FIC: The Wandering Kind (SPN, Sam/Dean) (5/7)
ONE/ TWO/ THREE/ FOUR/
PART FIVE: Made a Raft Out of the Scraps
Dean tried to cover his shock, but Bobby was a perceptive bastard.
"Now, correct me if I'm wrong," Bobby said, his tone implying he knew he wasn't wrong at all, "but you Winchesters have made quite a name out of being lone wolves over the past few years. Other hunters just ain't good enough for you and your daddy. Why ask about the Harvelles now?"
"Yeah, well, my 'daddy' is dead," Dean said. "I ran into someone that mentioned the name, thought the roadhouse sounded like a good resource."
"Oh?" Bobby sounded suspicious. "Who told you about the Harvelles?" And when Dean took a moment too long to answer: "Bullshit. Why are you really calling?"
Dean tried for a moment to think of an excuse, but in the end he caved. If he needed to be locked up - or hell, if he needed a bullet in the head - Bobby was as good a person to judge as any.
"I saw him, Bobby. I met him. He was a hitchhiker, he was going to California, and he wasn't a ghost, I would have known, except he must have been, right? I mean, how do you fake being ripped apart by a werewolf? Right?"
A heavy exhale. "You're talking about Sam. Sam Harvelle."
"How would I even know he existed, Bobby? Why did I go looking for him in the first place, unless I saw something?"
"Dean. You're saying you met Sam - after his death?"
Dean nodded, staring blindly at the windshield wipers and the reflection of headlights against the light drizzle outside the car. "That's what I'm saying. But he wasn't a ghost, he wasn't an apparition, he was flesh and blood. He seemed - alive. Is that possible?"
"No," said Bobby. "Not unless you're dealing with a revenant or something similar, which you're not. Sam was cremated - a full funeral pyre, out in the woods where he died. I know, I was there. It's not remotely possible that anything living came back from that."
Dean bowed his head, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. "Right. So, I'm crazy."
"Maybe," said Bobby. Silence for a second, then: "Call me if you learn anything else. Sam was a good kid; if there's a spirit needs taking care of, I owe that boy. I should be there. You hear me?"
Sam was dead. Sam had been dead, for months before Dean met him. And yet.
"Yeah," Dean replied. "Yeah, I hear you."
*
Learning the truth about Sam didn't help Dean find him. His research turned up a death certificate citing the cause of death as wild animal attack. The body-Sam's body-had been released to his next-of-kin so he could be buried in a family plot, but there was no record of a funeral. That fit with what Bobby had told Dean. Beyond that, there was no record of Sam Harvelle at all, not even from the time he had traveled with Dean. Sam had always used cash for the motels and gas stations, never plastic.
That had to be something, though-if Sam had paid with real money, he couldn't be a spirit. Not unless Dean was just so fucked in the head that he'd covered the whole cost of the motel bills instead of half, simply imagining that Sam was paying his share. It didn't make any sense.
But there was no trace of Sam, so Dean had to give up. Other hunts came along: a couple of poltergeists in Salt Lake City, a possession outside of Boise. He kept doing his job. It was what his father would have wanted, and if Dean just kept at it for a while longer, he knew that he'd start to want it again, too. Hunting evil monsters and saving innocent lives. It wasn't a bad gig.
Then, during a nasty altercation with an ugly fucker of a hodag in Wisconsin, Dean managed to wrap the Impala around a tree.
*
He woke up in the hospital two days later. There wasn't a place on his body that didn't hurt. Sam was sitting next to Dean's bed, his face haggard and worn.
"You dumb fuck," Sam said as soon as he saw Dean looking at him. "Do you know how hard it is to find you? You couldn't just leave a credit card trail or something, you had to go and crash your fucking car."
Dean tried to respond, but the breath he took for an acerbic comeback lit up a line of fire across his ribs and he coughed and choked. Everything was kind of muzzy and he had the nasty suspicion that there were tubes sticking in places they shouldn't be. But he couldn't think about any of that. It wasn't important.
Sam.
"Can't even use his own fucking name," Sam muttered to himself, then to Dean: "Just-don't move, all right? I'm gonna go get the nurse."
He unfolded himself from the chair. Dean was seized with the sudden, irrational certainty that Sam would disappear again as soon as he walked out the door; he made an attempt at protest, but it didn't sound like words.
It did make Sam pause, though. He glanced at Dean, and his face crumpled a little. He reached out and squeezed Dean's foot through the blanket. "I-," he started, and paused. "I'm glad you're okay."
Sam's touch was real and solid. Maybe Dean was losing it, but that was fine. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
*
When Dean woke up a second time, his head was clearer. Sam was back in the chair next to the bed, only now he was dozing. Dean flung out one weak arm and hit Sam on the knee, startling him awake.
"Sam," Dean called hoarsely. "Sam. Sam!"
Sam immediately leaned in, his face filled with concern. "Yeah? I'm here. What do you need?"
How are you alive, Dean wanted to say. Are you even human? Are you even real? Instead, he said: "Car."
Sam blinked, and then his face lightened in realization. "The car? Seriously?"
