A Cardinal Affair - Chapter 4: I Think I Wanna Marry You (1/2)
As nice as it is living in a co-op, changing rooms every quarter is a tiring affair. Vicki concurs, so they go looking for an apartment. Conveniently, one of Jasper’s tenants is moving to another state, and Jasper offers to let them rent the three-bedroom for about half the usual price, which puts it just within their price range. They’re surprised when Jess offers to take the third room, so they can split the rent four ways. Even though she and Misha have switched places in Sam’s life pretty comfortably, it still seems awkward and callous to be overtly affectionate with Misha in her presence. Still, she seems very happy with Darius, and she even recently suggested they go on a double date sometime, so maybe Sam’s overthinking things, and he needs to stop feeling guilty.
The new place is nice - far enough from campus that it’s quiet, but near enough that the commute is short. The four of them take turns cooking one meal a day, either breakfast or dinner, which they eat together. Sam and Misha share a room and a queen-sized bed, go for morning runs, and drive to and from campus together. Life is idyllic, perfect even, if ever that were possible, and Sam thinks if this is what the rest of his life will be like, he’s going to take Misha home to Massachusetts on graduation day and marry him.
He’s at his desk studying for his LSAT, which he plans to take in a few months, when Misha sits up in their bed. “Sam?”
“Hm?” he responds distractedly, scribbling thoughts in his notebook.
“Could you look over my résumé for me?”
He marks his page and turns to find Misha holding out his orange laptop. “Of course.” He takes it. The first page is a large photograph of Misha, and if looks were the only criterion, he’s sure they’d hire Misha sans audition. His boyfriend looks like a model in that photo, and Sam doesn’t think it’s only because he’s biased. Misha looks on expectantly as he scrolls down; it looks good - well organized and properly formatted. Then he gets to Special Skills.
Sam stifles a snort as he reads the first line and has to hold his breath as he reads the second and third, but by the time he hits the fifth line, he can’t rein in his laughter any longer, and has to set Misha’s laptop down on the table because he nearly dropped it. He’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe.
“Sam! You’re supposed to fix it! Not laugh at me!” Misha protests, but he doesn’t even manage to sound indignant.
“C’mon, Mish, acting on camera?” He snorts, dissolving into guffaws. “How is that ‘special’? Isn’t that what you do?”
“As opposed to stage, you neophyte,” Misha ripostes, smacking him on the arm.
“Okay, fine. Fine, but bicycle touring, Mish? What’s your excuse here? ‘Cause I’m pretty damned sure it’s just called cycling. And what the fuck is Tibetan throat singing?”
Misha demonstrates, and okay, so Sam has no idea when that will ever be relevant to any job outside the Tibetan monkhood, but fine, at least it’s legit. Whereas “You can barely remember how to dance Appalachian clogging!”
“So? It’s like riding a bicycle, Sam. I just need a refresher!”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t doing so well with that refresher on your birthday, so I wouldn’t list that. And speaking of riding a bike, I call bullshit on horseback riding. You cannot ride a fucking horse.”
“You doubt me? How could you doubt me?” Misha whines theatrically. “You’re not supposed to doubt me, Sam. Sure I can ride a horse.”
Sam scoffs. “Yeah? Where have you even seen a horse, Mish?”
“Not the point, and sure I can - it just has to be standing still!”
Sam roars with laughter, now rolling on the bed because his sides are aching. “That doesn’t fucking count!”
“Yes, it does! They never said the horse had to be moving! And I rode llamas when I was a kid. How different could it be?”
“Very, and so not the point!”
“Well, the kind of riding I’m really good at isn’t appropriate to list for this kind of job, okay?”
Sam grins, lying flat on his back as he catches his breath. “Mm,” he agrees, lifting Misha into his lap. “You could list female impersonation,” he points out, thinking of Sharon Carter. “Or needlework. And cooking! You could knit or cook on shows, right? In drag even. Also, you’ve got a great singing voice, and can’t you play the guitar?”
For a moment, Misha’s expression turns serious. “Huh. You are a genius.”
Sam chuckles, lacing his fingers over the small of Misha’s back. “Silly Mish, you are,” he declares fondly, pulling Misha down for a kiss. “You’re the most talented person I know, baby. You could just be yourself, and they’d be crazy not to take you.”
“Mm,” Misha giggles, hovering over him so they’re nose-to-nose. “Pity this isn’t a porn audition, though.” He bats his eyelashes, coquettish and a little rueful. “I’d have way more special skills to list if it were.”
