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Timestamp #7 - Land of Sky-Blue Waters 1/3, NC17, Dean/Sam
This is a timestamp that kind of got away from me....
Land of Sky-Blue Waters
by Maygra
Dean/Sam. NC17. More or less follows Dead Man's Curve. (For Allie who wanted 15 weeks later.)
Part of the Open Road Series of loosely affiliated stories: (Reminders of Echoes, Midnight at the Majestic, and Land of Trembling Earth).
Many thanks to demrepic and ruby_jelly for the beta,
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(20,604 words)
They headed for Ohio early on Saturday morning, loading up the car, stopping at a car wash on 17 to vacuum out the dirt and let Dean put the Impala through the underbody sprayers three times before he felt even slightly confident that the entire carriage wouldn't rust out from the salting of the mountain roads. They cut through the back roads of North Carolina, both of them breathing a sigh of relief at the steady stream of cars heading toward the mountains and the winter slopes. The tourist ski season had arrived and while they might be a lot of things, tourists wasn't a label either one of them would cop to.
They wound south and toward the gulf coast, back roads and long stretches of nothing much at all between the rural communities that stretched from the south of Georgia to New Orleans. There were a lot of old ghosts down that way, but most of them weren't doing anything but drifting between the living. Sometimes Sam felt like he and Dean were doing the same thing, but then they'd hit a fifty mile stretch of blacktop that had nothing on it. Dean said damn the gas prices and let the engine go--and gave a rebel yell that cut through the shrieking of the wind as it rushed past the window seals that were showing their age. Sam yelled too sometimes, just for the freedom of it, and egged Dean on when some farm boy in his F1500 thought mass and a payload could match a smooth transmission and a well-kept V-8.
They stopped for a couple of weeks on the Gulf Coast, just short of New Orleans before Mardi Gras, Dean bitching about crowds, but Sam knew better, because there was nothing Dean would like better than being on a street with a beer in his hands and a couple of handfuls of beads to encourage a bunch of equally rowdy women to flash their tits at him and blow kisses. New Orleans had ghosts though, lots of them, and everything about the past few years indicated there were probably more now than ever.
They spend a couple of weeks in Arkansas outside of Little Rock, on a stretch of road and a schoolbus crash that happened years ago. The driver and a couple of kids were killed, but it was only the driver now, following the path and looking for those he lost, or maybe the driver who swerved when he should have braked. He hasn't hurt anyone but he's stopping for all the kids along the old route and scaring them silly, but they never get their stories straight. Sometimes it was the bus and sometime it was a black carriage and Sam sees both, which fucks with his head until they dig deeper and find a similar accident a hundred years earlier. Two tragedies in the same place have left a well of sorrow just needing to be filled and even after they deal with both drivers, Sam's not sure it won't happen again.
He smiled when Dean offered to just blow the stretch of road up, make the DOT rebuild or divert, but satisfying as it might be, Sam made him settle for laying some talismans under the edges of the road and saying a few prayers to whatever entity or power looks out for travelers. He thought maybe some places were just naturally hollow. Flaws in the fabric of the world, gaps where the warp and weave of whatever stands between this life and the next have worn thin. Sam can almost see it, not as clear as the road he'd nearly followed in North Carolina, but clearly enough. They don't have the tools or knowledge to fix it, they can only patch the weak spot and hope that in time the empty spaces will heal themselves.
At the end of it though, he felt stretched thin himself again and tried to ignore the worried glances Dean threw his way without trying to hide his concern. They could stop again and Dean offered, but Sam just pulled out the maps and his news clippings. There's too much out there for them to be able to avoid it entirely, unless they stop for good and Sam surprised himself in realizing he's not willing to do that, or not now. Like the half dozen scars that pull at his muscles when he's tired, or the limp that shows up when Dean's done too much for too long, he'd learn to adjust; had to.
Like the scarred places of the roadsides and towns, none of it ever really goes away. You just have to learn to work around it.
The Plague of Toads in Lucasville returned to herald in spring further north and Dean headed them that way. It was mostly a big non-thing, but funny just the same. The cause was a massive abandoned cistern, half crushed by a winter fallen tree and apparently something of a lover's lane for a bunch of mating frenzied Fowler's toads in a warmer than usual April. By the time they got there, the worst of the invasion was over, there were fish and game and wildlife researchers engaged in a frenzy of their own.
They spent one night in town only to emerge in the morning to find several hundred of the tiny creatures sunning themselves on the Impala's hood and trunk. How they got up there was anyone's guess. Dean worried about toad shit on the car as they picked their way across the parking lot for breakfast. Sam reassured him that once the metal heated up they'd clear off on their own.
He refrained from suggesting that Dean try to herd the toads.
They'd checked out the cistern themselves, of course, chatting up the guy who was there from some research facility back east. Sam walked the edge of the fence line that could barely be seen, resting his hand on a rotting post staring at what was largely a wide open space, the trees there probably no more than fifty or sixty years old.
There'd been a farm here once. He didn't need to see traces of foundation or even caught-in-time shades to know it. The cistern wasn't in the middle of the former field for no reason.
He wasn't looking for anything at all really, but he caught Dean watching him, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He started to join Sam at the fence, but Sam waved him off. Nothing to see, nothing to see.
It was odd in itself, that there was nothing. The cistern itself was old, possible over a century, built of fieldstone and the cover made of slatted wood, hand hewn and fit. There was no encroaching forest, which spoke of a good-sized farm, not just a few fields to see to a family's needs.
Aside from the toads, there was nothing unusual going on in Lucasville, no hint of hauntings or bad luck.
It made him wonder what had happened at this farm if anything. If there had been joy here or loss. Most likely both, like most places in the world. But it was empty, void of impressions. That was almost more difficult to bear than if there had been shades drifting along long-overgrown pathways.
He caught Dean starting to move toward him again from the corner of his eye and turned back. Dean's worry was like an uncomfortable weight on his back. He appreciated what drove it, but too frequently he was the cause of Dean's bouts of distress and he didn't like the feeling.
He stepped carefully and watched the tiny brown toads scatter. "Where to next?" he asked and Dean studied him then shrugged, put his sunglasses back on.
"Bobby's given me a lead on a cabin in Minnesota."
"What's going on?"
"Don't know. Just asked us to check it out."
Dean gave him the area and Sam spent a few minutes hunting through the box of maps to get a route. It was north of Bemidji, not far from the Canadian border.
Sam watched the empty farm fade in the side mirror. Nothing moved but a few tree leaves, nothing flickered or shone. It was quiet and empty.
He should be grateful for no sudden assault on his senses.
Mostly the silence bothered him.
+++++
It was an eighteen-hour drive. Dean would usually do his best to cut a quarter of that off, drive straight through, but they stopped outside of Minneapolis, Dean looking for a Kmart or a Walmart or something. "Bobby says there's not much up there, so we should pick up some food and water, just in case it takes a few days."
"What exactly are we looking into?"
Dean shrugged. "Cabin. May be nothing, just some odd things -- like no one can stay there more than a few months."
"Chased off by ghosts?"
"Couldn't tell you."
"Bobby's usually got more than that."
"He just wants us to check it out. If it's nothing we'll move on. Unless you'd rather go to Mississippi?" Dean sounded bored.
