FIC: Fine Wonderful Things, Part 2
Fine Wonderful Things
Part 1 | Part 2
Judging by the angle of the sunlight pouring in under the door and around the curtains, it was past noon when Sam finally regained consciousness. He was warm, and the stiff starch of motel sheets rubbed at his cheek, but the blanket was thick and soft. He curled into Dean with a sigh, only vaguely remembering why his brother was in his bed, and not really caring.
Dean's heavy breathing was almost a snore, catching harsh on the way in and on the way out. His palms were sweaty where they rested against Sam, one on his forearm and one against his back, too, but Sam didn't care. It was the first good night of sleep he'd had in at least a month, and even Dean's feet were warm where they grazed Sam's calves, under his sweatpants.
He didn't mean to fall back asleep, but he couldn't help it, and they didn't have anywhere to be until they found themselves the next job.
The second time Sam woke up, it was to Dean rifling around in the bathroom. The bed was much easier to leave without him in it.
"Sorry," Sam said as he shuffled over to the bathroom, standing just outside the open door. He spoke to Dean's reflection as Dean bushed his teeth.
"For what?" Dean said, words muffled through the foam of toothpaste. His shoulders were in knots.
"For freaking you out. For being a basket-case all the time. I don't know, man," Sam said, scratching idly at the back of his neck. His eyes dropped to the bracket of Dean's collarbones, the pallor of his skin under the fluorescent light.
Dean just shrugged and looked awkward. "Whatever."
"You didn't have to-" Sam made a vague gesture. "You know."
Dean blinked and spat into the sink. "No, I don't know."
"Sleep with me," Sam said. "In my bed," he immediately added, and hoped he wasn't blushing.
Dean raised an eyebrow, and Sam just scoffed, glad he was being offered the easy way out. "Whatever, we have to figure out what we're doing today."
*
The coffee was delicious, rich and tangy with just the right amount of cream and vanilla extract. Sam hummed as he sipped, savoring it while Dean eyed him incredulously.
"These eggs are for shit," Dean said, poking at the underdone whites.
Sam didn't care; he had his home fries, the perfect level of crispy on the outside, spices crusted thick and orangey around the edges, but soft and hot on the inside, not too greasy or mealy.
Dean grabbed the abandoned newspaper off the table next to theirs in the diner; Lourdes had apparently highly recommended this place. "She used to work here summers," Dean said with a grin. As a waitress passed, Dean nudged Sam with his boot. "Can't you just see her in one of those little-"
"No," Sam said with a frown. There was a group of people gathered around the newspaper dispenser in front of Juanita's, their diner. There was clearly something more important than Lourdes in a skimpy waitress uniform to think about. He snatched the paper from Dean, mindful of the cheap ink.
Dean returned to his toast, lips pursed, as Sam scanned the front page. "Shit," Sam said, spraying potato across the headline.
"What now?"
"Doesn't really look like Blackjack was the routine salt-and-burn we thought he was," Sam said, voice low in defeat. "The groundskeeper was found dead, early this morning. They're saying it looked like he was shot and trampled, but they can't confirm anything."
"Well, fuck," Dean said, pushing his plate away with a sigh.
"Yeah," Sam said, downing the rest of his coffee in one gulp and ripping out the article. His fingers were smudged matte black by the time they left Juanita's.
*
"Yes sir, interns. With the coroner's office," Sam said. He pulled his white coat straight and flashed his fake badge. Dean stood at his elbow. "Just here for observation."
The iron gates swung open with a screech, ringing in Sam's ears long after they'd closed again.
The cemetery looked different in the daylight, as did all cemeteries, the thick green grass and bright bouquets lending everything an air of pretense and false warmth. It threatened to suffocate Sam. "Get in, do a quick once-over, get out," he whispered, mouth pressed to Dean's temple. Police were swarming everywhere, flanking them on all sides. Dean nodded, almost covering his shudder.
The groundskeeper was an older man, his polo shirt and thinning grey hair soaked with blood. Sam knelt down by his side, pulling on a latex glove to prod at the apparent bullet wound in his chest. It was clean and looked wholly real, except for the thin film of something that could only be ectoplasm clinging to the rough edges of torn skin.
Sam stood, listening for Dean's voice as he talked to one of the officials standing by. "No projectiles were actually found yet, am I correct?" Dean said, stern and deep. "Has Ballistics been called in for investigation?" Sam couldn't make out the other voice. "Of course, Officer. Thank you for your time."
Dean strode back towards Sam; they peeled off from the group milling around the body and headed back towards the car. "No bullets, just some weird casings they'd never seen before," Dean said with a wicked smirk.
"There are definite traces of ectoplasm around the wounds," Sam said with a nod.
"So, what are we thinking? Object? Unfinished business? Some piece of this bastard still sitting around in a meat locker somewhere?"
Dean walked about a foot away from Sam. Their shoulders didn't bump together, and their feet were out of step.
Sam eyed the ritzy bar down the street from the golf course opposite the cemetery. "I think I have an idea," he said, picturing a morbid postcard in sepia.
*
The museum was small but obviously well-cared-for. Everything shone clean and bright, neat rows of cases and exhibits in every room, professionally-lettered signs explaining the relevancy of each old book or scrap of paper.
The rooms devoted to Blackjack Ketchum were clearly marked, obviously a popular tourist attraction. Directly inside the first room was an enlarged photograph mounted on foamcore, depicting a newly-built gallows. From the end of the noose hung a tall man, a black cloth bag over his head. The angle of his neck was severe, and Sam crooked his mouth in a half-smile. "I was right," he said, more to himself than to Dean.
Dean huffed, scanning the room. "About what?"
"Nothing," Sam sighed, remembering Dean pliant against his side, deep still breaths glowing green.
"Here." Dean jabbed his thumb at a glass case containing a black hood. Rust-brown blood and long, stiff black hairs were still caught in the rough weave. "There's not very much."
"Enough, though." There were two security guards, one at each outside entrance to the series of rooms devoted to Blackjack's life and death. The sign out front proclaimed that the museum closed at five PM daily. There was an emergency door set back in the corner of the room. "We need to come back tonight."
Dean nodded and checked his watch. "He'll be out tonight, though. Someone's gotta stay at the cemetery."
"They'll have police presence there for at least the rest of the week, I bet," Sam said. His hands and shoulders twitched impatiently. "It might be kind of difficult unless we can swipe a uniform."
"There's no way we'll be able to get one to fit you," Dean said. His smile was tired. "I'll take lookout duty at the graveyard, you take break-in duty here, and we'll meet up for a celebratory boozer once the spirit's toast."
Sam nodded distractedly, attention caught by the photograph on the opposite wall and the plaque underneath it. Blackjack stood next to his brother, their faces equally expressionless. The toes of their boots touched, just barely. The angles of their elbows met in the center of the photograph.
In 1994, the remains of Samuel Ketchum were relocated from the burial grounds of the old Union County Prison to Clayton Cemetery, as financed by the descendants of the Ketchum family.
He scribbled down a quick note, following Dean out into the parking lot.
*
Stealing a police uniform for Dean from the laundry at the station turned out to be an easy task. Sam was barely even breathing hard as they pulled themselves over the fence, late afternoon sun still high and hot on their faces, citizens of Clayton strolling by obliviously.
Dean's eyes narrowed in the glare, creased deep and happy at the corners. "Hey," Sam said, and nudged his arm. "That was good."
"Of course that was good, Sam," Dean laughed. "I'm the master." He turned towards Sam, laughter falling away but still light between them. Sam's smile was small and secret, nothing and everything.
Sam looked away first. "I'm starving," he said at last. He could feel the itch again, just starting in his fingers. Sam knew it would work its way dark and sharp through the nerves of his forearms and up his neck and he wouldn't be able to think of anything else.
"Me too," Dean said, punctuated as he slung the cotton laundry bag of stolen county property over his shoulder.
Juanita's famous chicken enchiladas with green sauce and the world's best coffee lay just around the corner.
*
It was pitch black outside the museum, though it was only ten o'clock. Sam stepped carefully through the gravel of the lot, silent all the way to the back door. His lock picks were warm in his hands from where they'd pressed against his hip in his pocket. The tumblers clicked into place quietly, and Sam slipped inside with only the soft pop of his aching knees to herald him.
Each motion detector was visible due to a flashing red LED; it was simple to avoid their paths and find the service entrance that lead to the hallway, in turn connecting to the emergency door in the corner of the room with the hood.
Boots muffled against the concrete of the white-washed hall, Sam clenched and unclenched his fingers into his palms. He counted breaths, cracked each knuckle in turn.
Dean was fighting off Blackjack in the graveyard, alone.
The emergency door was wired with another alarm, red and green wires crossing over the brass handle. Sam clipped them, green then red, and hunched through the door and across the room to the glass case without incident.
He left a mock-up in place of the actual hood, locked the case with a pick after he'd stashed the real one in his bag, and crept back towards the hall. Blackjack and Samuel Ketchum stared out at him, unblinking, from the wall. Sam's spine tingled, and he let the door close silently behind him.
He waited until he was two-hundred yards from the museum building to duck behind a dumpster and empty the sodden hood onto the asphalt. Salt cascaded over it from his canister, and he poured a half-cup of lighter fluid over the pile to expedite the burning; Dean didn't have time to waste.
