Riders on the Storm 6. Part III: Dean

[zempasuchil]

and Father said That's sad too people cannot do anything that dreadful they cannot do anything very dreadful at all they cannot even remember tomorrow what seemed dreadful today and I said, You can shirk all things and he said, Ah can you. ― William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

Dean's overly aware of the sound of their footsteps as they walk across the cemetery. They're finishing up a salt and burn, walking back through acres of crackling dry grass by the white prairie church. Lucky it's a no-moon night, Dean wants to say, but they've got to be dead silent. The darkest night is the best kind of night for digging up graves. This farm town goes to bed early - in fact, Sam and Dean are breaking curfew by being out - but even the police can sleep at night in a town like this.

Dean's following the lightest patch on Sam tonight, the flash of the collar of his shirt, the faded back of his gravedigging jeans. Watching the movement of his brother's legs makes Dean think, it's been ages since Sam got laid. The last girl he really liked was Madison. Poor girl. At this rate, Sam's been lonely for too long, so maybe Dean should start bumping him into girls in bars again.

He feels a little nauseated about it. Not the thought of Sam spending a little time on his own these days - they're claustrophobic as hell, or at least Dean is, with his approaching end like a moving wall coming to trash-compact him. The obsessive way Sam watches him now increases the pressure, making Dean anxious that his brother's gonna cry at any minute or say something horribly embarrassing, something that'll make Dean want to sink into the ground and hide away.

It's not sentiment he's afraid of, though, or of Sam getting a girl - that'd be a relief, someone for Sam to have once Dean is gone. Really Dean is afraid of anything that would break them up and wreck this partnership, the good thing they've got going now. He traded his soul to preserve these days in and out with Sam. He wants to protect how they've grown close in a good way and not the self-loathing fearful shadow-of-their-father way. Not the way Sam was back when they were fucking around and the whole while Sam was secretly planning to leave for Stanford. Not back when Dean had all the wrong sick ideas of how you keep family near and with you.

Dean thinks about it, trying to fall asleep after Sam's already dropped off. He's been having a hard time sleeping this week, but he's given up on going out. He's getting tired of the bars and girls where he never sees anyone twice but everything's the fucking same night after night, no matter the town. So Sam goes to bed and Dean tries to, but tonight he's lying awake listening to the sound of the plains winds coming down off the mountain, whistling under the crack of the motel room window, buffeting the side of the building.

Shifting restlessly, he thinks, I shouldn't be sticking around him so much. Give him space, not make us sick. But he's got no real plans or desire to leave and give Sam space, despite his fear that Sam will drive himself nuts over Dean's deal, will try to grab on too close, ask Dean for something he just can't give.

Sam tried, once. They were in that haunted hotel in Connecticut months ago, and Sam asked Dean to kill him if he ever went darkside. If Sam had been sober it would've been easier for Dean to say no to him. If he hadn't been physically clinging to Dean, Dean could have put him off easier. Instead Sam let it seep through, whatever messed up part of him that thought this was what Dean wanted, whatever messed up part of him wanted Dean's touch in kind.

Sam must have noticed Dean's eyes on his hands, his mouth. Maybe he saw something - maybe it was Dean's mistake, that he somehow let Sam think… Dean knows he isn't subtle about how he feels, what he wants, but he's not telling anyone, especially Sam.

The only thing that saved Dean from giving in to Sam's unspoken plea for sick comfort was, and is, the shame of wanting to touch Sam like that already, for so long. It's pride and self-punishment that saves him. He's built up too much self-loathing resistance to give in at the first chance Sam offered. He's sick but he's not weak. So he said it, he promised Sam everything but the last rung, this last thing, so as not to seem weak in desire, so as to appear to have learned from only a momentary past mistake, to appear in control. To be delivered from temptation, to be not led into evil.

But they follow in evil's tracks every day.

Hunting's the thing that damns him and the thing that redeems him; taking care of Sam is gonna be the same way. Dean's angry that he can recall the feel of Sam's hands on his face even now.

After all that, after how long and hard Dean refused to follow through on the promise of that night, he's fairly certain he's shoved Sam off hard enough that he won't pull the same stunt and offer himself to Dean again. Dean wouldn't want him to. Dean's a sicko who may still want to touch his brother, may be Humbert Humbert for the rest of his short life, but he knows well enough to know that Sam is just fucking with him. Sam couldn't want that, and if he does, it's Dean's fault. And Dean's not going to fuck his brother and then leave him alone and even more messed up in the world.

Anyway, even if Sam is being sincere and not just trying to pity-fuck Dean to get even for Dean bringing him back to life, to feel like he's somehow given Dean what he wants and even the score - fuck that, fuck that, fuck that.

Dean's fist pounds the mattress. Sam shifts in his sleep but stays asleep.

