you learn fast. That’s good; I don’t waste my time on chil’ren who won’t sit still and learn their lessons. He could see her calling on the loa as she spoke, could see her getting ready, so when she throws witchfire at him, he brings up his own, no loa needed. She laughs at him, sound bouncing around his skull like nails and as she adds power, pushes, he pushes back, until the whole plane is lit up in flickering shades of black and lavender, red and gold.
He can do this all day, stand here and pour out his power, and he knows she’ll run out eventually, loa or not, but of course it isn’t that easy. He feels a hand brush his arm, looks around and sees nothing, but Maman Brigitte starts to get upset. That one’s mine, she says, and the mambo laughs, witchfire pulsing in sync to the sound. Sam doesn’t know what they’re talking about until he feels teeth sink into him, grab a chunk of flesh and rip. The pain’s almost enough to throw him out of the psychic plane but Ti-Jean makes him focus, leads him to the edge and keeps half of Sam here, facing the witch, while the other sees the witch’s street, feels heat and smells grave-rot. He ducks just as the zombie reaches for him again, worries about Dean, curses the loa for not giving him time to put up a circle of protection. Couldn’t let you do it, no matter how much time we gave you, Maman Brigitte says in lieu of an apology. They came from consecrated ground, but I can’t be sending them back with spirits in them.
Dancing back out of the zombie’s reach, mind on hunt-induced overdrive, he gets it, gets why he’s here and not someone better used to the loa, some practicing mambo or houngon. I can’t use fire to cleanse spirits in this plane, he says, and sees another zombie lumber up the street towards him, hears gunfire coming from the house. Have you ever tried? Ti-Jean asks, and Sam can hear how snide the loa is, how dismissive and even though he knows why Ti-Jean’s taunting him, he can’t help but rise to the challenge. It’s tricky, to try and bring some of the power here to his flesh while some of it’s still holding off the psychic attack, and he’s slow, not focused enough on the threat of the zombies. One gets close enough to swipe at him, leaving traces of rotted fingertips on his skin, and he feels a roar coming up out of him, all fury and heat. Fire rushes through him, surges up his arms, hands, fingers, and he can smell smoke as his knife heats up white-hot. A turn, a jab, a slice, and one of the zombies is leaving, walking back to the bayou, Maman Brigitte guiding it. A knife is so ineffectual, Ti-Jean declares, and Sam has enough time to say back, Ineffectual? count four zombies, and grunt in pain as a flicker of witchfire licks at his mind, tastes him. “Shit,” he says, and the mambo laughs.
He remembers, in that split second of realisation, the lectures his father used to give him when they went out hunting. “Attacked on two fronts and no one’s got your back, you gotta be smart, Sammy. Take out the biggest threat first, as fast as you can, and use every weapon in your arsenal. Do what you have to do to make it out alive, then hightail your ass out of there and don’t get trapped again.” The only trouble now is that Sam’s not sure which enemy he should go after first, the witch trying to fry his brain or the zombies trying to eat him for an afternoon snack. The witch won’t die so long as the loa’s still on her and he has to stay, even partially, in the psychic plane so Dhambala can work on separating the mambo from Marinette. He winces as another zombie scrapes its teeth down Sam’s arm and he only just manages to stick the knife in the zombie’s throat and slice, freeing the spirit inside, too intent on the fight to watch the now-soulless creature follow the sound of Maman Brigitte’s hypnotic call.
The witch cackles and the zombies jerk to a stop where they are, and as Sam readies himself to take out the three around him, the witch says, Wait, and he looks at the house, closer to it now than when the loa descended on him. He sees movement, changes his hold on the knife so he can throw it, and then makes a groan of disbelief as Dean’s dragged out by two zombies, the witch right behind him. He takes one step towards the house and sees Dean close his eyes, so he stops, studies the mambo. She’s beautiful, there’s no other word for it, wearing a ring of feathers and bone around one wrist that the loa all focus on. Her gris-gris, Dhambala says, and Sam sees the feathers moving even though she’s standing still, even though the air is solid heat. “Drop your knife,” she orders, laughter threading her voice, and Sam sees snakes winding their way around her house. Yours? he asks Ti-Jean, who says, Yes. “Drop it now, or this one joins the loa,” she calls out, and Sam can see Dean’s muscles tense, sees his brother in pain. He drops the knife and listens as the clatter echoes down the street. “Now you come here, chile, and I’ll let this one go, my hand to the heavens.”