The flames licked high, scorching the sides of the dumpster as Sam crouched, staring into the fire impatiently. Acrid burning hair and old blood were hardly noticeable against the tug he felt towards the cemetery. He had to wait until the entire hood was dust.
As the last curls of black crumbled to ash, Sam pushed up and ran as fast as he could to the car parked three blocks away. Fire burned sick in his memory until the squeal of rubber against pavement brought him back.
*
The tall iron gate of the graveyard was pushed to, but not locked. Dean's distant shouts and the dull thud of hooves in soil trickled out from the forest that backed up to the last row of graves. Sam swallowed back a wave of panic, thick in his mouth. He ran towards the faint noise as fast as he could, legs pumping until his thighs burned. "Dean!" Ketchum was supposed to be gone; the hood had completely disintegrated.
Sam broke through the underbrush with a crash, stumbling into a clearing riddled with bullet casings. There was a huge black horse pawing the ground not five feet from him, flank heaving as hard as Sam's own chest. Astride it was a rough man, dressed in all black. He looked like a cowboy, complete with boots and spurs, except for one thing. His neck was completely severed, stitched back together over where his Adam's apple should've been and around both sides, skin sickly and greying between the thick black threads. Cloudy ooze seeped from what looked like a wide rope burn.
The smell of ozone permeated everything, and Dean wasn't there.
"Dean!" Sam screamed again, voice cracking and tearing at his throat. "Dean!"
A sliver of light from the fingernail moon glinted off dull gunmetal on the other side of the clearing. Blackjack turned his horse to face Sam just as Sam scrambled for the shotgun, lying breeched on the ground surrounded by shells full of salt.
A prone form, black in the shadow of the trees, lingered in Sam's periphery as he shoved the cartridges in the gun with shaking fingers. He looked back towards the ghost instead, ignored the stillness and the desperate need to check, to see that it was Dean and he still breathed.
Blackjack's horse reared up just before Sam took aim, charging him down as the ghost cocked the hammer of his gun. A blanket of calm draped over Sam, suddenly aware of nothing but the sight on Dean's shotgun. He fired the second he could see the white of the horse's eyes, spray of salt just beating out the echoing sound of Blackjack's pistol.
The bullet turned to nothing but wisps of black smoke inches from Sam's chest.
He dropped the gun and bolted to Dean's side, pressing his fingers flat below the dip of Dean's jaw into his neck. He was slow and muted, like everything was underwater, and it was like a vision of eleven months in the future. Sam couldn't breathe.
Finally he felt it; a pulse beat shallow and erratic, and Sam let out a shaky breath, almost a sob against his brother's chest.
"Dean, god, wake up," Sam whispered. He pressed first his forehead to the fluttering in the curve of Dean's throat; then his cheek, wet with sweat or tears; last his lips, dry and cracked. "Come on, Dean, come on, you're fine. Please, please, please," he muttered, hands finding purchase in Dean's shirt, his jacket, over his shoulders and in his hair where sweat cooled against his scalp.
He smelled salty and of rich dirt, gunpowder and grass. There was sluggish blood smeared at the back of his neck, only enough to be from a scrape, like from sliding down the rough bark of a tree after slamming into it. He could still have a concussion, though, or a cracked skull, broken neck, internal bleeding, bullet wound somewhere Sam couldn't see. He could die.
"Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare. I still have eleven months, god, Dean-" Sam sucked in a rattling breath, his chest tightening as he tried to fight back the wave of panic, the spiny crawling across his skin. "You can't, I haven't even-I won't let you-"
Dean's eyes didn't even open, like his eyelids weighed too much. Sam's thumbs were brushing soft across his temples, Dean's head still cradled in his lap when he finally spoke. "What-"
Sam froze then, stopped his quiet pleading litany as his mind went blank. Dean sat up, groaning and clutching his head.
It threw a switch in Sam, and he surged forward, ripping Dean's jacket off and shoving his shirt up, inspecting every inch of him, every stretch of skin Sam could get his hands on. Dean's eyes widened, and his breath hitched as he scooted backwards into the base of a tree. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," Sam mumbled, running his fingers up and down the edges of the ugly scrape along Dean's back. He couldn't stop.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dean managed, voice strained after having the wind knocked out of him. "I'm fine, it's okay. You got here in time, it's all-"
"It's not all okay," Sam hissed, holding back the tears that threatened to spill over with every word. "Jesus, Dean, I almost didn't make it in time, I didn't know if-this isn't. This is going to be for real, soon, and I'm not going to be able to stop it. You are going to fucking die, Dean, your soul is going to hell, so don't you fucking placate me."
He knew he was crying, knew what he must look like. But something had snapped. The feel of Dean's skin under his fingers, the memory of waking up warm and safe, of Dean sprawled out in the car, of Deandeandean: it was everything. Sam leaned in and closed his lips over the pulse in Dean's throat, tasted it and felt it in sync with the beat of Dean's heart under his hand, strong now.
Dean made a soft noise and didn't push Sam away. His hands came up to card through Sam's hair, pull him up closer and press their mouths together, lips cool and tongues hot. Sam kissed back, salty and wet from his tears and the iron tang from smears of Dean's blood, everything earthy and deep and them. He sucked in breaths between frantic bites and licks, unwilling to let go now that he had Dean, had all of him, right beneath him.
"Fuck, fuck, Sam," Dean sighed, broken as he slid a hand under Sam's shirt against the waist of his jeans. His fingers were rough and dirty and perfect, and Sam walked forward on his knees to straddle Dean's thigh.
Sam thumbed open the button of Dean's jeans with one hand, finding his cock already half-hard and lengthening as they shifted their hips together, breathing damp and frantic into each other's mouths. He tried not to moan, high and reckless, as Dean slid his hand around Sam's dick, but he couldn't hold it in. Dean's fingers slipped along his hard cock like they were made to fit, like he knew exactly how it felt and what Sam wanted.
"You're not dying," Sam mouthed against Dean's ear, rocking his hips into the tight circle of Dean's hand. "I won't let you."
Dean turned his head to capture Sam's lips, soft this time, pulling back just enough to tease every time Sam tried to deepen it. Sam growled and bit at Dean's mouth, sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled at it. The spill of Dean's precome slicked his cock, Sam's hand tightening and pumping as hard as he could. Dean bucked up into his fingers, made an almost pained sound in the back of his throat as Sam thumbed over the head, under the crown, over and over until Dean's eyes squinted tight and he cried out, coming in thick bursts, long and hard, all over his stomach and Sam's hand and wrist. His grip tightened on Sam's cock as he came, and that was all it took, that and the look on his face.
Sam's orgasm was intense and wracking, leaving him shaking as he came. It went on forever, like he couldn't stop, shuddering and moaning, voice cracked. Ropes of his come mixed with Dean's on their hands and on Dean's chest, the image burned into his mind. Sam's head felt like it was full of cotton, muffling their heavy panting.
Dean lifted Sam's hand to his mouth, licking it clean. Sam swallowed hard, eyes wide, and Dean looked back at him, even and unafraid. Sam bent to taste them both, the mingled mess of their come on Dean's stomach; it was sharp and bitter as he swiped his tongue over the hard planes of Dean's abs, licked it all away. Sam let his eyes close, lost in the taste and smell of them, Dean under his hands, Dean's lips against his shoulders. He sat up, meeting his brother's desperate eyes as he came back to himself.
There wasn't a single thing he could say, skin suddenly too tight, everything too close and abrasive and dark.
*
The tense silence in the car on the way home finally broke when Dean coughed deliberately. "So," he said, eyes still fixed on the road.
Sam watched the lit signs of shops and restaurants pass, bright riots of color against black windows and buildings. "I burned it," he said, leaning his forehead against the glass.
"So what the hell is going on?"
"Clearly that wasn't what was keeping him here. Or at least, not the only thing," he said, distracted. Sam's body was a bundle of contradictions, loose and pliant, tight and wary all at once. "I shot him full of salt, but he'll be back."
Dean wrenched the wheel and careened off the road into a small parking lot without warning, Sam almost smacking his face into the window. "What the-"
"We need it," Dean grunted, getting out and slamming the door with a metallic creak before Sam had even read the faded sign above the bombed-out building he'd parked in front of: The Welcome Inn.
It wasn't an inn. It was a sketchy dive bar.
Rob Zombie played loud and obnoxious over the enormous speakers, torn but functional in each corner of the main room. Dean marched straight up to the bar, elbowing his way through a genuinely rough crowd. They weren't posers or has-beens, switchblades against their wrists and holsters under their jackets. Sam slid into a disgusting booth on the other side of the room, just watching as Dean ordered tequila shots for both of them, with Dos Equis chasers.
The lights were discolored, full of dead flies in cracked plastic, barely illuminating the ruddy faces and greasy ponytails by the bar. A bowl of chalky white candies sat at Dean's elbow on the counter. There was a doorway to the backroom in the adjacent wall, even dimmer and seedier. The constant hum of trash-talk filtered up front from the crowds around the thread-bare pool tables.
"Here, Sammy," Dean said, sliding Sam's shots and beer across the table. They stopped about two feet from him, a result of the tacky residue on the table. "Drink up."
Dean appeared to be on his third shot already. "I'm not carrying you back this time," Sam said tonelessly. He tossed back his first shot and swigged the beer, warm golden hum in his stomach.
"I'm not letting you cheat me into alcohol poisoning this time," Dean fired back. He downed half of his beer in one gulp. It was a pointless argument.
