Bury Me In Fire - Part 1
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( Master Post )
Part 1
What they really sought in Liberty came later; at first, they were just looking for lunch.
"Pull off the highway," Sam said. "I need food you can't get without getting out of the car."
Dean obliged him, guiding the car gently off Route 17. Liberty, New York, was a village just beneath the Catskills. It happened to lie between the connect-the-dot towns of their current hunt, and seemed to Dean as good a place as any to refuel. These days, on regular hunts, they weren't in much of a hurry. Not like the previous year, chasing salvation for Dean, or the year before that, running from Dad's death and Sam's apparent destiny. Since Dean had come back from Hell, they'd been tiptoeing toward an apocalyptic someday, never quite daring to face it, or each other, head on.
"How 'bout this place?" Dean asked, embarrassed slightly by the hope in his voice at a potential lunch pit-stop. But the place looked good for a diner, better than what they were used to, and it seemed to match the town's general low-key pleasantness.
Sam's face quirked in approval. "Yeah," he replied, "looks promising."
Dean pulled into the parking lot and scrutinized the place. Athena's, it was called, and there was something majestic about it. Not its size, nothing obvious about it, really, but it filled Dean with the tingles of anticipation. Of course, he may have just been really hungry.
On the inside, it was cute and funky and nothing like the sad diners they'd eaten in along one interstate or some Peyton Place's main drag all their lives. There were no signs of the seventies here, no awful fake wood or beige and brown. Pale blue-green and shiny Formica table tops had cherry red chairs pulled up to them. The walls were buttery, and there was little Dean liked more than butter. As they sat themselves in a white pleather booth near the back, Dean smiled. A jukebox, a tiny, shiny jukebox graced the end of the table, near the giant window. And fuck, it had AC/DC, Zeppelin, Springsteen, and, strangely, a bunch of bands that Dean didn't recognize, but assumed they couldn't be that bad if the same person picked them.
"Nice, huh?" Sam said, and it brought Dean back to the task at hand: perusing the menu. As his eyes hit the first page, his stomach growled in response. This diner had everything he liked, and a bunch of other fancy sounding things that Sammy would probably love. Dean didn't really know how that boded for his lunch, but the hominess of the place made Dean feel that the shepherd's pie might be just right.
When the waitress came, he ordered that, and Sammy ordered some sort of salad, of course. Damn that boy, Dean thought, wondering how he could have gotten so big these past few years when his stomach craved fluffy bunny food.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" the waitress asked. She smiled invitingly at Dean, and she was cute as hell, but Dean shrank back, looked away, and muttered, "I'll have a beer."
He felt the shift in the girl's attitude, and could feel Sam's surprise, but she just continued kindly, "What kind of beer would you like? We've got a big list - it's on the last page."
Dean flicked through the pages, his eyes unfocused. Whatever beer was fine, he thought, but he couldn't pick one.
Sam piped up with, "Can we get two Dundee Honey Browns, please?"
The waitress replied with a gentle, "Sure," then took their menus and retreated.
"It's good - you'll like it," Sam said.
"I know what Honey Brown is, Sam," Dean sneered. He pulled himself together, smiled and added, "Yeah, it's good." Then, he leaned in towards Sam, and whispered seriously, "I know we're in New York, but this still might be too small a town to be ordering a neeswahz salad, big boy." He winked and grinned, and the mood seemed to settle back into the pleasant tone it had had before.
"Well, if anyone gives me a hard time, I have my manly big brother to defend me," Sam replied with a teasing smile.
"Always, bitch."
Sam shook his head, but chuckled as he offered the requisite, "Jerk."
Their order arrived shortly thereafter. Sam's salad was huge, and had all sorts of things not fluffy, like mini red potatoes, green beans, hard boiled eggs and Dean cursed inwardly at what appeared to be anchovies. He guessed it would do for now, anchovies and fruity looking plump red peppers aside.
His own plate looked amazing. The portion was generous, just as Dean thought all food should be - fuck that fancy French shit, he always thought - the potatoes crowned with melted cheese, the meat flowing out beneath them seductively. There were bright green beans beside the pie, which Dean figured was probably a good thing, the way his stomach had been lately.
He dipped his fork into the pie, and brought it up towards his face, stopping to consider long, white and green threads in the meat.
"I think those are leeks," Sam said.
Dean sighed. Oh well, he thought, it was already there before him. Dismissing his worry with the question how weird could it taste?, he slipped the bite into his mouth and stopped dead. Either leeks were the most delicious onions in existence or there was some sort of cuisine magic he didn't know about, because that one was the best thing he'd eaten, probably ever.
They savored their meals in silence, too busy eating to talk. Once they'd finished, the waitress came by to clear the plates and asked, "Can I get you anything for dessert, or another round of beers?"
"What kind of pie do you have?" Dean asked quickly.
