Down Darker and Darker Stairs (4 of 5)
Sitting in Jianjun’s living room, holding a cup of green tea, Dean’s reminded of the conversation only a few days ago, the confession from both sides, he thinks now, not just his own. The old man’s sitting across from him, sipping his tea, just watching, and Dean knows he has to start this discussion, knows whatever he’s going to say has to be worded just right, or this man, this district, will take Sam deeper into their alleys and shops and keep him out, keep him away.
Dean breathes, settles on honesty, because Jianjun knows Sam isn’t crazy. Dean does as well.
“Sam heard something,” he says. “He told me to listen, and I heard it, too. Just for a minute, but. Fee-something, up north, about two hundred and fifty miles. He tried to explain, but I couldn’t understand. He said something about awareness, about knowing the difference between types of hunters. And,” he pauses, for a moment, “he reminded me that when we were kids, we did one of those cheesy blood-brother bonding things. Except, Sam said it worked.”
Jianjun stares at Dean, mutters something under his breath and in another language, and scowls. Dean’s not sure if he’s offended the old man somehow, but then Jianjun says, “I did not think you would understand so much. I do not like to be wrong,” and that makes Dean feel a little better.
“You see a difference in hunters, Sam is right, yes?” Jianjun asks. Dean shrugs, because he’s not sure what that means, but after Jianjun says, “The eyes, the eyes are the window to the soul,” Dean’s mouth goes dry.
He swallows some of the tea, gulps it down and chokes on it, thinking about Sam’s eyes, Sara’s eyes, the eyes of any number of other people he’s met over the years, the way their eyes glitter and gleam, holding an animal awareness, feral and almost bloodthirsty.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “There’s a difference. I always,” he says, has to stop, chug the tea, start over. “I always knew who to be careful around. Sam knew, too, but either Dad didn’t or he didn’t care.”
“What children do has power,” Jianjun says after a moment. Dean feels like his world’s just been ripped away, like he’s standing on air and ready to fall at any minute, but he listens. “What you two did, it had power. It bound you together, gave you the same blood, the same heart, but not the same gifts. Sam’s gifts are his own, just as yours is your own, but because your gift is the way it is, because you can see, you can also hear. Perhaps you took that from him, or perhaps he gave it to you, I do not know.”
Dean blinks, doesn’t notice when Jianjun refills his teacup, just downs the flavoured water without a second thought, sitting there.
Its five minutes before Dean says, “I can tap into Sam’s gifts, just a little.”
“When you are close to him,” Jianjun adds with a nod and a smile. “When you are close and you open yourself up to the possibility, you can hear. Perhaps you can share all of his senses, who is to say?”
“Sam,” Dean says, then stops. Jianjun sits there, pours more tea, waits. “Something’s happening,” Dean says, looking down, unable to meet the old man’s eyes. “Something I can’t explain, and it’s only happening now, I don’t understand.”
Jianjun hums, unspoken way of asking for more information at the same time he’s saying it’s all right if Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. Or, at least, that’s what Dean gets out of the noise.
“Today, since I’ve been back,” Dean says, faltering. “When I look at him, or when we touch, it’s like. I mean, I’ve never, it’s always been women, not men, and now, but he’s my brother. I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
“What children do has power,” Jianjun says, standing up. “The bond you both swore then has been renewed, time and time again. In some cultures, you would be considered one person, sworn and promised to one another.” He brushes one hand across Dean’s shoulder, and adds, “There were those in Greece who fought only with their lovers. Warriors, who knew one another inside and out. There is no shame in that. Brothers, blood-bonded, hunters; who is to say what the gods plan for us on the day of our birth, what the Dragon King holds in storehouses for our lives?”
Jianjun leaves, quiet steps as he shuffles out of the living room, and Dean sits there, frozen, trying to let it all settle in his mind.
--
Dean doesn’t know what time it is when he finally stands, knees popping with the movement. He looks around for the old man, doesn’t see him anywhere, so he shows himself to the door. Dean opens it, and Sam’s across the alley, looking up at the sky. It’s raining, and Sam’s mouth is open, trying to catch raindrops.