Dean tried to give a shrug, but that only succeeded in telling him that his shoulder was fucked, too. He winced, and Sam rolled his eyes.
"It's totaled, Dean. I wouldn't let them tow it away, though; it's at a local auto garage if you wanna have a look, see if there's any hope for it."
That was all Dean could really ask for. "Thanks," he said, despite the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The damage probably wasn't as bad as it sounded, he told himself.
"Least I could do." Sam stared at him and then looked away, suddenly awkward. Dean was reminded of the last time they'd seen each other. Mysterious not-deaths aside, perhaps being unwillingly drugged immediately following the best fuck of one's life wasn't the best way they could have left things.
"Where have you been?" Dean asked. "I-I looked."
Sam gave him a wry smile. "So did I. You're not easy to find, 'Chuck.'"
"Huh?"
"I kept an eye out. When I spotted reports of hodag sightings, followed by a traffic report about a crashed Chevy Impala, I just hacked into all the hospital admittance records until I found the name that didn't belong. Chuck Berry, huh? Kind of old school for you."
"Kind of awesome, you mean." Dean tried to sit up and batted away Sam's offer of assistance. "What's the damage?"
"Mostly superficial. Cuts and bruises, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, wrist fracture. Mainly they were concerned about brain damage, but they ran some tests and it looks okay now."
"Okay," Dean said. "Good. When can I get out of here?"
Like someone had heard the question, the door to the room swung open and a doctor walked in. He nodded at Sam: "Afternoon, Mr. Berry." He turned to Dean. "And to you, Mr. Berry. I'm Dr. Rodriguez. How are we feeling today?"
"Like crap," Dean said, "and ready to leave."
Dr. Rodriguez gave Dean a patented "I am a medical professional" smile. "Okay," he said. "We'll see what we can do about that." Dean offered up a silent thanks for overcrowded hospitals.
After the doctor left, Sam said awkwardly, "I told them we were brothers. I figured they wouldn't let me in, otherwise."
"Good thinking," said Dean.
"Yeah." Sam paused. "I have a car. You know, since the Impala's out of commission. Do you -?"
"Yeah," said Dean. The utter, undisguised relief on Sam's face made that place in his gut start aching again.
*
Sam checked Dean out of the hospital and drove him back to the motel where he was staying. Once Dean was comfortably settled-as comfortably as he could be, anyway-Sam hovered uncertainly.
"Do you need anything else?"
Dean shut his eyes, feeling too damn tired. "No."
"Okay."
The ensuing silence was charged with tension. Sam stared at Dean, and Dean, unable to sleep with Sam's gaze on him, stared back. Despite everything, Dean still trusted Sam. He still wanted him. Goddamnit.
"Sam," said Dean. It was permission.
"Can I come closer?" Sam asked quietly, but he was already moving. He took a couple steps forward, until he was standing at the foot of Dean's bed. "Can I - closer?"
Dean cleared his throat, and nodded again. Sam crawled up on the bed, his knees bracketing Dean's legs.
"Can I touch you?"
"Yes," said Dean, his voice cracking, everything cracking, all of him spilling out. "Yes," and Sam was already sinking toward him, careful of Dean's injuries, his hands wrapped tight around Dean's forearms. The force of Sam's kiss pressed the back of Dean's head into the pillow, muffled everything.
By the time the kiss ended, Sam was shaking. "Don't send me away again," he said. There was a weird edge of fear in his voice. "Don't make me leave. Please."
Dean would have been freaked out by Sam's desperation, except he got it; he knew where Sam was coming from, and Jesus, well, Dean was clinging back just as hard. "I won't, I'm not," Dean said quickly. "Never."
"Thank God," Sam murmured, his shoulders slumping in relief. "God."
"That's my name, don't wear it out," Dean whispered back.
Sam chuckled, suddenly playful. "Christ, I could fuck you, fuck you all night long," he muttered, pressing his lips to Dean's neck. "If it weren't for your ribs…"
Heat swirled in Dean's gut, and he tilted his head back to give Sam more access to his throat. Sam let out a deep groan and closed his mouth on the flesh between Dean's neck and shoulder. He bit lightly and Dean jerked, feeling his cock swell and press against his hospital-issue pants. Sam felt it, too, and moaned around a mouthful of Dean's skin.
Sam leaned down, his long arms and legs carefully pinning Dean to the mattress. One knee pressed up against Dean's dick. It was too much, too full of that post-injury intensity. Dean went so hard so fast that his vision swam for a second.
"Ah -- ah!"
"Don't come," Sam groaned. "Fuck, Dean - don't come yet. Fucking missed you." Sam drew away and shimmied out of his jeans, pitching them aside, and then tugged Dean's pants off, too. He paused and then dove for his discarded jeans, fumbled in the pocket, and withdrew a condom and a battered tube of lubricant. Dean snickered at him.
"Shut up," Sam said, smiling. "I'm just-I'm all messed up, man. Missed you, goddamnit, so fucking much-" He leaned in and nuzzled Dean's stomach, and Dean's cock gave a twitch.