"Pie is our specialty," she said, pride sincere in her voice. "Today, we've got blueberry peach, Dutch apple with cranberry, cherry dark chocolate, and Acadian maple sugar pie. They're all served with crème fraîche, but we can substitute that for ice cream if you like." She smiled conspiratorially and added, "I'd go with the crème fraîche. It's rich and silky and totally decadent."
What the hell, Dean figured. "I'll have the cherry dark chocolate," he said, "with the crème fraîche." He smiled at the waitress, hoping she'd take the apology he meant to imply.
It seemed she did, returning his smile brightly. She turned to Sam and looked at him questioningly.
"What the hell," he said. "I'll have the Acadian maple sugar. Crème fraîche for me, too, please." He looked up at the waitress and smiled gently. "Can we get some honey porters to go with that?"
She nodded and left with another smile. The whole place seemed to be smile-filled now, and Dean turned his own on Sam. "Dessert beer, Sammy?"
Sam eased back into the bench. "Why not?"
Liberty was nice, Dean decided.
After lunch, and pie that to Dean tasted like an ecstasy high and went down like angel come, they headed for the service station down the road to refuel. Dean moved slowly as he got out of the car, selected a nozzle from the gas pump and began filling the tank. Biting his lip, he surveyed the area around them.
"You know, Sam, it might not be a bad idea to get a room here."
Sam looked up from the notes he was reviewing and eyed Dean through the open passenger side window. "But none of the deaths in this case happened in Liberty," he said.
Dean chewed his lip for a moment. "Yeah," he replied, "but they happened all over, and this seems like a pretty central place. It's probably within an hour of most of the towns we need to check out, and the seventeen runs right through it. The fifty-five and fifty-two do, too, and even though they're smaller highways, they'll take us to Poughkeepsie and to the eighty-four to Scranton. And the eighty-one, the eighty-seven, the eighty-eight, hell all, the eighties probably, are pretty close." As Sam seemed to think about it, Dean paused to let him, then added after a long moment, "Plus, having a home base for this case might not be a bad idea."
Sam's eyes narrowed. "It's because of the pie, isn't it?"
"Fuck you," Dean said, and when Sam laughed, Dean joined him.
"But everything you said was true, so yeah, we might as well base ourselves here," Sam conceded kindly.
"Okay," Dean said. He noticed a young girl in grease-covered jeans in his peripheral vision. "Hey sweetie," he called out, "you work here?"
The girl nodded and came over. "What can I do for you?" she asked.
"We're looking for a motel," Dean said. "Can you recommend one close by that's decent?"
"Sure," the girl replied lightly. "There are a couple off the seventeen that are okay, but honestly, I'd say go to the inn that's across the street and down a bit." She pointed in the direction from which they'd come. "The motels charge the same price year-round, but the summer's over, so the inn's probably about the same price now as they are, and a whole lot nicer." She smiled, "Plus, the owner's the same woman who owns Athena's, and if you stay at the inn, you get a twenty per cent discount at the diner, which has awesome food."
Dean dealt Sam a look that said it's decided, no arguing, and told the girl, "Thanks."
Sam chuckled, said "Yeah, yeah, that's fine," and went back to perusing his notes.
The inn was named simply Liberty Inn, but its appearance was intimidating, at least to Dean's eyes. Although it wasn't immense, it was stately, an old mansion hiding behind ancient maples and birches.
They parked the Impala outside the front entrance, and headed towards the heavy oak doors. Dean grimaced as they passed through the imposing archway into the foyer. There was no way the place could be affordable, he thought, not even in late September, no matter what the greasy-jeans girl had said, but he followed Sam to the reception desk anyway.
"Hi," Sam said, offering the woman behind the desk his best respectable young man smile.
The woman's expression was warm. "Hello there. You must be the two young men I heard were on their way," she said.
"Pardon me?" Dean asked. They'd just left the service station five minutes before and he couldn't imagine how it was that this woman had already have heard of them.
"Oh, this is a small town," she replied with a soft chuckle. "Melissa, the mechanic you talked to, called and told me she'd sent two handsome men my way." She winked.
"Oh," Dean said. He was lost as to how to respond, but the woman's demeanor suggested she was being nothing other than friendly.
"So, we were looking for a room for a few days, something quiet, maybe near the back," Sam said, ignoring Dean's cautious look.
"Of course. This time of year things start to slow down, so we've got a number of options for you."
"Excellent," Sam continued. "Maybe a suite, with a dinette, if you've got it?"
Oh, God, Dean thought, fearing they would max out their new credit card in one night, the way this was going.
"I think we've got the perfect thing," the woman said with a knowing smile. "It's a suite with a private entrance at the very back of the house. Why don't you pull your car around back, and I'll meet you there? You can have a look and decide if it suits your needs." As they turned to head back to the car, she added, "Just to let you know, we offer weekly rates, as well as discounts for students, artists, social workers, teachers, librarians, not-for-profit and community outreach workers, and the unwaged and under-waged."
Dean's worries about their finances paused and he stopped, turned fully to glance back at her and asked, "Who doesn't think they're under-waged?"
