Sam - Part 3/3
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Master Post
part three
Dean finds out about Detroit from the newspapers. They say a nuke went off. Rendered the whole city dead. Strange thing, as Bobby hears, there’s no radiation.
Omens though, lots of ‘em. Lightning storms and all that shit. Sure sounds like demons flocking to the place.
‘Lucifer,’ he says.
‘We don’t know that, yet.’ Bobby’s voice crackles on the other end of the line.
No. But it’s good enough for him. Not much else that can cause this.
‘I gotta see him,’ he says.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, boy.’
Dean disconnects the call and pulls the Impala on the road.
He drives all the way, 18 hours straight, stops only for coffee and relieving himself. Yet, he’s still wide awake when he reaches the outskirts of Detroit. And the end of his journey, a low level private of the U.S. fucking Army tells him.
The most annoying thing though is that he can’t trick his way in. He’s got no ID, no gear, no good excuse.
Working his jaw, he turns around, drives out of sight then tries his luck on every road into the city that he finds. It doesn’t get him more than orders to leave. Damn soldiers in their anti-radiation suits look like aliens and Dean finds his finger itching to shoot their faces.
He retreats, for now. Stops the car at some dusty side road and tries to come up with a way to sneak himself one of those alien suits. He needs a distraction, which was a lot easier when he wasn’t alone. Blowing something up might turn out to be more counter-productive than helpful, given the current situation.
He sighs. ‘Come on Dean, think.’
‘Hey.’ Someone knocks on his window and he snaps his head up.
There’s a man standing next to the car. His eyes are black. Dean’s hands curl around his gun.
‘Lucifer wants to see you,’ the demon says. ‘Follow me.’
Dean knows he shouldn’t. He should get out and shoot the demon. He shouldn’t drive up to Lucifer because why the hell Lucifer would want to see him, other than to kill him?
But he does. He lines his baby up with the old Ford Pick-Up and follows the glaring taillights over dusty, bumpy fields.
They drive. Then they drive some more. Exhaustion threatens to gain the upper hand over the tension that had kept him going so far. He blinks, just for a second. He almost crashes into the Pick-Up’s bumper, only just managing to snap the wheel around and hit the breaks. The tires squeal and finally stop. He finds himself in front of a church. At least ten men are guarding the entrance, watching him with 20 black eyes.
His heart hammers in his chest, his fingers are white-knuckling the steering wheel. The shock of the almost collision sends a surge of adrenalin through his body, allowing his mind to focus again. He wonders what the hell he’s doing here. If Lucifer doesn’t kill him, and that’s a big ass if, his demon squad looks like it will.
But then they step to the sides and the big oak door opens. Dean stars into a black hole. Something is calling out to him. And suddenly he knows why he’s here. It’s not about Lucifer. He’s not under demonic influence or just out of his mind with exhaustion. It’s not even because he can’t believe what happened. Detroit Military City was proof enough for that.
It’s another pull that makes him step out of the car and head up to the glaring maw awaiting him. A pull he made himself ignore because he thought he had to. Now he knows he was wrong and there’s no point in resisting any longer. Tonight is his last chance to follow it, the last time he’s going to feel it.
Tonight it’s time to face up to his biggest failure.
His steps echo in the silence of the big hall like a gunshot. Trembling hands balled into fists, he walks between the rows of benches with his chin held high. He spots him in the first row to the left, sitting quietly as if in prayer. Dean reaches him and stops. The Devil looks up, says, ‘Dean.’
His blood freezes. He opens his mouth, a name sitting on his tongue, but he can’t get it out.
‘I’m glad you came.’ Lucifer says in a voice that is familiar. Unfamiliar. Dean’s ears ring. Memories flash through his mind. A rapid staccato of frowns, yawns, smiles. Dimples. Lucifer still has them.
‘Sit,’ he says.
Dean struggles on the spot he’s standing. Then he drops on the bench to his right. Keeps his eyes set on the altar. He can’t face him. ‘You wanted to see me?’ He asks, willing the tremble out of his voice.
‘No,’ Lucifer says. ‘I’m here as a favor to your brother. He was the one who wanted to see you. One more time.’
Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the burn starting up behind them. ‘Let me speak with him.’
‘No,’ Lucifer says. ‘That wasn’t part of the arrangement.’
‘Then why lead me all the way out here? Why not pop in and out during whatever the hell I’m doing like all of you angel douchebags?’ Dean doesn’t look over, but he can feel Lucifer’s stare on him.
‘Because I couldn’t find you,’ Lucifer says and Dean remembers the sigils on his ribs. Good to know they still work, he thinks. ‘I had to wait for you to come looking for me. And you did,’ Lucifer continues. ‘But unfortunately I had to leave Detroit before you arrived. I’m guessing you were otherwise occupied?’
