fic: Greater Than the Sum of Their Parts (Supernatural; Sam/Dean; adult)
Greater Than the Sum of Their Parts
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; adult; 8,120 words
"Why would you just take some dead girl's arms? They're not even a really fun part."
Thanks to amberlynne for handholding and to luzdeestrellas for betaing above and beyond. Written for obsessedmuch for spn_holidays for the prompt: Sam/Dean in a case-file fic.
~*~
Greater Than the Sum of Their Parts
Aside from Dean, nobody but Bobby and Ellen has Sam's cell number, whatever it happens to be this week, and though his Stanford email address is inexplicably still active, he knows that's only because the FBI is monitoring it, hoping he'll be stupid enough to use it.
He still occasionally gets emails from Becky and Zack, at the gmail address he set up, though he's purposely lost touch with almost everyone else he hung out with at Stanford, tired of explaining that his brother's not a serial killer, he's not a bank robber, and he's not coming back to school.
He doesn't mention it to Dean, and he doesn't ask about the occasional email Dean gets from people Sam's never met--they're so wrapped up in each other's lives that Sam enjoys the small segments that are still separate.
There's an email from Becky waiting in his inbox, and he opens it with a smile, expecting a chatty note about her latest job or boyfriend, a little slice of the normal life he knows he'll never have.
Instead, he gets a series of links to articles in the Palo Alto papers, detailing a recent spate of grave desecrations at local cemeteries.
He's dialing before he's even done reading.
"It seems like your kind of thing," Becky says, unsurprised that he's calling, though it's been at least a year since they've spoken on the phone.
"Yeah, yeah, could be." He's interested in the case, but he has to make sure of one thing first. "Listen, they haven't--I mean--"
"Jess's grave hasn't been disturbed," she says softly. "I drove up and checked myself, but if you want to--"
He lets out a long, slow, relieved breath. "Yeah. Okay. We're a couple days out. I'll let you know what we find." He hesitates, then, "Thanks, Becky."
She laughs. "Only you would thank me for sending you something so creepy."
"Well, you know, we're always looking for new and exciting cases. Can't have Dean getting bored." He forces a laugh. "Hopefully, it's just kids messing around," he says, and hangs up. He wishes he could believe it.
***
Dean stumbles in from the bar around one a.m., smelling of smoke and beer. He's grinning, and when he gets into bed beside Sam, he's all groping hands and sloppy kisses. Sam means to mention the new case, knows Dean will probably argue about going to California, but he lets himself be pressed back into the mattress by the solid weight of Dean's body. It can wait.
He laughs into Dean's mouth when Dean mumbles about how he took these two bikers for four hundred bucks and got out before they realized they'd been had. Sam will never admit it, but sometimes he's still a little in awe of how cool his big brother is.
They roll around for a little while, wrestling as much as making out, the weirdly familiar spiked with shocks of new even now, like the way Dean's hair brushes feather-light against Sam's belly, or the feel of Dean's skin, warm and supple under his mouth. That the fierce love in Dean's eyes, the spark that was only and always ever for him, could contain heat and need, as well. Things he'd never thought he'd wanted, and once he'd wanted, never thought he'd get.
He growls low against the sweaty skin of Dean's neck when Dean jacks his cock, and Dean laughs, low and pleased. Sam reaches down to return the favor, enjoying the way Dean's laugh turns into a needy whimper when Sam's hand is wrapped around his dick.
They stroke and surge together, Dean biting off curses and making promises his hands and lips are working hard to keep, and Sam would laugh at his bravado if he had the breath for it.
When they're done, Dean mutters something about packing up and checking out, and then falls asleep, his forehead pressed to Sam's shoulder. Sam feels an upswelling of tenderness towards him, brushes a gentle hand through his hair, and falls asleep to the steady huh huh huh of Dean's breathing against his skin.
***
"There's what looks like a poltergeist in Butte," Dean says, trying to steal some hash browns off Sam's plate. Sam blocks Dean's fork with his own, but he knows it's a losing battle--Dean reaches around Sam's defenses with his fingers and snags some potatoes before Sam can stab him with the fork. Dean grins around his mouthful of food and continues, "Bobby's got wind of a chupacabra down in Flagstaff." He swallows and takes a sip of coffee. "And behind door number three, four mysterious deaths in Castaway Cove, Tennessee, all young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, all on consecutive Tuesday nights. You got a preference?"
"We're going to Palo Alto." Sam doesn't mean to blurt it out like that--California's been a sore spot for years, a place on the map labeled here be monsters and avoided at all costs--but occasionally his mouth opens before his brain can catch up. "I spoke to Becky last night and--"
Dean sits up straight, hash browns forgotten. "I didn't realize you guys still kept in touch." His voice is neutral, casual, but Sam can tell he's surprised and trying to hide it.
"Yeah, mostly by email, but she sent me a few links, so I called her. I think something's going on." He tells Dean about the grave desecrations, and Dean shakes his head.
"How do you know it's not just another hunter? Do you really want to stumble into someone else's hunt? 'Cause it's not like we have great luck with that, or anything."
"I don't. But we--I--need to check this out, okay?" Dean looks unhappy, brows furrowed and mouth pressed in a tight, thin line. "Maybe it's zombies, Dean," he wheedles. "You love zombies."
"I hate zombies. Remember that zombie chick who broke your wrist?"
"Dean--"
"You know the FBI is just waiting for you to show up at Stanford again, right? Maybe use your ID card or your email, get in touch with your old friends. We can't just waltz in there like it's nothing."
"When it was Deacon calling for help, you couldn't agree fast enough, and your brilliant plan was to get us thrown in prison, but now that one of my friends has a job for us--"
"We don't even know if it is a job," Dean interrupts. "It could just be some juvenile delinquents trying to impress some girls or something."
"--you're saying that setting foot in Palo Alto is going to be more dangerous than that? That's bullshit, Dean."
"We can get another hunter to do the job, if there even is one." Sam hates when Dean uses that reasonable, "let's humor Sam," voice. "I bet Ellen knows somebody in the area who can look into it."
"No, Dean. Becky called me. I have to go." He wants to explain, wants to tell Dean he needs to check Jess's grave for himself, needs to see the campus, the town, needs to say goodbye on his own terms, instead of in a smoke-scented rush of grief and shock, but he can't get the words out. "Dean, please."
"Fine. We'll go." Dean spits the words out like poison. "I don't have to like it, though." The words are achingly familiar--Sam used to say them to Dad a lot, but he doesn't recall ever hearing Dean voice the sentiment. In fact, he remembers bitching Dean out for keeping his mouth shut. He wonders if Dean remembers. He wonders if he's turning into Dad. Before he can say anything, though, Dean tosses his crumpled napkin onto the table and rises, leaving Sam to grab the bill.
***
Dean is quiet on the drive, keeps Master of Puppets on repeat until Sam thinks his ears might explode, and he doesn't really need the reminder of Dean's mood. Sam's usually pretty good at blocking the music out when he wants to read or sleep, but he has a hard time today.
Dean heads to the nearest bar again that night--hustling pool and petty thievery are their main forms of income these days--and when he comes in, he offers a grunt that could mean anything from No luck tonight to I've eaten too many hot wings, clear the room, but under the circumstances, is probably just a reiteration of his unhappiness with Sam's choice. He shucks his clothes, gives his teeth a brief brushing, and collapses into bed without a word. Sam is half-asleep, laptop propped up on his knees, reading about revenants and grave robbers, so he shuts it down, turns out the light, and slides down beside Dean.
Dean doesn't reach out to grope him with sure, heavy hands the way Sam kind of expects him to; hell, he doesn't even roll over or acknowledge Sam's presence with anything more than another grunt and the strategic placement of his cold feet on Sam's shins.
Sam lies there for a moment, perplexed, because Dean after a few beers is generally pretty affectionate, good night at the pool table or not, but when Dean doesn't move, he realizes Dean is still pissed about this job. It's not that Dean can't hold a grudge, necessarily, because he can (don't get him started on Tony LaRussa, the FBI, or his eighth grade social studies teacher), but he doesn't usually hold one against Sam. Sam knows how to cajole him out of it, though, and it's even easier now that they're doing the whole fucking thing, because Dean never turns down sex. So Sam reaches around and slides his hand down into Dean's boxer-briefs to curl around his half-hard cock. Dean, as expected, thrusts into his grip with a pleased grunt.
In the months since they've been doing this, since that desperation- and eggnog-fueled Christmas night when Sam first climbed into Dean's bed and licked promises into his mouth, Sam's gotten good at making Dean's eyes go dark with heat and his voice go rough with need. He uses that knowledge now, has Dean thrusting back against him and gasping in no time at all, a chorus of, fuck, Sammy, fuck falling from his grinning mouth.
When they're done, Dean is a heavy, boneless weight pressed to Sam's chest, and Sam is so sleepy he can't be bothered with cleaning up. He'll tease Dean about it in the morning, he thinks as he drifts off.
***
After two repetitions of And Justice for All, Sam reaches out, turns the radio down, and says, "You know, you don't have to come. I can just--"
The shock of fear on Dean's face disappears before Sam can be sure he really saw it, but Dean's eyes are wide when he glances over, startled, and he barks out, "No," before Sam can finish his thought, let alone his sentence. "No, Sam. It's fine. I'm just a little--" Dean waves a hand irritably "--whatever." Sam would have believed him if he weren't sitting up straight instead of melting back against the leather in a comfortable slouch the way he usually does on long drives. Dean doesn't jack the volume up again, though, so Sam considers it a partial victory.
***
Sam's been staring out the window for what feels like hours as they crawl along 85 when he sees the exit he wants. "Here, Dean. Get off here."
Dean glares at him and cuts off a red Dodge minivan behind them to a blaring chorus of horns, which earns the soccer mom driving it the finger from Dean, and then they're heading towards Gates of Heaven cemetery, where Jess is buried and two of the desecrations took place.