Dean wants his brother, all right. He wants things to be the way they have been. He wants to remember the good times and have more of them. He doesn't want this to change, he doesn't want it to get weird or for any acknowledgement of desire to put even further strain on their relationship.

If he can have one thing guaranteed, it's for Sam to be his brother, there till the end.

-

Dean wakes up a few hours later to the sound of the wind. At least, he thinks that, but as his head clears it's more - it's a thundering, a moan.

He gets up to see. Sam is still asleep, a dark lump in the mostly-blacked-out hotel room. Dean walks across to the crack of faint light at the curtain and looks out. The moon is nearly full, illuminating the plains and the foothills before him. The road they're by goes right out of town and onward into a gap in the hills, rising up around where the river has carved a bed. These hills are currently funneling a steaming, dark mass of cattle, flowing like a dark river of molasses. Above them, the distant hills are covered in blinking red lights that he knows are windmills, but there's a cloudy mist coming down from the mountains, blowing through town just above the dew point, making the lights glow red and the darkness swirl. The lowing of cattle blends with the moan of the wind and the rumble of hooves on the earth, the tips of horns rising into view now and then above the sea of steaming cattle bodies covering and uncovering the red windmill lights, which swim like eyes. In the wind's whistle and whine he imagines he can hear the crack and groan of leather, the whine of horses and lowing of beasts.

It passes before him like a mirage, like a host of spirits. It takes many long minutes to pass from his sight up into the canyon road and out of view, but Dean watches the whole time, and when the red windmill lights look just like lights again and the plains are empty, he lies down and goes back to sleep.

-

Sam says he's got charts of ley lines, triangulations of reports of strange noises and animals going feral, and says tomorrow night they'll have to hike out to the woods and camp so he can follow the wind direction.

"Are you shitting me?' asks Dean, looking at the spread of charts Sam's got scattered over their motel room table.

"Fraid not." Sam tries gathering up the papers into a pile. "What, you like Colorado, don't you?"

"I like the food in Denver. That's not the same."

"I found us an old cabin to squat in, s'better than camping."

Dean shakes his head but all it means is that he's sure as shit impressed with the load of Sam's work. Dean's had a hard time concentrating lately. He wants to say it's the altitude, since they've been in New Mexico for not long enough yet, at least a mile up from the plains they were in last week, and he's feeling under the weather. But Sam's doing fine.

Honestly, after seeing what hellhounds can do, reports of unearthly packs of dogs or wolves creep him the fuck out.

"Man, I don't wanna hunt no black dog," Dean twangs in complaint, shouldering their gear as they pack up this motel room to head out. "Remember last time, when I broke my wrist going after it?"

"Boo hoo. I broke my wrist going after a zombie, I don't turn those hunts down."

"You would if you could."

"Yeah, probably," Sam says, but he's clearly distracted and not listening to Dean.

-

All the locals at the bar seem antsy. A couple starts fighting, and it takes a few people to separate them, but the way the barkeep looks at them they're regulars and it's not a surprise to see them fighting. Still, everyone's on edge, and the heat of the day hasn't yet blown out in the high-altitude nighttime breeze.

Sam looks askance at the couple, but Dean's not worried. They cops aren't going to catch up to them out here, in this middle-of-the-wilderness outpost. Besides, it's the only bar in town.

Dean wants to stay and trounce at pool, but Sam's looking a little caged.

Dean looks at the crowd again and maybe he's seeing what Sam's seeing now, the tension an undercurrent of panic. Every laugh is a little manic, every man wide-eyed and salivating, every woman toothed.

Sam is the only thing he can look at and trust, Sam who he wants to grab by the collar and hang on, Sam who the only sure, good thing in this smoky seedy bar full of strangers.

Dean's reaction to the thrumming undercurrent of wildness isn't fear but excitement. He is a hunter, after all, both joyful and impatient here.

Sam finally catches his gaze and Dean sees the tension break there, relief and a smile that Dean returns to show that he gets it, he gets how crazy Sam feels right now.

Dean yells over the noise, "You wanna get going?"

Sam leans off away from the wall he was leaning against and in towards Dean. His low voice reaches Dean's ears soft and strong and deep. "Yeah."

"Let's go for a drive," Dean says, and Sam lights up like that's the best thing he's heard all day.

Dean drives, of course. They roll the windows down and Sam sticks his head out, wind whipping his hair.

"You're like a dog," Dean shouts over the blast of noise, and Sam laughs. Dean guns it.

They drive out and up and up till they reach a vista point, a lookout where it's clear a bunch of people have parked their cars to make out or fuck or whatever the kids do these days. Dean and Sam laugh and Dean looks at Sam. Maybe that was his mistake.

"We could head up into the mountains now," Dean says. "Pull off, go into the woods. See how far we get."