On his fourth shot, about an hour later, Sam tried to wipe out everything about the night prior to walking through the door to the bar. He couldn't get the sound of Dean's ragged breaths out of his head, the slick, hard weight of his cock, the taste of his skin and his come and the way his eyes were so dark and broken open, all for Sam. So it would all have to go. He resolved not to think about it, to tuck it away with the needling under his skin, tangled and wrong.
Dean shot pool in the back room; Sam was aware of him always, even muzzy with tequila and repression. The other men, tattooed and pierced all, milled around Dean like sharks on chum. Sam watched them, too.
*
It was two AM before Dean slid back into the booth, grin wide and cheap. He smelled like dip and malt liquor. There was a smear of motor oil rubbed against his jeans, though he hadn't been outside. He sat next to Sam instead of across from him, one leg drawn up on the bench in a drunken sprawl.
"You wanna play?" he slurred.
"Pool?" Sam asked. His chin was propped on the table between eight empty shot glasses as he counted individual salt grains. It was hard not to breathe too much and blow them all away.
"No, polo. Yes, pool, you moron," Dean said with low, rumbling laugh. He smacked Sam on the shoulder.
"Not really." Sam turned his head to look at Dean, resting his cheek on the edge of the wood. It was sticky and disgusting.
"It's lame by myself," Dean said. He put his head down on the table, mirroring Sam.
"I'd rather not get-" Sam couldn't finish his sentence, because Dean pushed him up until his shoulder blades were flush against the back of the booth, and kissed him. It was slow and fuzzy and tasted like tequila and chewing tobacco. Dean's hands bracketed his face, surprisingly soft.
"Oh," he said when Dean pulled back. Dean had long, thick eyelashes; a full mouth, red and wet and pliant; green eyes like the four empty bottles of Grolsch on the table. Sam felt a flush creeping up his own neck, knew it was there without looking at the cracked mirror on the wall.
Dean tripped out of the booth and headed for the door without a backward glance, leaving Sam to gape after him, thoughts slow as he tried to remember whether he'd paid his tab or not. There was a damp receipt by the napkin dispenser, so he left, stumbling after Dean.
Clarity was returning at an alarming pace, the night folding around him and pulling him out of his stupor. The Impala sat idle at the side of the bar, Dean slumped on the hood. "Didn't think you were coming," he said, and looked up.
"I couldn't remember if I paid." Sam stood a good distance away from where Dean's knees fell open against the grill. "I did, though."
Dean bit his lip, and scrubbed his hand over his mouth. Sam moved closer, inside the vee of Dean's thighs, and answered the question Dean didn't ask.
This time Sam had to bend down, press Dean back into the windshield to get a good angle. This time, it tasted like Wint-O-Green LifeSavers.
When Sam was eleven and Dad was in Amherst, Dean had shut them both inside the closet of their rundown old cabin. He pulled out a bag of Wint-O-Green LifeSavers and showed Sam how they sparked when he bit down on them, blue-white and unbelievable there between the gas cans and the flasks of holy water.
Sam slipped his tongue into Dean's mouth and swept the cool bite of wintergreen from around his teeth. He broke the kiss with a smile, reaching into Dean's pocket and popping the last LifeSaver into his mouth, crunching down with his lips slack and parted so Dean could see the sparks.
*
The motel room poured cold air into the parking lot, A/C left on full-blast all day. Sam flipped the switch with a dry hand, tugging Dean after him, loathe to loosen his grip on the cuff of Dean's jacket.
Dirt and sweat still caked their clothes, blood and come itchy smears against their backs and stomachs. Sam stripped off his jeans, his briefs, his shirt, while Dean sat motionless on the bed, just watching. "Dibs," Sam said, dragging his feet along the carpet to warm them up on his way to the bathroom.
Dean just hummed low in agreement. Sam didn't bother closing the door.
The hot water beat against Sam's sore muscles, soothed away most of his aches and slipped over the dull edges of alcohol blur. He half-leaned against the wall, head drooping so the stream hit the back of his neck, ran down his spine. It lulled him into a quiet daze; he didn't even notice the cool draft when Dean toed the door open. But Dean pulled back the curtain, stiff and new and still smelling of plastic, and climbed into the shower behind Sam.
Sam turned to face him, blinking away trickles of water from his eyelashes. They didn't speak, didn't need to; instead, Sam backed up under the showerhead, letting the water hit Dean, pulling him forward into it.
Dean tilted his face up into the spray, opened his mouth and drank from it. Sam watched him, starved for him, everything sharpening down to Dean's face, Dean's body, in that moment. He slid his hands up Dean's chest, felt the ridge of each rib under muscle and pale skin, rivulets of water diverting over Sam's fingers, under them, slick and warm. His thumbs glided along Dean's hips, the dip of bone, the swell of Dean's cock stirring and rising. Dean came alive under his hands, shifting to reach for Sam, pull him closer. A blush stained his chest, his shoulders, and Sam buried his nose in it, mouthed along each freckle and scar like he could memorize them, taste lingering on his tongue.
Dean moaned as Sam worked a hand down to his dick, cupping it and stroking at it, light teasing brushes as the water cascaded around them. He backed Dean against the wall of the shower, and Dean lifted his foot to the rim, spreading his legs wide. He choked back a ragged noise as Sam tightened his fist around Dean's cock, stroked harder, twisting just right. Sam let his other hand press between Dean's thighs, rubbing against his perineum, cupping and rolling his balls, heavy and wet.
"Sammy," Dean breathed, wrecked, and Sam slid to his knees on the floor of the tub. Dean's cock hung thick and flushed, heavy as Sam licked at the head, bitter precome blurting against his palate. He hummed and swirled his tongue, sucked right at the slit over and over; Dean's knees locked and his thigh muscles spasmed. Hands grasped tight in Sam's hair, fingers clenching and unclenching as Dean stilled himself, tried to take only what he was given.
Sam swallowed him down as far as he could, almost gagging on Dean's cock and relishing the ache in his throat, the tears coming to his eyes. It was harsh and real, the feel of Dean in his mouth and all around him, with him. Dean pleaded wordlessly, pushed forward as Sam started moving, lips tight around Dean's shaft and tongue working fast. Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's hips, pressed his fingers hard into the muscle of Dean's ass, pulling him closer, deeper, begging him to take what he wanted.
Dean finally started thrusting in earnest, fucking into Sam's mouth with abandon. Sam could hardly breathe, choking on Dean's dick and the water pouring into his face, and nothing had been more perfect in his life. He was lightheaded and riding the high of Dean crying his name, Dean's hands clasped tight against his neck. When Dean came, it was with a feral sound almost like a sob, flooding Sam's mouth and throat with salt-slick. Sam tried to swallow it all, but couldn't pull off fast enough, choking out sticky strings of come which clung to his chin until they washed down the drain with the dried sweat and blood.
Dean was gone, long moments passing as he panted against the wall. He looked like nothing Sam had seen before, blissed out and ripped open. When he looked down at Sam, still kneeling in benediction, he reached out and pulled him up, turned off the water and kept Sam at arms length, just staring. He was want and desperation and something like awe, like knowing he had made the right choice, like facing down hell.
Sam kissed him then, a bare brush of lips, and murmured absolution against the tender skin below Dean's ear. Dean just gripped his fingers, a vise, and pulled him back out to the room, still dripping.
Sam fell next to Dean on the freshly-made bed and held his breath as Dean kissed him, hot and hard, wrapping his hand around Sam's aching cock. He jerked fast and rough, water and trickles of precome slicking his hand and Sam's dick, making obscene wet noises in counter-point to Sam's heaving breaths.
Dean turned onto his back, stretches of bare skin begging for Sam's touch. Sam maneuvered them both up the bed, hooked one of Dean's legs tight around his waist, and knelt to press damp fingers against him, searching. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, breathing sharp in surprise as Sam pressed one finger in, slow and painstaking. He bent to lave around where his knuckle disappeared inside Dean with his tongue, the tight pink skin hot against his lips.
Dean's teeth were clenched hard against a shout, against Sam's name in a high rushing litany. Sam heard it anyway, and licked deeper, wetter, stretching and nuzzling and drinking in the dark scent and taste of only Dean.
Sam's dick jutted out full and ready; he didn't know how much more he could take. Dean finally pulled him up, urged him on, writhing and spreading wide, so dirty. Sam smeared precome and spit liberally along his length, hoping it would be enough.
He pushed in, kept his eyes open and trained on Dean's face, twist of pain and unbearable sweet stretch written plain. It was slow and aching, Dean so tight with nothing between his burning heat and Sam's cock. Raw and stripped, as close as two people could get, two bodies and two souls and two brothers.
He found a rhythm, rocking against Dean until his face smoothed out, eyes blinking open only to roll back as Sam shoved insistently against that one spot inside of him. Sam pressed his forehead to Dean's shoulder, rubbed and kneaded his hands across Dean's body, licked and sucked at his nipples, his armpits, his neck, heady and strong as he rutted into him again and again.
Dean couldn't keep quiet anymore, wrapping his fingers in the rungs of the headboard and moaning desperately with each sharp snap of Sam's hips. He clenched once, coming again suddenly, almost dry since he'd been wrung so hard before; pain mixed with pleasure in the cut of his mouth.