"People who reserve rooms under names that begin with Doctor, Congressman, and Senator, or that end with 'the third'."
"Fair enough," Dean said, cocking his head to the side as he turned back to follow Sam, wondering idly if Liberty had an orchard god hidden among its apple trees, granting prosperity and good taste.
After they'd moved the car, they got out and waited for the woman, taking in the back of the building. It was round, tall, and had an enormous window that soared into the second storey and crested to a pointed arch. Well, obviously she hadn't meant that back, Dean thought, just the general back area.
"Hello again," a voice called out behind them. As they turned to face the woman, she reached them, then offered her hand. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself before. I'm Claire, the manager."
Sam and Dean each took his turn to shake her hand and introduce himself, then Claire said, "Follow me, gentlemen." As she led them towards the door at the base of the round tower-like protrusion at the very back, she added, "I think you'll be pleased - this is our most special suite, a favorite among our clientele."
She unlocked the door and held it open for them, beckoning them inside. Dean let Sam lead, following at a small distance. Once inside, Dean whistled. He hadn't meant to, but this place was impressive: exposed stone walls, celestially high ceiling, rich ebony floor. The space was so impressive that it took Dean a moment to notice that the room's contents included a fireplace, sleek leather furniture, a magnificent dining table and a majestic chandelier. Everything was new, not just new-from-the-store new, but cool, contemporary. There was nothing stodgy nor frilly, and if asked to describe it, he might even have said it was funky.
"We like to call our inn 'the place with no lace'," Claire offered, giving Dean another wink.
"Awesome," Dean said, and he meant it.
It was then that Dean noticed that there wasn't actually a bed anywhere in sight. "Um, Claire, where is--"
"It's on the second level," she interjected. The she explained, "When the home was built in 1834, the owner was a wealthy Catholic, very devout, and he had a chapel built right into his family home. It was left as it was when the estate was converted into an inn in the 'forties, but when the current owner bought it four years ago, she thought it was too great a space to be wasted. She added the second floor, since the chapel was a full three stories." As Claire moved toward the other side of the room, Dean wondered if it was still sacred ground.
Claire continued. "It was a challenge to add the second floor without obscuring the window, given the structure of the chapel, but she managed to do it. She had a good architect, I imagine." She turned away from them and motioned toward the wall. "Here is the staircase to the bedroom."
From Dean's position, it seemed like Claire was jerking their chain, since there was just more rounded, stone wall. As he approached, though, he saw that a staircase had been built out of stone, flowing with the wall's curve and rising gently, all while following the rustication of the stone bricks naturally. Cool, Dean thought.
He and Sam climbed the stairs and were greeted with a room just as impressive as the one beneath, unveiled bit by welcoming bit. The light from the window flowed uninterrupted, and here, too, the ceiling seemed to float far above them. There was a crimson painting that made no real sense to Dean but appealed to him anyway, and thick, plush linens on the king-sized bed.
He stopped.
It wasn't that they'd never slept in the same bed before, far from it. During their childhoods, they'd almost always shared a bed, right through their teens. Even when Sammy was eighteen and Dean twenty-two, they still shared beds in whatever dank motel or badly furnished weekly rental apartment their dad had provided. John had never seemed to be concerned with the fact that his growing young men slept together. Dean figured that he just saw them as kids, and kids shared beds. Or maybe he saw them as his young soldiers, and soldiers were accustomed to Spartan circumstances. But sometimes Dean thought that their Dad just hadn't been paying that close attention to the goings-on around him, too distracted by the hunt to see his full-grown boys curled up together on a single mattress when he returned in the small hours of the morning, even while his own bed sat empty and untouched.
But things had changed. After Sammy came back from Stanford, they'd stopped sharing beds. Even when they fucked long and late, one of them would always retreat to the other bed. They were men now, real hunters, and needed their space. Dean couldn't tell himself that Sam was still his little Sammy, the unhappy boy who needed his big brother's comfort and protection. Sammy had become Sam, and he'd made it clear that he didn't need Dean, or anyone else for that matter. He was his own man now, and men didn't lie curled in soft places without care for time and work.
It was weird, though. One night, a few weeks before, Sam had woken Dean in the middle of the night, had said that Dean was having a nightmare. He'd sat on Dean's bed, and pulled him to his chest. He'd tried to lift him a little, take him into his lap and rock him. Sam's soothing shhhs and gentle stroking had angered Dean. Fuck Sammy and his bulk, his smooth hard chest and lumberjack arms, he'd thought. And Dean, he'd wanted to lean in, he couldn't stop himself from feeling that want as the painful effort just to breathe ebbed away with the feel of Sam's skin closing gently around him. But how embarrassing was that, he'd wondered, to let his baby brother hold him like he'd held Sammy when Sammy was four and didn't understand why Daddy was gruff, yelling, gone.
He had tried to pull away, but Sam had held him tighter, and Dean had been too close. He just couldn't do it. "Stop cuddle raping me!"