They're about two miles down the road when Dean suddenly recognizes where they are. He reaches out and puts a hand on the back of Sam's neck, thumb rubbing soothingly over his jaw. Sam sighs and relaxes into the touch, hoping Dean's mood will improve now.
The last rays of the setting sun are fading from the indigo sky as they pull into the parking lot, and Dean says, "We can do this in the morning, if you want."
Sam shakes his head. "Becky said she checked, but I need to see for myself."
"Okay." Dean rubs a hand across his mouth. "Do we have names for the ones that were dug up?"
Sam looks at the notes he'd jotted down. "Amy Barker and Paula Walsh. Both were new graves, no headstones yet."
"Not hunters, then," Dean mutters. "Zombies are looking more and more likely, huh?"
Sam nods and points, though Dean's already pulling into the correct parking lot. "You don't have to--" he starts but Dean just shakes his head.
"I'd like to pay my respects," he says, and the sincerity in his voice warms Sam.
They don't speak as they approach Jess's grave. When they get there, rose-colored marble soft and dark in the twilight, Dean bumps Sam's shoulder once with his own and then falls back a few steps. The grass is undisturbed and there are fresh flowers, probably from Becky, and Sam feels like an idiot for forgetting to bring some himself. He doesn't say anything, though. He doesn't want Dean volunteering to steal the lilies from the grave two rows over.
After a few moments, Dean starts to wander. Sam lets him go, always peripherally aware of where he is, and sinks down onto the grass. He traces the letters carved into the stone, smooth and cool under his touch, and bows his head. The pain of her death is muted now, a phantom ache in his soul, healed but no longer perfect, one more little crack in the surface, like the ache in his twice-broken wrist when it's going to rain.
He thinks about all the places he's been since he was last here, all the things he's done, and choices he's made. He knows she'd want him to be happy, and he is, even if the life he has now is diametrically opposed to the one he'd dreamt about when he'd lie awake and listen to her breathe beside him. He hopes she's someplace better--he has personal knowledge of hell now, and while it's only made Dean more stubbornly unconvinced of heaven, Sam still needs to believe there's one waiting at the end of it all.
He isn't sure how long he's been sitting there when he hears Dean shout, "Sam!" He scrambles to his feet, draws his gun, and swings around towards Dean's voice as Dean comes barreling down the row of graves, annoyed look on his face.
"What happened?"
"Ghosts. Two of 'em. They wanted me to go with them." Dean's mouth twists in distaste. "I hate clingy chicks, man. Especially dead ones."
In spite of the situation, or maybe because of it, Sam laughs. "You think it was Amy and Paula?"
Dean shrugs. "I guess. Can zombies have ghosts? Because I gotta say, I'm not sure I approve of that kind of double-dipping in the pool of evil."
Sam chokes on a laugh. "I don't think they can, Dean. On the plus side, maybe it's a simple salt and burn job after all. Maybe it was a hunter who screwed up somehow."
But when they get Amy Barker's grave open, there's no body in the coffin, and the same proves true for Paula Walsh.
"Fuck," Dean mutters, tossing his shovel down in disgust and wiping sweat off his forehead with a muddy forearm. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"You said a mouthful," Sam answers absently after drinking down half a bottle of water.
"You'd think the news would have mentioned that the graves weren't just dug up, but robbed," Dean says. "Free press, my ass. There's no news in the news anymore." He sounds like a grumpy old man, and Sam feels a quick ache in his chest, grateful that Dean's still around to complain about things. And complain he does, at length, and sometimes, great volume.
Doesn't mean Sam has to listen to him, though. He tunes Dean out and starts to fill in the grave. Grave digging is mechanical, simple; he's been doing it most of his life, it feels like. Like running, or meditation, the routine rhythm of it frees his brain, lets it work without his full attention. Instead of the case, though, he finds himself daydreaming about a house; not the two bedroom, two bath colonial he always envisioned living in with Jess, but maybe a cabin out in the woods somewhere, that he and Dean could use as a base of operations. Be more like Bobby, have a safe place to come back to and rest every couple of months. He's been thinking about it since he saved Dean from hell, and being here, surrounded by reminders of the future he used to have, only makes him think about it more. He knows it's a pipedream--the FBI is still after them, even if they've freed themselves from the shadows of hell for the time being--but he thinks about it anyway, wonders what Dean would say if he mentioned it.
"Any bright ideas?" Dean asks when they're done.
Sam shakes his head. His t-shirt is dirty and sweaty and his back has started to ache and he knows Dean's not asking about his plans for anything past tonight, so he says, "Shower and sleep."
"Sounds good to me."
***
Dean calls first shower, but doesn't complain when Sam pushes his way in, hot water washing sweat and dirt down the drain, easing the ache in his shoulders and back. He crowds Dean back against the brown tile, dips his head to press open-mouthed kisses to Dean's neck and collarbones, tasting soap and skin. Dean hums low in response, his fingers twisting in Sam's hair to pull him up for a kiss. He keeps his hands in Sam's hair when Sam slides down to his knees, kisses his way down Dean's belly, nips at the jut of his hipbone.
Sam doesn't know when this went from weird to normal, has no scale anymore for either concept; he just knows this makes him happy--the heavy weight of Dean's dick on his tongue, salt-slick and blood-hot, Dean's fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks and licks, and then the unexpectedly gentle brush of Dean's hand on his cheek just after he comes. Sam swallows what he can and lets the shower wash away the rest as he finishes himself off quickly, the water turning lukewarm.
They crawl into bed and Sam sleeps easily, the solid weight of Dean's body curled against him keeping bad dreams away.
***
The morgue is in disarray when Sam and Dean arrive, the attendants still shaking their heads and cursing as the police pack up their stuff and go.
"No press," one of the attendants says automatically. "How'd you even get in here?"
They flash their false FBI badges in unison, a move that used to annoy Sam but now amuses him, and he says, "We're here about the grave robberies. We think there might be a link to a murder in San Francisco last year." He gets it out without flinching, had insisted he could when Dean said he'd do it.
The morgue attendant's mouth twists. "You find those bodies, see if you got any parts left over," he says, "'cause I got some missing."
Sam exchanges a glance with Dean, who says, "Missing? Parts?" like he can't quite believe what he just heard.
"Girl came in late last night, car accident, spinal cord injury. She was damaged, but intact." The attendant goes to a drawer, pulls it open, and this time, Sam can't hide his flinch. The girl's arms have been severed at the shoulder. "This is the same girl, getting her Venus de Milo on this morning."
Dean grimaces, but he leans forward instead of away, though Sam can read the tension in his shoulders underneath his sport coat. "That looks precise," he says. "Surgical. Someone took their time."
Another attendant comes over at that. "Yes," he says, "this was delicate work. He knew what he was doing."
The first attendant rolls his eyes. "Becker was on the fast track to being a surgeon before he ended up here."
"So you'd say this was done by someone who knew what they were doing?" Dean asks, turning to Becker.
"I did just say that."
"I guess you did," Dean says, and his sharp grin doesn't bode well for Becker. "Care to elaborate?"
"Certainly they had rudimentary knowledge of human anatomy," Becker answers primly, and then treats them to a lecture about severing tendons and ligaments and just how one would go about separating the arms from the body.
Dean looks like he wants to pop the guy in the mouth, just on general principle, and Sam's tempted to let him, but it won't get them any further in their investigation, so he says, "You were a surgeon?"
"I was top of my class at Stanford," Becker says bitterly, mouth drawn into a tight line, "and I was interning at the hospital when I was in an accident not unlike the one that killed Monique Sutler, and sustained nerve damage to my hands. I was not allowed to continue my internship."
Sam feels a pang of sympathy. Dean's hand brushes lightly against his back and he leans into the touch for a second.
"Was anything else missing?" Dean asks, breaking the moment.
The first attendant--his ID badge says his name's Jamal McGuire--shakes his head. "No. Just poor Monique's arms. Her parents are on a plane from Wisconsin as we speak. How am I going to explain this?"
"I suggest you leave it to the cops," Dean says. "We'll want a copy of whatever security video you've got, and if you could give us a call if you think of anything, or if anything else goes, uh, missing, we'd appreciate it." He scribbles his phone number on the back of one of the business cards Sam printed up at Kinko's, and hands it over.
"Can't the cops give you the tape?"
"Interagency rivalry. You understand," Dean says with a nod and a quirk of his lips that always manages to get people to do what he wants, makes them think he's sharing some secret with them. Sam's never been able to pull it off.
They're back in the car when Dean says, "Okay, bodies going missing, I understand. Someone tried to make zombies and maybe it didn't work out so good. But body parts? Arms? I mean, what the fuck?"
"I don't know."
"No, seriously, Sam, what the fuck?" Even after all these years, Sam never ceases to be amazed at how affronted Dean gets at the crimes against nature they track down. It's part of what makes him such an excellent hunter, even though sometimes Sam wants to duct tape his mouth shut. "And surgically removed, so it's not like it was just something that was hungry and decided to chow down on some tasty wings or something."
Sam remembers the wendigo, the bodies hanging from the mine's ceiling. Sometimes he's amazed he still gets nauseated at the shit they deal with. Then, there are times like these. "Okay, that's an image I didn't need."
Dean ignores him. "If it was just food, I would understand. Or, you know, not really, but in a general sense. Everybody's gotta eat. Even, you know, cannibals and shit. But why would you just take some dead girl's arms? They're not even a really fun part."
"Ew, Dean."
"What? I'm just saying."
Sam pulls Dad's journal out of his duffel. It's a more adult way of saying, la la la, I can't hear you when Dean starts spouting his more grotesque theories. Before Dean can start with that, Sam says, "Maybe for a spell? Knucklebones are often used in divination and other types of occult ceremonies. Maybe whoever it is, is trying to raise something, or summon a demon?"
"Trying to raise something," Dean repeats, struck.
"I thought we were ruling out zombies."
"Not zombies. Monsters." Dean turns the car around, heads back towards the university. "Frankenstein."
***
The doctor they speak with at the Stanford University School of Medicine assures them repeatedly that the technology to reanimate dead bodies via electricity does not actually exist, and that even if it did, none of the dead girls would have been viable candidates.
