Intimations of Morality: Third Limb
Intimations of Morality: Third Limb
Chapter Rating: R
Chapter Word Count: 3356
All warnings in Main Post
Back to Second Limb
Turns out this Sam is the evil equivalent of Martha Stewart, able to psychically launch people across the room and then prepare a homemade breakfast without breaking a sweat. Fresh batter, waffle iron and everything. Grotesquely domestic. Dean expects to see a pink frilly apron at any moment.
Oh wait, there it is. God, it even says, “Kiss the Cook.”
Dean can’t remember throwing on his clothes, ripped shirt and all, being herded into the kitchen, or sitting down at the small wooden table. His mind is on a constant feedback loop, playing Bobby’s death over and over again. His old friend’s blood is soaking into the floorboards in the other room, and here Dean sits, about to eat breakfast with, fuck, raspberry syrup. And it has to be the mother of all cosmic jokes that the waffles smell fantastic.
Sam carries a plate stacked high with steaming hot waffles to the table and places it in front of Dean. He takes a tiny step back, crosses his arms over his chest. “Dude, what’s wrong?”
“Huh?” Dean’s always been eloquent.
“You look like someone stole your favorite Glock. I made waffles, and you’re not shoving them into your face yet. I even wore this ridiculous apron because it always makes you laugh, and you haven’t taken advantage of the joke once.”
Well, at least the apron’s not a normal thing. “I’m just not feeling so hot, I guess.”
“Is this about Bobby?” Dean’s heart lifts just a little. Maybe Sam remembers all the trips to Bobby’s yard, training exercises between the stacks of cars, sneaks of whiskey from the flask when Dad wasn’t looking. Because if Sam remembers, then Dean won’t have to mourn alo- “Because I didn’t know he had gotten up either until that bitch started screaming. We all slip up sometime, but you still got him. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Yeah, thanks Sam. I feel so much better.” Sarcasm’s practically dripping off Dean’s tongue, but Sam just beams at him and heads back to the waffle iron.
A door slams down the hall, and John strides into the kitchen. “Waffles? Someone did good this morning, I gather?” Dean feels those yellow eyes fall on him, but he resolutely refuses to meet them. “Well, eat up, boys. Hope you got at least some rest last night. We’ve got unfinished business to take care of, and we’ll have to hit the road soon.”
Sam plops down at the table, his own plate of food in front of him. “Where to?” He starts drowning the waffles in syrup, and Dean watches red just bleed all over his brother’s plate, reminds himself repeatedly that it’s just the sauce.
John grabs a mug by the sink and pours himself some coffee from the pot nearby. Despite himself, Dean almost starts to chuckle at the normality of it all. Ignore the yellow eyes and various bloodstains across their clothing, and they’ve got the white picket fence, apple pie family breakfast going on here. Just a father with his two sons enjoying the most important meal of the day. Where’s Norman Rockwell when you need him?
John dumps half a bowl of sugar into his mug before continuing. “Gotta say, I’m a little nervous about dear, sweet Ellen running around out there. A girl could get hurt, all by her lonesome like that. Figured we’d hop across state lines, pay her a visit, make sure she can handle that roadhouse by herself now that her little girl’s up and left her.” Dean gets a glimpse of a twisted smile before it’s hidden by the mug.
The words are out before Dean even realizes he’s opened his mouth. “Place’ll probably be full with other hunters.”
Sam’s laugh doesn’t startle him, which in itself should be a statement of the situation. “Nothing we can’t handle.” Sam takes a huge bite from his waffles, extra syrup clinging to the corner of his mouth, threatening to slip down his chin. He catches Dean watching, cocks an eyebrow in a way that’s both an invitation and a challenge.
In a flash, Dean’s mind runs rampant with scenarios, none of which he would have imagined before all of this started. He thinks about reaching up to Sam’s mouth, smearing that sticky mess across his brother’s lips, then pushing his thumb inside to make Sam suck off the rest. He imagines forgoing fingers all together, just leaning over to lick Sam’s mouth clean, delving deep until he can’t taste raspberries on Sam’s tongue anymore.
Apparently his body thinks that last scenario is the way to go, because he’s already halfway across the table. Dean gets there just as Sam swallows, then there’s liquid sweetness exploding across his tongue. Dean slides a hand behind Sam’s head while he licks and laps and plunges inside to chase away any flavor that isn’t Sam, and his brother does nothing to stop him.