Sam's looking eager, but then he shakes his head vigorously like a dog. "Let's just keep driving for a bit more. Our stuff's back in that abandoned cabin."

"All right," Dean says, easy and agreeable to whatever direction motion will take them. He peels out of the roadside stop and back onto the road, up a steep incline, then a series of switchback turns that creak the Impala's frame.

Dean plays the steering wheel like a drum before grabbing it with one hand to navigate the sharpest turns. Yellow 15 MPH - 10 MPH warning signs zoom by in the headlights and head right for Sam's face before the car takes each turn. Sam whoops and grips the door tight.

"Wanna go shoot something," Dean shouts.

Sam pulls his head back in, breathless. "All right."

They end up shooting cans under the stars, crowing and taunting each other, moonlit grins visible in the night. They empty their handguns of bullets, except Sam still has one left, and Dean tries to grab for it recklessly. But Sam just stands there, holds it high, far away, not running or leaning away but towards Dean, looking down at him close. Dean can feel his breath, can smell his brother and they don't smell like the bar anymore, Sam smells like cedar and newly-washed flannel shirt and Dean feels a little gross in comparison, a little jealous, a little strange to be climbing his brother for the last bullet.

Dean feels frozen there while Sam just looks at him, eyes smiling and sad like he's waiting, and when Dean realizes he's looking back, he leans away and says, "All right, 's getting late enough."

They drive a loop back to town, engine thrumming like a lullaby under the dark and starry skies.

"Bar sucked," Sam says, sleepy drunk. Dean probably is too but somehow they don't care. "'S go sleep."

"Whatever you say, Sammy"

They go back to the abandoned cabin and Sam conks out on top of a musty foam cot pad.
Dean, who is drunk and restless and wants to get even with Sam, pulls out his dick. It's dark as pitch in here except for the glow of their phones. They might as well sleep the next day away, since they're starting their nature hike tomorrow night.

Though this isn't exactly vengeance because Sam is asleep, not awake to hear it and understand Dean's torment of witnessing his little brother jack off, Dean is a little frustrated after the last couple weeks - that goddamn fairy circle especially. He's eager to work off some of his own tension.

He jerks himself hard because he's turned on, unbelievably turned on. He doesn't know what the fuck it is, this wild thing going around town that's got him too now. Sure, it's been a while, maybe he hasn't felt up to it. He hasn't had much luck hooking up with chicks for a while now because he's been having a hard time getting happy. So sue him.

But tonight is magic and tonight he had a good time with Sam and he doesn't feel like himself anymore. The weight's been lifted off his shoulders in a way that doesn't happen anymore when he drinks. Drinking only weighs him down now, sinking these thoughts in him.

This isn't drunkenness, this is… euphoria.

Dean jerks off and thinks of Sam in the car a week ago, coming spontaneously in his jeans in this teenage way that should have just been disgusting and not disgustingly hot but he wanted to watch it. He got to see the look on Sam's face, exquisite pleasure - to see Sam in pleasure like that, that was what Dean was selfish for.

Dean let Sam's name slip from his lips and he thought it was quiet, but after he comes, once he stops moving, he hears Sam shifting in the next bed and dread stirs in him. Sam just says "Fuck you, Dean," quiet, and then goes to sit outside on the porch.

Dean feels like shit.

-

They hike into the mountains the next night. It's a pain in the ass, and Dean doesn't want to camp, he wants to get in and get out.

When he grumbles, Sam says, "I don't like it either, you know. I'd stay in the house if we could, but we might have to go even further in than we can make it today. Whatever we're looking for could have its lair deeper in the woods."

Dean bottles up his complaining. It's not worth it. He can remind himself he's a professional, doesn't need Sam to do it.

It's too dry to even think of a fire for when they camp. They brought a couple deli sandwiches, and when they get far enough in they eat, then set up the tent by the light of the full moon and their flashlight.

The tent they have is a two-man, which is not like most two-man tents in that it fits both of their over-six-foot bodies. In fact it might be more of a three man, but that doesn't mean Dean andSam aren't basically shoulder to shoulder. Sam won't sleep with his head near Dean's feet, he says it's gross, and anyway Dean would rather not be kicked in the face if Sam starts sleeping restless again.

It's too dark to do anything so Sam checks his charts again, checks the direction of the wind (it's still, Dean thinks to himself, but whatever). They salt a line in front of the door flap to finish and turn in.
The moon shining through the sparse high-altitude trees makes a bright pattern on their tent walls and roof. Maybe tonight wasn't the best night for a hunt. The full moon electrifies Dean, keeps him not on the edge of sleep but almost more awake than he was while the sun was still up. The coolness of the outdoor breeze and the slip of air coming in through the not-entirely closed zipper is alluring; the sluggish heat of the day held in the ground is still rolling off. Dean finds himself impatient for the cool air.

