Work Text:
August 2002
The minute the door slammed shut on his youngest son, John had regretted his words. Telling Sam to stay gone was like a dare—and now Sam was half a continent away and vulnerable. The damn demon was sure to find him there, and Sam would be unprepared. Unprotected.
John doesn’t care what Bobby thinks. This is the only way. The only way to make sure that Sam is safe. John huffs and stares at the bowl set in the ritual circle in front of him. It’s full of herbs and Sam’s hair, pulled from the brush he’d left behind with half his things when he’d stormed out.
Witchcraft. Fucking witchcraft. He hates the stuff, but in this case it’s a necessary evil. He unsheathes the dagger at his belt and turns its blade into the flesh of his arm. It’s quick to draw blood, and he watches as the crimson drops fall into the bowl one, two, three times. Just as the third drop hits a clump of Sam’s hair, there’s a flash of light.
He blinks, momentarily blinded. Huh. Was that supposed to happen?
He rubs his eyes until his vision clears and then pages through the spell book laid out nearby. Nothing about a flash, but that probably just means it’s working. He’d call Bobby and ask for his opinion if he could, but the crotchety bastard ran him off his property with a shotgun. He may not have agreed with John’s decision, but that didn’t mean he had a right to tell him what to do concerning Sam.
No matter how much time they’ve spent with Bobby over the years, Sam and Dean are his sons.
Convinced that the ritual will work, flash or no flash, John says the words that will allow Sam to escape hunting and have a normal life. Without him and without Dean. And Dean will be better off, too—you can’t miss a brother you don’t remember having. He lights a match and drops it in the ritual bowl. The fire flares up quick and is gone in an instant, and John stares down at the curling smoke as it rises off the mess of herbs and hair and blood.
Once the demon’s dead, John will undo it. He’ll put it back the way it was.
**********
June 2006
Sam walks away from the stadium, black gown flapping in the breeze and square cap in hand. He looks around him at all the happy families and thinks, not for the first time, that it sucks being alone. Everyone around him is hugging and snapping a last few pictures before piling into their cars, probably heading somewhere to celebrate. Sam plans on walking back to his small rental house and making some mac and cheese.
It’s downright depressing is what it is, but it’s a beautiful day, and, once he’s clear of the stadium parking lot, Sam enjoys the sun on his upturned face and the wind in his hair. His dad had always tried to force crew cuts on him, like he was a marine or something, right up until he died 4 years ago, but Sam likes to keep his hair long. He tugs at his bangs fretfully and then stares directly into the sun for a few seconds, just long enough for his eyes to burn. Thinking about his dad, even in passing, upsets him more than it should. It’s been years, and his heart still feels bruised.
So, instead of dwelling on what he doesn’t and can’t have, Sam allows his thoughts to skitter away to other things: what he’ll do now that he’s graduated, now that it’s summer, now that his lease is up in 3 months…
He’s walked across campus and through Cameron Park, and is just turning the corner onto his street when he hears a chime. He flips up the bottom of his graduation gown and digs into the back pocket of his jeans for his phone.
---
From: Jess
To: Sam
almost @ La Strada. sure u dont want 2 come?
---
Sam smiles at the message and flips open his phone so he can thumb in a quick reply.
---
From: Sam
To: Jess
no thnx. have fun! mac & cheese + star wars marathon 2nite :)
---
Sam stuffs his phone back in his pocket and takes the last block home at a stride. Thinking about food is making him hungry—too bad he won’t be having any fine Italian cuisine tonight. Jess had invited him to a graduation dinner with her family at La Strada, but Sam didn’t want to intrude. No matter how close he and Jess still were, her father had never forgiven him for dumping his beautiful, perfect little girl.
And Sam can’t blame him. He and Jess had been happy together, and Sam was perfect son-in-law material: a pre-law student with good grades at one of the best schools in the country. He was on the fast track to success, and, after just a year and a half, Jess’ mom had been looking at flower arrangements because everyone was expecting him to pop the question at any moment.
Then after a crazy, reckless night with a guy from his Ancient Cultures class, Sam realized what he’d been missing with Jess. He loved her, God how he loved her, but he hadn’t been in love with her.
So he’d come clean—he’d even told her what had happened with the guy in his class. And, after a few months of frosty silence, she’d forgiven him. Somehow. Things had been rocky for a while, but Jess eventually started dating again and they were back on solid ground. Jess was important to him. The most important person in his life, actually, but that didn’t mean that Sam was prepared to make stilted conversation with her mother and father in a crowded restaurant for two hours.
He banishes thoughts of Jess’ parents as he walks up the path to his house, the only one on his street with pink siding, and fumbles in his pockets for his keys. He can hear Bones, his 2-year-old golden retriever, scratching on the other side of the door, and he struggles to get the key in at the right angle. The lock still sticks despite a judicious application of WD-40, and he’s about to give up when the key hits just right and turns smoothly. “Finally!” He gives a celebratory hip thrust and then heads inside, where Bones jumps up to greet him.
“Whoa, boy! Down. Down!” He slams the door shut behind him and toes off his sneakers, then flings his graduation cap like a Frisbee. It soars over the sectional that takes up most of his small living room and hits the cheap blinds on the far window. Bones is in hot pursuit, and, just after the cap lands with a thud on the carpet, he pounces. If Sam was the kind of guy who kept souvenirs and mementos, he might be annoyed, but as it is he could care less if Bones wants to use the cap as a chew toy.
“To the victor go the spoils,” he mutters, then turns and throws the lock on the front door and starts emptying his pockets onto the small folding table he has set up between the entryway and the kitchenette. The graduation gown is making a nuisance of itself again, though, so he starts to pull it off, but the diaphanous thing tangles up under his arms and then catches over his head. He’s still tugging on it when he feels Bones brush up against his leg.
“Hey, boy,” he says, and drops one hand to Bones’ head while he continues to struggle with his graduation gown. Bones gives a faint woof! when he finally breaks free and throws the offending garment over the back of the couch, and Sam gives him a quick scratch behind the ears. “You ready for dinner?” he asks, and Bones dashes past him into the kitchenette, where he’s sure to be waiting by his food bowl when Sam gets there. “I guess that’s a yes,” he says, smiling fondly, and follows him in.
**********
July 2006
It’s happening again. Sam feels himself being pulled out of his normal dream, one where he’s waterskiing without skis, and into something else.
Every time it happens, it’s like he’s been underwater and is only now breaking the surface—things are clearer than they are in dreams, more real, and that makes them all the more terrifying. He always sees things through the eyes of a man, and usually with him is his son, an attractive young man he calls Dean. Sam doesn’t know the man’s name—Dean only calls him “sir” and, in some emotionally fraught situations, “Dad.”
This time, Dean’s face is the first thing he sees. Sam is constantly amazed by how beautiful and strong he is, so much like his mother… he shakes himself mentally. As usual, he’s getting the man’s thoughts mixed up with his own. He tries to separate himself from what’s happening, but something isn’t right tonight. When he looks at Dean, he feels… strange. Instead of the love and pride that’s usually there, thrumming under all of man’s thoughts for his son, Sam senses something dark and alien. Something malevolent that he can’t get a real read from.
“Dean,” the man’s voice sounds. “Report, son.” Just as it has in the past, it feels like the words are coming out of Sam’s mouth without his control, but this time is different. It feels like someone is in here with him, another silent passenger.
Dean looks to him, his stunning green eyes clear and his expression guileless. “I’ve got a stack of information from the library to go through yet, sir. Did you find anything at the hospital?”
“Yes, I did,” he answers. Something is definitely wrong, and Sam could swear that he’s hearing another voice, one that’s muffled and indistinct, underneath the one that’s speaking through the man’s mouth. “Rose Holt, born 6 months ago to the day. She’s the target.”
Dean snaps to attention. “Well, shit, he must be just about to attack. What’s the plan?”