"The tissue would need to be quite fresh for reattachment to work, in any case," Dr. Mukherjee says. "And the sorts of things you're talking about are the realm of science fiction. We can restart the heart, but brain death is currently irreparable. It might always be, though who can say what we'll be able to do ten, twenty years from now?"
"And have you had any students, or former students who might be interested in this kind of...experimentation?" Sam asks.
Dr. Mukherjee shakes his head. "They're all interested in, please forgive the pun, bleeding edge techniques, but this indicates a level of, uh," he gives a tight smile, "egoism even beyond that of your typical arrogant neurosurgeon."
"But you'd need to be a surgeon to do this?" Dean presses. "The dude at the morgue--Becker--said it was done with surgical precision."
"So that's where David ended up, eh?"
Sam nods.
"Such a tragedy, you know. He was on course to become one of the best neurosurgeons I've ever seen, until the accident."
"His hands seemed fine to me," Dean says.
"There's a difference between holding a pen and holding a scalpel, Agent Lee."
Dean bobs his head, not agreeing but not disagreeing. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Was he well-liked?" Sam asks before Dean picks a fight with the guy.
Dr. Mukherjee laughs. "None of our surgical interns are well-liked, Agent Mars. It's a very competitive field. But David Becker was not much of a people person. And to answer your question, yes, I would think your culprit has training as a surgeon."
Sam nods again. "Thanks, Doctor."
They shake hands and leave, and Dean waits until they're in the stairwell to say, "I knew that guy Becker was a dick."
"I feel bad for him, though."
Dean shrugs. "Doesn't make him any less of a dick. You've had some shitty luck, but you're not a douche."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam says dryly, and Dean flashes him a gleeful grin.
It's only once they're out in the parking lot that Sam is struck by the fact that he's actually on campus. He waits for his stomach to clench with yearning, but he only feels a vague pang.
When he'd left home, such as it was, he'd forced himself not to look back, afraid that if he did, he'd never be able to go forward. Once he'd started school, life in the Winchester traveling circus had seemed so far away. Now that he's back on the road, has been for nearly three years, life at Stanford seems like a fading dream--beautiful and lost, something that happened to someone else.
Sam expects the sadness, and it's there, but the sharp edges have been worn away by the constant knowledge of Dean's presence, the solid anchor of home he's ever only felt in the car with Dean.
Dean looks around like he's seeing the place for the first time, slides his sunglasses on so Sam can't see what he's thinking, and says, "Let's get out of here, Sammy. I can practically feel the geek rubbing off on me." He swivels to watch a pair of women in scrubs walk by. "Though there's definitely something to be said for the outfits."
Dean's phone rings before Sam can respond.
"Yeah, yeah, this is Agent Lee. The parts were found? No? The other girls--Seriously? Thanks for calling, Jamal. I really appreciate it." He flips his phone shut and shakes his head. "Son of a bitch."
"What, Dean?"
"The police found Amy Barker and Paula Walsh. Well, most of them."
"Most of them?" Sam holds up a hand, suddenly sure he doesn't want to know the answer to that question.
"Pieces of both girls were discovered in a dumpster over by the Palo Alto VA. They haven't sorted out what belongs to who yet--"
"Whom."
"What?"
"What belongs to whom," Sam says, trying really hard not to think about body parts.
Dean rolls his eyes. "They haven't sorted out what belongs to whom," he repeats, "but he said he'll call when they do."
Sam swallows down the bile climbing his throat and says, "Great."
"Well, look at it this way: we can definitely rule out zombies now." Dean opens the car door and says, "If you're gonna hurl, do it now, because once we're in the car...." He trails off ominously, the threat so familiar Sam tunes it out as he gets into the car.
"No, no. I just...Dr. Mukherjee said the Frankenstein scenario was impossible."
"He said it was scientifically impossible. There's a difference, Sammy. He doesn't know what we know, does he?"
Sam nods. "I'm gonna call Bobby, see if he's ever heard of anything like this."
Dean looks at him, then back out the windshield, and there's a brief hesitation before he says, "You wanna hit the library?"
Sam thinks about the hours he spent at Green Library, how he'd had his own carrel in the spring semester of his junior year, how he and Jess had had sex in the stacks once or twice during finals, to relieve stress, she'd said. She'd always liked taking risks, shocking him. He still has his student ID, is sure it's being tracked just like his email account, and it's likely someone there will recognize him, even if most of the people he was in class with are gone.
Still, it's possible they might find something to tell them what they're dealing with, and he finds that while he has no real desire to come back here as a student, he can't resist the lure of the library, and the knowledge it holds.
"Yeah," he says, after the silence has stretched too long and Dean looks like he thinks he might have said the wrong thing. "Yeah, I think I do."
***
Bobby has the names of a few books that might help--two or three on Afro-Caribbean religions, one on Babylonian necromancy, and scarily enough, one on Enochian magic that, according to Bobby, isn't complete bullshit.
The library is familiar, and Sam feels a warmth in the pit of his belly as they walk past the copiers and the bulletin boards. He scans the notices out of habit, sees the standard offers and requests for roommates and tutors, a notice of the library's special hours during finals, and a handmade flyer about a missing girl. He files away the information out of habit, notices Dean doing the same thing, as they head towards the stacks to find the books Bobby's recommended.
They set up at a table in the reading room and Sam slouches down, reminding himself that most of the people he knew are gone, but he starts nervously every time someone skirts too close to them. After the third time, Dean kicks him under the table, and Sam hisses at him to stop, which just makes Dean do it again, and it's like every time they've spent in every library ever and Sam finally relaxes.
Which is when Mrs. Galarraga comes bustling around the stacks. She's worked at the reference desk for ages--Sam did his work-study shifts with her freshman and sophomore year--and she'll totally recognize him.
"Dean," he whispers.
Dean puts down the book on ancient Babylon--open to the chapter about the temple prostitutes, of course, because Dean is just that predictable--and says, "What?"
"We have to hide."
"What?"
"The librarian. She knows me."
"Is she hot?"
Sam uses the pleading tone he knows Dean won't resist. "Dean."
"Fine." Dean heaves himself to his feet and peers around the bookshelves. "The lady with the red hair?"
"That's her."
"She's pretty fine for an older lady, Sammy. I know the older ladies like you, man."
"Dean," Sam grunts in exasperation.
"I'm just saying."
"Well, don't."
Dean smirks but lets it drop.
They hide in the stacks as Mrs. Galarraga leads a student around the anthropology section. Sam leans against the wall and sinks down to the floor, elbows resting on his knees, head resting on his hands. He's getting a headache. Dean slides down beside him, and Sam's going to say something about maybe just forgetting the whole case and leaving it to the cops when he felt the cold prickle of a ghostly hand on his skin.
"Sam?" Dean's voice is tight, urgent.
Help us, the ghosts say, and their voices twine and echo like bells under water, sending a chill down Sam's spine.
"There are three of them now," he whispers.
"Monique Sutler," Dean answers.
Help us, they say again, beckoning with long, white phantom fingers like sirens.
"How?" he asks, getting up slowly, hands held up harmlessly, as if they would be afraid of him. "How can we help you?"
They start floating down the aisle, and behind him, he hears Dean scramble to his feet. "Sam," he says, and Sam can hear the warning in it, and the fear.
Help us, the ghosts plead, their voices ringing with desperation. Sam and Dean follow them through the stacks, and Sam's grateful no one's around to hear the noise they're making.
When they reach the periodicals, the ghosts suddenly swirl together like a tornado, and a binder removes itself from the shelf and falls to the floor, open to the April 3, 2007 edition of the Palo Alto Daily News.
The ghosts are hovering, waiting, and Sam kneels to read the headlines: Accident kills two, leaves one critically injured.
"What is it?" Dean says, squatting down next to him. Wordlessly, Sam points to the name David Becker in the article. "I knew that guy was a dick."
"Well, he has access, and he has the knowledge and skill to perform the operation," Sam says, "but why?"
Dean shrugs. "To prove he still can? He seemed pretty bitter about not being a surgeon anymore."
"And the ghosts want us to help them move on?"
"Who the hell knows what ghosts want?"
"They seemed pretty adamant. And helpful."
"I wouldn't get too used to that, Sammy. I'm sure they'll be back to strangling you in no time."
Sam laughs in spite of himself, and leads Dean out the back entrance of the library.
***
ESPN is on in the background and Dean is saying, "Don't worry, we don't have to sort the parts, just get them all together with a little salt and a little lighter fluid, and send them on their way," when the TV starts getting staticky and the channel changes on its own.
"Angela Mancini is a student at the Stanford University School of Medicine," the blonde newscaster says as a still of a pretty dark-haired girl flashes onscreen behind her, "and she's been missing for the past thirty-six hours. She was last seen leaving the Lane Reading Room on Monday evening. If you have any news as to her whereabouts, please call the tip line listed below."
Dean slants a thoughtful glance at Sam, who says, "It's the girl from the flyer in the library." His breath fogs in the air, and the ghosts swirl around the room like a frosty cyclone. Dean grabs the salt and the shotgun, but Sam shakes his head, puts a hand on Dean's arm.
Save her, they insist this time. Save us.
"We'd be happy to," Dean snaps, "but maybe you could give us a little more to go on."
Save her. Save us, they say, and the cold desolation in their voices makes Sam's hair stand on end, and then their spinning frenzy evaporates, leaving nothing but a chill and the scent of ozone behind.
"Great," Dean grumbles. "They couldn't have done the whole follow the leader thing again? Maybe shown us where she is?"
"They're doing the best they can, Dean. You know how hard it is for them to communicate."
"Yeah, yeah." Dean goes back to packing the duffel with supplies. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, rubs the base of his neck with his thumb, and feels Dean relax a little under the touch. "I don't get it, though. He's been stealing parts, and he's got almost unlimited access at the morgue. Why does he suddenly need a live girl?"
