Down Darker and Darker Stairs (5 of 5)
They watch without moving until she’s gone, nothing more than noxious fumes and a small pile of ash. Sam seems content to stand there, body still, relaxed, and Dean wonders if killing things, giving in to the hunter inside of his brother, eases something in Sam, or if he hasn’t had his yaba in a few hours.
“Where were you?” Dean finally asks, and he curses himself, his voice, for sounding so small, so plaintive.
“Had to let her get close enough,” Sam murmurs. “Had to. Tricked her. Sense me, otherwise, and run away, run, run away. Never,” he says, then pauses, and Dean can feel him swallow. “Never let her hurt you.”
He shudders as Sam licks the welts the ajattara left on his neck, and the slow rasp of tongue against pained skin drives a gasped breath from between Dean’s lips. It burns for a second, then fades, and when Sam’s done, Dean lifts a hand, feels his neck smooth, unmarred.
“Mark of a hunter,” Sam says, and he wrenches himself away from Dean, twirls around that little spot of the forest until he’s standing across from his brother.
Dean realises, in that moment, just how different Sam is now. He’s so much more at home in his skin than he ever was before, even if that skin is the skin of a deadly predator, just as strong as werewolves, just as fast as forest spirits, just as deadly as any demon Dean’s ever met. Sam’s covered in the ajattara’s blood, has it smeared on his cheek where he rubbed against Dean’s shoulder, is still holding that knife, and if any other hunter, if their father, was out here, they wouldn’t hesitate to take Sam down.
And yet. And yet, Sam’s gentle with Dean, protective and worried, as if Dean is part of Sam’s territory, part of Sam’s family, and Dean’s finally beginning to realise how important that is, finally starting to see what Jianjun and Sara tried telling him before, that Sam, choosing Dean, means something far bigger than Dean ever thought.
“I trust you,” Dean says, and the moment the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re true. Even when the ajattara’s lips were next to his neck, he trusted Sam. “But dude, next time? Warn me, okay?”
Sam tilts his head, smiles a little, and then says, “Deal.”
--
Aina picks that moment to flutter back into sight, and she goes right for Sam, chattering something that Dean thinks is a rebuke. Sam stands there and listens, takes it, until she says something and points at Dean, at which point Sam leans forward, gets in her face, and snarls. She stops, looks taken aback but not scared, and then flies to one side, looks at Sam and then Dean, before turning back to Sam and asking something.
Sam replies, and Aina starts to smile, and when Sam frowns, even Dean can’t hold back a laugh. Sam, so tall, looking so completely confused and stunned by a six-inch tall green fairy, but then Aina’s right in Dean’s face, and he gets it, he really does.
She reaches out, puts one hand on Dean’s forehead, and when she speaks again, there’s an echo behind the words and in his head, something approaching English.
“Whoa, try that again,” Dean says, and he opens the part of himself that wants to reach out for Sam, still new at this but willing to try.
Aina speaks, and this time, Dean hears, “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”
He grins, says, “You’re welcome.”
“The large hunter, he says,” and she pauses, looks back at Sam, chatters at him and waits for a response before looking at Dean again. “We want to give you a gift for helping us. The dragon-spirit has killed so many.”
Dean shakes his head and says, “We don’t need a gift. It’s our job. Well, my job, Sam’s,” he stops, searches for a word, and finally says, “calling. His calling.”
“Give you one anyway,” Aina chirrups, dismissively. “The large hunter says you can pick, but I will offer, agreed?” Dean shrugs, and Aina says, “I can give him focus. It will still be loud, but it will not be all at once. He can choose what to hear and when to hear it.”
She’s turned piercing eyes on Dean, and in the back of his mind, the part that isn’t blown away by the offer, he wonders if it’s some kind of test. He doesn’t care though, because this could help Sam, take Sam off the drugs and give him a chance at sanity, at being something closer to normal. He wants to say yes, immediately, but he looks at Sam, Sam who’s looking back at Dean, eyes bright and watchful, blood clumping on his eyelashes.
“That’s his decision,” Dean finally says, forcing the words out from around a lump in his throat. “If you do something to Sam, it has to be his decision.”
Aina smiles, turns to Sam, who looks at Dean, shrugs, and says, “You decide. Trust you.”
“It will not be without effect,” Aina adds, slowly. “Something will be changed in him. Don't know what, can't say, but something.”
