Blue Skies From Rain Part 5 - Chapter 23

[lovesrain44]

Beside him, in boots that were just a little bit too big, Sam stumbled along. Trudging, hands tucked in his pockets of a wool-lined and stained jean jacket, wearing jeans that were stiff with something dark that smelled like chew tobacco and wet corn. His hair was plastered to his head, chin tucked into his chest as he concentrated on walking.

Dean dreaded the moment when, in the lee of some building, Sam might look at him with want in his eyes and Dean would have to tell him no. His resistance to Sam was already so low, and with Sam being the only familiar thing for miles, it did not look good for Dean to be keeping his promise to himself.

But Sam was there and in one piece. Next to Dean.

That was the good part. The only good part of this whole mess. He’d gotten Sam out, he’d gotten himself out, and while walking in the rain part had sucked pretty bad, Sam’s color was good and the fresh air, although damp, was erasing the dim look in Sam’s eyes.

Sam stayed close. That was also good.

Dean didn’t know how many miles they were out of Bath, or exactly what time it was. They certainly weren’t making good time walking, and they might actually be lost. They’d come out of the woods and started along a two-lane black top, East Manito Road, by the sign, but other than that, Dean had no other markers to go by, beyond the road and the flat, spring-plowed fields that glittered green and dark brown in the constant rain, the fat, wet drops drooping off every single blade of grass and weed.

“Why aren’t we hitching, again?” asked Sam.

“Because, Sam, long about noon Henriksen is going to discover that we are missing and they’ll put up road blocks to stop us.”

“But we don’t have a car,” said Sam, being stubborn in a way that was all to familiar. “So why would it matter?”

“Because, Henriksen, who thinks he knows us, will assume we would steal a car or hitch a ride, hence the roadblocks. We’re going to fool him.”

“By walking.”

“Yes, by walking. Back roads.”

“By walking very slowly.”

“Christ.” Dean waved this off. Of course it didn’t make sense, which is why Henriksen wouldn’t be able to figure it out in time. He might be able to figure out where they were headed soon enough. But before that, before that his pride would refuse to admit that he couldn’t string a net fast enough to keep the Winchester boys from getting that far, they had a chance of getting away. The one good thing about having the devil he knew was that he could gamble with pretty good odds as to what Henriksen might do.

They came to a three-way crossroads where the crumbly blacktop of East Manito was intersected by county road 2280, which looked like it headed south. The county road was oiled and the rain pooled in slick obliques and triangles as it headed away across the muddy fields. Not knowing exactly where Peoria was in relationship to them, Dean could still guess that they should keep going the way they had been.

“Peoria’s this way,” said Dean, pulling on Sam’s sleeve to get him to stop looking at the oiled road and continue along the blacktop.

“Are we going there?”

“No, but from there I know where Joliet is.”

“It’s a big country,” said Sam. “I remember maps. Was I in charge of the maps?”

“Uh-huh,” said Dean, looking back the way they’d come, along the black road that led through the water-soaked fields. “You were the navigator.”

“Did you ever let me drive?”

“Sometimes.” The memory was a good one. He turned to smile at Sam. It was nice to be breathing in air that didn’t reek of wet socks or old wet dog or someone’s piss, that didn’t have the metallic taste of medicine. It was fresh air that hummed past his ears with distant birdcalls, the rasp of damp grass against the ground. No chimes, or orderlies chatting. No dining hall full of loonies who couldn’t keep their mouths closed when they chewed.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’ll keep walking and stay warm, and when it gets dark, we can find a shed or something, get some sleep.”

“Dean,” said Sam. He was shaking his head, water dripping down the side of his face. “There aren’t abandoned sheds just littered from coast to coast for us to sleep in.”

“I know,” said Dean. He shrugged, feeling the cold drops slip down his shirt collar. “We’ll find something. You don’t remember, but we always do.”

They walked.

They walked while it rained, and walked when the rain let up, heading east along the road, their feet making regular gritty thumps along the graveled edges of the road. And then, when the road canted to the northeast along a railroad track, they kept walking. The wind picked up, moaning past their ears, making the rain come down hard, slicing at their faces. And while Dean didn’t complain about being hungry, Sam had no compunctions.

“I could eat my arm,” he said. They’d polished off the fruit and crackers ages ago and thrown the bag in a ditch. “Hell, I could eat your arm, if I had some salt and a nice fire to cook it over.”

“Sorry I didn’t think to steal matches,” said Dean. They just had to keep walking.

At one point, they heard the roar of an engine, and Dean pulled Sam down into the little ditch before they could even see it. It sounded too rattle-bang to be an engine kept in tune by a mechanic at the FBI, but still. It wouldn’t be good if some lone driver spotted them and thought to call his wife or his friends about two idiots walking along who didn’t know how to get out of the rain. Or a driver who would know just how close the local loony bin was and who might have heard about two escaped patients and decide to collect the reward money.

