Bury Me In Fire - Part 2
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( Master Post )
Part 2
People all over the Northeast were dying by self-immolation. It had drawn their attention with the first account they read, since it seemed unfathomable that anyone, no matter how despondent, would commit suicide by burning himself alive. It had to be one of the worst deaths a person could die. The fact that there was a whole string of them dating back five years and within a specific geographic area had made them certain that something supernatural was wreaking murder most fiery.
But there were problems. A specific modus operandi pointed to an angry spirit, as did the intentionality of the killings, but spirits were usually tied to an object or place. And even if an object moved from time to time, it seemed unlikely that it would flit about the Northeast, town to town and state by state, in no discernible pattern. It centered around New York, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts, but had killed as far as Maine, Tennessee, and even once had passed into Canada.
It might have been a monster of some kind, except that monsters tended to avoid urban areas, and even if it had gone into cities, it wouldn't have killed in such a conscious way. The idea of a creeping, ferocious beast that was also a pyromaniac went beyond the realm of the unlikely into pure silliness.
Dean went over the facts of the case in his head. It was a good way to stay on track, but more significantly, it helped to keep his mind off of his own body. Its ailments were getting ridiculous. He wasn't even thirty yet, and here he was, exhausted but restless, and achy all over. He couldn't sleep, and when he did it actually left him more tired, and something was wrong with his stomach. His guts were in a twisted mess, or at least that's how it felt, and now, on top of it all, he had some sort of strange rash on his chest.
And now, he couldn't get rid of the flavor of acid on his tongue.
He wasn't ready to leave the bathroom and face Sam, not yet, so he decided to shave. He'd shaved last night, but as always, he'd done it with his electric razor, so there was sufficient noticeable stubble to have an excuse to shave again.
He retrieved his razor from his shaving kit, but then paused, scrutinizing himself in the mirror. Maybe a wet shave was in order; it would feel cleaner, he thought. He replaced his razor in his kit, then grabbed Sam's toiletries bag, rifling through it until he found both shaving cream and razor. He took them out and set them on the edge of the sink. Then, he turned on the hot faucet and let it run until it the water steamed. He took a clean facecloth from the abundant pile of perfectly folded towels on the shelf, and ran it under the water for a long moment. The water scalded his hands, and the pain felt good.
When he decided it was wet enough, he brought it up to his face, tilting his head back to let the cloth rest against his skin. The heat pricked, and Dean felt a little cleaner already. He stood there, head back, hands pressing the cloth into his skin more than was probably necessary, until the burning sensation began to subside.
He scrubbed his face harshly, then finally removed the cloth, folding it before placing it on the sink's edge. He picked up the shaving cream, shook the can fiercely, then squirted a good dose of it into his palm. He spread the cream over his chin, jaw, throat, upper lip, ran the razor under the still flowing water, then began to draw it along his skin as closely as possible.
A sudden spike of heat struck him and he realized that he'd nicked his throat. He guessed that was the problem with wet shaves, but as the pain of the nick oozed into a warmth in his head, Dean paused. He stared at the cut in the mirror and wondered.
What the fuck, he thought, or maybe there was no thought at all, just an inkling followed by a movement. And then there was another sharp burst of heat as the razor sliced a shallow stripe below the first. A hit of adrenaline flew through him.
He rode the rush until it subsided, and then thought, fuck. He'd cut himself, and on purpose. And it was right there on his neck, in an elegant line parallel to the accidental cut, where Sam could see. Where he would see, because Dean didn't own a turtleneck, and even if he had, it was still almost seventy degrees out.
Dean sighed. Now, he had even less desire to leave the bathroom and confront Sam's worry and anger. And shit, he thought, not only was he a puking mess of nerves, he was now a thirteen-year-old emo girl, to boot.
As he wiped his face and tended his cuts, he tried to ignore how good he'd felt for that slow moment.
When he left the bathroom, dressed in the clothes that Sam had left while he was still showering, Dean was determined to act normally and he hoped that Sam would follow his lead.
Unfortunately, Sam was either unaware of that plan, or unwilling to follow it.
"Hey, Dean, we need to talk," he said before Dean was even close enough for Sam to see the cuts, and Dean tried not to grimace.
He walked to the dresser where Sam had placed the breakfast items he must have ordered from the cafe. He was pretty sure that Sam hadn't left while he was in the bathroom, that he wouldn't have, because no scone was good enough to pull Sam away from his concerned hovering. Although, these scones looked tempting, even in their apparent plainness. Dean picked one up and took a greedy bite in Sam's direction.
"So that's it, huh?" Sam asked.
After swallowing, Dean replied, "Let's just get back to work, okay?" When it seemed that Sam was about to refuse Dean's plea, he sighed, looked away sheepishly and said, "Please?"