“You used to do that when you were five,” Dean says, before he can stop himself.
Sam tilts his head down, looks at Dean, and then turns his eyes back to the sky, tongue sticking out.
Dean stands there, watches Sam until Sam gets bored of that and twirls, tossing Dean a star anise. Dean catches it, holds it in his hands, and moves closer to Sam. Sam freezes, stands there, and Dean breaks the fruit open, takes out one seed.
“I hope you realise I have no idea what I’m doing,” Dean says, meeting Sam’s eyes, wondering why he never saw the difference in them before Sam left for Stanford, wondering how many other things he’s missed in his life. “Sam, I don’t understand any of this, but I’m going to try. Okay?”
Sam nods, just once, and says, “Okay, Dean.”
Dean takes a deep breath, reaches up and strokes Sam’s bottom lip, feels goosebumps race up and down his spine when Sam opens his mouth, licks the tip of Dean’s thumb. Dean juggles the seed in his hand, holds it between his thumb and forefinger, and pushes it into Sam’s mouth, fingers lingering inside, feeling the wet heat of Sam’s breath, the sharp lines of Sam’s teeth.
He takes his fingers out, pushes Sam’s mouth closed, and watches, numb and still somehow burning, as Sam chews and swallows.
“Sleep tonight, hunt tomorrow?” Sam asks once he’s done, voice careful, eyes careful, foot tapping against the sidewalk.
“Sounds like a plan,” Dean says, and curls his hand in Sam’s, lets his brother lead him away from Jianjun’s.
--
It’s the best night of sleep Dean remembers having in years. They both spread out on the mattress, back to back, knives under the pillows and fighting over the blankets. Sam wakes up after a few hours, skittish and needing to move, and Dean falls back asleep, breathing in the smell of Sam, soaked into the fabric of the pillow. Liquorice and night, like some great big prowling cat, and when Dean finally opens his eyes an hour after sunrise, Sam is pacing in front of the maps, looking intently at the one of California, muttering to himself.
Dean sits up, stretches and cracks his neck, and sees cartons on the rickety table, along with a new bag of yaba, filled with twice as many pills as usual. “G’morning,” he says, grimacing at the taste in his mouth, but Sam turns around and gives him a grin that seems brighter than the sun before bounding over, picking up one of the cartons and a pair of chopsticks on the way.
“Breakfast, not waffles, Li’s baozi,” Sam says, and uses the chopsticks to deftly pluck some kind of steamed bun from the carton. He crouches down, offers the bun to Dean, who takes a bite, chews, and swallows.
Dean thinks about it for a minute, then says, “I’m going to eat that whole carton after I shower.” He leans forward, grabs the rest of the bun in his teeth, and goes downstairs to get cleaned, hearing Sam’s laughter fill the apartment.
--
They leave after Dean’s emptied one carton and half of another, Sam watching him with a steady gaze that doesn’t at all match the way his hands are playing with piece after piece of ginger root, the way his feet are bouncing on the floor, the way he stands up every so often to study the maps.
Dean’s not sure how long Sam’s going to be able to sit still in the car, but Sam had lasted from the preserve to Chinatown last week without too much trouble, so Dean knows they can probably still make it up to Dunsmuir in one day, even if they do end up stopping every hour so Sam can let off some steam.
--
They drive with the windows down and the music up, get stuck in the back-up from an accident halfway through Oakland on their way to Vallejo, and end up getting north of the water around lunchtime. Sam’s legs are jumping, fingers keeping the beat to something other than the mix-tape Dean’s blaring and getting a headache from, but he’s not as bad as Dean had expected.
Dean asks about it, how come Sam seems almost steady, and Sam looks out of the window while he’s muttering a response.
“Come again?” Dean asks, frowning, because Sam hasn’t actually avoided answering a question since Dean found him in the preserve.
“Wanted to hear, not enough to move, didn’t want to be trouble, too much trouble, always causing trouble,” Sam finally says, and Dean looks over his sunglasses, sees pain lines crinkling around the corners of Sam’s eyes.