It burned, everything so tight it hurt, but Sam couldn't stop, kept thrusting and mouthing across Dean's skin, feeling it build as his balls drew up tight, tingling through his spine and hips. He came in a rush; it coursed through him, waves through every nerve as Dean's name poured from his lips. He pumped in and out with abandon, slowing only as the haze receded, as he saw the white crescents pressed into Dean's skin where his fingers dug in, heard Dean's muffled grunts.
Sam pulled out, slow and careful. He was panting and sweating and didn't think his muscles could hold him up much longer, but he bent back down to lick around Dean's enflamed skin, loosened and slick between his thighs, still hot to the touch.
*
Sam jolted awake just after six-thirty AM to the fading image of a grave marked only with a number, and fire consuming stern red faces sticky with pus, covered in clinging salt grains.
In his bed, Dean lay curled towards him, knees pressed warm against Sam's thighs; he shared Sam's pillow even though there were two.
The light left on in the bathroom seeped under the door, gathered in the hollow where Dean's neck dipped and flared into the muscle of his shoulder, the sharp cut of his collarbone. Sam closed his teeth over it, kissed and bit and tried to taste it, tried to burn it in.
Dean stirred, mumbling nonsense and folding tighter around Sam. Bruises and scrapes stood stark against the white sheets, and Sam thought of the crossroads, of Dean belonging to someone who wasn’t Sam.
Control demons, he had said once. You are quick on the draw, she had grimaced. And I can’t believe I started out just having dreams.
*
"I think I know what we have to do," Sam said, fumbling with his socks. The heels stuck to the clammy skin of his feet, and he bent double to pull them on. Blood rushed to his head, thrumming in his eardrums. He let it distract him, pushed back the words threatening to spill out, words Sam needed to say but Dean wouldn't want to hear.
Dean sat against the headboard of the other bed, still made from the day before. His knees were pulled up, fingers threading and unthreading through the cord of his pendant. "There something else we gotta fry?" he asked, corner of his mouth crooked up as Sam muttered curses under his breath, still yanking at a sock.
"Sort of," Sam said, finally shoving his feet into his boots. "When we were at the museum before, did you see that big picture of Blackjack and his brother?"
"Yeah," Dean said absently. He started flipping through the guidebook from the drawer in the nightstand.
"It said they moved him. Moved Sam’s body to bury it next to his brother," Sam said, throat sticking. There was a distant roaring in his ears. "But I don’t think it was Sam."
Dean dropped the book unceremoniously over the side of the bed. "So we need to find him."
"Yeah. I mean, that’s some pretty major unfinished business. If it were me, I’d be-" Sam trailed off, shaking his head. Dean stared hard at the muted painting of a cactus over the dresser. "Anyway. It’s a two-hundred-year-old prison graveyard. The markers are probably all worn away if they ever even had names on them."
"Easy to get the wrong guy," Dean said, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped beneath his chin. "But how are we supposed to find the right one?"
"There should be some EMF, maybe," Sam said, casting around for ideas. "Even if he’s not corporeal like Blackjack, an uneasy spirit is going to leave a trace."
"Can’t hurt," Dean said, and stood. He looked poised to reach out, or to say something else, but he just motioned awkwardly to the door. "Let’s go."
As Sam turned away to lock up on his way out, he took a moment to breathe in deep, then out, and find the calm somewhere in the churning mess.
*
The graveyard behind the old prison stayed open for tours, chipper middle-aged women and men detailing the gruesome executions of inmates with jokes and mentions of the picnic lunch that would be provided. Sam and Dean squinted into the setting sun, surveying the plain stone crosses worn smooth with wind and time. There were no names left, only vague impressions where letters had once been.
An empty plot to the north of the field was covered in recently-turned soil, clearly where the old bones had been unearthed. "Well, at least we know where it’s not," Sam said, inching away from the group they had joined.
"You’re sure this is the last tour," Dean said, watching the cluster of tourists trail after the guide. No one seemed to care that he and Sam stayed behind.
"Yeah," Sam said, even though it wasn’t a question. He slid the case from a folding shovel in his backpack while Dean pulled out his EMF reader.
They walked through the rows of crosses and piles of stones, shallow graves heaped high with hard-packed dust.
"There’s a possibility this won’t be right either," Dean muttered, lips pressed thin as a high pitched whine finally vacillated from the reader. They were about three plots to the left of the empty grave.
"If there’s only one patch of activity in the whole graveyard," Sam said, starting to dig, "I think we can be really pretty sure it's right."
The hardest part was hacking through the compact top layer of bone-dry dirt. Once he'd loosened it, he only had to dig a couple of feet to find the wooden box, shoddy construction preserved in the arid heat of north-west New Mexico. "That wasn't so bad," Dean said from his look-out post. Not one person had walked by.
Sam rapped his knuckles against the clapboard coffin. "We don't need the box, right? It should be okay just to grab the bones and go?"
"I'm not lugging a five-foot-plus coffin back to the car and stuffing it in the trunk, if that's what you mean," Dean said, crouching down by the stone cross, face close to Sam's. Sam could see the horizon reflected in his pupils.
He laughed, short and real. "Okay, bones it is." He flipped open the lid and grabbed a trash bag from his backpack. Samuel Ketchum would have to deal with the indignity of being shoved in a Hefty for the time-being.
They couldn't avoid leaving the grave looking disturbed, but it wasn't too noticeable. The walk back to the car was uneventful, the prison closed for the night with one old caretaker visible through the grimy window of the front office, watching TV and smoking a pipe.
Dean pulled onto the road, headed towards Clayton Cemetery once again. The trash bag at Sam's feet rustled; didn't sound like it was full of uneasy bones. He toed at it, thinking of muted hooves and the murderous anger of the eternally damned. He could feel Dean's quick glances, kept his eyes down to avoid meeting them. Time crawled and he felt sick with anticipation of the day when no one would be left to burn his corpse.
*
It was Dean's turn to dig. They'd done a slap-dash job of re-burying the dust of Ketchum and his grave-mate, so the dirt was soft and easy to dig. Above them, the red evening sky gave way to rich navy, then black. The hairs on Sam's arms raised and the air tasted sour. "He's coming," Sam said, cocking his shotgun.
"I'm going as fast as I can, goddamnit," Dean panted. The plastic of the garbage bag crinkled under Sam's tightening fingers. "Now, now!" he finally called, and Sam upturned the bag, spilling bones and dust into the empty hole, mixing with charred wood and ash.
A wind picked up, and it felt cool. A whinny sounded from the edge of the forest, accompanied by the unmistakable click of a gun hammer pulled back, sliding into place. "Dean," Sam hissed, just as Dean dumped a bottle of lighter fluid into the grave and scrambled up to the rim. He grabbed Dean's arms, hauling him out. They both crashed to ground, but Sam reached over Dean's legs and managed to strike an entire pack of matches at once. They flared bright, smoky sulfur curling into Sam's nose, and he threw them into the grave.
Blackjack pushed his hat back on his head, horse prancing closer. He holstered his gun with what Sam thought was a grimace at first.
"Holy shit," Dean said, blinking fast, staring.
Sam tried to get a better look, but Blackjack Ketchum was lit with an inner glow, golden and spreading outwards, consuming him in waves of light and warmth. The last thing Sam saw were his eyes, bright and easy, before he disappeared into a shimmer, like heat rising off the desert road.
Sam and Dean had tumbled together at the rim of the grave, Sam's cheek pillowed on Dean's hip, Dean's arm pinned under Sam's side. It was a long time before they moved, breathing in sync, tenuous on the edge of something they would have to face as soon as they left the cemetery.
*
They left Clayton at eight AM, Juanita's shrinking in the rear-view mirror while the world's best coffee sloshed in cups under the dashboard. Dust clouds rolled up behind the tires, and Dean played "Riders on the Storm" eight times in a row before they rejoined the interstate.
There was an potential exorcism in Kerrville, Texas. Bobby would be there to meet them, and Sam remembered the paneled walls of his old house, the Key of Solomon, the stacks of grimoires.
The switches that just flip in your brain, she had said. Sam rubbed his knuckles across the worn-smooth knees of his jeans. Dean was singing under his breath, wind whipping through his open window and blowing his collar up against his neck. You have no idea what you can do.
Sam had an idea.
*
The End.
"I want to marry a girl," I told them, "so I can rest my soul with her till we both get old. This can't go on all the time-all this franticness and jumping around. We've got to go someplace, find something."
"Ah now, man," said Dean, "I've been digging you for years about the home and marriage and all those fine wonderful things about your soul."
- On the Road, Jack Kerouac
A/N, cont'd: Blackjack Ketchum was a real man, and the story of his accidental beheading is a true one. There have been real sightings of his ghost in the area (supposedly), including the mysterious antique bullet casings and mounted charge. He also really did have a brother Samuel, who died of gangrene in jail, but I took rather a lot of liberties with the intricacies of the legend. The quote from Hamlet at the beginning of the story is actually inscribed on Blackjack Ketchum's grave in Clayton Cemetery in Clayton, New Mexico. The quote about Clayton in the guidebook was lifted straight from this invaluable website, which also includes a lot of background on Blackjack himself. Juanita's and The Welcome Inn actually exist, as do the motels in Jacob's Lake and at the Grand Canyon.
Also, if you haven't, you should all go stand in your bathrooms with the lights off and the door closed, and chomp down on a Wint-O-Green LifeSaver. ;)!