Hot, humid Mississippi. Sam could almost feel the sweat under his shirt. "No, it' s okay. I'd just rather have more information before we head into the middle of nowhere to face off with God knows what." He was sure he sounded more irritated than he actually felt.
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Lost somewhere between murderous ghost number five-hundred-fifty-seven and the last time I had to put stitches in you."
Dean grinned at him and rubbed his arm under his jacket. "And you hardly left a scar. I'll grab food. You might want to restock the first aid kit," he said and pulled off to wind his way into the parking lot of Kmart. He didn't wait for Sam to get out of the car, just jogged in.
Sam took a quick inventory and made a list in his head, before following. He'd end up getting more than just first aid supplies, because Dean would make them survive on junk food and beer.
The carts were near the door and a youngish guy stood there, ready to help with carts…
…except his hands passed through them and no one saw him but Sam.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the idea that this poor kid's happiest moments had been as a buggy boy in a Kmart in Minneapolis.
He kept his head down, his mind on his mental list, not surprised when Dean found him twenty minutes later. His cart was filled with a surprising number of sensible items, once Sam looked past the double bag of Fritos, Cheezwhiz, and a box of Dolly Madison cupcakes. Paper plates and plastic forks, paper towels, toilet tissue, and an economy pack of three bath soaps, a package of washcloths, three for a dollar. A box of laundry detergent. Cans of soup, a box of crackers, a small sauce pan.
The food Sam got, but the rest -- they tended to steal towels from motels, and there was a plastic bag full of tiny courtesy soaps in the trunk of the car, next to the boxes of empty shell casings. "So, while we're checking out this cabin, where exactly are we planning on staying?"
"At the cabin."
"The cabin we're supposed to be checking out? The one that might be a problem?"
Dean fidgeted, although to anyone but Sam he would have looked annoyed. "Well…yeah."
"Dean, what's going on?"
Dean scratched the back of his head. "The cabin is…there's nothing wrong with the cabin. Belongs to a guy Bobby knows. He's letting us use it for the summer."
"Use it for what?"
"A place to work from. Base. Kind of a home base, someplace to come back to. It needs a little work, some cleaning, but there's…it's free."
"A cabin in the middle of nowhere," Sam said. "You got us a house?"
"Kind of. Until hunting season…October or so. I wouldn't want to stay in Minnesota for the winter anyway."
Sam was having a hard time getting his mind around the whole concept. The plan was…the way they did things was to keep moving. No place long enough to sink down roots. Do the job and move on. Rest when they needed to.
"What's really going on?"
Dean stopped fidgeting and stared at Sam for a long moment before glancing around. He grabbed Sam's sleeve and tugged him toward a counter where knock-off designer sunglasses and jewelry glittered and waited.
Dean stopped them in front of the sunglasses display, reaching out to tilt the mirror up. He didn't say a word.
Sam didn't really need to look. He'd seen himself in the motel mirror that morning, caught glimpses of himself in the window of the car. Lack of sleep didn't wear as appealingly on him as it did Dean. Dean got that red-eyed slightly flushed look to his face when he hadn't slept in too long. Sam looked like he'd gone a few too many rounds in a bar fight -- difference in skin coloring, in bone structure.
He didn't look long, mostly because he found himself staring at Dean's face, at the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Time on the coast had turned his skin light gold, made his freckles darker, lightened the ends of his hair, but there was grey mixed in there too, next to the hold-over blond from when he was a kid. Dean's green eyes were stormy, worry or anger; it was hard to tell sometimes.
Sam dropped his gaze and turned around, pushing his cart toward the checkout lanes. He didn't actually think it would help. Not with his visions anyway. But maybe he could sleep, and maybe a few weeks of Dean not having to rouse him from a thousand-yard stare would ease the lines around Dean's mouth.
Dean would be as bored at the cabin as he had been at the beach.
Sam glanced over their carts, doing the math in his head. They had enough for just about that time if they were careful and if he didn't count the junk food as actual food.
Just in case he made Dean stop at a couple of garage sales on their way out of town. The smiling housewives were happy to take a five for their boxes of unwanted books.
++++
The deal for the cabin was more involved than Dean had let on -- it needed some work -- nothing big, just some patching, replace few shingles, recaulk some windows. A coat of paint. The owner would leave the supplies and the list.
The drive up to it made Dean curse. The road was an overgrown rutted track of dirt and wild wood grasses. They had to stop twice to move rotting deadfalls, which made Dean wonder if the owner had made it up yet. But Sam pointed out tracks weaving to the left and right of the cleared path. The road was meant for a heavy truck or 4-wheel drive and while the Impala had the weight, she rode too low to make the traverse a smooth one. Still, Sam didn't see any places that they might get stuck in unless they really took on a lot of rain.
The cabin was both better and worse than Bobby had described and Sam had expected. It wasn't new, but it had obviously been added to in the last couple of years -- new wood brighter than the greying older clapboards. It had its own generator and a propane tank with a gauge that showed it to be half full. They had to kick it into running before they could hope for hot water but the lights in the house worked, and the stove didn't flare when they lit it. There was a small, stacked, low capacity washing machine tucked into the closet in the bathroom, with a note that it had to be manually filled -- no water lines hooked in. There was a decent sized shed that would protect the Impala and there were supplies lined against the wall. A list of repairs was written out on the chalk part of the dartboard hanging in the main room. There were two smallish bedrooms and a fold out sofa. One bedroom had twin beds, the other a double.
Dean put their gear in the room with the double.
It was serviced by well water with a reserve tank, and Sam was just as glad they'd brought bottled water. It was probably fine and there was scrap of paper on the side of the refrigerator with the last date the owner had had the water tested. Cooking and washing were one thing, drinking was another.
It took them the rest of the afternoon and into evening to unload the car and to check out linens and supplies, make a list of anything else they might need. The down side was there was only spotty cell service and that only along the rutted drive, the guy had a satellite dish, but Dean could only coax a half dozen or so channels out of the small color TV.
They'd definitely stayed in worse places. Sam gave it a week before the isolation caused Dean to start bouncing off the walls. For all Dean's air of self-sufficiency (and he was) Sam was actually better suited for a life lived apart than Dean.
Dinner was better than average canned chili and crackers that didn't come in little cellophane sleeves of two. The beer was cold and the night mild although it would get colder toward dawn. Dean built a fire in the fireplace as much to ward off the chill as to burn off some of the musty smell from disuse.
A full belly and a warm room and no place to be for awhile worked like a sleeping pill on Sam, and he drowsed on the sofa, after having sorted through the box of books and setting aside the ones that looked interesting from the ones that would be read only in desperation. He'd never been a fan of Danielle Steele.
Dean rousted him sometime around ten and steered him toward the bedroom, a circumstance incredibly familiar from when Sam had been much younger but the comparison's faded when Sam sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed Dean's hips, pulling him between his legs.
The beach had gotten them used to this, to be able to touch and hold and ask without words, to be neither desperate nor angry. Dean's fingers curved around the back of his neck and stroked the fine hairs at the nape, only swaying slightly when Sam undid his jeans and slipped them down and then his underwear without bothering to pull Dean's shirt off. Dean didn't protest at all, only braced his legs wider and took a sharper deeper breath when Sam's hand cupped and cradled him, lifting his dick free and using lips and his jaw to nuzzle the soft length of Dean's cock until it grew firmer and longer. Dean's skin smelled slightly of sweat and tasted of salt and musk and warm cotton, heavy against Sam's tongue and sweet against his lips. Sam braced his own knees wide and dug his fingers into the firm muscles of his brother's ass, pulling him closer and taking him deeper, shivering under the caress of Dean's fingers on his cheek when they pressed harder as his dick filled Sam's mouth and throat.