Sam got up from the bed and joined him at the dresser, poured a cup of coffee for each of them, then selected his own scone.
"What were you thinking of next?" he said. "You could head to Scranton to check out the oldest case, and I could head up to Schenectady?"
Dean thanked Sam with a quiet smile. After a thoughtful, all business pause, he said, "I think I'd rather go to Schenectady. I wouldn't mind the longer drive."
Sam consented despite the fact that Dean was sure he'd suggested Scranton because it seemed like it might be the easier option. Schenectady was the location of the most recent death, the one that tipped them off that the something happening was their sort of something. The victim's survivors would still be in the throes of bereavement. However, it seemed to Dean that it would be easier to deal with other people's feelings than his own.
Sam grabbed his jacket, and waited for Dean to put on his boots. He followed behind on their way down the stairs, but when they neared the door, Sam placed a hand on his shoulder gently.
"Hey, Dean," he began.
Dean turned to look at him, bracing himself. Sam enfolded him in a light embrace, hugging him softly enough not to demand anything, but firmly enough to make Dean feel at home. And Dean did. He wanted to sink into it, or at least part of him did, but he couldn't give into it. He stood there, letting Sam have his fill, warming to it the most he could to give Sammy the satisfaction of having comforted him. But he didn't drape along Sam's limbs or sway to the rhythm of Sam's breath, he didn't fall into Sam's chest or clutch him with desperate fists.
It would have to be enough for now, for the both of them. Sam gave him one last soft squeeze, then let him go. "So, meet up at the diner again?"
Dean gave him the most reassuring smile he could and said, "Sounds good." Then he ducked away, darted toward the Impala and took cover behind the wheel.
The drive along the eighty-seven calmed him as he knew it would. Nothing felt as free as driving along a highway in the sunlight of a fall day, windows down, volume up, the walls of his baby circling him like Sam's arms but without the judgment or worry. She knew him as well as Sam did, but her love was unassuming, and the space she built around him had been the most protective cocoon since he was four years old and had no other, no better, home.
When Dean arrived in Schenectady, he found the victim's widow quickly. Sitting in the car, he flattened the lapels of his jacket and ironed his tie with hot fingers, reminding himself of his story. He examined his identification for a few minutes, his expression in the picture, his face, and found himself shaking away a sense of alienation. That serious looking man, determined and confident, felt like a ghost of someone he once knew, not himself now, but not himself ever in his memory, either.
Eventually, he remembered himself and his current task. Leaving behind the Impala's safety, he headed for the charming house. It was the kind of house that Sammy had yearned to live in: well-kept exterior painted perfectly with exact colors, bright shutters subtly decorative, perfectly manicured lawn punctuated by healthy shrubs, ancient tree gracing the whole with a fluttering canopy. An inconspicuous sense of affluence permeated the place in a way that might have been inviting to others, but to Dean felt accusing.
He had to stop himself. He'd been pondering these things far too much lately, every detail of the world around him ripe for examination. Worse, every examination seemed to result in the same diagnosis: threat. Chastising himself for the ridiculousness of his thoughts, and the thoughts he had about those thoughts, all thoughts that weren't eat, sleep, hunt, fuck or Sammy, he plucked the door's antique knocker and dropped it.
A pleasant-looking woman, probably in her forties, opened the door and said, "Yes?"
Dean smiled. He'd been working on his own version of Sam's Gaze of Gentle Concern. It appeared to be improving, as the woman's blatant caution seemed to ease a little before Dean even replied. "I'm Dr. Steele," he said, pulling his Johns Hopkins faculty ID card and offering it to her. "My colleague, Dr. Hoffs, called you a few days ago to arrange a meeting?" When the woman nodded, he explained, "Unfortunately, he's been kept at the department due to an urgent matter. I'm working on the project as well, so he sent me in his place." He added a touch of beseeching to his gaze and added, "I hope that's okay."
"Of course," the woman said, smiling kindly. She opened the door wider, swept a gesture of invitation, and murmured, "Please, come in."
Dean followed her into her living room. She left him for a moment, returning quickly with a tray of coffee and cookies. She set it down in front of him, said, "Please," and then settled into the armchair opposite him.
"How can I help you?"
Dean smiled. "Well, as I assume Dr. Hoffs told you, we're examining the evidence of mental illness preceding abnormally violent suicides." Beneath the woman's composure rumbled a turbulence, Dean saw. He paused, dipped his head slightly to the side without forethought, and said, "I can only imagine how difficult it must be to talk about this, so thank you."
The woman offered him a polite, though sincere, "You're welcome," so Dean plunged in, trying to weave delicacy into the fabric of each determined question.
"Did your husband ever show signs of mental or emotional disturbance, of any kind?"