Sam is getting more and more worried, but there’s nothing he can do. He feels his mouth shape the words, “We’ve got to get there before Yellow Eyes shows up.”
Dean nods. “Do you want me to take the Colt, sir?”
“No, son. I’ve got a score to settle with that bastard, and I plan to do it myself.”
He pats the Colt, secure in a shoulder holster under his jacket, and then things seem to speed up. They’re in the car—the huge, rumbling thing that feels like home—and Sam knows that something terrible is going to happen. From the mostly indistinct words the other voice is saying in his head, he’s relatively certain that whatever’s controlling the man’s body is evil and has a trap set for Dean. Beautiful, strong Dean, who spends his life fighting against evil, is going to die, and Sam will be forced to watch.
It’s just a dream. A dream. In a few minutes, I’ll wake up and I’ll be back in Palo Alto, in my bed, and none of this will have happened. It’s not real. It’s not REAL! Dean isn’t real! Sam tries to will himself awake, but it doesn’t work. It never works. Two months ago, when Dean and the man had been captured by a scary woman with short, blonde hair, he’d been forced to watch the whole grisly scene: the way she’d tortured Dean in front of the man, too cocky to kill him right away, and then how the man had escaped his bonds and knocked over an altar. She’d been pulled out of the window by killer shadows, and the man had rushed to tend to Dean, who’d been practically incoherent with pain, his beautiful skin torn away from his left pectoral muscle in thin strips. There’s no reason to think things will change now—he’s stuck watching the whole thing unfold, whether he wants to or not.
The car slows as they pull up in front of a small, quaint house. It’s a dark night, clouds obscuring the moon and the stars, and the man kills the engine.
“Shouldn’t we have parked further down the street? Just in case –” Dean starts.
“No, that won’t matter,” the man interrupts. “Get the kit, son.”
Dean pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a thin leather case. The man watches him get out the passenger side door, then turns to hide a grin in his shoulder. “This is gonna be good,” he says to himself, “just you wait.” Then he’s getting out of the car. Dean stops at the trunk to get a duffle bag, and the man waits impatiently before following Dean up to the house.
Dean has the lock picks out of the kit and the front door open in less than a minute, and the man strides in past him. “You do a sweep of the downstairs. I’ll head right up,” he says, pointing to the stairwell in the entryway.
Dean nods his acquiescence and draws his gun before stepping carefully into what looks like the family room. The man grins as he watches him go. “Almost time, John,” he whispers. Sam thinks he’s talking to the other consciousness trapped in his body, and, sure enough, that’s when the real screaming starts. Inside the man’s—John’s?—head, is suddenly a cacophony of noise. The words still aren’t always clear, but Sam is hears words like “demon” and “hell” and “Dean.”
“Dean” is the word he hears the most, and as John’s body goes up the stairs, anticipation zinging through him, Sam feels like his head is going to burst. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to watch this!
John moves without hesitation down the hall and steps into what is clearly a nursery. The other passenger in his mind is railing—fighting with all his strength to take control of his body, but he gets nowhere.
When John approaches the crib, he’s so intent on the baby inside that he doesn’t notice the woman lying slumped in the rocking chair in the corner—he walks right past her. She doesn’t wake, but when he coos to the baby, dark, malicious glee bubbling up inside him, she stirs. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see her body tense, and then she takes a deep breath and Sam can tell that she’s just about to scream when he turns on her quickly and uses his outstretched hand to silence her. Her eyes bug out of her head and her lips move soundlessly, and Sam can feel satisfaction not his own course through him. It’s sickening—whatever the force is that he’s using, it’s pressing so deeply into her throat that Sam can see the indentations in her flesh.
“Shhh,” he whispers, then shakes John’s finger at her chidingly. “Wouldn’t want to wake the baby.”
Tears escape the woman’s eyes to run down her cheeks, and Sam has never been one for praying, but he doesn’t think it will hurt now, so he does, as hard as he can. Please, God, don’t let this be real. Please, God, don’t let this be real. God, oh God, if this is real, please just make it stop. Make it stop! Stop!
John seems to falter for a moment, and the captive woman sneaks a breath in around the invisible grip around her neck, her hands fluttering up towards her face like birds with broken wings, weak and directionless. Sam feels a surge of giddiness, but it’s short-lived.
“Nice try, John,” the thing wearing John’s body says around gritted teeth. And the woman is suddenly flying through the air. She hits the wall with a bang! and then starts to slide up it. It’s crazy and impossible, but in seconds she’s hitting the bend where the wall becomes ceiling, and then she’s looking down at him and at Rosie in her crib, her face frozen in terror.
Like Sam, she’s forced to watch, unable to even scream, as John leans over the crib and peers at her baby. “Hey, little Rosie,” he whispers, Cheshire-cat grin stretching across his face. The baby starts to fuss, unhappy to be awoken in the middle of the night, and John hovers close before setting his sharp thumbnail to the vein at his wrist. “There, there, Rosie, don’t cry. Are you thirsty? Because this here, what I’m about to give you? Is better than mother’s m–”
A shot rings out, loud and deafening, and John’s body staggers as he’s shot in the back. He barks out hoarsely, a sound full of pain, and is distracted for just long enough that the woman falls from the ceiling. She lands hard on the floor by the crib, and her arm snaps back, the crack of the bone audible.
“Damn you, Dean!” the thing in John’s body screams, and under that Sam hears Dean shout, “Get Rosie and get out! Go! Now!”
Even though she’s obviously in shock and in pain—her wrist bent at a strange angle—the woman grabs Rosie and tucks her against her body. The crib bursts into flame just as she gets clear of it, and the fire singes the ends of her hair. She doesn’t look back, just runs for the door with her baby in her arms, screaming a man’s name.
“No!” the demon shouts, and he’s stretching his hand out to stop her again when he’s shot in the chest this time. The fire in the crib behind him dies as he drops to the ground, and suddenly the other consciousness surges to the fore.
“Dean!” he says, and something in the tone of his voice brings Dean rushing forward, his shotgun loose in his grip.
“Dad!” He drops to his knees and grabs his shoulder, grips the fabric of his shirt tight in one fist. “Yellow Eyes?” he asks, and his vivid green eyes are searching John’s face, cataloguing every twitch and grimace.
“Yeah, but I’ve got him now, son.”
“Okay, then,” Dean reaches into the duffle he dropped by the door and pulls out a thick, leather-bound journal. “We’ll exorcise him now, and –”
“No, son. This is the end.” John pulls the Colt out of his waistband, and Dean’s eyes widen in fear.
“No – no, dad. You can’t!”
“Dean, I have to” he says, and Sam can feel the demon fighting for control again. He knows John can’t hold him off much longer, and so Sam fights, too, thinks he might be helping John hold him back. “This is my fight, and I’m finishing it.”
Tears are already flooding Dean’s eyes as he watches John set the barrel of the Colt against his temple. “Dad, dad I –” He chokes, unable to say anything at all in the face of what is happening.
“I love you, too, son,” John says. And then the strangest thing happens… he says Sam’s name. “Sam Remington. In Palo Alto. You find him, Dean, and you get to him as fast as you can, you hear?”
Dean’s brow furrows. “Sam? Who’s –”
Sam feels the demon surging up again, too strong to fight this time, and John must sense it, too, because he thumbs off the safety and says it one more time, “Sam Remington!” before pulling the trigger.
**********
When Sam wakes up, he’s sobbing. He turns his face into his pillow, smearing tears and snot on the soft cotton, and takes a number of great, hitching breaths before he can finally stop crying. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much to know that John is dead—after all, he’s not real.
And neither is Dean.
**********
Sam spends the next few days in a complete funk. Bones, who’s never been much of a cuddler, follows him around the house and climbs into his lap every chance he gets, so Sam knows that it’s pretty bad. He just didn’t realize how bad it is until Jess drops by unannounced and all he wants to do is close the door in her earnest face.
