withdiamonds (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withdiamonds) wrote2010-11-06 02:30 pm
withdiamonds) wrote2010-11-06 02:30 pm
SPN reversebang fic: The red stays on your lips my baby, Sam/Dean
Title: The red stays on your lips my baby
Artist: gnatkip
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word count: 8800
Warnings/Spoilers: Takes place between My Bloody Valentine and Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid
Summary: Sam and Dean, working a case, knowing they're better together than apart.
AN: I had the most beautiful art to work with. Seriously gorgeous. I can only hope this story is worthy. Also, the title comes from JC Chasez's Right Here (By Your Side), which, you can't get any better than that. And so many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
without_me for the awesome beta, for dealing with excess commas, adverbs, and most of all, qualifiers. Thanks, A.
Link to the art post: Beautiful art
*
"Here's something," Sam said, not looking up from his laptop. Dean slurped his coffee noncommittally, so Sam just kept talking. "Two people in Oxford, Ohio, apparently catatonic for no good reason that anyone can figure out."
There was no response from the other side of the table. Not even a grunt. Sam soldiered on. "Or, in Tupelo, there's a guy who disappeared from his farm in the middle of the night, taking his favorite goat with him. His wife says she'd suspected there was something going on between her husband and the goat when she discovered them –"
And there it was, a snort. A tiny one, but still, it was a reaction and these days Sam would take just about anything he could get and be grateful for it.
Okay, maybe grateful wasn't the right word. Relieved tinged with annoyed, maybe. Whatever, any sign of Dean acting normal around him helped tamp down the fear and anger that threatened to boil over whenever Sam loosened the stranglehold he had on his emotions even a little.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, Sam trying to be content waiting Dean out, to not push for once. Finally Dean sighed and said, "Okay, so what's up with the catatonic people?"
His tone was flat and he sounded weary, but he couldn't be any more exhausted than Sam was. Sleep was hard to come by these days, what with the stony silence emanating from the other bed, the other bed roll, or whichever seat of the Impala Sam wasn't trying to twist his arms and legs into a comfortable enough pretzel to actually doze off in.
Then there was the impending apocalypse he couldn't get a handle on how to prevent. That didn't do much for his dreams, either.
And sometimes, Sam would just be drifting off, and Dean's words from more than a year ago - words Sam could never forget - would catch him at the edge of sleep, pulling him back, startling his eyes open, the adrenaline spike making his heart thump in sudden fear.
If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you.
Dean did know Sam; though, knew him well enough to chain him to a bathroom sink before he went off with Cas to find Famine.
But he didn't know him well enough not to let a flicker of surprise cross his face when Sam didn't drain the demons offered to him by Famine.
That expression of surprise was worlds better than the expression that followed it, the expression Sam saw every time Dean's eyes fixed on Sam's mouth.
Sam had spent a long time trying to wash the blood from his face, to remove the stain of red from his lips and chin, but he knew it would never truly be gone. He could see the shadow of the stain in Dean's eyes, always there, always accusing.
Bobby's panic room had done nothing to reassure Dean. Dean hadn't touched Sam, except when he couldn't avoid it, since the second stretch of time Sam had spent strapped to the cot, screaming out his pain.
Sam couldn't figure out how it was so easy to miss someone who was sitting right there by his side.
"Well," Sam said now, in his best business-as-usual voice, "A man named Salvador Smith and a woman named -" he looked down at his computer "- Gwendolyn Armstrong were both found by their families, sitting and just…staring at nothing. They show no response to any stimuli, but otherwise they're perfectly healthy." Sam looked up at Dean and shrugged. "Worth checking out."
Dean drained the last of his coffee and stood up, shoving his chair back. "Whatever." He put his cup down and turned on his heel, heading toward the door of the diner without a word. When he got there, he looked impatiently over his shoulder. "Sam. Come on, get the lead out."
Suppressing a sigh, Sam nodded and followed his brother out the door.
*
The town of Oxford was nestled in the gently rolling hills of western Ohio, close enough to Indiana that Sam saw faded signs advertising a "State to State Half Marathon and 5K" race from the previous September. Miami University sat at its center: the heart of the town and the only obvious reason for its existence.
There were no major interstates, access to the town coming only from two-lane highways that curved around fields of corn and soy.
Salvador Smith and Gwendolyn Armstrong were currently residents of the local hospital, both of them lying motionless in bed and staring off into space.
Dean decided they should go in as CDC, which Sam thought was a stupid idea.
"Why the hell would the CDC be interested in a couple of catatonic people? It's not exactly contagious," Sam argued.
"Hey, we don't know that for sure," Dean said. "And it's not like the FBI would give a shit." He turned away from Sam and pulled his suit jacket out of the old plastic garment bag they'd ripped off from some dry cleaner ages ago. After a cursory attempt at shaking out the wrinkles, Dean draped the pants and jacket over one of the chairs in their quaint but crappy motel room.
Sam didn't actually care what cover they used. He didn't particularly care about the two people in the hospital, either. He cared about Lucifer, and Dean, and that was pretty much it right now. But hunting, working a case, was at least something Dean was willing to do together, so Sam was prepared to go through the motions.
He looked up from his attempts to make his own suit coat look a little less rumpled in time to see Dean shrugging into his battered green jacket. Sam frowned.
"You going somewhere?" He tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, but knew he hadn't succeeded when Dean's shoulders tightened and his hands stilled as he reached for the car keys on the battered dresser.
"Thought I'd go check out that bar we passed earlier," Dean said, without looking around. "Grab a beer or two. That all right with you?" He sounded both defensive and annoyed.
"Sure, Dean," Sam said wearily. He saw the tension in his brother's shoulders and decided not to push things. He'd been making that decision a lot lately. "Knock yourself out."
Dean nodded, still without looking at Sam, and headed for the door. He hesitated as he stepped over the threshold, a pause so brief Sam wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it, and then he was gone.
Sam held onto that momentary hesitation as he spent the evening idly flipping though TV channels, stopping on the occasional bad sitcom and avoiding the news like it was his job. He had no desire to see how fucked up things were in the world. There was no way he was going to sit here in another empty room and wallow over the death and destruction he'd brought to the whole fucking planet. That was too self-flagellating, even for him.
Besides, he had Dean's absence to remind him just how far he'd fallen.
*
Mac & Joe's bar was crowded and noisy. It had the slightly frenetic vibe Dean associated with college bars, where the kids were so eager to get drunk that they pounded the drinks back as quickly as they could, loudly and with single-minded determination.
Dean knew all about that.
He swallowed the last of the whiskey in his glass, appreciating the burn in his throat. He was waiting for the click in his head, the click where things got blurry enough that Sam's face, his mouth smeared red with blood, wasn’t as sharp and focused as it was without the haze of alcohol to soften it.
Slowly Dean felt some of the ever-present tension he carried around seep away and as he relaxed he began to tune into his surroundings. There wasn't much to hear except noisy chatter as girls, who all seemed to be dressed alike, vied with the thumping bass for the attention of drunk frat boys hanging off each other, talking loudly about whatever it was college boys liked to talk about.
Dean wouldn't know anything about that.
He straightened up as he caught the name Mrs. Armstrong, and then he realized a girl at the next table was talking about "Aunt Gwen." He shrugged. Might as well do something useful instead of sitting here staring into his glass and brooding about Sam.
Not that Dean brooded. He'd deny it with his last breath, no matter what Sam and Bobby said. Dean Winchester did not brood.
Dean pushed back his chair and made his move. There were five girls at the table, three with long blonde hair and two with long brown hair. Mustering up as much charm as he could, he gave them his most winning smile and said, "Hello, ladies."
There was a chorus of giggles as the girls looked up at him, matching smiles on their faces. "Mind if I join you?"
"Aren't you a little old to be hitting on college girls, dude?" said a voice from behind him. Dean scowled and turned around, glaring at the skinny kid planted two feet away who was giving off a territorial vibe as if he was going to get up in Dean's face any minute and start barking. Dean scoffed.
"Butt out, dude," he said in his most intimidating growl. The kid backed up a step, but he didn't actually go away like he was supposed to. Great. "Listen, pal, I've got a few questions I need to ask these girls, if you don't mind." He wondered if he had some kind of official ID on him that he could use to intimidate the kid into making himself scarce.
"Questions about what?" the kid asked. The girls seated around the table tilted their heads up at Dean, all at the same angle. It was freaky.
Dean gave up. Thanks to the kid butting in, he had lost any chance of a friendly conversation with the girls, so he cut right to the chase. "What can you tell me about Gwendolyn Armstrong?"
He supposed it saved him some time. It wasn't as if he was going to hook up with any of these girls anyway. Not with Sam waiting for him back at the motel. He was having a hard time dealing with Sam right now, but that didn't mean he wanted anyone else.
One of the blondes blinked, and Dean smiled reassuringly at her. He hooked his foot around the leg of his chair and slid it over to the bigger table, sitting down and waiting for the girl to start talking.
"Aunt Gwen," the blonde said. "Well, she's not really my aunt. Any of our aunts, really." She waved her hand around at her friends. "We just call her that. She works at our sorority house, like, she's the housekeeper, only she kind of looks out for us, you know?" She bit her lip and looked sadly at Dean. "And now she won't talk to anyone, she just sits and stares; doesn't even blink. It's creepy," she finished, putting her small hand on Dean's arm, her warm fingers curling around his wrist. "I'm Stephanie, by the way." She smiled at him.
"When did it start?" Dean asked her, trying to mold his features into a sympathetic expression. It wasn't easy and a wave of exhaustion crashed over him, leaving his head swimming. He was so tired. His eyes itched and he felt like he should blink or something. A small crease appeared between Stephanie's eyebrows and Dean tried to smile at her reassuringly. The crease got more pronounced. He stopped trying so hard.
"Her son found her like that," one of the other girls said. This one was a brunette. "I'm Alison." A smile that matched Stephanie's appeared on her face. "He got home from work and she was just there, outside his trailer, staring. He ended up putting her in the car and taking her to the hospital. He said it was like she didn't even know he was there." Alison shuddered.
That was pretty much all the information they seemed able to offer. Dean drained his beer and got to his feet. He had a sudden need to see Sam, that same stupid need that struck him whenever Sam was out of his sight for too long. As much as he'd wanted to be out of their motel room and away from Sam earlier, that was how much he suddenly needed to be back there, to see for himself that Sam was all right.
To see for himself that Sam was still there.
He nodded his thanks at the girls, gave the skinny kid one more glare, and got the hell out of there.