Sam had stilled, frozen in a shock of horror that seemed to permeate his limbs and guts.
"Aw, Sammy, I didn't mean it like that," he'd said, and kissed Sam softly between his eyes before pulling himself from out of Sam's grasp. That time, Sam hadn't tried to stop him.
"Dean? Dean. Dean."
Dean snapped out of his thoughts. "Yeah, Sam?"
"This room okay with you?" Sam asked quietly.
"Yeah, Sammy, it's fine." Dean exhaled, smiled as best as he could and added, "Bed looks sweet."
Sam nodded and told him, "I'm going back to the reception desk with Claire to sign in." He turned and started down the stairs. "Why don't you start to bring in our stuff from the car?"
"Sure," Dean replied. After a pause, he followed them downstairs and out the door.
They didn't get much done the rest of the day. After getting settled, Sam had suggested going for a run, and after that, Dean had suggested going to the liquor store to stock up the small fridge tucked sneakily and stylishly in the sideboard in their room. Then it had been time for dinner, which they'd lingered over because Dean needed the date square and Spanish coffee - "it's not girly when it's dessert, dickface" - but he wanted the Dutch apple pie, of course.
After that, they'd gone back to the inn to digest lazily in front of the television that had magically sprung up from the bed's thick footboard when Sam had pressed a button. They were deep into some stupid but slightly amusing romantic comedy when Dean began to doze off and something bumped his foot.
"Come on, get out of your jeans at least," Sam said quietly.
Dean yawned, rubbed his eyes and pulled himself up and off the bed. He headed to the bathroom, which was, thankfully, on the same floor, grabbing his shaving kit from the dresser. He peed, brushed his teeth, washed his face with icy water, and shook his head when he saw the nicely folded pajamas placed carefully on the counter. Oh, Sammy, he thought. He stripped quickly, then slipped on the soft, baby blue cotton pants and shirt.
Once cleaned and dressed, he placed his hands on the edge of the sink and leaned in closer to the mirror to get a better look at himself. After a prolonged scrutiny, he washed his face and hands again, dried them, and left the bathroom.
Sam was already in bed. He'd pulled the covers back on Dean's side for him, and was sitting close to the edge on the other side, reading from some leather-backed tome. He looked up at Dean briefly as Dean crawled in beside him.
Dean smiled at him gently. "Geez, Sam, you don't have to stay so far away. It's okay," he said. "I'm okay." To show Sam he meant it, he drew close, lay on his side facing him, and rested his hand on Sam's chest. "See?"
He couldn't really blame Sam. Aside from the cuddle-rape incident, there was the fact that they hadn't been fucking, or even touching much. They hadn't done it even once since Dean had come back. Dean hadn't been able to initiate it, hadn't really felt like it, even, although he hadn't told Sammy that. But Sam must have known, or suspected, or just worried about it in his sensitive Sammy way, because he hadn't pushed the issue. He hadn't even brought it up.
Dean wriggled a bit closer to Sam, slid his fingers downward to Sam's armpit, and attacked him with tickles. "See? I'm fine, but you're dead meat!"
Sam, insanely ticklish as he was, began to writhe and pant. "Stop it! Stop!" He fought Dean's assault, tried to grab Dean's hand, but was at a loss when Dean's other hand joined in. Sam redirected his efforts by trying to wrestle Dean into a full nelson. Dean was tricky, though, dodging and squirming perfectly. He knew all Sam's moves, and Sam knew his. They'd played this game before.
In the end, they became a mass of tangled, flailing limbs, punctuating their shouts with giggles and threats. "Okay," Dean grunted, "okay. On the count of three, we both let go." This is where the game got tricky, because neither one of them could be trusted to follow through with any promise of a truce. "One... Two..." Dean inhaled, bracing himself. "Three!" He flopped into a dead weight.
Sam caught him, but instead of tickling back, or trying to pin him once and for all, he squeezed him gently, then turned him onto his side. He followed, drawing in close behind Dean, and slipped his arm over Dean's flank. Dean felt a brief nuzzle against the back of his neck, then heard a "goodnight" mumbled damply into his skin.
"'Night, Sasquatch," Dean replied. He settled into the bed, which really was sweet, he found, all soft and cozy and plush, and damn if he hadn't missed his brother's body.
The next morning, Dean waited until Sam woke to get out of bed. As he got up and headed to the bathroom, he asked over his shoulder, "So, Athena's for breakfast?"
He heard Sam yawn, then reply, "Nah, the inn serves continental breakfast in the cafe next to the foyer." He followed Dean into the bathroom and headed to the toilet as Dean moved to the sink.
Dean growled along with his stomach. "Continental breakfast sucks, Sam. I want real food," he said.
Sam yawned again. "Well, it's included with the cost of the room, and if it's run by the same woman who owns the diner, then it's probably good."