The animal noises on their way into the woods were loud and frequent, but now there's only silence, punctuated by the occasional flutter of bird wings. It's not normal for the woods at night to be that silent. The silence feels tense and creepy, the temperature change affecting them Dean supposes, and the moon too, bizarrely bright and energizing to be under, almost like daytime. He would expect even more animal activity under a full moon than on a regular night.

"Like werewolves?" asks Sam when Dean says this out loud.

"Or anything, not just monsters. Isn't that an animal thing?"

Sam makes a skeptical humming noise.

"I just think it's weirdly quiet."

"Too quiet?"

It's Dean's turn to make a skeptical noise. "Just weird, that it would happen suddenly. When…"

He hears Sam rustle on his bedroll next to him. Dean turns his face and he can see Sam's silhouette turn to face him. Sam's gusting exhale blows over Dean's face. It smells like toothpaste. Figures Sam would bring his toothbrush with him into the woods.

"When what?

"You feel it too? The effect it has?"

"If this is what everyone in town felt, the ones who snapped and fled for the wild…"

"Yeah," Dean says. "I could understand it."

"Like a call that resonates with people in a certain state. A siren, or a psychic dog whistle." Sam jiggles his leg, shifts his arm and Dean can feel it brush against him.

"So what do you think is in the woods, calling them? Or driving them there?" Dean asks, trying to distract himself.

"Uh, I don't know. I still think it's a spirit thing."

Thunder suddenly rolls in the sky, though they didn't see any flash of lightning. The moon's glow isn't as sharp but Dean can still see Sam's silhouette.

"Shit," Dean says. "I hope it doesn't rain."

"I hate digging trenches," says Sam.

"I hate the hard ground." Dean shifts his legs, rolls over onto his side, still restless. Apparently Sam is too, because they end up bumping each other knee to knee, feet kicking for space. Sam hip-checks Dean amidst the rolling and Dean keeps his arms braced for his own space.

"Pine needles not enough for you, princess?" he taunts.

Sam shoves.

"Cool it," says Dean, as he shoves back.

They tussle a bit, not just shoves but putting their whole bodies into it. It nearly turns into a wrestling match. Dean's face is hot, he feels hot all over. Sweaty, despite the cooling air out there. Must be the storm coming. The weird charge in the air that's been bugging him feels like it's settling into his skin and muscles.

"We sure we're not looking for some kind of ambient pollen? One that makes people wig out?" he says.

"What?" Sam says, and he sounds breathless.

"I dunno, some supernatural allergen that drives people crazy and out into the woods? I kinda feel…"

Sam's heavy breaths are reaching Dean's face in gusts, wet and human and comforting. Both of them have their bodies all tensed from their roughhousing and this sudden pause leaves them lying awkwardly. Dean's throat feels stuck.

"Yeah?" Sam says.

Dean coughs. "Nothing."

Sam huffs.

"Hey you got a problem there, mouth breather?"

Sam grunts. "Just -"

"Just what?"

"Nothing. Uh, nature calls."

A wolf howls faint in the distance and Dean chuckles. Then thunder rolls again and Sam hisses, "Shit."

"Maybe you better hold it."

Sam groans and Dean is aware once again of how close they are. Sam rolls over onto his stomach to bury his head in his arms, his face in the coat he's using as a pillow. Dean has a sudden surge of longing, of preemptively missing his little brother. He has a lot of moments like that, selfishly wanting Sam, as well as mournful ones of unselfishly wanting Sam to live and be happy.

Dean wants to swing a leg over his brother's hips, roll on top of his back, hold him down with his whole body and press. To very physically keep him here.

He thinks Sam has probably wanted to do the same.

Any other night his stomach would be tying itself in knots of shame and longing but he can't think tonight, and he's glad for it. Sam is so close, his tiny twitching falling-asleep movements.

Sam lets out a little whimper. Dean recognizes that sound.

Suddenly Dean gets it. Sam is trying to get off in right next to Dean, and maybe Dean's been so blind to whySam tries to touch him because he hasn't wanted to see it, he was so determined that Sam would never ask again. He thought he'd pushed Sam away far enough and long enough.

Dean had only been fooling himself.

Dean can feel Sam's hips shifting in little jerks and between the moonlight and whatever it is, he stops thinking, just puts his hand on Sam's lower back, presses down just over his tailbone where he can feel Sam's shirt end and his jeans begin.

Sam freezes, sucks in a breath. His leg muscles twitch. Dean doesn't move his hand, but keeps the pressure there, maybe presses down a little harder, then lets up, encouraging Sam not to stop. Sam starts moving again, maybe a little less subtly.

Heat pools in Dean's belly. His hand slips down a little to feel the curve of his brother's ass, which from watching he knows well but not necessarily by touch, not this way.