“Ooh~” Sam waggles his eyebrows, playing along. “Such as?”
Blue eyes glint. “I can blow myself.”
Sam gapes. “No way.”
“Hmph.” Misha sits back, looking away, miffed. “I keep saying you’re not supposed to doubt me.”
“Then prove it,” Sam challenges, intrigued.
Misha immediately slides off his lap and drops his pants.
“Jesus Christ, Mish!” Alarmed, Sam lunges for the open door to slam it shut. “Public decency! Jess has friends over!”
Misha shrugs carelessly, discarding his shirt and underwear as well. “Exactly why they won’t be coming upstairs.”
“You don’t know that,” Sam points out reproachfully with a frown, but it’s short-lived because Misha sits down in his desk chair, spreads his legs and extends his hands in invitation.
“Little help?” he offers with a small smile. “I need to be hard for this to work.”
Sam takes his hands, laces their fingers and kneels between Misha’s knees without hesitation, and Misha’s breath hitches from just that. He rises to Sam’s lips as warm breath ghosts over his cock, and not for the first time, Sam wonders how he ever lived without this, without Misha.
Misha sighs as he mouths reverently at smooth skin, hips jerking as he traces feather-light circles up sweat-slick inner thighs, and Misha has to push him away with a groan when he licks off the drop of precum beading at the tip because “Fuck, Sam, it’ll be over before I can prove it if you keep doing that.”
Misha stands and stretches, and Sam can’t take his eyes off that lean and graceful form, can’t stop going over every single sweet spot he’s ever found in his mind as he stands and pulls Misha flush against him from behind, fits his clothed erection into the crease of Misha’s ass the way he knows always drives Misha crazy. And Misha moans, tilting his head back to bare his throat, rocking his hips back as Sam’s fingers skim every sensitive part of him.
“God, Sam,” he whines, twisting out of the embrace as Sam’s teeth scrape lightly over his collarbone. “C’mon, I thought you wanted to see.”
Holding Sam’s gaze, he links their hands and leads Sam along as he backs into the bed, dropping lightly onto his back when the backs of his knees meet the mattress. “Sam,” he murmurs, lifting his legs to rest his heels on Sam’s shoulders. “Sam,” as the other presses a kiss to the turn of his ankles. “Sam.” He crosses his feet behind the taller man’s neck and tugs, bending his knees, and Sam comes obligingly. Bracing himself with his arms under his back, he curls in on himself, folding his knees over Sam’s shoulder and taking his leaking cock into his mouth, and he keens around it from the sheer pleasure. He can’t even remember why he doesn’t do this more often as he swirls his tongue around the tip, and the intensity of the desire he sees in olive eyes makes it worth so much more.
“God,” Sam breathes, awed, riveted. “You like this…”
His muscles tremble from the strain as he nods. Sam holds him in place so he can relax, and he shifts his arms to prop his neck up instead.
“Wow. Just…” Sam shakes himself a little, as if he can’t believe his eyes. “Wow. If only you could see… Mish, so fucking beautiful like this.”
Then Sam ducks his head, swipes his tongue over Misha’s balls, and a whimper escapes as Misha’s hips jerk and his cock slides deeper into his mouth, and he sucks harder reflexively. He cries out as Sam sucks a mark into his perineum while breaching him with one finger. God, he’s going to come down his own throat like he hasn’t since he was in high school, and the doctors’ advice be damned - he should have tried this with some of his partners sooner. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Sam’s teasing now, swirling his tongue around the wiggling digit inside him, “Want to see you come like this, Mish,” and if Sam could possibly fuck him while he does this… Ahahahn, Sam is pressing just his tongue in now, and he’s already holding back, leaking down his throat in a steady stream, wet as the last girl he was with.
“Christ, Mish.” Sam trails fierce kisses up his thigh to the side of his knees. “Do you want to? Or can we make this last?”
“I can’t,” he gasps, letting his head fall back to rest. “I can’t. You have no idea h-”
Sam nuzzles his thigh. “God… clench so hard, so tight, want to be inside you.”
YesyesYES, and he’s not sure this is going to work, but man, he wants to try. “Do it, Sam,” he breathes, stretching out and rolling over. “Take me.”