Sam was indeed still in their room. He was asleep, sprawled out shirtless on one of the beds, sheet low on his waist. Dean made himself look away from the shadows in the hollow of Sam's hips where the sheet touched Sam's skin, shadows that invited Dean in, enticed him with their darkness and their false promises of warmth and love.
He couldn't keep his eyes from going to Sam's mouth, though, checking the color, gauging if the pinkness was natural or if it was something more than that. Dean had seen his brother's lips stained red with blood too many times to be able to look away for long.
Sam stirred in his sleep, turning on his side, his back to Dean. His body curved and curled in on itself, broad shoulders and smooth skin visible in the dim light from the bathroom. Dean wanted him with an aching fierceness that never truly left him.
Instead of reaching for his brother, Dean closed his eyes and turned away.
*
In Sam's dreams, Dean leans over him with a bright grin, kissing across Sam's chest, catching his nipple in a playful bite. He moves farther down, breath hot on Sam's skin, watching Sam through half-lidded eyes. Sam shudders with need, gasping his brother's name.
Sam came awake suddenly, reaching out for Dean and feeling only cold sheets under his hand. Stilling, he waited, wondering if he'd said Dean's name aloud, if Dean had heard. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked across at the other bed.
Dean was fully dressed, as usual. Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had let his guard down enough to undress for bed. He lay on top of the covers, his jacket gathered around him and his hands tucked in his armpits. He mouth was slack, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was deep and regular.
Sam wasn't fooled. He'd shared sleeping space with Dean for most of his life and he knew what it looked like when his brother feigned sleep. He bit his lip and sighed. It wasn't that he blamed Dean. Who could blame Dean for not trusting Sam with anything anymore, especially his heart? But Sam missed Dean and he knew time was running out. Sooner or later they were going to have to deal with Lucifer and Michael and Sam didn't honestly think either he or Dean was going to live to tell the story. He wanted Dean to trust him again before it was too late.
He wanted his brother back before it was all over.
Sam pushed the covers off and sat with his feet on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He just breathed for a while, trying to find the energy to get up and deal with the day.
He eventually made his way to the bathroom, grabbing his jeans and a clean pair of boxers from his duffel bag on the way.
As the bathroom door closed behind him, he heard movement from the other bed.
Breakfast was a silent affair, but Sam was used to that. Dean filled him in on what he'd found out at the bar the night before, and then Sam watched as Dean wordlessly made his way through an enormous stack of pancakes.
They headed out towards Indian Creek, the trailer park where Gwen Armstrong's son lived. There wasn't much order to the place, with trailers spread out haphazardly around the countryside, united only by a common gate and some power lines.
Terry Armstrong's weathered trailer was situated off to the side in a stand of lush green trees. Sam peered in the front door while Dean rummaged around in the trunk of the car. Sam had no idea what Dean was looking for.
The only sounds were the buzzing of bees in a nearby patch of wildflowers and the breeze rustling through the trees. It was peaceful and for a minute all Sam wanted to do was spread out under the sweeping branches, his head in Dean's lap, Dean's fingers combing through his hair, and take a nap.
He signed and pounded on the trailer door instead. Nothing happened and he knocked again. Finally the door was pulled open with a jerk and he heard a muttered, "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?"
Since they hadn't been able to agree on FBI or CDC, they'd decided on neither, agreeing instead to be distant cousins passing through town who had heard about Gwen Armstrong's situation. Sam wasn't sorry not to be dealing with a suit and tie on such a warm day, although he did regret missing a chance to see Dean in a suit.
Sam smiled his most placating smile and said, "Mr. Armstrong, we were very sorry to hear about your mother. I'm sure this is very difficult for you. My brother Dean and I met Aunt Gwen some years ago and wanted to stop and see how she was doing."
Terry Armstrong squinted out at them, his unshaven face and uncombed hair fitting right in with a faded flannel bathrobe that hung open over a pair of ratty plaid boxers. Then he shrugged and came outside, almost tripping down the loose step attached to the side of the trailer.
"I don't have any idea what happened to her. I came home and she was sitting out here in the grass, cross-legged and still. She was staring up, I guess at the sky, and she didn't even blink when I called her name." Terry shrugged again. "I picked her up and managed to get her in the car and I took her to the hospital." He paused again, frowning. "She was real easy to move, like, her arms and legs just…folded and unfolded whichever way I wanted them to. The doc called it wax-something."
Sam nodded. "Waxy flexibility." He looked around for his brother, but Dean was still fucking around over by the car. Sam felt a wave of irritation as he continued talking to Gwen Armstrong's son. "That's a symptom of catatonia. So, is that what the doctors are saying? She's catatonic?" Terry nodded. "And they don't know why?"
"No idea," Terry said. He shrugged for a third time and scratched idly at his stubble. "No idea how long it'll last, either." He looked around as a small, fluffy brown dog came out from under the trailer. The dog was much better groomed than Terry.
"Hey, girl," Terry said. The dog came over and sat down, looking up at Terry sadly. "That's Muffin, my mom's dog. I’m looking after her while Mom's in the hospital." He bent down and rubbed the top of Muffin's head affectionately. She sighed, her big brown eyes looking even sadder.
"Well," said Sam, "I guess we'll just have to hope she wakes up soon," including the dog in that we. "Thanks for your time, and we'll be in touch."
He turned and headed back to the car. He started to say, "Let's move, dude," to Dean, but Dean wasn't looking at him. He was staring up at the sky, his eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth open slightly. "Dean," Sam said, striding over and digging his elbow into Dean's ribs.
Nothing.
"Oh, God," Terry said, pointing a shaky finger at Dean. "That's just what Mom looked like when I found her."
"Dean!" Sam said sharply. "Hey, Dean!" He grabbed his brother and shook him, then watched in horror as Dean's shoulders stayed right where Sam put them and his eyes remained unblinking. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam breathed.
Terry gaped at them and Sam swallowed down his panic. He led Dean around the side of the car and folded him into the passenger seat. Looking around frantically, he tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.
Then he saw it. It was tucked under the raised root of the tree Dean had parked next to, a minute scrap of material fluttering in the breeze. Sam strode over hand yanked it loose, holding it up in disgust.
A hex bag.
Fucking witches.
He couldn't help but open it, to see what kind of gross stuff was in it. Ruby had taught him a lot about hex bags and he fingered through the detritus jumbled together in the small fragment of cloth, trying to make sense of what he found. A couple of tiny bones, some dried herbs and plants, and what looked like a tooth. None of it told Sam much at all. It seemed like a fairly haphazard collection, without much purpose other than to do harm to random people.
Which was going to make figuring out motive a lot of fun.
Terry watched him curiously as Sam dropped the bag on the ground and then felt in his pockets for his lighter. Dean might be the firebug, but that didn't mean Sam wasn't prepared to burn stuff, too.
"Uh, who did you say you were again?" Terry asked nervously as Sam lit the hex bag on fire.
"Cousins," Sam said shortly.
"Okay." Terry sounded doubtful, but Sam really couldn't have cared less. He just wanted to get his brother out of there.
As the flames turned the bones black and the small plants burned out bright and quick, Sam looked over at Dean, hoping to see some sign of life, but Dean remained motionless, staring blankly at nothing.
After everything in the hex bag had been turned to ashes, Sam stamped on the embers to be sure it was all dust. He looked at Terry, who seemed completely unaffected by the hex bag.
"Have you been out here by this tree at all since your mom got sick?" Sam asked.
Terry shook his head. "I stay inside most of the time when I'm here."
Sam nodded. "Okay, thanks for your time," he said. Moving around to the other side of the car, he slid behind the wheel and waved a hurried goodbye at Terry.
Sam gunned the engine and peeled out of the scant patch of gravel pretending to be a driveway in front of the trailer.
"Dean," he said. "Hey, dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?" There was no response. "Shit, shit, shit."
Sam got them back to their motel and manhandled Dean inside, banging Dean's elbow on the doorframe in the process. Dean showed no sign of pain; in fact, he didn't react at all to Sam being a giant klutz.
Sam parked Dean in one of the cracked green leather chairs at the table by the window and tried very hard not to completely freak out.
And then as suddenly as it happened, it was over. Dean blinked and said, "Sammy?" His voice was bewildered, like a small child waking from a bad dream and not knowing where he was. "Sam?" He rubbed at his eyes, knuckling at them and making Sam smile with how young he looked at that moment.
Sam's stomach tightened and all he wanted right that minute was to wrap his arms around Dean and hold onto him forever, but he knew better than to try a move like that.
"You feeling better?" he asked instead.
Dean looked around the room, puzzled. "Dude, when did we come back here? What time is it?"
"A little after noon." Sam studied Dean, who was pale but otherwise seemed fine. "What do you remember?"
"Terry Armstrong. The trailer. There was a dog. And then…" Dean frowned. "Huh."
"What?"
"I saw a face," Dean said slowly. "In the clouds."
"In the clouds? Are you twelve? Were there ponies, too?" Sam didn't know why he was pissed; probably because Dean had scared the shit out of him. Also; witches.
"Bite me," Dean snapped. "There was a face and next thing I remember was I was back here with your giant head in my face, asking me stupid questions."
Sam sighed, his momentary anger fading. "It's witches. I found a hex bag."
"Crap."
"Yeah." Sam hesitated. "I looked at what was in the bag. It was pretty random. Nothing specific or with any kind of real purpose, except to screw with people."
"Huh." Dean glared at him. "Ruby teach you how to do that?"
"Yeah, she did, Dean, and it's saved our asses a couple of times now, so maybe someday you could stop bitching about it."
"Yeah, not gonna happen," Dean ground out. "That's just great, Sam. Fuckin' great."
"Anyway," Sam said, ignoring the twist in his gut at the expression on Dean's face, "That's what's going on here."
"Why didn't it affect you, Sam?" Dean looked at him, eyes narrowing. "Are you immune to witches now? Did Rudy – is it the blood?"
"No! No. I don't know, man." Sam really had no idea why the bag didn't affect him. He and Terry must have been too far away. Well, except for how close Sam was when he handled the bag, and burned it and all. He pushed that thought aside.
"Right," said Dean.
"Fine, whatever," Sam said, turning away. He wondered what it would take for Dean to give him the benefit of the doubt. Sitting down in the chair opposite Dean, he opened his laptop, placing like a barrier between him and his brother. Ostensibly keeping his attention focused on the screen, he listened to Dean poke around in his duffel and putter in the bathroom, regaining his equilibrium and ignoring Sam right back.