Dean wants to say something, or wants Sam to say something, because he doesn't want to just be sitting here in the dark touching his brother. They're both so messed up this year there's no telling if this would be just as bad or even worse than every other time they've crossed the boundary of normal touch.

But Dean can't think of anything to say now, in the silent hot night air, stuffed inside the tent. He's afraid that if he does anything to break the silence or Sam's rhythm of motion, one of them will stop, and suddenly know better.

"Sam," he says. His voice sounds strangely quiet to him, and he realizes his heart is beating hard and throbbing in his eardrums. He moves his hand up to Sam's lower back again and his fingertips curl under the edge of Sam's shirt, brushing skin. "Sam, are you -"

Sam moves quick under his hand, onto his side so he's facing Dean and Dean's hand is on his hip. Sam slides his own hand onto Dean's stomach and Dean shudders. The warring urges to push Sam away and pull him closer have Dean angry at himself again. But this feeling overrides anger.

He can't see Sam's face in the dark, but does he need to?

"Dean, please," Sam says, hooking a leg over one of Dean's to lie half on him. Dean can feel Sam's erection barely pressing into his hip.

Sam is still holding himself at some tense distance, waiting for something. An answer. Yes.

Dean moves to swing one leg over and in between Sam's, grabbing his brother's shoulder, aligning their chests and rolling them over so Dean's on top of him.

He palms Sam's neck and Sam moans, pants "Yeah, come on." He reaches down between them to palm Dean's dick and Dean makes an uncontrollable noise.

He isn't a noisy guy, not usually. But everything, his whole body, feels more electric tonight.

Pushed up against each other, they're humping like two teenagers frantic and face to face. Their whole bodies are aligned full length and close, like nothing they've done before. Dean's wanted it, though, god he's wanted it.

He feels closer to Sam than he's ever felt, the smell of Sam's tangy sweat in his nose. The way they push and pull against each other - it's horrible and impossible and Dean never thought in a million years they'd come to this: Sam in the dark, turning, putting his hand on Dean's face, the other clutching at his shoulder. Sam trying to drag Dean down, then rolling on top of him. Sam kissing his neck, making Dean gasp at the hot brand of it.

"That summer in the cabin by the lake - the summer before I left - " Sam breathes.

"Sam," says Dean, sounding miserable. "What I did to you…"

"No, fuck, don't say that -"

"Sam," Dean reaches out to do god knows what, but Sam catches his wrist.

"Please," Sam says, and kisses his mouth.

They rub off on each other, opening their jeans and yanking everything down just enough to get cocks out touching skin to skin. The heat there, the soft feeling of it - fuck. They roll around tangled in each other, the being close feeling just as good as the pressure on their dicks.

They make a mess of come on their bellies and slide their dicks through it, spreading it around, but Dean doesn't give a shit about mess. This tent in the woods is a no-man's land, just the nowhere space in utter darkness they need. The darkness Dean needs.

Dean crawls down Sam's body as he lies there. He wipes the slick of come with the bottom of Sam's shirt, then pushes it up Sam's belly, and feels the trail of pubic hair from his navel down to the thicket nestled around his dick.

Their come is still wet and sticky, matted in the thatch of hair at the base of Sam's dick. He feels the mess of it on his fingers and remembers the smell but it's so much more potent up close. Dean's hand brushes against Sam's softening cock as he pulls Sam's briefs further down. He honestly hasn't had the chance to do this, curious ages ago but in the end he never met a guy he really wanted to blow. Sam kinda took up all his blowjob fantasies after that summer long ago.

With a broad flat swipe of his tongue, he licks up Sam's shaft and surprises a whimper out of Sam. The sound goes straight to Dean's belly like a spark, like lightning.

Scrabbling with his hands, Sam finds the side of Dean's face. Dean turns into it without thinking. He opens his mouth for the head of Sam's half-hard dick and sucks it in, and Sam groans.

Sam's hand on his cheek, and Dean sucks hard, letting the head of Sam's dick bulge under his cheek under Sam's hand. Sam gasps, "Fuck, Dean."

Dean dips and moves and feels Sam's dick move over his tongue hot and hard, feels Sam's thighs flex beneath his hands. He looks up and in the darkness and imagines he can see Sam's face, wrecked open-mouthed. Sam's soon hard again, like a champ, and after an unthinkable while that makes Dean's jaw ache Dean brings him off again with his mouth and his hand, licking up Sam's cock, laving his balls, the tacky feeling of drying come on his lips and chin and hands, the strong taste in his mouth contrasted with the saltiness of Sam's skin.

He uncurls his body and stretches out again, putting his head back by Sam's, and Sam hitches up his pants. Dean can't bring himself to kiss Sam after that, though he wants to. He can't overcome the thought of touching his mouth to Sam's dick and then his lips, feeling like his face smells too strongly of come, his mouth tastes too much like dick. His face feels hot.