They’re both breathless when Dean pulls back, Sam’s eyes dark, heavy-lidded, and wanting. Wanting Dean. A look like that could drive a man insane. “You know, I took off the apron.”
Dean grabs a fist full of curls, yanking sharply to tilt Sam’s head back. “Fuck the apron.”
“Boys.” It’s the vocal version of getting a hose turned on them. Dean looks over his shoulder and finds he has the strength to meet those yellow eyes head on. John’s smirking, an expression so alien on a face accustomed to scowls and frowns. “You’ve got thirty minutes, then we’re leaving.”
*****
Dean feels more awake now than he did back at...back before. Of course, the hot shower is helping. Actually, it’s probably more Sam slinking in behind him with a “we’ll save time this way” that’s making the difference. Yeah, definitely that.
He could have never imagined wanting this until he had it, until it was given to him wrapped in a freaking red bow. But with Sam pressed hot and wet against his back, slowly trailing soap-slick hands further and further down Dean’s chest, he can’t picture wanting anything else.
And damn it, he’s taking full advantage of it while he can. Or at least, when they have time for it.
He groans low when Sam gives him a light squeeze, just a teasing touch that gets his cock twitching in interest. “Sam. Sammy. Only, Christ, only fifteen minutes. Can’t-”
The next squeeze is harder and accompanied by a firm stroke. “Can.” Sam’s licking water drops off Dean’s neck, up and up until he can latch onto Dean’s earlobe with a sharp nip. “Can and will.”
Sam starts stroking in earnest, hips moving in rhythm, his own erection riding the crack of Dean’s ass. Dean tenses slightly-he’s never trusted anyone that much before-then Sam give a little twist of his wrist, flicks his thumb over the slit, and all reservations are forgotten. Dean throws his head back onto Sam’s shoulder, letting loose a sinful moan in the process. Lifts his arms, reaches back and sinks his fingers into his brother’s soaking curls.
“You’re beautiful like this, Dean.” The fingers of Sam’s free hand now dig deep into Dean’s hip, leaving oval bruises and halting any attempt Dean makes to fuck into that fist. Sam’s breathing is becoming labored, hot and heavy against Dean’s throat, and his thrusts and strokes more frantic. “So beautiful when you lose control. So goddamn perfect.”
Dean’s going to come embarrassingly quickly, but if the stuttering motion against him is any indication, Sam might actually beat him to it. He clenches his hands in Sam’s hair, tight enough to pull strands loose, desperate to ground himself or maybe just stay upright as his knees go weak beneath him, and suddenly Sam’s teeth sick deep into the back of his neck. “Fuck!” That’s all she wrote, and Dean’s coming hard over Sam’s fist, only peripherally aware of the sticky mess being rinsed off his back.
Sam steadies himself first, planting gentle kisses over the wound on Dean’s neck. “I think I broke skin that time.”
“Bitch, if I’m bleeding-” Sam cuts him off by flipping him around and kissing him breathless.
*****
They dress quickly, and Sam heads out to help John by the cars. Dean goes back to the guest room.
Bobby’s body is still lying crumpled on the ground, and Dean passes by without a glance downward. He steps slowly to where Jo’s dangling. She’s pale from blood loss, skin waxy and breath coming in brief, sticky gasps. He had read up on crucifixion once, morbid curiosity winning over, and he remembers how the cause of death is actually slow suffocation over days. Being strung up like Jo is has to be similar, right?
Her eyes flutter open as he approaches, and the disgust and hatred still tainting them drives it all home. This isn’t his Jo. This isn’t the same girl who helped him and Sam deal with losing their dad, the same girl who fostered an obvious schoolgirl crush on him since they first met at gunpoint in her mother’s bar. This Jo has only known them as killers. This Jo tried to kill him. Kill Sammy. She tried to hurt his family.
A couple knives still lie near her toes, and he makes a deliberate show of picking one up. “Now or later, Jo?” Not his Jo. Not her.
She coughs, a thin dribble of blood leaks past her lips. “What?” Her voice is broken, strained from screaming and pain.
“Now,” he twirls the knife in his hand, letting it catch the light. “Or later?”
Jo catches on, ducks her head. “Winchesters” gasp “don’t do” wheeze “mercy.”
“Maybe today’s your lucky day.”
