Spn_holidays fic: 13 Bound Avenue, Hamistagan
Title: 13 Bound Avenue, Hamistagan
Rating/Pairing: NC-17, Dean/Jo, Dean/Jo/Sam, Dean/Sam.
Warnings: Explicit Sex, both Het and Slash, and a threesome, Explicit m/f/m. Interpretation of hell, ect. Pleasantville. Spoilers for Season Three, in general, but not beyond the US.
Prompt: For Spn_holidays's recipient montisello. Prompts were "A fic with Dean/Jo [...] Write me a fic with Dean/Jo and Sam not a third wheel, maybe working on a case together. Can be het or gen. Also, don’t tell anyone, but I’m curious about a threeway with Jo/Sam/Dean. I mean, WOW." and "A fic with Sam and Dean reenacting the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice." This is a rather creative interpretation of both of those things, I'm sure, but I hope it was worth the wait, and that your new year is as awesome as your last.
Summary: Dean has a wife, a house, a steady job, a brand new ride and a charmed life. And he realizes he's not in control of any of it.
Thursday and Friday are here, Saturday and Sunday are here.
Saturday
Jo yawns, softly. She's in the bed, empty. It's quiet, until Dean's voice breaks in the air, grabbing her attention. "So how'd you kick the bucket, Sammy? Gunshot wound, made a deal of your own? Boy king get betrayed by a coup?"
A carefully hidden eye watches as Sam's jaw clenches, like he doesn't like it when Dean does this to him.
"What makes you think I'm dead, Dean? That wouldn't do either of us any good, now, would it?"
"How'd you get here, then?"
"You know how I got here, Dean."
"So came to save lil ol' me?"
"Something like that, Dean. Yeah."
"You think it's gonna work?"
"Do I actually have to care? I mean, if it doesn't work, I know where I'll be and what I'll be doing and everything."
"Yeah…thanks, for, y'know, the effort."
"Thank me when we're out of this hellhole."
"You said it, man."
Dean pushes the mower through the grass early in the morning, focused completely on the sweat bearing down on his face, single minded on the task of manicuring his lawn. Jo sits outside on the swing on the porch with Sam, pouring another glass of iced tea for Sam. Her hand shakes like her wrist is broken, and Sam cautiously takes the pitcher from her, pours the rest of the glass.
"I'm sorry, it's…it's hard. It hurts to think like this, out here. It hurts to act like this, when I'm not in the bedroom. I feel like something's drilling into my skull, y'know?" Jo sighs, voice wavering a little. "But it's important we're out here. The neighbors will start to talk, otherwise."
"Try," Sam says, hand on her thigh. "For him, he needs it, you know it as much as I do."
"You're right," She says. "There's only one way out, Sam. Through. And up, the main road, over there. It takes you out of town."
"Why the hell is there a road out of Hell?" Sam asks.
"It's not a normal road," Dean calls.
"It's a tease, as far as we can tell," Jo nods. "But there are stories about it, we've found out. About people who show up and take others, you know. They've come to reclaim their loves, but Hell makes them promise to prove their faith, first."
"Like Orpheus?" Sam asks.
"I have the book upstairs," she nods. "I know it sounds far-fetched, but if you're really not dead, you can take him out of here easy as you please. Especially with what has gone on between you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks. The last time he checked, nobody knew about him and Dean like that.
"Sam," Dean says, letting the lawn mower go to climb up the steps and drink a glass of water. "She knows, you don't have to be afraid."
"I'm okay with it, Sam, honest," Jo says, lowly. "He's told me everything."
Sam's nod is curt but soft, he understands but if he had the time to dwindle on it, he wouldn't feel as comfortable. Now, though? There are bigger things he has to worry about, right now.
"It'll work. I'm sure it'll work. Because you're lovers, and because you have everything you need for it to work. I think you can trust folklore in this case, especially after how it's changed things, around here," Jo says, softly. "I mean…"
"We can do it, Sam. Jo will have to do the ritual while we're leaving, but we can do it. They like to tell us, all the time, how to escape, because they think we can't. But I know we can, right Sammy?" Dean asks.
"You guys know about what the folklore is around here, I don't," Sam says.
"We make the deal, we establish we're bonded, you have to make your show of faith, and we have to find a way to run out of here, through the normal fire-and-brimstone hell, and then we get the fuck out of here and back to normalsville. It's a long trip, supposedly, but I think they just tell us that, sometimes. You know, scare the prisoners into not breaking out and everything."
"That's cute," Sam replies. "We’re honestly going to re-enact Orpheus and Eurydice, then?"
"You got a better idea?" Jo asks. Sam bites his lip and shakes his head, and she sees everything in him she saw when he was younger, the first time she met him, all boyish insecurity and sweet charm. "Well, there's your answer. The rituals will have to be done at night, so you'll be leaving at dawn."
"Are you sure you're okay with this, Jo?" Dean asks, "You don't deserve this."
"No," she says. "No, I don't. But you don't deserve this, either. I'm sure you're going to be a bigger help than I would be, anyway."
Sam and Dean look at each other, and Jo knows this is right, looking at them communicate without speaking. There's careful tension, but Sam nods, anyway.
"Dawn, then," he says.
"Dawn," Dean agrees before turning around to finish mowing the lawn. "Cheer up, Sam, you're goin' home."
"Of course you are," Jo grins, easily.
"Because that's not scary at all," Sam sighs, and stares into the bottom of his iced tea.
The first press pushes Dean into her too hard, and she cries out wet like she's been stabbed. He slides in unhindered after that, holding onto her hips as she clenches around him.
"You're so good," Dean's hot whisper reverberates through the toolshed, words bouncing off metallic walls and tools. It's hot outside, and Jo's sweating in her dress, ass tilted up and backward as Dean shoves into her.
"Gonna miss this," she groans, pressing her hips against his, letting herself feel every part of the cock inside her, clenching around it until it twitches. "Gonna miss how you fuck me."
"Jo," he groans.
"Fuck me," she begs. He thrusts easily, hips surging in and dragging out softly before they press in deep and it makes her squeal. She gasps, hangs her head, bears further down on him. She leans back into him, as much as she can handle, head down as he wraps his arms tightly around her. "God, Dean. So good at this."