Part 1 | Part 2
Judging by the angle of the sunlight pouring in under the door and around the curtains, it was past noon when Sam finally regained consciousness. He was warm, and the stiff starch of motel sheets rubbed at his cheek, but the blanket was thick and soft. He curled into Dean with a sigh, only vaguely remembering why his brother was in his bed, and not really caring.
Dean's heavy breathing was almost a snore, catching harsh on the way in and on the way out. His palms were sweaty where they rested against Sam, one on his forearm and one against his back, too, but Sam didn't care. It was the first good night of sleep he'd had in at least a month, and even Dean's feet were warm where they grazed Sam's calves, under his sweatpants.
He didn't mean to fall back asleep, but he couldn't help it, and they didn't have anywhere to be until they found themselves the next job.
The second time Sam woke up, it was to Dean rifling around in the bathroom. The bed was much easier to leave without him in it.
"Sorry," Sam said as he shuffled over to the bathroom, standing just outside the open door. He spoke to Dean's reflection as Dean bushed his teeth.
"For what?" Dean said, words muffled through the foam of toothpaste. His shoulders were in knots.
"For freaking you out. For being a basket-case all the time. I don't know, man," Sam said, scratching idly at the back of his neck. His eyes dropped to the bracket of Dean's collarbones, the pallor of his skin under the fluorescent light.
Dean just shrugged and looked awkward. "Whatever."
"You didn't have to-" Sam made a vague gesture. "You know."
Dean blinked and spat into the sink. "No, I don't know."
"Sleep with me," Sam said. "In my bed," he immediately added, and hoped he wasn't blushing.
Dean raised an eyebrow, and Sam just scoffed, glad he was being offered the easy way out. "Whatever, we have to figure out what we're doing today."
*
The coffee was delicious, rich and tangy with just the right amount of cream and vanilla extract. Sam hummed as he sipped, savoring it while Dean eyed him incredulously.
"These eggs are for shit," Dean said, poking at the underdone whites.
Sam didn't care; he had his home fries, the perfect level of crispy on the outside, spices crusted thick and orangey around the edges, but soft and hot on the inside, not too greasy or mealy.
Dean grabbed the abandoned newspaper off the table next to theirs in the diner; Lourdes had apparently highly recommended this place. "She used to work here summers," Dean said with a grin. As a waitress passed, Dean nudged Sam with his boot. "Can't you just see her in one of those little-"
"No," Sam said with a frown. There was a group of people gathered around the newspaper dispenser in front of Juanita's, their diner. There was clearly something more important than Lourdes in a skimpy waitress uniform to think about. He snatched the paper from Dean, mindful of the cheap ink.
Dean returned to his toast, lips pursed, as Sam scanned the front page. "Shit," Sam said, spraying potato across the headline.
"What now?"
"Doesn't really look like Blackjack was the routine salt-and-burn we thought he was," Sam said, voice low in defeat. "The groundskeeper was found dead, early this morning. They're saying it looked like he was shot and trampled, but they can't confirm anything."
"Well, fuck," Dean said, pushing his plate away with a sigh.
"Yeah," Sam said, downing the rest of his coffee in one gulp and ripping out the article. His fingers were smudged matte black by the time they left Juanita's.
*
"Yes sir, interns. With the coroner's office," Sam said. He pulled his white coat straight and flashed his fake badge. Dean stood at his elbow. "Just here for observation."
The iron gates swung open with a screech, ringing in Sam's ears long after they'd closed again.
The cemetery looked different in the daylight, as did all cemeteries, the thick green grass and bright bouquets lending everything an air of pretense and false warmth. It threatened to suffocate Sam. "Get in, do a quick once-over, get out," he whispered, mouth pressed to Dean's temple. Police were swarming everywhere, flanking them on all sides. Dean nodded, almost covering his shudder.
The groundskeeper was an older man, his polo shirt and thinning grey hair soaked with blood. Sam knelt down by his side, pulling on a latex glove to prod at the apparent bullet wound in his chest. It was clean and looked wholly real, except for the thin film of something that could only be ectoplasm clinging to the rough edges of torn skin.
Sam stood, listening for Dean's voice as he talked to one of the officials standing by. "No projectiles were actually found yet, am I correct?" Dean said, stern and deep. "Has Ballistics been called in for investigation?" Sam couldn't make out the other voice. "Of course, Officer. Thank you for your time."
Dean strode back towards Sam; they peeled off from the group milling around the body and headed back towards the car. "No bullets, just some weird casings they'd never seen before," Dean said with a wicked smirk.
"There are definite traces of ectoplasm around the wounds," Sam said with a nod.
"So, what are we thinking? Object? Unfinished business? Some piece of this bastard still sitting around in a meat locker somewhere?"
Dean walked about a foot away from Sam. Their shoulders didn't bump together, and their feet were out of step.
Sam eyed the ritzy bar down the street from the golf course opposite the cemetery. "I think I have an idea," he said, picturing a morbid postcard in sepia.
*
The museum was small but obviously well-cared-for. Everything shone clean and bright, neat rows of cases and exhibits in every room, professionally-lettered signs explaining the relevancy of each old book or scrap of paper.
The rooms devoted to Blackjack Ketchum were clearly marked, obviously a popular tourist attraction. Directly inside the first room was an enlarged photograph mounted on foamcore, depicting a newly-built gallows. From the end of the noose hung a tall man, a black cloth bag over his head. The angle of his neck was severe, and Sam crooked his mouth in a half-smile. "I was right," he said, more to himself than to Dean.
Dean huffed, scanning the room. "About what?"
"Nothing," Sam sighed, remembering Dean pliant against his side, deep still breaths glowing green.
"Here." Dean jabbed his thumb at a glass case containing a black hood. Rust-brown blood and long, stiff black hairs were still caught in the rough weave. "There's not very much."
"Enough, though." There were two security guards, one at each outside entrance to the series of rooms devoted to Blackjack's life and death. The sign out front proclaimed that the museum closed at five PM daily. There was an emergency door set back in the corner of the room. "We need to come back tonight."
Dean nodded and checked his watch. "He'll be out tonight, though. Someone's gotta stay at the cemetery."
"They'll have police presence there for at least the rest of the week, I bet," Sam said. His hands and shoulders twitched impatiently. "It might be kind of difficult unless we can swipe a uniform."
"There's no way we'll be able to get one to fit you," Dean said. His smile was tired. "I'll take lookout duty at the graveyard, you take break-in duty here, and we'll meet up for a celebratory boozer once the spirit's toast."
Sam nodded distractedly, attention caught by the photograph on the opposite wall and the plaque underneath it. Blackjack stood next to his brother, their faces equally expressionless. The toes of their boots touched, just barely. The angles of their elbows met in the center of the photograph.
In 1994, the remains of Samuel Ketchum were relocated from the burial grounds of the old Union County Prison to Clayton Cemetery, as financed by the descendants of the Ketchum family.
He scribbled down a quick note, following Dean out into the parking lot.
*
Stealing a police uniform for Dean from the laundry at the station turned out to be an easy task. Sam was barely even breathing hard as they pulled themselves over the fence, late afternoon sun still high and hot on their faces, citizens of Clayton strolling by obliviously.
Dean's eyes narrowed in the glare, creased deep and happy at the corners. "Hey," Sam said, and nudged his arm. "That was good."
"Of course that was good, Sam," Dean laughed. "I'm the master." He turned towards Sam, laughter falling away but still light between them. Sam's smile was small and secret, nothing and everything.
Sam looked away first. "I'm starving," he said at last. He could feel the itch again, just starting in his fingers. Sam knew it would work its way dark and sharp through the nerves of his forearms and up his neck and he wouldn't be able to think of anything else.
"Me too," Dean said, punctuated as he slung the cotton laundry bag of stolen county property over his shoulder.
Juanita's famous chicken enchiladas with green sauce and the world's best coffee lay just around the corner.
*
It was pitch black outside the museum, though it was only ten o'clock. Sam stepped carefully through the gravel of the lot, silent all the way to the back door. His lock picks were warm in his hands from where they'd pressed against his hip in his pocket. The tumblers clicked into place quietly, and Sam slipped inside with only the soft pop of his aching knees to herald him.
Each motion detector was visible due to a flashing red LED; it was simple to avoid their paths and find the service entrance that lead to the hallway, in turn connecting to the emergency door in the corner of the room with the hood.
Boots muffled against the concrete of the white-washed hall, Sam clenched and unclenched his fingers into his palms. He counted breaths, cracked each knuckle in turn.
Dean was fighting off Blackjack in the graveyard, alone.
The emergency door was wired with another alarm, red and green wires crossing over the brass handle. Sam clipped them, green then red, and hunched through the door and across the room to the glass case without incident.
He left a mock-up in place of the actual hood, locked the case with a pick after he'd stashed the real one in his bag, and crept back towards the hall. Blackjack and Samuel Ketchum stared out at him, unblinking, from the wall. Sam's spine tingled, and he let the door close silently behind him.
He waited until he was two-hundred yards from the museum building to duck behind a dumpster and empty the sodden hood onto the asphalt. Salt cascaded over it from his canister, and he poured a half-cup of lighter fluid over the pile to expedite the burning; Dean didn't have time to waste.