"Sam," Dean gasped; he twisted under Sam's body and his ribs gave a painful twinge. He heard Sam fumbling with the lube, felt the cool wet touch of Sam's fingers and the slow, steady pressure as Sam inserted first one, then two fingers, twisting them to get Dean good and loose. Words started rising up and Dean knew he should probably think better of them, but he couldn't stop himself.
"Sam, I know what happened to you -"
Sam stilled abruptly, his fingers buried sloppy-deep in Dean's ass. Excess lubricant trailed cold and slippery down Dean's crack. "What?"
"And I don't care. I don't care."
"I don't- what do you mean?" Sam's face was wary.
Dean shook his head, cursing himself. "Later. Never mind. Just, just fuck me, okay?"
Sam didn't move for a second, but Dean pressed back against Sam's fingers and he got with the program. It was easier this time; Sam popped his fingers out, lined up the head of his dick with Dean's asshole, and slipped right in. Dean could feel a faint burn, but nothing to write home about. Fuck, Sam felt so good, all slow thrusts and tight, steady hands gripping Dean's hips, getting lube and sweat smeared everywhere. Dean marveled at the sweetness of it; Sam over him, in him, his eyes gentle, like Dean was something precious.
Dean couldn't keep his cool for long, not with Sam's cock riding hot up inside him; he went off the second Sam gripped his dick, let out a surprised "unh!" and shot white streaks all over Sam's arm. Sam just groaned and kept fucking Dean through it, helping him ride out the aftershocks. A minute or so later, the friction of Sam's thrusts crossed from "too much" to "ouch," and Dean squirmed beneath Sam and yanked at his hair. Sam shuddered but withdrew slowly, gripping his cock tightly and trying not to lean on Dean's battered ribs. Sam's dick looked red and angry, dripping wet with lube and pre-come.
"Come on me," Dean grunted. He stretched, displaying himself, and Sam bit back what sounded like a whimper. "Do it."
Sam bit his lip and bowed his head, fisting his dick furiously. He came with a grunt after just a few seconds and striped Dean's stomach with come, and oh, fuck. Dean ran a hand through the mess of come on his skin and something hot and sick stirred in his belly. He felt shaken, too exposed, and was glad when Sam didn't look closely at his face, just gently shoved Dean over onto his side and curled around him.
Dean's ass was sore and his wrist and ribs were aching, but for the moment, none of it really mattered. He let out a shuddery breath and let himself relax against Sam's body. Sam traced careful fingers up Dean's spine, outlining each knob of vertebrae with a light touch.
He dozed for a while, knocked out by the aftermath of sex and painkillers, and woke up feeling groggy and gross. Sam was still tucked against his side, but Dean could tell he was awake. Dean stared at the ceiling and laid his palm on the back of Sam's neck.
"I talked to Bobby Singer."
Sam stiffened.
"He gave me your mom's number, but I thought she might not appreciate my call. Especially when I was calling looking for you."
Dean could hear Sam inhale, like he was about to speak.
"Don't." Dean's eyes were starting to burn. His grip tightened on Sam's neck until he could feel Sam swallow. "Just tell me something, man. I think I deserve that much."
A single nod; vertebrae moving under Dean's fingers.
"What are you?"
Long silence, then: "What am I?" Sam laughed softly. "I don't know. I really don't."
"If I let go," said Dean, "if we both go to sleep again - will you still be here in the morning?"
"Yes," said Sam.
"Will I still be here in the morning, or are they gonna find bits of me all over the parking lot?"
"Fuck off, Dean. I wouldn't hurt you." Sam reached up, took Dean's hand from his neck, and laced their fingers together. "I swear."
"Okay." Like the rest of him, Sam's hand was warm and solid. Real. "That's what I thought."
*
The next morning, Dean woke up sore and cranky. His wrist felt like it was on fire. Sam was still asleep, and Dean stared at him for a few long minutes before he got up to shower. He had to wrap his cast in plastic trash bags, and by the time he finished, he was aching all over. When Dean finally emerged from the bathroom, clad only in unbuttoned jeans, Sam had already visited the nearby gas station and picked up coffee and Krispy Kremes.
"Mm," Dean greeted, after grabbing a donut and taking a huge bite. "Mornin'."
Sam smiled back wanly, and Dean put down the donut. "Sam, what-"
"I knew that the werewolf clipped me pretty good," said Sam.
Suddenly, Dean wasn't hungry.
"Then I thought I passed out or something, but when I woke up, I was - well. I was out in the woods, still, but somewhere different. And I could smell this stink --"
Dean sat down and looked at his toes, pale against the carpet. "They burned you."
"Yeah." Sam scrubbed his hands over his face. "Yeah, they did. I figured it out pretty quick, but I didn't know why I was still there, you know? Why I was - alive. I thought maybe the werewolf did something, but -"
"Fuck," Dean muttered. He hated to think of Sam alone- terrified.
"Um. Then I figured I was some sort of ghost." Dean gave him a startled glance, and Sam smiled weakly. "I know, crazy, right? But so many other weird things were going on, that I just... I mean, I could touch things, but I wasn't sure if I could touch people. That's why I was careful around you at first. I thought maybe you'd be able to tell."
