bells pond | year five.
March 1st
"I'm not sure this is legal."
Eric tucks in his shirt after using Riley's iron to press out the wrinkles.
"Riley and Mitch don't care," Sam says. "They just want to get married."
"So why do I have to be the priest?" Eric asks. The shirt pulls tautly across his shoulders, slightly too small.
"I've never been to a wedding in my life. At least you have some idea of what to say." Sam double-checks his own shirt, smoothing the front and tucking it under his belt. A priest's costume would come in handy right now, Sam thinks. "Plus, you're a detective and that's sort of official."
They have no suitable venue for a wedding so they've gathered at Riley's house for a make-shift ceremony. Eric paces in the kitchen, barely tolerant of Sam's giddy amusement.
"If we were back in Sacramento, I'd have to arrest myself."
Sam laughs and that finally snaps Eric out of his funk. Mitch is waiting outside where everyone has gathered, the weather a pleasant surprise on this late, winter day. Sam imagines that to be the contribution of their absent angel. Anthony has accomplished wonders in Riley's yard, his big hands taming the overgrowth and coaxing the landscape into early spring growth. The youngest resident had stumbled on his niche in their world; his gift had lain in his hands all along. Anthony whispers to nature, spilling his well-guarded secrets to plants who lock them safely away, growing under his confidence. With Gus's trellised archway, Riley and Mitch have the best setting they're going to get.
"I'll arrest you later," Sam jokes, tugging on Eric's sleeve. "Let's go."
"Can you believe Riley's doing this?" They walk to the backyard in their cleanest clothes; no one has anything formal to wear.
"I get it," Sam says. "I mean, who knows how long we're gonna be here."
"Yeah." Eric hesitates at the back door. The first floor's set up for the party afterward, enough food and drink for the entire town. Fitting, as the majority are in attendance, everyone already in the yard with the exception of Riley-getting ready with Sara and Lena, a new arrival who'd helped Riley alter one of her old dresses-and Sam and Eric.
"You ready, Father?" Sam expects the smack Eric lands on his shoulder.
"Shut up, Sam."
Riley is a pile of giggles and affection by the end of the night, hanging off of Mitch's arm and spinning around her living room. Mitch is equally happy, the deep-set of his brows easing as he dances around with his new wife. They don't care that Eric's ceremony won't count a lick outside of Bells Pond; it means so much here, to all of them.
Hanging off to the side of the impromptu dance floor, Sam nurses a beer and watches the last guests taking advantage of every moment they're together. He's humbled at the number of people he now counts as friends. Riley and Mitch, incandescent in their simple happiness, laughing together. Anthony, leaning in the corner, silent but engaged, eying Sara and Annabel with a brotherly interest. Eric had been pulled onto the floor with Lena, her short blond hair swinging about her ears. She'd lived in Montreal before Bells Pond and she'd adjusted well, her accented laughter ringing around the room tonight. Keeping an eye on everything, Gus has settled in to enjoy the rest of the night.
Eric's cheeks are red with a healthy flush when he comes back from his spin around the room.
"Tired already?"
"Lena was trying to wear me out," Eric says. "Is that beer for me?"
Sam passes over the second bottle he'd opened. The music drops to a slower tempo as the night winds to a close. The last guests leave while Riley and Mitch continue to sway in the center of her living room, fittingly more enthralled with each other and no one minds.
With millions of stars, the heavens open wide on the clear night. Eric and Sam walk along empty roads until they come to Eric's turn.
"You were right," Eric says.
"Hmm?"
"I know why Riley did it. We have to take whatever we can get, I guess." He kicks a stone across the road, Sam hears the rustle of the grass where it falls. "Do you think we'll ever get out of here?"
"Anything's possib-"
"Don't, Sam," Eric interrupts, no real threat in his tone. "You know more about what's going on than any of us. I'd bet that's because of Dean and whatever he's involved with."
"Eric, there's so much," Sam sighs. "I'd need years to tell you everything that I know, but it wouldn't make living here better or worse. There's nothing we can do."
"What if this is it?" Eric continues. "If the world goes to hell out there, and we're stuck in here, what happens?"
Sam has asked that question a thousand times and never uncovered a satisfying answer. "I'm not sure, but I know that if we do get out of here someday, it'll be because of what Dean's doing right now."
Eric crooks his brow, stares across the road at Sam. "You have so much faith in him, huh?"
"I have to," Sam answers. He has more than enough faith in Dean, holding onto what Dean won't allow for himself.
"Well, I guess you're coming over tonight."