Sam's been wondering the same thing, and then it hits him like a punch to the gut. His hand tightens on Dean's shoulder. "The head, Dean. He needs the brain to be as fresh," here Sam has to swallow hard against the bile rising in his throat, "as possible."
"Oh, that's just sick." Dean tucks his gun into his waistband. "I'm gonna enjoy the look on this asshole's face when we stop him."
Sam smiles grimly and agrees.
***
Becker's in the phone book; his house isn't far from the VA Hospital. The locks on his front door are easy to pick, and the door down to his workroom is slightly ajar.
Dean, as always, insists on going first, and Sam doesn't argue. They slip down the stairs quiet, guns drawn, the smell of blood, formaldehyde, and incense heavy in the air. It's a potent, gag-inducing combination, and Sam has to call on years of training to keep himself from being sick.
The room is littered with body parts and unsuccessful (at least, Sam hopes they're unsuccessful) attempts to build (and reanimate) creatures from those parts. In the center of the room are two gurneys, side by side, and Angela Mancini is lying unconscious--probably drugged, Sam thinks, looking at the IV she's hooked up to--on one of them. A second, stitched together, headless body lies on the other gurney.
Symbols are chalked on the floor and the walls, vaguely familiar from the book on Enochian magic Bobby had recommended, and that sends another chill down Sam's spine, because Enochian magic never ends well for anybody. There's a blood-stained altar in the far corner, fat black pillar candles flickering and incense smoking on its symbol-laden surface.
Becker is stroking Angela's hair gently with one gloved hand, and whispering in her ear. "We'll be together soon," he says, raising a scalpel in his other hand, and Sam feels his stomach turn again.
"Jesus, you couldn't have bought a blow-up doll like a normal person?" Dean says, pointing his gun at Becker. "Just step away from the girl."
"You think you can stop me?"
"I'm pretty sure a bullet to the head will stop you, yeah," Dean answers.
Sam hopes it doesn't come to that. "Listen, man," he says, trying for his most sympathetic, earnest voice, even as his stomach wants to rebel, "I get it. You lost everything in the accident, and you--"
"You don't get anything," Becker says. "I had a career, a fiancée, a life, and now, all I have is this." He makes a sweeping gesture, and Sam glances over at Dean, whose face is pale but unreadable under the fluorescent lights.
Becker doesn't give Sam a chance to respond; he starts speaking in a language that shouldn't be familiar but is, the hard consonants and twisted vowels of a demonic tongue that was old when the seas were still boiling. The language Sam had spoken to order Dean's soul free of hell, and then tried to forget it had ever come out of his mouth.
The ghosts materialize, whirling like dervishes, cold wind whipping through the room, blowing out the candles and thinning the haze from the incense. Help us, they plead, echoing hollowly over the harsh syllables Becker is chanting. Save us.
Becker bends towards Angela Mancini, scalpel in hand, blood beading on her throat where he touches her with it.
The ghosts slam Dean against the wall, still keening for salvation, and Sam doesn't even hesitate, raises the gun and puts a bullet in Becker's shoulder. Becker stumbles back, falls silent, one hand clutched over the wound. Dean pushes away from the wall, kicks over the altar, and goes to Angela. He detaches her from the IV line and lifts her in his arms, heading for the stairs.
The ghosts, free of Becker's control, turn on him. Sam thinks about calling them to heel, but doesn't. He follows Dean up the stairs, and doesn't look back.
"You okay?"
Dean looks up from where he's checking Angela's pulse and nods. "You?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?" Dean asks, rising. He reaches up, cups Sam's face, thumb brushing lightly over his cheek, making Sam shiver in the good way.
"Yeah."
"Okay." Dean pulls the lighter fluid and salt out of his duffel. He jerks his chin at Angela. "Get her outside. I'll take care of the mess downstairs." Sam nods, and Dean heads back down into the basement, and as much as Sam wants to follow him, he gathers the unconscious girl in his arms and heads outside.
The ghosts are waiting, and Sam tenses, but they sing out, Thank you in that weird three-part harmony they've got going on, so he says, "You're welcome." They flare like the flash from a camera, and then fade into the darkness, and he's still blinking the spots from his eyes when Dean comes up the stairs, smelling of smoke and charred flesh.
They call 911 on the way to dropping Angela Mancini off at the emergency room. Sam's voice doesn't shake when he reports the fire.
***
Sam's barely got the door to the motel room shut behind him before Dean is pressing him up against it, mouth covering his in a hot, urgent kiss. He can feel the hard line of Dean's dick through his jeans, Dean's hips fitting against his and moving in a way designed to make him gasp.
"Fuck, Dean."
Dean's answering grin is wide and sharp, and he has Sam flat on his back and undressed before Sam can do or say anything else. Not that he's complaining.
Sometimes, they're too exhausted to fuck after finishing off a hunt, but most of the time, the adrenaline rush makes them both horny and frantic, and maybe Sam's come to love that a little, the sharp edge of danger that makes sex, makes being alive, all the sweeter.
Dean is hard and fast and thorough, lips, teeth and stubble scraping over Sam's sensitive skin, like he's trying to imprint himself on Sam, like he hasn't done that already, and three slick fingers twisting up inside Sam until he can't do anything but spread his legs wide and beg. He pushes up as Dean fucks into him, one hand hard on his hip, Dean's ring cool and hard and smooth against his skin, and the other quick and rough on his cock, urgent like it hasn't been since those last days before the deal came due, when they still weren't sure they'd survive. Sam moans into Dean's mouth, which is hot and wet and soft, thick tongue and sharp teeth driving Sam crazy. He comes hard, tension unraveling like a knot, pleasure flooding his body and spilling out over Dean's sure fingers to paint their bellies with come.
Dean comes, then, too, hard and deep inside of Sam, with a shudder and a low growl Sam can feel down to his toes. Dean collapses on top of him, breathing heavily, his breath warm and humid against Sam's neck.
Even after he gets rid of the condom and cleans up a little, he crawls on top of Sam like a blanket, warm and heavy, and Sam's too fucked out to wonder why, or do more than shove at him ineffectually before he falls asleep, the rhythm of Dean's breathing in his ear, Dean's heart beating with his.
***
Dean is out getting coffee when Sam calls Becky.
"It's done," he tells her.
"Do I want to know?"
He thinks about the slaughterhouse stench of Becker's workroom, the stitched up bodies and discarded parts, and the flames licking the night sky in the rearview as they drove away. "Probably not."
She laughs, brittle edge to it. "I didn't think so." Her voice is warmer when she says, "Can you guys hang around for a day or two?"
He thinks about the way they've been flashing fake badges around, the smoldering remains of Becker's house. The still-missing body parts. The proximity to Jess's grave. To Madison's. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Or at least meet me for a drink?"
He smiles ruefully. "Yeah, okay, I think we can do that."
"Do what?" Dean says, kicking the door shut behind him. "Who's on the phone?"
Sam covers the mouthpiece of the phone. "Becky. She wants to meet for drinks."
Dean is half-turned away, taking a sip of coffee. He nods. "Yeah, sure. You should do that." The words sound rushed, false, and Dean's voice is carefully casual, off.
"Let me call you back," he says to Becky. Then he turns to Dean, frowning. "What's your problem? Since when do you turn down drinks with a pretty girl?"
Dean shrugs. "She's your friend. And after what that shape-shifting freak tried with her, I can't imagine she'd be happy to see me."
"She doesn't hold it against you, Dean. She saw what it did. What it was."
Dean shrugs, starts eating his bacon, egg and cheese sandwich.
"Dean--" Sam tries to get his attention, but when Dean just keeps chewing like Sam hasn't said anything, he knows something else is going on. "I'll tell her we'll meet her tonight for drinks--some local place with a pool table, nothing fancy. You won't have to drink appletinis or anything."
"She's your friend, Sam, not mine."
"That's bullshit and you know it. What the hell is your problem?"
"This place."
Sam looks around the dingy motel room--it's no worse than a hundred others they've stayed in over the years, and somewhat nicer than another hundred he can think of--before he understands. "Dean--"
"You had that life, Sam. Like that Becker guy. Well, not just like that Becker guy, 'cause you're not a necrophiliac freak building yourself a girlfriend out of body parts, but you had everything and you lost it, and now you have this." Dean pushes away from the little table and swings his arms wide to encompass the room, their life. "If I hadn't fucked up with the FBI, you could still have it."
Sam gapes at him for a moment. "There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don't even know where to start."
"It's true, and you know it." Dean's jaw is set, rock-hard and stubborn, an immovable object.
"It's not, and I don't." If Dean is a rock, immovable, Sam's an irresistible force, the water wearing him down; he's had a whole lifetime of learning how to slip into the cracks in Dean's armor and break them wide open. "I don't want it anymore," he says. His voice is low but steady, full of conviction. It's not the whole truth, but it's more true than not these days. Truer than the reverse, anyway, and that's what matters. He stands, puts a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezes, trying to make Dean meet his gaze. "I'm here because I want to be here, Dean, not because I don't have a choice."
Dean shakes his head. "Sam--"
"We did a good thing last night, Dean. We saved that girl. That's what we do. Who we are." Maybe he's laying it on a little thick, but maybe Dean needs to hear it. Maybe he needs to say it. "I'm gonna give that up to be a lawyer?" He laughs a little in disbelief, that he'd wanted that once. That he doesn't anymore. "Anybody could be a lawyer, Dean, but nobody else can do what we do."
Dean looks at him, finally, eyes wide and wary, but willing to hope. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Sam smiles. "Now I'm gonna call Becky and tell her we'll meet her for drinks tonight."
Dean grins back like he finally gets it. "Okay."
Sam wants to lick that smile off his face, curls his fingers in the soft flannel of Dean's shirt and hauls him close. He mumbles something incoherent against Dean's lips, could be Dean or jerk or yeah. It doesn't really matter. Dean laughs into his mouth, relaxing into the kiss, tension dissipating like ghosts who've been laid to rest, and Sam knows he's right where he belongs.
end
~*~
December 30, 2007
~*~
Notes: In addition to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, this story was inspired by the Buffy episode "Some Assembly Required."