Dean considered it for a moment. Continental breakfast meant no eggs or bacon or ham or home-fries or pancakes, but then, maybe some fruit and muffins would be better right now, anyway. He acquiesced with a nod.
After washing and dressing, they headed down to the main part of the house, passing through the parking area. It was nice out, as it had been lately. Summer was still present during the days, and Dean soaked in the brightness and gentle heat. He followed slowly behind Sam through the front entrance and down a short hall to a wide, open doorway.
The cafe was much like the rest of the place: stylishly furnished with an expensive looking modernity that somehow managed to flow well with the house's stately classicism. There were several small, dark tables with white, high-backed armchairs throughout the space. It struck Dean then that the inn seemed to have something against chairs that weren't big and a little squishy. He couldn't say that he disagreed with their stance.
There was also a long bar along the wall to the left of them, and Dean headed for it. He greeted the barman with his best flirtatious-in-jest grin and asked for a coffee, following quickly with, "And could you Irish it up for me?" and a wink.
The barman let out a low chuckle. He said, "I haven't heard that one in a while, but sure. How about Baileys?"
Dean snorted. "Sure, just hold the cream, the sugar, and the chocolate flavoring."
The barman laughed again, shook his head, and confirmed, "Bushmills it is." He poured a dose of dark liquor into a warmed mug, then topped it off with a shot of espresso. "How's that?"
Dean beamed at him and placed a ten on the bar before taking the cup. The barman thanked him as he walked away, and he thought, yeah, Liberty is nice.
He headed for the table Sam had selected, set down his coffee and sank into the chair. Sam eyed the mug, but Dean ignored him. He couldn't help it. Lately, coffee alone made him jittery. He'd noticed it a few days after he'd come back. They'd stopped at a diner along Interstate 73 to grab a quick coffee, Sam needing to stretch his legs, he'd said, and after that one dose of caffeine, walking back to the Impala, Dean had freaked out at the bark of a dog. He'd jerked and started to hyperventilate seemingly out of nowhere, and Sam had gotten all concerned, in his concerned Sammy way, and it had taken Dean a good five minutes to calm down enough to catch his breath. Sam had wanted to drive then, and Dean had had to get angry before Sam would relent.
Fucking coffee, he told himself.
After breakfast, which did turn out to be really good and Dean actually managed not only to eat but to enjoy his cherry, tangerine and pine nut bran muffin, which was surprisingly not bran-gross, they returned to their suite. Dean had made sure to grab some scones, croissants and tarts on their way out, along with a carafe of plain coffee, since they'd already stocked the mini fridge, and set up his plunder on the dining table while Sam organized the research and notes for their current hunt beside him.
Once they'd settled at the table, finally getting down to business, Dean blurted, "I just don't get this. How could a spirit travel to so many places? And if it's not a spirit, what the hell is it?"
Sam frowned. "I know. I keep going over it in my head, and it makes no sense. A spirit shouldn't be able to travel like that, but the deaths don't fit any sort of corporeal creature that we know of." He reached for the cup of coffee that Dean had poured him.
"Yeah," Dean replied. "And even if it were some sort of creature, creatures don't usually travel that far, even if they can. At least, not in that pattern." He unscrewed the cap of the bottle of Jack he'd fetched from the counter. "I mean, even if they tore a path through a large area, the pattern wouldn't look like this - they'd just keep going, not turning around and heading back the way they came, all back and forth like that."
Sam nodded. "And every bodily creature would do something, well, bodily to its victims: rip its heart out, eat a part or all of it, maul it in some way, or just snatch it and take off."
Dean sighed. "Anyway, we've researched as much as we can over the internet. We're going to need to check out as many of these places as we can before it hits again. I say we split up during the days, divide the areas geographically and hit each town on our own until we get something."
Sam's frown grew. "I don't know, Dean," he said.
And there they were. Sam had been all over Dean since he'd come back. Not like that, of course, but he was in Dean's face all the time. He wouldn't leave Dean alone for more than a couple of minutes, and even that was an improvement over the first week when he followed Dean to the bathroom and waited outside the door, even in public. Sam just kept hovering around him, and Dean had had enough a few days before and had told Sam to back the hell off. Sam hadn't liked it, but he said he'd try, and Dean had been satisfied for all of two seconds when Sam had decided that they should talk.
"I think I know what this is about, at least partly," he'd said. And even though Dean had rolled his eyes, Sam had continued. "I know you haven't had sex since you've been back, and you're probably frustrated, and I'm not helping, huh?"
"Oh, God," Dean had interjected, but Sam had kept right on going.
"I'm not complaining about us, Dean. I get it, with all that you've been through. I know that I'm big, and a man, and that can be threatening--"
"Sam, would you fuck off already?"
"I'm just saying, I know sometimes you just need something else, and you know I never cared before, and I won't get mad now. If you need someone soft and small--"
"Sam!"
"-- a girl, that's okay--"
"No!" Dean had shouted more loudly than he'd meant to, then paused to calm himself before asserting, "I don't need that. I don't want it." He hadn't wanted to expand, and Sam had left it at that.