The ditch was half full of water and lined with pokey weeds that were brittle from the winter. Dean kept them both down, his arm across Sam’s back, watching Sam’s dark hair trail in the scummy water, his head just two inches above the surface. His green eyes looking at Dean the whole time, trusting Dean to get him to wherever they were going.

They waited while the rattle of the engine passed above them. Dean didn’t even look to mark the year and the model; it didn’t matter, the car hadn’t stopped. Then he let them get up. They scrambled up the wet bank, holding on to grass to steady themselves. Sam was soaked all along one side, and Dean along the other. They were a matched set, should anyone ever be collecting a couple of soaked runaways.

Towards the waning of the afternoon, when Sam had stopped talking, the complaints about being hungry having stopped with them, they slunk into a town that boasted the name of ForestCity, though there were only a few trees and certainly no forest. The streets were lined with some houses and stores and a gas station, but no one was around and the town seemed fairly quiet. It was the granary, which boasted the town’s name painted on the side, that stood out, gleaming and new, squatting with three huge cone-topped silos next to the train tracks. There were towns like this all over the place; the Impala had hupped its wheels over many a train track just like this one, with two sets of rails and a crossing of red lights to warn of oncoming trains.

Dean raised his hand for Sam to stop and looked at the metal rails, gleaming in the damp as they raced off in two different directions, east and west.

“You know it’s funny,” said Sam, stopping, his hands in his pockets as his shoulders brushed Dean’s. His voice was a little stiff from not talking. “But I can almost see what you’re thinking.”

“What’s that?” asked Dean. He scratched the back of his head, wondering how he’d gotten mud in his hair, and wiped his fingers on his soaked jeans.

“Surely he’ll be thinking about trains,” said Sam. As he looked at Dean, strings of hair fell across his eyes, and he looked blue with cold, and Dean wanted nothing more than to build a roaring fire for him, right there and then.

“Yes, probably,” said Dean. He looked at the tracks again. “But those rails look new, so there’re probably a lot of trains, and they slow down when coming through a town like this one. Are you game?”

“We don’t even know where it’s going,” said Sam.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll catch the first eastbound one, and if we don’t know where we are going, then Henriksen can’t find us, right?”

A car came down the street, some sort of station wagon with rusted wheel wells and new tires. The driver didn’t even slow down to look at them, though Dean made Sam turn his back on it like they were going to cross the tracks in a second. The town seemed pretty empty and quiet; he imagined that people were all out at their farms, polishing up their John Deeres or whatever.

“We going to jump on a moving train, then?” asked Sam.

“Yeah.” The adventure of it made Dean smile, though his stomach had decided at that moment to start eating at itself, growling around with hunger, shredding to reach with claws made of steel. “The slowest one we can find.”

They went to stand between the granary and the tracks. It was good to rest, out of the wind, even if the metal granary was cold against their backs and sucked all the warmth out of them. It was good to stand still, and lean his head back and look at Sam. Sam, who looked like he’d been wiping his nose with mud-stained hands. His dark hair was laying flat on his head, and he looked ready to sleep standing up. But like the Sam he knew, the real Sam, this one wasn’t a complainer, not when things got bad. He’d grit his jaw and had walked half the night and most of the day, and had only complained, really, for something to do. Dean would rather have his own Sam back, of course, that was going to be for the best. But it was interesting to see how Sam might have been, had there never been any Winchester influence in his life.

They waited, not talking, just resting against the side of the granary. It might have been about an hour they waited, while the clouds gathered on one side of the sky and the sun set in the other. Then Dean heard it, the long, faraway howl and a low rumble coming from the west of them. Then the red crossing lights began to blink and a second later, the striped guards came down, the bells clanging. Dean looked at the tracks and saw where the train would have to not only curve but also go slowly because of the proximity of the tracks to the granary.

“Here,” he said. “It’ll go slowly through here. Look for an open boxcar, and throw yourself in. Don’t bother with the ladders, though, no matter what you see in the movies.”

Sam looked at him, his brows lowering, and Dean realized that maybe Sam couldn’t remember seeing any movies. Still, the truth was there, the ladders might not be firmly attached, and might come away under the weight. He wasn’t an expert at getting on a slow moving train, but in the face of that inexperience, the safest thing to do was do it as simply as possible. They could jump into the open boxcar, and the distance wouldn’t be that great. It would probably work. Probably.

Within five minutes, the dusty blunted nose of the diesel engine came pounding into view. Dean took the liberty of waving at the engineer, who kindly waved back and pulled on his whistle a few times. Then Dean started to watch the cars. Three engines went by, and then some closed cars. A few open flat ones. More closed ones. He was just about to reconsider his idea when he spotted the open door of a boxcar. It was faded yellow, and the side was painted in grey swirls that meant something to somebody in some gang somewhere, like a signpost.