Sam doesn’t wait, just shucks his clothes, grabs the lube and opens him up before sliding home, blanketing Misha’s body with his own, kissing him fiercely behind the ear and holding him tight. Misha reaches back, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. “Roll over,” he instructs. “Sit up,” and Sam obeys, lifting him so he’s sitting in Sam’s lap with his thighs parted.
Sam just holds him close, mumbles an indistinct string of declarations and promises that Misha doesn’t need to hear to understand, and all he says is “lie back” because sometimes, he can barely breathe from how much he loves Sam.
Again, the other acquiesces without delay, and Misha carefully, carefully curls in on himself again. Oh. Oh, this is possible. Good God.
He sucks on the tip, and Sam’s hips jerk slightly into his, cock rubbing against his prostate inside. Fuck. Oh. OH. He moans as he swallows around himself, Sam rocks into him again, and he sucks harder just as Sam jars his prostate again, and ah, Sam, SAM!
His vision whites out as pleasure sears through him like lightning.
He chokes a little, doesn’t quite manage to swallow all of it - it’s been so long. But then Sam is pulling him back for a kiss as he spills inside, and nothing matters but this. As sweet as it is desperate, as tender as it is intense, whether they’re fucking each other into the mattress or lying curled up together in bed, talking about everything and nothing at all, knowing that only he knows the whole truth about Sam. Making breakfast together; volunteering at JS on weekends; cycling to the nearby park to study over a picnic; sparring at All Star now that he’s finally convinced Sam to accompany him to self-defense class. This. It’s more than love, more than anything he can put a name to, and nothing’s changed since that first night - it still fills his heart to bursting, and he’s never been more content. This, he decides, is what he wants forever. No. Sam, he amends; Sam is what he wants.
Forever.
~*~
Misha winds the colorful striped scarf around his neck and adjusts his wig and hat. He grins at the mirror. It’s perfect, and he can just ditch the wig and hat later.
“Saaammm~” he calls, bounding back up the stairs two steps at a time. “We’re late~ Come on.”
Sam steps out of the room in dark brown slacks and a tan plaid button-down. “Do I have to?”
Misha frowns, poking Sam on the nose. “Yes, but the least you could do is wear something that matches my outfit, even if you won’t put on a costume. It’s our first anniversary, Sam.”
Sam laughs and ducks his head. “You know I don’t own anything that colorful.”
“Figured you’d say that.” Misha prances into their room and takes a paper bag out of a drawer. “That’s why I made you a matching sweater for our anniversary gift!” he announces brightly, pressing the bag into Sam’s hands.
Tentatively, Sam opens it and is pleasantly surprised to find it’s not a sweater-shaped replica of Misha’s colorful striped scarf. It’s a deep olive green, trimmed with the same terracotta color of Misha’s coat, and it laces up at the wrists and collar. It’s actually an unexpectedly ordinary-looking sweater for a Misha original, if the last two he received are any indication. Misha looks at him expectantly, and he obligingly pulls it on over his shirt. It fits perfectly as always, and Misha smiles happily, fixing the laces and smoothing it down.
“Much better,” Misha pronounces, stretching up to peck him on the chin. “Happy anniversary.”
“Get this.” Sam smiles, going to his desk drawer and taking out a small box. “I got you something too.” Truth be told, he’d only remembered because Misha had asked him last week if he’d like to go to the café where they first had dinner, way back when they first met, for their first anniversary. But he’d found something anyway, so Misha doesn’t have to know that. He takes the pendant out of its box. “Happy anniversary, Mish.”
It’s a smooth, mostly orange gemstone carved in the shape of a hand on a simple leather cord. “Hamsa,” he explains, lifting Misha’s hat to loop the cord over his head. “For protection from evil.” He presses his lips to Misha’s forehead. “Got the orange ‘cause it’s your favorite.” He carefully replaces the hat on the wig just the way Misha had it before. “And topaz for fidelity,” he finishes shyly, fiddling with Misha’s scarf. “Also, um… I figured you’d like something more exotic than a pentagram.”
“Is this your version of a promise ring?” Misha asks with a giggle, looping his arms around Sam’s neck.
“I-” No, he’s not ready to talk about either of those things yet. “Kinda, yeah,” he says instead, and Misha lights up, kissing him again.
“I kinda expected something along the lines of a penis cage, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Sam grins. “Well, that can be arranged.”
“Yes, and we can take turns. Now come on,” he says, leading Sam out the door and tucking the pendant safely under his shirt. “It’s just a couple of drinks, then dinner’s just us. It’ll be fun! Forget it’s Halloween.”