His own dick was comfortably warm and hard in his jeans, buzzing his gut with need as they found the rhythm of rock and sway. Dean's hips thrust slightly with no real urgency until there was and he had one hand gripped in Sam's hair and the other digging bruises into his shoulder, legs trembling and his groans a counterpoint to the raspy, wet sound of his dick sliding against Sam's wet lips.
Sam's fingers dug deeper into Dean's ass spreading him wide, fingertips just grazing over his hole and Dean made a low guttural sound, half Sam's name and half curse, thrust and held, when Sam's thumb barely pressed in. Sam remembered to breathe and then swallow the flood of bitter salt across his tongue, thick and familiar, filling throat and mouth and his own dick throbbed and ached, but he didn't do anything but keep swallowing until Dean pulled his dick back and tilted Sam's head up.
No kiss or words, only the glitter brightness of Dean's eyes and the flush to his cheeks, chest heaving as he stroked his dick to get the last of his jizz free, painting Sam's lips with it. He simultaneously shoved Sam back and went to his knees, unsteady fingers opening Sam's jeans and pulling his cock out, heels of his hands pressed flat to Sam's hips.
It didn't take long at all, Dean muttering about Sam's lack of stamina, but touching him gently even after Sam had given up all he had to give with not much more than the touch of Dean's hand's and the sweet pressure of his mouth. He came with the taste of his brother still on his tongue, wearing most of his clothes and without a sound.
He barely remembered either of them getting undressed, only that the sheets were clean, the cabin warm, and Dean's hand spread wide across his belly. Sleepy eyes tracked the patterns of moonlight on the windows and he caught a flash and flare of something but Dean's lips were pressed to the back of his neck, and his knee was warm and heavy between Sam's legs. Whatever it was could wait until morning.
+++++
The cabin was chilly when Sam woke, needing the bathroom and cold. Dean was curled up on the other side of the bed, most of the blankets wrapped around him and only the short shock of mussed hair showing. Shivering or not, Sam didn't have it in him to be angry. He'd slept hard, with no dreams, and that was more precious than any other comfort. He dug in his bag for heavy sweats and thick socks and two shirts, pulling all of it on while he stumbled to the bathroom. The water in the taps was blessedly hot, but he didn't try for the shower just yet.
The banked coals didn't take long to flare with new life when he added wood and kindling and the stove didn't hesitate to come on. The coffeepot was an old style stove-top percolator, slow to brew but the smell was amazing even though the coffee was nothing special. Sam settled for tea made with hot tap water and teabags that had been in the cabinets since God knew when, but it warmed him up enough to take the last of the chill off.
It was only barely dawn outside and brisk, but Sam went out anyway, seeing heavy dew turned frost on the foliage outside, the planks of the porch damp under his socks. There was a rustling of leaves but no real breeze and already the birds were talking. Low fog hugged the ground, in-between the trees and underbrush and the horizon glowed gold. He stayed outside long enough to identify the rustling as rabbits, skip-hopping through the frosty grasses, long ears twitching. When Sam shifted his weight and the boards creaked, it was enough to send the rabbits -- two of them -- shooting off deeper into the woods and then it was just Sam and the birds.
He looked, really looked as he usually didn't, but nothing drifted by beyond the normal range of his senses and he felt that much more tension leave his shoulders.
Dean woke up with uncanny timing just as the coffee was done and Sam was contemplating scrambling some eggs. The cabin was markedly warmer and Dean came out barefooted and back in his jeans, shirtless and rubbing his belly. He eyed Sam for a long moment and looked satisfied with what he saw, smirk hovering on his lips when he nudged Sam aside to mix up the eggs himself. Sam grabbed coffee and headed to the bathroom, pausing only long enough nudge Dean with his hip. That got him a snort and a warning not to use all the hot water.
The water in the shower was hot, but the pressure was kind of half-assed. Sam washed his hair first and dried off feeling boneless and relaxed. There was breakfast in the kitchen and his coffee was still warm when he finished.
The eggs were plain and the bacon crisp. Sam took his time while Dean took his own shower and stared at the list of things to do, weighing the options of doing the more difficult stuff first: the roof and the painting, as opposed to getting the easier stuff done first. Dean settled his internal argument by going out to the car and bringing in a few guns. They were all cleaned, but neither of them had done much more than that with them in a couple of weeks.
The targets were arbitrary and difficult: a thin branch there, a leaf over there. A ring of mushrooms left over from last season, now blackened and nearly impossible to see.
Dean was the better shot; always had been, although Sam knew it was a matter of degree more than anything. A few branches thrown into the air widened the degrees but the competition had only ever been on Dean's side and Sam didn't mind losing or acknowledging the winner. Dean always thought of the weapons and training as perks; Sam saw them more as necessities, which didn't hamper his competency, only his enthusiasm. He got more pleasure out of Dean's glee than he did his own accuracy.
They flipped a coin over the chores and assessed the supplies, found the tools. By noon, they were up on the roof, the low pitch of it making the whole job easier and stripped to t-shirts as the sun kicked through the clearing around the cabin and warmed the asphalt shingles enough to make them pliable without making them sticky. It was still hot, sweaty work though, and Sam was only glad they aren't being asked to re-roof the entire thing, only to repair winter damage and wear around the eaves and the chimney. It was work they'd done before, in between towns and school years, laying shingles and light carpentry work easy enough to find and requiring little proof of expertise in comparison to working in a garage with their father. By eighteen, Dean had already had an edge to him that made foremen and crew bosses think him older, and Sam had hit the height but not the age a couple of years later.
He cut shingles to fit and slathered sealant under the edges, letting Dean wield the hammer and crowbar, tossing the old shingles over the side. Dean was as quick and precise at laying out the sheets as he was as stripping and cleaning their guns. Not for the first time Sam thought about the fact that Dean could learn and do anything he put his mind to, that no matter his brother's convictions or desires, there were a lot of things he could do in this life and do well.
The opposite of that was that there were few who could do what Dean, and by extension Sam, did now, and do it as well. It was an old battle in Sam's mind and heart, one he wasn't sure would ever be resolved in any lasting way. He'd learned to take what he could get of what he actually wanted -- and this was no different.
The last of the new shingles went down with Dean's triumphant, "ha!" and Sam grinned at him and stretched out on the roof, closing his eyes against the sunlight and letting the heat from the roof soak into his bones.
He didn't move when he heard and felt Dean cross the roof and climb down the ladder, or even when he came back up. He jerked upright when cold glass touched his bare belly, only Dean's anticipatory quickness saved either he or the beer from being shoved off the roof. Sure neither would fall, Dean settled in beside him and handed him the beer, both of them sitting in silence and studying the dense forest around them and the incredible aching blue of the sky above.
Sam upended his beer first, finishing it, and caught a glittering movement out of the corner of his eye, jerking his head around, but there was nothing. Dean's finger crept light as a spider over his thigh and settled. "What did you see?"
Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Just…out of the corner of my eye. Probably a bird." He didn't mention the glimmer of the night before -- there was nothing to tell. He might be a bit more jumpy than usual, which argued well for Dean bringing them here, but it only increased Sam's frustration over having so little control over any of it.
Dean's fingers slid higher along the seam of Sam's jeans, into the crease of fabric at his groin, knowing and sure, edge of his forefinger rubbing along the length of Sam's dick, where the fabric started to feel tighter under the light pressure. Low roof pitch or not, Sam had a sudden impression of them both rolling off the edge -- but that didn't seem to have any effect on the blood suddenly filling his dick. He dug the heels of his boots into the rough shingles and braced his hands. "This probably isn't the best place for that," he managed a half second before Dean cupped his balls and dick in the palm of his hand, pressing down.
"I won't let you fall," Dean said, and did the rub and squeeze thing again, ducking his head to catch Sam's mouth, pressing back, until Sam just went with it, feeling the warm scratchy asphalt shingles under his shoulders and back again. Falling really was one of those concepts that became truth on a lot of levels.
Dean managed to unfasten Sam's jeans with one hand while kissing him with deep, probing sweeps of his tongue and feather light nips to Sam's lips and chin and finally his throat. Sam's attempts to touch back, to reach and hold were evaded and discouraged, finally to the point of Dean using his free hand to pull Sam's hands over his head, and hold them there with more suggestion than will.
How they both didn't slide off was an argument against gravity -- or maybe Dean just had more, holding them firm and centered, wedging a bent knee under Sam's right thigh. His mouth shifted from Sam's throat to his chest, kitten-tongue swipes across his nipples and sternum, along the center line of his chest to his belly, all the places that were sensitive but not ticklish. His tongue dipped into the deep dimple of Sam's there even as he jacked Sam off slowly, with no rhythm that Sam could grab onto and make work for him entirely.
It left him with a low spreading warmth in his belly, made him tense and flex and thrust when Dean's knuckles brushed and pressed into the sensitive area just below his dick. He was going to have a scrape and burn across his shoulders and probably on his ass where his jeans had ridden down, but he didn't say anything, only rode the hot and languid waves of sensation. He tried to catch his breath, spreading his legs and trying to give Dean more room, his own moans and gasps sounding quiet and desperate when Dean rubbed his thumb along the underside of Sam's cock and dug his fingers deeper into the tight space between flesh and cloth.
"Jesus, Sam…" Dean sounded equally as breathy, eyes dark and cheeks and chest flushed. He pulled his hand free briefly -- Sam making a sound that was suspiciously like whimper, but then Dean's fingers were back, spit-slick and purposeful. Sam lifted his hips, going almost rigid when Dean slipped both fingers inside, homing in on the one spot sure to send Sam tumbling off the roof if only in a metaphor.
The sky burned bright and blue and then went white and Sam fell after all.
+++++
Getting off the roof was part a study in coordination and part a Three Stooges routine. Dean had straddled Sam's hips while Sam was still recovering and jacked himself off, spreading an equal amount of come and curses and kisses over Sam's chest. Then he leaned over Sam on all fours, breathing hard; his soft, wet dick rubbing new patterns into the skin of Sam's belly until Sam thought he might just come again from the sight of it. He wasn't used to thinking of Dean as sexy or hot, in all the time since they'd become lovers. Mostly it was just Dean and yes and I love you more than my life, the latter of which was never said aloud.
Sam did have an ache and rash on his shoulders, and both of them swayed and nearly did stumble in getting to their feet and pulling their jeans back up. Sam felt a little drunk -- far more so than one beer could cause --and Dean didn't look to be any steadier. The ladder had shifted and swayed and Sam got three rungs down and just dropped the rest of the way, ending up on his ass in the damp grass. Dean had five seconds of concern and then five minutes of laughter that Sam joined him in, before both of them decided they were pushing their luck at not tripping into a major injury.
They shared the small shower and Dean laid cream over the rash on Sam's shoulders. They gave up cooking for beer and sandwiches, eaten while still damp and dressed no further than towels, leaving crumbs in the bed and the sheets damp. By the time the sun set, Sam had an ache in his ass to match the duller one in his shoulders, and Dean was half snoring into his armpit, one hand tucked tight and warm against Sam's ass and between his thighs.
They'd let the fire burn down, and Sam shivered under the gathering chill but felt too languid and fucked out to even reach for the blankets. He tucked his arms under the pillow and stared at the rough hewn walls and out the window. Always amazed at how dark and quiet it could get way out, where no light pollution bled into the skies, and no noise hummed from the roads under the weight of trucks and passing cars. He'd spent so much time in motels during his life, the noises no longer really registered except in their absence. Here there was nothing but the soft rustling of branches ready to bud, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the steady sound of Dean breathing beside him.
He was half asleep again when he heard it, not sure if it was just his brain doing its routine filtering before shutting down into sleep. Dean muttered something and shifted, shivered, starting to feel the chill.
The whispers took on volume and form, but not enough for Sam to make out the words, like there was someone mumbling in the other room. It was enough to make him wake up though.
The murmuring didn't stop.
He got up as carefully as he could, but he and Dean were twined so deeply together, there was no way to do it without waking his brother. "Wha--what's n--ph…Sam?"
"I heard something," Sam said softly, And like that Dean was wide awake and reaching for the blade under his pillow, slipping off the bed and cocking his head. After a couple of seconds he shook his head. He wasn't hearing it, but it didn't ease the tension in his body at all.
"What is it?" So low, it didn't even interrupt the indistinct voices still filling Sam's ears.
Sam shook his head, straining for something recognizable, only barely acknowledging the cool, familiar weight of the gun Dean slipped into his hand.
The cabin was dark, almost pitch black, but Dean would let him go no further until he'd at least put on sweat pants.
The volume of the murmuring neither increased nor decreased as they both eased toward the door. It sounded no louder from the center of the house than it did in the bedroom, or even when Sam cracked the front door. The shush of voices continued, distinct pitches and falls but no words he could make out and no alteration in tone that made it sound threatening.
Dean's hand touched his back, mute guide and warning as Dean slid along the wall toward the front door and Sam went the opposite way toward the narrow back one. The doors were shotgun oriented, the rear opening into the graveled area that held the propane tank and clean water reservoir.
The moment Sam opened the door the whispers stopped. Stepping outside revealed nothing but woods of various deep shadows and the faintest shimmer of light off the tank from the stars and moon above. Coming back inside didn't cause the whispers to start up again either and Sam crossed the main room to follow Dean, catching a glimpse of his brother's bare back as he edged around the east side of the house.
"It's gone," he said, not quite his normal speaking voice, but not a whisper either. "It's stopped."
Dean glanced back at him and made another survey of the yard and the forest around it. "What was it?"
Sam shrugged. "It sounded like voices but I couldn't make out what they were saying. It stopped when I opened the door."
"But not when I did."
Sam hadn't seen precisely when Dean had opened the front door and he shrugged again. "I don't know. Maybe."
Dean rubbed his arm with his hand still clenched around his gun. "It's cold as hell out here," he said and took one more survey of the area before darting back inside. The thunk of wood on wood and the rustling of paper sounded overly loud to Sam's ears and he stared into the darkness, almost willing himself to see something, hear something, but nothing flickered or shone and the only sounds outside were normal night sounds.
The silence reassured him not at all.