The woman paused, reflected, and replied, "Not really. I mean, he was as normal as anyone else. He had his ups and downs, but never went through a period of depression, not that I could see, and he never had any obsessions, or panic attacks."
Dean took notes dutifully, nodding at her in encouragement. "Was there anything at all that suggested he wasn't okay?"
"Well, shortly before he-- he passed, he'd begun to have nightmares."
"Were they related to any sort of traumatic event?"
The woman shook her head. "No, that's what was strange. Nothing bad has ever really happened to us, no deaths in the family so far, no horrible disease, no car accidents, nothing." She let out a low laugh. "Honestly? We were both pretty boring." She looked past Dean into the distance and said, "But we were happy..." She brought her gaze back to Dean, added "Or so I thought," and wiped at her eye with the tip of a knuckle.
Dean pulled the handkerchief he'd brought in anticipation of this scenario from the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to her. Once she'd taken it, smiling through her tears, and dabbed thoroughly at her eyes, Dean leaned forward and said, "Just because this happened doesn't mean that he wasn't happy with you. You never know what's inside a person."
She stared at him, a quiet gratefulness in her eyes, and he stared back, maybe a little too earnest. After a long moment, Dean settled back in his seat. He asked, "Did he ever tell you what the nightmares were about?"
She shook her head sharply, replied, "No. I tried to get him to talk, but he always refused. He almost seemed angry when I pressed him, so I let it go. I think he was being defensive, like he didn't want me to see his weakness, or what he thought was weakness."
Dean nodded, keeping his gaze locked gently to hers.
She continued. "I guess that's fairly normal for a man, not wanting to have his pride wounded on top of whatever else he was suffering."
Dean swallowed. "Yeah," he said.
Then, she leaned in towards Dean and said, "But there was this one time, a few days before he died."
Dean's ears pricked to attention.
"I woke up in the middle of the night when he began thrashing, sort of, and woke him up. Now this had happened several times, but this one night, as soon as he woke, he said, 'Red eyes'. Just that, 'Red eyes'."
Dean's chest clenched. He had to swallow a few times before air could reach his lungs and suppress a wave of hot vision to keep himself steady. After a few heart beats, he uttered, "Do you have any idea what that could have been about?"
"No," the woman said. "I mean, 'red eyes' are fairly open to interpretation. It could have been a classic childhood monster dream, or nightmare vision of someone crying, or probably a bunch of other things. You know?"
Dean knew. He nodded again.
She went on. "Later, I thought it might have been a dream about our daughter. He loved her so much, he had to have known how much his-- how much this would hurt her. She's only eleven, and they were so close..." She bent her head forward as tears began to fall again and covered her eyes with the handkerchief.
"I'm sorry," Dean said.
The woman composed herself and added, "But I don't know if that makes sense. If he was tormented with how it would affect her, why would he have gone through with it? He was a reasonable, rational man, and he was very devoted to us. I just don't get it." She looked at Dean with a cautious hope.
Dean felt compelled to oblige her, but didn't quite know how. "Actually, what we've been finding so far in our research is that when this sort of death occurs, no one seems to understand the deceased's motivations. We don't know why, but it looks as though the cause was always buried so deeply and completely that even the people closest to the deceased had no clue there was anything wrong."
When she dropped her gaze to her lap, Dean rallied, adding, "I think that maybe these people were just so strong that they kept it under tight control, and that whatever it was that pushed them over the edge was just so intense that they couldn't conquer it despite how incredibly strong they were."
She looked up again, smiled at him mildly. "I just can't imagine what he was suffering. I wish he'd shared it with me. Maybe..."
"I don't think there's anything you could have done, Ma'am."
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and, her nostrils flaring, she said, "I guess we'll never know."
Dean looked away. "I'm sorry," he said again.
"It's okay," she replied. "It's not your fault." She smiled then, again, and said, "Actually, I think talking with you today has helped a little."
Dean returned her smile, not quite looking at her directly, and offered her his thanks while he stood to leave. She saw him to the door, and just before passing through the doorway, he paused, turned to look at her, and said, "I wish you and your daughter the best."
She said, "Thank you," and her eyes told Dean that she understood how much he meant it.
Despite the longer drive, Dean made it back to Liberty before Sam. He went straight to the diner, hoping to find Not Honey in her creative mode. He slipped into the diner, found her in her usual spot in the exposed part of the kitchen, and bounced over to her.
"Hello, Mistress Pie," he greeted her, adding a saucy grin. When she chuckled and shook her head, he asked, "Could you use an assistant?"
"Sure," she replied, and waved him over.
He bounced again on his way into the kitchen. He would have to make sure that Sam never saw him do that, no matter how awesome the pie, he realized, but brushed away the thought when he saw the pile of plump, dark cherries on the counter.