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; adult; 8,120 words
"Why would you just take some dead girl's arms? They're not even a really fun part."
Thanks to amberlynne for handholding and to luzdeestrellas for betaing above and beyond. Written for obsessedmuch for spn_holidays for the prompt: Sam/Dean in a case-file fic.
~*~
Greater Than the Sum of Their Parts
Aside from Dean, nobody but Bobby and Ellen has Sam's cell number, whatever it happens to be this week, and though his Stanford email address is inexplicably still active, he knows that's only because the FBI is monitoring it, hoping he'll be stupid enough to use it.
He still occasionally gets emails from Becky and Zack, at the gmail address he set up, though he's purposely lost touch with almost everyone else he hung out with at Stanford, tired of explaining that his brother's not a serial killer, he's not a bank robber, and he's not coming back to school.
He doesn't mention it to Dean, and he doesn't ask about the occasional email Dean gets from people Sam's never met--they're so wrapped up in each other's lives that Sam enjoys the small segments that are still separate.
There's an email from Becky waiting in his inbox, and he opens it with a smile, expecting a chatty note about her latest job or boyfriend, a little slice of the normal life he knows he'll never have.
Instead, he gets a series of links to articles in the Palo Alto papers, detailing a recent spate of grave desecrations at local cemeteries.
He's dialing before he's even done reading.
"It seems like your kind of thing," Becky says, unsurprised that he's calling, though it's been at least a year since they've spoken on the phone.
"Yeah, yeah, could be." He's interested in the case, but he has to make sure of one thing first. "Listen, they haven't--I mean--"
"Jess's grave hasn't been disturbed," she says softly. "I drove up and checked myself, but if you want to--"
He lets out a long, slow, relieved breath. "Yeah. Okay. We're a couple days out. I'll let you know what we find." He hesitates, then, "Thanks, Becky."
She laughs. "Only you would thank me for sending you something so creepy."
"Well, you know, we're always looking for new and exciting cases. Can't have Dean getting bored." He forces a laugh. "Hopefully, it's just kids messing around," he says, and hangs up. He wishes he could believe it.
***
Dean stumbles in from the bar around one a.m., smelling of smoke and beer. He's grinning, and when he gets into bed beside Sam, he's all groping hands and sloppy kisses. Sam means to mention the new case, knows Dean will probably argue about going to California, but he lets himself be pressed back into the mattress by the solid weight of Dean's body. It can wait.
He laughs into Dean's mouth when Dean mumbles about how he took these two bikers for four hundred bucks and got out before they realized they'd been had. Sam will never admit it, but sometimes he's still a little in awe of how cool his big brother is.
They roll around for a little while, wrestling as much as making out, the weirdly familiar spiked with shocks of new even now, like the way Dean's hair brushes feather-light against Sam's belly, or the feel of Dean's skin, warm and supple under his mouth. That the fierce love in Dean's eyes, the spark that was only and always ever for him, could contain heat and need, as well. Things he'd never thought he'd wanted, and once he'd wanted, never thought he'd get.
He growls low against the sweaty skin of Dean's neck when Dean jacks his cock, and Dean laughs, low and pleased. Sam reaches down to return the favor, enjoying the way Dean's laugh turns into a needy whimper when Sam's hand is wrapped around his dick.
They stroke and surge together, Dean biting off curses and making promises his hands and lips are working hard to keep, and Sam would laugh at his bravado if he had the breath for it.
When they're done, Dean mutters something about packing up and checking out, and then falls asleep, his forehead pressed to Sam's shoulder. Sam feels an upswelling of tenderness towards him, brushes a gentle hand through his hair, and falls asleep to the steady huh huh huh of Dean's breathing against his skin.
***
"There's what looks like a poltergeist in Butte," Dean says, trying to steal some hash browns off Sam's plate. Sam blocks Dean's fork with his own, but he knows it's a losing battle--Dean reaches around Sam's defenses with his fingers and snags some potatoes before Sam can stab him with the fork. Dean grins around his mouthful of food and continues, "Bobby's got wind of a chupacabra down in Flagstaff." He swallows and takes a sip of coffee. "And behind door number three, four mysterious deaths in Castaway Cove, Tennessee, all young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, all on consecutive Tuesday nights. You got a preference?"
"We're going to Palo Alto." Sam doesn't mean to blurt it out like that--California's been a sore spot for years, a place on the map labeled here be monsters and avoided at all costs--but occasionally his mouth opens before his brain can catch up. "I spoke to Becky last night and--"
Dean sits up straight, hash browns forgotten. "I didn't realize you guys still kept in touch." His voice is neutral, casual, but Sam can tell he's surprised and trying to hide it.
"Yeah, mostly by email, but she sent me a few links, so I called her. I think something's going on." He tells Dean about the grave desecrations, and Dean shakes his head.
"How do you know it's not just another hunter? Do you really want to stumble into someone else's hunt? 'Cause it's not like we have great luck with that, or anything."
"I don't. But we--I--need to check this out, okay?" Dean looks unhappy, brows furrowed and mouth pressed in a tight, thin line. "Maybe it's zombies, Dean," he wheedles. "You love zombies."
"I hate zombies. Remember that zombie chick who broke your wrist?"
"Dean--"
"You know the FBI is just waiting for you to show up at Stanford again, right? Maybe use your ID card or your email, get in touch with your old friends. We can't just waltz in there like it's nothing."
"When it was Deacon calling for help, you couldn't agree fast enough, and your brilliant plan was to get us thrown in prison, but now that one of my friends has a job for us--"
"We don't even know if it is a job," Dean interrupts. "It could just be some juvenile delinquents trying to impress some girls or something."
"--you're saying that setting foot in Palo Alto is going to be more dangerous than that? That's bullshit, Dean."
"We can get another hunter to do the job, if there even is one." Sam hates when Dean uses that reasonable, "let's humor Sam," voice. "I bet Ellen knows somebody in the area who can look into it."
"No, Dean. Becky called me. I have to go." He wants to explain, wants to tell Dean he needs to check Jess's grave for himself, needs to see the campus, the town, needs to say goodbye on his own terms, instead of in a smoke-scented rush of grief and shock, but he can't get the words out. "Dean, please."
"Fine. We'll go." Dean spits the words out like poison. "I don't have to like it, though." The words are achingly familiar--Sam used to say them to Dad a lot, but he doesn't recall ever hearing Dean voice the sentiment. In fact, he remembers bitching Dean out for keeping his mouth shut. He wonders if Dean remembers. He wonders if he's turning into Dad. Before he can say anything, though, Dean tosses his crumpled napkin onto the table and rises, leaving Sam to grab the bill.
***
Dean is quiet on the drive, keeps Master of Puppets on repeat until Sam thinks his ears might explode, and he doesn't really need the reminder of Dean's mood. Sam's usually pretty good at blocking the music out when he wants to read or sleep, but he has a hard time today.
Dean heads to the nearest bar again that night--hustling pool and petty thievery are their main forms of income these days--and when he comes in, he offers a grunt that could mean anything from No luck tonight to I've eaten too many hot wings, clear the room, but under the circumstances, is probably just a reiteration of his unhappiness with Sam's choice. He shucks his clothes, gives his teeth a brief brushing, and collapses into bed without a word. Sam is half-asleep, laptop propped up on his knees, reading about revenants and grave robbers, so he shuts it down, turns out the light, and slides down beside Dean.
Dean doesn't reach out to grope him with sure, heavy hands the way Sam kind of expects him to; hell, he doesn't even roll over or acknowledge Sam's presence with anything more than another grunt and the strategic placement of his cold feet on Sam's shins.
Sam lies there for a moment, perplexed, because Dean after a few beers is generally pretty affectionate, good night at the pool table or not, but when Dean doesn't move, he realizes Dean is still pissed about this job. It's not that Dean can't hold a grudge, necessarily, because he can (don't get him started on Tony LaRussa, the FBI, or his eighth grade social studies teacher), but he doesn't usually hold one against Sam. Sam knows how to cajole him out of it, though, and it's even easier now that they're doing the whole fucking thing, because Dean never turns down sex. So Sam reaches around and slides his hand down into Dean's boxer-briefs to curl around his half-hard cock. Dean, as expected, thrusts into his grip with a pleased grunt.
In the months since they've been doing this, since that desperation- and eggnog-fueled Christmas night when Sam first climbed into Dean's bed and licked promises into his mouth, Sam's gotten good at making Dean's eyes go dark with heat and his voice go rough with need. He uses that knowledge now, has Dean thrusting back against him and gasping in no time at all, a chorus of, fuck, Sammy, fuck falling from his grinning mouth.
When they're done, Dean is a heavy, boneless weight pressed to Sam's chest, and Sam is so sleepy he can't be bothered with cleaning up. He'll tease Dean about it in the morning, he thinks as he drifts off.
***
After two repetitions of And Justice for All, Sam reaches out, turns the radio down, and says, "You know, you don't have to come. I can just--"
The shock of fear on Dean's face disappears before Sam can be sure he really saw it, but Dean's eyes are wide when he glances over, startled, and he barks out, "No," before Sam can finish his thought, let alone his sentence. "No, Sam. It's fine. I'm just a little--" Dean waves a hand irritably "--whatever." Sam would have believed him if he weren't sitting up straight instead of melting back against the leather in a comfortable slouch the way he usually does on long drives. Dean doesn't jack the volume up again, though, so Sam considers it a partial victory.
***
Sam's been staring out the window for what feels like hours as they crawl along 85 when he sees the exit he wants. "Here, Dean. Get off here."
Dean glares at him and cuts off a red Dodge minivan behind them to a blaring chorus of horns, which earns the soccer mom driving it the finger from Dean, and then they're heading towards Gates of Heaven cemetery, where Jess is buried and two of the desecrations took place.
They're about two miles down the road when Dean suddenly recognizes where they are. He reaches out and puts a hand on the back of Sam's neck, thumb rubbing soothingly over his jaw. Sam sighs and relaxes into the touch, hoping Dean's mood will improve now.