*
"Hey," Sam said warily, looking up from his laptop as Dean came out of the bathroom. His expression was neutral but his eyes were sad, which made Dean feel guilty for the way he'd been shutting him down lately. He gritted his teeth and pushed the feeling down deep, into that empty space Famine had been so smug about.
"What?" Dean said, moving to look over Sam's shoulder. He'd pulled up the local paper and was scanning the various articles. Pointing to one with the headline Third local resident in coma, Sam muttered, "It's not a coma. It's catatonia. How hard is that to get right?"
"I guess not everyone's as smart as you, Sammy," Dean said. He didn't really mean for it to come out sounding so derisive, but he could see Sam's face close off at Dean's words.
"We should go check it out," Sam said, not looking at Dean. They spent so much time avoiding each other's eyes. "It says here that they found the guy sitting on the ground out by a water tower on the edge of town. Let's go see if there's a hex bag."
Dean shrugged. "Sure. Let's."
The sun was setting as they pulled up to the water tower. Dean felt the back of his neck prickle, but Sam seemed to be unaffected by whatever it was that was giving Dean the heebie-jeebies.
That didn't make Dean feel any better.
The feeling that there was something wrong intensified as Dean got out of the car. Sam was studying the ground, looking around, but Dean couldn't take his eyes off the trees, which seemed to be closing in on him. He turned first one way, then another, just about ready to freak out as the leaves leered at him from the branches waving in the slight evening breeze.
"Sam," he said, but he didn’t know if he'd actually made any sound. "Sam, the faces." A wave of dizziness swept over him and he struggled to keep his footing.
"Dean?" Sam's hand was on his shoulder, anchoring him, and the blackness receded. "Dean, hey, man, come on." Sam practically dragged him back to the car and Dean fell gratefully into the passenger seat, trying to find the wherewithal to bitch at Sam for being so pushy. It wasn't easy; he felt drained and woozy. It pissed him off.
"Hands off, dude," he finally managed. Sam snatched his hands away and Dean immediately felt their loss.
"Sorry, asshole," Sam said as he backed out of the car and away from Dean, hands raised in front of him. "I'm gonna go find the hex bag. You okay?"
Now that Dean wasn't looking at the trees, he felt like a complete wuss. What was he supposed to say? "There were scary faces?" It was humiliating.
"I'm fine," he said gruffly. "Go burn the damn bag."
"Right," Sam said, and he sounded mad. Terrific.
Dean took slow deep breaths, trying to regain his balance. He smelled smoke, so Sam must have found and burned the bag. Sure enough, a few minutes later Sam slid into the driver's seat beside him. Dean was getting pretty fed up with Sam having to drive his ass around and he scowled.
"You okay?" Sam asked, for what felt like the millionth time today.
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean growled in his best don't push it voice. "Fucking witches."
Sam started the car. "I want to go see where Salvador Smith was found," he said.
Dean didn't argue with him. He put his head back on the seat, closed his eyes and tried to figure out why the hell he was seeing faces that scared the crap out of him, and Sam wasn't.
*
Pulling up outside Smith and Son's Auto Repair Shop, Sam glanced over at Dean. His eyes were closed and there was a sheen of sweat on his face.
"Dean. Hey, Dean, we're here." He reached over to shake Dean awake, but pulled his hand back before he touched Dean's arm.
"I know, Jesus," Dean muttered as he opened his eyes. He looked around the parking lot and his breath caught as he glanced up at the streetlight. "Fuck." He closed his eyes again, breathing hard.
"More faces?" Sam asked. Dean nodded, looking pale and miserable.
"Be right back. Don't move." Dean flapped his hand weakly in acquiescence and Sam moved in a hurry. Whoever was doing this to his brother, Sam was going to find them and kill them.
It didn't take him long to discover a hex bag tucked away right at the base of the streetlight. While it burned he checked the perimeter of the building for more, but found nothing except a lot of crushed cigarette butts and McDonald's wrappers.
They stopped to pick up a pizza on the way back to the hotel. Sam absentmindedly chewed on a slice while he opened his laptop.
Dean stretched out on his bed, pizza box beside him, and proceeded to ignore Sam completely.
"Dean," Sam said. "I think I figured out what's going on here."
"Well, some friggin' witch thinks turning people into human vegetables is a good time," Dean said. "What more do we need to know?"
"It's called pareidolia. Huh," Sam said. "Listen to this. Pareidolia is a psychological condition in which the brain interprets meaningful patterns, usually impression of human face, out of random and vague stimuli. A common example is faces in the cloud, where supposedly random patterns are seen as significant."
Dean just stared at him and shook his head. "So you're saying the hex bags make people see faces and that turns them into statues?" He got up off the bed. "Wait, I think there might be something in here." He dug around in his duffel for a long time before he emerged holding John's journal in his hand.
It had been a while since they'd referred to their father's journal for anything. Sam wasn't sure if that was because they'd outstripped John's knowledge, or if Dean was too mad at him even bother anymore.
Sam watched as Dean flipped through the worn pages, stopping to read here and there, his face momentarily unguarded. Sam saw anger reflected there, anger and love and grief for the man who at one time had been Dean's whole world.
"Here, I knew I remembered something," Dean said, his expression smoothing out as he shoved the journal under Sam's nose and pointed to a page. "People seeing faces and going all House of Wax. It was a friggin' witch then, too," Dean said in disgust. "Some guy named Freddy Wilson. What the hell kind of name is that for a witch?"
"Did Dad say what happened to him?" Sam asked.
"Nah, just says he disappeared after Dad figured out what he was doing." Dean kept reading. "But not before most of the people he cursed got weaker and weaker until they finally died. Dad thought maybe the guy was after their life force. He called it their spiritus."
"Terrific." Sam thought for a minute. "Maybe he's an old guy, then. Someone who needs the energy. Or, like Patrick, looking for longevity - only shit at poker."
"Could be," Dean said. "I don't really give a shit. I say we gank him."
*
"Dude, this weather blows," Dean grumbled as he backed the Impala out of the hospital parking lot. Sam knew Dean was happy enough to be in the driver's seat this time that he didn't really give a crap about the weather, he was just bitching to be bitching.
Although Sam had to admit, it was a pretty impressive storm. Thunder, lightning, high winds, the works. There were even tornados in the area, if the sirens going off all over town were any indication.
They'd gone to visit "Aunt Gwen" but she was no longer there. The nurse on the unit told them all three victims had woken up with no memory of what happened to them and they'd all been released.
"I guess with all the hex bags being destroyed – you did get them all, didn't you, Sam?" Dean asked as he tried to navigate around fallen tree limbs and flooded side streets. The windshield wipers struggled ineffectually against the driving rain. "Son of a bitch," Dean said as the wind buffeted the car.
"As far as I know, yeah," Sam said. He looked at the map spread out over his knees. "Turn right at the next light."
The nurse also told them that there were more senior citizens in Oxford than one would expect in a college town, and that they tended to hang out at the rec center, hogging all the treadmills, or else they congregated at McDonalds for coffee and gossip.
Dean thought a witch who was draining people's life forces was more likely to be found working out on a treadmill than eating greasy food at a fast food joint. Sam didn't disagree.
"Weirdo health nuts," Dean said, as they headed towards the sign-in desk at the rec center. The lights flickered as the storm continued to howl outside and the girl at the desk stole a nervous glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows across from his station. "It's like walking into Coccoon.
They whipped out their FBI badges and flashed them at the girl, who looked doubtfully at Dean's rain-soaked green jacket and Sam's dripping hair. Her nametag read "Katie."
"We're undercover," Dean growled and Katie gulped.
"Right, right," she said. "How can I help you?"
"We're looking for an old guy," Sam said, and Katie rolled her eyes and jerked her head towards the rows of treadmills, every one of which was occupied by a senior citizen in a track suit, wearing bright white running shoes.
"An old guy with lots of energy," Dean said, and before Katie could raise her eyebrows and give them a duh, Dean scowled and added, "Listen, I mean someone who was maybe kind of weak, or sick, and in the past couple of weeks has gotten a whole lot better."
Sam studied the people on the treadmills and thought about needles and haystacks. Dean's nebulous description could probably fit any number of these folks. That's why people came to fitness centers after all: to improve their level of fitness.
"Well, Mrs. Wilson was pretty sick a while back and now she's feeling much better," Katie was saying. She pointed to the last treadmill in the row, the one farthest away from the desk. "There she is, over there."
"Mrs. Wilson?" Dean asked. He looked at Sam. "I thought it was a guy."
"What's her first name?" Sam asked.
"Frieda," Katie said. "She's a nice old lady, brings cookies for the staff all the time."
"Well, lets go talk to her, Sammy," Dean said, and right at that moment, Frieda Wilson spotted them. There was a deafening clap of thunder and the lights flickered one last time as the electricity went out.
"Shit," Dean yelled as he took off running in the direction of the treadmills.
*
It felt absurd to be chasing an old lady through the streets of Oxford in the middle of a thunderstorm, but Sam guessed on a scale of one-to-ten of the absurdity in his life, this rated a three or four at most.
The wind gusted and cold rain stung his face, and he could hear Dean cursing behind him. Ahead, Frieda Wilson turned a corner and Sam put on a burst of speed, determined not to let someone who was fifty years his senior outrun him.
They careened around the corner just as a tree branch crashed across the sidewalk in front of them. Sam tried to run around it and jump over it at the same time, which turned out to be a terrible idea. He went sprawling and landed on his left shoulder, trying to roll with his momentum and lessen the impact.
He heard laughter as he went down, and Dean shouted, "Hey, Grandma, you think that's funny?"
Sam lay there winded and concentrated on catching his breath. Something sharp was poking him in the shoulder and then Dean was there, rolling him over, hands gentle where it hurt.
The wind died down and it had stopped raining. Sam heard laughter again, and then Frieda Wilson called, "Sorry about that, boys."
Dean helped him to his feet but then quickly pulled his hands away, leaving Sam to stagger at the sudden loss of support.
Frieda laughed again, an odd tinkling sound, and the sun edged its way out from behind a suddenly fluffy white cloud.
Sam stared at the tiny woman, puzzled. Her eyes twinkled at him but he didn't think the light in them was benevolent. He turned to Dean.
"Wait, I thought it was a guy. Isn't that what Dad's journal said?"
Dean shrugged, never taking his eyes off Frieda. "So, what, you make 'em catatonic, then you suck off their life force like some kind of parasite?"