The flames licked high, scorching the sides of the dumpster as Sam crouched, staring into the fire impatiently. Acrid burning hair and old blood were hardly noticeable against the tug he felt towards the cemetery. He had to wait until the entire hood was dust.
As the last curls of black crumbled to ash, Sam pushed up and ran as fast as he could to the car parked three blocks away. Fire burned sick in his memory until the squeal of rubber against pavement brought him back.
*
The tall iron gate of the graveyard was pushed to, but not locked. Dean's distant shouts and the dull thud of hooves in soil trickled out from the forest that backed up to the last row of graves. Sam swallowed back a wave of panic, thick in his mouth. He ran towards the faint noise as fast as he could, legs pumping until his thighs burned. "Dean!" Ketchum was supposed to be gone; the hood had completely disintegrated.
Sam broke through the underbrush with a crash, stumbling into a clearing riddled with bullet casings. There was a huge black horse pawing the ground not five feet from him, flank heaving as hard as Sam's own chest. Astride it was a rough man, dressed in all black. He looked like a cowboy, complete with boots and spurs, except for one thing. His neck was completely severed, stitched back together over where his Adam's apple should've been and around both sides, skin sickly and greying between the thick black threads. Cloudy ooze seeped from what looked like a wide rope burn.
The smell of ozone permeated everything, and Dean wasn't there.
"Dean!" Sam screamed again, voice cracking and tearing at his throat. "Dean!"
A sliver of light from the fingernail moon glinted off dull gunmetal on the other side of the clearing. Blackjack turned his horse to face Sam just as Sam scrambled for the shotgun, lying breeched on the ground surrounded by shells full of salt.
A prone form, black in the shadow of the trees, lingered in Sam's periphery as he shoved the cartridges in the gun with shaking fingers. He looked back towards the ghost instead, ignored the stillness and the desperate need to check, to see that it was Dean and he still breathed.
Blackjack's horse reared up just before Sam took aim, charging him down as the ghost cocked the hammer of his gun. A blanket of calm draped over Sam, suddenly aware of nothing but the sight on Dean's shotgun. He fired the second he could see the white of the horse's eyes, spray of salt just beating out the echoing sound of Blackjack's pistol.
The bullet turned to nothing but wisps of black smoke inches from Sam's chest.
He dropped the gun and bolted to Dean's side, pressing his fingers flat below the dip of Dean's jaw into his neck. He was slow and muted, like everything was underwater, and it was like a vision of eleven months in the future. Sam couldn't breathe.
Finally he felt it; a pulse beat shallow and erratic, and Sam let out a shaky breath, almost a sob against his brother's chest.
"Dean, god, wake up," Sam whispered. He pressed first his forehead to the fluttering in the curve of Dean's throat; then his cheek, wet with sweat or tears; last his lips, dry and cracked. "Come on, Dean, come on, you're fine. Please, please, please," he muttered, hands finding purchase in Dean's shirt, his jacket, over his shoulders and in his hair where sweat cooled against his scalp.
He smelled salty and of rich dirt, gunpowder and grass. There was sluggish blood smeared at the back of his neck, only enough to be from a scrape, like from sliding down the rough bark of a tree after slamming into it. He could still have a concussion, though, or a cracked skull, broken neck, internal bleeding, bullet wound somewhere Sam couldn't see. He could die.
"Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare. I still have eleven months, god, Dean-" Sam sucked in a rattling breath, his chest tightening as he tried to fight back the wave of panic, the spiny crawling across his skin. "You can't, I haven't even-I won't let you-"
Dean's eyes didn't even open, like his eyelids weighed too much. Sam's thumbs were brushing soft across his temples, Dean's head still cradled in his lap when he finally spoke. "What-"
Sam froze then, stopped his quiet pleading litany as his mind went blank. Dean sat up, groaning and clutching his head.
It threw a switch in Sam, and he surged forward, ripping Dean's jacket off and shoving his shirt up, inspecting every inch of him, every stretch of skin Sam could get his hands on. Dean's eyes widened, and his breath hitched as he scooted backwards into the base of a tree. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," Sam mumbled, running his fingers up and down the edges of the ugly scrape along Dean's back. He couldn't stop.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dean managed, voice strained after having the wind knocked out of him. "I'm fine, it's okay. You got here in time, it's all-"
"It's not all okay," Sam hissed, holding back the tears that threatened to spill over with every word. "Jesus, Dean, I almost didn't make it in time, I didn't know if-this isn't. This is going to be for real, soon, and I'm not going to be able to stop it. You are going to fucking die, Dean, your soul is going to hell, so don't you fucking placate me."
He knew he was crying, knew what he must look like. But something had snapped. The feel of Dean's skin under his fingers, the memory of waking up warm and safe, of Dean sprawled out in the car, of Deandeandean: it was everything. Sam leaned in and closed his lips over the pulse in Dean's throat, tasted it and felt it in sync with the beat of Dean's heart under his hand, strong now.
Dean made a soft noise and didn't push Sam away. His hands came up to card through Sam's hair, pull him up closer and press their mouths together, lips cool and tongues hot. Sam kissed back, salty and wet from his tears and the iron tang from smears of Dean's blood, everything earthy and deep and them. He sucked in breaths between frantic bites and licks, unwilling to let go now that he had Dean, had all of him, right beneath him.
"Fuck, fuck, Sam," Dean sighed, broken as he slid a hand under Sam's shirt against the waist of his jeans. His fingers were rough and dirty and perfect, and Sam walked forward on his knees to straddle Dean's thigh.
Sam thumbed open the button of Dean's jeans with one hand, finding his cock already half-hard and lengthening as they shifted their hips together, breathing damp and frantic into each other's mouths. He tried not to moan, high and reckless, as Dean slid his hand around Sam's dick, but he couldn't hold it in. Dean's fingers slipped along his hard cock like they were made to fit, like he knew exactly how it felt and what Sam wanted.
"You're not dying," Sam mouthed against Dean's ear, rocking his hips into the tight circle of Dean's hand. "I won't let you."
Dean turned his head to capture Sam's lips, soft this time, pulling back just enough to tease every time Sam tried to deepen it. Sam growled and bit at Dean's mouth, sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled at it. The spill of Dean's precome slicked his cock, Sam's hand tightening and pumping as hard as he could. Dean bucked up into his fingers, made an almost pained sound in the back of his throat as Sam thumbed over the head, under the crown, over and over until Dean's eyes squinted tight and he cried out, coming in thick bursts, long and hard, all over his stomach and Sam's hand and wrist. His grip tightened on Sam's cock as he came, and that was all it took, that and the look on his face.
Sam's orgasm was intense and wracking, leaving him shaking as he came. It went on forever, like he couldn't stop, shuddering and moaning, voice cracked. Ropes of his come mixed with Dean's on their hands and on Dean's chest, the image burned into his mind. Sam's head felt like it was full of cotton, muffling their heavy panting.
Dean lifted Sam's hand to his mouth, licking it clean. Sam swallowed hard, eyes wide, and Dean looked back at him, even and unafraid. Sam bent to taste them both, the mingled mess of their come on Dean's stomach; it was sharp and bitter as he swiped his tongue over the hard planes of Dean's abs, licked it all away. Sam let his eyes close, lost in the taste and smell of them, Dean under his hands, Dean's lips against his shoulders. He sat up, meeting his brother's desperate eyes as he came back to himself.
There wasn't a single thing he could say, skin suddenly too tight, everything too close and abrasive and dark.
*
The tense silence in the car on the way home finally broke when Dean coughed deliberately. "So," he said, eyes still fixed on the road.
Sam watched the lit signs of shops and restaurants pass, bright riots of color against black windows and buildings. "I burned it," he said, leaning his forehead against the glass.
"So what the hell is going on?"
"Clearly that wasn't what was keeping him here. Or at least, not the only thing," he said, distracted. Sam's body was a bundle of contradictions, loose and pliant, tight and wary all at once. "I shot him full of salt, but he'll be back."
Dean wrenched the wheel and careened off the road into a small parking lot without warning, Sam almost smacking his face into the window. "What the-"
"We need it," Dean grunted, getting out and slamming the door with a metallic creak before Sam had even read the faded sign above the bombed-out building he'd parked in front of: The Welcome Inn.
It wasn't an inn. It was a sketchy dive bar.
Rob Zombie played loud and obnoxious over the enormous speakers, torn but functional in each corner of the main room. Dean marched straight up to the bar, elbowing his way through a genuinely rough crowd. They weren't posers or has-beens, switchblades against their wrists and holsters under their jackets. Sam slid into a disgusting booth on the other side of the room, just watching as Dean ordered tequila shots for both of them, with Dos Equis chasers.
The lights were discolored, full of dead flies in cracked plastic, barely illuminating the ruddy faces and greasy ponytails by the bar. A bowl of chalky white candies sat at Dean's elbow on the counter. There was a doorway to the backroom in the adjacent wall, even dimmer and seedier. The constant hum of trash-talk filtered up front from the crowds around the thread-bare pool tables.
"Here, Sammy," Dean said, sliding Sam's shots and beer across the table. They stopped about two feet from him, a result of the tacky residue on the table. "Drink up."
Dean appeared to be on his third shot already. "I'm not carrying you back this time," Sam said tonelessly. He tossed back his first shot and swigged the beer, warm golden hum in his stomach.
"I'm not letting you cheat me into alcohol poisoning this time," Dean fired back. He downed half of his beer in one gulp. It was a pointless argument.