“Sam, you haven’t been answering any of my calls or texts!” she chides, and shoves past him and into his house with no regard for his personal space. Bones jumps up from the couch and runs to her, tail wagging.
“Aw, hey there, Bonesy,” she says. Bones rolls onto his back and begs for belly rubs, and Sam closes the door with a soft sigh.
“Are you starved for attention, or what?” Jess says to Bones, then looks up from where she’s crouched down to rub his belly, her blue eyes piercing. “So you want to tell me why you’ve been ignoring me? I know it’s not something I did, because I’m awesome, so something must be up with you.”
Sam shakes his head and walks past her so that he can flop back down on his couch and finish the episode of Top Chef he’d been in the middle of.
Jess grabs the remote before he can get to it and hit “Play.” She can be as swift as a ninja when she wants to be. “Nuh-uh,” she says, and holds the remote behind her back. “I’m keeping this until you tell me what’s up.”
She studies him for a moment, and Sam’s too tired and too depressed to even fight with her. He just leans his head back on the couch cushions and closes his eyes. “It’s nothing, Jess. Just… these dreams again.”
“Well, fuck,” she says. And then, “You told me they stopped!”
The remote bounces off the cushion right next to Sam’s head, and Bones lets out a quiet woof! before jumping up on the couch and cuddling up with him again.
Sam looks down at Bones’ head in his lap. “When I told you that, I thought they had, but then the other night… I had a really bad one.” He doesn’t want to get into it. Not now. “And, well, it seems like they’ll probably stop for good now.”
Jess sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch and lays a hand on his knee. Bones licks it, and she moves it to the top of his head. He settles.
“What happened, Sam? You don’t seem… I’m worried about you.”
He looks up at her, and really meets her eyes for the first time since she shoved her way inside. “Jess, I don’t think I can talk about it. At least, not yet.”
“Alright, then. Not yet, but you’ll let me know if you start thinking about doing anything crazy, right?”
“Right,” he says.
She stands up, runs a hand through his hair as she moves towards the kitchen. “Okay, well I’m going to see what you’ve got in your fridge. I’m thinking stir fry if you’ve still got those veggies we bought at the farmer’s market last week…”
********
After a full meal and a night just hanging out with Jess, Sam is feeling much better. They’d invented a drinking game that revolved around the number of shiny spots on Tom Colicchio’s bald head, and the both of them had been unable to stop laughing for about 2 hours straight. Sam is still grinning as he helps a very inebriated Jess into his bedroom, where he lays her out on his bed and covers her with the comforter. “Sleep it off, Moore. We can go for waffles in the morning.”
She mumbles and turns over onto her stomach. It sounds like she’s saying something about shining cue balls and bacon, and Sam laughs, still a bit giddy, and grabs one of the pillows before she can claim them both. He debates brushing his teeth, but decides against it—too damn tired—so he heads back out to the living room. Bones is curled up in his dog bed by the couch, already asleep, and Sam throws the pillow on one end of the giant sectional and undoes his belt. Thank God his couch is big enough to hold him, he thinks, not for the first time, and lets his jeans fall to the ground with a soft clank of his belt buckle. Bones lets out a little whimper and twitches in his sleep, and Sam smiles at him for a second before reaching for the light switch. He’s looking forward to a full night’s sleep, and, once he’s stretched out with a soft quilt and his pillow under his head, he’s slipping into unconsciousness in minutes.
********
It’s 6:05 am when someone pounds on the front door. Sam glares at the clock on his cable box and, determined to ignore whoever’s trying to wake him up, turns over and is asleep again in seconds.
It’s 6:10 am when he wakes to the sound of someone trying to pick the lock on the front door. The way he’s laying on the couch, his head is closest to the door, but he’d probably hear the racket from the other of the couch anyways, what with the way the lock sticks. His entire body tenses, and he’s about to roll off the couch into a defensive crouch, but he hears the lock catch and the door start to swing open. He stays put, hoping whoever is breaking into his house will walk right past him, and stares at Bones, still asleep in his dog bed. As long as Bones doesn’t wake up and make a target of himself… he holds his breath as the front door closes and a shadow moves across the floor in front of him.
The intruder doesn’t see him lying in the shadow of the couch, and he watches as the dark figure stalks past him, taking careful steps. But Sam’s got eyes on him now. He’s a tall, well-built man, and as he turns toward the hall that leads to the bedroom and bathroom, Sam rolls off the couch and lands on his feet silently, like a cat.
Still, the man starts to turn, like he sensed the movement in the air, and Sam takes his opening while he can. He steps in close and grabs up under the other man’s arms, keeping his hands out and away from whatever weapons he may have at his waist.
“Alright,” he whispers in his ear. “You’ve got 5 seconds to explain what the hell you’re doing, and then I’m –”
The man twists in his grip, and Sam barely has time to panic before he drops low and sweeps Sam’s feet out from under him. All Sam can manage is a small yelp as he falls. He lays there, stunned, and then he thinks about Jess, passed out in the bedroom, helpless. He takes in a shuddering breath, getting ready to shout, when the intruder reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder and another over his mouth.
“Sam?” he says, a low hiss, and Sam stops struggling. “Are you Sam Remington?”
Bones chooses this moment to join the fray, giving frantic half barks as he jumps at the man holding Sam down. The man swears and retreats. He tries to fend Bones off, but Bones gets a hold of his pants leg and starts shaking his head, growling low in his throat the whole while.
Sam jumps back to his feet and dives for his cell phone on the nearby coffee table. Better to call the police and avoid waking Jess, who would be walking into the middle of this, he thinks. He’s just punching in 911 when the overhead light comes on, momentarily blinding him.
“Sam?” he hears, and he clutches the cell phone tight.
“Jess!” he yelps. She’s standing in the hallway just off the living room in just her shirt and panties, and she looks bewildered. “Get –” Sam’s eyes flick to the intruder, still being shaken by a growling Bones, and his mouth gapes open. “Dean?!”
********
It takes a few minutes, but eventually Bones is calmed and Jess has retreated to Sam’s bedroom to find her pants. Sam and Dean sit on the couch, staring at each other with matching expressions of shock and confusion.
“Dude,” Dean starts, and Sam is caught up in the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes are the same shade of iridescent green as they’d been in his dreams.
Dean frowns and waves a hand in front of Sam’s face. “Dude, who are you?” Sam shrugs and Dean huffs in annoyance. “And how did you know my name? Did my dad –”
Sam flinches at the mention of Dean’s dad, and Dean notices, frowns deeper.
“Are you really –” Sam starts to say, but then Jess comes back, jeans on.
“So, what? You two know each other and this was all just some big misunderstanding?” She looks between the two of them, and Sam starts talking before he even knows what he’s going to say.
“Yeah, sorry, Jess. This is Dean. Dean, this is Jess.” He motions between them, and Dean gives a funny little wave in response. “He was… in my art history class last semester.”
Jess’ brow crinkles in confusion. “Wasn’t the guy in those dreams you’ve been having named Dean? That’s… weird.”
Dean’s gaze on him is burning hot. “Dreams, huh? You been dreaming about me, Sammy?” He nudges Sam’s side with his elbow in a playful way, but Sam can tell that there’s more to it than that. Dean is looking at him the way he looks at a problem. A problem that he might have to solve with his sawed-off shotgun.
Sam looks back at Jess, but watches Dean out of the corner of his eye, wary. “Yeah! Funny coincidence, huh? Anyways, he dropped by kind of early, and Bones freaked—sorry we woke you up.”
Jess squints at him. Her hair is a mess, the blonde curls a riot on her head, and Sam remembers what it was like to love her. To want to love her. And he feels sick lying to her, but something weird is going on here. Something dangerous. And he can’t let her get in the middle of it.