"You really have no idea why?"
Sam shook his head. "No. But I decided, you know, maybe I'm wrong, or bad somehow. But I'm still me, as far as I know. And I can still help people. So that's what I'm going to do."
Dean huffed a laugh. "Save people, hunt things?"
"Something like that," said Sam.
Dean stared at his donut, and after long deliberation, took another bite.
Sam's mouth pinched. "So, I just bared my soul to you, and your response is to eat a donut?"
"It's jelly-filled," Dean replied.
Sam was startled into a laugh. "Well, if it's jelly-filled."
Dean put the donut down. It leaked a bit of jelly on the bedside table, and he wiped it up with his thumb. Then he cleared his throat, not quite believing what he was about to suggest. "Uh. So, I know this guy. Great guy, awesome car. Seems like he could use a partner in the hunting business. And he might not ask too many questions about why people are or aren't dead."
Sam tilted his head, mouth twitching, eyebrows lifted. "I don't know. Depends-does he listen to Metallica? Cause if he does, I just don't know if we can make it work."
"Smart ass," Dean mock-growled. "Is that a 'yes' or what?"
"Yeah," said Sam, breaking into a grin. "It's a yes."
*
Dean was healing up, and it was about time to check out of the slimy motel where he and Sam had been staying and see about getting the Impala road-worthy again. He'd been relieved to see that it wasn't impossible; the major problem was the crumpled hood and front bumper, but it was nothing Dean couldn't fix with a bit of time and TLC.
The only problem with Dean's plan for repairs was that Dean was a bit… distracted.
"Oh-Jesus-"
Sam writhed beneath him; his skin was shining with sweat and his bangs were damp and sticking to his forehead. Dean ran a placating hand over Sam's hip and pressed closer, driving his tongue into Sam's asshole, licking deep circles around the tense, sensitive bit of muscle. Sam jerked, the heel of one foot digging hard into the flesh of Dean's shoulder.
Dean drew away, licking his lips and sending Sam a smirk. "How about it?"
"Yeah," Sam gasped. "Yeah, do it, fuck. Touch me."
Dean pressed Sam's legs back against his chest, spreading him open, and rolled forward a little to snag the tube of lube from the bedside table. Sam whined and tried to rub against Dean's stomach, but Dean interrupted him with a squirt of cold gel.
"Hey! That's cold, dude," Sam sniped. His brow crinkled and he pressed up against Dean, the lubricant slippery between their bodies.
"So pushy," Dean muttered, trying hard to pretend it didn't make him hot. He smeared the lube all around Sam's hole, then pushed in a couple of fingers. Sam's breathing changed, got shallower, like he was trying hard to feel everything Dean was doing. It went straight to Dean's dick; he added another finger, ducking close to Sam's ass so he could watch what he was doing.
And oh, the way Sam's asshole stretched around his fingers was just-fuck. Dean leaned down and licked around his index finger, flicking his tongue against that soft, reddened skin and the tender places where Sam's flesh met his own invasive touch. Sam made a noise that Dean couldn't describe.
"C'mon, man," Sam demanded, his voice cracking. "More?"
"Wait," said Dean. He leaned a little of his weight against Sam's legs, keeping them on his shoulders, and bent down to take Sam's dick in his mouth.
It was strange, and Dean forgot to cover his teeth at first until Sam said "ouch," but then things started to click and slide together, slick with saliva. Dean decided he kind of liked sucking dick. The pulse in Sam's cock was beating so hard Dean could feel it, and Dean pressed closer, thanking junk food binges for his nonexistent gag reflex.
Then his cell phone rang.
"Fuck," Sam swore.
Dean, cursing the phone, drew back apologetically, licking his lips. "Sorry. It might be-"
"Parts for the Impala, I know," Sam said tiredly, but he smiled as he snagged the phone from the bedside table and passed it to Dean. Sam's long legs slipped from Dean's shoulders and he sat up with a wince, unabashedly naked, his dick still hard.
Dean didn't bother to glance at the caller ID, just cleared his throat and answered, in his best fuck-off-and-die tone, "Yeah?"
"Dean Winchester?"
"Uh-huh?" Dean shrugged at Sam's questioning look. "Who is this?"
"It's Bobby Singer."
Dean stood up from the bed. His hand felt sticky with lube and he stared at it, ran his tongue around his mouth to collect the traces of Sam's taste. "What do you want?"
"Is Sam with you?"
"None of your goddamn business," Dean barked, and immediately regretted it. No answer was answer enough.
A brief pause, then: "Good. I need both of you out in Illinois as soon as you can make it. Shit's going down."
Dean shook his head. "Just-leave us alone. I talked to Sam, and it's not what you think. But it's hard to explain. If you think we're just going to walk into some trap-"
"Shut up and listen, boy."
For a second, Bobby sounded so much like his dad that Dean fell silent out of reflex. From the bed, Sam- sweat-soaked and waiting-patiently Sam, Sam who should be dead- said, "Dean, who the hell is on the phone?"
"This isn't about Sam," said Bobby. "It's about Jo Harvelle."