"What can I say," she can feel the teeth of his grin brushing against her ear, his hips fucking her deeper with every stroke. If only he were touching her where she could get off the quickest, this would already be over and done with, but maybe that's why he refuses to touch there at all, come to think of it. Tonight's out of the picture because he'll be fucking Sam and she'll be reciting the prayers they know for the ritual, so this is effectively the last time he'll ever be inside her, unless she finds a way to claw out on her own. A feel of sullen hatred would fall over her if Dean weren't balls deep in her ass right now, carefully avoiding her clit.
"Wish he were here to eat you out while I fuck you, kiss you and eat you and get you off so hard, you think you're dreaming it," Dean says, softly. "You want this, don't you? You like it and everything, I can see it on your face."
"That'd be more easy for someone who saw my face, idiot," she responds fondly.
"I wish I could push you so far into his mouth, Jo," He purrs in her ear, and reaches down between her legs with smooth, small-callused fingers to rub at her clit. "Wish I could stay."
She doesn't know what he's trying to get across here, doesn't know if it's this hellhole talking or if it's him, doesn't know anything about anything except for the fact that Dean's cock is pretty far up her ass right now and she wouldn't give this up for the world, even if she can turn her head and look at their joke of a lawn mower and think that the Baylees have a bigger one next door.
"Harder," she moans, and he obliges perfectly, grunting as he presses her into the tool shed wall, lips hovering just out of reach from her own. "Christ."
"You said it," he smiles happily, toes curling in his shoes, head hanging on her shoulder. "You're so good at taking it."
"What can I say, it's a hobby of mine," she says. "Gonna come, oh God, gonna come."
She presses further back into him, reaching down to slip two fingers into her pussy and press them against her G, mouth open as she tightens, making him hiss, and he smiles and feels the clench.
"I love you," she whispers, resting her head on the metal of the shed, hips canted backward as Dean fucks in with free rein, shouting when he comes, too.
"Stop moping," Jo says, softly. Sam's helping her construct the altar, figs and salt, the pieces of rope from the garage and the candle over in the corner. There's all of the herbs they could salvage from the garden, along with moonflower and fir. "You came here for a reason. You're going to go back with what you came for, Sam. Quit your bitchin'."
"And you don't feel at least a little angry about this?" Sam asks, curious. "Why not? Why don't you hate me, Jo?"
"No matter how hard we try to make this all sparkly and nice, this is Hell, Sam. Do you understand that, huh? The normal rules don't apply here. ‘Normal' doesn't apply here. If you don't take him out of here now, you won't get another chance, and he won't get another chance, either. You're not going to do that," she snaps, even though this isn't very much of a sensitive subject.
"That's rather selfless of you," Sam remarks, hands shaking as they prepare the rings of salt, then sage, then salt again.
Jo leans back to place her hands on her thighs, looks him straight in the eye. Her voice is even, although acidic. "We both know who you're here for. We both know why you came."
Sam's eyes glance away, and then back to her with a softer tone. "You always were a smart girl."
"Don't you dare patronize me, Sam Winchester," she snaps. "Remind yourself of who'll get you out of this mess."
"Just like always, Jo," Sam purses his lips, prowls right up to her, dragging his lips over her collarbone, clenching around a pearl on her necklace, capturing it in his teeth, softly. "Always a Harvelle to clean up a Winchester's mess. Isn't that how it goes?"
She grins, the soft tickle of his breath driving her wild, and she wonders how he knew. "Fuck you."
His hand raises to her breast, tracing the hem of her top. "You know, you could. Do you want to, Jo?"
Dean hates this. He hates sex magic, hates the fact that they're re-enacting myths that make no sense of the long and short of this reality, hates the fact that he's leaving the life he would have loved an longed for years ago behind. He wishes it weren't so hard to live this way, he wishes he could peel the strain away from himself. Still, when Sam slides his hand over Dean's shoulder, the tension drains right out of him, like Sam's eaten his anxiety for him, just to make sure that he won't get hurt.
The bed was pushed over the altar, stripped down to the bare mattress, and Sam paints Dean thin across it, the effects of the spell down and through him, can feel Sam all around him as they fuck, crown of rope braided around his head. They don't speak, wrapped around each other and tumbling from side to side, when one orgasm's done, they re-arrange, slip out and slip back in through a different position, Dean always on bottom, always taking, always proving that he's worth saving. He hangs his head, opening his thighs further, stretching his hips as power takes him over, lips crashing onto lips, unable to ground himself for fear of losing the power they've raised so carefully.
They don't speak, and Dean can barely feel Sam pull away from him, can only feel the rush of power into him, the blind rush of spirits swirling around them, like he has to contain it, wrap himself around it to keep it all in, skin pulled tight and consciousness swept away for devotion and bonding, declaration.
The line between him and Sam disappears, late in the night when he feels like he's floating in his whole head, the safest place he's ever known in this hell swept out from under him, replaced with a second voice inside his head. It’s low and demonic and rumbling, aching to use his voicebox, work his throat into the words that will tell Sam the rule of this game.
Dean's defenses against whatever’s inside him crumble with something so simple as Sam's kiss pressed feather-light against his lips.
"It's done," Dean speaks, under the demon’s control. In his head, he's in a pool of water, wounded and floating, looking at Sam from a distance away while the demon takes over his body. It’s only then that he realizes the rope on Sam’s head is soaked with the sweat of their exertion, desperate and needy.
"May I take him?" Sam asks, strained, "I want to take him back with me. I love him so dearly, want him so badly, may I?"
"Impressive," Dean's lips are moving, his voice is coming out, but he has no control, something evil is inside him, and Sam's holding him there, holding him in place to barter, as if he's speaking for all of hell, for Satan himself. It's far-fetched, and Dean wants to kick and scream and fight out of this grip on him, all this energy, not enough room. "And how, exactly do you plan to get him up on earth again, Sam? Disassemble him like a doll, bring him back piece by piece? Expect us to just put him as he was? Fight us for him? How?"