“…now.”
It’s not his Jo.
When he joins Sam and John out by the car, his father’s face breaks into a knowing grin and his brother is practically beaming with pride.
Dean wipes a hand over his face and realizes he got blood on the cuff of his jacket.
*****
When John had said they’d just hop over state lines, he hadn’t been kidding. Two hours later, they’ve crossed into Nebraska, and instead of being zonked out like two hours in the passenger seat usually makes him (and subsequently back in the oth- rea- other world), Dean’s wide awake with the worst case of blue balls he’s had in the history of ever.
“Goddamn it, Sam,” and if anyone ever asks, Dean Winchester does not whimper. “Either finish the job or lay off, because there’s no way I’m walking into the roadhouse with a tent in my pants.”
Sam’s been teasing for the last fifty miles, one hand resting on the wheel and the other skipping and rubbing and squeezing around the zipper of Dean’s jeans, getting Dean worked up just short of the point of no return and then suddenly needing both hands to steer. It’s infuriating and frustrating, and Dean’s this close to demanding Sam pulls the car over so he can haul his little brother out by his shirt collar and fuck him over the hood of the car, onlookers be damned. Hell, it would serve the peeping toms right if he and Sam decided to reward their rubbernecking with a few well-aimed knife jabs to the-
Fuck, where did that thought come from?
Sam chuckles. “Like to see you walk in if I make you come in your pants like some horny sixteen year old.” Dean glares, and Sam laughs again. “Alright, I’ll stop. Just trying to get you worked up for the big finish. I’m sure once we’re done, there’ll be a pool table or bar top we can put to good use.” And yeah, much better thoughts now.
Dean somehow manages to get himself calm and centered before they’re pulling into the familiar parking lot, and just as he’d predicted, the place was swarming with cars of every sort. The combined growls of both the Impala’s and the truck’s engines are as much a warning as they could possibly give, and Dean can only imagine the mass of hunters clamoring for weapons inside.
Sam’s rolling down the window, John standing just outside and peering in. “Looks like they’re making this easy for us, boys. Everyone in one place. Could just raze it to the ground and be done with them.” He gives them each a look, yellow eyes glittering with amusement. “Nah, no fun in that. Come on. Let’s go say howdy.”
*****
Opening the door is the easy part. Who needs lockpicks when you have a little brother who can give a flick of his wrist and rip the frame out of the wall? It’s getting in that’s difficult. The moment the door flies off the porch, the entryway explodes with gunfire. Windows are shot out as hunters take aim from inside the roadhouse, and only well-timed dives in opposite directions save them all from getting winged. As Dean ducks behind a nearby car, he grabs his father’s wrist and pulls him down with him.
“Aw, Dean-o. You do care.”
“Shut up. I’m not letting you get my father’s body all shot to hell.” The demon laughs, hard and short, and it’s so like his father’s rare own that Dean can almost pretend. Almost. “Sammy, you okay over there?”
“Peachy.” Sam’s hiding behind a car on the other side of the lot, yelling over the sounds of guns firing, glass shattering, and bullets hitting their automotive shields. “Are we having fun yet?”
Dean laughs. What? It’s cliché but still funny. “Yeah, thrills a minute, man. Any smart ideas, college boy?”
“Maybe.” A large pickup nearby starts shaking on its tires, metal groaning under psychic pressure, but goes still after a few seconds. “Or not.”
John smirks. “Easy there, champ. Leave this one to the big kids.” Those yellow eyes squint and the truck lifts clean off the ground, no muss, no fuss. There’s screaming from inside-fuck, run!-as the pickup rolls through the wall like a missile through gauze. Dust and wood flies everywhere, and the three of them use it as welcome cover to stroll in.
There’s at least four men pinned beneath the truck, dead or dying Dean doesn’t know, and a handful of others are staggering to their feet, reaching for dropped weapons. Sam leans close to Dean’s side. “Think I could pick up the spare?” One by one, the remaining hunters go flying through the air, held fast to the walls or ceiling indiscriminately, and Dean purses his lips, impressed. Baby brother’s got control down.
Only Ellen remains standing on her own two feet, eyes steely and jaw clenched. Every man in the building is looking at them in sheer abject terror, and here’s Ellen with a stare that threatens to freeze Hell itself. Dean’s got to give it to the old girl.