Dean thinks of Sam, thinks of Sam’s free will and the pain Sam experiences when he doesn’t take the yaba, thinks of sitting still and travelling across the country, thinks of Chinatown and the way people there look at them both. He thinks about what Jianjun said, of how people in their city-village listen to Sam, thinks about what Sara said, of how the great hunter was never happy, and he whispers, “Do it.”
Dean doesn’t blink as fairy after fairy comes out of the trees around them, though he wonders how long they’ve all been hiding out of sight. The entire clan of feeorin, he thinks, and they surround Sam, circling him too fast for Dean to see, cloaking Sam in whirling green and fluttering wings. Sam cries out in pain and Dean moves to help him without thinking, held back by Aina, who’s watching.
Sam cries out again, shrieks in agony, and Dean watches with wide eyes as the feeorin start to fly away in groups of two and three. Sam’s on his knees, head bowed, chest heaving, and Dean can only look, frozen, caught, as Sam lifts his head and turns dark, dangerous, wicked eyes on him.
Sam stays kneeling, Dean standing, and they look at each for long, silent minutes, until Sam’s lips form a warm, half-curved smile, and he says, “Hello, Dean.”
--
Dean doesn’t know how long he stands there, looking at Sam, and the way Sam’s body is so still, muscles loose, ready for anything and everything, eyes focused on Dean. Dean shivers, because he’s starting to realise that having Sam’s complete attention is an intense experience, would be terrifying if he wasn’t able to open himself to Sam and feel Sam’s happiness, Sam’s longing, Sam’s possessiveness.
“Sam,” he whispers, and in the next minute, as if that’s all Sam needed to hear, Sam’s right there, right in front of him, lifting a hand and cupping Dean’s cheek, thumb stroking Dean’s cheekbone.
“I’m here,” Sam says. “I’m here.”
Aina flutters between them, sits on Sam’s wrist, and says, “You’re here, he’s here, I’m leaving. Thankyou!” before she flies away, swooping through the air, making circles and dive-bombing dust motes floating through the air.
Dean watches her go, it’s easier than looking Sam in the eyes, and he coughs, shifts. “What was that crack about her name, anyway?” he asks, and looks at a spot between Sam’s eyes.
Sam laughs, low and warm, and takes his hands off of Dean’s face, smoothes them across Dean’s shoulders. “Usually heads of feeorin clans have warrior names,” he says, tone matching the laugh from a moment before, and hearing it makes Dean’s head swim. “But ‘Aina,’ in their language, means joy.”
“Huh,” Dean mutters, and then Sam’s leaning forward, drawing his teeth down Dean’s neck, the side the ajattara didn’t touch.
Dean’s eyes close, one hand reaches up to cup Sam’s neck, tangle in the hair curling there, sliding through blood. He knows, now more than ever, that Sam could kill him and it wouldn’t take any effort at all, knows this with all he is, but knows more that Sam never would.
The line Sam makes stops at the juncture of neck and shoulder, nose pushed under Dean’s jacket, and then Sam leans up, licks Dean’s earlobe and whispers, “It goes both ways, Dean.”
Dean leans back, looks at Sam, and asks, “What?”
“What I said before, to the ajattara,” Sam answers, looking steadily at him. “It goes both ways.”
It takes Dean a second to catch the reference, and then fire floods through his veins when he realises. He looks up at Sam, eyes wide, and sees the glitter in Sam’s eyes, the deep, endless awareness he saw in Sara, traces of mania and the rhythm of the hunt even deeper.
“Slowly,” Sam says, reaching out and tracing his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. The movement is tender but Sam’s touch is electric, filled with restrained brutality. “I don’t know what I’m doing either.”
--
Sam leads Dean out of the forest, back to the Impala. Neither of them say a word. Sam’s dancing around his brother, but this time its different, like Sam’s doing this because he’s at home here, wants to, not because something inside of him, some madness, is urging him onwards. Dean wants to ask how much of Sam’s actions before were the result of the yaba, how much the result of hearing so much, but he doesn’t, can’t break the silence between them.
The silence lasts all the way back to the motel, until Sam breaks it, says, “I’m going to shower,” and trails a finger down his face, draws it off and raises an eyebrow at the blood, wrinkles his nose. He stops, though, gives Dean a considering look, and adds, “Unless you’d rather I not?”