“See it, Sam?” he asked, pointing along the row of cars. “Here it comes.”

He tightened himself up and leaned forward, and when the diesel hit the curve, and the boxcar hit the crossing, the whole train slowed down. He started running, looking back to make sure Sam was behind him. Sam was running, too, his mouth open, eyes wide, startled, like he couldn’t really believe he was doing this. Dean knew that the stealing had really thrown Sam, but Dean hoped this wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t like they were actually taking anything this time. Just hitching a ride on a train that was already going the direction they wanted to go.

From up close, the train rumbled deep into the ground, shaking Dean through the bottoms of his feet. But he ran as close to the edge of the train as he could, and found the train was going slower than he was. He planted his hands on the edge of the open doorway, feeling the splintery wood beneath his hands, and pulled himself up, kicking off the ground as the ground seemed to give way beneath his boots. He rolled along the slatted floor, turning to look for Sam, just as the train started to pick up speed.

Sam was running, his long legs just about catching up to Dean and the train. But he was scared. His eyes were so wide, his skin pale beneath the dirt, his hands reaching out. It was almost like he couldn’t move closer, as though the idea of it, of leaving the ground and flinging himself onto a moving train, was too much for him. Dean didn’t let himself freak out, but he wanted to. He wanted to hop off the train and run beside Sam till they could both slow down and maybe just keep on walking through the night in the darkness till morning. But he was tired and he knew Sam was, too. And the train would take them closer to Joliet, and they really, really needed to be out of Henriksen’s reach.

He hung on to the boxcar doorframe with one hand and reached out with the other. The wind rushed backwards through his hair, almost stealing his words away. “C’mon, Sam,” he said. “Come with me.”

Sam seemed to blink as if Dean had woken him out of a ragged sleep. Then his mouth snapped shut and he started running fast enough to make the train look like it was standing still. Dean’s throat filled up, like a fist had come up through his stomach, at the sight of it. Sam running to catch up to him, like he had, over and over, so many times over the years. And all because Dean had said, “Come with me.” Was catching up now, long legs pushing, using only one hand to grab hold of the train, flipping onto the floor of the boxcar, rolling till he came to a stop in the middle of it. Then he got to his knees, shaking, dust pillowing around his shoulders as he shook back the hair from his eyes and looked at Dean.

Sam’s chest heaved with choppy breaths. “Thought the train was going to take you away,” he said. “I couldn’t-”

Dean didn’t want to make Sam explain how scared he’d been, what his fears were. He crossed the uneven floor to Sam, rolling a little as the train picked up speed, rocking from side to side. He grabbed Sam’s arms, curling his fingers through the thick denim and pulled him close. He didn’t kiss Sam, but touched their lips together and looked right into Sam’s eyes, so that there would be no mistaking this.

“If that had happened,” Dean said. “If the train had started going too fast for you to catch up, I would have jumped right off.”

Sam looked back at him, his face relaxing somewhat, his mouth trying to smile. “I would have caught you,” he said.

Now Dean kissed him, softly, a reward. The sky is too big, Sam had once said, back at the hospital. But he’d come with Dean and followed him out into that very place, under the blue. And now he’d jumped on a moving train, headed for someplace east, where he’d never been, to pick up a car he couldn’t remember riding in. Into the giant unknown, and all because Dean had asked him to.

He felt Sam relax. “Let’s take it easy.” The train couldn’t be travelling more than 30 miles an hour. They had a while.

Dean let go of Sam and went to stand by the open door, one hand on the edge of the boxcar, enjoying the feeling of wheels beneath him, the darkness flipping past, the night air rushing past his face, the feeling of going somewhere. Of heading out. Along the line somewhere in Joliet, his car waited for him. He hoped that they had parked her out of the weather, and had rolled up the windows to keep out the rain. Though, truth, it had been raining when he’d last been in her, so it was likely that the windows were already up. His other thought was about the trunk and the munitions in there, and while he might not miss all the spare bullets or the little bag of silver filings, his clothes, or all the other crap, he’d miss his pearl handled Taurus. Maybe they’d not found it. Maybe they’d not even looked. After all, as far as they’d known, the car had belonged to nobody special.

He was about to start thinking about what he’d to do her first, either a nice hand wash, or maybe he’d give her an oil change and rotate her tires, when he realized that Sam was standing just beyond the faint light coming in through the open doors. Dean moved closer, and saw that Sam was pressed hard against the wall, his hands behind him to grip on to the wooden lathes across the steel frame. He was going to get splinters that way, sure enough, but Dean knew better than to just grab his hands and pull him away, or call him a big baby, or mock him like he would the other Sam. No, this Sam had a reason, and it was probably that the door was too wide, and that Dean had been standing too near the edge. That there was too much sky coming in on them both.