‘Screw you,’ he snaps, but means himself as much as that bastard. Because he was busy. Was too far away. Too caught up with himself to be in the right place at the right time.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucifer says. ‘It wasn’t my intention to upset you.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Dean snorts and this time he looks the Devil right in the eye. ‘Wanna make it up to me? Let my brother go.’
‘You know I can’t do that, Dean. He’s my vessel. This is his destiny. Always has been.’
Dean grits his teeth to keep himself from lashing out at the smug bastard. ‘So, now what? You gonna kill me?’
‘No.’ Lucifer says, calmly. ‘Not today, anyway.’
Dean blinks, genuinely surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘Because contrary to popular believe I keep my promises. It was your brother’s wish and I owe it to him.’
‘Lucky me,’ Dean mumbles.
Lucifer stands up, and steps right in front of him. ‘I have to leave, now.’ He reaches out, as if to cup his cheek. ‘I assume it was nice to see you again.’
Repulsed, Dean rises to his feet, but he can’t get away in time. The hand lands to the left of his chest. A burning pain explodes in his side. His knees give out, but he doesn’t fall. He’s frozen to Lucifer’s hand, kept upright and in agony.
Lucifer glances down at him. ‘I’m sorry. I was told you were special. I assumed I could touch you.’
Dean feels like puking. ‘Funny thing,’ he gasps. ‘I keep telling people I’m not, but they won’t listen.’
‘Really,’ Lucifer mumbles, surprised. ‘I always had the same problem. No one would believe me either when I said you humans were nothing but petty little things.’
Darkness begins seeping into Dean’s vision. ‘Get your paws off of me,’ he grits.
‘Good-bye, Dean,’ Lucifer says. The next second, Dean is alone in the dark church. He feels like a puppet with its strings cut and slumps onto a bench, curling in on himself. That’s when he hears loud crashes outside, the sound of metal bending and glass shattering.
He’s back on his feet in a flash. For the handful of seconds it takes him to rush to the door, he doesn’t feel pain, doesn’t feel desperation. Adrenalin and anger take over, channeling the panic he feels into anger and grim focus.
When he busts out of the church, the demons have already smashed the windshield of the Impala. There are deep dents in the metal and with the front tires loosing air from long gashes it looks like she’s curling up in pain.
‘Leave her alone,’ he screams, draws his gun and empties the clip into the rounds of demons. It’s no use. Of course not. He knows that. Still, he keeps pulling the trigger even when it’s nothing but empty clicks.
He only stops when one of the demons splits from the group. It’s a young, fox-eyed guy, with sun bleached hair. He flicks the bangs from his forehead and takes a step towards him. ‘We were told not to hurt you,’ he says, snidely. ‘However, there was no word about your car. So, sit back and enjoy the show.’
There’s one tree on the church grounds. Dean’s back and head connect hard with the ragged bark as the demon slams him up against it. Winded, half a step from unconsciousness, he’s pinned helpless in the air. He wills himself to black out but the blissful oblivion doesn’t come. There’s no escape from this. He bears witness to the destruction of his last connection with a sense of home.
It seems like an eternity has passed when they finally stop. His vision is blurry and he can taste copper and bile and salt on his tongue. He’s dropped to the dusty ground. Coughs and adds sand to the taste. Every inch of his body aches. His throat burns on every inhale. Lungs demanding more than he can suck in. His heart races so fast, he can barely catch his breath. He curls in on himself, tries to face away from the mess but it doesn’t get him anywhere better. His eyes land on the church’s message board, a flyer announcing in big black letters ‘As you sow, so you shall reap. The right path and how God helps you recognize it.’
He vomits. The demons are laughing at him. It keeps ringing in his ears, drilling into his brain, even after they’re long gone and he finally has enough strength to push himself back to his feet.
Dazedly he looks at the image of devastation they left behind. Everything is crushed. His life in pieces and no one left to help him put it back together. On numb feet he stumbles off in a search for a tow truck. It takes two hours to find one. Another 30 minutes to hotwire it and get rid of the car towed to it. By the time he’s ready, the sweat he’s worked up has washed away the tears.
When he returns, he carefully attaches the Impala to the truck and gets on the road. For a while he loses track of where he is driving.
He finds himself at Bobby’s and just stops.
He doesn’t get out of the car until Bobby opens the door and says, ‘Dean?’
‘I’m fine,’ he says. His voice sound oddly clogged. He rubs a hand over his face. It comes away wet and sticky even though he remembers he stopped sweating hours ago. He shifts in the seat and turns to Bobby. ‘I’m cold.’