"Ooh, are we making the cherry-dark-chocolate pie?"
Her hands stopped whatever they were doing while she laughed again, her shoulders shaking. "We aren't making anything. I'm making pie, and you're pitting cherries." She winked and added, "Now git."
He grabbed an apron and yipped, "Yes Ma'am!" on his way to the sink to wash his hands.
Sam arrived while Dean was still hard at work trying to catch all of Mistress Pie's actions while pitting cherries fast enough to satisfy her.
"What are you two making?" Sam asked, smiling warmly, when he approached the counter.
"She's making cherry pie and I'm pitting cherries," Dean replied in a solemn tone.
"Yeah, I'd be done by now but your boy's not making with the cherries very fast," she said, clearly trying to keep a straight face and not quite succeeding.
"I see," said Sam, as deadpan as Dean. "You want I should crack the whip?"
She laughed outright. "Nah, he's a good kid, slowness aside," she said. "Why don't you two have a seat? I'll send over some beers."
Sam and Dean accepted her offer, and while Sam chose a booth, Dean washed his burgundy hands, his fingers stained deep red, blood red even, blurring in his gaze, and they were pretty in an abstract way, in a horrifying way, and suddenly Dean couldn't catch his breath.
"Hey, sweetie..."
He felt a light hand on his shoulder, and glancing over it, saw Alec's concerned eyes. "You okay?" she asked.
A slow exhalation, a long pause, a deep inhalation later, Dean replied, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He gave her a smile meant to reassure and continued, "Just my asthma kicking up a little."
"You have your inhaler?"
"Yeah, my-- Sam has one in his bag," he said, which sounded reasonable.
"'Kay," she said, giving his shoulder a small squeeze. "You should get over there, then."
He nodded, took off his apron, folded it before setting it down even though it was cherry stained, and made his way over to the booth where Sam was seated.
"So, what'd you find out in Scranton?" Dean asked as he slid onto the bench across from his brother.
Ignoring his question for the moment, Sam, brow furrowed, slipped his hand gingerly onto Dean's knee underneath the table. "How are you feeling?"
Dean made a show of rolling his eyes. "God, Sam, enough with the feelings. I'm fine," he said.
Sam exhaled slowly through his nose, then said, "Okay, we don't have to talk about it right now." He squeezed Dean's knee in emphasis as he added, "But we will have to talk about it at some point."
"Fine," Dean replied, and shook Sam's hand from his leg.
"Okay," Sam said, then gave Dean a tender half smile.
Dean felt the urge to roll his eyes again, and harder, but thought that he might strain something, so instead he asked, "What should we have for dinner?"
Kat, the waitress who'd served them their first pie at Athena's, was on her way to their table to deliver their beers and overheard Dean's question.
"Actually, we already know what you're having tonight," she said, placing a bottle in front of each of them.
Dean grinned at her. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"
"It's a surprise," she said, patting him on the shoulder. Then she turned to Sam and added, "You can have whatever you like."
"Can I have what he's having?"
Kat smiled. "Of course."
As she left them, Dean tried to get down to business. "So, what did you find out?"
Sam acquiesced, finally. He said, "Actually, I got a good few tidbits. First, James Egert's little brother died suspiciously when they were kids. The cops knew that he'd died of an acute subdural hematoma from landing hard on the rocky bottom of a ravine, but they never determined whether he fell or was pushed."
"So," Dean said, "that's another victim with a tragic death in the family."
"Yeah," Sam said. "I also found out that Egert was having vivid nightmares just before he died, too, just like Simon Amburgey, but his girlfriend couldn't tell me anything more about them." Sam took a generous sip of his beer. "So, what about you?"
Dean steeled himself for a moment, then said, "My guy had nightmares, too, and his widow didn't know any of the details, either." He shrugged, then continued, "But, she said that they'd never had any deaths in the family, no major tragedies or anything."
Sam considered this for a moment. "Well," he offered, "she could have been lying. I mean, almost everyone's got some sort of tragic event in their family."
"I don't know," Dean replied. "Maybe. But she seemed really sincere, even described her life with her husband as boring. 'Course, it's possible she just doesn't know about something, but if it didn't come up during our preliminary research, I don't know if we can find it, if it even exists."
"True," Sam said. "But we should look again, just in case. I mean, no traumatic events in the lives of two forty-something people? That's pretty rare."
"Well, her husband did burn to death in their backyard."
Sam huffed a rueful laugh. "True."
An appealing smell greeted Dean's nose and a second later, Kat was back. She placed a large dish in front of each of them, wished them, "Bon appétit," with a wink, and retreated before Dean's eyes focused beyond the reach of his excited nose.
"What the... Is that tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich?"