The last rays of the setting sun are fading from the indigo sky as they pull into the parking lot, and Dean says, "We can do this in the morning, if you want."
Sam shakes his head. "Becky said she checked, but I need to see for myself."
"Okay." Dean rubs a hand across his mouth. "Do we have names for the ones that were dug up?"
Sam looks at the notes he'd jotted down. "Amy Barker and Paula Walsh. Both were new graves, no headstones yet."
"Not hunters, then," Dean mutters. "Zombies are looking more and more likely, huh?"
Sam nods and points, though Dean's already pulling into the correct parking lot. "You don't have to--" he starts but Dean just shakes his head.
"I'd like to pay my respects," he says, and the sincerity in his voice warms Sam.
They don't speak as they approach Jess's grave. When they get there, rose-colored marble soft and dark in the twilight, Dean bumps Sam's shoulder once with his own and then falls back a few steps. The grass is undisturbed and there are fresh flowers, probably from Becky, and Sam feels like an idiot for forgetting to bring some himself. He doesn't say anything, though. He doesn't want Dean volunteering to steal the lilies from the grave two rows over.
After a few moments, Dean starts to wander. Sam lets him go, always peripherally aware of where he is, and sinks down onto the grass. He traces the letters carved into the stone, smooth and cool under his touch, and bows his head. The pain of her death is muted now, a phantom ache in his soul, healed but no longer perfect, one more little crack in the surface, like the ache in his twice-broken wrist when it's going to rain.
He thinks about all the places he's been since he was last here, all the things he's done, and choices he's made. He knows she'd want him to be happy, and he is, even if the life he has now is diametrically opposed to the one he'd dreamt about when he'd lie awake and listen to her breathe beside him. He hopes she's someplace better--he has personal knowledge of hell now, and while it's only made Dean more stubbornly unconvinced of heaven, Sam still needs to believe there's one waiting at the end of it all.
He isn't sure how long he's been sitting there when he hears Dean shout, "Sam!" He scrambles to his feet, draws his gun, and swings around towards Dean's voice as Dean comes barreling down the row of graves, annoyed look on his face.
"What happened?"
"Ghosts. Two of 'em. They wanted me to go with them." Dean's mouth twists in distaste. "I hate clingy chicks, man. Especially dead ones."
In spite of the situation, or maybe because of it, Sam laughs. "You think it was Amy and Paula?"
Dean shrugs. "I guess. Can zombies have ghosts? Because I gotta say, I'm not sure I approve of that kind of double-dipping in the pool of evil."
Sam chokes on a laugh. "I don't think they can, Dean. On the plus side, maybe it's a simple salt and burn job after all. Maybe it was a hunter who screwed up somehow."
But when they get Amy Barker's grave open, there's no body in the coffin, and the same proves true for Paula Walsh.
"Fuck," Dean mutters, tossing his shovel down in disgust and wiping sweat off his forehead with a muddy forearm. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"You said a mouthful," Sam answers absently after drinking down half a bottle of water.
"You'd think the news would have mentioned that the graves weren't just dug up, but robbed," Dean says. "Free press, my ass. There's no news in the news anymore." He sounds like a grumpy old man, and Sam feels a quick ache in his chest, grateful that Dean's still around to complain about things. And complain he does, at length, and sometimes, great volume.
Doesn't mean Sam has to listen to him, though. He tunes Dean out and starts to fill in the grave. Grave digging is mechanical, simple; he's been doing it most of his life, it feels like. Like running, or meditation, the routine rhythm of it frees his brain, lets it work without his full attention. Instead of the case, though, he finds himself daydreaming about a house; not the two bedroom, two bath colonial he always envisioned living in with Jess, but maybe a cabin out in the woods somewhere, that he and Dean could use as a base of operations. Be more like Bobby, have a safe place to come back to and rest every couple of months. He's been thinking about it since he saved Dean from hell, and being here, surrounded by reminders of the future he used to have, only makes him think about it more. He knows it's a pipedream--the FBI is still after them, even if they've freed themselves from the shadows of hell for the time being--but he thinks about it anyway, wonders what Dean would say if he mentioned it.
"Any bright ideas?" Dean asks when they're done.
Sam shakes his head. His t-shirt is dirty and sweaty and his back has started to ache and he knows Dean's not asking about his plans for anything past tonight, so he says, "Shower and sleep."
"Sounds good to me."
***
Dean calls first shower, but doesn't complain when Sam pushes his way in, hot water washing sweat and dirt down the drain, easing the ache in his shoulders and back. He crowds Dean back against the brown tile, dips his head to press open-mouthed kisses to Dean's neck and collarbones, tasting soap and skin. Dean hums low in response, his fingers twisting in Sam's hair to pull him up for a kiss. He keeps his hands in Sam's hair when Sam slides down to his knees, kisses his way down Dean's belly, nips at the jut of his hipbone.
Sam doesn't know when this went from weird to normal, has no scale anymore for either concept; he just knows this makes him happy--the heavy weight of Dean's dick on his tongue, salt-slick and blood-hot, Dean's fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks and licks, and then the unexpectedly gentle brush of Dean's hand on his cheek just after he comes. Sam swallows what he can and lets the shower wash away the rest as he finishes himself off quickly, the water turning lukewarm.
They crawl into bed and Sam sleeps easily, the solid weight of Dean's body curled against him keeping bad dreams away.
***
The morgue is in disarray when Sam and Dean arrive, the attendants still shaking their heads and cursing as the police pack up their stuff and go.
"No press," one of the attendants says automatically. "How'd you even get in here?"
They flash their false FBI badges in unison, a move that used to annoy Sam but now amuses him, and he says, "We're here about the grave robberies. We think there might be a link to a murder in San Francisco last year." He gets it out without flinching, had insisted he could when Dean said he'd do it.
The morgue attendant's mouth twists. "You find those bodies, see if you got any parts left over," he says, "'cause I got some missing."
Sam exchanges a glance with Dean, who says, "Missing? Parts?" like he can't quite believe what he just heard.
"Girl came in late last night, car accident, spinal cord injury. She was damaged, but intact." The attendant goes to a drawer, pulls it open, and this time, Sam can't hide his flinch. The girl's arms have been severed at the shoulder. "This is the same girl, getting her Venus de Milo on this morning."
Dean grimaces, but he leans forward instead of away, though Sam can read the tension in his shoulders underneath his sport coat. "That looks precise," he says. "Surgical. Someone took their time."
Another attendant comes over at that. "Yes," he says, "this was delicate work. He knew what he was doing."
The first attendant rolls his eyes. "Becker was on the fast track to being a surgeon before he ended up here."
"So you'd say this was done by someone who knew what they were doing?" Dean asks, turning to Becker.
"I did just say that."
"I guess you did," Dean says, and his sharp grin doesn't bode well for Becker. "Care to elaborate?"
"Certainly they had rudimentary knowledge of human anatomy," Becker answers primly, and then treats them to a lecture about severing tendons and ligaments and just how one would go about separating the arms from the body.
Dean looks like he wants to pop the guy in the mouth, just on general principle, and Sam's tempted to let him, but it won't get them any further in their investigation, so he says, "You were a surgeon?"
"I was top of my class at Stanford," Becker says bitterly, mouth drawn into a tight line, "and I was interning at the hospital when I was in an accident not unlike the one that killed Monique Sutler, and sustained nerve damage to my hands. I was not allowed to continue my internship."
Sam feels a pang of sympathy. Dean's hand brushes lightly against his back and he leans into the touch for a second.
"Was anything else missing?" Dean asks, breaking the moment.
The first attendant--his ID badge says his name's Jamal McGuire--shakes his head. "No. Just poor Monique's arms. Her parents are on a plane from Wisconsin as we speak. How am I going to explain this?"
"I suggest you leave it to the cops," Dean says. "We'll want a copy of whatever security video you've got, and if you could give us a call if you think of anything, or if anything else goes, uh, missing, we'd appreciate it." He scribbles his phone number on the back of one of the business cards Sam printed up at Kinko's, and hands it over.
"Can't the cops give you the tape?"
"Interagency rivalry. You understand," Dean says with a nod and a quirk of his lips that always manages to get people to do what he wants, makes them think he's sharing some secret with them. Sam's never been able to pull it off.
They're back in the car when Dean says, "Okay, bodies going missing, I understand. Someone tried to make zombies and maybe it didn't work out so good. But body parts? Arms? I mean, what the fuck?"
"I don't know."
"No, seriously, Sam, what the fuck?" Even after all these years, Sam never ceases to be amazed at how affronted Dean gets at the crimes against nature they track down. It's part of what makes him such an excellent hunter, even though sometimes Sam wants to duct tape his mouth shut. "And surgically removed, so it's not like it was just something that was hungry and decided to chow down on some tasty wings or something."
Sam remembers the wendigo, the bodies hanging from the mine's ceiling. Sometimes he's amazed he still gets nauseated at the shit they deal with. Then, there are times like these. "Okay, that's an image I didn't need."
Dean ignores him. "If it was just food, I would understand. Or, you know, not really, but in a general sense. Everybody's gotta eat. Even, you know, cannibals and shit. But why would you just take some dead girl's arms? They're not even a really fun part."
"Ew, Dean."
"What? I'm just saying."
Sam pulls Dad's journal out of his duffel. It's a more adult way of saying, la la la, I can't hear you when Dean starts spouting his more grotesque theories. Before Dean can start with that, Sam says, "Maybe for a spell? Knucklebones are often used in divination and other types of occult ceremonies. Maybe whoever it is, is trying to raise something, or summon a demon?"
"Trying to raise something," Dean repeats, struck.
"I thought we were ruling out zombies."
"Not zombies. Monsters." Dean turns the car around, heads back towards the university. "Frankenstein."
***
The doctor they speak with at the Stanford University School of Medicine assures them repeatedly that the technology to reanimate dead bodies via electricity does not actually exist, and that even if it did, none of the dead girls would have been viable candidates.