Dean opens his eyes, says, “Sammy, don’t you even fucking think about it,” but Sam starts moving toward the house, communicating with the loa too fast for words, the four exchanging thoughts via half-formed images and impressions, hot breath and hisses. As he walks, two of Ti-Jean’s snakes slither out from tall grass and wind up his body, curl around his shoulders and look at the mambo, heads weaving. The witch holds out a hand and Sam stops, letting her power flow over him, Maman Brigitte neutralising it. “Get rid of them,” the witch snaps, and Sam smiles at the sudden edge in her voice, the way she looks at him when he says, “Would if I could, ma’am, but I’m not the one controlling them.” The witch snorts, moves closer to Dean. “Petro,” she spits, and the bones on her gris-gris rattle together. Sam can hear Marinette say something to the witch, something that makes the woman smile, and beckon Sam closer.
He steps up to the porch and Dean shakes his head, “No, Sammy, please, not for me.” Sam smiles, leans forward and gives Dean a kiss, scalding hot lips pressed against Dean’s dry ones, and when Sam pulls back, he runs his tongue along Dean’s lower lip, eyes flicking down to the gun tucked in Dean’s jeans. He almost laughs at the look on Dean’s face, confusion, as if Dean’s trying to follow Sam’s train of thought but can’t quite catch the rhythm yet, and fear, as if Sam’s really going to sacrifice himself just so Dean can live. Sam smiles again, says, “You are not expendable.”
The witch reaches forward, takes Sam by the wrist and pulls him closer, releasing her hold on Dean, who sways but stays standing. “Go on,” she says, pushing Dean lightly. “Wouldn’t wanna waste the chile’s surrender to good sense, would you?” Sam doesn’t see Dean leave, facing the witch and watching her eyes, but he hears the steps creak as Dean walks down them and counts seconds in his head. When he hits fifteen-Mississippi, he asks, Ready? and witch narrows her eyes when the loa say yes, one after the other after the other. “What you doing, chile?” she asks, Sam smirks, and then all hell breaks loose, though this time, Sam has Dean at his back.
The witch shrieks and her zombies start to move again. The snakes on his shoulders leech some of his warmth, coil up and spring, burrowing into empty eye-sockets. The two dead on the porch leave, going back into the house under Maman Brigitte’s guidance and then the snakes go for the zombies in the street, where Sam can hear gunfire and smell burning flesh. The witch is livid and lifts hands glittering with witchfire, planting them on Sam’s cheeks. “You shouldn’t’a done that, chile,” she says, and in this plane and the psychic one both, Sam laughs out loud. ”Why do you think they call me lanmò-mennen?” he asks, and calls fire, consciously, giving himself over to the well of deep anger and need he’s always carried and always tried to deny.
It doesn’t rage or flood through him, he can’t feel it beating around the edges of his vision like wings, but instead feels it settle into him, ripple through him, curl up, content. He thinks, Fire, and the spirits trapped in the three zombies behind him leave to walk the starlit path. He says it again, Fire, and the gris-gris bursts into red and gold flames. Dhambala whoops and chases Marinette away, one set of talons leaving his mind, and Sam hears the traces of the Rada loa say, You done good, son, before Dhambala’s gone and the pressure in Sam’s mind has just halved. In the psychic plane, the witchfire shrivels, flakes away into ash and then nothingness and Sam can feel the moment that the other loa-ridden vaudun come and rip the witch’s psychic gift away, binding her mind to the physical. The woman from the truck-stop smiles as he leaves and the pressure drops another notch as Sam finds all of himself in one plane, no longer split, everything focused on the broken witch in front of him, whose eyes have turned wild with the loss of her rider and gift. “I’ll kill you,” she whispers, screams it again, and then Sam goes deaf as a gunshot rings out. He sees the bullet hit her, sink into her forehead, feels a little of her blood splash on to him. She looks at Sam, and he says, “Silver,” before she falls to the porch and stops breathing.
vi.
..denouement..