Sam laughed. "Looks like," he said, and bent his head to inhale the steam rising from his bowl more deeply.
Dean hadn't had tomato soup since they were kids and it was his job to feed the family. Things that came from cans had featured prominently in the repertoire of his cuisine. Tomato soup had been a dish he served frequently, and always with grilled cheese sandwiches.
What sat before him, though, definitely did not look like it had come from a can. It didn't look, or smell, like the generic brand soup of his childhood, but it was still oddly recognizable. It was more red than orange, but still creamy, and although it had clear chunks of tomato, they seemed to grace the mixture inconspicuously. And although he'd never put fresh herbs of any kind on top, the grated cheese on top was familiar, though it looked freshly grated and not dryly dispensed from the slotted plastic lid of a cardboard can.
"Man, that looks good," Sam said, breaking Dean out of his nostalgic reverie.
"Yeah," Dean replied distractedly, already pondering the sandwich's allure. Gorgeous, giant, perfectly toasted squishy white bread slices, their butteriness evident, oozed beautiful molten cheese. It was pale yellow, unlike the vibrantly orange processed cheese slices of his youth. It was cut diagonally into triangled halves, the way Sammy had liked and how Dean had always done it. He'd tried to get their dad to cut it that way on one of the few occasions on which he'd made dinner, but John had huffed something about ridiculousness and Sammy being spoiled, and Dean had let it go, not wanting to anger his father over something so small. Or something that John would have considered small, anyway. Sam, ten years old and already wildly rebellious, had sneered at the sad sandwich rectangles dumped onto his plate. With an added dollop of bitching, he'd earned himself a quick, unceremonious spanking at the dinner table, and Dean had wished he'd gotten home early enough to get supper started before his dad got any ideas.
Dean raised his head and smiled at his brother. "Triangles, Sammy," he said.
Sam laughed and replied, "Like you used to do."
"I made it that way 'cause that's how you liked it," Dean said, still partially lost in remembrance.
He wasn't so lost in thought, though, that he missed the crackling in Sam's eyes when he responded, "I think maybe I liked it that way 'cause it's how you made it." They spent a warm moment in quiet consideration, gazes locked. Then Sam continued, "Triangles are better for dipping."
"Yeah," Dean said, taking some time to watch Sam as he picked up a sandwich half, dipped it into the soup, then took a greedy bite, before fondling the sandwich on his own plate.
They headed back to the inn after supper. Dean was still slightly intoxicated from their meal, which had tasted as familiar as it did strange, and most importantly, unbelievably good. He'd been disappointed to discover that the cherries he'd pitted had been for the next day's pie, but Kat had pacified him with a white chocolate peach tart and a promise of free cherry pie tomorrow.
When they got back to their suite, Dean strode to the dinette, grabbed a bottle of Jack and poured a shot, perhaps more than a shot, for both himself and Sam. He could feel Sam watching him, but, amazingly, his brother remained silent. He tucked the bottle under his arm before picking up a glass in each hand and starting towards the stairs.
"Hey," Sam said.
Dean sighed but stopped. "Yeah?" he asked without turning to look.
"Maybe we should just have one drink."
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean said, rolling his eyes too hard, again, before realizing that Sam couldn't see it. He could probably hear it, though, Dean thought. "Stop being such a choir boy."
When Sam said nothing, Dean turned to find him biting his lip. "I was just thinking..." he began. "We probably shouldn't push it, what with your stomach upset this morning."
Dean couldn't decide whether 'stomach upset' was a kind way to put it or not, and couldn't tell whether Sam was trying to placate him or force him to talk. Either way, anger began to rise in his chest, and Dean focused on that instead of on the shame and humiliation that churned beneath it.
"Leave it alone, Sam," he warned.
Now, Sam sighed. "Look," he said, "I'm just concerned about you, okay?"
Dean gritted his teeth for a few seconds, then said, "I told you, I'm fine."
Sam was clearly unconvinced, but said simply, "Okay."
When Dean finally turned, Sam followed him up the stairs quietly. However, Dean's foot had barely hit the top step before Sam started up again.
"I noticed this morning that you had a rash on your back," he said. "I picked up some ointment while I was in Scranton. Can I put some on?"
Dean stood on that final step, motionless, ready to hit someone, and it was pretty clear to him who that someone was going to be. "Sam."
"Look, I know you don't want to talk about, well, anything, but you've got to take care of yourself physically, at least."
"For god's sake, Sam, I know that," Dean said, loudly, adding, "And I can take care of myself, so you'd better stop mothering me or I'm gonna hit a bitch."
Sam bit down on a smile that refused to remain in hiding. Eventually, the shudder of a laugh passed through his shoulders.
"Is this fucking funny to you?"