/ SIX/ SEVEN
PART FIVE: Made a Raft Out of the Scraps
Dean tried to cover his shock, but Bobby was a perceptive bastard.
"Now, correct me if I'm wrong," Bobby said, his tone implying he knew he wasn't wrong at all, "but you Winchesters have made quite a name out of being lone wolves over the past few years. Other hunters just ain't good enough for you and your daddy. Why ask about the Harvelles now?"
"Yeah, well, my 'daddy' is dead," Dean said. "I ran into someone that mentioned the name, thought the roadhouse sounded like a good resource."
"Oh?" Bobby sounded suspicious. "Who told you about the Harvelles?" And when Dean took a moment too long to answer: "Bullshit. Why are you really calling?"
Dean tried for a moment to think of an excuse, but in the end he caved. If he needed to be locked up - or hell, if he needed a bullet in the head - Bobby was as good a person to judge as any.
"I saw him, Bobby. I met him. He was a hitchhiker, he was going to California, and he wasn't a ghost, I would have known, except he must have been, right? I mean, how do you fake being ripped apart by a werewolf? Right?"
A heavy exhale. "You're talking about Sam. Sam Harvelle."
"How would I even know he existed, Bobby? Why did I go looking for him in the first place, unless I saw something?"
"Dean. You're saying you met Sam - after his death?"
Dean nodded, staring blindly at the windshield wipers and the reflection of headlights against the light drizzle outside the car. "That's what I'm saying. But he wasn't a ghost, he wasn't an apparition, he was flesh and blood. He seemed - alive. Is that possible?"
"No," said Bobby. "Not unless you're dealing with a revenant or something similar, which you're not. Sam was cremated - a full funeral pyre, out in the woods where he died. I know, I was there. It's not remotely possible that anything living came back from that."
Dean bowed his head, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. "Right. So, I'm crazy."
"Maybe," said Bobby. Silence for a second, then: "Call me if you learn anything else. Sam was a good kid; if there's a spirit needs taking care of, I owe that boy. I should be there. You hear me?"
Sam was dead. Sam had been dead, for months before Dean met him. And yet.
"Yeah," Dean replied. "Yeah, I hear you."
*
Learning the truth about Sam didn't help Dean find him. His research turned up a death certificate citing the cause of death as wild animal attack. The body-Sam's body-had been released to his next-of-kin so he could be buried in a family plot, but there was no record of a funeral. That fit with what Bobby had told Dean. Beyond that, there was no record of Sam Harvelle at all, not even from the time he had traveled with Dean. Sam had always used cash for the motels and gas stations, never plastic.
That had to be something, though-if Sam had paid with real money, he couldn't be a spirit. Not unless Dean was just so fucked in the head that he'd covered the whole cost of the motel bills instead of half, simply imagining that Sam was paying his share. It didn't make any sense.
But there was no trace of Sam, so Dean had to give up. Other hunts came along: a couple of poltergeists in Salt Lake City, a possession outside of Boise. He kept doing his job. It was what his father would have wanted, and if Dean just kept at it for a while longer, he knew that he'd start to want it again, too. Hunting evil monsters and saving innocent lives. It wasn't a bad gig.
Then, during a nasty altercation with an ugly fucker of a hodag in Wisconsin, Dean managed to wrap the Impala around a tree.
*
He woke up in the hospital two days later. There wasn't a place on his body that didn't hurt. Sam was sitting next to Dean's bed, his face haggard and worn.
"You dumb fuck," Sam said as soon as he saw Dean looking at him. "Do you know how hard it is to find you? You couldn't just leave a credit card trail or something, you had to go and crash your fucking car."
Dean tried to respond, but the breath he took for an acerbic comeback lit up a line of fire across his ribs and he coughed and choked. Everything was kind of muzzy and he had the nasty suspicion that there were tubes sticking in places they shouldn't be. But he couldn't think about any of that. It wasn't important.
Sam.
"Can't even use his own fucking name," Sam muttered to himself, then to Dean: "Just-don't move, all right? I'm gonna go get the nurse."
He unfolded himself from the chair. Dean was seized with the sudden, irrational certainty that Sam would disappear again as soon as he walked out the door; he made an attempt at protest, but it didn't sound like words.
It did make Sam pause, though. He glanced at Dean, and his face crumpled a little. He reached out and squeezed Dean's foot through the blanket. "I-," he started, and paused. "I'm glad you're okay."
Sam's touch was real and solid. Maybe Dean was losing it, but that was fine. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
*
When Dean woke up a second time, his head was clearer. Sam was back in the chair next to the bed, only now he was dozing. Dean flung out one weak arm and hit Sam on the knee, startling him awake.
"Sam," Dean called hoarsely. "Sam. Sam!"
Sam immediately leaned in, his face filled with concern. "Yeah? I'm here. What do you need?"
How are you alive, Dean wanted to say. Are you even human? Are you even real? Instead, he said: "Car."
Sam blinked, and then his face lightened in realization. "The car? Seriously?"