“I was wondering when you three would show up here.” She doesn’t even flinch when John stalks toward her. Sam circles around behind her, hazel eyes still squinting in concentration, and Dean leans back against the wall, arms and ankles crossed in front of him. He’s almost scared of how easy it is to fall into this role, but what’s he gonna do, right?
John stops just inches from her face, licks over his teeth before giving a small grin. “Sorry for the delay, Ellen. My boys wanted a little time to get to know that daughter of yours. She is cute.”
Ellen’s face falls immediately. “Where is she?” She has the tone that only terrified mothers are capable of.
“Gone, I’m afraid. Dean got a little overzealous there at the end.”
It’s amazing how quickly grief can morph into seething fury, and if looks could kill, Ellen’s glare would have wiped out the whole family. “You son of a-” She doesn’t finish because the demon waves his hand, and Sam has to step aside as Ellen hurtles past him to slam into a wall of her very own.
“Language. My boys are rather impressionable, after all.”
“Fuck you.” Her voice is tight, a combination of pain and heartache.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” His expression turns absolutely lecherous. “Work out some of that good old sexual tension we’ve got going on?”
Ellen shakes, either from rage or anguish or maybe both. “There’s no ‘we.’ You’re not John.”
“Oh, yes I am. Well, all that’s left of him anyway. Johnny Boy kinda decided to take a permanent vacation the first time we walked in on our boys fucking like rabbits.” He shrugs, gives both of them a look. “Call it the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Dean feels every set of eyes in the place fall on him and Sam, and amazingly realizes that he just doesn’t give a shit. One glance at the look on his brother’s face, and he can tell Sam’s reveling in the attention, eyes shining and that glorious Cheshire grin breaking on his face. There’s something about what the Demon said that’s tickling the back of his mind, something wrong, but it can’t really matter that much if Sam has that joyous look on his face. His Sammy, who gave up himself to keep Dean alive. To keep Dean. Nothing can be wrong while Sam is happy.
He pushes off the wall, intent on really giving Sam a reason to smile, but a glint of something out of the corner of his eye stops him dead. Light reflecting off of something he wouldn’t have noticed without that quick change of position. Sam doesn’t seem to have noticed it and John looks a little preoccupied, but the poor bastard on the wall to Sam’s right makes the mistake of shifting his eyes in the direction of the bar. And Dean knows. Someone’s hiding, waiting for their chance.
In one smooth move, Dean pulls loose the knife from his belt and rushes across the floor. He’s vaulting the bartop just as a mop of hair pops up, and Dean only registers the shotgun trained on Sam before a red haze clouds his vision. No one’s going to hurt his brother. Quick images flash through the haze-the shotgun dropping as the knife slashes tendons, meager light reflecting off a watch face, chunks of long hair dangling in his fist-and before he knows it, Dean’s kneeling over a limp body on the ground and Sam’s laughing and tugging him up by the back of his jacket collar. “Dean, I think you got him.”
Dean snarls and whips around, grabs handfuls of Sam’s shirt and crashes into his brother’s lips. He surges into the kiss, not surprised when Sam collides with the back of the bar, and they only break apart when oxygen becomes an issue. “He tried to hurt you. They all did. They’re not so much as touching you, damn it.”
Sam laughs again, but it’s more a breathless chuckle than anything. “Possessive much?”
“Damn straight.”
Sam lets out a little sigh. "So damn beautiful. But what about…” and he trails off, vaguely motioning behind him at the people adorning the walls.
It’s John’s turn to chuckle. “Leave them all to me. You two have fun.” He gives a knowing wink, yellow blinking out for only a split second. “There’s a pool table in the back.”
*****
They’re just getting to the good part when the mayhem around them finally stops. Dean takes two seconds to look out at corpses littering the floor, gives John a conciliatory wave of thanks, then concentrates on making Sam scream twice as loudly to make up for the silence.
*****
“What are you thinking about?” They’re back on the road, heading for home, and Dean knows he must have the goofiest grin in the world on his face. It only makes sense that Sam would ask him that.
“You,” he says honestly. “How happy you are, despite the evil thing. We’ve got a place to come home to, you’re doing your whole Donna Reed impersonation, the whole family’s together…and there’s us.”
“Not too bad a life, huh?”
“No, it really isn’t.” Dean crosses his arms, sprawls a little in the passenger seat and yawns. Not too bad at all.