Sam coils an arm around Misha’s waist tightly. “Only because you’re going.”
As soon as they enter the bar, Jess runs over to give them a hug. “You’re late again! Can’t leave you guys alone to get ready. You always get distracted.” She’s all dolled up in a sexy nurse outfit, and she gasps as she gets a good look at Sam. “Is that- Are you dressed as Sarah Jane Smith?”
Sam turns to Misha, glaring. “Misha?” That would explain the sporadic giggling they encountered on the way.
“What? So I made you a sweater I saw on TV! It was a nice sweater!” Misha protests, ducking behind Jess. “You liked it!”
Jess snickers. “Yeah, that just so happens to be your Doctor’s companion’s.”
“Jess!!” Misha whines as she leads them over to the table where the rest are waiting. He’s not worried though. Sam’s punishments are always the best.
The bar is covered in tacky Halloween decorations, but it’s early evening, so the real partying hasn’t quite started, and Classic’s What Cha Gonna Do is playing. Luis brings them a tray of Lemon Drops, and they each take one.
Jess raises her glass. “So here’s to Sam and his awesome LSAT victory.”
“All right, all right,” Sam chuckles, ducking his head. “It’s not that big a deal.”
They all clink glasses, and Jess adds, “Yeah, he acts all humble, but he scored a one-seventy-four.”
Sam, Misha and Luis down their shots.
“Is that good?” Luis asks.
“Scary good,” Jess confirms, drinking hers.
“So there you go.” Luis claps Sam on the shoulder, sitting down on his other side. “You are a first-round draft pick. You can go to any law school you want!”
“Actually,” Sam admits. “I got an interview here. Monday. If it goes okay, I think I got a shot at a full ride next year.”
Jess leans forward. “Hey. It’s gonna go great,” she declares with a reassuring smile, and he mirrors the expression.
“It’d better.”
Misha leans to rest his head on Sam’s shoulder. “You’re going to get that full ride, Sam. And you’ll raise the bar for everyone else who applied. I know it.”
“Which makes you competition,” Alex cuts in, pushing her brown curls out of her face. “But I will at least drink to the anniversary of your coming out of the closet.”
Sam laces his fingers with Misha’s on the table and lifts their hands to press a kiss to Misha’s knuckles in response, and everyone else goes, “Aww…”
“So.” Luis nudges Sam a little in the shoulder. “How does it feel to be the golden boy of your family?”
Sam chuckles wryly, staring into his empty glass. “Ah, they don't know.” Misha squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back.
“What?” Jeff shakes his head. “C’mon, man, I’d be gloating! Star of the family for a change. Why not?
“Because we're not exactly the Bradys,” Sam replies evasively.
“And I'm not exactly the Huxtables,” Luis ripostes, but doesn’t press. “More shots?”
“No,” Misha insists. “We need to drive to our anniversary dinner.”
“Ooh, where are you headed?” Jess asks, grinning.
He beams. “The place we had our first dinner together.”
Shawna rolls her eyes. “You two make my teeth rot.”
“Oh no. Terrible for an aspiring dentist,” Sam responds with mock sympathy.
“C’mon,” Misha tugs him towards the dance floor as the Black-Eyed Peas comes on, marking the start of a more college-dance-party-friendly playlist for the night. “Let’s see if I’ve managed to teach you anything.”
Sam ducks his head, but doesn’t resist, chuckling as he loops his arms loosely around Misha’s waist. “If you say you’re my dance teacher, I’ll only embarrass you.”
“Nonsense,” Misha declares dismissively, already gyrating to the beat. “They should have seen you before. And it’s not like you could make me any prouder.”
~*~
Wood slides on wood, metal clinks on metal, and Sam wakes with a start. Beside him, Misha shifts in his sleep. Downstairs, he hears the wooden floorboards creak, and he sits up. Quietly, he exits the bedroom and checks the other room - Jess is sound asleep, too. Vicki is, as usual on Halloween weekend, back home, which leaves only one possibility. He worriedly glances back into the room at Misha. He’s been dreaming again lately, dreaming of Misha, Misha burning on the ceiling above him. He wakes up crying and tries not to wake Misha as he holds him closer. He won’t let that happen. Not if he can help it.