"What?" Sam looks over. "Eric-"
"If explaining this to me is going to take years, there's no time like the present to get started." Eric spins on his heel and walks off in the direction of his ranch leaving Sam no real choice but to follow. Millions of light years away, the stars wink as if they support Eric's resolve.
His reflection is beautiful, not a single line to mar the exquisite composition of his face. Sam's invincible. He's pleased to see how little his appearance has changed, remaining young and strong in spite of his exile.
This is what Dean sees, what captured Eric from their first meeting. Attraction and charisma, wrapped in flawless skin, intelligent eyes crowning his handsome face. A face that could bring the world to its knees.
The mirror ripples, the distortion running from corner to corner of the great wall of glass. His reflection remains but the difference is immediately apparent. Stubble detracts from the angle of his jaw, throwing unattractive shadows on his neck and shoulders. Weary eyelids hanging lower than they used to, hoods pulled down over his dull hazel eyes. Lines, some fine and others deep, map across his face like a subway diagram.
This is Sam Winchester, hunter, worn down by the inevitable march of time.
"I know, I know. That was a dirty trick."
Sam spins and sees himself in another mirror; except the lips on this reflection are moving.
"You're getting old, Sam. How does that feel?"
"It's better than the alternative."
"Says you. Look at your face."
The reflection speaking to Sam is as gorgeous as the first one he'd seen, sleek and virile.
The Devil steps through the mirror as if it's merely fog. He no longer wears Sam's face; Sam doesn't recognize this vessel but it's clearly not as high-line of a model as Lucifer is used to. The wear-and-tear is obvious, a tic in the vessel's movements like shorts in the wiring. This man was not meant to wear the Devil. It's a small victory for Sam, the knowledge that Lucifer has been forced to jump vessels for so long.
"Oh, I could go on like this for a long time." Lucifer fishes the thought from Sam's mind. "That's not the plan, of course, but I have plenty of vessels lined up and ready to go."
"Have fun with that," Sam says.
"I'd rather have my fun with you," the Devil says. "Imagine what it would be like to never age, never having to see your own skin reject your aging body. You'd be beautiful for eternity, and Dean-"
Sam looks up sharply. "Dean doesn't care."
"About himself, no. Obviously. But about you, well, that's different." Lucifer stalks around him, the mirrors duplicating his presence. His eyes are lit from within, incongruous with the rest of the body he's inhabiting. Sam wonders what happened to the man's real eyes. "I already offered to give you Dean, but I see you tackled him on your own. Well done," he winks. "But what is Dean going to think when he sees you like this?"
The Devil doesn't give Sam the chance to reiterate his point. "You think he won't care, but time has not been as hard on him, thanks to Michael. Dean's body is a temple, Sam. Yours is a drive-thru."
"You bastard-"
"Ah-ah. I'm afraid our time's up-"
March 28th
"What happened to you?"
Dean shows up on time, fortunately in one piece, but looking like he hasn't eaten or slept in weeks. He's gaunt, pulled in so many directions it stretches his skin, with blurry pupils. But then he smiles and Sam forgets to his concern for the time being.
"I deserve a better hello than that."
"Do you?" Sam bitches. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"
"You're the only one complaining." Really, Sam wants nothing more than to drag Dean into the bedroom and shut him up with his dick but he can't, not with Dean looking like this. "C'mon, I can't get a more enthusiastic welcome?"
"How about breakfast? I'm starving." Food usually works on Dean, though having sex with each other hasn't always been an option. Clearly it ranks well above food in Dean's mind, probably above rest and recuperation, too.
"I bet I can distract you from that," Dean offers but his stomach growls in sync with Sam's. He's caught.
"Food first," Sam insists. "Then you'll get your enthusiasm."
"You're not the boss."
"It's my house."
"Yeah, well I'm older."
In the span of a year Dean's reverted to acting like a brat. Petulance doesn't exactly get Sam's motor running.
"C'mon, Dean. Just eat something, 'cause you look like crap."
"You're such a mood killer," Dean whines.
"Maybe I just don't want to break you."
"As if you could." Dean snorts. "It looks like you've really let yourself go. Are you sure you can handle me, Sammy?"
"Funny, now eat," Sam says, more harshly than he intends. He swears he catches the tail-end of a laugh deep within his own mind. "Then I'll show you just how much I've let myself go."
Dean pulls a face but eats the toast in record time. It's disgusting and very messy, sadly neither of which get Sam going. But when Dean's finished and licking the crumbs from his fingers with an unnecessary spectacle of tongue, Sam's beginning to reconsider.
"Something wrong?" Dean smirks. Bastard.