"I was planning on taking the car, actually," Sam says, casual and easy-as-you-please. Dean doesn't know how long he's been gone, but it concerns him that Sam's so cavalier with the voices of hell inside him.
"As interesting a choice as I think you can afford to make, Winchester," Dean says, his face pressed up into a knowing smile, a little bit of tongue. His hands, on their own accord, reach down to grasp at Sam's hair, pulling them eye to eye. "Stay in front of him. Don't look back at him, don't put him in the trunk to make it easy for yourself, don't bother coming back here for him if you don't play by our rules."
"What will happen if I look at him?" Sam asks levelly.
"He comes back to where he belongs. Here, as a gatekeeper, in his prim little life with the woman he loves and perhaps even a child. And I assure you we'll torture him this time. We'll take away the master bedroom, and he'll be ours. This body? All ours. All the secrets in his head, the ones we haven't been able to crack? Everything. We'll have all of him," Dean replies, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. He's floating on the edge of something so much more body-rocking than a simple orgasm, and it almost scares him, he has to admit. It's kind of sick, and kind of slow, and he just doesn't know what to do to get rid of it, or if he can even get rid of it in the first place. He just doesn't know. At all. "And believe me, Sam. We'll be using this one to his full potential. Don't you worry."
"I want him," Sam stands his ground, barking his words against Dean's possessed lips.
"Fine," Dean shrugs. "Then you leave at dawn, and don't you dare look back."
After that, Dean slithers from the bed, from the room into the guest room and tucks himself into the guest room bed behind Jo, arms wrapped around her as she leans back in his embrace.
For a second, he wonders if the sacrifices he's about to make are worth it, and if he'll be happy walking the earth with Sam again. He tries not to think about it, think about the voice that spilled from his lips or the demon that clouded his judgment, and tries to enjoy the rest of what little time he has here.
He falls asleep easily, knowing that Sam's put so much on the line for him, and is sleeping on the altar they made to beg for Dean's salvation. He's never been prouder of his brother.
Sunday
Jo and Sam stand outside of the house as Dean familiarizes himself with the thought of never walking in here again. He memorizes the things that he holds dear, the things he's proud he could provide, the fridge and running water and the television, the stove and the coats, the sofa and the railing that leads upstairs. He's trying to commit all of it to memory, down to the feel of the restrictive suit he’s wearing against all his better knowledge. It’s not like he’s in control of himself out here, anyway.
Sam watches as Jo spits up blood on the grass, carefully keeping it away from her dress.
"Are you alright?" Sam asks. Jo nods, carefully.
"It happens sometimes," she says, girlishly. "When I think too much, try to be something that I can't. It's just nerves, I think."
"I know it is," Sam nods firmly. "It's a shame, though. Girl like you shouldn't have nerves."
"All girls have nerves, Sam. It's what makes us human, the anxiety. Don't forget the intuition." She smiles, spitting out more blood from her throat. She pulls out the keys to the car, carefully, along with one of her long gloves, thick silken fabric that she gives to Sam.
"What are you giving this to me for?" Sam asks, realizing just how long it is.
She smiles at him softly, "You'll need it. Any demon worth his salt would try as hard as he can to trick you into looking at Dean, bend the rules so he could get what he wanted. Tie this around your eyes, it will make it a little easier."
"How am I supposed to see the road, then?" Sam asks.
"The demon didn't say you couldn't talk to Dean, just that you couldn't look at him. I think you can let Dean talk you out of the neighborhood. And I'm pretty sure that once you get out of there, it will get a helluva lot easier for you, Sam Winchester. Take care of him, up there."
"Take care of yourself, down here," he says, giving her a hug. She helps unlock the car as he ties the glove tight around his eyes, sitting in the driver's seat. She pries the wedding ring off her finger, slipping it into his pocket and watching as Dean stumbles outside of the house and gathers her up in his arms, kissing her passionately.
"I'm going to miss everything about you, Jo. I love you so, so much," Dean says, and Jo smiles.
"Yeah. Me too."
He looks her dead in the eye, and smiles. "I'm coming back for you."
Her smile breaks down the middle. "Dean, don't make promises you can't keep."
He looks at her, like he's trying to remember, looking into her eyes as they water and she prepares for tears, and he nods, kissing her again and finally settling into the backseat of the car.
They look at each other until Sam pulls out of the driveway, carefully, and Dean shifts his attentions ahead. It's going to be a long journey.
Dean hyperventilates on the road out of town, realizing his obligations to his job and his wife and that he's letting a deviant kidnap him from those responsibilities. He reminds himself of the child he lusted to have with Jo, the promotion he was due for soon at the bank. He needs those responsibilities, he thinks, he needs them like he needs air to breathe and blood through his veins and the pen and the stamp to make his life worth living. He needs Jo like a child clinging to a mother’s skirt. He needs his house and his lawn, his tool shed and his football games on the couch. He values that stabilty, and this man who claims to be his brother is carting him away from it, kicking and screaming.
He presses a needy hand on the back window, gasping, “Turn around.”
“What?” Sam asks.
“I said turn around, Sam. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to leave here,” Dean says. “Take me back home. I can’t leave.”
“You’re coming back with me, Dean,” Sam says, determined. “If we turn back, you won’t be going back to her the same way. You wouldn’t even know yourself, they’d have total control of you.”
“I want…” Dean starts.
“You don’t know what you want,” Sam snaps.
“Fuck you,” Dean snaps back. “I want you to turn around or so help me god I’ll push you out right here and leave you on the side of the highway.”
Sam turns to the side, a smile broad on his lips, “Now Dean, that’s the spirit.”
Dean looks backward, watching as Bound Avenue falls out of view. It's only then does the mental grip of Hamistagan, this Hunter's Hell fail him completely.
"Tell me something, Sam," Dean asks. They've moved from rung to rung, the tortures becoming more violent, imaginative in different ways, and the thought that these could very obviously become Dean's fate crams him down into the corner of the Impala's backseat, looking up at the ceiling and trying to take a nap.
"What, Dean?" Sam asks.
"How did you get down here?" Dean asks, uneasily. "Who did you kill? What did you say?"