On his fourth shot, about an hour later, Sam tried to wipe out everything about the night prior to walking through the door to the bar. He couldn't get the sound of Dean's ragged breaths out of his head, the slick, hard weight of his cock, the taste of his skin and his come and the way his eyes were so dark and broken open, all for Sam. So it would all have to go. He resolved not to think about it, to tuck it away with the needling under his skin, tangled and wrong.
Dean shot pool in the back room; Sam was aware of him always, even muzzy with tequila and repression. The other men, tattooed and pierced all, milled around Dean like sharks on chum. Sam watched them, too.
*
It was two AM before Dean slid back into the booth, grin wide and cheap. He smelled like dip and malt liquor. There was a smear of motor oil rubbed against his jeans, though he hadn't been outside. He sat next to Sam instead of across from him, one leg drawn up on the bench in a drunken sprawl.
"You wanna play?" he slurred.
"Pool?" Sam asked. His chin was propped on the table between eight empty shot glasses as he counted individual salt grains. It was hard not to breathe too much and blow them all away.
"No, polo. Yes, pool, you moron," Dean said with low, rumbling laugh. He smacked Sam on the shoulder.
"Not really." Sam turned his head to look at Dean, resting his cheek on the edge of the wood. It was sticky and disgusting.
"It's lame by myself," Dean said. He put his head down on the table, mirroring Sam.
"I'd rather not get-" Sam couldn't finish his sentence, because Dean pushed him up until his shoulder blades were flush against the back of the booth, and kissed him. It was slow and fuzzy and tasted like tequila and chewing tobacco. Dean's hands bracketed his face, surprisingly soft.
"Oh," he said when Dean pulled back. Dean had long, thick eyelashes; a full mouth, red and wet and pliant; green eyes like the four empty bottles of Grolsch on the table. Sam felt a flush creeping up his own neck, knew it was there without looking at the cracked mirror on the wall.
Dean tripped out of the booth and headed for the door without a backward glance, leaving Sam to gape after him, thoughts slow as he tried to remember whether he'd paid his tab or not. There was a damp receipt by the napkin dispenser, so he left, stumbling after Dean.
Clarity was returning at an alarming pace, the night folding around him and pulling him out of his stupor. The Impala sat idle at the side of the bar, Dean slumped on the hood. "Didn't think you were coming," he said, and looked up.
"I couldn't remember if I paid." Sam stood a good distance away from where Dean's knees fell open against the grill. "I did, though."
Dean bit his lip, and scrubbed his hand over his mouth. Sam moved closer, inside the vee of Dean's thighs, and answered the question Dean didn't ask.
This time Sam had to bend down, press Dean back into the windshield to get a good angle. This time, it tasted like Wint-O-Green LifeSavers.
When Sam was eleven and Dad was in Amherst, Dean had shut them both inside the closet of their rundown old cabin. He pulled out a bag of Wint-O-Green LifeSavers and showed Sam how they sparked when he bit down on them, blue-white and unbelievable there between the gas cans and the flasks of holy water.
Sam slipped his tongue into Dean's mouth and swept the cool bite of wintergreen from around his teeth. He broke the kiss with a smile, reaching into Dean's pocket and popping the last LifeSaver into his mouth, crunching down with his lips slack and parted so Dean could see the sparks.
*
The motel room poured cold air into the parking lot, A/C left on full-blast all day. Sam flipped the switch with a dry hand, tugging Dean after him, loathe to loosen his grip on the cuff of Dean's jacket.
Dirt and sweat still caked their clothes, blood and come itchy smears against their backs and stomachs. Sam stripped off his jeans, his briefs, his shirt, while Dean sat motionless on the bed, just watching. "Dibs," Sam said, dragging his feet along the carpet to warm them up on his way to the bathroom.
Dean just hummed low in agreement. Sam didn't bother closing the door.
The hot water beat against Sam's sore muscles, soothed away most of his aches and slipped over the dull edges of alcohol blur. He half-leaned against the wall, head drooping so the stream hit the back of his neck, ran down his spine. It lulled him into a quiet daze; he didn't even notice the cool draft when Dean toed the door open. But Dean pulled back the curtain, stiff and new and still smelling of plastic, and climbed into the shower behind Sam.
Sam turned to face him, blinking away trickles of water from his eyelashes. They didn't speak, didn't need to; instead, Sam backed up under the showerhead, letting the water hit Dean, pulling him forward into it.
Dean tilted his face up into the spray, opened his mouth and drank from it. Sam watched him, starved for him, everything sharpening down to Dean's face, Dean's body, in that moment. He slid his hands up Dean's chest, felt the ridge of each rib under muscle and pale skin, rivulets of water diverting over Sam's fingers, under them, slick and warm. His thumbs glided along Dean's hips, the dip of bone, the swell of Dean's cock stirring and rising. Dean came alive under his hands, shifting to reach for Sam, pull him closer. A blush stained his chest, his shoulders, and Sam buried his nose in it, mouthed along each freckle and scar like he could memorize them, taste lingering on his tongue.
Dean moaned as Sam worked a hand down to his dick, cupping it and stroking at it, light teasing brushes as the water cascaded around them. He backed Dean against the wall of the shower, and Dean lifted his foot to the rim, spreading his legs wide. He choked back a ragged noise as Sam tightened his fist around Dean's cock, stroked harder, twisting just right. Sam let his other hand press between Dean's thighs, rubbing against his perineum, cupping and rolling his balls, heavy and wet.
"Sammy," Dean breathed, wrecked, and Sam slid to his knees on the floor of the tub. Dean's cock hung thick and flushed, heavy as Sam licked at the head, bitter precome blurting against his palate. He hummed and swirled his tongue, sucked right at the slit over and over; Dean's knees locked and his thigh muscles spasmed. Hands grasped tight in Sam's hair, fingers clenching and unclenching as Dean stilled himself, tried to take only what he was given.
Sam swallowed him down as far as he could, almost gagging on Dean's cock and relishing the ache in his throat, the tears coming to his eyes. It was harsh and real, the feel of Dean in his mouth and all around him, with him. Dean pleaded wordlessly, pushed forward as Sam started moving, lips tight around Dean's shaft and tongue working fast. Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's hips, pressed his fingers hard into the muscle of Dean's ass, pulling him closer, deeper, begging him to take what he wanted.
Dean finally started thrusting in earnest, fucking into Sam's mouth with abandon. Sam could hardly breathe, choking on Dean's dick and the water pouring into his face, and nothing had been more perfect in his life. He was lightheaded and riding the high of Dean crying his name, Dean's hands clasped tight against his neck. When Dean came, it was with a feral sound almost like a sob, flooding Sam's mouth and throat with salt-slick. Sam tried to swallow it all, but couldn't pull off fast enough, choking out sticky strings of come which clung to his chin until they washed down the drain with the dried sweat and blood.
Dean was gone, long moments passing as he panted against the wall. He looked like nothing Sam had seen before, blissed out and ripped open. When he looked down at Sam, still kneeling in benediction, he reached out and pulled him up, turned off the water and kept Sam at arms length, just staring. He was want and desperation and something like awe, like knowing he had made the right choice, like facing down hell.
Sam kissed him then, a bare brush of lips, and murmured absolution against the tender skin below Dean's ear. Dean just gripped his fingers, a vise, and pulled him back out to the room, still dripping.
Sam fell next to Dean on the freshly-made bed and held his breath as Dean kissed him, hot and hard, wrapping his hand around Sam's aching cock. He jerked fast and rough, water and trickles of precome slicking his hand and Sam's dick, making obscene wet noises in counter-point to Sam's heaving breaths.
Dean turned onto his back, stretches of bare skin begging for Sam's touch. Sam maneuvered them both up the bed, hooked one of Dean's legs tight around his waist, and knelt to press damp fingers against him, searching. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, breathing sharp in surprise as Sam pressed one finger in, slow and painstaking. He bent to lave around where his knuckle disappeared inside Dean with his tongue, the tight pink skin hot against his lips.
Dean's teeth were clenched hard against a shout, against Sam's name in a high rushing litany. Sam heard it anyway, and licked deeper, wetter, stretching and nuzzling and drinking in the dark scent and taste of only Dean.
Sam's dick jutted out full and ready; he didn't know how much more he could take. Dean finally pulled him up, urged him on, writhing and spreading wide, so dirty. Sam smeared precome and spit liberally along his length, hoping it would be enough.
He pushed in, kept his eyes open and trained on Dean's face, twist of pain and unbearable sweet stretch written plain. It was slow and aching, Dean so tight with nothing between his burning heat and Sam's cock. Raw and stripped, as close as two people could get, two bodies and two souls and two brothers.
He found a rhythm, rocking against Dean until his face smoothed out, eyes blinking open only to roll back as Sam shoved insistently against that one spot inside of him. Sam pressed his forehead to Dean's shoulder, rubbed and kneaded his hands across Dean's body, licked and sucked at his nipples, his armpits, his neck, heady and strong as he rutted into him again and again.
Dean couldn't keep quiet anymore, wrapping his fingers in the rungs of the headboard and moaning desperately with each sharp snap of Sam's hips. He clenched once, coming again suddenly, almost dry since he'd been wrung so hard before; pain mixed with pleasure in the cut of his mouth.