Bobby brings a blanket and he tosses it around Dean’s shoulders. When he’s wrapped up in it, Bobby tugs gently on his shoulder and he stumbles out of the truck.
‘I’m going to fix her,’ he tells Bobby.
‘Sure you will,’ Bobby says. He doesn’t let Dean turn around when he tries to head for his baby. Instead he steers him towards the house.
‘I’m going to fix her. She’ll be as good as new. You’ll see,’ he says again.
And he tries. He even gets a good start. But then he starts running out of time. No one understands why he keeps working on a car everyone else has already given up on.
One day, Bobby comes up to him. He waits for him to take his head out from under the hood. ‘Son,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you give it a rest?’
---
‘I tried,’ He says. ‘I tried so hard, but… one day I just couldn’t do it anymore. I had no choice.’
‘I know,’ Dean says, quietly. He splays his hand over the scar.
Dean covers it with His. He’s lost everything. Everything, but the memories. The pain. There’s no future for Him, anymore, no matter what happens tomorrow. He probably hasn’t had a future since that day in Detroit.
Or even earlier, Dean thinks. Since that day at the rest stop just outside River Pass, Colorado.
‘I’m gonna make things right,’ he tells Him. He will, because, he realizes, he still has a choice.
Dean smiles up at him, but it’s sad and weary.
Dean knows the purpose of all these stories is to make him run for the hills. Make him run for Michael. And maybe, a little, to make him punish Dean for what He did or didn’t do. But Dean’s not going to run. He’s going to stick around.
He doesn’t feel like punishing Him, either. Not when Dean has taught him what really has to change when he gets back to ’09. What Dean wishes He could still change.
Dean brings a hand up and cups His cheek. Strokes a hand over the stubble. For once in his life, Dean’s not mad at himself.
‘What are you doing?’ Dean asks.
‘Shh, it’s okay,’ he whispers. ‘It’s okay.’
Slowly, Dean leans in, locks their eyes, watches His grow darker, pupils dilating with anticipation of things, of hopes to come. His breath fans over Dean’s lips and He flicks His tongue out, wets His lips, seemingly unconsciously, starved for a kind touch and as the tip of His tongue grazes Dean’s lips, His eyes flutter shut.
Dean closes the last inch and gently presses their mouths together. A soft hum resonates in His throat. Dean feels it pass on to him, pleasant vibrations spreading through his body and for a moment he swears he can sense the tingle even in his toes. Smiling, he nudges at Dean’s lips and He readily opens up.
He takes his time to draw the kiss out. It’s just as intense as it was the first time, but without the hurry, without desperation. Gently, he glides his tongue over Dean’s, explores every last inch of His mouth, massages the roof and slides the tip over the warm, velvety inside of His cheeks, before he tangles their tongues together in a leisurely dance. He pauses, draws back only to sooth swollen, full lips, to slick them and smooth the ache caused by gentle but steady suction. He tastes Dean, tastes the bourbon He drank and the slightly smoky taste underneath that is all Him - or them, maybe - even though neither of them smokes. It reminds Dean of long summer nights, flickering air over hot asphalt and a good steak that’s been on the grill just a tad too long.
Eventually, Dean pulls back and rests their foreheads together. They’re both breathing heavily, short puffs of warm air against their skin. Dean smiles up at him, and he closes his eyes, chuckling softly when calloused fingers card through his hair as if it were much longer. They trail lower after a while, smoothing down over his back until they reach the small of his back. There they gently press down and Dean willingly follows, bringing their groins closer together.
He rests his head on Dean’s chest, mindful of the injury as they lazily start to rock against each other. Dean nuzzles the top of his head while he strokes a hand up and down His side. As they move together in a calm, easy rhythm, Dean feels desire start to pool low in his gut, feels the blood starting to fill his dick. He feels Dean harden too, bulging out His jeans and pressing up against him.
When the friction of his jeans becomes more painful than pleasant, and the pull of drying cum borders on uncomfortable, Dean pushes himself up on his elbows. He halts his hips and pecks a kiss against Dean’s lip.
‘Let’s get rid of these, shall we?’ he asks and splays a hand over Dean’s jeans, closes a fist teasingly over the bulge there.
‘Yeah,’ Dean breathes as He rolls His groin up slightly, pressing closer in the touch while He strokes His hands around Dean’s hips and down to fumble with the fly of his jeans.
Their attempts to undress each other are awkward at first. They both get into each other’s way and Dean has to still His hands.