"The tissue would need to be quite fresh for reattachment to work, in any case," Dr. Mukherjee says. "And the sorts of things you're talking about are the realm of science fiction. We can restart the heart, but brain death is currently irreparable. It might always be, though who can say what we'll be able to do ten, twenty years from now?"
"And have you had any students, or former students who might be interested in this kind of...experimentation?" Sam asks.
Dr. Mukherjee shakes his head. "They're all interested in, please forgive the pun, bleeding edge techniques, but this indicates a level of, uh," he gives a tight smile, "egoism even beyond that of your typical arrogant neurosurgeon."
"But you'd need to be a surgeon to do this?" Dean presses. "The dude at the morgue--Becker--said it was done with surgical precision."
"So that's where David ended up, eh?"
Sam nods.
"Such a tragedy, you know. He was on course to become one of the best neurosurgeons I've ever seen, until the accident."
"His hands seemed fine to me," Dean says.
"There's a difference between holding a pen and holding a scalpel, Agent Lee."
Dean bobs his head, not agreeing but not disagreeing. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Was he well-liked?" Sam asks before Dean picks a fight with the guy.
Dr. Mukherjee laughs. "None of our surgical interns are well-liked, Agent Mars. It's a very competitive field. But David Becker was not much of a people person. And to answer your question, yes, I would think your culprit has training as a surgeon."
Sam nods again. "Thanks, Doctor."
They shake hands and leave, and Dean waits until they're in the stairwell to say, "I knew that guy Becker was a dick."
"I feel bad for him, though."
Dean shrugs. "Doesn't make him any less of a dick. You've had some shitty luck, but you're not a douche."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam says dryly, and Dean flashes him a gleeful grin.
It's only once they're out in the parking lot that Sam is struck by the fact that he's actually on campus. He waits for his stomach to clench with yearning, but he only feels a vague pang.
When he'd left home, such as it was, he'd forced himself not to look back, afraid that if he did, he'd never be able to go forward. Once he'd started school, life in the Winchester traveling circus had seemed so far away. Now that he's back on the road, has been for nearly three years, life at Stanford seems like a fading dream--beautiful and lost, something that happened to someone else.
Sam expects the sadness, and it's there, but the sharp edges have been worn away by the constant knowledge of Dean's presence, the solid anchor of home he's ever only felt in the car with Dean.
Dean looks around like he's seeing the place for the first time, slides his sunglasses on so Sam can't see what he's thinking, and says, "Let's get out of here, Sammy. I can practically feel the geek rubbing off on me." He swivels to watch a pair of women in scrubs walk by. "Though there's definitely something to be said for the outfits."
Dean's phone rings before Sam can respond.
"Yeah, yeah, this is Agent Lee. The parts were found? No? The other girls--Seriously? Thanks for calling, Jamal. I really appreciate it." He flips his phone shut and shakes his head. "Son of a bitch."
"What, Dean?"
"The police found Amy Barker and Paula Walsh. Well, most of them."
"Most of them?" Sam holds up a hand, suddenly sure he doesn't want to know the answer to that question.
"Pieces of both girls were discovered in a dumpster over by the Palo Alto VA. They haven't sorted out what belongs to who yet--"
"Whom."
"What?"
"What belongs to whom," Sam says, trying really hard not to think about body parts.
Dean rolls his eyes. "They haven't sorted out what belongs to whom," he repeats, "but he said he'll call when they do."
Sam swallows down the bile climbing his throat and says, "Great."
"Well, look at it this way: we can definitely rule out zombies now." Dean opens the car door and says, "If you're gonna hurl, do it now, because once we're in the car...." He trails off ominously, the threat so familiar Sam tunes it out as he gets into the car.
"No, no. I just...Dr. Mukherjee said the Frankenstein scenario was impossible."
"He said it was scientifically impossible. There's a difference, Sammy. He doesn't know what we know, does he?"
Sam nods. "I'm gonna call Bobby, see if he's ever heard of anything like this."
Dean looks at him, then back out the windshield, and there's a brief hesitation before he says, "You wanna hit the library?"
Sam thinks about the hours he spent at Green Library, how he'd had his own carrel in the spring semester of his junior year, how he and Jess had had sex in the stacks once or twice during finals, to relieve stress, she'd said. She'd always liked taking risks, shocking him. He still has his student ID, is sure it's being tracked just like his email account, and it's likely someone there will recognize him, even if most of the people he was in class with are gone.
Still, it's possible they might find something to tell them what they're dealing with, and he finds that while he has no real desire to come back here as a student, he can't resist the lure of the library, and the knowledge it holds.
"Yeah," he says, after the silence has stretched too long and Dean looks like he thinks he might have said the wrong thing. "Yeah, I think I do."
***
Bobby has the names of a few books that might help--two or three on Afro-Caribbean religions, one on Babylonian necromancy, and scarily enough, one on Enochian magic that, according to Bobby, isn't complete bullshit.
The library is familiar, and Sam feels a warmth in the pit of his belly as they walk past the copiers and the bulletin boards. He scans the notices out of habit, sees the standard offers and requests for roommates and tutors, a notice of the library's special hours during finals, and a handmade flyer about a missing girl. He files away the information out of habit, notices Dean doing the same thing, as they head towards the stacks to find the books Bobby's recommended.
They set up at a table in the reading room and Sam slouches down, reminding himself that most of the people he knew are gone, but he starts nervously every time someone skirts too close to them. After the third time, Dean kicks him under the table, and Sam hisses at him to stop, which just makes Dean do it again, and it's like every time they've spent in every library ever and Sam finally relaxes.
Which is when Mrs. Galarraga comes bustling around the stacks. She's worked at the reference desk for ages--Sam did his work-study shifts with her freshman and sophomore year--and she'll totally recognize him.
"Dean," he whispers.
Dean puts down the book on ancient Babylon--open to the chapter about the temple prostitutes, of course, because Dean is just that predictable--and says, "What?"
"We have to hide."
"What?"
"The librarian. She knows me."
"Is she hot?"
Sam uses the pleading tone he knows Dean won't resist. "Dean."
"Fine." Dean heaves himself to his feet and peers around the bookshelves. "The lady with the red hair?"
"That's her."
"She's pretty fine for an older lady, Sammy. I know the older ladies like you, man."
"Dean," Sam grunts in exasperation.
"I'm just saying."
"Well, don't."
Dean smirks but lets it drop.
They hide in the stacks as Mrs. Galarraga leads a student around the anthropology section. Sam leans against the wall and sinks down to the floor, elbows resting on his knees, head resting on his hands. He's getting a headache. Dean slides down beside him, and Sam's going to say something about maybe just forgetting the whole case and leaving it to the cops when he felt the cold prickle of a ghostly hand on his skin.
"Sam?" Dean's voice is tight, urgent.
Help us, the ghosts say, and their voices twine and echo like bells under water, sending a chill down Sam's spine.
"There are three of them now," he whispers.
"Monique Sutler," Dean answers.
Help us, they say again, beckoning with long, white phantom fingers like sirens.
"How?" he asks, getting up slowly, hands held up harmlessly, as if they would be afraid of him. "How can we help you?"
They start floating down the aisle, and behind him, he hears Dean scramble to his feet. "Sam," he says, and Sam can hear the warning in it, and the fear.
Help us, the ghosts plead, their voices ringing with desperation. Sam and Dean follow them through the stacks, and Sam's grateful no one's around to hear the noise they're making.
When they reach the periodicals, the ghosts suddenly swirl together like a tornado, and a binder removes itself from the shelf and falls to the floor, open to the April 3, 2007 edition of the Palo Alto Daily News.
The ghosts are hovering, waiting, and Sam kneels to read the headlines: Accident kills two, leaves one critically injured.
"What is it?" Dean says, squatting down next to him. Wordlessly, Sam points to the name David Becker in the article. "I knew that guy was a dick."
"Well, he has access, and he has the knowledge and skill to perform the operation," Sam says, "but why?"
Dean shrugs. "To prove he still can? He seemed pretty bitter about not being a surgeon anymore."
"And the ghosts want us to help them move on?"
"Who the hell knows what ghosts want?"
"They seemed pretty adamant. And helpful."
"I wouldn't get too used to that, Sammy. I'm sure they'll be back to strangling you in no time."
Sam laughs in spite of himself, and leads Dean out the back entrance of the library.
***
ESPN is on in the background and Dean is saying, "Don't worry, we don't have to sort the parts, just get them all together with a little salt and a little lighter fluid, and send them on their way," when the TV starts getting staticky and the channel changes on its own.
"Angela Mancini is a student at the Stanford University School of Medicine," the blonde newscaster says as a still of a pretty dark-haired girl flashes onscreen behind her, "and she's been missing for the past thirty-six hours. She was last seen leaving the Lane Reading Room on Monday evening. If you have any news as to her whereabouts, please call the tip line listed below."
Dean slants a thoughtful glance at Sam, who says, "It's the girl from the flyer in the library." His breath fogs in the air, and the ghosts swirl around the room like a frosty cyclone. Dean grabs the salt and the shotgun, but Sam shakes his head, puts a hand on Dean's arm.
Save her, they insist this time. Save us.
"We'd be happy to," Dean snaps, "but maybe you could give us a little more to go on."
Save her. Save us, they say, and the cold desolation in their voices makes Sam's hair stand on end, and then their spinning frenzy evaporates, leaving nothing but a chill and the scent of ozone behind.
"Great," Dean grumbles. "They couldn't have done the whole follow the leader thing again? Maybe shown us where she is?"
"They're doing the best they can, Dean. You know how hard it is for them to communicate."
"Yeah, yeah." Dean goes back to packing the duffel with supplies. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, rubs the base of his neck with his thumb, and feels Dean relax a little under the touch. "I don't get it, though. He's been stealing parts, and he's got almost unlimited access at the morgue. Why does he suddenly need a live girl?"
Sam's been wondering the same thing, and then it hits him like a punch to the gut. His hand tightens on Dean's shoulder. "The head, Dean. He needs the brain to be as fresh," here Sam has to swallow hard against the bile rising in his throat, "as possible."