Dean’s tempted to pull the car over, shake some sense into Sam, maybe some yaba as well, but he just says, “You’re not trouble, Sam. Not for me,” and doesn’t say anything else.
Half an hour later, when Sam’s rubbing his temples, Dean leans over and opens the glove box, lets Sam decide whether or not to open the brown paper bag inside.
Sam does, takes out one pill and swallows it down, leans back and falls asleep for fifteen minutes, snoring, while the methamphetamine works its way to his bloodstream and the caffeine hits his nervous system.
--
Seven hours after Dean started the car in Chinatown, he’s pulling in to Dunsmuir. The accident in Oakland, another one near Colusa, and a few stops for Sam made a four hour drive nearly twice that, but Dean’s not bothered, for once. Instead, he’s focused as they pull into a motel parking lot, trying to find a way to shove the screaming of the feeorin to one side long enough to deal with getting a room, finding some place to get some food.
Sam’s watching him, head tilted, teeth grinding, as if he’s only waiting for Dean to say that this is enough, that this is crazy, insane, that he’s done with it, and Dean wonders where along the line Sam lost all faith in him. He remembers when Sam left, though, three years ago, remembers what he said to his little brother, and knows exactly where it comes from.
“Wait here,” Dean says, and pretends it doesn’t sound like pleading. Sam gets out of the Impala and starts pacing, but he’s not going anywhere, so Dean gets out of the car as well, goes in and flirts with the girl behind the counter, asks for a room, and winks when she pops her gum and ends up with pink goo all over nose.
He goes back outside, looks for Sam, and doesn’t see him. Dean’s about ready to panic, but then hands are covering his eyes, hands he knows are Sam’s, warm and dry, thumbs stroking along Dean’s hairline, the curve of his earlobes.
“Need to move,” Sam whispers, and the sensation of breath on the back of his neck makes Dean shudder. “Dean, I need to go, need to run, need to hunt. You need.”
Dean cuts him off, moves Sam’s hands away from his face and turns around, raises an eyebrow at his brother. “I need to go with you. Don’t worry about me, okay? We’re sticking together on this one.”
Sam bites his lower lip, tugs it in between his teeth, and chews on it for a long handful of seconds, before he nods and shrugs at the same time, gives Dean a hesitant smile. “Go now?”
--
Much like Dean’s first trip into Chinatown, Sam directs him, but it’s different as well. This time, Dean can hear the creatures just like Sam can, can’t get as good a reading on the direction as Sam, but it’s his first time tracking something this way.
They end up pulling off of a small road onto an even smaller, dirt road, and leave the Impala just inside the tree-line, forest looming out in front of them, covering hills and mountains.
“We aren’t camping, are we?” Dean asks, popping the trunk and grabbing a handgun, tucking that into his jeans before picking up a shotgun, loading it with iron rounds. “Because I still fucking hate camping.”
Sam tilts his head, trails his eyes over the trees, and finally says, “No, no camping. Find feeorin, go back, ajattara tomorrow, before nightfall.”
Dean pumps the shotgun, grins, and says, “Let’s go find them, then.”
--
Inside of the forest, it’s dark and quiet, almost unnaturally so, the shrieks of the feeorin the only noise Dean can hear. Sunlight filters down in thin strands through the canopy of branches and leaves, and if Dean thought he was on high alert, that’s nothing compared to seeing Sam hunt.
Dean’s sticking to the worn footpaths as much as possible, creeping along and trying not to make too much noise, but Sam’s melting in and out trees and bushes like a shadow. Dean blinks and Sam’s not there, blinks again and Sam is, nothing in between to signal the difference. Sam’s eyes are glittering, and if he had been holding a knife, Dean’s convinced he’d be flashbacking to that night in the preserve. Instead, Sam’s hands are empty and there’s no blood on him, won’t be, if Dean’s got anything to say about.
Sam stops once they get a couple miles into the woods, holds a hand out behind him that Dean walks into. Dean glares, and Sam grins, as if he’s trying not to laugh.