‘Wait,’ he says, smiling softly and lays them down on His stomach. Dean exhales a deep breath, nods and curls His fingers over His belly as He watches him. Dean brushes a hand reassuringly over His arm before he unbuckles Dean’s belt, opens the button of His jeans, eases the zipper down slowly, until Dean’s boxer clad erection comes free. He takes the waistband of the boxers and says, ‘Lift up.’
Dean does and he carefully pulls His jeans and boxers over His flushed cock and down warm, strong thighs. For a second everything gets tangled around Dean’s ankles but with a chuckle and a kick of His feet as Dean gives the mess a determined tug, they finally get them off. Dean tosses the clothes to the side and crawls back over Dean, bumps their noses accidentally before laughing mouths find each other again. He keeps holding himself up on all fours, while they kiss and Dean works his jeans open.
He doesn’t push them down immediately, though. Just opens them wide enough to work His hand inside. With just the right pressure Dean wraps His fist around Dean’s shaft, before sliding it down lower to close His palm around Dean’s balls. Dean massages them, rolls them round between His fingers and elicits a moan from him. He starts to rock into the touch, but as soon as he does, Dean pulls His hand back out of his jeans. ‘Not yet,’ He says while He takes hold of his pants and finally helps him peel them off.
Both of them naked, now, Dean sits back on his haunches and takes in the sight. He can feel Him doing the same, feels His eyes rake over his body. There’s a moment when it all feels weird, watching someone who looks just like him, stretched out naked in front of him instead of in the mirror. But more than anything it feels familiar. Safe.
There might be things about himself, inside and out, that Dean doesn’t like to look too closely at, but at least he knows he doesn’t need to hide anything. They’re both just as fucked up as the other.
Dean reaches out and flutters his fingers over the scars they don’t share; counts them, feels their texture under the tips. At that Dean brings His own hands up and sets them on his hips. He squeezes, lightly, where Dean knows he is softer than Him. Slowly, His hands move up, trail over the ridges of his abdomen, the muscles that are just as strong but less defined than His.
Dean looks down into His eyes, sees them cloud over with dead memories of a life before. He knows it, because no matter which changes happened to Him in the last five years, he and this version of himself are essentially the same; always will be. The differences are contextual.
‘Hey,’ he says, puts two finger under Dean’s chin, tilts it up until He’s looking into his eyes. ‘I would’ve done the same.’ He’s not even talking about that one wrong decision. They both already made that. He’s talking about after, about taking care of people and doing his hardest not to give up, even when it all just goes around in circles.
‘Let’s hope you’ll never have to,’ Dean says.
He smiles, lopsidedly and gives a small nod in agreement, gently brushing a stray stand of hair out of Dean’s forehead. He can’t change what has happened to Him, he can’t change who He is now, but maybe he can give Him a moment of peace, can make Him forget about it all for a while.
As they kiss, Dean keeps a hand stroking lightly over the crook between Dean’s neck and shoulder. He can feel the muscle there, still hard and tense and knotted despite the drowsy look on His face. Tenderly, he squeezes His shoulder and slowly straightens up. Dean chases his mouth, lifting His body slightly off the bed. With a gentle push at His shoulder, Dean signals Him to roll onto His stomach.
First Dean follows his nudge, then freezes and frowns up at him. ‘What… What are you doing?’ He asks, an uneasy smirk flutters over His lips.
‘Just trust me,’ he says, moving his hand in a gentle caress from the back of Dean’s head down to His neck and starts to knead it soothingly.
Dean’s eyes slip closed on a contented hum and He turns the rest of the way, stretching out on his belly. Dean sits down next to His hip and set his hands on Dean’s shoulder.
‘Just so we’re clear,’ Dean mutters. ‘If you touch that fine ass of mine, you’re dead.’
Dean just chuckles as he rubs warmth into the muscles under his palm.
‘I mean it,’ He drawls. ‘Don’t give a damn about the time paradox or whatever. No ass touching.’
‘Dude,’ Dean laughs. ‘Give me a little credit, I know what you like and don’t like.’
Dean huffs into the pillow. ‘Just sayin’…’
‘Alright, noted,’ he says, still grinning. ‘Now, try to relax.’
With deft movements he pushes the tension out of Dean’s back, working his way lower and lower. He’s just digging his thumbs into the base of His spine, when he spots a faint, old scar from a lifetime ago. It’s barely visible, hardly noticeable even to a touch, but he remembers it clear as day. Got himself thrown into a barbed wire fence by a pissy spirit, walked away with a good half dozen scratches. This one had been the deepest, the only one that had needed the stitches.
He was 14 and he was stitched up by a ten year old. Not too bad, their dad had said. Said it had been just the right injury for a first try.