Sam regained control of himself quickly. "I'm sorry, Dean, and I know you can take care of yourself. I just want to help you do that," he said. Allowing his grin to surface, he added, "Jerk."
Dean deflated. He realized that letting Sam rub stuff into him would be much easier than discussing the issue. Plus, it was something he could give to his brother fairly easily, and he hadn't been doing much of that lately.
Dealing his brother a glare of warning, he mumbled, "Fine."
Sam grinned and said, "Strip and lie down for me."
Dean was barefoot and shirtless, his jeans around his knees, before he realized that he'd obeyed an order from Sam without question. He decided not to think about it. He pulled off his jeans, debating whether to remove his underwear as well since Sam hadn't specified. He glanced at Sam, who stood watching him undress, seeking direction.
"Nah, you can leave those on," Sam said. "It's just on your back, right?"
"I guess," Dean replied. He hadn't even known it was there, too. After folding his clothes and setting them on the top of the dresser, he lay on the center of the bed, belly down.
Only then did Sam move, going to the bathroom to wash his hands, wet a face cloth, and grab a towel. When he returned, he deposited the items smoothly onto the bed, then fished an item out from his bag. He approached the bed, a narrow box in his hand, and climbed on gently next to Dean's hip.
As Sam opened the box and pulled out a tube, Dean's gaze narrowed. "Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Does that say 'baby' on it?"
"Um..."
Sam reddened slightly, and Dean jerked upwards. "What the fuck, Sam?" he demanded, making a grab for the tube. Sam blocked his hand, and they spent the next few seconds wrestling, Dean trying simultaneously to push Sam off and to grasp the tube, and Sam playing keep-away while trying to pin his brother.
In the end, they both won. Or rather, Sam won, flipping Dean back onto his stomach and holding him down, but conceded the tube. Dean lay there and read, Baby Bee Diaper Ointment, and scowled at Sam over his shoulder. "Are you fucking serious?" he growled.
Sam looked serious. "Yes," he said. He snatched back the tube and added, "It's for rashes, and it's Burt's Bees, which is all natural..."
Dean sighed and decided to relax. He was doing this for Sam anyway.
"... Best for my baby's skin."
Dean's spine shot into a straight line. "Oh, I'm gonna kill you for that."
Sam exhaled a small huff that morphed into a low chuckle. "Sorry," he said, running his fingers up Dean's back then pressing gently on his shoulder. "I know you're the farthest thing from a baby," he continued, a solemn tone creeping into his voice.
"Damn straight," Dean replied lightly, allowing his posture to ease beneath Sam's hands. After a slow moment of drawing circles on Dean's skin, Sam's fingers retreated and were replaced with a cool wet cloth. He let Sam wash his back, quiet, and didn't ask for Sam to relent on the delicacy of his motions. It didn't matter if Dean could take a harder scrub, if he wanted one; if Sam wanted to be all tender loving care, Dean would let him.
When he was satisfied with the cleansing, Sam placed the face cloth on the night table and took the Baby Bee tube from Dean's loose grasp. He popped the cap and squeezed a dollop of ointment onto his fingers while Dean watched, his face turned to the side, cheek pressing into the mattress. Sam smiled at him, a little sweet, a little apologetic, and dropped his fingers to Dean's back. He rubbed in the cream, pads of his fingers moving like brushstrokes, back and forth, over its small canvas. The motion had a lullaby's rhythm, and Dean found his eyelids relaxing despite his desire to watch Sam as he tended to him.
As Dean's posture loosened more and more, Sam's fingers brushed further and further, keeping their gentle rhythmic sweep. They smoothed over the expanse of Dean's back, traveled past his shoulders to skim down his arms, tickling a little at his elbows and wrists. The fine hairs of Dean's skin lifted, following the path Sam drew as though the touch of fingers were awakening nerves that had slept for eons.
Sam's hands moved again down Dean's back and slipped over his hips, regaining their ground on the backs of Dean's thighs, and Dean's breath began to deepen. There was an odd magic to the way his mind fluttered toward sleep as his nerve endings grew increasingly alert. By the time Sam's fingers reached Dean's feet, barely touching as they followed the arches, causing waves of tingles to ebb and flow all the way to the crown of Dean's head, his body was alive and blessedly limpid, his mind empty of all but the seepage of sensation.
The world was still for a time, and then Sam's body, mostly skin, slipped gingerly onto the bed next to Dean. A thin blanket was drawn over his lower half and he said, " 'can move."
Sam pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. "Shh, baby," he whispered, and then Dean felt him go rigid. "Sor-"
"S'okay," Dean mumbled. After a yawn, he added with a lazy grin, "'Night, muffin."