"Does it matter anymore, Dean?" Sam replies. "What do you expect to gain by learning that, hmm? I told you, I promised, that I'd get you out of that deal. You thought I'd break that promise simply because you died?"
"I…" He swallows, softly. "I told you to leave well enough alone, Sam."
"Like you ever expected me to actually do that," Sam scoffs. "Who was in you last night, Dean?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing, actually," Dean snaps. "I mean, it's not like he introduced himself before coming in. Demons don't bother with formalities, right, Sammy?"
"Right as ever," He remarks. "I don't even know where I'm going."
"Up. You're on the right path; I can feel it inside me, like it's watching me. Watching us. Is it going to stop doing that anytime soon?" Dean groans. "Otherwise, I don't think I'll be capable of handling my body with someone else, you know."
"It'll leave, Dean. But the demons know you, they know you like they know me," Sam says, strained. Dean wishes he could see his eyes, see how Sam feels, know that connection the way he used to. "They'll know you, Dean."
"They knew me before," He says. "We're close."
"Good. I don't even know how long we've been traveling," Sam sighs. "I just want to sleep, and see the real Impala and save people and hunt…"
"And fuck me," Dean whispers.
The silence hangs in the car. "Yeah. That too."
Dean knows they're getting close, because he starts coughing up blood. It comes from his hairline, from his eyes, from his fingertips. It fills up his stomach, it warms him from pain. It comes out of every pore, copper but familiar on his tongue, making him shake in the backseat, as his clothes soak in his own blood, like he’s died for a second time.
"Sam!" Dean shouts.
"Fuck!" Sam groans. "I can't look, Dean! I can't. I won't. We must be really close, right? They're getting desperate, right? I…I can't…"
"I can't die, Sam. Right? I'm already dead, they killed me until they got tired of it, I can take it. Just drive, I can't die," Dean mutters like he's going into shock, sitting up as he sees they're driving blind in a cave or a dirt tunnel, sees the endless darkness and claustrophobia yield to a graveyard at night. It's dark, but it's still light enough to see the ground close up behind them, purr back at the purr of this Impala's engine, a note of good riddance to what Dean has endured. He turns around, and shouts out. "Tree!"
Sam swerves as quickly as he can, sideswiping the '59 against the oak in the graveyard. The sound of twisting metal and breaking glass makes the both of them stop, falling to the ground as the car around them disappears. "Goddamnit, dean!"
Dean doesn't know how, but he knows this is earth, knows that once he gets up, he'll be safe. Dean knows he’ll be able to take a long shower and eat as much as he likes. He’s aching for the feel the familiar weight of a gun in his hand, or a knife cutting through rope like butter, or letting his baby scratch new calluses into his hands, ones that have been softened by thousands of pen scratches and stamps and time, Jo's soft flesh where Sam's is hardened and rough.
He holds his breath, standing on wobbling legs. His clothes have dissappeared, as well, property of hell, he thinks as he looks around. They’re in the graveyard of Pastor Jim’s church, and Dean bleeds through the graveyard, one foot in front of the other, recognizing the names on the gravestones, the trees and thick light streaming from the back office of the church.
The ‘67 impala’s waiting for him, in its sleek black paint and modest curves, outside of the church just beyond the graveyard, and he throws himself at it, hands sliding down the side as he presses his cheek to the cool side, sitting beside it. The first tear that rolls down his face surprises him so much, the scary realization that he’s genuinely no longer in hell, but in the comfort of the people and things he loves enrapturing him. He’s so happy, he barely realizes Sam's hands have become irrelevant as he sits down near Dean.
"Are we…" Sam asks. He refuses to look at Dean, eyes closed and looking off to the side. Dean pulls his face forward. “I don’t wanna fuck this up, Dean.”
"Yeah," Dean says, tears streaming down his face wildly. "We are, Sam. We are. You can open your eyes, now."
Sam's eyes are wet and red and he presses a kiss onto Dean's cheek as if to wipe the tears away from Dean's skin with his lips. "God."
"I…" Dean's whole body gives in, collapses into the door of the car, like he's been fighting ceaselessly for years, collapses on Sam's shoulder, tears of pain and misery and hopelessness mixed in with tears of happiness. He looks down and his wedding ring is still on his finger, and he cries even harder, wondering what Jo's going to do to survive, if she'll find someone new or remain in that house alone forever because he put her there, gave her that.
And then, he realizes he didn't give her anything.
"It's okay, Dean," Sam whispers, kissing him on the forehead. He gathers Dean up, folds his legs in and lets Dean rest in his lap, close to the earth, close to the thing he's missed for months, almost a year. "It's okay. Your place is here, they took you unfairly, you just disappeared, they didn't send anybody and they didn't give any warning and they didn't even leave a body, you were just gone. I didn't expect that I'd miss you so much, want you so bad, need you."
"You're not a baby, Sam," Dean replies.
"But what was I supposed to do without you, Dean? Without you around, losing control was so easy, I could do it without anything," Sam says, fingers swiping through Dean's pomade-laden hair. "I need you around, Dean. Normalcy isn't possible without you."
There's a pause, silence hangs in the air as the tears keep sliding down his face, never looking away. It lasts for what feels like eons, the two of them only normal when silent, only silent when afraid.
"What have you done, Sammy?" Dean asks.
"Nothing," Sam sounds like he's lying, and Dean wonders what he's gotten himself into. Sam laughs, and it reminds Dean of something, something thik and tight, sounding like the voice in is head from their ritual. It ignites something in him, thick and tight, the voice in his head that he thought was going to leave him once he got out of Hell.
Sam's thumb traces the curve of Dean's lip as Dean breathes out loud, eyes still stinging with tears. “Why’d you bring me back, Sam?”
“I had to bring you back,” Sam says, solidly. “After all, what's a king without his kingdom? What’s a kingdom without a cornerstone, Dean?"
“Wait, what?”
A/N: Thanks to Stephanometra and ze_pink_lady for their betas, and as always, thanks to Ninjetti75 for helping birth this. I apologize for the late delivery, and hope that this is up to standard, even if it's not completely your request to the letter. Happy New Year, montisello. As always, thanks to estrella30 and txtequilanights for running the challenge and gracefully allowing my extention. :)
Rating/Pairing: NC-17, Dean/Jo, Dean/Jo/Sam, Dean/Sam.