+++++
Continued part two
*I Have Lived With Shades - Thomas Hardy
01/12/2008
Land of Sky-Blue Waters
by Maygra
Dean/Sam. NC17. More or less follows Dead Man's Curve. (For Allie who wanted 15 weeks later.)
Part of the Open Road Series of loosely affiliated stories: (Reminders of Echoes, Midnight at the Majestic, and Land of Trembling Earth).
Many thanks to demrepic and ruby_jelly for the beta,
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(20,604 words)
They headed for Ohio early on Saturday morning, loading up the car, stopping at a car wash on 17 to vacuum out the dirt and let Dean put the Impala through the underbody sprayers three times before he felt even slightly confident that the entire carriage wouldn't rust out from the salting of the mountain roads. They cut through the back roads of North Carolina, both of them breathing a sigh of relief at the steady stream of cars heading toward the mountains and the winter slopes. The tourist ski season had arrived and while they might be a lot of things, tourists wasn't a label either one of them would cop to.
They wound south and toward the gulf coast, back roads and long stretches of nothing much at all between the rural communities that stretched from the south of Georgia to New Orleans. There were a lot of old ghosts down that way, but most of them weren't doing anything but drifting between the living. Sometimes Sam felt like he and Dean were doing the same thing, but then they'd hit a fifty mile stretch of blacktop that had nothing on it. Dean said damn the gas prices and let the engine go--and gave a rebel yell that cut through the shrieking of the wind as it rushed past the window seals that were showing their age. Sam yelled too sometimes, just for the freedom of it, and egged Dean on when some farm boy in his F1500 thought mass and a payload could match a smooth transmission and a well-kept V-8.
They stopped for a couple of weeks on the Gulf Coast, just short of New Orleans before Mardi Gras, Dean bitching about crowds, but Sam knew better, because there was nothing Dean would like better than being on a street with a beer in his hands and a couple of handfuls of beads to encourage a bunch of equally rowdy women to flash their tits at him and blow kisses. New Orleans had ghosts though, lots of them, and everything about the past few years indicated there were probably more now than ever.
They spend a couple of weeks in Arkansas outside of Little Rock, on a stretch of road and a schoolbus crash that happened years ago. The driver and a couple of kids were killed, but it was only the driver now, following the path and looking for those he lost, or maybe the driver who swerved when he should have braked. He hasn't hurt anyone but he's stopping for all the kids along the old route and scaring them silly, but they never get their stories straight. Sometimes it was the bus and sometime it was a black carriage and Sam sees both, which fucks with his head until they dig deeper and find a similar accident a hundred years earlier. Two tragedies in the same place have left a well of sorrow just needing to be filled and even after they deal with both drivers, Sam's not sure it won't happen again.
He smiled when Dean offered to just blow the stretch of road up, make the DOT rebuild or divert, but satisfying as it might be, Sam made him settle for laying some talismans under the edges of the road and saying a few prayers to whatever entity or power looks out for travelers. He thought maybe some places were just naturally hollow. Flaws in the fabric of the world, gaps where the warp and weave of whatever stands between this life and the next have worn thin. Sam can almost see it, not as clear as the road he'd nearly followed in North Carolina, but clearly enough. They don't have the tools or knowledge to fix it, they can only patch the weak spot and hope that in time the empty spaces will heal themselves.
At the end of it though, he felt stretched thin himself again and tried to ignore the worried glances Dean threw his way without trying to hide his concern. They could stop again and Dean offered, but Sam just pulled out the maps and his news clippings. There's too much out there for them to be able to avoid it entirely, unless they stop for good and Sam surprised himself in realizing he's not willing to do that, or not now. Like the half dozen scars that pull at his muscles when he's tired, or the limp that shows up when Dean's done too much for too long, he'd learn to adjust; had to.
Like the scarred places of the roadsides and towns, none of it ever really goes away. You just have to learn to work around it.
The Plague of Toads in Lucasville returned to herald in spring further north and Dean headed them that way. It was mostly a big non-thing, but funny just the same. The cause was a massive abandoned cistern, half crushed by a winter fallen tree and apparently something of a lover's lane for a bunch of mating frenzied Fowler's toads in a warmer than usual April. By the time they got there, the worst of the invasion was over, there were fish and game and wildlife researchers engaged in a frenzy of their own.
They spent one night in town only to emerge in the morning to find several hundred of the tiny creatures sunning themselves on the Impala's hood and trunk. How they got up there was anyone's guess. Dean worried about toad shit on the car as they picked their way across the parking lot for breakfast. Sam reassured him that once the metal heated up they'd clear off on their own.
He refrained from suggesting that Dean try to herd the toads.
They'd checked out the cistern themselves, of course, chatting up the guy who was there from some research facility back east. Sam walked the edge of the fence line that could barely be seen, resting his hand on a rotting post staring at what was largely a wide open space, the trees there probably no more than fifty or sixty years old.
There'd been a farm here once. He didn't need to see traces of foundation or even caught-in-time shades to know it. The cistern wasn't in the middle of the former field for no reason.
He wasn't looking for anything at all really, but he caught Dean watching him, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He started to join Sam at the fence, but Sam waved him off. Nothing to see, nothing to see.
It was odd in itself, that there was nothing. The cistern itself was old, possible over a century, built of fieldstone and the cover made of slatted wood, hand hewn and fit. There was no encroaching forest, which spoke of a good-sized farm, not just a few fields to see to a family's needs.
Aside from the toads, there was nothing unusual going on in Lucasville, no hint of hauntings or bad luck.
It made him wonder what had happened at this farm if anything. If there had been joy here or loss. Most likely both, like most places in the world. But it was empty, void of impressions. That was almost more difficult to bear than if there had been shades drifting along long-overgrown pathways.
He caught Dean starting to move toward him again from the corner of his eye and turned back. Dean's worry was like an uncomfortable weight on his back. He appreciated what drove it, but too frequently he was the cause of Dean's bouts of distress and he didn't like the feeling.
He stepped carefully and watched the tiny brown toads scatter. "Where to next?" he asked and Dean studied him then shrugged, put his sunglasses back on.
"Bobby's given me a lead on a cabin in Minnesota."
"What's going on?"
"Don't know. Just asked us to check it out."
Dean gave him the area and Sam spent a few minutes hunting through the box of maps to get a route. It was north of Bemidji, not far from the Canadian border.
Sam watched the empty farm fade in the side mirror. Nothing moved but a few tree leaves, nothing flickered or shone. It was quiet and empty.
He should be grateful for no sudden assault on his senses.
Mostly the silence bothered him.
+++++
It was an eighteen-hour drive. Dean would usually do his best to cut a quarter of that off, drive straight through, but they stopped outside of Minneapolis, Dean looking for a Kmart or a Walmart or something. "Bobby says there's not much up there, so we should pick up some food and water, just in case it takes a few days."
"What exactly are we looking into?"
Dean shrugged. "Cabin. May be nothing, just some odd things -- like no one can stay there more than a few months."
"Chased off by ghosts?"
"Couldn't tell you."
"Bobby's usually got more than that."
"He just wants us to check it out. If it's nothing we'll move on. Unless you'd rather go to Mississippi?" Dean sounded bored.
Hot, humid Mississippi. Sam could almost feel the sweat under his shirt. "No, it' s okay. I'd just rather have more information before we head into the middle of nowhere to face off with God knows what." He was sure he sounded more irritated than he actually felt.