Dean seems reluctant to talk in front of her, too. “Yeah, so now that I’ve completely wrecked your morning, mind if I steal your man, here? We got some stuff to talk about, and I don’t want to keep you up. I was thinking the diner a couple blocks away?”
“Um… sure,” Sam says, “Jess, do you mind? I know we were planning to go for waffles, but Dean and I should catch up.”
Jess shrugs, “Yeah, whatever. I’ll just head home, get some more sleep.”
She seems okay with it, but Sam knows that he’s going to get the third degree later. “Oh, we’ll drop you off! Dean’s got a really sweet car.”
Dean grins. “Yeah, she’s a beauty, I –” he pauses, gives Sam a shrewd look, “I do a lot of the work on her myself. She’s a classic Chevy.”
Jess, not sensing the tension in the room, smiles wide and takes a few steps towards the window by the front door. “Sweet! Camaro? Impala?”
“She’s a ’67 Impala,” he answers. “And I parked her a little ways down the street. Didn’t remember the house number at first.”
Sam doubts that, given the way that Dean gained entrance to his home, but Jess doesn’t seem to find it odd. “Alright, Sam, get on some clothes, and let’s go. The sooner we’re out of here, the sooner I can be back in my own bed, sleeping this hangover away,” she says, letting the curtain fall back over the window.
“Yeah, no problem.” The way Dean’s watching him as he pulls on his jeans from last night, he has a feeling that he’s about to have a whole new set of problems.
**********
They sit across from each other in the booth, staring at each other instead of at the menus in both of their hands. Dean taps against the slick laminate of the menu. Sam itches a mosquito bite on his arm. It’s still before 7:00 am, and, except for Dean’s tapping and the hum of the fluorescent lights above them, it’s quiet.
They’re the only ones in the diner, so it’s not long before their waitress approaches. She’s attractive, but her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun and she looks exhausted, like she’s been working since midnight. Her nametag declares, “Hi, my name is Dora! Have a great day!”
“So, you boys decided, yet?” she asks. She taps her pencil against her notepad impatiently.
Sam, happy for the distraction, smiles up at her. “Yes, thank you, Dora,” he clears his throat, “First, coffee. And to eat I’d like a short stack with maple syrup, a side of bacon, and two eggs, scrambled.”
She writes his order out in her notepad, then turns to look at Dean. Her makeup is smeared under her eyes, Sam notices. Like she’s been rubbing at them, tired.
“Hey there, sweetie,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ll have a cup of joe and your slammin’ omelet with a side of sausage, a side of bacon, and a side of hashbrowns.”
She smiles a bit as she jots down his order. “It’ll be out in a few minutes. I’ll get you that coffee now.” Then she gives him a wink before turning to go, and Sam notices that her ass gives a little extra shimmy as she walks away.
“Nice,” he comments dryly.
“What?” Dean asks, all innocence. Then grins, “She was hot.”
“You don’t think you might have more important things to focus on right now?”
Dean’s smile drops, and Sam realizes that the genial mood was all an act. “Fuck yeah, I do. Like the fact that you know my name and what car I drive? Or the fact that you’ve apparently been dreaming about a guy named Dean? And let’s not forget that I had no idea who you were until a few days ago. You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Sam grimaces. “Yeah, that sounds like a good place to start.”
Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “Look, what all do you know about… the stuff I do? I mean, the things I… hunt?”
Sam’s feels like his eyes are about to bug out of his head. “Wait, you’re not going to tell me that all that shit was real? I mean, those were just dreams. And you… Your dad…”
Dean’s mouth pulls down. “What about my dad?”
Dora chooses that moment to return with their coffee, and Sam grabs the mug like a lifeline. She gives him a small frown and then slides the other mug in front of Dean, leaning forward much further than is strictly necessary. Dean’s eyes catch on her cleavage, and she gives a satisfied grin as she pulls back, pats her apron. “I’ll be back with your food when it’s ready.”
Dean nods and gives her a strained smile. “Thanks.”
She turns and heads back to the kitchen. Unless Sam is mistaken, she’s walking even more slowly this time, hips swaying temptingly. When he turns back to Dean, though, he finds Dean’s eyes on him, instead. “Uh… so, yeah…”
Dean stares back at him for a moment, then drops his gaze to his coffee. “So, what? You psychic or something?”
Sam swallows, looks down at his own coffee mug. “Not that I know of. I mean, these dreams started less than a year ago, and I don’t… I don’t dream about anyone else. Just you and… God, if that really did happen, I’m just… I’m sorry about your dad, Dean.”
Dean clears his throat. “You dreamed about what happened the other night?”
“Yeah, I… I saw what happened. And really… I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” Dean says, voice thick.
He doesn’t say anything else, so Sam continues haltingly. “I didn’t think – I mean, I didn’t know you were real. It was just so… and the demon… God, I can’t believe I’m even talking about this right now. Demons are real?”
Dean rubs at his face. “And ghosts, werewolves, and vampires,” he says. His hand drops and his eyes dart up to meet Sam’s, the green in them blazing. “Welcome to the Twilight Zone, Sammy.”
Sam’s heart skips a beat, and he tries to think of something to say other than you’re gorgeous or I hardly know you, but I can’t stand seeing you in pain. “Don’t call me that,” he finally chokes out. “It’s Sam.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Get over it. Anyways, I think we have ‘more important things to focus on right now,’ don’t you?”
Sam glares at him, no real anger behind the expression, and Dean smiles back, unrepentant.
********
That’s when they hear an aborted shout for help from the kitchen.
In no time at all, they’re jumping out of the booth and running across the diner. They head straight for the kitchen, and Sam’s about to push through the swinging doors, but Dean holds him back.
“Wh –”
Dean puts his hand over Sam’s mouth and shakes his head. Sam swallows hard and falls silent. He thinks crazily that he’d like to suck one of Dean’s fingers into his mouth, but Dean’s hand moves away and he puts one finger to his own lips to emphasize his point. Sam nods to show he understands, and Dean reaches into the back of his pants and pulls out a gun. Sam’s eyes widen. He’s seen this gun before, in his dreams. It’s a beautiful gun, with gleaming, engraved metal and a polished mother of pearl inset grip.
When he finally looks up from the gun, Dean is giving him a concerned look. Sam pats him on the back and points to the swinging doors, and Dean nods. He mouths 1, 2, 3…
On 3, Dean bursts into the kitchen, gun raised. Sam follows, eyes moving around the room frantically. There’s no immediate threat that he can see, but what he can see makes him gag. There are two dead men, one lying in front of the stove and the other in front of the fry station. Sam holds his breath and moves slowly, approaching their lifeless bodies without stepping in any of the blood spattered on the tile.
There’s a lot of blood.
Dean is checking the rest of the kitchen with his usual military precision, but Sam is strangely removed from what is happening. He thinks he might be in shock.
These men’s necks were cut, he thinks. There’s a spray pattern on the wall that suggests one of the men was attacked from behind, and the cut makes it seem like his assailant was shorter than him. It’s hard to tell with the other one, but when Sam looks at his neck closely, it appears that he was attacked from higher up instead of from a lower height.
“I – I don’t know why I’m noticing this, but…” He points at the cook in front of the stove. “This man was killed first. His neck was cut from behind by someone shorter than him. And that man,” he points at the other cook, “was killed next, probably when he kneeled down to check the first after finding him dead.”
Dean moves closer, but is careful to keep his gun raised and his feet out of the blood on the floor. “How do you figure?”
“Just from looking at the angles on their wounds. And the blood spatter… it looks like the first guy’s carotid shot blood all over the wall before he fell, but then he’s got all this blood on his pants that matches the blood that shot across the floor when the other guy was killed. I… I don’t know why I’m noticing this. Too many crime dramas?” Sam wavers, but when he starts to lose his balance, Dean reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“Whoa, there, Columbo. You forget we’re missing someone, here?”