Warnings: Explicit Sex, both Het and Slash, and a threesome, Explicit m/f/m. Interpretation of hell, ect. Pleasantville. Spoilers for Season Three, in general, but not beyond the US.
Prompt: For Spn_holidays's recipient montisello. Prompts were "A fic with Dean/Jo [...] Write me a fic with Dean/Jo and Sam not a third wheel, maybe working on a case together. Can be het or gen. Also, don’t tell anyone, but I’m curious about a threeway with Jo/Sam/Dean. I mean, WOW." and "A fic with Sam and Dean reenacting the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice." This is a rather creative interpretation of both of those things, I'm sure, but I hope it was worth the wait, and that your new year is as awesome as your last.
Summary: Dean has a wife, a house, a steady job, a brand new ride and a charmed life. And he realizes he's not in control of any of it.
Thursday and Friday are here, Saturday and Sunday are here.
Saturday
Jo yawns, softly. She's in the bed, empty. It's quiet, until Dean's voice breaks in the air, grabbing her attention. "So how'd you kick the bucket, Sammy? Gunshot wound, made a deal of your own? Boy king get betrayed by a coup?"
A carefully hidden eye watches as Sam's jaw clenches, like he doesn't like it when Dean does this to him.
"What makes you think I'm dead, Dean? That wouldn't do either of us any good, now, would it?"
"How'd you get here, then?"
"You know how I got here, Dean."
"So came to save lil ol' me?"
"Something like that, Dean. Yeah."
"You think it's gonna work?"
"Do I actually have to care? I mean, if it doesn't work, I know where I'll be and what I'll be doing and everything."
"Yeah…thanks, for, y'know, the effort."
"Thank me when we're out of this hellhole."
"You said it, man."
Dean pushes the mower through the grass early in the morning, focused completely on the sweat bearing down on his face, single minded on the task of manicuring his lawn. Jo sits outside on the swing on the porch with Sam, pouring another glass of iced tea for Sam. Her hand shakes like her wrist is broken, and Sam cautiously takes the pitcher from her, pours the rest of the glass.
"I'm sorry, it's…it's hard. It hurts to think like this, out here. It hurts to act like this, when I'm not in the bedroom. I feel like something's drilling into my skull, y'know?" Jo sighs, voice wavering a little. "But it's important we're out here. The neighbors will start to talk, otherwise."
"Try," Sam says, hand on her thigh. "For him, he needs it, you know it as much as I do."
"You're right," She says. "There's only one way out, Sam. Through. And up, the main road, over there. It takes you out of town."
"Why the hell is there a road out of Hell?" Sam asks.
"It's not a normal road," Dean calls.
"It's a tease, as far as we can tell," Jo nods. "But there are stories about it, we've found out. About people who show up and take others, you know. They've come to reclaim their loves, but Hell makes them promise to prove their faith, first."
"Like Orpheus?" Sam asks.
"I have the book upstairs," she nods. "I know it sounds far-fetched, but if you're really not dead, you can take him out of here easy as you please. Especially with what has gone on between you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks. The last time he checked, nobody knew about him and Dean like that.
"Sam," Dean says, letting the lawn mower go to climb up the steps and drink a glass of water. "She knows, you don't have to be afraid."
"I'm okay with it, Sam, honest," Jo says, lowly. "He's told me everything."
Sam's nod is curt but soft, he understands but if he had the time to dwindle on it, he wouldn't feel as comfortable. Now, though? There are bigger things he has to worry about, right now.
"It'll work. I'm sure it'll work. Because you're lovers, and because you have everything you need for it to work. I think you can trust folklore in this case, especially after how it's changed things, around here," Jo says, softly. "I mean…"
"We can do it, Sam. Jo will have to do the ritual while we're leaving, but we can do it. They like to tell us, all the time, how to escape, because they think we can't. But I know we can, right Sammy?" Dean asks.
"You guys know about what the folklore is around here, I don't," Sam says.
"We make the deal, we establish we're bonded, you have to make your show of faith, and we have to find a way to run out of here, through the normal fire-and-brimstone hell, and then we get the fuck out of here and back to normalsville. It's a long trip, supposedly, but I think they just tell us that, sometimes. You know, scare the prisoners into not breaking out and everything."
"That's cute," Sam replies. "We’re honestly going to re-enact Orpheus and Eurydice, then?"
"You got a better idea?" Jo asks. Sam bites his lip and shakes his head, and she sees everything in him she saw when he was younger, the first time she met him, all boyish insecurity and sweet charm. "Well, there's your answer. The rituals will have to be done at night, so you'll be leaving at dawn."
"Are you sure you're okay with this, Jo?" Dean asks, "You don't deserve this."
"No," she says. "No, I don't. But you don't deserve this, either. I'm sure you're going to be a bigger help than I would be, anyway."
Sam and Dean look at each other, and Jo knows this is right, looking at them communicate without speaking. There's careful tension, but Sam nods, anyway.
"Dawn, then," he says.
"Dawn," Dean agrees before turning around to finish mowing the lawn. "Cheer up, Sam, you're goin' home."
"Of course you are," Jo grins, easily.
"Because that's not scary at all," Sam sighs, and stares into the bottom of his iced tea.
The first press pushes Dean into her too hard, and she cries out wet like she's been stabbed. He slides in unhindered after that, holding onto her hips as she clenches around him.
"You're so good," Dean's hot whisper reverberates through the toolshed, words bouncing off metallic walls and tools. It's hot outside, and Jo's sweating in her dress, ass tilted up and backward as Dean shoves into her.
"Gonna miss this," she groans, pressing her hips against his, letting herself feel every part of the cock inside her, clenching around it until it twitches. "Gonna miss how you fuck me."
"Jo," he groans.
"Fuck me," she begs. He thrusts easily, hips surging in and dragging out softly before they press in deep and it makes her squeal. She gasps, hangs her head, bears further down on him. She leans back into him, as much as she can handle, head down as he wraps his arms tightly around her. "God, Dean. So good at this."