“Hey,” he said. He hefted the door half closed as a compromise and stepped away from the opening. Into the dark towards Sam. “That better?

Maybe Sam was nodding, but it was pretty dark. Dean stepped closer so he could see, his eyes adjusting to the shadows along the wall, looking up at Sam’s face, at his pale skin and wide eyes. He was being brave, not saying anything, but still, by the tense line of his shoulders, dark grey in the dark, Dean knew he was pretty freaked.

“Sorry about the door,” he said. With one hand he stroked Sam’s arm, trying to ease the trembling he could feel. “What is it, Sam-I-Am?”

Sam ducked his chin, his shoulders curving in, seeming to want to lean into Dean without letting go of the lathe. So Dean stepped closer, moving into the space of Sam’s body, ducking down so he could look up. Sam opened his mouth just as the trucks on the rails clacked and grated, and ended up shaking his head. Dean reached up to brush the hair off of Sam’s forehead, something he liked doing, and Sam tipped his head to one side to receive, liking it, too.

“It’s too much, Dean,” he heard Sam say, whispering, so he leaned closer.

“What is?”

“We’re moving so fast.”

Dean waited till Sam could catch his breath.

“I know it’s not very fast, you told me, 30 miles an hour, it’s nothing, your black car can go much faster, but right now-right now, there’s no-”

It sounded like Sam was going to go off on a spin, like he was back in the hospital and struggling to describe something in his head that the drugs had brought on or that the amnesia made it hard to deal with. Dean pressed himself against Sam, and wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist, putting his head to Sam’s chest, so he could hear the heavy pounding of Sam’s heart.

“And I’m sorry,” said Sam.

“About what?” asked Dean, breathing slow, so Sam could follow suit. In out, in out, slow, slow.

“In the hospital,” began Sam, low.

“Sam, we’re not there now, it’s okay-”

“But when I put my mouth on you, when I sucked you, you didn’t want it, but I did it anyway, and I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t worry about that,” said Dean, even though he’d not expected Sam to bring up that. His lungs squeezed up and he had to concentrate breathing calmly. He had wanted it and not wanted it at the same time, and had been unable to stop Sam when he’d done it. Just another black mark against him, one he simply didn’t know how he was going to be able to account for. Come the day.

“You didn’t want it, you didn’t ask for it,” said Sam, rattling on, “and after, you turned your head away, and-”

“Sam.” Dean made his voice firm as he tugged on Sam’s shirt, jerking Sam away from the wall to get his attention. Sam was out in the world and it was getting to him. He’d done so well up to this point, jumping on a damn moving train, and that just went beyond brave, and Dean needed to do something to keep Sam calm because pretty soon they were going to have to jump off the train and hit hard ground. Hopefully running and without breaking anything.

What he needed to do for Sam wasn’t anything Dean had ever done himself, but he was going to have to be bold and confident, for Sam’s sake. There would be time enough to stop doing what he was about to do. Time enough, but later. He patted his fingers against Sam’s jacket and pressed closer. “Sam, I liked it, okay? I liked it. So it’s fine, just-fine.”

“But you pushed me away, and then you didn’t say anything, and just wanted to sleep, so I’m pretty sure-” Sam’s voice quivered, and his chest was jumping beneath Dean’s cheek.

“-you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean took a deep breath. “Especially since you probably can’t recall anyone doing it to you, so you wouldn’t know.”

“Wouldn’t know what?”

“How nice it is.”

“Is it?”

Dean knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. Sam tended to obsess about things, and amnesiac or not, if it could be worried about, Sam would do it. From the soft tone of his voice, asking without asking, Sam wanted it. Had been thinking and wondering and Dean had just never offered. So now he thought it was a bad thing and that he’d hurt Dean by doing it, and if there was anything more pathetic, Dean didn’t know what it was. Hurt was the last thing he’d felt. Messed up, maybe, but not hurt. No, definitely not that.

“So, hey,” he said now, lifting his head, pulling away a little bit, rubbing his hands up and down along Sam’s ribs as they shuddered beneath his hands. The two of them stood there, rocking, side to side, with the train. “I think you need some distraction here. You think?”

“Distraction?”

Now Sam was distracted from his earlier worries, wondering what Dean was talking about, and Dean took stock of where his hands were, and where the floor was, and where the waistband of Sam’s jeans were. The feel of the cool, heavy-duty button under his fingers.

Then he stopped to kiss Sam on the mouth, closing his eyes, and letting it be, just for a second. “Yeah,” he said, brushing his lips against Sam’s as he spoke. “A distraction. You think you’re up for it?”