Dean tried to give a shrug, but that only succeeded in telling him that his shoulder was fucked, too. He winced, and Sam rolled his eyes.
"It's totaled, Dean. I wouldn't let them tow it away, though; it's at a local auto garage if you wanna have a look, see if there's any hope for it."
That was all Dean could really ask for. "Thanks," he said, despite the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The damage probably wasn't as bad as it sounded, he told himself.
"Least I could do." Sam stared at him and then looked away, suddenly awkward. Dean was reminded of the last time they'd seen each other. Mysterious not-deaths aside, perhaps being unwillingly drugged immediately following the best fuck of one's life wasn't the best way they could have left things.
"Where have you been?" Dean asked. "I-I looked."
Sam gave him a wry smile. "So did I. You're not easy to find, 'Chuck.'"
"Huh?"
"I kept an eye out. When I spotted reports of hodag sightings, followed by a traffic report about a crashed Chevy Impala, I just hacked into all the hospital admittance records until I found the name that didn't belong. Chuck Berry, huh? Kind of old school for you."
"Kind of awesome, you mean." Dean tried to sit up and batted away Sam's offer of assistance. "What's the damage?"
"Mostly superficial. Cuts and bruises, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, wrist fracture. Mainly they were concerned about brain damage, but they ran some tests and it looks okay now."
"Okay," Dean said. "Good. When can I get out of here?"
Like someone had heard the question, the door to the room swung open and a doctor walked in. He nodded at Sam: "Afternoon, Mr. Berry." He turned to Dean. "And to you, Mr. Berry. I'm Dr. Rodriguez. How are we feeling today?"
"Like crap," Dean said, "and ready to leave."
Dr. Rodriguez gave Dean a patented "I am a medical professional" smile. "Okay," he said. "We'll see what we can do about that." Dean offered up a silent thanks for overcrowded hospitals.
After the doctor left, Sam said awkwardly, "I told them we were brothers. I figured they wouldn't let me in, otherwise."
"Good thinking," said Dean.
"Yeah." Sam paused. "I have a car. You know, since the Impala's out of commission. Do you -?"
"Yeah," said Dean. The utter, undisguised relief on Sam's face made that place in his gut start aching again.
*
Sam checked Dean out of the hospital and drove him back to the motel where he was staying. Once Dean was comfortably settled-as comfortably as he could be, anyway-Sam hovered uncertainly.
"Do you need anything else?"
Dean shut his eyes, feeling too damn tired. "No."
"Okay."
The ensuing silence was charged with tension. Sam stared at Dean, and Dean, unable to sleep with Sam's gaze on him, stared back. Despite everything, Dean still trusted Sam. He still wanted him. Goddamnit.
"Sam," said Dean. It was permission.
"Can I come closer?" Sam asked quietly, but he was already moving. He took a couple steps forward, until he was standing at the foot of Dean's bed. "Can I - closer?"
Dean cleared his throat, and nodded again. Sam crawled up on the bed, his knees bracketing Dean's legs.
"Can I touch you?"
"Yes," said Dean, his voice cracking, everything cracking, all of him spilling out. "Yes," and Sam was already sinking toward him, careful of Dean's injuries, his hands wrapped tight around Dean's forearms. The force of Sam's kiss pressed the back of Dean's head into the pillow, muffled everything.
By the time the kiss ended, Sam was shaking. "Don't send me away again," he said. There was a weird edge of fear in his voice. "Don't make me leave. Please."
Dean would have been freaked out by Sam's desperation, except he got it; he knew where Sam was coming from, and Jesus, well, Dean was clinging back just as hard. "I won't, I'm not," Dean said quickly. "Never."
"Thank God," Sam murmured, his shoulders slumping in relief. "God."
"That's my name, don't wear it out," Dean whispered back.
Sam chuckled, suddenly playful. "Christ, I could fuck you, fuck you all night long," he muttered, pressing his lips to Dean's neck. "If it weren't for your ribs…"
Heat swirled in Dean's gut, and he tilted his head back to give Sam more access to his throat. Sam let out a deep groan and closed his mouth on the flesh between Dean's neck and shoulder. He bit lightly and Dean jerked, feeling his cock swell and press against his hospital-issue pants. Sam felt it, too, and moaned around a mouthful of Dean's skin.
Sam leaned down, his long arms and legs carefully pinning Dean to the mattress. One knee pressed up against Dean's dick. It was too much, too full of that post-injury intensity. Dean went so hard so fast that his vision swam for a second.
"Ah -- ah!"
"Don't come," Sam groaned. "Fuck, Dean - don't come yet. Fucking missed you." Sam drew away and shimmied out of his jeans, pitching them aside, and then tugged Dean's pants off, too. He paused and then dove for his discarded jeans, fumbled in the pocket, and withdrew a condom and a battered tube of lubricant. Dean snickered at him.
"Shut up," Sam said, smiling. "I'm just-I'm all messed up, man. Missed you, goddamnit, so fucking much-" He leaned in and nuzzled Dean's stomach, and Dean's cock gave a twitch.