"What can I say," she can feel the teeth of his grin brushing against her ear, his hips fucking her deeper with every stroke. If only he were touching her where she could get off the quickest, this would already be over and done with, but maybe that's why he refuses to touch there at all, come to think of it. Tonight's out of the picture because he'll be fucking Sam and she'll be reciting the prayers they know for the ritual, so this is effectively the last time he'll ever be inside her, unless she finds a way to claw out on her own. A feel of sullen hatred would fall over her if Dean weren't balls deep in her ass right now, carefully avoiding her clit.
"Wish he were here to eat you out while I fuck you, kiss you and eat you and get you off so hard, you think you're dreaming it," Dean says, softly. "You want this, don't you? You like it and everything, I can see it on your face."
"That'd be more easy for someone who saw my face, idiot," she responds fondly.
"I wish I could push you so far into his mouth, Jo," He purrs in her ear, and reaches down between her legs with smooth, small-callused fingers to rub at her clit. "Wish I could stay."
She doesn't know what he's trying to get across here, doesn't know if it's this hellhole talking or if it's him, doesn't know anything about anything except for the fact that Dean's cock is pretty far up her ass right now and she wouldn't give this up for the world, even if she can turn her head and look at their joke of a lawn mower and think that the Baylees have a bigger one next door.
"Harder," she moans, and he obliges perfectly, grunting as he presses her into the tool shed wall, lips hovering just out of reach from her own. "Christ."
"You said it," he smiles happily, toes curling in his shoes, head hanging on her shoulder. "You're so good at taking it."
"What can I say, it's a hobby of mine," she says. "Gonna come, oh God, gonna come."
She presses further back into him, reaching down to slip two fingers into her pussy and press them against her G, mouth open as she tightens, making him hiss, and he smiles and feels the clench.
"I love you," she whispers, resting her head on the metal of the shed, hips canted backward as Dean fucks in with free rein, shouting when he comes, too.
"Stop moping," Jo says, softly. Sam's helping her construct the altar, figs and salt, the pieces of rope from the garage and the candle over in the corner. There's all of the herbs they could salvage from the garden, along with moonflower and fir. "You came here for a reason. You're going to go back with what you came for, Sam. Quit your bitchin'."
"And you don't feel at least a little angry about this?" Sam asks, curious. "Why not? Why don't you hate me, Jo?"
"No matter how hard we try to make this all sparkly and nice, this is Hell, Sam. Do you understand that, huh? The normal rules don't apply here. ‘Normal' doesn't apply here. If you don't take him out of here now, you won't get another chance, and he won't get another chance, either. You're not going to do that," she snaps, even though this isn't very much of a sensitive subject.
"That's rather selfless of you," Sam remarks, hands shaking as they prepare the rings of salt, then sage, then salt again.
Jo leans back to place her hands on her thighs, looks him straight in the eye. Her voice is even, although acidic. "We both know who you're here for. We both know why you came."
Sam's eyes glance away, and then back to her with a softer tone. "You always were a smart girl."
"Don't you dare patronize me, Sam Winchester," she snaps. "Remind yourself of who'll get you out of this mess."
"Just like always, Jo," Sam purses his lips, prowls right up to her, dragging his lips over her collarbone, clenching around a pearl on her necklace, capturing it in his teeth, softly. "Always a Harvelle to clean up a Winchester's mess. Isn't that how it goes?"
She grins, the soft tickle of his breath driving her wild, and she wonders how he knew. "Fuck you."
His hand raises to her breast, tracing the hem of her top. "You know, you could. Do you want to, Jo?"
Dean hates this. He hates sex magic, hates the fact that they're re-enacting myths that make no sense of the long and short of this reality, hates the fact that he's leaving the life he would have loved an longed for years ago behind. He wishes it weren't so hard to live this way, he wishes he could peel the strain away from himself. Still, when Sam slides his hand over Dean's shoulder, the tension drains right out of him, like Sam's eaten his anxiety for him, just to make sure that he won't get hurt.
The bed was pushed over the altar, stripped down to the bare mattress, and Sam paints Dean thin across it, the effects of the spell down and through him, can feel Sam all around him as they fuck, crown of rope braided around his head. They don't speak, wrapped around each other and tumbling from side to side, when one orgasm's done, they re-arrange, slip out and slip back in through a different position, Dean always on bottom, always taking, always proving that he's worth saving. He hangs his head, opening his thighs further, stretching his hips as power takes him over, lips crashing onto lips, unable to ground himself for fear of losing the power they've raised so carefully.
They don't speak, and Dean can barely feel Sam pull away from him, can only feel the rush of power into him, the blind rush of spirits swirling around them, like he has to contain it, wrap himself around it to keep it all in, skin pulled tight and consciousness swept away for devotion and bonding, declaration.
The line between him and Sam disappears, late in the night when he feels like he's floating in his whole head, the safest place he's ever known in this hell swept out from under him, replaced with a second voice inside his head. It’s low and demonic and rumbling, aching to use his voicebox, work his throat into the words that will tell Sam the rule of this game.
Dean's defenses against whatever’s inside him crumble with something so simple as Sam's kiss pressed feather-light against his lips.
"It's done," Dean speaks, under the demon’s control. In his head, he's in a pool of water, wounded and floating, looking at Sam from a distance away while the demon takes over his body. It’s only then that he realizes the rope on Sam’s head is soaked with the sweat of their exertion, desperate and needy.
"May I take him?" Sam asks, strained, "I want to take him back with me. I love him so dearly, want him so badly, may I?"
"Impressive," Dean's lips are moving, his voice is coming out, but he has no control, something evil is inside him, and Sam's holding him there, holding him in place to barter, as if he's speaking for all of hell, for Satan himself. It's far-fetched, and Dean wants to kick and scream and fight out of this grip on him, all this energy, not enough room. "And how, exactly do you plan to get him up on earth again, Sam? Disassemble him like a doll, bring him back piece by piece? Expect us to just put him as he was? Fight us for him? How?"
"I was planning on taking the car, actually," Sam says, casual and easy-as-you-please. Dean doesn't know how long he's been gone, but it concerns him that Sam's so cavalier with the voices of hell inside him.