The floorboards creak again, and for a moment, he runs through the list of possibilities in his mind. Then he realizes that no monster he’s ever encountered sneaks in through the window, and he heaves a sigh of relief. He heads downstairs and looks around. A window is open; they never leave the ground floor windows open at night. He can hear footsteps now that he’s nearer, then a man walks past the strings of beads Jess hung at the far end of the hall. Silently, Sam moves into the kitchen and waits.
The intruder steps in mere seconds later, and Sam lunges forward, grabbing the man’s shoulder. The man knocks Sam's arm away and aims a strike at Sam, who ducks reflexively. Then he grabs Sam's arm, swings him around and shoves him back. Sam kicks; the man blocks, then shoves, and they’re careening into the dining area, hitting chairs. A bit of light from the street lamp outside falls on the intruder’s face, and Sam thinks he’s seeing things, but then the man is elbowing him in the face, so he retaliates by kicking at his head. The other ducks and swings, but Sam blocks, so he barrels into Sam, knocking him down and pinning him to the floor with one hand at Sam's neck and the other gripping Sam's wrist.
“Whoa, easy, tiger.”
Sam blinks in disbelief, struggles to catch his breath. “Dean?” His brother laughs, and he’ll never admit how much he’s missed the sound. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“That's 'cause you're out of practice.”
Oh yeah? He grabs Dean’s hand and yanks, slamming his heel into Dean's back and reversing their positions.
“Or not,” Dean concedes, and he taps twice where he’s holding his brother down pointedly. “Get off me,” Dean grouses, and he rolls to his feet, pulling Dean up with him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, deciding that ‘sneaking into my apartment in the middle of the night through the window like a thief’ is beside the point.
Dean shrugs, gripping Sam by the shoulders as if to take a better look. “Well, I was looking for a beer.” He shakes once and lets go.
After almost two years of radio silence, after telling him he’s either all in or all out, Sam isn’t buying this bullshit. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demands again, squaring his shoulders.
Dean sighs. “Okay. All right. We gotta talk.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Uh, the phone?”
“If I'd'a called, would you have picked up?” Dean challenges.
Before he can remind his brother who cut ties between them for good, the light flickers on.
“Sam?”
They turn as one. It’s Jess, in her running shorts and a cropped Smurfs shirt. Damn. Act normal, he decides, so he smiles and says, “Hey. Dean, this is Jess.”
Dean is too busy checking Jess out to answer, but Jess does a double take. “Wait, your brother Dean?”
Sam nods, and Jess smiles. Dean grins at her, glances back to throw Sam his best “score, baby brother!” look and moves closer. Sam rolls his eyes.
“Oh, I love the Smurfs,” Dean enthuses, and he resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “You know, I gotta tell you. You are completely out of my brother's league.”
Jess snorts. “Well, back when he was batting for my team, I thought he was completely out of mine, so…”
“Sam?” As if on cue, Misha comes down the stairs, stretching like a lazy cat in his Matrix T-shirt and plaid pajama pants.
“Hey, Mish.” Sam smiles fondly, turning to Dean. “Dean, this is Misha. Misha, this is my brother, Dean. Jess over there is my best friend.”
Dean turns to him slowly, scrunching up his face as he repeats, “Misha?” incredulously, and Sam can hear every bad joke Dean could possibly make in his head.
“Yes,” he confirms, hoping to pre-empt disaster. “My boyfriend.”
Green eyes blink slowly, moving from Sam to Misha to Sam to Jess and back to Sam again. “Seriously?!”
Jess shakes her head, laughing, and heads up the stairs. “I’m going back to bed, guys. It was nice meeting you, Dean.”
Misha, on the other hand, bounds over excitedly and holds out his hand. “You’re Dean? I’ve heard so much about you. He didn’t tell me ‘gorgeous’ runs in the family, though.”
Dean blinks again, and the reality of it all finally seems to sink in. He smirks, shaking Misha’s hand warmly. “Yeah, well, if you want the more attractive brother now, sorry, but I’m gonna have to crush your dreams. Now, Jess on the other hand, is exactly the way I swing.”
Misha grins, winking at Sam. “Guess I gotta tell Darius he’s got competition?”
Sam shrugs. “Only for a day.”
“Hey,” Dean protests half-heartedly, heading back to Sam’s side. “Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business, but uh… nice meeting you. I love the Matrix.”
“No.” Sam pushes past Dean to wrap an arm around Misha. “No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of him.”
“Okay.” The older man turns to look at them both straight on and hesitates. “Um. Dad hasn't been home in a few days.”