He follows the line with a finger. It’s shaking just as bad as the tiny hands did over 20 years ago.
‘He did a good job,’ Dean says, glancing up at him from the corner of His eyes.
The edges of the scar are frazzled, healed in a zig-zag line rather than a straight one, where the stitches had been pulled too taut or too loose. Today, they could stitch up an injury like this without leaving a scar at all.
‘Yeah, he did,’ Dean says, and means it. He remembers the fear in his brother’s eyes, the nerves that made him drop the needle twice before he could start, the voice of his father, not easing the pressure on a boy who just came back from a classmate’s birthday party.
Taking a deep breath, Dean focuses back on the massage, works his palms into every muscle of His shoulders, back and thighs until Dean is fully relaxed. His eyes are closed and His breathing comes slow and deep.
‘You asleep?’ Dean asks, quietly, lowering himself slowly down until he’s resting on His back, chin between His shoulder blades.
‘Nah…’ He drawls without opening His eyes, just pulls His arms up to rest His head on them. ‘Feel like I could be, though. Finally get some real rest.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
He chuckles softly into the crook of His elbow. ‘If I fall asleep now, I’ll sleep for a week straight. At least.’
Dean smiles softly, tickling his fingers over Dean’s side. ‘So it’s true what people said about our magic fingers, huh?’
‘Definitely,’ He says, smiling. ‘Only know one person who’s better at giving a massage than us.’ He pauses, then sighs, and corrects Himself. ‘I mean I knew one.’
A shadow falls over them. Dean flattens his palm over the handprint on the left side of Dean’s chest.
‘Yeah, well,’ he says and curls his fingers in, tries to keep his tone light. ‘Guy has freakishly huge hands. Pretty unfair competition if you ask me.’
Dean smiles at that. ‘True.’
He nudges him gently, and Dean pushes up onto his elbow, sliding slightly down to give Him enough room to turn onto His back. ‘You know what would be awesome right now?’ He says then, carding a hand through His hair, eyebrows cocked and smirking, looking relaxed and pleased with Himself.
Of course Dean knows and he grins, haltingly, ‘You sure?’
‘Come on, we’ve tried it once or twice before. If we’ve got a chance at making it work, it’s now.’ He brings a hand down and wraps it lazily around His cock, giving it a couple strokes. ‘And we don’t even have to risk breaking our back.’
‘Masturbation, right?’ Dean asks, with a grin.
‘Right,’ He confirms.
As if. Dean chuckles and shakes his head, but slides down anyway, settling between Dean’s thighs. He hesitates for a moment, unaccustomed to another dick this close to his face. Then he spits in his hand, slicks the shaft and, without allowing himself to think any further about it, Dean engulfs the head of His cock with his lips.
Dean snaps up, gasps ‘Holy shit,’ and Dean almost chokes as His hands fist painfully into his hair, holding him down firmly. Dean jerks back, shocked and smacks an arm over His hips, shoves Him back down onto the mattress.
He lifts off of His cock, throat clenching and involuntary tears spring to his eyes. Coughing, Dean sucks in a deep breath. ‘Shit,’ he croaks. ‘Don’t you ever do that again.’
‘Sorry,’ He pants. ‘Just god, your, fuck… your mouth…’
‘Yeah, I heard that before. Don’t break it, man.’ He wipes a hand over his spit slick lips and chin, blinks away the wetness on his eyelids and swallows the bile.
‘Sorry,’ Dean says again, cupping his cheek. ‘It was just… Damn… Let’s try again, okay? I’ll behave I swear.’
Dean considers Him for a moment, curls his hand around the one cupping his cheek. ‘Dude, let’s do it “sixty-nine” style, alright?’ He asks with a sly smile and locks their eyes.
There’s a pause, then Dean slowly nods. ‘Yeah,’ He says and a grin sneaks up on His lips. ‘Yeah, okay.’
‘Then move your ass,’ Dean laughs, and smacks His hip.
‘Easy tiger,’ He retorts, but shifts readily, making room for him and they quickly settle on their sides, face to groin.
Dean strokes his hand over the curve of His side, down to His hip. He toys amusedly with the pubic hair, until Dean punches his thigh, barks ‘Hey,’ but it’s all in good nature and Dean finally wrap his hand around Dean’s erect shaft.
Dean moans breathily at the touch and he pulls the engorged flesh in, lines it up with his mouth. Dean must be watching him: His fingers are unmoving, save for digging harder into Dean’s thighs while His cock jerks eagerly in Dean’s hold, head twitching against his lips.