Sam wipes off his cheek, sees her blood on his fingertips, and Ti-Jean whispers, The blood’s still good. You could drink her power, make sure no one else uses it, and Sam wipes his hands on his shirt. The loa digs nails deep into Sam, says, You’re too weak anyway, and leaves, ripping his way out. Maman Brigitte coos at him, douses him in camphor. You ever want another ride, you just call my vévé. Now, I think you got something else to do, child.
When she goes, soft like clouds and smooth like butter, Sam’s mind is his own again, no protective barrier of the loa, so when Dean takes the porch steps two at a time and wraps arms around Sam, squeezing almost too hard, Sam’s warm and himself and pulsing with hunger. “Dean,” he whispers, and starts to fumble with his brother’s belt buckle. “Dean,” he says again, this time long, pleading, before leaning down and mouthing Dean’s neck. Dean doesn’t say anything, but pushes Sam until they hit the wall, siding digging into Sam’s back. They kiss, hurried and desperate, tongues and hips thrusting in no rhythm except need, shirts landing somewhere on the porch, jeans and underwear dropping to ankles and then they’re sliding against each other, chests and lips and cocks and hands.
“Want you,” Sam breathes, head thumping back against the house as Dean bites his collarbone and reaches down to rub a thumb over the head of Sam’s dick, feeling Sam leak and harden and buck all at once. “Fuck me,” Sam says, voice rough and low, and Dean shakes his head, a little too close to out-of-control. “Don’t have anything,” he says, and Sam growls, “Don’t care,” and somehow gets his muscles to work, turning around and planting his hands on the house, arching when Dean’s lips starts sucking his neck, moaning when Dean’s fingers trace the curve of his ass. “It’ll hurt,” Dean says, and when Sam replies, “Don’t care,” Dean groans, works one finger inside of Sam, then another, then another, stretching him. All he can think is ‘yes’ and ‘more’ and he’s saying it as well, begging now, and when Dean gives up and slides in, all pressure and heat and pain and pleasure, Sam can’t talk, just pushes back, trying to get all of Dean. Fingers on his hips are digging in the same spots as last night and Sam sighs with the force there and everywhere, takes it in and becomes familiar with it and falls a little bit more in love with it. Dean’s thrusting harder, whispering a litany of “So good”s and “So long”s and “Always”s and Sam shudders when Dean says his name, breathy and reverent, and comes when Dean says it again, vision exploding in starbursts and supernovas. A second later, when he’s still trying to remember anything more complex than ‘perfect,’ Dean pushes harder and then comes as well, teeth biting Sam’s shoulder, breath as ragged as Sam feels.
They stand that way, Sam leaning against the house, Dean leaning against Sam, until they can move again, Dean pulling out carefully, turning Sam around. Sam’s wearing a stupid grin and he puts his forehead on Dean’s shoulder and asks, “Are we still in a fight?” Dean snorts, asks, “Does it hurt?” Sam thinks for a moment, says carefully, “Everything hurts,” but before Dean’s expression can fall, he adds, “So I think I might have to deny sex again tonight. My headache, y’know. Will that be another fight, or the same one?” and Dean looks as if he can’t decide whether to glare or laugh or mother-hen, so Sam grins, says, “I think I need another shower. If you want to manhandle me around after that, I won’t object.”
Dean shakes his head and helps Sam get his jeans back on before pulling his own up and using their t-shirts to wipe off blood and come and sweat. They leave the shirts there, with the dead witch, and go back to the Impala. As they get in the car and Dean turns on Judas Priest, Sam thinks, Fire, and the house goes up in flames, the mambo along with it. “We’re going to have to talk about that soon,” Dean says, and Sam shrugs, nods. “Now, which way’re we going?”
“Poltergeist in Washington State, outside of Seattle, possessed Ouija board in Jersey,” Sam answers, closing his eyes. It’s quiet save the music for a minute, before Dean says, “Right. North, then, with a motel and shower as soon as we get our asses out of this state. Be a shame to waste yours,” Dean adds, and Sam can hear the smile in his brother’s words, “as pretty as it is.” Sam smiles as well, a big, soft, dopey grin, and reaches over to rest a hand on Dean’s thigh, wondering how things could change so much, so quickly, and yet feel so right, as if this is the way its been for years, fire thrumming content inside of him, waves of Dean lapping at the edges of Sam’s awareness.
“Fuck you,” Sam says, pleasantly, and laughs when Dean says, “Yes, please.”