"Sam," Dean gasped; he twisted under Sam's body and his ribs gave a painful twinge. He heard Sam fumbling with the lube, felt the cool wet touch of Sam's fingers and the slow, steady pressure as Sam inserted first one, then two fingers, twisting them to get Dean good and loose. Words started rising up and Dean knew he should probably think better of them, but he couldn't stop himself.
"Sam, I know what happened to you -"
Sam stilled abruptly, his fingers buried sloppy-deep in Dean's ass. Excess lubricant trailed cold and slippery down Dean's crack. "What?"
"And I don't care. I don't care."
"I don't- what do you mean?" Sam's face was wary.
Dean shook his head, cursing himself. "Later. Never mind. Just, just fuck me, okay?"
Sam didn't move for a second, but Dean pressed back against Sam's fingers and he got with the program. It was easier this time; Sam popped his fingers out, lined up the head of his dick with Dean's asshole, and slipped right in. Dean could feel a faint burn, but nothing to write home about. Fuck, Sam felt so good, all slow thrusts and tight, steady hands gripping Dean's hips, getting lube and sweat smeared everywhere. Dean marveled at the sweetness of it; Sam over him, in him, his eyes gentle, like Dean was something precious.
Dean couldn't keep his cool for long, not with Sam's cock riding hot up inside him; he went off the second Sam gripped his dick, let out a surprised "unh!" and shot white streaks all over Sam's arm. Sam just groaned and kept fucking Dean through it, helping him ride out the aftershocks. A minute or so later, the friction of Sam's thrusts crossed from "too much" to "ouch," and Dean squirmed beneath Sam and yanked at his hair. Sam shuddered but withdrew slowly, gripping his cock tightly and trying not to lean on Dean's battered ribs. Sam's dick looked red and angry, dripping wet with lube and pre-come.
"Come on me," Dean grunted. He stretched, displaying himself, and Sam bit back what sounded like a whimper. "Do it."
Sam bit his lip and bowed his head, fisting his dick furiously. He came with a grunt after just a few seconds and striped Dean's stomach with come, and oh, fuck. Dean ran a hand through the mess of come on his skin and something hot and sick stirred in his belly. He felt shaken, too exposed, and was glad when Sam didn't look closely at his face, just gently shoved Dean over onto his side and curled around him.
Dean's ass was sore and his wrist and ribs were aching, but for the moment, none of it really mattered. He let out a shuddery breath and let himself relax against Sam's body. Sam traced careful fingers up Dean's spine, outlining each knob of vertebrae with a light touch.
He dozed for a while, knocked out by the aftermath of sex and painkillers, and woke up feeling groggy and gross. Sam was still tucked against his side, but Dean could tell he was awake. Dean stared at the ceiling and laid his palm on the back of Sam's neck.
"I talked to Bobby Singer."
Sam stiffened.
"He gave me your mom's number, but I thought she might not appreciate my call. Especially when I was calling looking for you."
Dean could hear Sam inhale, like he was about to speak.
"Don't." Dean's eyes were starting to burn. His grip tightened on Sam's neck until he could feel Sam swallow. "Just tell me something, man. I think I deserve that much."
A single nod; vertebrae moving under Dean's fingers.
"What are you?"
Long silence, then: "What am I?" Sam laughed softly. "I don't know. I really don't."
"If I let go," said Dean, "if we both go to sleep again - will you still be here in the morning?"
"Yes," said Sam.
"Will I still be here in the morning, or are they gonna find bits of me all over the parking lot?"
"Fuck off, Dean. I wouldn't hurt you." Sam reached up, took Dean's hand from his neck, and laced their fingers together. "I swear."
"Okay." Like the rest of him, Sam's hand was warm and solid. Real. "That's what I thought."
*
The next morning, Dean woke up sore and cranky. His wrist felt like it was on fire. Sam was still asleep, and Dean stared at him for a few long minutes before he got up to shower. He had to wrap his cast in plastic trash bags, and by the time he finished, he was aching all over. When Dean finally emerged from the bathroom, clad only in unbuttoned jeans, Sam had already visited the nearby gas station and picked up coffee and Krispy Kremes.
"Mm," Dean greeted, after grabbing a donut and taking a huge bite. "Mornin'."
Sam smiled back wanly, and Dean put down the donut. "Sam, what-"
"I knew that the werewolf clipped me pretty good," said Sam.
Suddenly, Dean wasn't hungry.
"Then I thought I passed out or something, but when I woke up, I was - well. I was out in the woods, still, but somewhere different. And I could smell this stink --"
Dean sat down and looked at his toes, pale against the carpet. "They burned you."
"Yeah." Sam scrubbed his hands over his face. "Yeah, they did. I figured it out pretty quick, but I didn't know why I was still there, you know? Why I was - alive. I thought maybe the werewolf did something, but -"
"Fuck," Dean muttered. He hated to think of Sam alone- terrified.
"Um. Then I figured I was some sort of ghost." Dean gave him a startled glance, and Sam smiled weakly. "I know, crazy, right? But so many other weird things were going on, that I just... I mean, I could touch things, but I wasn't sure if I could touch people. That's why I was careful around you at first. I thought maybe you'd be able to tell."