Since then, Sam had left him alone for bathroom breaks and short errands, and he hadn't brought up sex or girls or soft and hard again, but his concern was still obvious. Dean hoped that a little time apart, and maybe some 'quality time' together later, would convince Sam that he was okay.
"We'll cover more ground if we separate, Sam," Dean said. "And we'll just keep it to daylight hours. Whatever we're hunting only hits at night, so it'll be fine. Okay?"
"Okay, Dean," Sam conceded, "I guess you're right." After a moment, he settled back in his seat and said, "So, let's make a plan."
Dean exhaled as quietly as he could, then smiled at Sam. "You got a map?"
In the end, Sam rented a Prius, of course, and headed to Binghamton, while Dean took Yonkers. They planned to meet up at the diner for supper at seven, which gave them nine hours. If there was enough time, Dean would hit Danbury, Connecticut, afterward, and Sam would hopefully make it Scranton, too.
As it turned out, nine hours was plenty of time to learn that Douglas Irving's family was on vacation and that he apparently had no friends, and that James Akins's coworkers had little to say about him other than that he'd been a nice enough guy, but had become fairly solitary in the months before his death, although he'd never really socialized much at work, anyhow.
Dean was back in Liberty by five and decided to try to nap while he waited for Sam. He slipped into bed, but his mind was churning despite his fatigue and, restless, he just couldn't get comfortable. He went downstairs, had a shot of Wild Turkey, and tried out the couch. It was large, and welcoming, but after ten minutes of lying awake trying to think sleepy thoughts, he gave up.
He decided to head to the diner early and have some kind of fruit or salad while Sam wasn't there to see him. When he arrived, he surveyed the restaurant for the best seating option, but his attention caught on a movement in the corner of his view. He turned and walked up to the service counter, which opened onto a part of the kitchen.
"Hey, honey, whatcha making?" he asked the woman there, who'd just finished stirring a pot of something that smelled amazing and gone back to her work on the counter.
"Alec," she responded, without glancing up at him.
"Huh?"
She sighed, put down her grater, and turned to face him directly. "My name," she said. "It's not Honey. There's no Honey here."
Dean blushed slightly, coughed, and said, "Uh, sorry, Ma'am." He bit his lip, thinking about how good everything looked back there, rows of pies cooling and covered pans waiting for their turn in the ovens, about how hungry he'd gotten, there being no magic diners anywhere on the eighty-seven or the eighty-four, and he'd looked, and decided to press his luck. "I was just wondering what it is that you're making there," he continued. "Is that some kind of cheese you're grating? It looks different."
Not Honey narrowed her eyes, and after a brief but intense scrutiny, said, "You wanna learn how to make pie?"
Dean's heart thumped. "Yes please," he said, maybe a little too quickly, and beamed at her brilliantly. He went around the corner of the service counter and met her in the kitchen, where she handed him an apron, told him to wash his hands, then jumped right into it.
"It's frozen butter," she began. "To make a pie crust flaky, you freeze butter - unsalted butter, cultured if you can get it - and grate it into the dough mixture."
"What's cultured butter?"
"It's butter that has bacterial culture in it, like yogurt, and undergoes a fermentation process that brings out a lot of flavor," she answered. At his demurring "oh", she continued, "It's not that common around here. But if you really like eating, then you should know about it." She smiled and offered him a shard of frozen butter off the knuckle of her gloved finger. "Here," she said.
"Really?" He'd never eaten butter straight before, at least not in front of anyone. When she nodded encouragingly, he reached out, scraped the shard from her hand and popped it into his mouth and was taken aback by how good snobby butter was.
They set to work, and by the time Sam arrived to meet him for supper, Dean had assisted in the construction of a majestic pear and chocolate pie.
"Look, Sammy, I made pie," he called out, wiping his hands on the apron he was still wearing.
Sam laughed kindly. "I see that, Dean," he said, then reached out to wipe something from Dean's cheek. "You got some flour on you."
Dean suddenly felt very odd. "Uh, yeah... So, grab a table and I'll go wash up and be there in a minute, okay?"
Sam nodded, then headed for the booths.
When Dean returned, Sam had already got menus and was trying to decide between two girly things, Dean figured. He didn't know what to get himself; at this point, he was pretty sure that everything on the menu would be great, and the bison burgers were calling to him. The very idea of bison sounded meaty and delicious, and they came with sweet potato fries, which Dean had had once in Eugene, Oregon, and were crispy, melting, salty sweet bits of heaven. But, he wanted pie for dessert, and these days, that might mean forgoing the heavy supper.
When the waitress came by for their order - Sally, Dean noted - Sam ordered a grilled chicken breast 'burger' with roasted red peppers, Gruyère, and a portobello mushroom top, with a mixed greens and blueberry balsamic vinaigrette salad.
Sally turned to look at Dean and asked, "And for you, sir?"