“Shit, where’s Dora?” Sam exclaims. He knocks Dean’s hand away and starts for the far end of the kitchen.
“Who the hell’s Dora? I’m talking about the waitress!”
Sam heads towards a door that’s at the back wall. “The waitress you were hitting on? Her name was Dora.” He reaches for the door handle. “You think this leads out to the back alley? We’ve got to –”
Dean grabs his arm before he can open the door. “Hold on, Sam.”
Sam watches in confusion as Dean heads back over to the two dead men. Sam wants to go, get out of this kitchen and away from the bodies on the floor. And he wants to run after Dora—he wants to save her. “What the hell are you doing? We’ve got to get out of here if we’re going to find Dora!”
“Dude,” Dean grumps, “we’ve got to get out of here for a heck of a lot more reasons than that. First of all, we’re standing over two dead bodies, and I’ve got an unregistered gun. Second of all…” he runs his finger along the counter by the stove, and a strange yellow powder gathers on the pad of his finger. He shows it to Sam. “Sulfur. You know what that means?”
Sam shakes his head.
“Fucking demons. Here,” he grabs a towel hanging from a nearby rack and tosses it at Sam, “wipe down everything you touched. Then we’ve gotta blow this popsicle stand.”
**********
They beat it pretty quick after that. Just as they’re pulling away, they see a group of college-aged kids approaching the front doors to the diner, and Sam ducks down in his seat a bit, just in case.
“Shit,” he hisses. “If a demon was in there, why didn’t they just attack us right away? Why run off with,” he swallows, “or in Dora?”
Dean shrugs, takes a quick look in his rearview mirror, and guns the engine. “Probably wants to figure out who the hell you are first. Or maybe didn’t want to attack us in an open diner just before the breakfast rush. Fuck if I know.” They hit the ramp to the 101 going 70 mph easy, and Sam braces himself against the dash. “For now, we gotta get the hell out of Dodge and plan our next move.”
Sam nods his approval. Getting out of Dodge sounds like just the thing to do.
**********
When they stop in the parking lot of a dingy motel just off the highway, Sam is, he thinks, understandably confused. “Um… aren’t we trying to get a bit further away than this?”
Dean puts the car in park and kills the engine. “Not unless you want to make it too hard for ‘Dora the Explorer’ to find us again.” He gets out of the car, old door creaking, and Sam follows.
“Wait, we want her to find us?”
Dean taps a finger against his forehead. “Bingo. We set a trap and lay in wait – the whole shebang. Now, Mr. McGillicutty can cover the cost of our room, or we can pay cash and go dutch. I’m inclined to use cash in situations like this—how much you got on you?”
Sam’s not sure who McGillicutty is, but Dean seems to know what he’s doing, so he just pulls out his wallet and counts the bills inside. “Sixty bucks?”
“Alright, we’re golden.” He reaches around Sam’s arm and pulls the bills out. “I’m going to get us a room. You wait here.”
Sam does as told, leaning against the side of the Impala while Dean saunters into the motel office. He watches Dean go, thinks, That is the nicest ass I’ve seen in a while, and shakes his head. Fucking adrenaline is messing with him again. He hardly knows Dean, and even though he’s not one for meaningless hookups, all he wants to do is throw Dean down and fucking ravish him.
He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and lets himself imagine it for a few moments. Dean’s ‘fuck me’ lips, his gorgeous eyes, his strong jaw… the way his legs bow out when he walks. Shit, Sam wants those legs wrapped around his hips as he thrusts –
“Dude, quit daydreaming.” Something smacks him in the chest and then falls to the pavement, rattling. Sam opens his eyes and glares at Dean, who’s waggling the other set of keys in his hand. “Those,” he points to the ground, “are your keys. We’re in room 14. Now try not to hang out in broad daylight with your eyes closed anymore – we’ve got a demon on our ass, remember?”
Sam rubs his chest and then bends down to retrieve the motel room key. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, not disagreeing, and Dean rolls his eyes and walks around him to the trunk of the Impala.
“You head in. I’ll get our supplies together.” He swings the trunk open and then fiddles with something. Sam can’t see what from this angle, but he has flashes of memory from past dreams—a secret compartment propped up with an old sawed off shotgun, an arsenal of weapons inside—and shudders. “Hold on,” Dean says, and leans around the gleaming black metal of the trunk. “Take this,” he throws a big canister of salt, and Sam catches it automatically, “and pour out an unbroken line across all the doorways and windowsills.”
The request doesn’t seem odd to Sam. Not after everything else. “Sure thing, boss,” he says, sketches a salute, and heads for room 14.
“No need to be a smartass!” Dean hollers after him, and Sam grins.
********
When Dean makes it to the room, he’s laden down with two duffel bags. Sam gets out of his way as he barrels in, then drops the bags against the wall behind the far bed. “You should call Jess,” he says. “Tell her to lay low and not to answer the door or let anyone in her place. In fact, she should just close all her curtains tight and pretend she’s not there, at least until we take care of this.”
Sam’s got his cell phone in his hand before Dean even finishes talking. “Damn it, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! What if –” He’s shaking slightly as he tries to press and hold the “2” down on his phone. Dean crosses the room quickly and puts a hand against the back of his neck.
“Hey, now. No need to freak. She’s probably fine. Just take a deep breath…”
Sam does, a great, heaving gasp, and realizes that the hand on his neck feels natural, just like all the other small touches that Dean has given him since they met.
“Okay, I’m okay. Yeah, I’ll just…” he’s rambling, so just presses down on the “2” and calls Jess.
The phone rings… and rings. Sam thinks he might have a heart attack, an honest-to-God heart attack, and then she finally answers.
“What, Sam? I’ve got the headache from hell over here and I’m trying to sleep!”
“Oh, God,” he says. He can’t think of anything else, just, “thank God… thank God, Jess…”
“Sam?” she asks, “What’s wrong?” Her voice gets higher pitched, faster. “Are you okay?”
He lets out a long breath. “I thought… I thought something might have happened. When you didn’t answer. Jess, whatever you do today, don’t go out, and don’t let anyone know you’re home. Close your curtains, turn off the lights, and lock all your doors, okay?”
There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Okay, Sam. But you’re going to tell me what this is all about later, okay? Tomorrow. And I want to know who that Dean guy really is.”
He grins, “Yeah, okay. Could never get anything past you, could I?”
“Nope!” she answers cheerfully. Then, more serious, “Is there anything else I should… anything else I can do?”
Sam’s eyes catch on the salt he poured in front of the motel room window. “Yeah, pour salt across all the doorways and windows in your place. And make sure the line isn’t broken anywhere when you do it.”
She starts to giggle, a bit hysterically, but chokes it down after Sam doesn’t say anything else. “Okay, Sam. Can’t wait to hear what this is all about.”
“I’ll tell you everything when I can. But for now, just –”
“If I’ve wasted all that salt and made a god-awful mess for no reason –”
“Please, Jess, just… you have to be safe. You understand?”
“Yeah, I get it. You be careful, too, Sam.”
“I will.”
After she hangs up, Sam stares at the phone display for a second and then looks up at Dean, who’s still standing in his space. His hand has slid down from Sam’s neck to his back, and Sam leans into the touch just a bit.
“She’s okay. And she’ll stay put until we take care of the – the demon.”
Dean grins, quick and then it’s gone. “Alright, then. Now we’ve got some work to do.”
**********
The trap is planned and set, the salt lines are intact, and Sam is… hungry. “Damn, is this all you have?” he asks, staring at the pile of beef jerky and peanut M&M bags spread out on his bed.