Frieda smiled, not denying Dean's accusations. "What better place than a college town? The place is bursting with life."
"You bitch," Sam said, holding his arm as the pain throbbed dully across his shoulder.
Frieda Wilson peered up at Sam, her face shining in the now brilliant afternoon sunlight. "You don't like my little faces?" She didn't turn away from Sam, but somehow the question was clearly directed at Dean.
"Not really, no," said Dean, glaring at her.
"But they don't bother you, Sam, do they?" she asked with a sly smile. "I know why that is." She almost sounded like she was flirting with him. "Do you?" She looked at Dean. "How about you, Dean? Do you know why my faces don't bother Sam?"
*
For a moment the sweet old lady was gone and there was a hideous crone in her place, with glowing eyes and a dark gash where her smiling mouth had been. As her gaze burned at Sam Dean saw it, saw the dark crimson around his lips and smeared on his chin. Dean recoiled, adrenaline jolting through him like he'd been hit with a cattle prod.
The effect only lasted an instant and then Dean was left staring at Sam while Frieda beamed at them both as if they'd done something clever and remarkable. Her hair was fluffy and white, her skin soft and pink, and her eyes were full of amusement.
"I knew it," Dean said, barely able to get the words out through lips stiff with despair. "I knew that's why that shit didn't bother you."
Sam flinched at the accusation and Dean almost took the words back.
Sam's hand was at his mouth, fingers rubbing his lips as if they tingled and burned. How many times had Dean watched as Sam scrubbed at mouth over the past year, as if he could wipe away his sins with soap and water and his own hands.
"Dean," Sam pleaded.
"No, Sam," Dean said.
Still looking inordinately pleased with herself, Frieda said, "Well, I guess I'll be on my way." She gathered up her purse and her shopping bags, pulling her sweater close.
"Wait," Sam said hoarsely. "You have to stop doing this."
"We can't just let you walk away, you know that," Dean said.
"I think you'll find that you don't have much of a choice, dear," said Frieda. "By the way, that was my brother your father met back then." There was a flash of light and when the smoke cleared she was gone.
"Dammit," Dean spluttered, but there wasn't much they could do about it. "Freakin' witches." He narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Come on, let's get out of here."
*
Sam sighed, managing to get the car door open with the hand that wasn't trying to keep his shoulder all in one piece.
"Don't bleed on my car," Dean said.
Sam thought back to all the times over his life that one of the three of them had bled all over the Impala. Those memories were oddly comforting and he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, lost in the past as Dean drove them back to their motel.
The storm had blown out of town when Frieda did, but the electricity was still off at the motel. Dean rooted around in the trunk and emerged with a couple of candles and the first aid kit.
Inside, Sam settled at the table and took his shirt off as Dean got the candles lit. Spreading the first aid kit out in front of them, Dean peered at the wound in Sam's shoulder and shaking his head.
It was a fairly small gash, and Sam would have sewn it up himself if he could have reached it, but it was just high enough that he couldn't actually see the damn thing.
"Sit still," Dean said automatically. He always said that, even though Sam had stopped wiggling and squirming at having his injuries tended to a long time ago.
Sam let Dean work in silence, staring ahead at nothing. He was tired of the distance between them; just tired in general. He didn't think he'd ever been this exhausted and he didn't expect things to get much better as they got closer to the impending apocalypse. Why Dean couldn't see that they needed each other, that they didn't work when their bond was frayed and coming apart, was beyond him.
"Dean," he said, looking up at his brother.
Dean finished fixing the last piece of tape to the dressing on Sam's shoulder and made to move away, not meeting Sam's eyes.
"Dean," Sam said again, and this time he could hear the plea in his own voice. He reached up and took hold of Dean's wrist, refusing to let him go. Dean struggled for a minute and then gave in, sagging down in his seat, defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders. "Look at me, Dean."
Slowly Dean raised his face to Sam's, his eyes blazing with emotion. Sam was taken aback by the intensity of it. "Dean," he said for the third time. "Please. It doesn't matter. I'm still me."
"Goddammit, Sammy," Dean said. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he looked at Sam and smiled sadly. Reaching up, he rubbed his thumb across Sam's mouth, tugging on his bottom lip. "I can still see it, you know. The blood."
Sam nodded. "I know." He knew; he could still feel it sometimes, the stickiness almost indelible on his skin. Smeared over his lips, his chin, never completely fading. He knew that's what Dean saw when he looked at him, knew that's why Dean refused to kiss him. He missed kissing Dean with almost unendurable desperation. "I don't know how to make it go away. I'm sorry." He looked into Dean's eyes, letting everything show on his face, all the love and fear and hurt that never left him alone.
There was a moment when Sam thought it was no good. A moment when he thought Dean was going to turn away from him. His brother's eyes were soft now but his expression was unreadable. Even when Dean finally moved, Sam wasn't sure which way it was going to go.
And then Dean leaned forward and touched his mouth to Sam's in a gentle kiss that felt almost, if not quite, like forgiveness. Sam's eyes burned and he closed them, relief and love flooding through him. He let Dean control the kiss. Dean's lips moved against his and his tongue licked at Sam's mouth, slow cleansing touches that almost broke Sam.
Dean's hands moved down, touching Sam's neck, fingers ghosting over the heated skin of his chest before coming to rest, offering comfort, at the small of Sam's back.
"Please," Sam whispered. He was strong; he could feel himself getting stronger every day, getting ready to fight, to say no - or to say yes, if that's what needed to be done. Dean made him vulnerable and he wasn't sure it was good for him, this feeling of helplessness in the face of his brother's judgment and love.
But Sam needed Dean more than he feared him. Dean's hands were at his waist now, skimming over his skin and Sam shivered. He grasped and held Dean's wrists and pulled them both to their feet. They stood together in the candlelight and Dean was beautiful in his weariness.
Leaning his forehead against Dean's, Dean's warm breath on his lips, Sam said the only word he could think of, the word that was repeating itself over and over again in his head, his heart, and his soul. "Please."
Dean nodded and kissed him again and Sam's knees trembled with relief. It wasn't a solution, but it was an answer. Dean had always been the answer to all of Sam's questions.
By the time Sam felt the bed under his back, Dean was desperately sucking on his mouth, tongue sweeping inside. He straddled Sam, knees on either side of Sam's hips, leaning over to kiss him, to run his lips over that spot on Sam's neck that made Sam practically stop breathing.
Sam pushed Dean's shirt down his shoulders, then shoved him back so he could tug the t-shirt over Dean's head. It had been too long since he'd had his brother like this and Sam wanted to put his hands everywhere at once. He wanted to touch Dean all over, to smooth his hands on Dean's skin and never let go.
Dean shifted back on Sam's thighs and reached for his belt, unbuckling it, unzipping his jeans and pulling them down his thighs. Sam winced as his shoulder was pressed into the mattress.
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said.
"Not a problem," Sam gasped as Dean stripped off his boxers.
"Here, wait," Dean said, and he got to his feet, getting rid of Sam's clothes entirely.
Sam scooted up the bed, shoving a pillow behind his shoulder and propping himself up against the headboard. He watched appreciatively as Dean opened his own jeans, shoving them out of the way just enough to push his boxers down under his balls. He took hold of his cock, stripping his hand down the length just once before Sam reached out and grabbed his arm.
"Get down here," he said, and he yanked Dean toward him, settling him between his legs, Dean's back to his chest. Sam breathed on the side of Dean's neck and Dean arched against him. Sam wrapped one arm around Dean's chest and held him in place, his other hand trailing down Dean's stomach to wrap around his dick.
Dean struggled a little, trying to move his hips, but Sam kept him there easily. He licked the shell of Dean's ear; whispered, "Hold still, Dean. Don't fucking move."
"Fuck you," Dean panted, and Sam started stoking him slowly, fingers sliding up and down, and Dean groaned.
Sam chuckled and he might have gotten an elbow to the ribs if he hadn't thumbed over the head of Dean's dick right then.
Sam's cock was rubbing against the denim of Dean's jeans and he took his hands off Dean long enough to shove the jeans down so his cock nestled in the crease of Dean's ass.
He jerked Dean off, holding him immobile, hips thrusting up into warm heat. He wanted to fuck Dean, wanted to be inside him, but he was too far-gone to stop now, and if the broken, desperate sounds Dean was making were any indication, he wasn't the only one.
He moved frantically, his cock sliding between Dean's thighs, then with a low groan, Dean came, warm and wet in Sam's hand. Sam thrust another time or two, then closed his eyes and let go, hips stuttering as his orgasm overtook him.
After, Sam let Dean roll to the side, let him get up and step out of his jeans and boxers. Dean disappeared into the bathroom, which made Sam uneasy. If he came out and made even one move toward the unoccupied bed, Sam would be tempted to shoot him. But when he emerged, Dean lay down next to Sam, stiff and unmoving, sheet pulled up to his chin.
Sam rolled his eyes and barely refrained from grabbing his brother and shaking him.
"Dean, look at me," Sam said. Dean shook his head.
"No, Sammy. I can't." He turned and buried his face in the crook of Sam's shoulder and Sam felt him relax. "I always see it, Sam. And I'm scared. We're gonna lose again, Sam, I know we are." Sam heard Dean's unspoken words.
I'm gonna lose you.
"Shh, Dean, no, no we're not," Sam said. "And right now, right now we have this. We can do this, right now, and no one can stop us, not angels, not demons, no one." He made himself sound confident, made himself believe his own words so Dean would, too.
Dean didn't answer, and Sam waited for him to run again.
Finally Dean sighed, a long shudder that Sam felt down to his bones. He pulled his head back and looked at Sam. "I'm tired, Sam. But I’m not gonna say yes to those bastards. And neither are you." He closed his eyes and lay back down, still curled into Sam.
They almost never slept in the same bed anymore, and for a moment Sam smiled. Then it hit him that Dean was staying, not so much because he wanted to be there beside Sam while they slept, but because he was afraid to let him go.
He could accept that. It was better than Dean not being there at all. Dean's breathing began to even out in a surprisingly short time. That was unexpected. Dean usually took a long time to fall asleep, but maybe sex was as good as alcohol at getting him there.
It would have to be enough, at least for tonight.
*
"Hmm," said Sam over breakfast the next day. "It looks like there might be zombies in Sioux Falls. I wonder if Bobby knows anything about it."
Dean's face brightened and Sam smiled at him. "Zombies?" He shoved the last of the pancakes in his mouth, washed it down with a quick slurp of coffee, and stood up. "What are we waiting for? Get your ass in gear, Sam."