Dean paused, then looked straight ahead, ignoring his brother. "I'll have the same," he said.
The waitress smiled, and once Sam had added a request for wheat beers, she took their menus and left.
"Don't," Dean said. He realized he was being dramatic and tried to smooth past it, adding, "I just figured that if this place is really good, they can make anything taste awesome."
"Of course," Sam deadpanned, and Dean kicked him jokingly under the table.
They shared a lighthearted moment, and then Dean asked, "So, what'd you find out in Binghamton?"
Sam sighed. "Not much that we didn't already know. All that I got from Simon Amburgey's widow was that he'd been having nightmares before he died, but she didn't know what they were. Said he refused to talk about them, if you can believe that." He looked pointedly at Dean.
Dean grimaced at him. "Moving along," he said.
"Anyway, that's it. I did find out that his four-year-old niece died last year, but she drowned in her parents' pool, so I don't think it means much," Sam concluded.
"Hm, well, we should include it in our notes just in case," Dean replied.
Sam smiled and said, "Done. What about you?"
Dean related what little he'd learned in Danbury and Yonkers, and he and his brother commiserated for a moment about the case before their food arrived.
As it turned out, Athena's was really good, and the grilled chicken 'burger' was fantastic. Even the simple salad was delicious, which surprised Dean not because he avoided vegetables - he always tried to eat some, needing to be at optimal health for hunting - but he didn't usually drool for them.
Later that night, after a pleasant supper and the delightful discovery that Dean could, in fact, make a kick-ass pie - with the help of the magical pie mistress, of course - they returned to their room, and Dean began to implement part two of his mission to ease Sam's mind. It wasn't even really a plan, since he was actually feeling a little affectionate himself. After showering and brushing his teeth, Dean prevaricated over whether or not to put on pajamas before joining Sam in bed. Ultimately, he decided that it was best to move slowly. Otherwise, Sam might think all kinds of unhelpful deep thoughts about Dean's behavior and what it meant.
Having dressed, Dean went back to the bedroom and slipped into bed, pulling up close to his brother. Sam was reading, as he did usually before bed, and Dean figured a little nuzzling wouldn't be too much. He curled up on his side, pressed his nose against Sam's shoulder, and rubbed. He kept on nuzzling, and when Sam kept on reading, he added a quiet mmm and dipped his head lower to nuzzle at Sam's armpit. When that got him nothing, he tossed in a smidgen of ass wiggling, and finally Sam laughed, put down his book, and rolled to his side to face Dean.
Dean smiled. "Hey, Sammy," he said.
"Hey, Dean," Sam replied. Then he reached out and, gently, touched Dean's face.
Dean closed his eyes and parted his lips slightly. Sam accepted the invitation and soon they were kissing slowly. Sam's arms wound their way around Dean's torso and drew him in close to his chest. The kiss deepened, but its speed remained constant. Sam's mouth was warm, lush, welcoming, and his body felt good as it pressed against Dean's with slow movements, and everything felt comfortable and right. Dean rubbed himself against Sam's belly and felt Sam's hard-on, and realized that he himself was tragically flaccid.
Before he'd gone, Dean had never suffered this, even when he was drunk stupid, or with a girl whose only charm was that she'd said yes, or with the one tall, lanky boy he'd been with when he was twenty-four who'd had too-long brown hair that swept past golden cats' eyes.
Since he'd been back, though, nothing had stirred down there, and even now when everything was right, Sam warm and ready, Dean himself entirely willing, the perfect bed in the perfect room in the perfect town after the perfect meal on a perfect night of warm breeze and sparkling moonlight and all those things that seem asinine until they rise material from the pages of a storybook, even with all that, there was nothing.
Sam removed Dean's hand from his hip and brought it to settle on his chest. "Maybe tonight we should pretend to be teenage girls," he murmured between kisses.
Something stirred in Dean's belly that almost reached his crotch. "Damn, Sammy, that's hot," he grunted.
Sam smiled against his lips and said, "That's not what I meant."
Dean paused. When Sam began to stroke the back of his neck with slow fingers, Dean said, "Oh, you mean we should pretend that making out is enough."
Now Sam laughed outright into Dean's mouth. "That's not how I would have put it, but yeah."
Dean wrapped his arms around his brother, and they drifted to sleep slowly, tasting each other languidly the whole way.
The next morning, Dean woke with his drool a dark pond on Sam's t-shirt and his hard-on pushing through cotton to prod at Sam's belly.
"Mornin', sunshine," Sam mumbled into his hair.
Dean could hear his smile and blushed. He pulled away a little, enough to place his head on the pillow beside Sam's and to move his leg from its post as the cage over Sam's lower half. He coughed, and with the deepest voice he could muster, said, "Mornin'."
Sam laughed softly and rolled to his side to face him. "How're you feeling?"
"Fine, Sam," Dean replied strongly. "I told you, I'm fine."