“They’re here, right here,” Sam whispers, and Dean’s glare melts into puzzlement, because there hasn’t been a change in the volume of the shrieks and he doesn’t notice anything different about this section of trees.
He steps back, turns around slowly, shotgun held in front of him like a talisman, and when he’s made a full rotation, he stops and stares.
Sam’s standing there, watching him, with two little fairies on his shoulders, and one nesting in his hair.
“They’re not screaming,” Dean says, and the fairy on top of Sam’s head covers her mouth and giggles, while the other two lean forward, look at each other around Sam’s neck, and start to laugh.
Sam’s grin just widens.
--
“So you’re Aina,” Dean says, talking to the fairy perched on Sam’s head. He’s serious, and seriously talking to a tiny green fairy sitting on his brother’s head, hands fisted in Sam’s hair as if he’s a horse, and if this doesn’t say something about his day-to-day experiences, Dean doesn’t know what would.
The fairy nods, says something in a tinkling rush of words that sound more like the space where water and air meet, not language.
Dean frowns as Sam laughs, shaking enough to dislodge the two fairies sitting on his shoulders. They hover in the air, wings fluttering behind them, and start chattering at Sam, one of them shaking a finger at Sam, the other with her hand on her hips. Sam replies in that same language, ebbs and flows like waves, like air currents, and the sound of it, delicate and willowy, coming out of Sam’s mouth, turns Dean on harder and faster than anything has in his entire life.
Whatever Sam’s said seems to have pacified the two in the air, and they move, darting and soaring around Dean, until they’re sitting on his shoulders, shifting into the leather jacket and petting it, their flickering wings sending small breezes of air onto Dean’s neck.
“What’d she say?” Dean asks.
“Make fun of her name, she’ll make fun of you,” Sam answers, which Dean thinks isn’t an answer at all.
“I’m trying to be nice, here,” Dean says, directing his words at the fairy on Sam’s head, and she tosses her hair back, combs through it with one hand, talking to Sam, Dean guesses, because he doesn’t know what the hell they’re going on about.
Something she says makes Sam grin, and then the grin falls as she goes on.
“What? What is it?” Dean asks, ignoring the chittering of the fairies on his shoulders, the way they’re touching his hair, talking to one another, sending words to Sam and Aina every so often.
Sam doesn’t reply to Dean, answers Aina in that wisping language, and as Dean listens, the two start to argue. Sam’s words get louder and hotter, and she’s yanking on his hair and leaning down, kicking tiny glass-clad feet on Sam’s forehead, leaving marks.
“Hey, hold on,” Dean says, but the fairies on his shoulders fly off, hover in front of him, between the two brothers.
Aina finally gets off of Sam’s head, moves so she can stare at him, and she pokes the tip of his nose once, twice, three times, to punctuate whatever she’s saying. Sam goes cross-eyed, following her hand, and Aina sighs, puts her hands on her hips, and says something. Sam chews the inside of his cheek, then sounds like he asks a reluctant question that she snaps down.
Dean’s fascinated, watching the way Sam’s facial expressions change, watching the way he tries to plead with a six-inch tall fairy and completely fails. Finally, when Sam’s shoulders droop and the two fairies Dean thinks of as his circle around Aina in triumph, Dean says, “Man, what the hell?”
“Hunt tomorrow, ajattara, Aina comes with us,” Sam says, resigned tone matching the kicked puppy-dog look. “Aina says you should stay away, stay safe.”
Dean straightens up, turns his gaze on the fairy and says, “Nuh-uh, no way, not gonna happen. You and Sam go hunting, I’m coming, too.”
Aina swoops through the air until she’s right in front of Dean and Dean has to lean his head back to keep his eyes both on her and focused. She tilts her head, curls a piece of hair around a slender finger, and starts speaking.
Dean cuts her off, says, “Listen, lady. I don’t care what you think, I am not letting Sam go hunting without me.”
Sam steps closer, body vibrating with energy even if he’s just standing there without moving, and reaches out, runs his fingertips down Dean’s jacket. The two fairies, Dean doesn’t know their names, start cooing, flying in and out of the two brothers, as Sam says, “Not fast enough, not strong enough.”