…I'll clean them off with my lips my baby
Artist: gnatkip
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word count: 8800
Warnings/Spoilers: Takes place between My Bloody Valentine and Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid
Summary: Sam and Dean, working a case, knowing they're better together than apart.
AN: I had the most beautiful art to work with. Seriously gorgeous. I can only hope this story is worthy. Also, the title comes from JC Chasez's Right Here (By Your Side), which, you can't get any better than that. And so many thanks to
without_me for the awesome beta, for dealing with excess commas, adverbs, and most of all, qualifiers. Thanks, A.Link to the art post: Beautiful art
*
"Here's something," Sam said, not looking up from his laptop. Dean slurped his coffee noncommittally, so Sam just kept talking. "Two people in Oxford, Ohio, apparently catatonic for no good reason that anyone can figure out."
There was no response from the other side of the table. Not even a grunt. Sam soldiered on. "Or, in Tupelo, there's a guy who disappeared from his farm in the middle of the night, taking his favorite goat with him. His wife says she'd suspected there was something going on between her husband and the goat when she discovered them –"
And there it was, a snort. A tiny one, but still, it was a reaction and these days Sam would take just about anything he could get and be grateful for it.
Okay, maybe grateful wasn't the right word. Relieved tinged with annoyed, maybe. Whatever, any sign of Dean acting normal around him helped tamp down the fear and anger that threatened to boil over whenever Sam loosened the stranglehold he had on his emotions even a little.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, Sam trying to be content waiting Dean out, to not push for once. Finally Dean sighed and said, "Okay, so what's up with the catatonic people?"
His tone was flat and he sounded weary, but he couldn't be any more exhausted than Sam was. Sleep was hard to come by these days, what with the stony silence emanating from the other bed, the other bed roll, or whichever seat of the Impala Sam wasn't trying to twist his arms and legs into a comfortable enough pretzel to actually doze off in.
Then there was the impending apocalypse he couldn't get a handle on how to prevent. That didn't do much for his dreams, either.
And sometimes, Sam would just be drifting off, and Dean's words from more than a year ago - words Sam could never forget - would catch him at the edge of sleep, pulling him back, startling his eyes open, the adrenaline spike making his heart thump in sudden fear.
If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you.
Dean did know Sam; though, knew him well enough to chain him to a bathroom sink before he went off with Cas to find Famine.
But he didn't know him well enough not to let a flicker of surprise cross his face when Sam didn't drain the demons offered to him by Famine.
That expression of surprise was worlds better than the expression that followed it, the expression Sam saw every time Dean's eyes fixed on Sam's mouth.
Sam had spent a long time trying to wash the blood from his face, to remove the stain of red from his lips and chin, but he knew it would never truly be gone. He could see the shadow of the stain in Dean's eyes, always there, always accusing.
Bobby's panic room had done nothing to reassure Dean. Dean hadn't touched Sam, except when he couldn't avoid it, since the second stretch of time Sam had spent strapped to the cot, screaming out his pain.
Sam couldn't figure out how it was so easy to miss someone who was sitting right there by his side.
"Well," Sam said now, in his best business-as-usual voice, "A man named Salvador Smith and a woman named -" he looked down at his computer "- Gwendolyn Armstrong were both found by their families, sitting and just…staring at nothing. They show no response to any stimuli, but otherwise they're perfectly healthy." Sam looked up at Dean and shrugged. "Worth checking out."
Dean drained the last of his coffee and stood up, shoving his chair back. "Whatever." He put his cup down and turned on his heel, heading toward the door of the diner without a word. When he got there, he looked impatiently over his shoulder. "Sam. Come on, get the lead out."
Suppressing a sigh, Sam nodded and followed his brother out the door.
*
The town of Oxford was nestled in the gently rolling hills of western Ohio, close enough to Indiana that Sam saw faded signs advertising a "State to State Half Marathon and 5K" race from the previous September. Miami University sat at its center: the heart of the town and the only obvious reason for its existence.
There were no major interstates, access to the town coming only from two-lane highways that curved around fields of corn and soy.
Salvador Smith and Gwendolyn Armstrong were currently residents of the local hospital, both of them lying motionless in bed and staring off into space.
Dean decided they should go in as CDC, which Sam thought was a stupid idea.
"Why the hell would the CDC be interested in a couple of catatonic people? It's not exactly contagious," Sam argued.
"Hey, we don't know that for sure," Dean said. "And it's not like the FBI would give a shit." He turned away from Sam and pulled his suit jacket out of the old plastic garment bag they'd ripped off from some dry cleaner ages ago. After a cursory attempt at shaking out the wrinkles, Dean draped the pants and jacket over one of the chairs in their quaint but crappy motel room.
Sam didn't actually care what cover they used. He didn't particularly care about the two people in the hospital, either. He cared about Lucifer, and Dean, and that was pretty much it right now. But hunting, working a case, was at least something Dean was willing to do together, so Sam was prepared to go through the motions.
He looked up from his attempts to make his own suit coat look a little less rumpled in time to see Dean shrugging into his battered green jacket. Sam frowned.
"You going somewhere?" He tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, but knew he hadn't succeeded when Dean's shoulders tightened and his hands stilled as he reached for the car keys on the battered dresser.
"Thought I'd go check out that bar we passed earlier," Dean said, without looking around. "Grab a beer or two. That all right with you?" He sounded both defensive and annoyed.
"Sure, Dean," Sam said wearily. He saw the tension in his brother's shoulders and decided not to push things. He'd been making that decision a lot lately. "Knock yourself out."
Dean nodded, still without looking at Sam, and headed for the door. He hesitated as he stepped over the threshold, a pause so brief Sam wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it, and then he was gone.
Sam held onto that momentary hesitation as he spent the evening idly flipping though TV channels, stopping on the occasional bad sitcom and avoiding the news like it was his job. He had no desire to see how fucked up things were in the world. There was no way he was going to sit here in another empty room and wallow over the death and destruction he'd brought to the whole fucking planet. That was too self-flagellating, even for him.
Besides, he had Dean's absence to remind him just how far he'd fallen.
*
Mac & Joe's bar was crowded and noisy. It had the slightly frenetic vibe Dean associated with college bars, where the kids were so eager to get drunk that they pounded the drinks back as quickly as they could, loudly and with single-minded determination.
Dean knew all about that.
He swallowed the last of the whiskey in his glass, appreciating the burn in his throat. He was waiting for the click in his head, the click where things got blurry enough that Sam's face, his mouth smeared red with blood, wasn’t as sharp and focused as it was without the haze of alcohol to soften it.
Slowly Dean felt some of the ever-present tension he carried around seep away and as he relaxed he began to tune into his surroundings. There wasn't much to hear except noisy chatter as girls, who all seemed to be dressed alike, vied with the thumping bass for the attention of drunk frat boys hanging off each other, talking loudly about whatever it was college boys liked to talk about.
Dean wouldn't know anything about that.
He straightened up as he caught the name Mrs. Armstrong, and then he realized a girl at the next table was talking about "Aunt Gwen." He shrugged. Might as well do something useful instead of sitting here staring into his glass and brooding about Sam.
Not that Dean brooded. He'd deny it with his last breath, no matter what Sam and Bobby said. Dean Winchester did not brood.
Dean pushed back his chair and made his move. There were five girls at the table, three with long blonde hair and two with long brown hair. Mustering up as much charm as he could, he gave them his most winning smile and said, "Hello, ladies."
There was a chorus of giggles as the girls looked up at him, matching smiles on their faces. "Mind if I join you?"
"Aren't you a little old to be hitting on college girls, dude?" said a voice from behind him. Dean scowled and turned around, glaring at the skinny kid planted two feet away who was giving off a territorial vibe as if he was going to get up in Dean's face any minute and start barking. Dean scoffed.
"Butt out, dude," he said in his most intimidating growl. The kid backed up a step, but he didn't actually go away like he was supposed to. Great. "Listen, pal, I've got a few questions I need to ask these girls, if you don't mind." He wondered if he had some kind of official ID on him that he could use to intimidate the kid into making himself scarce.
"Questions about what?" the kid asked. The girls seated around the table tilted their heads up at Dean, all at the same angle. It was freaky.
Dean gave up. Thanks to the kid butting in, he had lost any chance of a friendly conversation with the girls, so he cut right to the chase. "What can you tell me about Gwendolyn Armstrong?"
He supposed it saved him some time. It wasn't as if he was going to hook up with any of these girls anyway. Not with Sam waiting for him back at the motel. He was having a hard time dealing with Sam right now, but that didn't mean he wanted anyone else.
One of the blondes blinked, and Dean smiled reassuringly at her. He hooked his foot around the leg of his chair and slid it over to the bigger table, sitting down and waiting for the girl to start talking.
"Aunt Gwen," the blonde said. "Well, she's not really my aunt. Any of our aunts, really." She waved her hand around at her friends. "We just call her that. She works at our sorority house, like, she's the housekeeper, only she kind of looks out for us, you know?" She bit her lip and looked sadly at Dean. "And now she won't talk to anyone, she just sits and stares; doesn't even blink. It's creepy," she finished, putting her small hand on Dean's arm, her warm fingers curling around his wrist. "I'm Stephanie, by the way." She smiled at him.
"When did it start?" Dean asked her, trying to mold his features into a sympathetic expression. It wasn't easy and a wave of exhaustion crashed over him, leaving his head swimming. He was so tired. His eyes itched and he felt like he should blink or something. A small crease appeared between Stephanie's eyebrows and Dean tried to smile at her reassuringly. The crease got more pronounced. He stopped trying so hard.
"Her son found her like that," one of the other girls said. This one was a brunette. "I'm Alison." A smile that matched Stephanie's appeared on her face. "He got home from work and she was just there, outside his trailer, staring. He ended up putting her in the car and taking her to the hospital. He said it was like she didn't even know he was there." Alison shuddered.
That was pretty much all the information they seemed able to offer. Dean drained his beer and got to his feet. He had a sudden need to see Sam, that same stupid need that struck him whenever Sam was out of his sight for too long. As much as he'd wanted to be out of their motel room and away from Sam earlier, that was how much he suddenly needed to be back there, to see for himself that Sam was all right.
To see for himself that Sam was still there.
He nodded his thanks at the girls, gave the skinny kid one more glare, and got the hell out of there.