Sam frowns and shrugs. “So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later.” Misha knows about the alcoholism, too, but just the thought of saying ‘Dad’s getting wasted as usual’ leaves a bad taste.
Dean ducks his head for a moment and looks back up. “Dad's on a hunting trip,” he rephrases carefully. “And he hasn't been home in a few days.”
Misha glances up worriedly. “Hey, you think he might be…” He turns back to Dean. “What monster was he hunting? Do we know?”
Dean blinks, looks from Sam to Misha and back, then “He knows?!” More angrily, “You told him?! O-”
“He found out,” Sam corrects, crossing his arms and angling his body in front of Misha. “The hard way.”
His brother has the good graces to look somewhat chagrined at that. “Okay,” he says, calm again. “Okay. C’mon, Sam, you gotta help me find Dad.”
Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair and sitting down on one of the dining chairs. “Look, you can't just break in, in the middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you.”
Dean takes one of the other chairs. “You're not hearing me, Sammy. Dad's missing. I need you to help me find him.”
“You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil's Gates in Clifton?” Misha rubs his shoulders, and he leans back into the touch. “He was missing then, too. He's always missing, and he's always fine.”
The older Winchester shakes his head. “Not for this long. Now are you gonna come with me or not?”
Sam closes his eyes. “I'm not.”
“Why not?”
He opens them to give his brother a Look. “I swore I was done hunting. For good.”
Dean leans back. “Come on. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad.”
Sam shakes his head. “Yeah? When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45.” Misha hugs him.
“Well, what was he supposed to do?” comes the retort.
“I was nine years old!” Sam gestures emphatically. “He was supposed to say, don't be afraid of the dark.”
“Don't be afraid of the dark?” Dean echoes, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there.”
Sam squeezes Misha’s arm and leans back into him again. “Yeah, I know, but still. The way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her.” Dean averts his gaze to glance out the window, so he presses on. “But we still haven't found the damn thing. So we kill everything we can find.”
“We save a lot of people doing it, too,” the other points out, and it’s true, but that doesn’t change the rest of it.
He pauses, then barrels on ahead. “You think Mom would have wanted this for us? The weapon training, the melting silver into bullets? Man, Dean, we were raised like warriors.”
Dean rolls his eyes and stands, moving over to the window to look outside. “So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?”
Sam shakes his head, turns to press a kiss into Misha’s arm. “No. Not normal. Safe.” Where he’s not going to find Misha dead on the ceiling of their burning room.
Dean looks down, runs his fingertips along the window sill that’s never seen a salt line. “And that's why you ran away.”
“I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing.”
Dean turns. “Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it.”
Sam falls silent. He doubts it’s serious, but still…
“What if he’s right, Sam?” Misha murmurs, voicing the thought on all their minds. Dean sounds so sure.
Dean places his palms flat on the table and meets Sam’s gaze. “I can't do this alone.”
Sam looks at him pointedly. “Yes, you can.” He’s been doing just fine so far.
Dean looks down. “Yeah, well, I don't want to,” he admits, and Sam figures this is the closest he’s going to get to “I’m sorry. I missed you.”
Misha kisses him on the temple. “At least hear him out?”
Fine. Fine. “What was he hunting?”
Dean cracks a small grin. “Come on out. It’s easier to just show you what I have.”
Sam stands and nods. “Let me put something on.”
“All right, let's see, where the hell did I put that thing?” Dean pops the trunk and rifles through its contents.
Sam rests his hip near the taillight. “So. When Dad left. Why didn't you go with him?
“I was working my own gig.” Dean answers distractedly as he keeps searching. “This, uh, voodoo thing, down in New Orleans.” He picks up a folder.
Sam’s eyes widen. “Dad let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?”
Dean shoots him a Look. “I'm twenty-six, dude,” and Sam decides not to point out the time Dad wouldn’t let Dean go after that poltergeist alone when he was twenty-two. Dean pulls some papers out of a folder. “All right, here we go. So Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this guy,” he hands one of the papers to Sam, “they found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA.”
Sam reads the article. It’s a printout from the Jericho Herald, headlined "Centennial Highway Disappearance" and dated September 19th, 2005; it has a man's picture, captioned "Andrew Carey MISSING". Sam glances up. “So maybe he was kidnapped.”