“Uh,” said Sam, almost stammering, which was all the answer Dean needed.

Dean’s earlier promise to himself, that they would stop having sex once they left the hospital, was still in place. But while they weren’t in the hospital anymore, they weren’t at their destination yet either. They were somewhere in Illinois, on a train, in motion, no-man ‘s-land, and if Dean didn’t know where they were, which he didn’t, then they could be qualified as being nowhere. Besides, Sam needed this. He’d done it to Dean, so it was only fair. Just this one time, just this once. And as Dean unbuttoned the button on Sam’s jeans, and took Sam’s zipper down, his hands were shaking.

He went slowly, looking up through his lashes to see Sam’s mouth fall open. Then Sam smiled, and tipped his head back against the side of the train, smiling, mouth curved up at the corners.

“Oh,” Sam said.

Dean palmed Sam’s cock through his jeans, and it made him laugh. “Yeah, you’re up for it.” That was dirty talk, something he didn’t normally do; he could walk the walk and brag to Sam, but he didn’t go in for actually talking like that. Not when he was touching someone like this, intimate and close, or slipping his hand into Sam’s boxers, the cool of his fingers making Sam jump, just a little, when they came into contact with Sam’s warm skin.

“Dean,” said Sam, and it came out of his mouth, like a sigh.

“Yeah,” said Dean, wanting to smile at how easy Sam was. But he really didn’t want to joke or tease, not about this.

He pushed Sam’s jeans down just far enough to expose his hips, and his cock, hard already, pressed up against his belly, tangled in dark, curling hair and the elastic of his boxers. Dean tugged on those as well, just far enough down Sam’s thighs, and he bent low. With his hands on Sam’s thighs, he could feel the heat of Sam’s groin on his face, the close, salty scent. The hard skin and muscle of Sam’s cock was just Sam. Just more of Sam, and this was nothing that Sam hadn’t done for him. He knew how nice it felt, how it would calm Sam down and that was why he was doing it. Really.

He blew, softly, along the length of Sam’s cock Though as Sam groaned above him, a low rumble in his throat, Dean knew that he liked it when Sam was like this, just like he liked touching Sam, liked pushing back the hair on his forehead, or pulling him close, letting himself be used as a living pillow. Sam’s head never had to touch the sheets; Dean’d be his pillow forever.

But now this. Dean widened his palms to run each hand up Sam’s thighs, his thumbs coming up together between Sam’s legs. He moved closer and touched his tongue to the end of Sam’s erection, Sam’s skin sparking on Dean’s tongue, the slippery taste of pre-come salty and hot and a little bit shocking. He drew his head back, feeling his throat closing up, the taste still in his mouth, his face getting hot. Sam had his eyes closed, head tipped back, still holding on to the lathes, as if he thought that this was part of it, Dean pulling off, teasing him.

Girls did this. Lots of girls. All the time. Sam had. So Dean could. Even if he normally would have balked, saying he didn’t suck cock for nobody, he would do it for Sam.

He went down on his knees, hitting the wooden floorboards almost painfully, but it would be easier than bending down. For a moment he paused, feeling the warmth of Sam’s thighs banking off of him, felt the rocking of the train, the circle of the two of them, in the moving dark, protecting each other from the chill. And then he reached up his hands to cup Sam’s cock between them, pulling a little, and then bent forward.

He gave the head a lick, circling his tongue around the crown, but only a little, like girls had done to him, and now he knew why. You had to taste it, get your mouth ready, all that skin, and muscle, the pulsing beat of blood beneath the surface. He ran his tongue along it, now, getting the surface slick, tasting salt and tang, and thinking okay, okay. Now he could sweep the pre-come into his mouth, and taste it and know it better, let it help him slick Sam’s cock up as he drew it into his mouth. And then more, his mouth circling around, creating a seal with his lips, drawing back, and then taking more into his mouth, and sucking.

Above him, Sam hummed in his throat, his cock pulsing just a fraction as he pushed into Dean’s mouth, a response, Sam liking it, his body relaxing into it. That was exactly it, that was exactly why. Dean relaxed his jaw and took Sam’s cock all the way. The length was hard, like an iron bar, silky velvet all over, jerking and moving over his lips as he pushed all the way down to the base of Sam’s cock, just for a minute, feeling the scratchy pubic hair against his nose, smelling the way it intensified the salt and the heat, smelling of Sam, something sweet. Like Sam’s hair, he remembered from kissing Sam, when the heat of his body pushed the scent of him out through every pore.

He drew back and pulsed along Sam’s length, sucking with his lips, curling his tongue around, letting his spit make it more slick, his cheeks hollowing in, his throat swallowing, his hands reaching up to hold Sam still. His fingers curled around Sam’s hips, pressing to bone as Sam rocked in and out of Dean’s mouth in time with the train, matching the rhythm.