Sam was indeed still in their room. He was asleep, sprawled out shirtless on one of the beds, sheet low on his waist. Dean made himself look away from the shadows in the hollow of Sam's hips where the sheet touched Sam's skin, shadows that invited Dean in, enticed him with their darkness and their false promises of warmth and love.
He couldn't keep his eyes from going to Sam's mouth, though, checking the color, gauging if the pinkness was natural or if it was something more than that. Dean had seen his brother's lips stained red with blood too many times to be able to look away for long.
Sam stirred in his sleep, turning on his side, his back to Dean. His body curved and curled in on itself, broad shoulders and smooth skin visible in the dim light from the bathroom. Dean wanted him with an aching fierceness that never truly left him.
Instead of reaching for his brother, Dean closed his eyes and turned away.
*
In Sam's dreams, Dean leans over him with a bright grin, kissing across Sam's chest, catching his nipple in a playful bite. He moves farther down, breath hot on Sam's skin, watching Sam through half-lidded eyes. Sam shudders with need, gasping his brother's name.
Sam came awake suddenly, reaching out for Dean and feeling only cold sheets under his hand. Stilling, he waited, wondering if he'd said Dean's name aloud, if Dean had heard. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked across at the other bed.
Dean was fully dressed, as usual. Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had let his guard down enough to undress for bed. He lay on top of the covers, his jacket gathered around him and his hands tucked in his armpits. He mouth was slack, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was deep and regular.
Sam wasn't fooled. He'd shared sleeping space with Dean for most of his life and he knew what it looked like when his brother feigned sleep. He bit his lip and sighed. It wasn't that he blamed Dean. Who could blame Dean for not trusting Sam with anything anymore, especially his heart? But Sam missed Dean and he knew time was running out. Sooner or later they were going to have to deal with Lucifer and Michael and Sam didn't honestly think either he or Dean was going to live to tell the story. He wanted Dean to trust him again before it was too late.
He wanted his brother back before it was all over.
Sam pushed the covers off and sat with his feet on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He just breathed for a while, trying to find the energy to get up and deal with the day.
He eventually made his way to the bathroom, grabbing his jeans and a clean pair of boxers from his duffel bag on the way.
As the bathroom door closed behind him, he heard movement from the other bed.
Breakfast was a silent affair, but Sam was used to that. Dean filled him in on what he'd found out at the bar the night before, and then Sam watched as Dean wordlessly made his way through an enormous stack of pancakes.
They headed out towards Indian Creek, the trailer park where Gwen Armstrong's son lived. There wasn't much order to the place, with trailers spread out haphazardly around the countryside, united only by a common gate and some power lines.
Terry Armstrong's weathered trailer was situated off to the side in a stand of lush green trees. Sam peered in the front door while Dean rummaged around in the trunk of the car. Sam had no idea what Dean was looking for.
The only sounds were the buzzing of bees in a nearby patch of wildflowers and the breeze rustling through the trees. It was peaceful and for a minute all Sam wanted to do was spread out under the sweeping branches, his head in Dean's lap, Dean's fingers combing through his hair, and take a nap.
He signed and pounded on the trailer door instead. Nothing happened and he knocked again. Finally the door was pulled open with a jerk and he heard a muttered, "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?"
Since they hadn't been able to agree on FBI or CDC, they'd decided on neither, agreeing instead to be distant cousins passing through town who had heard about Gwen Armstrong's situation. Sam wasn't sorry not to be dealing with a suit and tie on such a warm day, although he did regret missing a chance to see Dean in a suit.
Sam smiled his most placating smile and said, "Mr. Armstrong, we were very sorry to hear about your mother. I'm sure this is very difficult for you. My brother Dean and I met Aunt Gwen some years ago and wanted to stop and see how she was doing."
Terry Armstrong squinted out at them, his unshaven face and uncombed hair fitting right in with a faded flannel bathrobe that hung open over a pair of ratty plaid boxers. Then he shrugged and came outside, almost tripping down the loose step attached to the side of the trailer.
"I don't have any idea what happened to her. I came home and she was sitting out here in the grass, cross-legged and still. She was staring up, I guess at the sky, and she didn't even blink when I called her name." Terry shrugged again. "I picked her up and managed to get her in the car and I took her to the hospital." He paused again, frowning. "She was real easy to move, like, her arms and legs just…folded and unfolded whichever way I wanted them to. The doc called it wax-something."
Sam nodded. "Waxy flexibility." He looked around for his brother, but Dean was still fucking around over by the car. Sam felt a wave of irritation as he continued talking to Gwen Armstrong's son. "That's a symptom of catatonia. So, is that what the doctors are saying? She's catatonic?" Terry nodded. "And they don't know why?"
"No idea," Terry said. He shrugged for a third time and scratched idly at his stubble. "No idea how long it'll last, either." He looked around as a small, fluffy brown dog came out from under the trailer. The dog was much better groomed than Terry.
"Hey, girl," Terry said. The dog came over and sat down, looking up at Terry sadly. "That's Muffin, my mom's dog. I’m looking after her while Mom's in the hospital." He bent down and rubbed the top of Muffin's head affectionately. She sighed, her big brown eyes looking even sadder.
"Well," said Sam, "I guess we'll just have to hope she wakes up soon," including the dog in that we. "Thanks for your time, and we'll be in touch."
He turned and headed back to the car. He started to say, "Let's move, dude," to Dean, but Dean wasn't looking at him. He was staring up at the sky, his eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth open slightly. "Dean," Sam said, striding over and digging his elbow into Dean's ribs.
Nothing.
"Oh, God," Terry said, pointing a shaky finger at Dean. "That's just what Mom looked like when I found her."
"Dean!" Sam said sharply. "Hey, Dean!" He grabbed his brother and shook him, then watched in horror as Dean's shoulders stayed right where Sam put them and his eyes remained unblinking. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam breathed.
Terry gaped at them and Sam swallowed down his panic. He led Dean around the side of the car and folded him into the passenger seat. Looking around frantically, he tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.
Then he saw it. It was tucked under the raised root of the tree Dean had parked next to, a minute scrap of material fluttering in the breeze. Sam strode over hand yanked it loose, holding it up in disgust.
A hex bag.
Fucking witches.
He couldn't help but open it, to see what kind of gross stuff was in it. Ruby had taught him a lot about hex bags and he fingered through the detritus jumbled together in the small fragment of cloth, trying to make sense of what he found. A couple of tiny bones, some dried herbs and plants, and what looked like a tooth. None of it told Sam much at all. It seemed like a fairly haphazard collection, without much purpose other than to do harm to random people.
Which was going to make figuring out motive a lot of fun.
Terry watched him curiously as Sam dropped the bag on the ground and then felt in his pockets for his lighter. Dean might be the firebug, but that didn't mean Sam wasn't prepared to burn stuff, too.
"Uh, who did you say you were again?" Terry asked nervously as Sam lit the hex bag on fire.
"Cousins," Sam said shortly.
"Okay." Terry sounded doubtful, but Sam really couldn't have cared less. He just wanted to get his brother out of there.
As the flames turned the bones black and the small plants burned out bright and quick, Sam looked over at Dean, hoping to see some sign of life, but Dean remained motionless, staring blankly at nothing.
After everything in the hex bag had been turned to ashes, Sam stamped on the embers to be sure it was all dust. He looked at Terry, who seemed completely unaffected by the hex bag.
"Have you been out here by this tree at all since your mom got sick?" Sam asked.
Terry shook his head. "I stay inside most of the time when I'm here."
Sam nodded. "Okay, thanks for your time," he said. Moving around to the other side of the car, he slid behind the wheel and waved a hurried goodbye at Terry.
Sam gunned the engine and peeled out of the scant patch of gravel pretending to be a driveway in front of the trailer.
"Dean," he said. "Hey, dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?" There was no response. "Shit, shit, shit."
Sam got them back to their motel and manhandled Dean inside, banging Dean's elbow on the doorframe in the process. Dean showed no sign of pain; in fact, he didn't react at all to Sam being a giant klutz.
Sam parked Dean in one of the cracked green leather chairs at the table by the window and tried very hard not to completely freak out.
And then as suddenly as it happened, it was over. Dean blinked and said, "Sammy?" His voice was bewildered, like a small child waking from a bad dream and not knowing where he was. "Sam?" He rubbed at his eyes, knuckling at them and making Sam smile with how young he looked at that moment.
Sam's stomach tightened and all he wanted right that minute was to wrap his arms around Dean and hold onto him forever, but he knew better than to try a move like that.
"You feeling better?" he asked instead.
Dean looked around the room, puzzled. "Dude, when did we come back here? What time is it?"
"A little after noon." Sam studied Dean, who was pale but otherwise seemed fine. "What do you remember?"
"Terry Armstrong. The trailer. There was a dog. And then…" Dean frowned. "Huh."
"What?"
"I saw a face," Dean said slowly. "In the clouds."
"In the clouds? Are you twelve? Were there ponies, too?" Sam didn't know why he was pissed; probably because Dean had scared the shit out of him. Also; witches.
"Bite me," Dean snapped. "There was a face and next thing I remember was I was back here with your giant head in my face, asking me stupid questions."
Sam sighed, his momentary anger fading. "It's witches. I found a hex bag."
"Crap."
"Yeah." Sam hesitated. "I looked at what was in the bag. It was pretty random. Nothing specific or with any kind of real purpose, except to screw with people."
"Huh." Dean glared at him. "Ruby teach you how to do that?"
"Yeah, she did, Dean, and it's saved our asses a couple of times now, so maybe someday you could stop bitching about it."
"Yeah, not gonna happen," Dean ground out. "That's just great, Sam. Fuckin' great."
"Anyway," Sam said, ignoring the twist in his gut at the expression on Dean's face, "That's what's going on here."
"Why didn't it affect you, Sam?" Dean looked at him, eyes narrowing. "Are you immune to witches now? Did Rudy – is it the blood?"
"No! No. I don't know, man." Sam really had no idea why the bag didn't affect him. He and Terry must have been too far away. Well, except for how close Sam was when he handled the bag, and burned it and all. He pushed that thought aside.
"Right," said Dean.
"Fine, whatever," Sam said, turning away. He wondered what it would take for Dean to give him the benefit of the doubt. Sitting down in the chair opposite Dean, he opened his laptop, placing like a barrier between him and his brother. Ostensibly keeping his attention focused on the screen, he listened to Dean poke around in his duffel and putter in the bathroom, regaining his equilibrium and ignoring Sam right back.