Dean gapes, and Sam laughs, goes into the bathroom, shuts the door but doesn’t lock it. Dean hears the water turn on, and sits on the edge of the bed, shaking his head.
He watches TV, orders a pizza, and then goes to shower once Sam’s done. Food’s there when he gets out of the bathroom, and Dean stuffs a couple pieces down while Sam studies an atlas with a faraway look on his face.
“What are you hearing?” Dean finally asks.
“The loudest thing,” Sam answers immediately. “Something coming from South Dakota. It sounds like some kind of nature spirit, maybe a kappa. I don’t think it’s out to hurt anything.” Sam pauses, says, “I think it wants to go home.” Dean’s heart stops, he loses his appetite, and Sam turns around, gives him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he says. “You tired? You look tired.”
Dean raises an eyebrow, says, “Dude, feel like I could sleep for a fucking week,” and can’t help blushing like a nervous virgin when Sam’s gaze rakes over him, sharp, hot, and assessing.
Sam sees it, sees it and laughs, before looking pointedly at the second bed.
--
Halfway through the night, Dean wakes up, looks around with sleep-clogged eyes. Sam’s standing at the window, muscles in his arms and tendons in his neck outlined by the moon, pyjama pants and t-shirt hanging off of him in the same clean lines.
"Yaba?" he mutters.
Sam turns around, smiles at Dean, shakes his head. "Won't need it anymore," he says. "It helped me focus; I can do that on my own, now."
Dean hums, then pats the bed. “C’me ‘ere,” Dean mumbles, scooting over in his bed, and Sam’s sliding in under the covers a moment later, tangling up his feet with Dean’s. Dean hums, curls into Sam, and falls back asleep, nose burrowing into Sam’s neck, Sam’s hand playing with the hair on the back of his neck.
--
It’s a kappa in South Dakota, and Dean fills a fish tank with water and drives back to San Francisco with the water demon in the back seat. Sam laughs every time he looks at it, laughs and wriggles in his seat, like he’s relearning the feel of the Impala, marking out a space for himself. The closer they get to the Bay, the more Dean can’t stand to see Sam shift, move, because soon the seat will be cold, empty again. Once he delivers Sam back to Chinatown, back to his family, things will go back to the way they had been; Dean hopes they won’t, hopes with everything he is, but he’s not going to set himself up for a fall.
The kappa jumps into the Bay and thanks them in the peculiar mix of clicks and squawks that make up its language. Sam says something back, bows low, and the kappa disappears below the water.
The two brothers stand there for a while, looking out over the water, until Sam says, “I should say goodbye to some people, and I need to clean my room. Do you mind if we stay for a few days while I square things away?”
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, eyes still trained on the horizon, where the blue of the water and the blue of the air mix together in a haze.
Sam laughs, traces of manic hyperactiveness in the sound, and says, “You can be an idiot sometimes, Dean.” Dean doesn’t want to argue, but he wants Sam to be absolutely sure, no regrets, and like Sam’s heard that, Sam turns, says, “We’re bound, Dean, but beyond that, yes. I’m sure.”
Dean stays silent as Sam moves, as Sam leans closer and wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulder, pulls him close, presses his lips to Dean’s temple, and says, voice low, husky, “I’m sure.”
--
Sam puts Dean to work collecting everything off of the walls and then disappears for a few hours. He comes back looking tired, a little shaky, carrying a crate of star anise and ginger root, as well as a cardboard box filled to the brim with food and bottles of Chinese beer.
“Mei Xing and Li say hello,” Sam says, dropping the food on the table, the carton near the steps. “Jianjun just said to make sure we get everything when we leave, because he has a new student coming up in a week or so and needs the space.”
“Explain something to me,” Dean says, and Sam frowns, leans against one of the walls that Dean’s managed to clear off, and nods. “I went downstairs a couple times and checked the door on my way. That damn lock, what the hell’s up? Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it isn’t. It’s driving me crazy.”
Sam grins, relaxes, and says, “Ever heard of a tsukumogami before?” and doesn’t say another word about it.
They eat, pack up some of Sam’s clothes, go through the box of knives. It takes longer than Dean thought, because the sun’s set and the only light in the room comes from the oil lamp and reflections through the window by the time they’re done. Sam mentions something about going out, but Dean waves him off, holds up a half-empty bottle, gestures at the bottles lined up near the door.