Dean smirks, watches His face in his peripheral vision as he sucks Dean’s cock into his mouth. He watches His eyes roll back and His mouth fall open on a soundless moan. He flicks his tongue against the head and has to reach out a hand, stem it against Dean’s hips that snap forward seemingly on their own accord.
Dean wonders about it, always liked to think of himself as in control of his body. Even during the hottest sex.
‘God, sorry,’ Dean pants, apparently following the same line of thought. ‘Sorry, just…’ He groans. ‘Don’t stop, please.’
And Dean knows He missed this. Not the sex; probably not even blowjobs in particular. Dean remembers his brief encounter with Riza, the sheep gathering around Cas, the gossip about Jane and thinks there’s not much He couldn’t get any woman to do.
It’s a connection Dean’s missed. Not the one Riza talked about, though that one most likely came close. Not close enough, though, surely, because it sent Him running, even if He won’t admit that’s why He spent the night with someone else. Just close enough to remind Him of a connection He once had, but not enough to distract from the pain caused by its loss.
What Dean needs is someone who understands, who stops His endless fall with a gentle, steady hand.
Dean’s not sure if he can be that person, a voice in the back of his head insists that there really has ever only been one person who could, but Dean knows even if nothing else, he can slow Him down.
Hell, he tries his damn best to, curses himself out when what he does is too messy, drool not just slicking the way, but smearing all over the place. His teeth catch on skin more often than not and he knows it’s got to hurt.
It’s not the actual sex that matters here and in his mind he knows it, but still. He should be good at this, first time or not. He doesn’t get a second chance with his Alter Ego.
And when Dean finally gets on with the program, too, Dean’s hand, mouth - breathing - coordination gets even worse. He opens His mouth wide and allows Dean’s cock to slip past His plump lips. Dean almost laughs out loud when He starts mirroring his moves, as if the two minute head start would make him an expert. But then he stops thinking about it all together when Dean presses His tongue against the bundle of nerves right under the head.
It makes him stutter in his movement, elicits a moan that he releases around Dean’s cock, which in turn makes Him falter. Eventually they manage to find a satisfying rhythm for them both, but it takes a while. Dean thought it would be easier, that they would be much more in tune. But apparently they are standing in their own way more than anyone else ever has.
They get it, though, fall into the pattern of act and react, stop trying to make it perfect, stop noticing what they’re doing wrong. Once they accept that, it gets easier, hotter and a lot more intense.
Still, every now and then, they have to pull back, not fully getting the hang of breathing through this yet, and when at one point, Dean pulls off him, takes a deep breath but doesn’t move back down again, Dean jerk his hips frustrated into empty air.
‘The hell, man?’ he asks, letting Dean’s cock slip from his mouth. He was so damn close.
‘Not gonna come in my mouth,’ Dean pants.
‘Then how?’
‘Come here,’ Dean says, sits up and pulls him along. He slides up to him, manhandles him until Dean gets it and they press up close, not quite in each other’s laps, but legs crossed, bracketing hips until their groins align. They each wrap a hand around their aching cocks, enclosing them tightly in a vice grip. The other arm they sling around each other’s shoulder, for support and to stay as close as possible, to keep the warm in.
With their foreheads resting against each other, they start moving, rubbing their cocks against each other, alternating between watching them slide in and out of their entwined fists and watching the look in each other’s eyes.
Their hips roll, in a counter rhythm and Dean’s breathing becomes ragged. Dean can feel the strain catch up with Him, as He tries to keep upright, to keep moving, to keep everything together. He tightens his arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulls Him in until Dean’s head falls onto his shoulder. Dean cradles it there, notices the futile efforts as Dean tries to straighten back up. Soothingly he brushes his lips over the shell of Dean’s ear and whispers, ‘It’s alright, let me take care of you, man.’
For a moment nothing happens. Then Dean bites down on His neck and Dean feels the pull in his flesh as He nods.
‘Just try to relax, okay?’
Dean plants His feet on the mattress, bracketing Dean’s hips and nods again.
With a little more spit, Dean slicks the way further and their cocks slide up and down in their fists. He keeps their hold tight, clenching and unclenching rhythmically around hot, pulsing flesh.
At first Dean takes it slow, waits for Dean to start rocking His hip in lazy, unconscious moves, before he speeds up the friction. Dean moans, His fingers digging deep in his shoulder blades, as He holds on for the ride. He crooks them and Dean is sure he’ll have ten perfect half moon marks on his back later and for some reason the thought makes him smile.
He flicks his thumb over their cock heads and Dean releases a startled yelp into his shoulder, bucks His hips up.