"As interesting a choice as I think you can afford to make, Winchester," Dean says, his face pressed up into a knowing smile, a little bit of tongue. His hands, on their own accord, reach down to grasp at Sam's hair, pulling them eye to eye. "Stay in front of him. Don't look back at him, don't put him in the trunk to make it easy for yourself, don't bother coming back here for him if you don't play by our rules."
"What will happen if I look at him?" Sam asks levelly.
"He comes back to where he belongs. Here, as a gatekeeper, in his prim little life with the woman he loves and perhaps even a child. And I assure you we'll torture him this time. We'll take away the master bedroom, and he'll be ours. This body? All ours. All the secrets in his head, the ones we haven't been able to crack? Everything. We'll have all of him," Dean replies, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. He's floating on the edge of something so much more body-rocking than a simple orgasm, and it almost scares him, he has to admit. It's kind of sick, and kind of slow, and he just doesn't know what to do to get rid of it, or if he can even get rid of it in the first place. He just doesn't know. At all. "And believe me, Sam. We'll be using this one to his full potential. Don't you worry."
"I want him," Sam stands his ground, barking his words against Dean's possessed lips.
"Fine," Dean shrugs. "Then you leave at dawn, and don't you dare look back."
After that, Dean slithers from the bed, from the room into the guest room and tucks himself into the guest room bed behind Jo, arms wrapped around her as she leans back in his embrace.
For a second, he wonders if the sacrifices he's about to make are worth it, and if he'll be happy walking the earth with Sam again. He tries not to think about it, think about the voice that spilled from his lips or the demon that clouded his judgment, and tries to enjoy the rest of what little time he has here.
He falls asleep easily, knowing that Sam's put so much on the line for him, and is sleeping on the altar they made to beg for Dean's salvation. He's never been prouder of his brother.
Sunday
Jo and Sam stand outside of the house as Dean familiarizes himself with the thought of never walking in here again. He memorizes the things that he holds dear, the things he's proud he could provide, the fridge and running water and the television, the stove and the coats, the sofa and the railing that leads upstairs. He's trying to commit all of it to memory, down to the feel of the restrictive suit he’s wearing against all his better knowledge. It’s not like he’s in control of himself out here, anyway.
Sam watches as Jo spits up blood on the grass, carefully keeping it away from her dress.
"Are you alright?" Sam asks. Jo nods, carefully.
"It happens sometimes," she says, girlishly. "When I think too much, try to be something that I can't. It's just nerves, I think."
"I know it is," Sam nods firmly. "It's a shame, though. Girl like you shouldn't have nerves."
"All girls have nerves, Sam. It's what makes us human, the anxiety. Don't forget the intuition." She smiles, spitting out more blood from her throat. She pulls out the keys to the car, carefully, along with one of her long gloves, thick silken fabric that she gives to Sam.
"What are you giving this to me for?" Sam asks, realizing just how long it is.
She smiles at him softly, "You'll need it. Any demon worth his salt would try as hard as he can to trick you into looking at Dean, bend the rules so he could get what he wanted. Tie this around your eyes, it will make it a little easier."
"How am I supposed to see the road, then?" Sam asks.
"The demon didn't say you couldn't talk to Dean, just that you couldn't look at him. I think you can let Dean talk you out of the neighborhood. And I'm pretty sure that once you get out of there, it will get a helluva lot easier for you, Sam Winchester. Take care of him, up there."
"Take care of yourself, down here," he says, giving her a hug. She helps unlock the car as he ties the glove tight around his eyes, sitting in the driver's seat. She pries the wedding ring off her finger, slipping it into his pocket and watching as Dean stumbles outside of the house and gathers her up in his arms, kissing her passionately.
"I'm going to miss everything about you, Jo. I love you so, so much," Dean says, and Jo smiles.
"Yeah. Me too."
He looks her dead in the eye, and smiles. "I'm coming back for you."
Her smile breaks down the middle. "Dean, don't make promises you can't keep."
He looks at her, like he's trying to remember, looking into her eyes as they water and she prepares for tears, and he nods, kissing her again and finally settling into the backseat of the car.
They look at each other until Sam pulls out of the driveway, carefully, and Dean shifts his attentions ahead. It's going to be a long journey.
Dean hyperventilates on the road out of town, realizing his obligations to his job and his wife and that he's letting a deviant kidnap him from those responsibilities. He reminds himself of the child he lusted to have with Jo, the promotion he was due for soon at the bank. He needs those responsibilities, he thinks, he needs them like he needs air to breathe and blood through his veins and the pen and the stamp to make his life worth living. He needs Jo like a child clinging to a mother’s skirt. He needs his house and his lawn, his tool shed and his football games on the couch. He values that stabilty, and this man who claims to be his brother is carting him away from it, kicking and screaming.
He presses a needy hand on the back window, gasping, “Turn around.”
“What?” Sam asks.
“I said turn around, Sam. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to leave here,” Dean says. “Take me back home. I can’t leave.”
“You’re coming back with me, Dean,” Sam says, determined. “If we turn back, you won’t be going back to her the same way. You wouldn’t even know yourself, they’d have total control of you.”
“I want…” Dean starts.
“You don’t know what you want,” Sam snaps.
“Fuck you,” Dean snaps back. “I want you to turn around or so help me god I’ll push you out right here and leave you on the side of the highway.”
Sam turns to the side, a smile broad on his lips, “Now Dean, that’s the spirit.”
Dean looks backward, watching as Bound Avenue falls out of view. It's only then does the mental grip of Hamistagan, this Hunter's Hell fail him completely.
"Tell me something, Sam," Dean asks. They've moved from rung to rung, the tortures becoming more violent, imaginative in different ways, and the thought that these could very obviously become Dean's fate crams him down into the corner of the Impala's backseat, looking up at the ceiling and trying to take a nap.
"What, Dean?" Sam asks.
"How did you get down here?" Dean asks, uneasily. "Who did you kill? What did you say?"
"Does it matter anymore, Dean?" Sam replies. "What do you expect to gain by learning that, hmm? I told you, I promised, that I'd get you out of that deal. You thought I'd break that promise simply because you died?"