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Lost somewhere between murderous ghost number five-hundred-fifty-seven and the last time I had to put stitches in you."
Dean grinned at him and rubbed his arm under his jacket. "And you hardly left a scar. I'll grab food. You might want to restock the first aid kit," he said and pulled off to wind his way into the parking lot of Kmart. He didn't wait for Sam to get out of the car, just jogged in.
Sam took a quick inventory and made a list in his head, before following. He'd end up getting more than just first aid supplies, because Dean would make them survive on junk food and beer.
The carts were near the door and a youngish guy stood there, ready to help with carts…
…except his hands passed through them and no one saw him but Sam.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the idea that this poor kid's happiest moments had been as a buggy boy in a Kmart in Minneapolis.
He kept his head down, his mind on his mental list, not surprised when Dean found him twenty minutes later. His cart was filled with a surprising number of sensible items, once Sam looked past the double bag of Fritos, Cheezwhiz, and a box of Dolly Madison cupcakes. Paper plates and plastic forks, paper towels, toilet tissue, and an economy pack of three bath soaps, a package of washcloths, three for a dollar. A box of laundry detergent. Cans of soup, a box of crackers, a small sauce pan.
The food Sam got, but the rest -- they tended to steal towels from motels, and there was a plastic bag full of tiny courtesy soaps in the trunk of the car, next to the boxes of empty shell casings. "So, while we're checking out this cabin, where exactly are we planning on staying?"
"At the cabin."
"The cabin we're supposed to be checking out? The one that might be a problem?"
Dean fidgeted, although to anyone but Sam he would have looked annoyed. "Well…yeah."
"Dean, what's going on?"
Dean scratched the back of his head. "The cabin is…there's nothing wrong with the cabin. Belongs to a guy Bobby knows. He's letting us use it for the summer."
"Use it for what?"
"A place to work from. Base. Kind of a home base, someplace to come back to. It needs a little work, some cleaning, but there's…it's free."
"A cabin in the middle of nowhere," Sam said. "You got us a house?"
"Kind of. Until hunting season…October or so. I wouldn't want to stay in Minnesota for the winter anyway."
Sam was having a hard time getting his mind around the whole concept. The plan was…the way they did things was to keep moving. No place long enough to sink down roots. Do the job and move on. Rest when they needed to.
"What's really going on?"
Dean stopped fidgeting and stared at Sam for a long moment before glancing around. He grabbed Sam's sleeve and tugged him toward a counter where knock-off designer sunglasses and jewelry glittered and waited.
Dean stopped them in front of the sunglasses display, reaching out to tilt the mirror up. He didn't say a word.
Sam didn't really need to look. He'd seen himself in the motel mirror that morning, caught glimpses of himself in the window of the car. Lack of sleep didn't wear as appealingly on him as it did Dean. Dean got that red-eyed slightly flushed look to his face when he hadn't slept in too long. Sam looked like he'd gone a few too many rounds in a bar fight -- difference in skin coloring, in bone structure.
He didn't look long, mostly because he found himself staring at Dean's face, at the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Time on the coast had turned his skin light gold, made his freckles darker, lightened the ends of his hair, but there was grey mixed in there too, next to the hold-over blond from when he was a kid. Dean's green eyes were stormy, worry or anger; it was hard to tell sometimes.
Sam dropped his gaze and turned around, pushing his cart toward the checkout lanes. He didn't actually think it would help. Not with his visions anyway. But maybe he could sleep, and maybe a few weeks of Dean not having to rouse him from a thousand-yard stare would ease the lines around Dean's mouth.
Dean would be as bored at the cabin as he had been at the beach.
Sam glanced over their carts, doing the math in his head. They had enough for just about that time if they were careful and if he didn't count the junk food as actual food.
Just in case he made Dean stop at a couple of garage sales on their way out of town. The smiling housewives were happy to take a five for their boxes of unwanted books.
++++
The deal for the cabin was more involved than Dean had let on -- it needed some work -- nothing big, just some patching, replace few shingles, recaulk some windows. A coat of paint. The owner would leave the supplies and the list.
The drive up to it made Dean curse. The road was an overgrown rutted track of dirt and wild wood grasses. They had to stop twice to move rotting deadfalls, which made Dean wonder if the owner had made it up yet. But Sam pointed out tracks weaving to the left and right of the cleared path. The road was meant for a heavy truck or 4-wheel drive and while the Impala had the weight, she rode too low to make the traverse a smooth one. Still, Sam didn't see any places that they might get stuck in unless they really took on a lot of rain.
The cabin was both better and worse than Bobby had described and Sam had expected. It wasn't new, but it had obviously been added to in the last couple of years -- new wood brighter than the greying older clapboards. It had its own generator and a propane tank with a gauge that showed it to be half full. They had to kick it into running before they could hope for hot water but the lights in the house worked, and the stove didn't flare when they lit it. There was a small, stacked, low capacity washing machine tucked into the closet in the bathroom, with a note that it had to be manually filled -- no water lines hooked in. There was a decent sized shed that would protect the Impala and there were supplies lined against the wall. A list of repairs was written out on the chalk part of the dartboard hanging in the main room. There were two smallish bedrooms and a fold out sofa. One bedroom had twin beds, the other a double.
Dean put their gear in the room with the double.
It was serviced by well water with a reserve tank, and Sam was just as glad they'd brought bottled water. It was probably fine and there was scrap of paper on the side of the refrigerator with the last date the owner had had the water tested. Cooking and washing were one thing, drinking was another.
It took them the rest of the afternoon and into evening to unload the car and to check out linens and supplies, make a list of anything else they might need. The down side was there was only spotty cell service and that only along the rutted drive, the guy had a satellite dish, but Dean could only coax a half dozen or so channels out of the small color TV.
They'd definitely stayed in worse places. Sam gave it a week before the isolation caused Dean to start bouncing off the walls. For all Dean's air of self-sufficiency (and he was) Sam was actually better suited for a life lived apart than Dean.
Dinner was better than average canned chili and crackers that didn't come in little cellophane sleeves of two. The beer was cold and the night mild although it would get colder toward dawn. Dean built a fire in the fireplace as much to ward off the chill as to burn off some of the musty smell from disuse.
A full belly and a warm room and no place to be for awhile worked like a sleeping pill on Sam, and he drowsed on the sofa, after having sorted through the box of books and setting aside the ones that looked interesting from the ones that would be read only in desperation. He'd never been a fan of Danielle Steele.
Dean rousted him sometime around ten and steered him toward the bedroom, a circumstance incredibly familiar from when Sam had been much younger but the comparison's faded when Sam sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed Dean's hips, pulling him between his legs.
The beach had gotten them used to this, to be able to touch and hold and ask without words, to be neither desperate nor angry. Dean's fingers curved around the back of his neck and stroked the fine hairs at the nape, only swaying slightly when Sam undid his jeans and slipped them down and then his underwear without bothering to pull Dean's shirt off. Dean didn't protest at all, only braced his legs wider and took a sharper deeper breath when Sam's hand cupped and cradled him, lifting his dick free and using lips and his jaw to nuzzle the soft length of Dean's cock until it grew firmer and longer. Dean's skin smelled slightly of sweat and tasted of salt and musk and warm cotton, heavy against Sam's tongue and sweet against his lips. Sam braced his own knees wide and dug his fingers into the firm muscles of his brother's ass, pulling him closer and taking him deeper, shivering under the caress of Dean's fingers on his cheek when they pressed harder as his dick filled Sam's mouth and throat.