‘Again,’ He pants, clinging to him as He presses in closer. And Dean willingly obliges, loves the sensation just as much. So, with one hand wrapped securely around Dean’s shoulders, he rubs the thumb of his other hand over the slit of Dean’s cock. Over and over again, on every down stroke and each time Dean shakes more violently in his hold.
He finds pre-come oozing out, feels it welling up against the tip, as Dean edges closer to climax. Dean’s close too, but still lagging behind, suddenly longing for a more active touch, and just about to ask for it, when Dean unwraps His fist, leaving their cocks in Dean’s hand alone. His grip almost slips, but somehow he manages to keep a hold of both, then almost loses them again when Dean’s hand curls around his balls.
He rubs them, rolls them around, fondles the sack, alternating between gentle and rough, caress and pull. Dean feels them grow taut as he catches up, both their cocks hardening even further in the slick slide of his fist.
‘Come on,’ Dean pants and he looks up. Dean’s cheeks are flushed, lips bitten to a deep red, His pupils blown wide and dark with heat. He watches as a guttural moan forces its way past His lips.
Dean speeds up his fist, presses his thumb firmly under the head of Dean’s cock and slots their lips in a kiss. Dean’s arm around his neck tightens and the leverage shifts. He rocks his hips experimentally once, making Dean pant and moan right into his ear. With every thrust he gains speed and force, and soon Dean is meeting him on each one. It doesn’t take long for them to reach that edge, and Dean closes His legs around him, pulling their groins together even more.
Their rhythm falters and Dean can’t tell anymore where he ends and He begins. He doesn’t think it even matters. Just like it doesn’t matter that when He climaxes, He’s shouting a name that’s not his.
It’s okay, because neither does he.
---
Dean pokes at a big chunk of wood in the fireplace; it crackles, as the flames take hold of it. He’s still buck naked and the knobs of His spine are visible, but the warm glow of the fire takes the hard edge off of Him.
‘Damn, I’m hot,’ Dean says, chuckling where he’s lazing around on the bed.
Trying to suppress a grin, Dean stands up and walks over to him. Exhaling contentedly, He flops down next to him.
Smiling, Dean brings a hand up and buries it in the soft hairs at Dean’s neck. He strokes his thumb over the sensitive skin beneath His ear.
He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. Content and at fucking peace with himself. It’s a strange sensation, but not an unwelcome one.
The warmth of the fireplace wafts around them like a blanket. A good thing, since they messed up the actual bed covers pretty badly. He huffs a laugh.
‘What?’ Dean asks and shifts onto His side, pressing a little closer to him.
‘Nothing, just… I’m still in awe what a damn good lay I am.’
Dean barks a laugh, then He falls quiet and His face grows solemn. ‘Can you believe this?’
‘Not really,’ he says. He never thought he would get to this point, where he finds some sort of peace with himself.
‘It doesn’t change anything,’ Dean says.
But it changed a lot, actually, and Dean knows that He knows. ‘No. Nothing,’ he affirms, anyway. He sighs and turns to face Him, even works up a smile. ‘It was fun, though.’
‘Definitely,’ He agrees, a smirk playing on His lips as He reaches out and cups the back of his head. Dean follows the gentle pull, brings a hand forward for balance and rests it on His chest. Once more he feels the scars under his palms, scars that look ugly and chaffed, that he himself doesn’t have, yet, before he meets His lips. They’re like his own; a little chapped maybe, but warm and full. They’re gentler than most expect and that they like to let on.
‘I’m a great kisser, too,’ Dean says, pulls back for a breath.
‘It is like you’re reading my thoughts,’ he snorts.
‘Wonder how that happens,’ He says and seals their lips again.
---
For his 12th birthday John got him his first gun. Just for him and him alone. He learned to clean it, to handle it, to shoot it. He learned to cherish it.
Since then he’s had many different guns.
The one his family gave him on his 21st birthday, is his favorite. He still has it.
It weighs heavier in his hand now than it did back then. He rests it in his lap. Grazes his eyes over the details, but only sees the kills they made together.
‘One more,’ he say. ‘I’m sorry.’
The metal feels cold against his skin. He nicks his lip as he lifts it.
He sits for a long time on a chair. A splinter diggs painfully into his thigh. He doesn’t move. It’s going to end soon, anyway. Very soon.
His hands shake violently. Then stop. Then shake again. He keeps waiting. Not sure for what.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Dean?’ It’s Bobby.
He doesn’t set the gun down. Just calls, ‘Yeah?’ It surprises him how calm his voice is. His hands have stopped shaking, again, too.
‘We got a situation out here,’ Bobby says. Dean’s not sure why he doesn’t come in. But when Bobby continues with, ‘We could do with your help,’ Dean is glad he didn’t.