Looking five-times better now than he had when he'd walked into the house, Dean grins and spreads his thighs on the wooden chair, denim pulled obscenely over his crotch.
They don't last much longer in the kitchen.
"Where the fuck did you learn that?"
Sam's arms quaver and can't hold him up. He goes down boneless next to Dean.
"I've got all that free time they give me between seals," Dean pants, mouth stretched at the corners as if his lips miss Sam's dick. That had been a surprise-Sam was barely naked before his brother reeled him in by the hips and went to town. "Motels still have porn, you know. A guy has needs." Dean chuckles. "It gets a little awkward if Michael and Cas are around, but that's good for entertainment."
"I'll bet." Sam's embarrassed to admit that he needs time to recover. He makes a good effort, replaying how Dean looked just a few minutes ago. His face red, eyes on Sam while he pushed his mouth further onto Sam-almost too far-and drew out his orgasm with moves Sam had never even fantasized. Apparently, motel-porn had really stepped up its game during the Apocalypse.
"Am I doing all the work here?" Dean's eyes flash. He grins, tongue peeking out to lick the corner of his mouth.
Drained or not, Sam's got to wipe that grin off his face. When he rolls, he takes Dean with him, straight over onto his belly. Dean's broad back is laid out below him: pale freckled shoulders, the play of bone beneath skin. Sam grips Dean between his knees, pins him with hands beside Dean's shoulders. At that angle the sun diffracts through the window, a glare in Sam's eyes. He bends lower. Out of the sun, closer to Dean, Sam is hotter. He draws his nose across dry skin, picks up on generic soap and well-worn cotton.
"Do I smell that good?"
Sam's paused at Dean's nape, lips combing the fine, short hairs. Heavy deep breaths raise Sam up when he lets Dean take more of his weight.
"Gonna do something while you're up there?" Turned on the pillow, Dean's lips are reachable. Sam stretches out to lick across, wet them before pushing inside. Dean goes up on his elbows and Sam flows with the arch of his back.
"I'm thinking about it." Rubbing his body against Dean, Sam traces patterns across his neck and shoulders, bites into hard muscles and feels them tense. "Are you in a rush?"
"Mmm, no." Dean angles for another kiss. "I like what you're doing."
All the way down Dean's spine, Sam's nomadic mouth never settles for long. Into the curve and over his tailbone, Sam slides back until his mouth hovers at Dean's hips. He sees Dean holding his breath, Sam's exhales hitting hot and low. Closer, Sam's lips just touching Dean's ass, and his brother jolts.
"Sam-"
"I know." He's not quite ready for that either. There's no disappointment from either of them, and besides, Sam has always been creative.
In this position there are so many possibilities. Sam loves Dean under him, seeing his body stretch and go taut beneath Sam's hands, the movements almost telling Sam what he needs to do. His mouth returns to Dean's neck, marks already developing under the skin.
It's hot between Dean's thighs where Sam's cock slides and nudges against Dean's balls. The pressure spurs Dean back; he pushes into the friction.
"Stay put," Sam orders, mouth there at Dean's temple.
Dean throws his head back so Sam's lips caress his cheek. "I thought it was my turn."
"Be patient and it will be."
Dean's shiver courses through both of them, down to their knees. He opens his mouth to say something else but Sam is ready, there pressing two fingers against Dean's lips. He opens without asking, sucks and rubs his tongue around Sam's knuckles and up over his nails, pressure so delicious that Sam's the one moaning gutturally. Sam's hips drive his dick up at the same time.
When his fingers can't get any wetter, Sam pulls them away, leaves saliva on Dean's lips. Gently, but pining Dean with his other palm flat against Dean's shoulder, Sam hooks his dripping fingers against his brother's ass, light pressure on his hole but Dean gasps, hitching away from then back into the touch.
Sam tucks his fingers under, over furled skin and muscle, down to the soft, sweaty space behind Dean's balls. They're heavy, full with the same weight as Sam's, and downy-soft with fine hairs. He wants to squeeze his face in close, feel them on his tongue and between his lips, but Dean's fast approaching that desperate edge, muscles shifting under Sam's hand. Stroking his fingers back up, catching on Dean's rim and lingering only for a second.
He whispers low, almost to himself. "Next time, Dean. I want you..."
"Sam-" Dean groans, scrambling onto his hands and knees when Sam lets off his shoulders. "Yeah, Sammy. Come on..."
Still rutting against Dean's ass, Sam wraps his hands around his brother's hips, one going further to fist Dean's cock. With his fingers still wet and catching Dean's precome, it's easy and gratifying to twist and stroke, pulling and pushing for Dean's pleasure.