“Sam,” Dean says, hurt and angry. “Sam, come on.”
Aina sings something, pokes Sam’s shoulder, and Sam says, “Not safe,” face grumpy, arms folding across his chest. “Won’t be safe.”
Dean blinks, feels himself ease down. Sam’s not saying Dean’s a bad hunter, he’s saying Dean won’t be safe, which might sound the same but Dean knows, looking at Sam’s eyes, that it isn’t. “Sam, it’s never safe. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop. You tell me what this ajattara is, how we kill it, and I’ll be fine. Always am.”
Sam doesn’t look as if he believes Dean, the three fairies are all talking at once, but Sam nods once, and then says, “You sleep,” and he leads Dean back to the Impala.
--
The fairies stop at the edge of the forest, Aina fluttering close to Sam while the other two twist and turn in the air, making strange patterns before they fly out of sight. Dean waits for Sam to get inside the car, but Sam doesn’t, just hovers at the edge of the tree-line, twisting his hands together.
“Sam, get in the car,” Dean says, leaning against the Impala, not going anywhere unless Sam does.
Sam shakes his head, says, “Need to run, need to, need to move,” and he looks at the forest with something approaching longing. “Be back. Here, tomorrow, be back. Eight,” and he might as well be begging, using those crinkled eyes to plead with Dean.
Dean doesn’t like it, not one bit, but Sam’s looking at him, and he has to trust that Sam knows what he’s doing, has to trust that Sam will be all right. Dean purses his lips, then reaches in the Impala and takes out the bag of yaba, tosses it at Sam, who catches it with one hand, still looking right at Dean.
“Tomorrow morning, right here, eight o’clock,” Dean says, and Sam’s grins lights up his entire face. “If you aren’t here,” Dean adds, trailing off.
Sam nods, turns, and melts into the trees like smoke, looking back once at Dean, as if to say 'thank you'.
--
The motel’s nice, clean, but cheesy. Apparently Dunsmuir’s all about their history, has everything decorated to look like the ‘20s and ‘30s, even this far outside of town, but Dean can’t complain when he finally gets in the shower and the tub’s clean, the water hot.
After a shower, he goes back out and hits up a local bar, plays a couple games of pool and has dinner, along with a few beers, leaves with two hundred in cash in his back pocket and a few of the locals clapping his shoulder, telling him he’s good, thanks for the game. It’s strange, that sort of reaction, but compared to six-inch tall green fairies, not that strange, so Dean’s guard is down as he walks outside, stands for a minute on the sidewalk, breathing in the mountain air.
Dunsmuir’s a tourist town, is busy for such a small place, but it’s nothing like the city, and this high up in California, mountains and trees all around, the air’s clean, hits his lungs like pure oxygen. It’s enough to make him a little dizzy, but then he sneezes, laughs to himself as he walks to the Impala, parked across the street and down a few.
Dean’s halfway there when the feeling of dizziness comes back, that and his stomach rumbling like it’s not too happy with the fried chicken he gulped down an hour ago. He reaches out, grabs hold of the side of a building for support, and swallows bile down. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to stay, so he hunches over, but then the feeling goes away completely, leaving him looking around, on edge. Something’s going on in Dunsmuir, and Dean thinks it might be the ajattara, whatever’s upsetting the feeorin.
He heads back to the motel, pops open the laptop and finds a wireless signal, surfs onto the internet looking for any and all information on the ajattara, what it is, what it does, how to kill it. Wikipedia comes up first, like always, and the information there seems to bear out what the more hidden occult sites are saying, that the ajattara’s a female spirit, half-demon, that lives in forests and likes to make people sick, likes to kill things and drink their blood. None of them say how to kill one, but Sam said this thing was a spirit, more that than a demon, so rock-salt should keep her entertained while they track down whatever it is keeping her here and burning it.
Dean sits back, turns off the laptop and listens to it power down, listens as its humming stops and the only noises come from cars passing outside and a few animals out in the forest. It’s quiet, the heater not kicking on yet, still warm for this time of year, and Dean lets his eyes droop closed, thinks about Sam.