In fact, Dean was more than fine, the proof of it pulsing in his crotch. He glanced up at Sam's eyes. They were caramel in the early morning light, dewy and soft. His cheeks were still flushed from sleep, and his hair fell like molten Jersey Milks across his forehead.
It became clear that Dean needed an orgasm, and then breakfast, apparently. He rested his hand on Sam's flank, then leaned in for a kiss. Sam responded, lips lazy but inviting, offering Dean a languid make-out session like they'd had the night before.
It wasn't enough.
Dean broke the kiss and said, "I wanna."
Sam chuckled, said, "Man, you sure know how to seduce a guy." But he pulled Dean closer and resumed the kiss with more fervor. With gentle movements, he maneuvered Dean onto his back, never breaking contact with his lips. Sam brought his hands to Dean's waist, slipped his fingers beneath Dean's t-shirt and pulled it off delicately. Then those hands slid back downward, dipped below the elastic of Dean's underwear and drew the fabric down Dean's legs and past his feet in one smooth movement.
Carefully, Sam lifted himself over Dean, drawing his knee across Dean's midsection to straddle his hips. He was still sleep-warm and Dean nuzzled as subtly as possible into the soft heat of his brother's body.
Sam's lips drifted across Dean's cheek, along his jaw, and down his throat. When they reached the hollow, they parted, tip of Sam's tongue peaking out to dip into it, and stayed open as Sam mouthed along Dean's collar bone. Dean moaned, lifted his wrists lazily from the bed and dropped his hands onto his brother's head. He carded his fingers through Sam's hair and held on lightly as Sam's mouth traveled farther, wet lips pressing in steps down Dean's chest and belly.
Sam's knees were now aligned with Dean's own, and Dean felt them move between his and push them apart. He pulled his knees up and to his sides, granting Sam access. He released Sam's hair so that he could prop himself up on his elbows. Sam was so pretty from this angle, and it had been so long since the last time, Dean had to watch. He opened his eyes and was presented with the sight of Sam's forehead resting on his belly.
Then Sam lifted his head and smiled an evil grin bent down and bit into Dean's thigh. He bit hard and ripped flesh and whipped up his head staring at Dean laughing and chewing Dean's flesh blood dripping from the sides of his mouth and down his chin dripping into sharp wet flecks on Dean's skin and then Sam swallowed and bent down and chomped Dean's penis into half and Dean screamed.
"Sandman! Sandman!" Dean shouted and pushed Sam off of him, scrambling to get off the bed. As he turned and tried to dash to the bathroom, the sounds of Sam crying out, "Dean! Dean! What is it? What happened?", Dean tripped and plummeted, his face landing hard on the floor, and he puked.
He puked, and puked, and puked some more, his face pressed into the hot, sour mess on the hard walnut, his naked ass twitching in the air like a target. He felt Sam's hand press softly against his back and recoiled. After his guts had given up everything they could, he heaved dry air and gasped when his nose inhaled some of the vomit squished into his face.
Finally, his body calmed enough to stop heaving and slowed into trembles, and something cool and moist swathed over his cheek. He turned his head, took the facecloth Sam offered with the hand that wasn't crumpled beneath his torso. He wiped his mouth, and when Sam reached out an arm to help him up, Dean took it.
Sam gathered him up and brought him in gently to his chest. "I've got you, Dean," he whispered, "I've got you."
Dean let Sam hold him for while, and suddenly became aware that he was very naked. Although he was still shaking noticeably, he pulled away from Sam, and Sam, in his astute Sammy way, grabbed his hoodie from the dresser, drew it over Dean's head and helped his arms into it. Then, Sam pulled him back in and rubbed circles into his back while Dean, clinging, hiccupped and shook.
Eventually, Dean came fully back to the present and got a mental picture of what he looked like at that moment: cold, sweaty legs peering from under a sasquatch hoodie dress, a flittering damsel with a vomit stained face teetering on tiptoes while striving to crawl into his baby brother's skin.
"Come on, Dean," Sam said quietly. "Let's get you to the bathroom."
Dean shook his head. "I need to clean up the puke first."
Sam lifted Dean's face with his fingertips and gazed at him with bruising concern. "Oh, Dean, don't worry about that. I'll take care of it."
Dean pulled away then. Here he was, sick for no reason, worrying Sammy because he couldn't control his fucked up head. "Nah, Sammy, I can't let you clean my mess," he muttered.
Sam sighed. "How many times have you cleaned my vomit, or worse?"
"That was different," Dean replied. "You were little, and you needed me to take care of you."
"Just forget it for a minute," Sam said, then took Dean by the hand and led him to the bathroom.
Dean allowed himself to be guided, then sat on the toilet as Sam started the shower, and watched his toes. When steam began to rise, Sam helped Dean up and out of his hoodie, steadied him as he climbed into the shower, then left the bathroom, keeping the door ajar. He let the water, burning, fall over him and soothe his filthy skin, ignoring for the moment the clamoring image of his little brother knuckle-deep in his shame.
Part 2