To Fourth Limb
Chapter Rating: R
Chapter Word Count: 3356
All warnings in Main Post
Back to Second Limb
Turns out this Sam is the evil equivalent of Martha Stewart, able to psychically launch people across the room and then prepare a homemade breakfast without breaking a sweat. Fresh batter, waffle iron and everything. Grotesquely domestic. Dean expects to see a pink frilly apron at any moment.
Oh wait, there it is. God, it even says, “Kiss the Cook.”
Dean can’t remember throwing on his clothes, ripped shirt and all, being herded into the kitchen, or sitting down at the small wooden table. His mind is on a constant feedback loop, playing Bobby’s death over and over again. His old friend’s blood is soaking into the floorboards in the other room, and here Dean sits, about to eat breakfast with, fuck, raspberry syrup. And it has to be the mother of all cosmic jokes that the waffles smell fantastic.
Sam carries a plate stacked high with steaming hot waffles to the table and places it in front of Dean. He takes a tiny step back, crosses his arms over his chest. “Dude, what’s wrong?”
“Huh?” Dean’s always been eloquent.
“You look like someone stole your favorite Glock. I made waffles, and you’re not shoving them into your face yet. I even wore this ridiculous apron because it always makes you laugh, and you haven’t taken advantage of the joke once.”
Well, at least the apron’s not a normal thing. “I’m just not feeling so hot, I guess.”
“Is this about Bobby?” Dean’s heart lifts just a little. Maybe Sam remembers all the trips to Bobby’s yard, training exercises between the stacks of cars, sneaks of whiskey from the flask when Dad wasn’t looking. Because if Sam remembers, then Dean won’t have to mourn alo- “Because I didn’t know he had gotten up either until that bitch started screaming. We all slip up sometime, but you still got him. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Yeah, thanks Sam. I feel so much better.” Sarcasm’s practically dripping off Dean’s tongue, but Sam just beams at him and heads back to the waffle iron.
A door slams down the hall, and John strides into the kitchen. “Waffles? Someone did good this morning, I gather?” Dean feels those yellow eyes fall on him, but he resolutely refuses to meet them. “Well, eat up, boys. Hope you got at least some rest last night. We’ve got unfinished business to take care of, and we’ll have to hit the road soon.”
Sam plops down at the table, his own plate of food in front of him. “Where to?” He starts drowning the waffles in syrup, and Dean watches red just bleed all over his brother’s plate, reminds himself repeatedly that it’s just the sauce.
John grabs a mug by the sink and pours himself some coffee from the pot nearby. Despite himself, Dean almost starts to chuckle at the normality of it all. Ignore the yellow eyes and various bloodstains across their clothing, and they’ve got the white picket fence, apple pie family breakfast going on here. Just a father with his two sons enjoying the most important meal of the day. Where’s Norman Rockwell when you need him?
John dumps half a bowl of sugar into his mug before continuing. “Gotta say, I’m a little nervous about dear, sweet Ellen running around out there. A girl could get hurt, all by her lonesome like that. Figured we’d hop across state lines, pay her a visit, make sure she can handle that roadhouse by herself now that her little girl’s up and left her.” Dean gets a glimpse of a twisted smile before it’s hidden by the mug.
The words are out before Dean even realizes he’s opened his mouth. “Place’ll probably be full with other hunters.”
Sam’s laugh doesn’t startle him, which in itself should be a statement of the situation. “Nothing we can’t handle.” Sam takes a huge bite from his waffles, extra syrup clinging to the corner of his mouth, threatening to slip down his chin. He catches Dean watching, cocks an eyebrow in a way that’s both an invitation and a challenge.
In a flash, Dean’s mind runs rampant with scenarios, none of which he would have imagined before all of this started. He thinks about reaching up to Sam’s mouth, smearing that sticky mess across his brother’s lips, then pushing his thumb inside to make Sam suck off the rest. He imagines forgoing fingers all together, just leaning over to lick Sam’s mouth clean, delving deep until he can’t taste raspberries on Sam’s tongue anymore.
Apparently his body thinks that last scenario is the way to go, because he’s already halfway across the table. Dean gets there just as Sam swallows, then there’s liquid sweetness exploding across his tongue. Dean slides a hand behind Sam’s head while he licks and laps and plunges inside to chase away any flavor that isn’t Sam, and his brother does nothing to stop him.