Sam buries his face in Dean's shoulder and reaches down to Dean's crotch to press his open hand against the wet spot there, but Dean brushes Sam away. "Go to sleep," Dean says, and Sam must be tired because he just groans and rolls onto his back. He's asleep soon; Dean waits to hear Sam's breathing even out. Dean is half hard. He's wondering if he should have let Sam touch him, but the thought of it is too much, and the voice in his head says, no way. He wipes the semen out of his briefs with a hand and wipes that off on the edge of Sam's bedroll, then debates with himself whether he should jerk off just to relieve the pressure till he's too sleepy to anyway.

He'd welcome oblivion now, before the shame sets in. He won't be prepared for tomorrow when it comes, but if never talking about this is what has to happen, then so be it.

-

Bellowing beasts, howls and screeches, lows and roars fill the air, punctuated by the squeak of leather and crack of a whip, chased by dogs barking and howling - the forest is filled with the sound of panic and fury. It's the shrieking birds and crashing brush that wake them up, the rumbling ground, and they scramble up and out of their tent quick.

A herd of deer is bounding through the clearing, their eyes big liquid black but in the dawn light sometimes shining red, red like their mouths. They send the tent flying after Sam and Dean leave it, grabbing their guns and hiding behind a tree.

The urge to run, run, run surges in them again when Dean hears an unearthly howl. He freezes. Hellhounds is his first thought. They've come for him.

He turns to Sam, certain fear is showing in his wide eyes. But Sam's eyes are wide too - "You hear howling?" he shouts over the crash of underbrush, and a cougar about five feet from nose to rear bolts by. A fucking cougar! Not chasing the deer, but fleeing with them.

"Yeah!" Dean yells. "You too?"

"Yeah!"

Somehow amidst the panic, a small relief breaks in Dean as they run together. Around their feet but never under them are squirrels, hares, raccoons. There's a mountain hare dead in the path, unmarked but for a small explosion of blood at its nose. A heart attack from fear.

The baying gets louder and louder, and Dean doesn't know how long they can keep running, or if they should be running from this or hunting it.

Suddenly they reach a sloped rock face, something like a sixty-degree incline that he and Sam could never get a hold on. "Fuck," Sam says, and then Dean shoves him out of the path of a mountain goat running at them with lowered horns.

Instead of charging, though, the goat is more interested in climbing to escape the mad rush or whatever's chasing it. It clatters up, hard hooves making a cracking noise on the rock as it winds its way up the slope. Further up Dean can see rams that have made it up further along, where the slope is less steep. He grabs Sam's arm to run over there, see if they can find a place where they won't get trampled or run into a bear.
Dean had enough sense to grab the gun and his boots and pull those on before the stampede became apparent. Sam's got the same.

Though adrenaline is still running through Dean's veins and he could keep running he thinks, they're hunters, not prey, and they've come here to find what's driving men and beasts mad up in the mountain towns.

Anyway, what's the likelihood that it's worse than whatever else they've faced before?

They try to find something to crouch behind, hoping for some element of surprise, but no dice. Galloping towards them on the tails of wolves is a giant man astride a giant black horse, lean but heavy-hooved, probably as big as a Clydesdale but fast as a Mustang.

The man astride it has antlers that stretch to the sides and back like an elk's, and big hairy shoulders like a bear's. Dean blinks, half-expecting it all to be some elaborate costume, but the rider on his horse moves fluidly, his eyes shining large and yellow like an owl's, staring right at them.

Dean is very convinced.

Crouched in the vee of the man's - beast's? - legs is a pale dog with red eyes and ears, draped over the horse's withers. It looks like a lap dog, dwarfed by the bulk of the man and horse that carry him.

You pursued the hunt, a rumbling howl of a voice says.

"It kinda pursued us, actually," Dean says, standing upright as hiding is no longer an option. He's unnerved but not about to back down.

Sam shushes him, but he's also standing tall, moving closer than Dean, eyes wide.

The hunters may become the hunted.

Dean feels himself being drawn into those yellow eyes when Sam shouts, "Wait!"

Dean blinks and realizes he's nearly crouched on the ground, poised on his fingertips on the hard-packed dirt.

"I know you," Sam says, and Dean doesn't like the sound of that. "I recognize your face."

The hunter seems amused, though Dean can't see a smile on his face. Yes.

Wow, freakin' figures every freak they'd run into knows Sam. His kid brother's got a real unsavory destiny lined up.

You sheltered a hound of mine on your hearth years ago.

Then Dean remembers - the man on the motorcycle whose dogs ran with him, who came to get the one they found in the woods that Sam wanted to adopt. Just like that dog up there on the horse. This guy? This is the grungy hippie easy rider?