He lowers the gun, shoves it into the waistband of his jeans and stands up. But defiantly doesn’t remove the splinter. Not yet.
---
Dean is standing in the middle of the room, fastening up a pair of clean jeans. Behind him, Dean is doing the same. His elbow bumps into him and Dean smiles at the contact. It doesn’t stick for long. Not with the prospect of what they are going to do in a couple hours.
‘Hey,’ he says and clears his throat. Dean turns his head, glances at Him over his shoulder. ‘Yeah?’
‘You never told anybody what you told me, did you?’
‘No, of course not.’ Dean snorts and shakes His head. ‘Besides, who would I talk to anyhow?’
Dean glances at the empty bed where the sheets are still clean and untouched. They never moved over to the other bed, not even when their sheets had started to stick to their naked buts. It’s not their bed, never had been.
‘Yeah, guess you’re right,’ he mutters.
The world has ended. They are alone.
‘Come on,’ Dean says. ‘It’s time to leave.’
‘No,’ he finds himself saying. ‘I’m not going to let you… me… us go on a suicide mission.’
‘Yes, you are,’ Dean says. He squeezes his shoulder once and offers him a sad smile, before He pulls back. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. But you have to keep fighting. Remember…’
The old clock He keeps on the first floor starts chiming midnight.
Dean sighs. ‘Just remember.’
---
There’s a big church on the outskirts of the city nearest to the campsite.
Dean kneels in the first row, head bowed, arms folded. He prays, old-school, Sunday-school style, because it’s his last resort. Recounts ever prayer, sermon, hymn he knows under his breath. Hopes they take it for a sign of servitude, not that of a sore throat. He screamed himself hoarse outside.
He calls on every holy name, but even here, even now, no one listens.
Deep down he knows, he’s too late. Blew it on that one day, when he sat in a church just like this. Held a conversation that should have made him realize there’s no other way. And now, even the final straw is out of reach.
It’s on him, but he can’t help feeling screwed over. Betrayed.
He grits his teeth, wrings his fingers, then sucks in a deep breath. Tilts his face heavenwards.
‘Yes,’ he shouts. ‘You hear me, you sons of bitches? Yes!’ It echoes in the empty church around him. ‘I’ll do it!’ He tries it again. And again.
There’s a crack and he snaps around. Shards of glass are dropping from a once colorful window. The empty frame rattles in the wind.
Dean shivers, focuses back on… on anything that’ll listen. ‘Come on, Michael! I’m here! Come and get me!’ He spreads his arms. Wonders what more he can do as an invitation. But he still doesn’t get an answer.
‘You know what? Screw you! First you can’t wait and now you’re not coming through? You fucking coward,’ his voice cracks. Come tomorrow, he won’t have any voice left, touched by an angel or not.
Then he hears a flutter on the balcony above him. Angel wings, he thinks. Then, Zachariah. He runs up the stairs, breathless, and skitters to a holt.
Black eyes as big as saucers watch him with mild curiosity. It is just a scavenging bird, picking on a dead mouse. The crow caws once and a chunk of meat falls from its beak.
‘Shit,’ he whispers, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looks around him, confused and hoping that maybe there’s an angel after all.
But he’s still alone. ‘Come one, come on, come on,’ he says, staggering back down on shaky legs, constantly checking over his shoulder. He stares at shadow. Scans his eyes over every window, every door twice. He tries to will the damn bastards into showing up.
‘I said I’ll do it,’ he mumbles. He steps up to the alter and rests his palms on the marble surface. ‘I said yes, okay? Yes,’ His voice breaks and his legs give out. He lands smack on his knees, arms clinging to the cold stone. He bows his head and clenches his aching hands into fists. ‘Please,’ he whispers.
But there’s no one left.
---
Dean arrives early to their meeting point. He gets out of the Impala and gently brushes a hand over her roof. It has only been three days since he last drove her, but it felt much longer.
He glances inside. The backseat is cluttered with old shirts, take-out bags and empty containers. A bottle of frost protection rolls around in the foot space and the little toy soldier sticks out of the ashtray. It makes Dean smile to see everything is as it should be.
That is, almost everything. One crucial piece is still missing.
With a sigh and an affectionate thump on the metal, he pushes himself away and turns to lean his back against the car. Then he waits.
He thinks back to what happened, to what he saw and what he was told. His future self had been right. He had to do things differently, and he will. This time, he is going to do the right thing.
If his trip to the future taught him anything then it taught him what it’s all about.
A car pulling up, makes him look up and when it comes to a halt, Dean pushes off and steps up to his brother. This is it, he thinks; this is the right thing to do.
‘Sam.’
---
Art Master Post