Girls. Pretty girls with soft smiles, pliant bodies. Sweet, charming, dainty, brazen, coy, kind, naughty. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. White girls, black girls, girls from all over the world. Thin, small, shapely, tall, deliciously chunky, muscled and lean. All girls, everywhere, a never ending train.
Smooth skin fingers, blunt nails, dipping, digging, ripping thighs open, plunging into belly, scratching through flesh to prod and break muscles and guts. Soft coos, pretty words, you're so sexy and I want you and I love you, Dean. Purrs and moans and begging, begging, I need you, Dean, and can't get enough of you. Fingers slipping inside, blood lubed, fondling and prodding to rip out writhing, pained orgasms and please no, not that, not like that.
Just kill me.
Dean woke, jerking. Sweaty and cold, he breathed in harsh rasps. His body twitched, a live wire about to spark and raze the innocent bed. He looked over at Sam, still asleep, close but not quite touching. Afraid to rouse him with his jerks, sweat and breath, Dean slid off the bed as quietly as he could. He wasn't going to sleep any more, anyway.
He tiptoed to the bathroom, closing the door with cautious fingers after he'd entered. He didn't want to turn on the light, its incandescent warmth harsh and accusing at this time of night. The window provided enough moonlight for Dean to see too much of himself, anyhow, and he peered into the mirror above the sink.
The lines of his face seemed too deep even in the tepid dark, his shoulders soft, his arms both thin and squishy. His belly was thick, though firm, like a woman pregnant with an angular, deformed fetus.
He stood before the mirror for a spell, feeling his belly with hands hard from anger and frustration. He'd had this trouble before, a few times when he was a kid, but never this bad or tenacious. Amending his diet hadn't helped much, and he decided to take another approach.
He slipped out of the bathroom, searched his duffle bag as delicately as possible, found the pack of cigarettes he'd been hiding from Sam, and returned to the bathroom.
Once inside, door shut and sealed with a towel at its base, Dean turned on the fan and opened the window. He tore the plastic wrapping off the Marlboro Reds, opened the pack, removed the foil top, and withdrew a cigarette. Tugging his boxer briefs down to his knees, he sat on the toilet and fondled his Zippo for a moment. Then, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
The truth was, he loved to smoke. The sweetness of tobacco paired with the gentle burn down his throat intoxicated him with a harsh, sensual satisfaction. He smoked rarely enough that the nicotine and lack of oxygen still gave him a dulcet buzz. In fact, aside from the time since he'd returned, he hadn't smoked in years. The last time, Sam had just left for Stanford, and his pleasure, in a bar somewhere in the back woods of Kentucky, busty bartender slipping him free beers and even freer grins, had been interrupted by his father. He'd thought the embarrassment of being grasped by the scruff of his neck and half dragged out of the bar by his old man was bad enough, but he hadn't been all that surprised to find himself bent over the back of a chair at their motel minutes later. John had strapped him hard and long, and even at twenty-two years old, Dean hadn't questioned his father's presumed right to discipline him. He'd been weak then, too, now that he thought of it. Memories of being unable to stand up to his father - not for himself anyway - even as an adult, of not being a man then any more than he was now, swirled through his mind and overwhelmed him. He decided that he wasn't entitled to feel surprise at his current failure as a human being.
Just kill me.
Ignoring other thoughts that surfaced - of how he'd lived in a numb fog after Sam left, how he hadn't let out his anguish until that night in Kentucky, his father's hand gentle on the back of his neck - he took another drag, relishing the path of burn, and held it in a long moment. He watched the lit tip of the cigarette, its bright orange glow, and the trails of smoke meandering in slow lashes towards the ceiling.
Fire was different in Hell. It scorched like ice, without heat or light.
Dean considered the lighter in his hand, then flicked it open and struck a flame. Fire had once meant death and loss to him, but now its glowing warmth seemed a sort of blessing. He let his thumb move over the flame, felt its seduction compel him and tried to fondle it. The fire flickered, a blazing spectrum, braiding waves of air in its wake as Dean drew it to his other hand, weaving the flame between his fingers, tracing the lines of his palm down to his wrist, delicious sparks of pain tickling his skin.
He thought of the victims of their current case. Their deaths would have been terrifying, excruciating, but in a way, beautiful, purifying. He began to think that, if someone were suicidal, he could maybe understand why they'd choose fire. There was no water that could cleanse as fire did.
Dean hissed. Fuck, his mind screamed. In a millisecond, he was brought back to reality. He dropped the lighter, which landed on the tiled floor with a faint crack. Shit, shit, shit, he thought. He was lucky that the plush bath mat was a good foot away from where the Zippo, still lit, had landed. With a swift pluck, he retrieved it and brought it up to examine his wrist. The burn mark was pink, paler than he'd anticipated, and for that he was grateful. Sam probably wouldn't notice it.