"And you said you owe me a favor for it," Sam said.

The hunter laughs. It sounds like a rockslide. Yes! he booms. Your mind's like a steel trap.
Dean's looking at Sam, uncertain about this calling in favors business, especially these days. Sam looks pigheaded as ever. It would be insane to think that this is what Sam was banking on when he found this hunt for them, but Dean tries to never underestimate his devastatingly smart little brother.

"Then I want to cash it in. Please," Sam says. The hunter listens, unmoving, but his horse paws at the ground. "Let us join the hunt with you. Forever."

The hunter laughs and Dean gapes. "What the fuck, Sam?"

Let me guess. You have reasons.

"We're hunters, we'd be good at it. There's nothing, no family tying us to this world. And we'd like to escape for a while."

Your brother's soul is forfeit to hell.

"How did you know?" Dean asks.

The Hunter turns to him. My hounds smell it on you. Brothers, hunters and touched by the wild you may be, but Sam. He turns his unblinking round stare to Sam. You are clever, but the Wild Hunt can allow no reason.

Sam opens his mouth to speak again, and Dean hits him on the arm. It's his turn to hiss "Shh!" at his stupid brother.

But Sam doesn't even flinch, asking, "Are your hounds hellhounds?"

They can smell a soul marked for hell. But these are my dogs and mine alone.

"Then my favor is this: in eight months, hell hounds will come for my brother's soul." He nods at Dean and Dean looks at him, eyes wide, unable to speak. "Please, will you lend us a hound then to keep the hellhounds at bay?"

I don't keep calendars, but you have made a friend in my pack. The dog on the horse's shoulders looks up, and when the Hunter nods it jumps down, and runs over to sniff Sam's hand. It's shoulder is as tall as Sam's hip - enormous, far more enormous than Dean had remembered. There's probably something to that. Call her when the time comes, and she will hear you.

"How do I call her?" Sam asks.

As you did when you knew her. She'll remember, though she is only one hound, and hell may send many. You have your favor. And now: join me in the hunt.

"We'd really rather not," Dean says.

"Is that… we really have our own hunts to get back to -"

You are hunters, the Hunter says. Dean thinks the bellowing voice might be amused. It's hard to tell. You belong in my party.

Dean finds himself bracing against the ground like Olympic runners do before launching on their sprints. Then he's running, swept by what feels like a wave of dogs, not overwhelming but carrying him between them for moments that his feet don't even touch the ground. When the dogs disperse and pass him by he finds himself hurtling on far faster than he's ever run in his life. He and Sam weave around each other, Sam catching up to pass with the dog he knows running with him, then Dean winding the other way around a tree, jumping down from a rock, and ahead of Sam now. He doesn't know where he's going, he just goes.

Then they catch up to the deer.

Another dog - Sam's is back by their sides, weaving between them - catches one of the deer by the hind hoof and sends it stumbling. They veer off to the left, and then the dog bites into the meaty flank, making the deer fall and twist and kick. Then it leans and bites the dog, and the dog yowls, and Dean sees blood and fangs in the deer's mouth as he runs on past.

A deer nips at Dean's heels behind him, and he nearly falls, but keeps on running just as Sam's dog lunges and tears into its throat.

They can't stop to watch, they have to keep running, and the rams are with them now, keeping pace, dangerous with their huge horns. Dean hopes to high heaven they aren't interested in tossing him or Sam.
They catch up to the dogs somehow, a river of them running joyously, red tongues and eyes and teeth flashing in the morning light. The mass of them separate Sam and Dean from a bear, and a big cat jumps down from a tree and throws the dogs into a fury.

Sam and Dean keep running. Dean's eyes are flying everywhere as they run over the ground, through the trees, branches whipping and barely feeling it in the adrenaline, sweat in his eyes and the little cuts stinging, but still running.

He's certain they're being herded by the dogs, but as long as Sam is in sight it'll be all right. He just can't lose Sam.

Then they are in a clearing with all the other animals dispersed, and Sam pulls ahead, further ahead than he did before. Dean shouts and Sam looks back and laughs, and Dean laughs too, and bares his teeth and wants to set them on Sam's skin. He wants to rough his little brother up and mark him, nobody's prey, all his.

Their shirts are ripped from thorns and branches and antlers, so they tear them more. Their boots and jeans are heavy so they kick and cut them off with their knives. Still, Sam is ahead, Sam is nearly too fast for him, so Dean tackles him to catch up.

They go falling and rolling down a slope, bending and crushing seedlings, then get up. Now Dean is the one fleeing and Sam pursuing, and Sam catches him and they roll again. The deer are still streaming through the trees but they don't care, fixed on grappling with each other, each of them pushing to pin the other, mostly naked and then naked as the day they were born.