“Yeah. Well, here's another one in April.” He drops a second sheet into the trunk. “Another one in December oh-four, oh-three, ninety-eight, ninety-two, ten of them over the past twenty years,” he continues, tossing a sheet onto the stack for each date he mentions. Taking the article back from Sam, he picks up the rest of the stack and puts them back in the folder. “All men, all the same five-mile stretch of road.” He reaches back into the trunk for a bag and opens it, pulling out a handheld tape recorder. “It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough, then I get this voicemail yesterday.” He presses play.
“Dean...” It’s Dad. There’s a lot of static, and the signal was clearly breaking up. “Something big is starting to happen... I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may...” A burst of static and some background noise Sam hasn’t heard in a long time obfuscates the rest of the message, then “Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger.”
Dean presses stop.
Sam glances up. “You know there's EVP on that?”
Dean grins. “Not bad, Sammy. Kinda like riding a bike, isn't it?” Sam shakes his head, but doesn’t answer, and Dean’s smile fades, but he drops it in favor of business. “All right. So I slowed the message down, I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got.” He presses play again.
It’s a woman’s voice, wistful and ghostly. “I can never go home...”
Dean hits stop.
“Never go home,” Sam echoes, pensive.
Dean drops the recorder, puts down the shotgun, straightens and shuts the trunk to lean on it. “You know,” he begins conversationally, “in almost two years, I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing.”
Again, Sam thinks to remind him that he’s the one who said Sam should stick with his choice and not call anymore, but he doesn’t feel like starting a fight. He glances back at the apartment, then sighs, faces Dean. “All right. I'll go.” He nods. “I'll help you find him.”
Dean nods approvingly.
“But I have to get back first thing Monday.” He turns to head back to the apartment. “Just wait here.”
“What's first thing Monday?”
He stops, turns back, and hesitates before answering, “I have this...I have an interview.”
“What, a job interview?” Dean tilts his head dismissively. “Skip it.”
“It's a law school interview,” he corrects, “and it's my whole future on a plate.” He knows Dean probably won’t understand.
“Law school?” Dean smirks, a little proud, a little wistful, and okay, maybe it’s not too late for them after all.
Sam levels him a look of worn patience. “So we got a deal or not?”
For a moment, Dean is silent, then finally, he pushes off the trunk to circle around to the driver’s seat. “I’ll get you back in time, no problem.”
~*~
Misha is fast asleep when Sam gets back to their room to pack, and it’s too tempting to crawl back under the covers and wrap himself around Misha, too easy to imagine doing so every night and never leaving. Misha wouldn’t turn family away though, and he’s already agreed to go, so he quietly grabs his knapsack and packs some necessities before putting his jacket on and shouldering it. Looking back at Misha once more, he thinks to leave a note, but decides he’d be better off calling in the morning, so he only heads back down and out just as the Impala pulls up and gets in beside Dean. Motörhead’s Back On The Chain is playing as they head towards the highway in silence.
“So,” Dean starts, and it’s never been so awkward. “How long have you and uh… Misha um…”
“A year,” he answers, reaching back to put his knapsack on the back seat.
“Oh. Uh… Cool dude.”
Sam smiles fondly, deciding to ignore the hesitation. A boyfriend instead of a girlfriend probably doesn’t fit in with Dean’s ideal of a hero’s machismo, but this is his life, not Dean’s, and it’s not like Dean could possibly hold anything greater than abandoning the family mission against him. “Very.”
“So how did he find out ab-”
His smile thins. “Vengeful spirit.”
Just then, “-aam!!”
Dean glances up at the rear-view mirror and blinks, squints. “Hey, is that-?”
Sam turns in his seat to look.
“Saaammm!!!”
It’s Misha, cycling furiously after them, screaming Sam’s name at the top of his lungs like it isn’t half past three in the morning and waving frantically instead of gripping the handlebars. Jesus Christ, he’s going to get himself killed.
“SAM!!!”
“Dean, stop the car.”
He does, and Misha swerves onto the pavement as Sam practically jumps out of the car. “Jesus, Mish, are you crazy?!”
“Yes!” Misha leaps off the bicycle, letting it fall carelessly onto their neighbor’s lawn, and into Sam’s arms. “So don’t you ever leave without me! I’m coming with you.”