Dean, who’s sprawled out on his stomach on the other bed, looks up from the leather bound journal he’s been studying. “So sorry, your highness,” he simpers in a high-pitched voice. Sam throws a bag of M&Ms at his head, and he grins around the pen cap in his mouth. “Didn’t have time to hit the local eatery, what with all the running and trap laying and then lying in wait. You’ll just have to make do.” He looks back down at the page in front of him and jots a quick note in the margin, and Sam grabs a stick of beef jerky.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He says, and rips open the packaging with his teeth. “So, what do you usually do when you’re waiting for demons to show up?”
Dean sighs and flips the journal closed. “Usually I’d clean my weapons and read up on my exorcisms, but I conditioned all my guns last week and I’ve had this exorcism memorized for about a year now, so I think we’re good.”
Sam takes a bite out of the beef jerky and chews it noisily. “Hm… got a deck of cards?”
“Sure do. You wanna try a few magic tricks on me? Guess my card?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I already told you, I’m not a psychic! I just…”
“Have dreams about things that are actually happening hundreds of miles away?” Dean interrupts. “Yeah, you’re like no psychic I’ve ever heard of.” He picks up the bag of M&Ms that Sam threw at him and tears off the end, then tips it to his mouth. “So… you know all about me…” he mumbles around a mouthful of hard candy. Sam grimaces, and Dean makes a point of chewing and swallowing his mouthful before continuing. “Tell me the story of Sam Remington and his foxy lady, Jess… ica?”
Sam watches the way Dean licks the candy from his lips, then looks down and shakes his bangs in front of his eyes. “Not much to tell,” he says softly. He fiddles with the beef jerky in his hand, then takes another bite to give himself a minute to think. Dean just looks at him, green eyes bright, and Sam swallows. “I studied pre-law, but never took my LSATs. It just… didn’t feel like what I wanted any more. And Jessica and I, well, we were together until about a year ago, when I realized…” he clears his throat, turns his mouth into his shoulder, “… that I was gay.”
Dean chokes on the M&M that he’d just popped into his mouth, and Sam feels his face flush red. “Sorry!” Dean gasps, smacking his chest. “Not that I’m against – it’s just –” he coughs, “a surprise!”
Sam ducks his head. “Yeah, well… surprised me, too. But once I realized, it’s not like there was anyone to pretend for, so…”
“No one?” Dean asks.
Sam tosses the rest of his beef jerky in the trash. “No.” He flops onto his back on his bed and looks up at the ceiling. “My mom died in a fire when I was a baby, and my dad died almost 4 years ago—just before I went to Stanford. Don’t have any other family that I know of. I mean, really, it was just about telling Jess. If any of my other friends had a problem with it, no big deal, you know? It’s just Jess… I’m glad she didn’t hold the whole ‘gay boyfriend’ thing against me.”
“Wait – your mom died in a fire?” Dean says, sitting up.
Sam props himself up on an elbow and looks over at Dean, frowning. “Yeah, the fire started in my nursery. My dad got me out, but my mom… she died.”
Dean is staring back at him, eyes wide. “My mom died in a fire, too. In my brother’s nursery. They both died.”
Sam’s mouth opens, but no words come out. It’s just too…
“This is too weird to be a coincidence,” Dean says. He gives Sam a shrewd look. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but the fire that killed my mom and brother? It wasn’t an accident. It was caused by the demon that dad and I just killed. So maybe the fire that killed your mom… I mean, maybe the reason you dreamed about me and dad and the demon…”
“No,” Sam shakes his head. “There’s no way. I mean, why would a demon come after my mom? It’s just not – You can’t just say things like that. You can’t know….”
Dean leans forward off his bed, hands extended. “Hey, no need to freak out. You’re right – I don’t know anything. Hell, I don’t even know why the demon came after my family in the first place.”
“Okay, then,” Sam says and, suddenly drained, he flops back on his bed. “Let’s just forget it, then.”
Dean’s eyes run over the sprawl of his body, and Sam thinks he’s going to say something else, but he just gets up and heads for the bathroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Holler if the demon shows up, will you?”
Sam represses a sigh. “Yeah, sure thing, Dean.”
********
Sam’s sitting up against the headboard, pillows behind his back, and trying to figure out what’s going on in today’s episode of Days of Our Lives when he hears the water cut off. While Dean’s been in the shower, he’s gone through two sticks of beef jerky and a bag of M&Ms, and is feeling a lot calmer.
“Did you leave any hot water for the rest of us?” he hollers.
The bathroom door opens. “Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles, emerging on a cloud of steam, and Sam’s eyes are arrested by the sight of him. With just a towel wrapped around his waist, Dean is breathtaking. Water drips from his hair and down his neck, then runs down his back and chest, and Sam can’t help but follow the glistening droplets with his heated gaze. His eyes catch on the significant scarring above Dean’s left nipple, and he remembers the terrible dream he had months ago, when Dean had been tortured by a cruel, bloodthirsty demon. He wants to lick the sensitive-looking skin, and he runs his tongue over his lips without thinking.
It’s a few breathless moments, and too late Sam notices that Dean sees him looking. A red flush spreads from Dean’s freckled cheeks down to the top of his chest, but he walks past Sam to his duffle bag unselfconsciously. “Take a picture, it’s last longer,” he mumbles, digging around for a fresh change of clothes.
Sam looks away quickly and clears his throat. “S-sorry,” he says.
Dean hums dismissively, and Sam almost chokes when out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean drop the towel from around his hips. He acts like he has nothing to be embarrassed about, and fuck Dean has nothing to be embarrassed about. His ass is firm and rounded as he bends down to pull on underwear, his back muscles flex as he tugs on a T-shirt, and Sam is trying so hard to look without looking that he’s completely surprised when the journal Dean had been studying earlier comes sailing across the room and lands on his lap.
“Oomph!” he grunts, and Dean laughs. Sam risks a glance at him and sees that he’s clad in a T-shirt and boxer briefs that are so tight they leave nothing to the imagination.
“Take a look at the exorcisms in the back of that journal will you? I’m going to take a nap. Driving non-stop to get out here and find you was exhausting.”
Sam licks his dry lips and swallows. “Sure, no problem.” His voice is high and reedy, but he can’t help it. Dean is beautiful, and Sam could swear that he’s flirting, and the whole situation is disrupting things like higher brain function and talking and breathing…
Dean flops down stomach-first on his bed and burrows just his legs under the sheets. “Wake me up if anything exciting happens.”
“Uh… yeah,” Sam answers, and stares at the curve of Dean’s back and ass for a few moments before he can look away and focus on the journal in his lap.
**********
Dean is still asleep, and Sam is reading through one of the exorcisms towards the end of the journal when the door is banged in. The lights flicker, and for a wild moment, Sam thinks impossibly that it’s Jess standing in the doorway, the setting sun blazing behind her.
“Wakey wakey, Dean,” she taunts, and then Sam can see her for who she is.
“Dora,” he says. Unnecessarily, it turns out. Dean is already on his feet, shotgun in hand.
“Fuck you, bitch,” Dean says, and Sam knows what he’s doing. He’s trying to keep her attention off Sam.
It works. She ignores Sam entirely, just eyes Dean disdainfully for a moment before flicking her wrist and sending him crashing into the far wall. He hits and then falls, first to his knees, and then on his face. His shotgun is a few feet away now, but it doesn’t look like he’ll be able to retrieve it any time soon.
Sam doesn’t let himself look—he doesn’t have time to check on Dean now—just grabs the closest bottle of holy water and splashes her with it.
She screeches in pain, and Sam can see her eyes turn black for just a moment. This isn’t some innocent woman anymore, she’s a demon, and Sam tries to remember that as he keeps splashing her. Dean is lying on the ground, still as a corpse, and Sam tries to remember that this is part of the plan. He can’t really be hurt that badly…
Sam runs out of holy water, and when the demon realizes, when she sees that it’s broken the line of salt in front of the door, she grins maniacally. “Oh, this is too good,” she croons, and then Sam’s the one who goes flying. He hits the nearby table first, then the wall. His shoulder takes most of the hit, but he suffers a glancing blow to his ribs that has him panting in pain as he lies on the ground.