*
"Hey," Sam said warily, looking up from his laptop as Dean came out of the bathroom. His expression was neutral but his eyes were sad, which made Dean feel guilty for the way he'd been shutting him down lately. He gritted his teeth and pushed the feeling down deep, into that empty space Famine had been so smug about.
"What?" Dean said, moving to look over Sam's shoulder. He'd pulled up the local paper and was scanning the various articles. Pointing to one with the headline Third local resident in coma, Sam muttered, "It's not a coma. It's catatonia. How hard is that to get right?"
"I guess not everyone's as smart as you, Sammy," Dean said. He didn't really mean for it to come out sounding so derisive, but he could see Sam's face close off at Dean's words.
"We should go check it out," Sam said, not looking at Dean. They spent so much time avoiding each other's eyes. "It says here that they found the guy sitting on the ground out by a water tower on the edge of town. Let's go see if there's a hex bag."
Dean shrugged. "Sure. Let's."
The sun was setting as they pulled up to the water tower. Dean felt the back of his neck prickle, but Sam seemed to be unaffected by whatever it was that was giving Dean the heebie-jeebies.
That didn't make Dean feel any better.
The feeling that there was something wrong intensified as Dean got out of the car. Sam was studying the ground, looking around, but Dean couldn't take his eyes off the trees, which seemed to be closing in on him. He turned first one way, then another, just about ready to freak out as the leaves leered at him from the branches waving in the slight evening breeze.
"Sam," he said, but he didn’t know if he'd actually made any sound. "Sam, the faces." A wave of dizziness swept over him and he struggled to keep his footing.
"Dean?" Sam's hand was on his shoulder, anchoring him, and the blackness receded. "Dean, hey, man, come on." Sam practically dragged him back to the car and Dean fell gratefully into the passenger seat, trying to find the wherewithal to bitch at Sam for being so pushy. It wasn't easy; he felt drained and woozy. It pissed him off.
"Hands off, dude," he finally managed. Sam snatched his hands away and Dean immediately felt their loss.
"Sorry, asshole," Sam said as he backed out of the car and away from Dean, hands raised in front of him. "I'm gonna go find the hex bag. You okay?"
Now that Dean wasn't looking at the trees, he felt like a complete wuss. What was he supposed to say? "There were scary faces?" It was humiliating.
"I'm fine," he said gruffly. "Go burn the damn bag."
"Right," Sam said, and he sounded mad. Terrific.
Dean took slow deep breaths, trying to regain his balance. He smelled smoke, so Sam must have found and burned the bag. Sure enough, a few minutes later Sam slid into the driver's seat beside him. Dean was getting pretty fed up with Sam having to drive his ass around and he scowled.
"You okay?" Sam asked, for what felt like the millionth time today.
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean growled in his best don't push it voice. "Fucking witches."
Sam started the car. "I want to go see where Salvador Smith was found," he said.
Dean didn't argue with him. He put his head back on the seat, closed his eyes and tried to figure out why the hell he was seeing faces that scared the crap out of him, and Sam wasn't.
*
Pulling up outside Smith and Son's Auto Repair Shop, Sam glanced over at Dean. His eyes were closed and there was a sheen of sweat on his face.
"Dean. Hey, Dean, we're here." He reached over to shake Dean awake, but pulled his hand back before he touched Dean's arm.
"I know, Jesus," Dean muttered as he opened his eyes. He looked around the parking lot and his breath caught as he glanced up at the streetlight. "Fuck." He closed his eyes again, breathing hard.
"More faces?" Sam asked. Dean nodded, looking pale and miserable.
"Be right back. Don't move." Dean flapped his hand weakly in acquiescence and Sam moved in a hurry. Whoever was doing this to his brother, Sam was going to find them and kill them.
It didn't take him long to discover a hex bag tucked away right at the base of the streetlight. While it burned he checked the perimeter of the building for more, but found nothing except a lot of crushed cigarette butts and McDonald's wrappers.
They stopped to pick up a pizza on the way back to the hotel. Sam absentmindedly chewed on a slice while he opened his laptop.
Dean stretched out on his bed, pizza box beside him, and proceeded to ignore Sam completely.
"Dean," Sam said. "I think I figured out what's going on here."
"Well, some friggin' witch thinks turning people into human vegetables is a good time," Dean said. "What more do we need to know?"
"It's called pareidolia. Huh," Sam said. "Listen to this. Pareidolia is a psychological condition in which the brain interprets meaningful patterns, usually impression of human face, out of random and vague stimuli. A common example is faces in the cloud, where supposedly random patterns are seen as significant."
Dean just stared at him and shook his head. "So you're saying the hex bags make people see faces and that turns them into statues?" He got up off the bed. "Wait, I think there might be something in here." He dug around in his duffel for a long time before he emerged holding John's journal in his hand.
It had been a while since they'd referred to their father's journal for anything. Sam wasn't sure if that was because they'd outstripped John's knowledge, or if Dean was too mad at him even bother anymore.
Sam watched as Dean flipped through the worn pages, stopping to read here and there, his face momentarily unguarded. Sam saw anger reflected there, anger and love and grief for the man who at one time had been Dean's whole world.
"Here, I knew I remembered something," Dean said, his expression smoothing out as he shoved the journal under Sam's nose and pointed to a page. "People seeing faces and going all House of Wax. It was a friggin' witch then, too," Dean said in disgust. "Some guy named Freddy Wilson. What the hell kind of name is that for a witch?"
"Did Dad say what happened to him?" Sam asked.
"Nah, just says he disappeared after Dad figured out what he was doing." Dean kept reading. "But not before most of the people he cursed got weaker and weaker until they finally died. Dad thought maybe the guy was after their life force. He called it their spiritus."
"Terrific." Sam thought for a minute. "Maybe he's an old guy, then. Someone who needs the energy. Or, like Patrick, looking for longevity - only shit at poker."
"Could be," Dean said. "I don't really give a shit. I say we gank him."
*
"Dude, this weather blows," Dean grumbled as he backed the Impala out of the hospital parking lot. Sam knew Dean was happy enough to be in the driver's seat this time that he didn't really give a crap about the weather, he was just bitching to be bitching.
Although Sam had to admit, it was a pretty impressive storm. Thunder, lightning, high winds, the works. There were even tornados in the area, if the sirens going off all over town were any indication.
They'd gone to visit "Aunt Gwen" but she was no longer there. The nurse on the unit told them all three victims had woken up with no memory of what happened to them and they'd all been released.
"I guess with all the hex bags being destroyed – you did get them all, didn't you, Sam?" Dean asked as he tried to navigate around fallen tree limbs and flooded side streets. The windshield wipers struggled ineffectually against the driving rain. "Son of a bitch," Dean said as the wind buffeted the car.
"As far as I know, yeah," Sam said. He looked at the map spread out over his knees. "Turn right at the next light."
The nurse also told them that there were more senior citizens in Oxford than one would expect in a college town, and that they tended to hang out at the rec center, hogging all the treadmills, or else they congregated at McDonalds for coffee and gossip.
Dean thought a witch who was draining people's life forces was more likely to be found working out on a treadmill than eating greasy food at a fast food joint. Sam didn't disagree.
"Weirdo health nuts," Dean said, as they headed towards the sign-in desk at the rec center. The lights flickered as the storm continued to howl outside and the girl at the desk stole a nervous glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows across from his station. "It's like walking into Coccoon.
They whipped out their FBI badges and flashed them at the girl, who looked doubtfully at Dean's rain-soaked green jacket and Sam's dripping hair. Her nametag read "Katie."
"We're undercover," Dean growled and Katie gulped.
"Right, right," she said. "How can I help you?"
"We're looking for an old guy," Sam said, and Katie rolled her eyes and jerked her head towards the rows of treadmills, every one of which was occupied by a senior citizen in a track suit, wearing bright white running shoes.
"An old guy with lots of energy," Dean said, and before Katie could raise her eyebrows and give them a duh, Dean scowled and added, "Listen, I mean someone who was maybe kind of weak, or sick, and in the past couple of weeks has gotten a whole lot better."
Sam studied the people on the treadmills and thought about needles and haystacks. Dean's nebulous description could probably fit any number of these folks. That's why people came to fitness centers after all: to improve their level of fitness.
"Well, Mrs. Wilson was pretty sick a while back and now she's feeling much better," Katie was saying. She pointed to the last treadmill in the row, the one farthest away from the desk. "There she is, over there."
"Mrs. Wilson?" Dean asked. He looked at Sam. "I thought it was a guy."
"What's her first name?" Sam asked.
"Frieda," Katie said. "She's a nice old lady, brings cookies for the staff all the time."
"Well, lets go talk to her, Sammy," Dean said, and right at that moment, Frieda Wilson spotted them. There was a deafening clap of thunder and the lights flickered one last time as the electricity went out.
"Shit," Dean yelled as he took off running in the direction of the treadmills.
*
It felt absurd to be chasing an old lady through the streets of Oxford in the middle of a thunderstorm, but Sam guessed on a scale of one-to-ten of the absurdity in his life, this rated a three or four at most.
The wind gusted and cold rain stung his face, and he could hear Dean cursing behind him. Ahead, Frieda Wilson turned a corner and Sam put on a burst of speed, determined not to let someone who was fifty years his senior outrun him.
They careened around the corner just as a tree branch crashed across the sidewalk in front of them. Sam tried to run around it and jump over it at the same time, which turned out to be a terrible idea. He went sprawling and landed on his left shoulder, trying to roll with his momentum and lessen the impact.
He heard laughter as he went down, and Dean shouted, "Hey, Grandma, you think that's funny?"
Sam lay there winded and concentrated on catching his breath. Something sharp was poking him in the shoulder and then Dean was there, rolling him over, hands gentle where it hurt.
The wind died down and it had stopped raining. Sam heard laughter again, and then Frieda Wilson called, "Sorry about that, boys."
Dean helped him to his feet but then quickly pulled his hands away, leaving Sam to stagger at the sudden loss of support.
Frieda laughed again, an odd tinkling sound, and the sun edged its way out from behind a suddenly fluffy white cloud.
Sam stared at the tiny woman, puzzled. Her eyes twinkled at him but he didn't think the light in them was benevolent. He turned to Dean.
"Wait, I thought it was a guy. Isn't that what Dad's journal said?"
Dean shrugged, never taking his eyes off Frieda. "So, what, you make 'em catatonic, then you suck off their life force like some kind of parasite?"
Frieda smiled, not denying Dean's accusations. "What better place than a college town? The place is bursting with life."