Sam might, however, have heard the smack of the lighter as it landed. Dean closed the Zippo's lid and paused, forcing a perfect stillness which he held until convinced that Sam hadn't stirred. It was then that he noticed a smell of burning different from that of tobacco. "Aw, Dean," he whispered as he bent forward and fished around the inside of his boxer briefs for a moment before finding the cigarette. He dropped the butt between his open thighs into the toilet bowl, yanked his underwear past his feet and tossed them into the sink. Then he slumped back and placed his elbows on his knees, letting his face fall onto his open palms. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought, wondering what he had become.
He sat, too pensive for his own liking, until the blush of dawn brushed his skin. He sighed. He wanted a drink, but fetching a bottle would risk waking Sam, so he decided to shower instead. Maybe the fan, the open window, steam and shampoo would clean the air before Sam got up. It wasn't the first time that Dean had darted to the bathroom at the first sign of day, so he hoped Sam wouldn't be suspicious.
Standing still beneath the stream of scorching water, Dean sighed again.
When Dean finally exited the bathroom, Sam was awake. Sleep-eyed and smiling, he padded towards Dean and the bathroom. He bent his head to give Dean a quick kiss, then slipped his arms around Dean's torso for a soft hug.
Dean remained still for a moment, stiff, but soon acquiesced, bringing one arm around Sam's back to place a hand between his shoulder blades. He patted Sam a few times before his brother pulled back.
Sam's eyes narrowed slightly. "Hey, you've got that rash on your chest a little, too," he said quietly. "Come on back to the bathroom so I can get a better look, okay?"
Without a word, Dean let Sam lead him back into the bathroom. Sam flicked on the lights, then backed Dean towards the sink. Dean rested his butt against it, leaning back so Sam could have a close look.
"Hm," Sam said, running the pads of his fingers over the small patch of raised skin. Then, he patted Dean's hip. "Turn around," he said. "I want to see if your back is any better."
Dean complied, turning to face the mirror and placing his hands on the edge of the sink. As Sam inspected him, Dean's thoughts darted anxiously around the awareness of his brother's scrutiny, to the little thrill of Sam's warm body close behind his own nearly naked, damp form. He felt acutely self-conscious, vulnerable, but arousal was creeping through his belly. As Sam continued to look and touch, he stoked the fire that prickled Dean's skin.
"Looks kind of like hives." Sam's voice clattered into Dean's head, heightening the intensity in Dean's gut, reverberating through his body cell by cell, it seemed. "Maybe it's an allergy?"
Dean said nothing. He watched himself in the mirror and watched Sam scrutinizing him. His breath was sticking to his breastbone.
Sam stepped back, dropping one hand from Dean's back and the other from his hip. "I'll get some cortisone cream today, okay?"
In the mirror, Dean saw his mouth move around the syllable, " 'kay," but he didn't hear his own voice.
He continued to watch Sam in the mirror as he turned on the shower and gathered the items necessary for his morning routine. Realizing that his behavior might seem weird, he forced himself to turn and move towards the doorway.
"Hey," Sam called to him. "Why don't you get some breakfast from the cafe while I'm getting ready? We can get an early start today," he said casually.
Dean glanced over his shoulder and caught a good view of Sam as he bent and slipped off his boxers. Smiling, he said, "Sure."
Sam smiled back. He made a silly kissing face, and when Dean laughed, he winked. Dean shook his head, rolling his eyes.
He left the bathroom feeling less fevered, though somewhat warmer.
After a quick jaunt to the cafe downstairs, which yielded a bagful of muffins, scones, and Dean's new favorite pastry, chaussons aux pommes, and two paper cups of coffee, Dean returned to their suite. He placed the bag and one of the cups onto the dining table, taking the other coffee with him to the living room area. He sat on the couch, took out his cell phone, and selected the second number in his contacts list.
It took a few rings for Bobby to answer. When he did, there was concern evident in his voice. After Dean assured him that nothing was wrong and that he was only calling to check in, they settled into a pleasant chit-chat. There'd been an unusual amount of that since Dean had returned, but it was normally Bobby who called to chat. Dean didn't mind.
He sipped his coffee, relaxing into the soft couch cushions as Bobby told him about an elderly hunter he knew who had made it into his seventies and decided to retire. "He movin' to Boca?" Dean asked and Bobby, chuckling, informed him that the man had a daughter in Costa Rica he planned to live with.
As Bobby went on, sharing with Dean all the news and hearsay of the hunter world, Dean noticed Sam's hoodie draped over the arm of the chair to his left. He reached over and pulled it to him by the sleeve. After a glance towards the staircase, Dean brought the hoodie to his face and inhaled deeply. He sat there for the next few minutes, dipping his face into balled fleece and enjoying the sound of Bobby's voice.
Part 3