“Yanjing, man. This stuff’s potent.”
Sam laughs, mutters something about Dean being a lightweight, and though Dean argues that, he doesn’t argue when Sam manhandles him towards the mattress in the corner.
Dean relaxes into the mattress, the blankets and pillows, shifting slightly as he says, “Love this bed, Sam.”
Sam grins, perches on the edge, and leans over Dean, the curling ends of his hair tickling Dean’s face. “And why’s that?” he asks, before his lips brush over Dean’s forehead, dry and warm.
Dean shivers, blames it on the beer. “S’better than a motel bed. Comfy. Like it’s got big arms. Smells like you,” he adds after a moment, and Sam’s laugh is a rumbling vibration against Dean’s neck.
“And what do I smell like, Dean?” Sam asks, tongue sweeping behind Dean’s ear, teeth grazing Dean’s earlobe.
Dean hums, finally says, “Like home,” and Sam’s lips flutter at the hollow of Dean’s neck.
“Go to sleep, Dean,” Sam murmurs.
--
They leave the next morning, Sam wiping his nose on his sleeve every ten seconds. Dean raises an eyebrow, and Sam says, "Cold turkey after two years, Dean. I'm not going to get it as bad as most, but there'll be some effects."
Dean could kick himself, it was a stupid question, he should've known.
"I'll be fine," Sam says.
At the bottom of the steps, Sam drops to one knee and starts talking solemnly to the doorknob. Dean watches, arms folded, listens to his brother speaking in something Asian, it doesn't sound Chinese, whichever dialect Jianjun and Mei Xing speak, but it's not European. In front of Dean's eyes, the doorknob and lock blink out of sight, then back in, then out again in quick succession.
"The hell?" he asks.
Sam stands up, smile playing on the edges of his lips, and says, "Tsukumogami. The doorknob's one hundred years old. It likes to play tricks on people. I was telling it I was leaving, and to give Jianjun's next student time to get used to the area before starting its games."
Dean rolls his eyes, hears Sam laugh, feels the press on lips on his neck and swipes at his brother, suddenly out of reach, dancing down the alley.
--
Turns out vampires are real, which gets funnier every time Dean thinks about.
He and Sam are on their way across the country because something in one of the Carolinas is muttering pretty damn loudly about being stuck in a music room and keeping them both awake long after Dean stops listening and Sam tunes in to something else. San Francisco’s two states away when they stop for gas in Colorado and hear about a group of people no one else likes, goth punks, living on the edge of town and always up to no good. That wouldn’t have caught their attention, but Sam feels itchy, like there’s something here, and Dean trusts his brother’s instincts, would have to be crazy not to.
They go and scope out the situation, and they’re crouched down, hiding behind a patch of trees, when Sam says, “Holy shit,” with wide eyes.
Dean watches as a smile slowly crosses his brother’s face, stretches Sam’s lips ear to ear as the feral glitter in Sam’s eyes comes to the surface. It’s almost scary to think that there’s no transition from Sam to predator, to hunter, that this is what Sam is all the time, but Dean’s not worried as Sam draws out a knife, studies the blade for a moment before looking back at the barn, assessing the people they can see carousing around through an open door.
“What?” Dean asks.
Sam turns that smile on Dean, the full force of his eyes, and says, “Vampires.”
Dean looks at Sam, then down at the barn, then back at Sam, and says, “You’re fucking with me. Right?” Sam shakes his head, and all Dean can say is “Holy shit.”
Sam’s nostrils flare, like he’s scenting the breeze, and he licks his lips like he can taste the wind. “Six of them, and they’ve got humans caught in there as well. The sire, his mate, and four others. Drunk,” he adds, lips curling.
He looks at Dean, who grins back, and says, “Lock and load, Sammy boy.”
--
It’s a blood bath, just not theirs. Dean goes for the humans while the vampires go for Sam, and as Dean’s leading the kids out, because not one of the humans caught in those cages is over twenty, one of them asks, “Aren’t you worried about your friend?”
Dean just laughs.
The kids take off in two of the cars, pealing out of there like something’s following them, and Dean leans against the doorway and watches as Sam toys with the four underlings, decapitating them all in a matter of seconds, getting his hands and clothes covered in blood spatter. The sire and his mate make a good team as they circle Sam, attacking from two different angles, taking advantage of Sam’s blind spots, but Sam ends up slicing the girl’s neck and tossing her body off to the side, her head off to the other, all the while looking at the sire.