"You bitch," Sam said, holding his arm as the pain throbbed dully across his shoulder.
Frieda Wilson peered up at Sam, her face shining in the now brilliant afternoon sunlight. "You don't like my little faces?" She didn't turn away from Sam, but somehow the question was clearly directed at Dean.
"Not really, no," said Dean, glaring at her.
"But they don't bother you, Sam, do they?" she asked with a sly smile. "I know why that is." She almost sounded like she was flirting with him. "Do you?" She looked at Dean. "How about you, Dean? Do you know why my faces don't bother Sam?"
*
For a moment the sweet old lady was gone and there was a hideous crone in her place, with glowing eyes and a dark gash where her smiling mouth had been. As her gaze burned at Sam Dean saw it, saw the dark crimson around his lips and smeared on his chin. Dean recoiled, adrenaline jolting through him like he'd been hit with a cattle prod.
The effect only lasted an instant and then Dean was left staring at Sam while Frieda beamed at them both as if they'd done something clever and remarkable. Her hair was fluffy and white, her skin soft and pink, and her eyes were full of amusement.
"I knew it," Dean said, barely able to get the words out through lips stiff with despair. "I knew that's why that shit didn't bother you."
Sam flinched at the accusation and Dean almost took the words back.
Sam's hand was at his mouth, fingers rubbing his lips as if they tingled and burned. How many times had Dean watched as Sam scrubbed at mouth over the past year, as if he could wipe away his sins with soap and water and his own hands.
"Dean," Sam pleaded.
"No, Sam," Dean said.
Still looking inordinately pleased with herself, Frieda said, "Well, I guess I'll be on my way." She gathered up her purse and her shopping bags, pulling her sweater close.
"Wait," Sam said hoarsely. "You have to stop doing this."
"We can't just let you walk away, you know that," Dean said.
"I think you'll find that you don't have much of a choice, dear," said Frieda. "By the way, that was my brother your father met back then." There was a flash of light and when the smoke cleared she was gone.
"Dammit," Dean spluttered, but there wasn't much they could do about it. "Freakin' witches." He narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Come on, let's get out of here."
*
Sam sighed, managing to get the car door open with the hand that wasn't trying to keep his shoulder all in one piece.
"Don't bleed on my car," Dean said.
Sam thought back to all the times over his life that one of the three of them had bled all over the Impala. Those memories were oddly comforting and he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, lost in the past as Dean drove them back to their motel.
The storm had blown out of town when Frieda did, but the electricity was still off at the motel. Dean rooted around in the trunk and emerged with a couple of candles and the first aid kit.
Inside, Sam settled at the table and took his shirt off as Dean got the candles lit. Spreading the first aid kit out in front of them, Dean peered at the wound in Sam's shoulder and shaking his head.
It was a fairly small gash, and Sam would have sewn it up himself if he could have reached it, but it was just high enough that he couldn't actually see the damn thing.
"Sit still," Dean said automatically. He always said that, even though Sam had stopped wiggling and squirming at having his injuries tended to a long time ago.
Sam let Dean work in silence, staring ahead at nothing. He was tired of the distance between them; just tired in general. He didn't think he'd ever been this exhausted and he didn't expect things to get much better as they got closer to the impending apocalypse. Why Dean couldn't see that they needed each other, that they didn't work when their bond was frayed and coming apart, was beyond him.
"Dean," he said, looking up at his brother.
Dean finished fixing the last piece of tape to the dressing on Sam's shoulder and made to move away, not meeting Sam's eyes.
"Dean," Sam said again, and this time he could hear the plea in his own voice. He reached up and took hold of Dean's wrist, refusing to let him go. Dean struggled for a minute and then gave in, sagging down in his seat, defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders. "Look at me, Dean."
Slowly Dean raised his face to Sam's, his eyes blazing with emotion. Sam was taken aback by the intensity of it. "Dean," he said for the third time. "Please. It doesn't matter. I'm still me."
"Goddammit, Sammy," Dean said. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he looked at Sam and smiled sadly. Reaching up, he rubbed his thumb across Sam's mouth, tugging on his bottom lip. "I can still see it, you know. The blood."
Sam nodded. "I know." He knew; he could still feel it sometimes, the stickiness almost indelible on his skin. Smeared over his lips, his chin, never completely fading. He knew that's what Dean saw when he looked at him, knew that's why Dean refused to kiss him. He missed kissing Dean with almost unendurable desperation. "I don't know how to make it go away. I'm sorry." He looked into Dean's eyes, letting everything show on his face, all the love and fear and hurt that never left him alone.
There was a moment when Sam thought it was no good. A moment when he thought Dean was going to turn away from him. His brother's eyes were soft now but his expression was unreadable. Even when Dean finally moved, Sam wasn't sure which way it was going to go.
And then Dean leaned forward and touched his mouth to Sam's in a gentle kiss that felt almost, if not quite, like forgiveness. Sam's eyes burned and he closed them, relief and love flooding through him. He let Dean control the kiss. Dean's lips moved against his and his tongue licked at Sam's mouth, slow cleansing touches that almost broke Sam.
Dean's hands moved down, touching Sam's neck, fingers ghosting over the heated skin of his chest before coming to rest, offering comfort, at the small of Sam's back.
"Please," Sam whispered. He was strong; he could feel himself getting stronger every day, getting ready to fight, to say no - or to say yes, if that's what needed to be done. Dean made him vulnerable and he wasn't sure it was good for him, this feeling of helplessness in the face of his brother's judgment and love.
But Sam needed Dean more than he feared him. Dean's hands were at his waist now, skimming over his skin and Sam shivered. He grasped and held Dean's wrists and pulled them both to their feet. They stood together in the candlelight and Dean was beautiful in his weariness.
Leaning his forehead against Dean's, Dean's warm breath on his lips, Sam said the only word he could think of, the word that was repeating itself over and over again in his head, his heart, and his soul. "Please."
Dean nodded and kissed him again and Sam's knees trembled with relief. It wasn't a solution, but it was an answer. Dean had always been the answer to all of Sam's questions.
By the time Sam felt the bed under his back, Dean was desperately sucking on his mouth, tongue sweeping inside. He straddled Sam, knees on either side of Sam's hips, leaning over to kiss him, to run his lips over that spot on Sam's neck that made Sam practically stop breathing.
Sam pushed Dean's shirt down his shoulders, then shoved him back so he could tug the t-shirt over Dean's head. It had been too long since he'd had his brother like this and Sam wanted to put his hands everywhere at once. He wanted to touch Dean all over, to smooth his hands on Dean's skin and never let go.
Dean shifted back on Sam's thighs and reached for his belt, unbuckling it, unzipping his jeans and pulling them down his thighs. Sam winced as his shoulder was pressed into the mattress.
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said.
"Not a problem," Sam gasped as Dean stripped off his boxers.
"Here, wait," Dean said, and he got to his feet, getting rid of Sam's clothes entirely.
Sam scooted up the bed, shoving a pillow behind his shoulder and propping himself up against the headboard. He watched appreciatively as Dean opened his own jeans, shoving them out of the way just enough to push his boxers down under his balls. He took hold of his cock, stripping his hand down the length just once before Sam reached out and grabbed his arm.
"Get down here," he said, and he yanked Dean toward him, settling him between his legs, Dean's back to his chest. Sam breathed on the side of Dean's neck and Dean arched against him. Sam wrapped one arm around Dean's chest and held him in place, his other hand trailing down Dean's stomach to wrap around his dick.
Dean struggled a little, trying to move his hips, but Sam kept him there easily. He licked the shell of Dean's ear; whispered, "Hold still, Dean. Don't fucking move."
"Fuck you," Dean panted, and Sam started stoking him slowly, fingers sliding up and down, and Dean groaned.
Sam chuckled and he might have gotten an elbow to the ribs if he hadn't thumbed over the head of Dean's dick right then.
Sam's cock was rubbing against the denim of Dean's jeans and he took his hands off Dean long enough to shove the jeans down so his cock nestled in the crease of Dean's ass.
He jerked Dean off, holding him immobile, hips thrusting up into warm heat. He wanted to fuck Dean, wanted to be inside him, but he was too far-gone to stop now, and if the broken, desperate sounds Dean was making were any indication, he wasn't the only one.
He moved frantically, his cock sliding between Dean's thighs, then with a low groan, Dean came, warm and wet in Sam's hand. Sam thrust another time or two, then closed his eyes and let go, hips stuttering as his orgasm overtook him.
After, Sam let Dean roll to the side, let him get up and step out of his jeans and boxers. Dean disappeared into the bathroom, which made Sam uneasy. If he came out and made even one move toward the unoccupied bed, Sam would be tempted to shoot him. But when he emerged, Dean lay down next to Sam, stiff and unmoving, sheet pulled up to his chin.
Sam rolled his eyes and barely refrained from grabbing his brother and shaking him.
"Dean, look at me," Sam said. Dean shook his head.
"No, Sammy. I can't." He turned and buried his face in the crook of Sam's shoulder and Sam felt him relax. "I always see it, Sam. And I'm scared. We're gonna lose again, Sam, I know we are." Sam heard Dean's unspoken words.
I'm gonna lose you.
"Shh, Dean, no, no we're not," Sam said. "And right now, right now we have this. We can do this, right now, and no one can stop us, not angels, not demons, no one." He made himself sound confident, made himself believe his own words so Dean would, too.
Dean didn't answer, and Sam waited for him to run again.
Finally Dean sighed, a long shudder that Sam felt down to his bones. He pulled his head back and looked at Sam. "I'm tired, Sam. But I’m not gonna say yes to those bastards. And neither are you." He closed his eyes and lay back down, still curled into Sam.
They almost never slept in the same bed anymore, and for a moment Sam smiled. Then it hit him that Dean was staying, not so much because he wanted to be there beside Sam while they slept, but because he was afraid to let him go.
He could accept that. It was better than Dean not being there at all. Dean's breathing began to even out in a surprisingly short time. That was unexpected. Dean usually took a long time to fall asleep, but maybe sex was as good as alcohol at getting him there.
It would have to be enough, at least for tonight.
*
"Hmm," said Sam over breakfast the next day. "It looks like there might be zombies in Sioux Falls. I wonder if Bobby knows anything about it."
Dean's face brightened and Sam smiled at him. "Zombies?" He shoved the last of the pancakes in his mouth, washed it down with a quick slurp of coffee, and stood up. "What are we waiting for? Get your ass in gear, Sam."
…I'll clean them off with my lips my baby