There’s nothing strange about what’s going on, nothing that he can feel, and that’s almost worse than the reality of what he’s considering, of what he thinks about in the back of his head when he looks at Sam now. Letting Sam go hunting all night with the feeorin, not being there to watch over him, not being there to be there, and all Dean wants to do is go to sleep, curled up next to his brother, Sam’s feet tucked between Dean’s, Sam’s hand draped over Dean’s stomach, fingers tickling, moving, even in his sleep, Sam’s nose rubbing against Dean’s neck, cold and pointed, making its own space in Dean’s skin.
Dean wants, and it should scare him, but he remembers being nine and using one of John’s knives to slice his wrist open, not too deep but deep enough to bleed, remembers watching his five year old brother do the same thing, hands already sure of a knife’s grip, already at ease with how deep to stroke, how much pressure to use. He remembers the smell of their blood, remembers the shock of pressing his wrist against Sam’s, remembers the words he said and Sam echoed in a half-lisp, eyes wide with childish wonder. John had been gone and by the time their father returned, there was nothing to show for what they’d done.
Nothing on their skin, at any rate; it went deeper than flesh, into blood and heart, and if Dean focuses just a little bit more, he can almost feel Sam, running wild through the woods, at home in the night, a natural hunter, a predator that even the feeorin can’t keep up with. He can almost feel the breeze on his cheeks, hear the rhythm of Sam’s heart, even, untouched, and as he falls asleep, he remembers what Sara said, on the reservation, and wonders if that sound he hears, like singing, is the feeorin or something else, welcoming Sam to a place Dean can’t follow.
--
Dean pulls up to the edge of the forest a few minutes before eight, not wanting to seem overeager, but, at the same time, wanting desperately to see his brother, make sure Sam’s okay. Sam’s not there when he parks and gets out of the Impala, grabs a shotgun loaded with rock salt from the trunk, along with a can of gasoline and a small jar of salt, but as he closes the trunk and looks up, he sees Sam leaning against one of the trees, Aina fluttering at his side.
Dean walks over to Sam, studies his brother, the wild curl of Sam’s hair, full of leaves, the dirt smudges on Sam’s face, the beaming grin Sam’s wearing.
“Sleep? Sleep and eat, get sleep, ready, ready?” Sam asks, chirruping away almost as fast as the tiny green fairy does in the next moment. Dean doesn’t pay her any attention, but looks at Sam’s eyes, the manic, feral awareness in them and the worry deeper down, hesitant and cavernous.
“Let’s get the bitch,” Dean says. Aina flies out, swoops down and grabs Dean’s jacket, like she’s going to tug him along behind her, and as he falls into line behind her, entering the forest, he can’t help muttering, “Hold me closer, tiny dancer.”
Sam, somewhere around them, already part of the forest and invisible, laughs.
--
Dean follows Aina, who’s flying loops in front of him, carrying a miniature bow with a quiver of arrows on her back. He’s not sure how long they’ve been walking through the forest, isn’t sure how far they’ve travelled or where they are in relation to the Impala, but the little fairy’s still moving along, and Sam’s still somewhere around. The forest is quiet, too quiet, but every time Dean starts to worry, Sam’s there, brushing a hand across Dean’s jacket, breathing in Dean’s ear, opening himself up in some way that Dean can feel deep inside, feel without understanding how.
He’s just stepping over a fallen tree when a sudden wave of nausea hits and the feeling of Sam gets swept away by a wave of bile. Aina’s chittering at him, hovering in front of his head, the end of her bow poking at his cheek again and again, but all Dean can do is sit, straddle the tree trunk and swallow down vomit.
“Must be the ajattara,” he says, and tries to look up though now his stomach’s cramping, making him groan and double over in pain. Everything’s hidden through a sheen of tears, but Dean still looks, says, “Sam? Sam, where are you?”
There’s no answer, nothing but a sudden drag-slide-thump of something over the ground. Dean makes an attempt to stand up, but he cries out in agony as shooting aches drive outwards and upwards from his stomach. His nose starts bleeding a moment later, and all he can hear is the crunch of leaves, the thud of something close to footsteps but not quite there.