They’re both breathless when Dean pulls back, Sam’s eyes dark, heavy-lidded, and wanting. Wanting Dean. A look like that could drive a man insane. “You know, I took off the apron.”
Dean grabs a fist full of curls, yanking sharply to tilt Sam’s head back. “Fuck the apron.”
“Boys.” It’s the vocal version of getting a hose turned on them. Dean looks over his shoulder and finds he has the strength to meet those yellow eyes head on. John’s smirking, an expression so alien on a face accustomed to scowls and frowns. “You’ve got thirty minutes, then we’re leaving.”
*****
Dean feels more awake now than he did back at...back before. Of course, the hot shower is helping. Actually, it’s probably more Sam slinking in behind him with a “we’ll save time this way” that’s making the difference. Yeah, definitely that.
He could have never imagined wanting this until he had it, until it was given to him wrapped in a freaking red bow. But with Sam pressed hot and wet against his back, slowly trailing soap-slick hands further and further down Dean’s chest, he can’t picture wanting anything else.
And damn it, he’s taking full advantage of it while he can. Or at least, when they have time for it.
He groans low when Sam gives him a light squeeze, just a teasing touch that gets his cock twitching in interest. “Sam. Sammy. Only, Christ, only fifteen minutes. Can’t-”
The next squeeze is harder and accompanied by a firm stroke. “Can.” Sam’s licking water drops off Dean’s neck, up and up until he can latch onto Dean’s earlobe with a sharp nip. “Can and will.”
Sam starts stroking in earnest, hips moving in rhythm, his own erection riding the crack of Dean’s ass. Dean tenses slightly-he’s never trusted anyone that much before-then Sam give a little twist of his wrist, flicks his thumb over the slit, and all reservations are forgotten. Dean throws his head back onto Sam’s shoulder, letting loose a sinful moan in the process. Lifts his arms, reaches back and sinks his fingers into his brother’s soaking curls.
“You’re beautiful like this, Dean.” The fingers of Sam’s free hand now dig deep into Dean’s hip, leaving oval bruises and halting any attempt Dean makes to fuck into that fist. Sam’s breathing is becoming labored, hot and heavy against Dean’s throat, and his thrusts and strokes more frantic. “So beautiful when you lose control. So goddamn perfect.”
Dean’s going to come embarrassingly quickly, but if the stuttering motion against him is any indication, Sam might actually beat him to it. He clenches his hands in Sam’s hair, tight enough to pull strands loose, desperate to ground himself or maybe just stay upright as his knees go weak beneath him, and suddenly Sam’s teeth sick deep into the back of his neck. “Fuck!” That’s all she wrote, and Dean’s coming hard over Sam’s fist, only peripherally aware of the sticky mess being rinsed off his back.
Sam steadies himself first, planting gentle kisses over the wound on Dean’s neck. “I think I broke skin that time.”
“Bitch, if I’m bleeding-” Sam cuts him off by flipping him around and kissing him breathless.
*****
They dress quickly, and Sam heads out to help John by the cars. Dean goes back to the guest room.
Bobby’s body is still lying crumpled on the ground, and Dean passes by without a glance downward. He steps slowly to where Jo’s dangling. She’s pale from blood loss, skin waxy and breath coming in brief, sticky gasps. He had read up on crucifixion once, morbid curiosity winning over, and he remembers how the cause of death is actually slow suffocation over days. Being strung up like Jo is has to be similar, right?
Her eyes flutter open as he approaches, and the disgust and hatred still tainting them drives it all home. This isn’t his Jo. This isn’t the same girl who helped him and Sam deal with losing their dad, the same girl who fostered an obvious schoolgirl crush on him since they first met at gunpoint in her mother’s bar. This Jo has only known them as killers. This Jo tried to kill him. Kill Sammy. She tried to hurt his family.
A couple knives still lie near her toes, and he makes a deliberate show of picking one up. “Now or later, Jo?” Not his Jo. Not her.
She coughs, a thin dribble of blood leaks past her lips. “What?” Her voice is broken, strained from screaming and pain.
“Now,” he twirls the knife in his hand, letting it catch the light. “Or later?”
Jo catches on, ducks her head. “Winchesters” gasp “don’t do” wheeze “mercy.”
“Maybe today’s your lucky day.”
“…now.”