"You really have no idea why?"
Sam shook his head. "No. But I decided, you know, maybe I'm wrong, or bad somehow. But I'm still me, as far as I know. And I can still help people. So that's what I'm going to do."
Dean huffed a laugh. "Save people, hunt things?"
"Something like that," said Sam.
Dean stared at his donut, and after long deliberation, took another bite.
Sam's mouth pinched. "So, I just bared my soul to you, and your response is to eat a donut?"
"It's jelly-filled," Dean replied.
Sam was startled into a laugh. "Well, if it's jelly-filled."
Dean put the donut down. It leaked a bit of jelly on the bedside table, and he wiped it up with his thumb. Then he cleared his throat, not quite believing what he was about to suggest. "Uh. So, I know this guy. Great guy, awesome car. Seems like he could use a partner in the hunting business. And he might not ask too many questions about why people are or aren't dead."
Sam tilted his head, mouth twitching, eyebrows lifted. "I don't know. Depends-does he listen to Metallica? Cause if he does, I just don't know if we can make it work."
"Smart ass," Dean mock-growled. "Is that a 'yes' or what?"
"Yeah," said Sam, breaking into a grin. "It's a yes."
*
Dean was healing up, and it was about time to check out of the slimy motel where he and Sam had been staying and see about getting the Impala road-worthy again. He'd been relieved to see that it wasn't impossible; the major problem was the crumpled hood and front bumper, but it was nothing Dean couldn't fix with a bit of time and TLC.
The only problem with Dean's plan for repairs was that Dean was a bit… distracted.
"Oh-Jesus-"
Sam writhed beneath him; his skin was shining with sweat and his bangs were damp and sticking to his forehead. Dean ran a placating hand over Sam's hip and pressed closer, driving his tongue into Sam's asshole, licking deep circles around the tense, sensitive bit of muscle. Sam jerked, the heel of one foot digging hard into the flesh of Dean's shoulder.
Dean drew away, licking his lips and sending Sam a smirk. "How about it?"
"Yeah," Sam gasped. "Yeah, do it, fuck. Touch me."
Dean pressed Sam's legs back against his chest, spreading him open, and rolled forward a little to snag the tube of lube from the bedside table. Sam whined and tried to rub against Dean's stomach, but Dean interrupted him with a squirt of cold gel.
"Hey! That's cold, dude," Sam sniped. His brow crinkled and he pressed up against Dean, the lubricant slippery between their bodies.
"So pushy," Dean muttered, trying hard to pretend it didn't make him hot. He smeared the lube all around Sam's hole, then pushed in a couple of fingers. Sam's breathing changed, got shallower, like he was trying hard to feel everything Dean was doing. It went straight to Dean's dick; he added another finger, ducking close to Sam's ass so he could watch what he was doing.
And oh, the way Sam's asshole stretched around his fingers was just-fuck. Dean leaned down and licked around his index finger, flicking his tongue against that soft, reddened skin and the tender places where Sam's flesh met his own invasive touch. Sam made a noise that Dean couldn't describe.
"C'mon, man," Sam demanded, his voice cracking. "More?"
"Wait," said Dean. He leaned a little of his weight against Sam's legs, keeping them on his shoulders, and bent down to take Sam's dick in his mouth.
It was strange, and Dean forgot to cover his teeth at first until Sam said "ouch," but then things started to click and slide together, slick with saliva. Dean decided he kind of liked sucking dick. The pulse in Sam's cock was beating so hard Dean could feel it, and Dean pressed closer, thanking junk food binges for his nonexistent gag reflex.
Then his cell phone rang.
"Fuck," Sam swore.
Dean, cursing the phone, drew back apologetically, licking his lips. "Sorry. It might be-"
"Parts for the Impala, I know," Sam said tiredly, but he smiled as he snagged the phone from the bedside table and passed it to Dean. Sam's long legs slipped from Dean's shoulders and he sat up with a wince, unabashedly naked, his dick still hard.
Dean didn't bother to glance at the caller ID, just cleared his throat and answered, in his best fuck-off-and-die tone, "Yeah?"
"Dean Winchester?"
"Uh-huh?" Dean shrugged at Sam's questioning look. "Who is this?"
"It's Bobby Singer."
Dean stood up from the bed. His hand felt sticky with lube and he stared at it, ran his tongue around his mouth to collect the traces of Sam's taste. "What do you want?"
"Is Sam with you?"
"None of your goddamn business," Dean barked, and immediately regretted it. No answer was answer enough.
A brief pause, then: "Good. I need both of you out in Illinois as soon as you can make it. Shit's going down."
Dean shook his head. "Just-leave us alone. I talked to Sam, and it's not what you think. But it's hard to explain. If you think we're just going to walk into some trap-"
"Shut up and listen, boy."
For a second, Bobby sounded so much like his dad that Dean fell silent out of reflex. From the bed, Sam- sweat-soaked and waiting-patiently Sam, Sam who should be dead- said, "Dean, who the hell is on the phone?"
"This isn't about Sam," said Bobby. "It's about Jo Harvelle."
/ SIX/ SEVEN