All of his muscles lock up at once, and the shotgun drops from his hands, hitting the ground. Aina’s saying something, loudly and quickly, but, a moment later, she squeaks and then Dean doesn’t hear anything else from her. Instead, there’s a cold, scaly hand tilting his head to one side.
“Fresh blood, fresh meat,” Dean hears. The ajattara, it has to be, and she’s drawing fingers down Dean’s neck, leaving a line of welts in the wake of her nails. “Stupid human hunter,” she says, and Dean feels a claw snag some of the blood dripping out of his nose, hears her suck on it, and give a low grumble of pleasure at the taste. “Out here all alone. Mine, now,” she murmurs, and Dean feels breath, rank and poisonous on his cheek.
“Mine,” Dean hears next, but this time its Sam, and a moment later, the ajattara’s hissing, pushing away from Dean.
She must be distracted, dealing with Sam, because the wave of sickness, of pain, recedes enough so that Dean can reach down for the shotgun, wipe tears off of his face and out of his eyes, focus to see what’s going on. Once he can, his breath disappears, lost in the face of what he’s seeing.
Sam’s fighting the ajattara, doesn’t look as if the sickness she emits is having any effect on him, even though Dean still feels like he could throw up for days given the opportunity. The two are rolling on the ground, and Dean can see her, half woman, half dragon, scales covering her body, claws extended from her hands and feet. She’s kicking and swiping at Sam, who evades the claws like they’re nothing, both of them hissing and growling at each other.
Dean can’t get a shot, not with the way the two of them are banging around, bouncing off of trees, rolling through the brush. Even when they both stand up and circle each other, predators sizing one another up, making crunch-steps over the ajattara’s scales littering the ground, pulled out by Sam’s fingers, Dean can’t find it in himself to shoot, not when Sam’s grinning, teeth bared, laughing.
The ajattara hisses at Sam, who laughs harder and crouches, eyes glittering, feral and bloodthirsty, one hand on the ground, the other holding a knife Dean doesn’t remember seeing before, curved and wicked sharp, gleaming silver and reflecting the shine of Sam’s teeth after his tongue swipes across them.
Sam waits there, doesn’t move, and the ajattara rocks back and forth in place, eyes pinned on Sam.
Both of them move at once, like they’re responding to a signal Dean missed, and Dean can’t tell where each begins and ends, can’t tell if the flashes of light he sees are the ajattara’s claws or Sam’s knife, but then they fall apart, and the ajattara is littered with cuts, bleeding everywhere, and Sam’s unhurt, smiling, shaking blood-spattered hair out of his face.
“Mine,” Sam says again, and despite the smile, his voice is low and dangerous, possessive and territorial, and knowing Sam’s saying that about him makes Dean shiver, makes his cock twitch and his palms sweat.
The ajattara growls, and Sam growls back, deeper rumble, and then Sam springs himself at her. She extends her claws, and Dean’s terrified that Sam’s going to impale himself on them, but Sam spins in the air and, instead of meeting her claws, he lands to the side and takes her head off with one clean swipe of his knife.
Sam stands above the body, covered with blood, and looks at Dean with hunt-bright eyes, knife in one hand, holding the ajattara’s head in the other.
“Burn now,” he says. “All done, nothing left but fire.”
Dean stands up, walks unsteadily to the body, the scales covering human breasts, the sheen of oil in sunlight flooding over a tail, tail spikes. He uncaps the small jar of salt, covers the body and the head, when Sam drops it on the ground. The gasoline is next, and the smell of that, combined with the blood, is enough to make Dean’s stomach turn. He pulls out the lighter, considers it for a moment, and then offers it to Sam.
Sam looks at it, then smiles, and shakes his head as he moves to stand behind Dean. Dean flicks the lighter on, and when Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, leans his chin on Dean’s shoulder, Dean sets the ajattara on fire and watches her burn, smells fire, smoke, blood, and his brother.
Part Five