"Oh, that's just sick." Dean tucks his gun into his waistband. "I'm gonna enjoy the look on this asshole's face when we stop him."
Sam smiles grimly and agrees.
***
Becker's in the phone book; his house isn't far from the VA Hospital. The locks on his front door are easy to pick, and the door down to his workroom is slightly ajar.
Dean, as always, insists on going first, and Sam doesn't argue. They slip down the stairs quiet, guns drawn, the smell of blood, formaldehyde, and incense heavy in the air. It's a potent, gag-inducing combination, and Sam has to call on years of training to keep himself from being sick.
The room is littered with body parts and unsuccessful (at least, Sam hopes they're unsuccessful) attempts to build (and reanimate) creatures from those parts. In the center of the room are two gurneys, side by side, and Angela Mancini is lying unconscious--probably drugged, Sam thinks, looking at the IV she's hooked up to--on one of them. A second, stitched together, headless body lies on the other gurney.
Symbols are chalked on the floor and the walls, vaguely familiar from the book on Enochian magic Bobby had recommended, and that sends another chill down Sam's spine, because Enochian magic never ends well for anybody. There's a blood-stained altar in the far corner, fat black pillar candles flickering and incense smoking on its symbol-laden surface.
Becker is stroking Angela's hair gently with one gloved hand, and whispering in her ear. "We'll be together soon," he says, raising a scalpel in his other hand, and Sam feels his stomach turn again.
"Jesus, you couldn't have bought a blow-up doll like a normal person?" Dean says, pointing his gun at Becker. "Just step away from the girl."
"You think you can stop me?"
"I'm pretty sure a bullet to the head will stop you, yeah," Dean answers.
Sam hopes it doesn't come to that. "Listen, man," he says, trying for his most sympathetic, earnest voice, even as his stomach wants to rebel, "I get it. You lost everything in the accident, and you--"
"You don't get anything," Becker says. "I had a career, a fiancée, a life, and now, all I have is this." He makes a sweeping gesture, and Sam glances over at Dean, whose face is pale but unreadable under the fluorescent lights.
Becker doesn't give Sam a chance to respond; he starts speaking in a language that shouldn't be familiar but is, the hard consonants and twisted vowels of a demonic tongue that was old when the seas were still boiling. The language Sam had spoken to order Dean's soul free of hell, and then tried to forget it had ever come out of his mouth.
The ghosts materialize, whirling like dervishes, cold wind whipping through the room, blowing out the candles and thinning the haze from the incense. Help us, they plead, echoing hollowly over the harsh syllables Becker is chanting. Save us.
Becker bends towards Angela Mancini, scalpel in hand, blood beading on her throat where he touches her with it.
The ghosts slam Dean against the wall, still keening for salvation, and Sam doesn't even hesitate, raises the gun and puts a bullet in Becker's shoulder. Becker stumbles back, falls silent, one hand clutched over the wound. Dean pushes away from the wall, kicks over the altar, and goes to Angela. He detaches her from the IV line and lifts her in his arms, heading for the stairs.
The ghosts, free of Becker's control, turn on him. Sam thinks about calling them to heel, but doesn't. He follows Dean up the stairs, and doesn't look back.
"You okay?"
Dean looks up from where he's checking Angela's pulse and nods. "You?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?" Dean asks, rising. He reaches up, cups Sam's face, thumb brushing lightly over his cheek, making Sam shiver in the good way.
"Yeah."
"Okay." Dean pulls the lighter fluid and salt out of his duffel. He jerks his chin at Angela. "Get her outside. I'll take care of the mess downstairs." Sam nods, and Dean heads back down into the basement, and as much as Sam wants to follow him, he gathers the unconscious girl in his arms and heads outside.
The ghosts are waiting, and Sam tenses, but they sing out, Thank you in that weird three-part harmony they've got going on, so he says, "You're welcome." They flare like the flash from a camera, and then fade into the darkness, and he's still blinking the spots from his eyes when Dean comes up the stairs, smelling of smoke and charred flesh.
They call 911 on the way to dropping Angela Mancini off at the emergency room. Sam's voice doesn't shake when he reports the fire.
***
Sam's barely got the door to the motel room shut behind him before Dean is pressing him up against it, mouth covering his in a hot, urgent kiss. He can feel the hard line of Dean's dick through his jeans, Dean's hips fitting against his and moving in a way designed to make him gasp.
"Fuck, Dean."
Dean's answering grin is wide and sharp, and he has Sam flat on his back and undressed before Sam can do or say anything else. Not that he's complaining.
Sometimes, they're too exhausted to fuck after finishing off a hunt, but most of the time, the adrenaline rush makes them both horny and frantic, and maybe Sam's come to love that a little, the sharp edge of danger that makes sex, makes being alive, all the sweeter.
Dean is hard and fast and thorough, lips, teeth and stubble scraping over Sam's sensitive skin, like he's trying to imprint himself on Sam, like he hasn't done that already, and three slick fingers twisting up inside Sam until he can't do anything but spread his legs wide and beg. He pushes up as Dean fucks into him, one hand hard on his hip, Dean's ring cool and hard and smooth against his skin, and the other quick and rough on his cock, urgent like it hasn't been since those last days before the deal came due, when they still weren't sure they'd survive. Sam moans into Dean's mouth, which is hot and wet and soft, thick tongue and sharp teeth driving Sam crazy. He comes hard, tension unraveling like a knot, pleasure flooding his body and spilling out over Dean's sure fingers to paint their bellies with come.
Dean comes, then, too, hard and deep inside of Sam, with a shudder and a low growl Sam can feel down to his toes. Dean collapses on top of him, breathing heavily, his breath warm and humid against Sam's neck.
Even after he gets rid of the condom and cleans up a little, he crawls on top of Sam like a blanket, warm and heavy, and Sam's too fucked out to wonder why, or do more than shove at him ineffectually before he falls asleep, the rhythm of Dean's breathing in his ear, Dean's heart beating with his.
***
Dean is out getting coffee when Sam calls Becky.
"It's done," he tells her.
"Do I want to know?"
He thinks about the slaughterhouse stench of Becker's workroom, the stitched up bodies and discarded parts, and the flames licking the night sky in the rearview as they drove away. "Probably not."
She laughs, brittle edge to it. "I didn't think so." Her voice is warmer when she says, "Can you guys hang around for a day or two?"
He thinks about the way they've been flashing fake badges around, the smoldering remains of Becker's house. The still-missing body parts. The proximity to Jess's grave. To Madison's. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Or at least meet me for a drink?"
He smiles ruefully. "Yeah, okay, I think we can do that."
"Do what?" Dean says, kicking the door shut behind him. "Who's on the phone?"
Sam covers the mouthpiece of the phone. "Becky. She wants to meet for drinks."
Dean is half-turned away, taking a sip of coffee. He nods. "Yeah, sure. You should do that." The words sound rushed, false, and Dean's voice is carefully casual, off.
"Let me call you back," he says to Becky. Then he turns to Dean, frowning. "What's your problem? Since when do you turn down drinks with a pretty girl?"
Dean shrugs. "She's your friend. And after what that shape-shifting freak tried with her, I can't imagine she'd be happy to see me."
"She doesn't hold it against you, Dean. She saw what it did. What it was."
Dean shrugs, starts eating his bacon, egg and cheese sandwich.
"Dean--" Sam tries to get his attention, but when Dean just keeps chewing like Sam hasn't said anything, he knows something else is going on. "I'll tell her we'll meet her tonight for drinks--some local place with a pool table, nothing fancy. You won't have to drink appletinis or anything."
"She's your friend, Sam, not mine."
"That's bullshit and you know it. What the hell is your problem?"
"This place."
Sam looks around the dingy motel room--it's no worse than a hundred others they've stayed in over the years, and somewhat nicer than another hundred he can think of--before he understands. "Dean--"
"You had that life, Sam. Like that Becker guy. Well, not just like that Becker guy, 'cause you're not a necrophiliac freak building yourself a girlfriend out of body parts, but you had everything and you lost it, and now you have this." Dean pushes away from the little table and swings his arms wide to encompass the room, their life. "If I hadn't fucked up with the FBI, you could still have it."
Sam gapes at him for a moment. "There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don't even know where to start."
"It's true, and you know it." Dean's jaw is set, rock-hard and stubborn, an immovable object.
"It's not, and I don't." If Dean is a rock, immovable, Sam's an irresistible force, the water wearing him down; he's had a whole lifetime of learning how to slip into the cracks in Dean's armor and break them wide open. "I don't want it anymore," he says. His voice is low but steady, full of conviction. It's not the whole truth, but it's more true than not these days. Truer than the reverse, anyway, and that's what matters. He stands, puts a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezes, trying to make Dean meet his gaze. "I'm here because I want to be here, Dean, not because I don't have a choice."
Dean shakes his head. "Sam--"
"We did a good thing last night, Dean. We saved that girl. That's what we do. Who we are." Maybe he's laying it on a little thick, but maybe Dean needs to hear it. Maybe he needs to say it. "I'm gonna give that up to be a lawyer?" He laughs a little in disbelief, that he'd wanted that once. That he doesn't anymore. "Anybody could be a lawyer, Dean, but nobody else can do what we do."
Dean looks at him, finally, eyes wide and wary, but willing to hope. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Sam smiles. "Now I'm gonna call Becky and tell her we'll meet her for drinks tonight."
Dean grins back like he finally gets it. "Okay."
Sam wants to lick that smile off his face, curls his fingers in the soft flannel of Dean's shirt and hauls him close. He mumbles something incoherent against Dean's lips, could be Dean or jerk or yeah. It doesn't really matter. Dean laughs into his mouth, relaxing into the kiss, tension dissipating like ghosts who've been laid to rest, and Sam knows he's right where he belongs.
end
~*~
December 30, 2007
~*~
Notes: In addition to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, this story was inspired by the Buffy episode "Some Assembly Required."
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~