Something in Dean’s stomach started to leap up, he got it now, he got it why girls liked doing this, when it had always seemed that they shouldn’t. It was his mouth making Sam quiver beneath his palms, the muscles along Sam’s hips tensing as he pushed forward and pulled back, swaying almost, rather than pushing, matching his pace to Dean sucking, swallowing, pushing down for more of Sam’s length.

The train rumbled on, Dean picked up his speed, his cadence half again more than the train, gripping Sam as Sam’s thighs started to quiver, small sounds from his chest, and Dean looked up to see that Sam had tossed his head back, hair dark strands against his skin, the flickering glow from the open door lacing him with shards of black and light. The rhythm of the train was his heart, deep, aching with the shouldn’t be and the couldn’t have, and Sam, rocking forward and back, pressing into Dean’s mouth, as though he were reaching for that very thing. Wanting.

And Dean wanted it right back, soaked Sam into him, closed his eyes, and sucked Sam into his mouth as Sam’s whole body tightened up, and, with a sudden, short twitch of his cock, he came, jetting against the back of Dean’s throat, a hot, thin spill, gushes matching Dean’s heartbeat, and Sam’s. He took his hand from Sam’s hip, and held Sam’s cock, opening his throat to swallow the salty stream. And swallow again until Sam’s cock was still and quiet and soft in his mouth, and Dean pulled off and wiped the trail of come from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Now he had Sam inside of him.

Sam reached for him and Dean came up, pressing his hips against Sam’s damp, bare skin and the tail end of his shirt, the heat soaking through the denim like it was paper. Sam’s heartbeat against his chest, Sam’s arms around him. Strong and relaxed, and Dean realized that yes, Sam wasn’t holding onto the lathes anymore, but was balancing on his own feet, knees taking the motion of the train in stride, his smile easy, his body warm and still as he tucked his head down to rest his forehead on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean’s arms came around Sam and pulled him close, leaning in. His heart was full, the ache pleasant around the sharp pangs of knowing he would lose this, soon, but that in this moment, it was his. This thing that felt like the world, all the world, was here in his arms, right now. Sam’s hair in his mouth as Sam turned to kiss Dean’s neck, and he knew if he only had this, ever this, then he had more than everything else that had ever mattered to him. Even if he had to give it up. Because this had to stop, once they got the car. Sam would eventually come to himself, and none of this, no matter how much Dean wanted it, would ever be his again.

“Dean,” said Sam, whispering, mouth brushing Dean’s skin, making him shiver. “My Dean. Thank you, that was-”

“Sam,” said Dean. He took his hand and put it to Sam’s mouth. He couldn’t bear to hear Sam say anything like that. Thank you. No way. It hadn’t been a gift, it turned out. Dean had taken, and it was all his. Just for this minute. “Why don’t you lie down, I’ll give you my jacket, you can rest, and I’ll keep watch. Okay?”

Sam sagged against Dean, nodding. A little malleable, but then, a good blow job always made Dean feel like a wrung out washcloth, himself, so it made sense that the same would be for Sam. He tucked Sam’s cock back into his boxers, pulling up the zipper carefully, doing up the button, letting his fingers linger. He reached up with his hands, both hands, to push Sam’s hair out of eyes that blinked sleepily in at him in the slanted light. He kissed Sam, just once, letting Sam taste himself on Dean’s mouth. Then he pulled back and shrugged out of his jacket, and laid it on the floor along the wall, in the lee to cut the breeze from the open doorway. He tugged Sam down to it, pulled his jacket collar up and kissed him.

“Sleep now, my Sam,” he said, feeling his throat constrict, circled around by an iron band, grief making the taste of his mouth bitter. “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

And he would, when it was time. Just like he would let go, when he had to.

*

The wooden floor beneath Sam’s shoulder gave a rough jerk, taking him out of the doze he’d fallen into, rocked there by the lulling side-to-side motion of the boxcar, the low and continuous clacking of the trucks underneath. And by Dean’s gentle kiss, lips pressed to Sam’s forehead as Dean took off his jacket and folded it for Sam to rest his head on.

He opened his eyes, keeping still for a second, thinking he was back in the hospital with the light slanting down in thin lines across his face. Then he realized he was in a moving boxcar that felt like it was slowing down. And that the lights were from the tops of tall poles like street lights or the ones that lit up the intersections where cars crossed the road over the tracks. When Sam lifted his head and half sat up, he saw that Dean was blocking part of the light as he stood at the edge of the doorway. His hand was around one of the interior ribs of the boxcar, and he was leaning a little way out, peering, his face white in the strobe effect of the passing lights.