It’s not his Jo.
When he joins Sam and John out by the car, his father’s face breaks into a knowing grin and his brother is practically beaming with pride.
Dean wipes a hand over his face and realizes he got blood on the cuff of his jacket.
*****
When John had said they’d just hop over state lines, he hadn’t been kidding. Two hours later, they’ve crossed into Nebraska, and instead of being zonked out like two hours in the passenger seat usually makes him (and subsequently back in the oth- rea- other world), Dean’s wide awake with the worst case of blue balls he’s had in the history of ever.
“Goddamn it, Sam,” and if anyone ever asks, Dean Winchester does not whimper. “Either finish the job or lay off, because there’s no way I’m walking into the roadhouse with a tent in my pants.”
Sam’s been teasing for the last fifty miles, one hand resting on the wheel and the other skipping and rubbing and squeezing around the zipper of Dean’s jeans, getting Dean worked up just short of the point of no return and then suddenly needing both hands to steer. It’s infuriating and frustrating, and Dean’s this close to demanding Sam pulls the car over so he can haul his little brother out by his shirt collar and fuck him over the hood of the car, onlookers be damned. Hell, it would serve the peeping toms right if he and Sam decided to reward their rubbernecking with a few well-aimed knife jabs to the-
Fuck, where did that thought come from?
Sam chuckles. “Like to see you walk in if I make you come in your pants like some horny sixteen year old.” Dean glares, and Sam laughs again. “Alright, I’ll stop. Just trying to get you worked up for the big finish. I’m sure once we’re done, there’ll be a pool table or bar top we can put to good use.” And yeah, much better thoughts now.
Dean somehow manages to get himself calm and centered before they’re pulling into the familiar parking lot, and just as he’d predicted, the place was swarming with cars of every sort. The combined growls of both the Impala’s and the truck’s engines are as much a warning as they could possibly give, and Dean can only imagine the mass of hunters clamoring for weapons inside.
Sam’s rolling down the window, John standing just outside and peering in. “Looks like they’re making this easy for us, boys. Everyone in one place. Could just raze it to the ground and be done with them.” He gives them each a look, yellow eyes glittering with amusement. “Nah, no fun in that. Come on. Let’s go say howdy.”
*****
Opening the door is the easy part. Who needs lockpicks when you have a little brother who can give a flick of his wrist and rip the frame out of the wall? It’s getting in that’s difficult. The moment the door flies off the porch, the entryway explodes with gunfire. Windows are shot out as hunters take aim from inside the roadhouse, and only well-timed dives in opposite directions save them all from getting winged. As Dean ducks behind a nearby car, he grabs his father’s wrist and pulls him down with him.
“Aw, Dean-o. You do care.”
“Shut up. I’m not letting you get my father’s body all shot to hell.” The demon laughs, hard and short, and it’s so like his father’s rare own that Dean can almost pretend. Almost. “Sammy, you okay over there?”
“Peachy.” Sam’s hiding behind a car on the other side of the lot, yelling over the sounds of guns firing, glass shattering, and bullets hitting their automotive shields. “Are we having fun yet?”
Dean laughs. What? It’s cliché but still funny. “Yeah, thrills a minute, man. Any smart ideas, college boy?”
“Maybe.” A large pickup nearby starts shaking on its tires, metal groaning under psychic pressure, but goes still after a few seconds. “Or not.”
John smirks. “Easy there, champ. Leave this one to the big kids.” Those yellow eyes squint and the truck lifts clean off the ground, no muss, no fuss. There’s screaming from inside-fuck, run!-as the pickup rolls through the wall like a missile through gauze. Dust and wood flies everywhere, and the three of them use it as welcome cover to stroll in.
There’s at least four men pinned beneath the truck, dead or dying Dean doesn’t know, and a handful of others are staggering to their feet, reaching for dropped weapons. Sam leans close to Dean’s side. “Think I could pick up the spare?” One by one, the remaining hunters go flying through the air, held fast to the walls or ceiling indiscriminately, and Dean purses his lips, impressed. Baby brother’s got control down.
Only Ellen remains standing on her own two feet, eyes steely and jaw clenched. Every man in the building is looking at them in sheer abject terror, and here’s Ellen with a stare that threatens to freeze Hell itself. Dean’s got to give it to the old girl.