Pushing and jockeying, panting and laughing, putting their mouths on each other, nipping necks, the sharp sensation of pain new and thrilling. There's dirt everywhere, they smear on each other's skin, scratching each other down the back and arching under the touch.

Sam climbs on top of Dean's back and Dean tries to roll back over, but Sam just rolls him back and pushes himself onto Dean, both of them naked, every scrap of clothing gone now. Sam's rubbing and thrusting, dick slipping into the crevice between Dean's ass and thighs, sweat providing no give, still rough. Sam's own cock is dripping to make it slick enough for him, enough for Dean to feel the wetness there, rough and bare and hot-skinned and god -

He's not fighting against Sam, he's pushing back, clenching his legs tight together as Sam scrabbles at his thighs and back. Sam fucks in and out, the dry rasping friction burning, Dean bucking underneath in pleasure.

Dean's hands are clawing at the dirt in front of him, mind a white static roar as visceral sensation takes over, no thought for his own pleasure, just to reach back and pull Sam's hair. Sam's intent on gripping Dean's hips so tight and digging his nails into the flesh there without thought, keeping Dean flush and close, leaving scratches and crescents and finger-shaped bruises. They are yelping and grunting like animals, raw inarticulate noises tearing up their throats.

As Sam comes he fucks Dean through it and Dean growls, grabs Sam's hand and puts it on his cock, makes Sam fist him and two-handed together they bring him off hard and merciless and all the better for it. The fiery burn feels better than Dean could ever imagine. His throat is raw, and he bucks Sam off and rolls him over and feels Sam's collarbone and ribs and hands with his teeth, and on, and on, till both of them collapse on the forest floor, sleepily kneading each other's flesh like animals when they pass out.

-

When they come to, they're groaning and naked and so very, very sore. Dean doesn't look at Sam, not right in the eye, as he assesses the situation. He winces as he tries to sit up. Sam is wincing too. Dean can tell out of the corner of his eye.

Both of them are naked as the day they were born and unable to hide from each other. Dean figures there isn't enough time left for him to make hiding from Sam worth it.

The sun is low in the sky by now; they have no idea how long or far they ran, how long they were passed out on the forest floor for, and they have no clue where they are. They're both covered in dirt and scratches, some the work of passing brush, some the work of each other. Dean sees the bites on Sam's neck and realizes, I did that. No clothes or shoes to be seen.

The forest is dead silent, as if it's been emptied of everything and they're the only ones left. It might just be true.

To get back they retrace the path of the hunt along the signs of snapped branches, crushed foliage, upturned earth. They run across their shoes eventually, mostly intact luckily, putting them on barefoot despite blisters. There are shreds of their clothing but nothing wearable, and when they find their tent trampled and torn, it's nearly completely dark.

The darkness covers their nakedness as they make their way back to the car.

Driving back, Dean can hardly think of the near miss, the hope that Sam thinks he's won for Dean, the bizarre wonder of it all. He expects to feel fear and shame, but there's no room for that either. Last night he blew his little brother and they got off together, he couldn't stop himself and he couldn't stop Sam. He hadn't wanted to and he can't, just can't regret it

Yet he can't help but feel the relief overwhelm him, that though he and Sam haven't resolved anything there still feels like there has been some sort of resolution, the exhaustion after the hunt alleviating the tension that had been building between them and souring the past few weeks, and even further back over the years.

The burning he feels in his body absolves him, momentarily.

-

When they find a motel with a room, not having spoken the whole way, Dean says, "First shower" like a reflex. He refuses to think about Sam, what Sam wants, how he would think. This shower is for him.

But his hands on his own body as he rinses the dirt away remind him of Sam's hands on him, gentle the night before, rough in the frenzy. There aren't many hands he's familiar with besides his own foremost, and Sam's.

He feels like an island.

Then he hears the bathroom door open. The shower curtain is shut so he doesn't know or care if Sam has to piss or brush his teeth or washcloth himself in the sink, but instead the curtain opens and Sam puts a foot in the tub.

"Sam!" Dean says, indignant, but Sam just glances at him, steps the rest of the way in, and closes the curtain behind him. He's naked, like Dean is naked, and they may have both been naked for the last, oh, entire day, but Sam's body is close now and they're just tired, looking and feeling like themselves again.

"Hey," Sam says, and Dean's wobbling unsteadily, reaching out and catching Sam's shoulder.

Sam moves his foot between Dean's to stand closer, grabs on to Dean's waist to steady them both. He's looking Dean in the eye now, or Dean is looking back at last. Sam's got a small smile on his face, a layer of exhaustion, and under that, desire.

Dean says again, nervous, heated, "Sam."

Sam kisses him.

This entry was originally posted at http://zempasuchil.dreamwidth.org/281401.html.