His own dick was comfortably warm and hard in his jeans, buzzing his gut with need as they found the rhythm of rock and sway. Dean's hips thrust slightly with no real urgency until there was and he had one hand gripped in Sam's hair and the other digging bruises into his shoulder, legs trembling and his groans a counterpoint to the raspy, wet sound of his dick sliding against Sam's wet lips.
Sam's fingers dug deeper into Dean's ass spreading him wide, fingertips just grazing over his hole and Dean made a low guttural sound, half Sam's name and half curse, thrust and held, when Sam's thumb barely pressed in. Sam remembered to breathe and then swallow the flood of bitter salt across his tongue, thick and familiar, filling throat and mouth and his own dick throbbed and ached, but he didn't do anything but keep swallowing until Dean pulled his dick back and tilted Sam's head up.
No kiss or words, only the glitter brightness of Dean's eyes and the flush to his cheeks, chest heaving as he stroked his dick to get the last of his jizz free, painting Sam's lips with it. He simultaneously shoved Sam back and went to his knees, unsteady fingers opening Sam's jeans and pulling his cock out, heels of his hands pressed flat to Sam's hips.
It didn't take long at all, Dean muttering about Sam's lack of stamina, but touching him gently even after Sam had given up all he had to give with not much more than the touch of Dean's hand's and the sweet pressure of his mouth. He came with the taste of his brother still on his tongue, wearing most of his clothes and without a sound.
He barely remembered either of them getting undressed, only that the sheets were clean, the cabin warm, and Dean's hand spread wide across his belly. Sleepy eyes tracked the patterns of moonlight on the windows and he caught a flash and flare of something but Dean's lips were pressed to the back of his neck, and his knee was warm and heavy between Sam's legs. Whatever it was could wait until morning.
+++++
The cabin was chilly when Sam woke, needing the bathroom and cold. Dean was curled up on the other side of the bed, most of the blankets wrapped around him and only the short shock of mussed hair showing. Shivering or not, Sam didn't have it in him to be angry. He'd slept hard, with no dreams, and that was more precious than any other comfort. He dug in his bag for heavy sweats and thick socks and two shirts, pulling all of it on while he stumbled to the bathroom. The water in the taps was blessedly hot, but he didn't try for the shower just yet.
The banked coals didn't take long to flare with new life when he added wood and kindling and the stove didn't hesitate to come on. The coffeepot was an old style stove-top percolator, slow to brew but the smell was amazing even though the coffee was nothing special. Sam settled for tea made with hot tap water and teabags that had been in the cabinets since God knew when, but it warmed him up enough to take the last of the chill off.
It was only barely dawn outside and brisk, but Sam went out anyway, seeing heavy dew turned frost on the foliage outside, the planks of the porch damp under his socks. There was a rustling of leaves but no real breeze and already the birds were talking. Low fog hugged the ground, in-between the trees and underbrush and the horizon glowed gold. He stayed outside long enough to identify the rustling as rabbits, skip-hopping through the frosty grasses, long ears twitching. When Sam shifted his weight and the boards creaked, it was enough to send the rabbits -- two of them -- shooting off deeper into the woods and then it was just Sam and the birds.
He looked, really looked as he usually didn't, but nothing drifted by beyond the normal range of his senses and he felt that much more tension leave his shoulders.
Dean woke up with uncanny timing just as the coffee was done and Sam was contemplating scrambling some eggs. The cabin was markedly warmer and Dean came out barefooted and back in his jeans, shirtless and rubbing his belly. He eyed Sam for a long moment and looked satisfied with what he saw, smirk hovering on his lips when he nudged Sam aside to mix up the eggs himself. Sam grabbed coffee and headed to the bathroom, pausing only long enough nudge Dean with his hip. That got him a snort and a warning not to use all the hot water.
The water in the shower was hot, but the pressure was kind of half-assed. Sam washed his hair first and dried off feeling boneless and relaxed. There was breakfast in the kitchen and his coffee was still warm when he finished.
The eggs were plain and the bacon crisp. Sam took his time while Dean took his own shower and stared at the list of things to do, weighing the options of doing the more difficult stuff first: the roof and the painting, as opposed to getting the easier stuff done first. Dean settled his internal argument by going out to the car and bringing in a few guns. They were all cleaned, but neither of them had done much more than that with them in a couple of weeks.
The targets were arbitrary and difficult: a thin branch there, a leaf over there. A ring of mushrooms left over from last season, now blackened and nearly impossible to see.
Dean was the better shot; always had been, although Sam knew it was a matter of degree more than anything. A few branches thrown into the air widened the degrees but the competition had only ever been on Dean's side and Sam didn't mind losing or acknowledging the winner. Dean always thought of the weapons and training as perks; Sam saw them more as necessities, which didn't hamper his competency, only his enthusiasm. He got more pleasure out of Dean's glee than he did his own accuracy.
They flipped a coin over the chores and assessed the supplies, found the tools. By noon, they were up on the roof, the low pitch of it making the whole job easier and stripped to t-shirts as the sun kicked through the clearing around the cabin and warmed the asphalt shingles enough to make them pliable without making them sticky. It was still hot, sweaty work though, and Sam was only glad they aren't being asked to re-roof the entire thing, only to repair winter damage and wear around the eaves and the chimney. It was work they'd done before, in between towns and school years, laying shingles and light carpentry work easy enough to find and requiring little proof of expertise in comparison to working in a garage with their father. By eighteen, Dean had already had an edge to him that made foremen and crew bosses think him older, and Sam had hit the height but not the age a couple of years later.
He cut shingles to fit and slathered sealant under the edges, letting Dean wield the hammer and crowbar, tossing the old shingles over the side. Dean was as quick and precise at laying out the sheets as he was as stripping and cleaning their guns. Not for the first time Sam thought about the fact that Dean could learn and do anything he put his mind to, that no matter his brother's convictions or desires, there were a lot of things he could do in this life and do well.
The opposite of that was that there were few who could do what Dean, and by extension Sam, did now, and do it as well. It was an old battle in Sam's mind and heart, one he wasn't sure would ever be resolved in any lasting way. He'd learned to take what he could get of what he actually wanted -- and this was no different.
The last of the new shingles went down with Dean's triumphant, "ha!" and Sam grinned at him and stretched out on the roof, closing his eyes against the sunlight and letting the heat from the roof soak into his bones.
He didn't move when he heard and felt Dean cross the roof and climb down the ladder, or even when he came back up. He jerked upright when cold glass touched his bare belly, only Dean's anticipatory quickness saved either he or the beer from being shoved off the roof. Sure neither would fall, Dean settled in beside him and handed him the beer, both of them sitting in silence and studying the dense forest around them and the incredible aching blue of the sky above.
Sam upended his beer first, finishing it, and caught a glittering movement out of the corner of his eye, jerking his head around, but there was nothing. Dean's finger crept light as a spider over his thigh and settled. "What did you see?"
Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Just…out of the corner of my eye. Probably a bird." He didn't mention the glimmer of the night before -- there was nothing to tell. He might be a bit more jumpy than usual, which argued well for Dean bringing them here, but it only increased Sam's frustration over having so little control over any of it.