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” she says, stepping over the wrecked salt line and into the motel room. “You should really train your pets not to piddle all over the carpet.” The door slams shut behind her and she raises her hand again, looking down on Dean’s still form with unholy glee. “This is what you get for killing my father, you little –”
She stops. Looks at him harder for a minute. Then looks at her hand.
“What the –?” Her eyes scan the ground frantically, then flick up to the devil’s trap painted on the ceiling.
“Got ya,” Dean says, opening his eyes and grinning up at her. He stands up, easy as you please, from where he’s been crumpled on the ground. “Meg? That you?”
“God damn it!” She shrieks and hurls herself against the invisible barrier of the devil’s trap a few times before stopping, her breathing heavy. “I should have killed you when I had the chance!”
“So it is you,” Dean says. His free hand, the one not holding his sawed-off shotgun, rubs his chest. “What the hell do you want, Meg? You didn’t get enough out of me last time?”
“You helped kill Azazel. This is just payback, Dean,” she spits.
“Azazel?”
“You don’t think his friends called him ‘Yellow Eyes,’ do you?” Meg says, tilting her head back cockily, but Sam can tell that she’s scared. She watches him as he stands up gingerly from where he’d been sprawled, then her gaze flickers back over to Dean, who’s watching him with concern. Her eyes narrow, calculating, and she crosses her arms, stands straight. “You let me go, and I’ll let the jolly green giant over there live. Your life would be forfeit, of course…”
“Don’t listen to her,” Sam says, and hands Dean his journal before he has a chance to respond. “Just read the exorcism and send her back to hell.”
She glares at him and turns back to Dean, waiting to see what he’ll do. When he sets down his shotgun and flips the journal open, she starts to curse and spit. “Fuck you, Dean! Fuck you and your suicidal father!”
Dean ignores her and starts to read from one of the exorcisms, and for the first several words nothing happens. Sam steps closer to Dean, worried, but then Meg’s head jerks spastically to the one side and she gasps. Even though all the doors and windows are closed, wind starts to pick up in the room, and Dean reads on.
“After everything he’s done?” Meg starts, growling over the low cadence of Dean’s words, “there’s no way John isn’t down there on the rack, waiting for me.” Dean just keeps reading, and Sam sees that her eyes are black pits in her face. “I’ll tear him apart over and over until he’s screaming for mercy!” The wind is whipping around them now as Dean keeps reading, his Latin barely faltering despite her cruel words. “Do you hear me, Dean? I’ll make him pay, and then I’ll claw my way back out of the pit. Hell can’t keep me!” Dean’s voice reaches a crescendo, and Meg’s borrowed body flies backwards and then forwards, hitting against the barrier of the devil’s trap. She howls in agony and Dean pauses, giving a worried glance to the windows that face the parking lot.
Meg smiles maniacally at the reprieve, black smoke starting to curl from between her lips. “When I do? When I make it back up here? I’ll take it out of his hide first,” she says, and tilts her head towards Sam. “Your giant pet? I’ll make you watch while I tear his flesh from his bones!”
Sam gulps, but refuses to let her get to him. “Just, just keep reading, Dean,” he says, but Dean doesn’t. Sam watches incredulously has he drops the journal on the nearby bed.
“No,” he says, voice soft. “I can’t let that happen.” While Sam watches, he turns and pulls a Colt revolver out from under the pillow on his bed. It’s The Colt—Sam recognizes it from his dreams. “I’m sick of this game, Meg,” Dean starts, his mouth an angry snarl. “After this, you won’t be able to hurt anyone else, ever again.” He raises his arm, Colt in hand, and thumbs the safety off.
“No!” Sam shouts, and grabs Dean’s arm. “That’s still Dora, Dean. You can’t kill her!”
Meg, who’d started to look truly panicked, smiles cruelly with Dora’s mouth. “Yeah, Dean,” she mocks. “Don’t want to kill this poor, innocent girl, do you?”
“Fuck!” he shouts. His eyes are wild as he looks away from her and to Sam. “Sam, I can’t… I can’t let her live if she’s just going to keep –”
Sam shakes his head. “Then I’ll do it, Dean. And it will be my responsibility if she comes back.”
“It’ll be my responsibility, Dean,” Meg mocks in a high-pitched voice, and Dean lunges forward to pistol-whip her with the Colt, savage but careful to stay out of her reach.
“Fuck!” she shouts, then spits out a stream of blood at Dean’s feet. “I’ll –”
She pauses as her head jerks to the side again, and Sam grits his teeth and continues reading. He’d picked the journal back up and started in on the exorcism again, but hadn’t been sure exactly where Dean was in the recitation. He’s relieved when black smoke starts to leak from her mouth again, and he keeps reading in earnest. He’s almost at the end –
“I’ll come back for you, Dean. You and your little boyfriend!” she screams one last time, and then her head tilts back and smoke as black as pitch pours out of Dora’s mouth. Wind whips around them as the smoke funnels up like a tornado in reverse and hits the devil’s trap on the ceiling, where it pools.
“No you won’t, you bitch,” Dean growls. He raises the Colt and shoots into the center of the smoke, the report loud in the small room, and the black mass crackles madly for a few seconds before giving off a yellow flash of light and dissipating in the next moment.
Dean and Sam stare up at the ceiling, mouths agape. “Did that work?” Dean asks. He looks down and meets Sam’s wide-eyed stare. “Shit, did that really –”
They hear a thump as Dora’s body crumples where she stands, just hits the floor in a dead faint, and Sam snaps out of it first. He rushes forward to check her pulse, and it’s weak, but it’s there.
“She’s still alive,” he whispers, overcome with relief.
Dean comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Good, now let’s –”
Sam doesn’t let him finish. He grabs his hand and then quickly stands and turns into him. In a matter of moments, he has Dean right where he wants him against the motel room wall.
Dean looks up at him, bewildered. “Sam?”
“Dean,” he sighs in answer, and kisses him.
It’s strange how easy it is to kiss Dean. He’s known that he was real for less than 24 hours, but pulling him close and cradling his jaw in one hand is nothing. Coaxing his lips open with his tongue is as natural as breathing. The noxious smell of sulfur permeates everything, but Sam doesn’t think he’s ever tasted anything sweeter.
When Dean finally starts to kiss him back, it’s infinitely better. He luxuriates in the feel of Dean’s mouth moving against his for a long minute or two, until Dora groans in pain and he can’t ignore reality any longer.
“Shit,” he says, pulling back from the kiss.
Dean looks up at him and grins his reckless grin. “Shit is right. Let’s call an ambulance for her and then get the hell out of here.”
“Sounds good,” Sam says, grinning back at him. “You should maybe put some pants on first, though.”
**********
They’re at another motel, this one a much safer distance from the diner and the motel room that are now more than likely crime scenes. Sam’s just gotten out of the shower and is digging through Dean’s duffel, looking for something that he might be able to wear. Dean stares at the towel wrapped around his waist, licks his lips.
“So,” Dean starts, pauses. “What are your plans from here?”
Sam stands, a ragged Led Zeppelin tour T-shirt in one hand, and turns to look at Dean. “Well, I thought we’d lay low for a while, then I can go back for some of my stuff. I’ll let her Jess have the rest—to keep or sell if she wants—and we can get out of here. I’ll ask Jess to take Bones, at least at first.” He runs the other hand through his damp hair to get it out of his eyes, and Dean follows the movement helplessly, his eyes snagging on the defined muscles in Sam’s arms, his chest.
“You’re… leaving Palo Alto?” he swallows. “With me?”