The sun continues to rise and throw bright patterns onto their skin, heating them in a different way. Dean's hand whips back, slaps at Sam's thigh-they both up the pace: Dean bouncing off Sam's thighs, into his fist, and Sam up between Dean's legs.
Dean comes first, hips stuttering forward, knuckles white on the sheets. Sam holds out until Dean collapses on his stomach, face angled back to watch. His come lands on the sinuous curve of Dean's spine, drops caught in a patch of sunlight. Then Sam's knocked out too, falling beside Dean just like he had when this started.
The quiet pervades as their breathing calms, lying side by side on the edge of the bed, away from any uncomfortable stickiness.
"Now that's the kind of welcome I was talking about." Dean smiles into the light, tiny shadows in the fine furrows at the corners of his eyes.
"I'll try and remember that." And Sam moves in for a kiss that tells Dean exactly how badly he was missed.
"I can't believe it's been five years."
Dean doesn't look up right away. The thought had come to Sam out of nowhere; he's been away from the war for half a decade. Time hasn't passed easily, but Dean has weathered far better. Lucifer had been right; Sam wakes up feeling depleted but Dean, after a few meals and a healthy round of sex, is back in form.
They're eating an early lunch, grilled-cheese sandwiches, on Sam's porch. March had come in like a lamb and seems to be going out the same way, unseasonable weather perfect for spending time outside. Even while they're not in bed, Sam doesn't let a moment pass without looking at Dean, a yearly ritual to memorize his face for the long months ahead.
"Time flies, huh?"
"At least you're doing something," Sam says. "How's that going, by the way?"
"The seals?" It's muffled as Dean chews and swallows, taking bigger bites than a person should. "Okay."
"Shitty answer," Sam says. "Do I have to ask a certain way or something? How was work this year, dear?"
"It's got a nice ring to it." Dean wolfs down another chunk of his sandwich and tilts his chin towards he house. "How about grabbing me a beer so I don't get thirsty?"
"How about you tell me before I turn you into my little housewife?" Sam adds an inappropriate emphasis on little. "Are you still winning?"
Dean finishes the sandwich and rubs the crumbs off his mouth with his sleeve. "We're gettin' ahead of the curve, going after some unpredictable ones to throw the demons off our tails. Cas thinks we've gained back a lot of ground."
"I'm surprised Michael's giving you time to sleep."
"Yeah," Dean sighs, "but if it's working I don't want to mess with a good thing. I want to get this over with."
"It's not worth it if you get yourself killed because you're exhausted."
"That's why I come here," Dean says. "My yearly dose of R and R."
"One day-yeah, that's a great vacation, Dean."
Dean doesn't speak up to defend the break-neck pace of his work again. In the same position, Sam might not either; the sooner the seals are replaced, the faster the walls around Bells Pond come down. Sam still has trouble believing they've both managed to keep it together-more or less, Sam admits.
"I never thought we'd make it this long, you know?"
"You mean alive?" Dean swipes an errant glob of cheese off his plate with his index finger; he wraps his tongue around it and Sam swallows hard. "I gotta say, I never thought we would either."
"Not just that, but with this entire deal. I didn't think I was gonna last here."
Two dragonflies zip by in tandem, buzzing around the porch to bask in the afternoon sun.
"I can see why you did it," Sam keeps the momentum. "If it were me, and Michael made the offer, I probably would have said yes on the spot just to save you."
"I didn't make the deal right away." Dean stares off into the fields. "I mean, it's not like Michael showed me the cards and had me signing up right there."
"I thought he made you an 'offer-you-can't-refuse' kind of deal."
"He did. And like the idiot everyone seems to think I am, I refused."
Sam had thought there was nothing left to surprise him, but Dean pops this out of the box.
"Well, I refused the first time."
"What changed your mind?" Sam wonders aloud.
"Something Bobby's wife said to me."
"Karen?" Sam interrupts. "When did you talk to-oh." He remembers Death's little sojourn in Sioux Falls so many years ago, resurrecting Bobby's wife and dozens of other regular people. "What did she tell you?"
Sam figures it would be less challenging to cross the boundary than to get something like this out of Dean. There's nothing to look at, but Dean's eyes settle far off.
"She told me that you're supposed to bring peace, not pain, to the people you care about," Dean sighs. "All I've ever really done since I found you at Stanford was bring you pain. Jessica and then Dad-finding out all that crap about our family. It was killing me, so I know it hurt you. Hell, Sammy, you died in my arms!"
Dean steadies himself; the air is too thin for Sam to draw the breath he needs. Dean's voice, when it returns, has deceptively leveled.