What? “No. Mish, y-”
“No. No, no, no, Sam, I know what you’re going to say,” Misha interrupts as Dean climbs out of the car as well. “It’s dangerous, I’ll get hurt, I’ll die… but listen, I’m going to die eventually, no matter what, whether I’m lying in a padded room or running from a monster. And if I have to go regardless, then all I know is,” he grips Sam’s shoulders and looks up into olive eyes, “the only way I want to go is with you.”
Sam opens his mouth to say something, but no words come. To his surprise, Dean spares him with a click of the tongue, tilting his head and pointing at Misha with a wide grin. “Never thought I’d say this, Sammy, but marry this guy.”
And Sam wants to say that’s the plan, that he even bought a set of matching rings in some spur of the moment during his last shopping trip, but no, he’d decided. Graduation. So he just pulls Misha to him in a tight hug.
“Okay,” he mumbles. “Okay. Just… promise you’ll listen to us about the hunt, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Scout’s honor!” Misha beams, returning the hug. “So can we take the bike back before we go, or should we let the neighbors find it?”
~*~
They make a stop at a gas station to refuel for the trip. Dean has gone into the convenience mart, so Sam has the car door open because it’s warm. In the meantime, he’s looking around, taking stock of the differences since Dean took over the car from their dad. The only one he can put a finger on is that it’s cleaner. Not that Dad didn’t love the car, but Dean - if the Impala were a woman, Dean would marry it in a heartbeat and have wild sex with it multiple times a day.
Just as he finds Dean’s cassette tape collection, “Hey!”
He leans out to look as his brother comes out of the convenience mart carrying junk food.
“You want breakfast?” Dean holds up the bags - soda and chips.
“No, thanks.” Dean’s eating habits haven’t improved either.
Misha glances at the bags and leans closer to ask, “Is that what you grew up eating?”
Sam chuckles. “Pretty much, unless I could help it. Dean’s idea of vegetables is onion rings.”
A perturbed look crosses his boyfriend’s face. “I swear this is the Matrix. There is no way you two can eat like that all your life and end up this gorgeous.”
Sam snorts and kisses Misha briefly as Dean circles around to the pump. “So how'd you pay for that stuff?” he asks, turning back to his brother. “You and Dad still running credit card scams?”
“Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro ball career,” Dean replies, putting the nozzle back on the pump. He shrugs. “Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards.”
“Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?” Sam challenges, swinging his legs back inside the car and closing the door.
“Uh, Burt Aframian.” Dean climbs back into the driver’s seat and puts his soda and chips down. “And his son Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal.” He closes the door.
“That sounds about right.”
Misha raises an eyebrow, wrapping himself in the knitted throw he brought. “Sam, I thought you said you guys were Peter Venkman and Raymond Stantz, not Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan.”
“Is there a difference?” Sam ripostes drily.
Dean turns, grinning at the reference. “I like your boyfriend.”
Sam rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “And I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection.” He goes through the box in his lap; there are more than he remembers - some with album art, others hand-labeled.
“Why?” Dean asks as Misha shifts forward to look over Sam’s shoulder into the box.
“Wow, these things still work? Heck, they still exist?” Misha blinks. “I haven’t seen cassette tapes in years.”
“No one has seen cassette tapes in years. And secondly, Black Sabbath? Motörhead? Metallica?” He holds up the tape in question as he goes down the list. “It's the greatest hits of mullet rock.”
Dean snatches the Metallica tape out of his hands. “Well, house rules, Sammy,” he declares, popping the tape into the player. “Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole.” He drops the cover back into the box and starts the engine.
“Well, since I’m not in the shotgun seat,” Misha begins, crossing his arms.
“You get even fewer privileges,” Dean finishes as he pulls out of the bay to the opening riffs of AC/DC’s Back In Black.
“I just wanted to point out that that isn’t even Metallica. I know AC/DC when I hear it.”
Dean pauses before driving back out onto the highway to face Misha solemnly. “Don’t ever change.” He turns back to the road. “Seriously, Sammy, where’d you even find this guy?”
“He was waiting in my room when I arrived,” Sam deadpans, smiling fondly. “And you know, Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. It's Sam, okay?”
“Sorry, I can't hear you,” Dean says, turning the volume up as the vocals kick in. “The music's too loud.”
“Granola bar?” Misha offers, holding one out as Sam leans back in his seat with an exasperated huff, and Sam grins, taking it.
“I do love you.”
~ Navigation ~
Chapter 1: Part One | Part Two
Chapter 2: Part One | Part Two
Chapter 3: Part One | Part Two
Chapter 4: Part One | Part Two
Epilogue