"I…" He swallows, softly. "I told you to leave well enough alone, Sam."
"Like you ever expected me to actually do that," Sam scoffs. "Who was in you last night, Dean?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing, actually," Dean snaps. "I mean, it's not like he introduced himself before coming in. Demons don't bother with formalities, right, Sammy?"
"Right as ever," He remarks. "I don't even know where I'm going."
"Up. You're on the right path; I can feel it inside me, like it's watching me. Watching us. Is it going to stop doing that anytime soon?" Dean groans. "Otherwise, I don't think I'll be capable of handling my body with someone else, you know."
"It'll leave, Dean. But the demons know you, they know you like they know me," Sam says, strained. Dean wishes he could see his eyes, see how Sam feels, know that connection the way he used to. "They'll know you, Dean."
"They knew me before," He says. "We're close."
"Good. I don't even know how long we've been traveling," Sam sighs. "I just want to sleep, and see the real Impala and save people and hunt…"
"And fuck me," Dean whispers.
The silence hangs in the car. "Yeah. That too."
Dean knows they're getting close, because he starts coughing up blood. It comes from his hairline, from his eyes, from his fingertips. It fills up his stomach, it warms him from pain. It comes out of every pore, copper but familiar on his tongue, making him shake in the backseat, as his clothes soak in his own blood, like he’s died for a second time.
"Sam!" Dean shouts.
"Fuck!" Sam groans. "I can't look, Dean! I can't. I won't. We must be really close, right? They're getting desperate, right? I…I can't…"
"I can't die, Sam. Right? I'm already dead, they killed me until they got tired of it, I can take it. Just drive, I can't die," Dean mutters like he's going into shock, sitting up as he sees they're driving blind in a cave or a dirt tunnel, sees the endless darkness and claustrophobia yield to a graveyard at night. It's dark, but it's still light enough to see the ground close up behind them, purr back at the purr of this Impala's engine, a note of good riddance to what Dean has endured. He turns around, and shouts out. "Tree!"
Sam swerves as quickly as he can, sideswiping the '59 against the oak in the graveyard. The sound of twisting metal and breaking glass makes the both of them stop, falling to the ground as the car around them disappears. "Goddamnit, dean!"
Dean doesn't know how, but he knows this is earth, knows that once he gets up, he'll be safe. Dean knows he’ll be able to take a long shower and eat as much as he likes. He’s aching for the feel the familiar weight of a gun in his hand, or a knife cutting through rope like butter, or letting his baby scratch new calluses into his hands, ones that have been softened by thousands of pen scratches and stamps and time, Jo's soft flesh where Sam's is hardened and rough.
He holds his breath, standing on wobbling legs. His clothes have dissappeared, as well, property of hell, he thinks as he looks around. They’re in the graveyard of Pastor Jim’s church, and Dean bleeds through the graveyard, one foot in front of the other, recognizing the names on the gravestones, the trees and thick light streaming from the back office of the church.
The ‘67 impala’s waiting for him, in its sleek black paint and modest curves, outside of the church just beyond the graveyard, and he throws himself at it, hands sliding down the side as he presses his cheek to the cool side, sitting beside it. The first tear that rolls down his face surprises him so much, the scary realization that he’s genuinely no longer in hell, but in the comfort of the people and things he loves enrapturing him. He’s so happy, he barely realizes Sam's hands have become irrelevant as he sits down near Dean.
"Are we…" Sam asks. He refuses to look at Dean, eyes closed and looking off to the side. Dean pulls his face forward. “I don’t wanna fuck this up, Dean.”
"Yeah," Dean says, tears streaming down his face wildly. "We are, Sam. We are. You can open your eyes, now."
Sam's eyes are wet and red and he presses a kiss onto Dean's cheek as if to wipe the tears away from Dean's skin with his lips. "God."
"I…" Dean's whole body gives in, collapses into the door of the car, like he's been fighting ceaselessly for years, collapses on Sam's shoulder, tears of pain and misery and hopelessness mixed in with tears of happiness. He looks down and his wedding ring is still on his finger, and he cries even harder, wondering what Jo's going to do to survive, if she'll find someone new or remain in that house alone forever because he put her there, gave her that.
And then, he realizes he didn't give her anything.
"It's okay, Dean," Sam whispers, kissing him on the forehead. He gathers Dean up, folds his legs in and lets Dean rest in his lap, close to the earth, close to the thing he's missed for months, almost a year. "It's okay. Your place is here, they took you unfairly, you just disappeared, they didn't send anybody and they didn't give any warning and they didn't even leave a body, you were just gone. I didn't expect that I'd miss you so much, want you so bad, need you."
"You're not a baby, Sam," Dean replies.
"But what was I supposed to do without you, Dean? Without you around, losing control was so easy, I could do it without anything," Sam says, fingers swiping through Dean's pomade-laden hair. "I need you around, Dean. Normalcy isn't possible without you."
There's a pause, silence hangs in the air as the tears keep sliding down his face, never looking away. It lasts for what feels like eons, the two of them only normal when silent, only silent when afraid.
"What have you done, Sammy?" Dean asks.
"Nothing," Sam sounds like he's lying, and Dean wonders what he's gotten himself into. Sam laughs, and it reminds Dean of something, something thik and tight, sounding like the voice in is head from their ritual. It ignites something in him, thick and tight, the voice in his head that he thought was going to leave him once he got out of Hell.
Sam's thumb traces the curve of Dean's lip as Dean breathes out loud, eyes still stinging with tears. “Why’d you bring me back, Sam?”
“I had to bring you back,” Sam says, solidly. “After all, what's a king without his kingdom? What’s a kingdom without a cornerstone, Dean?"
“Wait, what?”
A/N: Thanks to Stephanometra and ze_pink_lady for their betas, and as always, thanks to Ninjetti75 for helping birth this. I apologize for the late delivery, and hope that this is up to standard, even if it's not completely your request to the letter. Happy New Year, montisello. As always, thanks to estrella30 and txtequilanights for running the challenge and gracefully allowing my extention. :)