Dean's fingers slid higher along the seam of Sam's jeans, into the crease of fabric at his groin, knowing and sure, edge of his forefinger rubbing along the length of Sam's dick, where the fabric started to feel tighter under the light pressure. Low roof pitch or not, Sam had a sudden impression of them both rolling off the edge -- but that didn't seem to have any effect on the blood suddenly filling his dick. He dug the heels of his boots into the rough shingles and braced his hands. "This probably isn't the best place for that," he managed a half second before Dean cupped his balls and dick in the palm of his hand, pressing down.
"I won't let you fall," Dean said, and did the rub and squeeze thing again, ducking his head to catch Sam's mouth, pressing back, until Sam just went with it, feeling the warm scratchy asphalt shingles under his shoulders and back again. Falling really was one of those concepts that became truth on a lot of levels.
Dean managed to unfasten Sam's jeans with one hand while kissing him with deep, probing sweeps of his tongue and feather light nips to Sam's lips and chin and finally his throat. Sam's attempts to touch back, to reach and hold were evaded and discouraged, finally to the point of Dean using his free hand to pull Sam's hands over his head, and hold them there with more suggestion than will.
How they both didn't slide off was an argument against gravity -- or maybe Dean just had more, holding them firm and centered, wedging a bent knee under Sam's right thigh. His mouth shifted from Sam's throat to his chest, kitten-tongue swipes across his nipples and sternum, along the center line of his chest to his belly, all the places that were sensitive but not ticklish. His tongue dipped into the deep dimple of Sam's there even as he jacked Sam off slowly, with no rhythm that Sam could grab onto and make work for him entirely.
It left him with a low spreading warmth in his belly, made him tense and flex and thrust when Dean's knuckles brushed and pressed into the sensitive area just below his dick. He was going to have a scrape and burn across his shoulders and probably on his ass where his jeans had ridden down, but he didn't say anything, only rode the hot and languid waves of sensation. He tried to catch his breath, spreading his legs and trying to give Dean more room, his own moans and gasps sounding quiet and desperate when Dean rubbed his thumb along the underside of Sam's cock and dug his fingers deeper into the tight space between flesh and cloth.
"Jesus, Sam…" Dean sounded equally as breathy, eyes dark and cheeks and chest flushed. He pulled his hand free briefly -- Sam making a sound that was suspiciously like whimper, but then Dean's fingers were back, spit-slick and purposeful. Sam lifted his hips, going almost rigid when Dean slipped both fingers inside, homing in on the one spot sure to send Sam tumbling off the roof if only in a metaphor.
The sky burned bright and blue and then went white and Sam fell after all.
+++++
Getting off the roof was part a study in coordination and part a Three Stooges routine. Dean had straddled Sam's hips while Sam was still recovering and jacked himself off, spreading an equal amount of come and curses and kisses over Sam's chest. Then he leaned over Sam on all fours, breathing hard; his soft, wet dick rubbing new patterns into the skin of Sam's belly until Sam thought he might just come again from the sight of it. He wasn't used to thinking of Dean as sexy or hot, in all the time since they'd become lovers. Mostly it was just Dean and yes and I love you more than my life, the latter of which was never said aloud.
Sam did have an ache and rash on his shoulders, and both of them swayed and nearly did stumble in getting to their feet and pulling their jeans back up. Sam felt a little drunk -- far more so than one beer could cause --and Dean didn't look to be any steadier. The ladder had shifted and swayed and Sam got three rungs down and just dropped the rest of the way, ending up on his ass in the damp grass. Dean had five seconds of concern and then five minutes of laughter that Sam joined him in, before both of them decided they were pushing their luck at not tripping into a major injury.
They shared the small shower and Dean laid cream over the rash on Sam's shoulders. They gave up cooking for beer and sandwiches, eaten while still damp and dressed no further than towels, leaving crumbs in the bed and the sheets damp. By the time the sun set, Sam had an ache in his ass to match the duller one in his shoulders, and Dean was half snoring into his armpit, one hand tucked tight and warm against Sam's ass and between his thighs.
They'd let the fire burn down, and Sam shivered under the gathering chill but felt too languid and fucked out to even reach for the blankets. He tucked his arms under the pillow and stared at the rough hewn walls and out the window. Always amazed at how dark and quiet it could get way out, where no light pollution bled into the skies, and no noise hummed from the roads under the weight of trucks and passing cars. He'd spent so much time in motels during his life, the noises no longer really registered except in their absence. Here there was nothing but the soft rustling of branches ready to bud, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the steady sound of Dean breathing beside him.
He was half asleep again when he heard it, not sure if it was just his brain doing its routine filtering before shutting down into sleep. Dean muttered something and shifted, shivered, starting to feel the chill.
The whispers took on volume and form, but not enough for Sam to make out the words, like there was someone mumbling in the other room. It was enough to make him wake up though.
The murmuring didn't stop.
He got up as carefully as he could, but he and Dean were twined so deeply together, there was no way to do it without waking his brother. "Wha--what's n--ph…Sam?"
"I heard something," Sam said softly, And like that Dean was wide awake and reaching for the blade under his pillow, slipping off the bed and cocking his head. After a couple of seconds he shook his head. He wasn't hearing it, but it didn't ease the tension in his body at all.
"What is it?" So low, it didn't even interrupt the indistinct voices still filling Sam's ears.
Sam shook his head, straining for something recognizable, only barely acknowledging the cool, familiar weight of the gun Dean slipped into his hand.
The cabin was dark, almost pitch black, but Dean would let him go no further until he'd at least put on sweat pants.
The volume of the murmuring neither increased nor decreased as they both eased toward the door. It sounded no louder from the center of the house than it did in the bedroom, or even when Sam cracked the front door. The shush of voices continued, distinct pitches and falls but no words he could make out and no alteration in tone that made it sound threatening.
Dean's hand touched his back, mute guide and warning as Dean slid along the wall toward the front door and Sam went the opposite way toward the narrow back one. The doors were shotgun oriented, the rear opening into the graveled area that held the propane tank and clean water reservoir.
The moment Sam opened the door the whispers stopped. Stepping outside revealed nothing but woods of various deep shadows and the faintest shimmer of light off the tank from the stars and moon above. Coming back inside didn't cause the whispers to start up again either and Sam crossed the main room to follow Dean, catching a glimpse of his brother's bare back as he edged around the east side of the house.
"It's gone," he said, not quite his normal speaking voice, but not a whisper either. "It's stopped."
Dean glanced back at him and made another survey of the yard and the forest around it. "What was it?"
Sam shrugged. "It sounded like voices but I couldn't make out what they were saying. It stopped when I opened the door."
"But not when I did."
Sam hadn't seen precisely when Dean had opened the front door and he shrugged again. "I don't know. Maybe."
Dean rubbed his arm with his hand still clenched around his gun. "It's cold as hell out here," he said and took one more survey of the area before darting back inside. The thunk of wood on wood and the rustling of paper sounded overly loud to Sam's ears and he stared into the darkness, almost willing himself to see something, hear something, but nothing flickered or shone and the only sounds outside were normal night sounds.
The silence reassured him not at all.
+++++
Continued part two
*I Have Lived With Shades - Thomas Hardy
01/12/2008