It felt sharp in the back of Sam’s throat that Dean might take it into his head to leap into the light pooling outside, to run along the rails and dart into the shadows, leaving Sam alone inside the darkness of the boxcar. But then Dean had said, I would have jumped right off, so it was probably that Dean was trying to figure out where they were and whether they should jump off yet. Dean wouldn’t leave without him, and even if he had to coax Sam off the train, and Sam felt he might need coaxing, he would take the time.

Still, he wanted to be near Dean, even if Dean seemed to want the distance, like he sometimes did after they touched each other in the darkness. Sam wanted him to have his coat back, so he would use that as the reason why he would be able to get close to Dean. He tried to sit up, but the car jerked again on the rails, making him feel unsteady. So he got to his hands and knees, and grabbing the denim jacket in one hand, crawled across the floor, grit and splinters beneath his palms, fingers tucked into the thin flannel lining, his knees banged into the wood as the train rocked. And just as he got close to Dean, Dean looked down, eyes sparking, smiling as if now glad for the company.

“Hey, Sam-I-Am,” Dean said. Then he held his hand out and Sam took it, levering himself to his feet. It was nice to stand next to Dean, though it made him feel dizzy to be able to look out the doorway and see the ground passing from darkness into light and into darkness again, especially with nothing between him and the ground but open air.

Dean must have felt Sam’s body stiffen up, so he turned to move Sam right next to the door, so Sam could have something to hold onto. Sam grabbed the metal edge, feeling lucky to be here with Dean like this, adrift in the world, but not alone.

He was about to hand Dean back his jacket when he tightened his fingers. Dean’s jacket was, he now realized, the thinner of the two, and besides, Dean had been standing in the chilly damp air without it, while Sam had been warm and bundled. Without saying anything, Sam shrugged out of his thicker jacket, feeling the warmth of the wool bunting under his fingers. He held it out to Dean to take before the warmth faded away. He put Dean’s jacket on, liking the way it smelled like Dean still, and he ran his fingers down the metal buttons. When he looked up, Dean’s face was frowning as he held the thicker jacket.

“Sam?”

“Put it on,” said Sam. He moved back, clear out of the doorway and into the shadows. Just out of the way enough so that Dean couldn’t grab him without effort. “It’s only fair, and I’m plenty warm.” Which wasn’t strictly true, Dean’s jacket seemed too thin to protect him for long against the constantly moving air and why hadn’t Dean complained before? Then again, that was like Dean, to be closemouthed about that sort of thing. Sam wanted to be like that.

Dean seemed to consider the whole issue for a moment and then made a whoosh of air, as though giving in to Sam would be the easiest thing to do, just like the time with the ice cream. He slipped his arms in the jacket, bracing his feet to steady himself against the movement of the train. His eyes caught Sam’s as he shook his head, frowning as though he disapproved of Sam’s foolishness. But there was a smile in his eyes as he settled the jacket on his shoulders and folded up the collar against the cold.

Then he reached out to Sam, and touched the hem of Sam’s jacket with his fingers. Sam went to him easily, as though Dean had actually pulled him, slipping into the cove of Dean’s hands. Those hands cupped around Sam’s hips where they had earlier, the tender press of Dean’s fingers into the slight bruises there sending a sweet memory of Dean on his knees, in front of Sam, holding Sam still, holding him tight, tight enough to bruise. His mouth hot and wet and tight on Sam. Sam’s cock shifted in his boxers, and he wondered if Dean knew.

Dean pulled him close, fingers locking into Sam’s belt loops. They stood like that, hip to hip and face to face, Dean close enough to kiss him, but not. Dean was looking at him steadily with eyes that flickered between green in the light and bottomless black in the dark. They swayed together like that; Dean was close enough so that Sam could feel the stream of Dean’s breath on his cheek, the coolness of the air swirling between them.

Sam’s throat ached as the feeling swept through him, bundling up from his gut, his heart, and he longed to say it again to Dean. Those words he’d said in the Day room, his hand on Dean’s neck, Dean bending close. I love you, Dean.

Dean hadn’t said anything then but okay, okay, acknowledgement but not response. If he loved Sam, like he seemed to, he would have said it, but if he didn’t, like he hadn’t, not then, not since, did it mean that Dean didn’t love him? But Dean’d let them be together afterwards, let Sam have him, let Sam put his hands everywhere all over, and had lain with his face with the pillow while Sam had pushed into him, surrounding himself with Dean. Joining them both, doing something new. You’re the only one, Dean had said. There’s never been anyone else. Sam had been the first.