The sire’s furious, angry but cool, and he studies Sam much as the ajattara did in the woods outside of Dunsmuir.
“We can come to an agreement,” he says. Sam grins, growls playfully, and the vampire asks, “What the fuck are you?” like he hasn’t realised yet that he’s lost his entire family in five minutes.
“Worst nightmare sounds a little too comic book, doesn’t it?” Sam asks, and it takes the vampire a second before he realises Sam’s addressing Dean.
Dean shrugs, says, “I guess. True, though,” and as soon as he’s done speaking, the vampire goes for Sam, hands outstretched, fangs extended and ready to bite.
Dean watches as Sam sidesteps, leaves the knife in his wake, slashes upwards, and a moment later the vampire’s howling, holding his mouth, as Sam’s holding a fang up to the light and studying it. Dean winces, because vampire or not, that had to hurt.
“Come on, Sam,” he calls out. “Now you’re just toying with him. Even Buffy had the decency to stake ‘em and get it over with.”
Sam looks at him, shrugs, and then moves too fast for Dean to see, space where Sam had been and where he is now blurring with the movement, and, in the next second, the vampire’s head is no longer attached to its body.
“Better?” Sam asks, tossing the fang on the floor.
Dean smiles and answers, “Will be once I get to light it up.”
--
They cross the country six times over the next four weeks. Sam might not be hopped up on yaba anymore, but he doesn’t like to sleep, doesn’t like to stay still, and Dean’s getting used to it. Dean’s getting used to a lot of things, like falling asleep alone in bed and finding himself tucked around Sam when he wakes up, like how his heart rate spikes just from looking at Sam, like the myriad number of ways Sam kisses. They haven’t had sex, haven’t done anything except kiss, and Dean’s getting used to that just like he’s getting used to seeing Sam hunt and kill their prey, getting used to hunting with Sam, watching his brother end up with bumps and bruises occasionally, more usually covered in some kind of creature’s blood or ectoplasm.
He’s almost going crazy, nearly two months without sex, all of this physical contact making his arousal spiral up then cool down, taking care of morning erections in the shower, seeing Sam’s wicked grin at night when Dean’s trying to adjust his jeans without being too obvious.
Dean’s about ready to tell Sam to fuck this going slow idea, it was stupid and he shouldn’t have said it to begin with, but then he looks at Sam, looks at his brother, and wonders if they should be going at all, if he could resist the way Sam makes his blood boil, the way Sam’s eyes hold a look that makes Dean want to give himself up entirely, knowing it could mean his life.
--
They’re in Kentucky when Dean finally says something, and the irony of that, amidst all the redneck jokes, isn’t lost on him. Sam’s polishing one of his knives, still and focused, sitting cross-legged on the floor across the room from Dean, who’s just getting done cleaning one of the guns he used on a hunt earlier that day. They’ve eaten, had a few beers each, and there’s some news story on the television about the little girl they rescued and sent home to her parents, the family crying and asking the two saviours to step forward and claim a reward, the family’s eternal gratitude.
“Sam,” Dean says, then stops when Sam looks up at him, doesn’t remember what he was going to say. Sam cocks his head, then gives Dean a little grin and goes back to polishing his knife. Dean growls, feeling like Sam’s passed him over, and Sam’s hands pause.
Sam looks up at him, as if he’s intrigued by the noise, and the way Sam’s looking at Dean makes Dean want to back down, because Sam’s studying him the way he studies the creatures they fight and kill, eyes gleaming, nostrils flaring, mouth open the slightest bit to taste the air. Dean doesn’t ease down, though; he looks right back at Sam, almost in challenge, though his mouth dries when Sam’s lips curve upwards.
Dean puts the gun down slowly, pushes it out of the way, though he doesn’t take his eyes away from Sam’s, still challenging but making sure Sam doesn’t see him as a threat. This is a different kind of challenge and the thrill of not knowing if Sam understands that makes Dean’s heart beat a little faster, a little harder.
Sam puts down his knife in an echoing movement a moment later, and Dean can’t help letting out a sigh of relief even though he knows Sam’s perfectly capable of killing him without any type of weapon.