Sam gives him a calculating look, then drops the shirt back in the duffel. “Dean,” he starts, and then he’s moving towards him, and Dean can’t do anything but stare like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. “This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but…” He pulls Dean up off the bed and tugs him close, into his space. “But I can’t just ignore all this now that I know about it. I can’t walk away from it. From what might have happened to my mother.” He raises one hand up so that he can cup Dean’s face in the palm of his hand, pull him closer. The next thing he says, he says against Dean’s lips. “I can’t just let you walk away from me, either. Now that I know you’re real…”
Sam falls silent and just looks at him, stares deep into Dean’s eyes, and he’s so close—so close and so big. He’s just this kid, someone Dean met less than a day ago, but… Dean senses that he’s more than that. He closes his eyes, breathes out shakily against Sam’s lips. It’s… it’s almost like…
And then Sam’s lips are on his again, and he’s kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t know where to put his hands. Doesn’t know what else to do but kiss him back. Something swells inside him, an emotion that he doesn’t have any experience with, and he realizes: Sam fills in all the empty spaces. The gaping holes Dean didn’t know he carried around inside himself.
He’s too stunned to move away, to retreat like he normally would when things get too intense, and Sam keeps kissing him with purpose, his big hand cupping Dean’s cheek. Dean opens his mouth to Sam’s exploring tongue, tips his head, and lets his eyes flutter closed. A torrent of emotions is swelling inside him, and he’s dizzy. He’s so dizzy. He puts his hands up, braces them against Sam’s bare chest, and when Sam tugs him closer, into his body, he goes with it gratefully because he knows he can’t stand on his own—not anymore.
“Dean,” Sam whispers against his lips, and Dean shudders. “Can I… Please, tell me that I haven’t read this wrong. That you…”
Dean doesn’t know what he’s asking, but it doesn’t matter. At this moment, he’d give Sam anything he wanted without question. “I do,” he says, voice rough with arousal, and Sam grabs his hipbones tightly and exhales noisily.
“Shit, Dean. What you do to me. It defies all logic.”
Dean feels his skin flush, but Sam doesn’t give him time to be embarrassed. He ducks down and rubs his face against Dean’s neck, smelling his skin and then kissing and licking the stubble on his throat with wild abandon.
“God, your neck,” he says, a low rasp, then sucks a hickey into the skin just below his ear. The pain is sharp, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut so tight he sees white sparks behind his eyelids.
“And your jaw, fuck, your jaw… and your chin,” Sam continues, and Dean shivers as Sam makes his way, tongue first, from Dean’s neck all the way to the cleft in his chin. He swirls the tip of his tongue around the indentation and then laps up, catches the bottom of his lower lip.
“And don’t even get me started on your lips,” he whispers, hot air fanning over the sensitive, pink flesh. Dean keeps still as Sam hovers, lips just a fraction of an inch from his own, and breathes against his mouth. Time seems to stretch interminably and Dean, against his will, sways forward until their lips touch faintly. The space breached, Sam surges forward again and uses his tongue to lick at the soft fullness of Dean’s lips. He laps at them, then bites lightly and sucks them into his own mouth, then laps at them again, until the entirety of Dean’s lips tingle with something between pleasure and pain.
“Sam,” he groans, and opens his mouth wide, eager to feel Sam’s tongue in his mouth again. To his disappointment, Sam retreats, goes back to sucking on his lower lip, so Dean gets bolder. He’s no shrinking flower. He grabs Sam’s shoulders and thrusts into his mouth with his tongue. He knows he’s a good kisser—he’s had plenty of practice, anyways—but something about Sam makes him forget everything he’s ever learned, and he just runs his tongue over Sam’s teeth, learns his mouth. Maybe it’s not good, because Sam freezes for a second, and Dean’s just about to retreat when Sam suddenly hollows his cheeks and sucks Dean’s tongue further into his mouth.
The feel of Sam sucking on his tongue sends a bolt of arousal through him, and his cock throbs in his pants. He groans, long and low, into Sam’s mouth and presses closer, lets his cock, hard in the confines of his jeans, rub against Sam’s hip. It feels so damn good, and Sam releases his tongue, gives a groan of his own.
“Shit, Dean, you’re so hot,” he says, panting, and uses his grip on Dean’s hips to encourage his thrusts against him. The towel wrapped around Sam’s waist is working loose, and Dean feels a surge of apprehension. He’s never…
Dean’s hands move from his shoulders so that he can wrap his arms around Sam’s neck, and Sam looks down at him, eyes blazing. “Want to see you. Can I?”
Dean’s head tips back as he groans, and Sam takes that as assent. His hands fumble for the belt at Dean’s waist, and in seconds he has it undone and his jeans peeled open. Dean shudders and is expecting a hand to work it’s way down his pants, but Sam surprises him—he lets the towel fall from own hips and then he’s dropping to his knees in front of him. Dean stares down at him, stunned. Sam is a work of art when he’s naked, all perfect sculpted muscle and flushed skin. His cock is huge—hard, it stands out straight from his body, and Dean finds himself wishing that he could feel its smooth length in his hand or with his mouth.
“Oh, God,” he groans. It’s too much to handle, the way Sam looks up at him and then smiles slyly as he pulls Dean’s cock out of his boxers. Except for where he’s exposed, he’s still fully dressed, and Sam, naked, rubs his hard cock against the leg of Dean’s jeans as he learns the weight and feel of Dean’s cock with his hands. “You are so sexy like that,” Dean says, and Sam gives his cock a tug that ends on a twist, makes his knees wobble.
“Whoa, there,” Sam says, then directs him the few steps to the bed. The back of Dean’s knees hit the mattress and he drops, boneless. Sam scoots forward, still kneeling in front of him.
“Shit, Sam, you’re so –” he breaks off when Sam exhales.
“Can I…” he starts, and then he’s licking up Dean’s cock. Dean doesn’t think he’s seen anything hotter than Sam’s tongue swirling around the head of his dick, and he gasps Sam’s name while he hums happily around his cock, continuing to lap at the precome welling from his slit. “I’ve never…” he gasps, and Sam makes an inquisitive sound around him. “I mean…” Dean feels light-headed—he can’t get a breath—but he has to get this out. “I mean, I’ve never… with another man…”
“Shhhh,” Sam soothes, and then sucks the entire length of him into his wide mouth.
“Oh, oh God… Sam!” he groans, and forgets his apprehensions – just gives into the sensations coursing through him. Sam sucks him fast and sloppy, and it’s embarrassing how quickly Dean comes undone under his mouth. He can feel Sam rubbing up against his leg, can see him when he takes himself in hand, and he’s close to the edge after just minutes. When he tugs at Sam’s hair in warning, though, the other man doesn’t pull off, and Dean erupts down his throat with a shout.
“Shit,” he sighs, and he’s still reeling when he feels Sam tense and sees him come, spattering himself and Dean’s pant leg.
“Dean…” Sam whispers, his voice a wreck, and Dean comes to a quick decision. He leans down and grabs Sam up in his arms, and Sam doesn’t protest as he pulls him back onto the bed with him.
“So,” he starts, then pauses. It’s hard for Dean to admit when he wants something, so he takes his time, shoving off his pants and then settling back on the bed with Sam. Despite the other man’s larger size, it feels natural manhandling Sam into place so that he can curl around him. Once he has him where he wants him, he pushes his nose into the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck. “So, if you’re sure about wanting to come along…”
**********
August 2002
John says the words that will allow Sam to escape hunting and have a normal life. Without him and without Dean. And Dean will be better off, too—you can’t miss a brother you don’t remember having. He lights a match and drops it in the ritual bowl. The fire flares up quick and is gone in an instant, and John stares down at the curling smoke as it rises off the mess of herbs and hair and blood.
Once the demon’s dead, John will undo it. He’ll put it back the way it was…
But even if he doesn’t, if something happens to him before he can reverse it, the spell won’t last forever. Four years, and then Sam will remember. Be remembered. And if Sam is angry at him for what he’s done… well, John just hopes he can forgive him.
The End.