It burned, everything so tight it hurt, but Sam couldn't stop, kept thrusting and mouthing across Dean's skin, feeling it build as his balls drew up tight, tingling through his spine and hips. He came in a rush; it coursed through him, waves through every nerve as Dean's name poured from his lips. He pumped in and out with abandon, slowing only as the haze receded, as he saw the white crescents pressed into Dean's skin where his fingers dug in, heard Dean's muffled grunts.
Sam pulled out, slow and careful. He was panting and sweating and didn't think his muscles could hold him up much longer, but he bent back down to lick around Dean's enflamed skin, loosened and slick between his thighs, still hot to the touch.
*
Sam jolted awake just after six-thirty AM to the fading image of a grave marked only with a number, and fire consuming stern red faces sticky with pus, covered in clinging salt grains.
In his bed, Dean lay curled towards him, knees pressed warm against Sam's thighs; he shared Sam's pillow even though there were two.
The light left on in the bathroom seeped under the door, gathered in the hollow where Dean's neck dipped and flared into the muscle of his shoulder, the sharp cut of his collarbone. Sam closed his teeth over it, kissed and bit and tried to taste it, tried to burn it in.
Dean stirred, mumbling nonsense and folding tighter around Sam. Bruises and scrapes stood stark against the white sheets, and Sam thought of the crossroads, of Dean belonging to someone who wasn’t Sam.
Control demons, he had said once. You are quick on the draw, she had grimaced. And I can’t believe I started out just having dreams.
*
"I think I know what we have to do," Sam said, fumbling with his socks. The heels stuck to the clammy skin of his feet, and he bent double to pull them on. Blood rushed to his head, thrumming in his eardrums. He let it distract him, pushed back the words threatening to spill out, words Sam needed to say but Dean wouldn't want to hear.
Dean sat against the headboard of the other bed, still made from the day before. His knees were pulled up, fingers threading and unthreading through the cord of his pendant. "There something else we gotta fry?" he asked, corner of his mouth crooked up as Sam muttered curses under his breath, still yanking at a sock.
"Sort of," Sam said, finally shoving his feet into his boots. "When we were at the museum before, did you see that big picture of Blackjack and his brother?"
"Yeah," Dean said absently. He started flipping through the guidebook from the drawer in the nightstand.
"It said they moved him. Moved Sam’s body to bury it next to his brother," Sam said, throat sticking. There was a distant roaring in his ears. "But I don’t think it was Sam."
Dean dropped the book unceremoniously over the side of the bed. "So we need to find him."
"Yeah. I mean, that’s some pretty major unfinished business. If it were me, I’d be-" Sam trailed off, shaking his head. Dean stared hard at the muted painting of a cactus over the dresser. "Anyway. It’s a two-hundred-year-old prison graveyard. The markers are probably all worn away if they ever even had names on them."
"Easy to get the wrong guy," Dean said, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped beneath his chin. "But how are we supposed to find the right one?"
"There should be some EMF, maybe," Sam said, casting around for ideas. "Even if he’s not corporeal like Blackjack, an uneasy spirit is going to leave a trace."
"Can’t hurt," Dean said, and stood. He looked poised to reach out, or to say something else, but he just motioned awkwardly to the door. "Let’s go."
As Sam turned away to lock up on his way out, he took a moment to breathe in deep, then out, and find the calm somewhere in the churning mess.
*
The graveyard behind the old prison stayed open for tours, chipper middle-aged women and men detailing the gruesome executions of inmates with jokes and mentions of the picnic lunch that would be provided. Sam and Dean squinted into the setting sun, surveying the plain stone crosses worn smooth with wind and time. There were no names left, only vague impressions where letters had once been.
An empty plot to the north of the field was covered in recently-turned soil, clearly where the old bones had been unearthed. "Well, at least we know where it’s not," Sam said, inching away from the group they had joined.
"You’re sure this is the last tour," Dean said, watching the cluster of tourists trail after the guide. No one seemed to care that he and Sam stayed behind.
"Yeah," Sam said, even though it wasn’t a question. He slid the case from a folding shovel in his backpack while Dean pulled out his EMF reader.
They walked through the rows of crosses and piles of stones, shallow graves heaped high with hard-packed dust.
"There’s a possibility this won’t be right either," Dean muttered, lips pressed thin as a high pitched whine finally vacillated from the reader. They were about three plots to the left of the empty grave.
"If there’s only one patch of activity in the whole graveyard," Sam said, starting to dig, "I think we can be really pretty sure it's right."
The hardest part was hacking through the compact top layer of bone-dry dirt. Once he'd loosened it, he only had to dig a couple of feet to find the wooden box, shoddy construction preserved in the arid heat of north-west New Mexico. "That wasn't so bad," Dean said from his look-out post. Not one person had walked by.
Sam rapped his knuckles against the clapboard coffin. "We don't need the box, right? It should be okay just to grab the bones and go?"
"I'm not lugging a five-foot-plus coffin back to the car and stuffing it in the trunk, if that's what you mean," Dean said, crouching down by the stone cross, face close to Sam's. Sam could see the horizon reflected in his pupils.
He laughed, short and real. "Okay, bones it is." He flipped open the lid and grabbed a trash bag from his backpack. Samuel Ketchum would have to deal with the indignity of being shoved in a Hefty for the time-being.
They couldn't avoid leaving the grave looking disturbed, but it wasn't too noticeable. The walk back to the car was uneventful, the prison closed for the night with one old caretaker visible through the grimy window of the front office, watching TV and smoking a pipe.
Dean pulled onto the road, headed towards Clayton Cemetery once again. The trash bag at Sam's feet rustled; didn't sound like it was full of uneasy bones. He toed at it, thinking of muted hooves and the murderous anger of the eternally damned. He could feel Dean's quick glances, kept his eyes down to avoid meeting them. Time crawled and he felt sick with anticipation of the day when no one would be left to burn his corpse.
*
It was Dean's turn to dig. They'd done a slap-dash job of re-burying the dust of Ketchum and his grave-mate, so the dirt was soft and easy to dig. Above them, the red evening sky gave way to rich navy, then black. The hairs on Sam's arms raised and the air tasted sour. "He's coming," Sam said, cocking his shotgun.
"I'm going as fast as I can, goddamnit," Dean panted. The plastic of the garbage bag crinkled under Sam's tightening fingers. "Now, now!" he finally called, and Sam upturned the bag, spilling bones and dust into the empty hole, mixing with charred wood and ash.
A wind picked up, and it felt cool. A whinny sounded from the edge of the forest, accompanied by the unmistakable click of a gun hammer pulled back, sliding into place. "Dean," Sam hissed, just as Dean dumped a bottle of lighter fluid into the grave and scrambled up to the rim. He grabbed Dean's arms, hauling him out. They both crashed to ground, but Sam reached over Dean's legs and managed to strike an entire pack of matches at once. They flared bright, smoky sulfur curling into Sam's nose, and he threw them into the grave.
Blackjack pushed his hat back on his head, horse prancing closer. He holstered his gun with what Sam thought was a grimace at first.
"Holy shit," Dean said, blinking fast, staring.
Sam tried to get a better look, but Blackjack Ketchum was lit with an inner glow, golden and spreading outwards, consuming him in waves of light and warmth. The last thing Sam saw were his eyes, bright and easy, before he disappeared into a shimmer, like heat rising off the desert road.
Sam and Dean had tumbled together at the rim of the grave, Sam's cheek pillowed on Dean's hip, Dean's arm pinned under Sam's side. It was a long time before they moved, breathing in sync, tenuous on the edge of something they would have to face as soon as they left the cemetery.
*
They left Clayton at eight AM, Juanita's shrinking in the rear-view mirror while the world's best coffee sloshed in cups under the dashboard. Dust clouds rolled up behind the tires, and Dean played "Riders on the Storm" eight times in a row before they rejoined the interstate.
There was an potential exorcism in Kerrville, Texas. Bobby would be there to meet them, and Sam remembered the paneled walls of his old house, the Key of Solomon, the stacks of grimoires.
The switches that just flip in your brain, she had said. Sam rubbed his knuckles across the worn-smooth knees of his jeans. Dean was singing under his breath, wind whipping through his open window and blowing his collar up against his neck. You have no idea what you can do.
Sam had an idea.
*
The End.
"I want to marry a girl," I told them, "so I can rest my soul with her till we both get old. This can't go on all the time-all this franticness and jumping around. We've got to go someplace, find something."
"Ah now, man," said Dean, "I've been digging you for years about the home and marriage and all those fine wonderful things about your soul."
- On the Road, Jack Kerouac
A/N, cont'd: Blackjack Ketchum was a real man, and the story of his accidental beheading is a true one. There have been real sightings of his ghost in the area (supposedly), including the mysterious antique bullet casings and mounted charge. He also really did have a brother Samuel, who died of gangrene in jail, but I took rather a lot of liberties with the intricacies of the legend. The quote from Hamlet at the beginning of the story is actually inscribed on Blackjack Ketchum's grave in Clayton Cemetery in Clayton, New Mexico. The quote about Clayton in the guidebook was lifted straight from this invaluable website, which also includes a lot of background on Blackjack himself. Juanita's and The Welcome Inn actually exist, as do the motels in Jacob's Lake and at the Grand Canyon.
Also, if you haven't, you should all go stand in your bathrooms with the lights off and the door closed, and chomp down on a Wint-O-Green LifeSaver. ;)!