“I was wondering when you three would show up here.” She doesn’t even flinch when John stalks toward her. Sam circles around behind her, hazel eyes still squinting in concentration, and Dean leans back against the wall, arms and ankles crossed in front of him. He’s almost scared of how easy it is to fall into this role, but what’s he gonna do, right?
John stops just inches from her face, licks over his teeth before giving a small grin. “Sorry for the delay, Ellen. My boys wanted a little time to get to know that daughter of yours. She is cute.”
Ellen’s face falls immediately. “Where is she?” She has the tone that only terrified mothers are capable of.
“Gone, I’m afraid. Dean got a little overzealous there at the end.”
It’s amazing how quickly grief can morph into seething fury, and if looks could kill, Ellen’s glare would have wiped out the whole family. “You son of a-” She doesn’t finish because the demon waves his hand, and Sam has to step aside as Ellen hurtles past him to slam into a wall of her very own.
“Language. My boys are rather impressionable, after all.”
“Fuck you.” Her voice is tight, a combination of pain and heartache.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” His expression turns absolutely lecherous. “Work out some of that good old sexual tension we’ve got going on?”
Ellen shakes, either from rage or anguish or maybe both. “There’s no ‘we.’ You’re not John.”
“Oh, yes I am. Well, all that’s left of him anyway. Johnny Boy kinda decided to take a permanent vacation the first time we walked in on our boys fucking like rabbits.” He shrugs, gives both of them a look. “Call it the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Dean feels every set of eyes in the place fall on him and Sam, and amazingly realizes that he just doesn’t give a shit. One glance at the look on his brother’s face, and he can tell Sam’s reveling in the attention, eyes shining and that glorious Cheshire grin breaking on his face. There’s something about what the Demon said that’s tickling the back of his mind, something wrong, but it can’t really matter that much if Sam has that joyous look on his face. His Sammy, who gave up himself to keep Dean alive. To keep Dean. Nothing can be wrong while Sam is happy.
He pushes off the wall, intent on really giving Sam a reason to smile, but a glint of something out of the corner of his eye stops him dead. Light reflecting off of something he wouldn’t have noticed without that quick change of position. Sam doesn’t seem to have noticed it and John looks a little preoccupied, but the poor bastard on the wall to Sam’s right makes the mistake of shifting his eyes in the direction of the bar. And Dean knows. Someone’s hiding, waiting for their chance.
In one smooth move, Dean pulls loose the knife from his belt and rushes across the floor. He’s vaulting the bartop just as a mop of hair pops up, and Dean only registers the shotgun trained on Sam before a red haze clouds his vision. No one’s going to hurt his brother. Quick images flash through the haze-the shotgun dropping as the knife slashes tendons, meager light reflecting off a watch face, chunks of long hair dangling in his fist-and before he knows it, Dean’s kneeling over a limp body on the ground and Sam’s laughing and tugging him up by the back of his jacket collar. “Dean, I think you got him.”
Dean snarls and whips around, grabs handfuls of Sam’s shirt and crashes into his brother’s lips. He surges into the kiss, not surprised when Sam collides with the back of the bar, and they only break apart when oxygen becomes an issue. “He tried to hurt you. They all did. They’re not so much as touching you, damn it.”
Sam laughs again, but it’s more a breathless chuckle than anything. “Possessive much?”
“Damn straight.”
Sam lets out a little sigh. "So damn beautiful. But what about…” and he trails off, vaguely motioning behind him at the people adorning the walls.
It’s John’s turn to chuckle. “Leave them all to me. You two have fun.” He gives a knowing wink, yellow blinking out for only a split second. “There’s a pool table in the back.”
*****
They’re just getting to the good part when the mayhem around them finally stops. Dean takes two seconds to look out at corpses littering the floor, gives John a conciliatory wave of thanks, then concentrates on making Sam scream twice as loudly to make up for the silence.
*****
“What are you thinking about?” They’re back on the road, heading for home, and Dean knows he must have the goofiest grin in the world on his face. It only makes sense that Sam would ask him that.
“You,” he says honestly. “How happy you are, despite the evil thing. We’ve got a place to come home to, you’re doing your whole Donna Reed impersonation, the whole family’s together…and there’s us.”
“Not too bad a life, huh?”
“No, it really isn’t.” Dean crosses his arms, sprawls a little in the passenger seat and yawns. Not too bad at all.
To Fourth Limb