"So that's why I took the deal."
Pride battles disappointment in Sam's mind. Dean's sacrifices are legendary, but they come from a place of self-loathing and flagellation, things Sam can't cure when he's granted one day a year. Hundreds of responses come to the tip of Sam's tongue, but each will draw the argument to new levels of pain. He compromises, saying the one thing that will settle Dean.
"Thank you."
He leaves it at that.
Later, Dean is too fucked out to move off of Sam's chest and Sam is too lazy to push him. The naked weight over his heart is a comfort after their earlier conversation and after their last round in bed, they deserve a little cuddling. Sam swallows his laugh, jostling Dean as his chest rumbles.
"Stop it," Dean complains, mouth in the shallow of Sam's collarbone.
"I was remembering what you said."
"Hmm?"
"You totally said you cared about me."
"Did I?" Dean yawns, rolling away to claim the second pillow. "I didn't mean it."
"Of course not." But Sam's smiling too wide for Dean to mistake.
A full meal must be waiting for them at the diner; Dean's arrival is predictable and Sam's positive that Riley wants to see him, to tell Dean the good news herself. Sam can't bring himself to move, less because of the lethargic weight of his well-used muscles than the idea of sharing Dean's time with other people. He's perfectly fine squandering Dean's day for himself, not sure Dean would even argue the point.
"Are you still having those dreams?"
"The good kind?" Sam teases. "Do you want to hear about them?"
Dean's smile is just shy of blissful; Sam's admirably finding his way around this relationship, so similar and yet so different from simply being brothers.
"You'll have to tell me later," Dean says. "I meant-"
"I know what you meant," Sam sits up against the headboard, able to look down at Dean's sleepy, discombobulated sprawl. "He tells me that he likes it up here." Sam taps his forehead, frowning.
"Anything new?"
"Because you want to know, or so you can tell Michael?" Sam asks flatly, immediately regretting his tone.
However, Dean's not fazed. His eyes shutter and tighten. "Even if I wanted to, I can't keep anything from Michael."
"I didn't mean-" Sam stops and kicks himself for never asking what he's about to. "He knows about us, right?"
Dean snorts. "He gets full-length replays."
That mental image is hilarious and Sam laughs for a second. Dean scoots closer to his legs, Sam resting a hand across the back of Dean's shoulders.
"Has he said anything about it?"
"He doesn't really have to," Dean says. "I can feel...when he's in the driver's seat, there's no way to tell my thoughts from his. I know everything he's thinking. He's not one-hundred percent on board with the incest thing, but he knows that it's none of his business. When I'm here, Michael might as well not even exist."
Dean's conviction isn't surprising but Sam falls over onto him, getting them tangled all over again. They don't find their way out of bed or to the diner for hours.
March 29th
Sam tries to rest, giving up when he can't catch more than a few threads of uneasy sleep. His thoughts are tightly-wound and ready to spring.
"Are we ever going to get beyond this?"
Dean's hand tucks further up under his pillow, raising his head to blink sleepily at Sam. "What?"
In the dark, Sam's thoughts are more focused. "This can't go on forever, so what happens after?"
"We'll be able to do whatever we want." Dean yawns.
"You say that," Sam says, staring over from his pillow. "But I don't know if it's possible."
"Anything's possible."
Sam understands why Eric balked when Sam had tried to say something similar. Sam knows better; not everything is possible, but he's certainly been surprised once or twice. After all, Dean is lying naked next to him and Sam is sore in entirely new ways.
"Hey." Dean rolls closer to Sam. "At least there is a light at the end of the tunnel. We haven't always had that."
The dark days in Sam's life outnumber the bright ones, but perhaps there's a chance to reverse that trend once Lucifer's no longer a blight in their world. Sam would pray if he thought it would help their cause.
"Life after the Apocalypse." Sam takes a deep breath. "That's gonna be quite a ride."
"We'll get there."
He trusts Dean. Sam's no longer a player, and Dean's word is all he has to go on, but he believes. The thought that his confinement in Bells Pond is going to end-that's a line Sam can't yet see beyond. Now that he's allowing himself to imagine, there are things he wants. He can't just drive away from the people he's met here, abandoning them to their fundamentally-changed lives as he'd done so many times in the past. Sam's life in the years to come may not be in Bells Pond-his life is in the Impala with Dean-but a part of him will always live here.
"You're still thinking." Dean rubs up against Sam's arm. He senses the smirk even in the dark. "I can think of a few ways around that."
They choose distraction, Dean moving on top of Sam and kissing his last thoughts into dust.
year six
master post