“What are you doing, Dean?” Sam asks, low and soft, though there’s a warning underneath the tone, a warning that curls through Dean’s veins and goes straight to his cock.
Dean doesn’t say anything, just tilts his chin up, leans back and lets his legs fall apart.
Sam growls his name this time, “Dean,” and when Dean doesn’t do anything, Sam moves, fluid, unnatural grace, to his hands and knees, crawling slowly across the floor, eating up the distance between them.
Goosebumps chase their way over Dean’s arms and spine, skittering around his stomach as he swallows butterflies back down.
When Sam’s kneeling between Dean’s legs, he says Dean’s name again, though this time it’s more of a purr than a growl. Dean looks up at his brother, raises an eyebrow, and stops breathing when Sam places a hand on his chest and pushes him to the floor.
The carpet’s thin and scratchy under his back, but Dean doesn’t care, not with Sam hovering over him, looking down at him with narrowed eyes.
“You know what you’re asking,” Sam says, demand more than question. “You really wanna be doing this?”
Dean clears his throat, swallows, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
--
Sam’s breath is hot and wet against his neck, fingers warm and nimble as they undo Dean’s jeans, spread them open and pull Dean’s cock out from the confines of his underwear.
Dean’s mind is blank, arousal crashing through him as his hips arch up, dick seeking friction, another touch, anything. “Sam,” he murmurs, and Sam’s lips bite and nip at Dean’s, break the skin open and lick up blood before his tongue pushes inside of Dean’s mouth and one giant hand circles Dean’s cock.
Dean gasps, can’t help it, and while he’s reeling, caught between the kiss and the slow, steady jerks Sam’s starting, he fumbles with Sam’s pyjama pants, pushes them down.
“Slow down,” Sam laughs against his lips, before sliding upwards, rubbing his cock against Dean’s.
“Fucking tell me to slow down,” Dean pants, throwing his head back on the floor. “I’ll fucking tell you.”
Sam laughs again, but Dean can’t find it in himself to be angry, not when Sam takes them both in hand, jerks them off together, and Sam’s teeth are planting nipping little bite marks up and down Dean’s neck, marks that he can feel brand him deeper than skin.
“Mine,” Sam whispers into Dean’s ear, like it’s a secret no one else can know. “You’re mine, Dean. No one else’s, never again.”
Dean opens his eyes, looks at Sam, and growls back the same thing before he comes.
Sam lets go, licks up every drop of Dean’s come, and when he’s smiling sleepily, licking his lips and teeth, biting playfully at Dean’s collarbone, Dean reaches down, learns the weight and feel of his brother’s cock in his hand before he learns the taste and texture of his brother’s come licked off of his own hand.
--
They don’t leave the room for three days except once at the beginning, to run out and get enough food and beer to keep them filled up, give them energy to keep going. It’s frenzied at first, like neither of them can get enough of the other, and any doubts Dean had are exorcised by the way Sam pants underneath him, tight around him, by the way Sam moves inside of him, slow and gentle, by the way Sam’s lips are warm and his mouth is wet, by the way Sam growls and snarls and hisses and whimpers and whines.
Its three days and three nights, and the room smells stale, of sex and beer and open bags of chips and candy, when Dean’s lying in bed next to Sam, feet and hands twined together, draped over and around each other.
Sam’s nosing lazily at Dean’s neck, Dean’s fingers are playing with the hair leading downwards from Sam’s belly button, and the room’s silent. Dean thinks he understands, now, how Sam can feel so comfortable in his body, feel and look at home with his physicality, because Dean’s sunk so far into his skin he doesn’t ever want to come out again. The space between them, outwardly and inwardly, is so small as to be nonexistent, like two halves of the same whole. They fit, separately and together, and Dean hums in sleepy pleasure as Sam licks one of the marks he left earlier, sucks the skin under Dean’s jaw.
“Where to next?” Dean asks. “We’ll have to get moving again.”
“Soon,” Sam says, and takes his hand out of Dean’s, lets it dance down Dean’s chest.
Dean’s phone rings, and they sigh in unison. “Can’t ignore the world forever,” Dean mutters, though he knows he sounds petulant, like he would if he could, and he reaches over, picks up the phone, and answers without even looking, says, “Hello?”
Sam looks over, frowning, and understands the sudden panic Dean’s showing as soon as Dean says, “Dad. Hi.”