Which was a kind of love, a powerful one. As was this moment now, him and Dean alone together, swaying as the train rocked, thighs brushing, faces close, breath weaving in small cloud mists between them. Dean’s eyes watching. Waiting almost, tensing perhaps, and though that might just be against the motion of the train, it might be Dean himself. So Sam swallowed the words and cupped his palm against Dean’s face, his fingers curving up along Dean’s cheek. Felt the coolness of Dean’s jaw as Dean closed his eyes and sighed, pressing into Sam’s hand. Sam leaned in to touch his mouth to Dean’s. Light, lip-to-lip, just for a second, drawing back as Dean’s eyelashes fluttered as he opened his eyes. There was a glow there, worth more than anything. There was love enough then, and no real need for words. If he felt like this, if they could be like this always, he would never have to hear them anyway.

The weight of the train shifted and Dean fell against Sam, who stood as solidly as he could, fingers curled through Dean’s belt loops. Soaking up Dean’s heat and watching the backs of low grey buildings slip by as they passed through what seemed to be a small town. The wind blew through his hair.

“We’re turning north,” said Dean, his face towards Sam, though his eyes were focused on the dimness of the passing terrain. “The sign at the crossroads said the town is Morris. Don’t know how far that is out of Joliet, but we should probably get off and start walking. Head east, toward the dawn.”

The thought of it shook Sam. He wanted to open his mouth to complain or to suggest that they stay on the train forever, wherever it would take them. Just him and Dean, to the end of the line, wherever it would go. But he knew the plan, had agreed to it, and understood the need to get to the car pound in Joliet to get Dean’s black car. That was the deal. Dean was lifting his hand to cup Sam’s neck and pull him close enough so that their foreheads touched.

“Okay, Sam?” asked Dean and Sam wanted to taste Dean when he said Sam’s name, so he pushed in, his tongue across Dean’s mouth, gentle on the chapped, cold lips, nuzzling in close, waiting for Dean to respond, for him to push away, resisting. When Dean opened his mouth to taste Sam right back, it tilted Sam’s world, the blood swirled in his head, making him feel hot as his cock hardened. Loving the feel of Dean’s hands, both on his neck now, as he released from the kiss and pulled back.

“The train’s slowing. We’ll have to sit on the edge here and jump and roll into the fall. Okay? You follow me?”

“I’ll follow you,” said Sam, licking his lips. He knew what Dean actually said, but he wanted to get his point across. “You,” he said, giving Dean one more swift kiss. In case it was the last one, because they were going to break their necks doing this damn stupid thing. Sam had a feeling that it wasn’t the first time. Or their last.

Sam did what Dean did. When Dean sat on the edge and let his feet dangle towards the ground, Sam did likewise, splinters poking through his jeans, the smell of wet grass and gravel and train oil soaking into him. Water dripped off the metal frame of the boxcar and into his eyes. Sam held so tightly to the wood that he probably wouldn’t be able to let go and roll when Dean gave the signal. Dean patted Sam’s thigh as Sam looked down at the ground that rushed past the tips of his boots, at the rushing darkness, the ground sloping down and away.

Up ahead, the engine gave a series of whistles that Sam had been hearing off and on all night, announcing arrivals and departures, slowdowns and crosswalks, Dean had said. There was a low chuffing sound and then two hard jerks, metal clanking as the cars bunched together along the curved rails ahead and crept to slow behind.

The train was almost at a standstill, and the engine gave a huge chuffing groan, sending out black smoke that Sam could smell on the damp air.

“Now,” said Dean. “It’s going to speed up.”

And then he jumped, his hand leaving Sam’s thigh, leaving him to leap, landing to stumble and roll, spitting up dust and gravel. For a second, Sam felt the empty, hollow place where he always felt Dean’s absence most keenly, like a burn from inside. And then realized that Dean was going to let Sam jump when he was ready, rather than drag an unwilling Sam down to the ground. That in fact, Dean had gotten to his feet and was hurrying beside the train, looking at Sam, right into his eyes, arms up, hands out, reaching. He would be ready for Sam when he jumped, and it was like Dean’d always been there, and it was only for Sam to fly into his arms, and then he could stay there forever.

Sam made himself unclench both of his hands from the edge of the rough, wooden floor. He looked at Dean’s boots, and counted the paces, one-two-three. A little faster than walking pace, not quite fast enough to be trotting. His heart was thumping hard, though Dean was there, Dean had done it. He could do this.

Sam closed his eyes, let go, and pushed. Flew. He hit the ground hard, and rolled, not thinking, tasting mud and grit in his mouth. And there was Dean, pulling Sam to his feet. As Sam shook and leaned against Dean, Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, and held on tightly while the train thundered past them, heading away. Sam buried his face in Dean’s neck and tried to stop shaking.

Dean’s hands petted his back in long, even strokes. “You’ve got balls, Sammy,” said Dean. What he wasn’t saying was he knew how scared Sam had been, but he knew, oh, he knew.

Chapter 24

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post