There's a Hole In You and Me Part VI
Part V
When Dean comes back, Sam's pulling his boots on, an open backpack beside him. Dean goes straight to his duffel and starts pulling on clothes, his still damp skin sticking lightly to the fabric.
"Going somewhere?" he asks casually.
"It's time to break into Ms. Hamilton's office," Sam replies, rifling through his duffel. "This year's deaths could happen any day now, and the rain's cleared up. Can't waste time."
Dean nods and starts looking for his shoes. When he sits down to tug them on, Sam glances up at him and frowns.
"What are you doing?" he asks slowly, though Dean's thinks it's pretty obvious.
"I"m coming with you." Dean holds up a hand as Sam opens his mouth to argue. "C'mon man, don't tell me you couldn't use a lookout. Plus, they trust me - if we get caught, I can make something up about needing supplies in the middle of the night."
Sam considers this for a second then nods once and turns back to his duffel. Dean waits by the door as Sam tucks a few things into his backpack before pulling out a gun.
"Whoa," Dean says without thinking. "You think you need that? For Ms. Hamilton's office?"
Sam shrugs.
"Can't be too careful," he says, like he's talking about bringing an umbrella on a cloudy day and not a weapon to a children's camp. He leaves the gun in his duffel though, and Dean shoots him a grateful look before they head out on the wet path, each holding a flashlight.
They're quiet for a few minutes until Dean voices the thought he's been turning over and over in his head.
"So how'd you get into this?"
Dean's walking in front of Sam so he can't watch Sam's face as he answers.
"What, hunting?" Sam gives a short, hard laugh. "Runs in the family. We're all hunters, pretty much."
Dean thinks about that. His dad's a mechanic, and apparently his grandfather was too, and sure, Dean's thinking about going into it himself but it's not like he'd be risking his life and facing... whatever these guys face.
"Could you do something else, if you wanted?"
"No." Sam doesn't pause before answering. Dean wants to know what Sam would do if he could be anything but doesn't ask. There are few minutes of silence before Dean speaks again.
"You know that gun in your bag?"
"Yeah?"
"You know how to use it?" Dean asks.
"Nah, I just carry it around to look pretty," Sam retorts, voice heavy with sarcasm. Dean rolls his eyes even though Sam can't see.
"Shut up." Dean waits a beat. "You think you could teach me? I mean, I've shot a couple guns before, but I don't really..."
Sam's quiet for a moment.
"I don't know if we're far enough from camp that people wouldn't hear. Maybe."
Silence again.
"You said you hunt ghosts and 'other stuff'. What's the other stuff?" Dean asks, trying not to sound too eager.
"Demons. Sometimes monsters - my cousin bagged a werewolf a couple years back, that was pretty sweet. Vampires are pretty common, I've ganked a few. Sometimes we get weird shit - you ever heard of a rugaru?"
Dean shakes his head before remembering Sam probably can't see him in the dark.
"No, what is it?"
"'S kinda like a wendigo, but more human. Anyway, they're a bitch to kill but Mom's killed three."
"Your mom hunts too?" Dean asks, surprised. It's not that he can't imagine a woman hunting - he watches Buffy - but for some reason he pictures 'moms' being gentle, sweet, kind, not stabbing monsters through the heart with wooden stakes or some shit.
Sam laughs.
“Oh, yeah. She’s probably the best hunter out there right now. Top five, at least.”
“Wait, how many hunters are there?” Dean asks, ducking his head to avoid a low hanging branch. He hears a rustle as Sam does the same, and another, as if Sam is shrugging.
“Don’t really know. No one does. We spend most of our time trying not to be noticed, so it’s tough to say. There’s always a good dozen or so at the Roadhouse, and Christian says he met at least ten in one night when he was in L.A., but I don’t know if I believe him - likes to make shit up sometimes to get laid.”
The name rings a bell and Dean remembers their earlier conversation.
“Christian - that’s your brother, right? The one at Harvard?”
Sam takes long enough to answer that Dean’s about to repeat himself when the reply finally comes, quiet and awkward.
“He’s actually my cousin. I lied about the brother thing - I don’t really have any siblings. Well, I did, but he’s gone now.”
Dean swallows, something hard squeezing behind his sternum at the loss he recognizes in Sam’s voice.
“Sorry, man. I - I had a brother too, when I was little. He passed when I was four.”
They walk in silence for another few minutes
“What’s a wendigo?” Dean asks, half to break the silence and half because he’s itching to know. He loves horror films, novels, all of it, and he already has a list of questions for Sam forming in the back of his mind, starting with wendigos and ending with bigfoot.
“It’s what happens to someone who turns cannibal, according to Native American myths. They get fast and strong, live out in the woods and feed on hikers, campers, anyone who wanders out too far. Oh, and they like to keep their victims alive while they eat them. Real ugly, too.”
The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle and he throws a quick glance around into trees them, but it’s all dark. Sam chuckles quietly behind him.
“We’re too far South for a wendigo out here, don’t worry. Nah, what you gotta worry about down here are vetala.”
He pauses, and Dean can tell he’s waiting for him to ask.
“What’s a vetala?”
There’s a smile in Sam’s voice when he answers.
“They look like people - they’re usually really beautiful, I guess to lure victims or something - anyway, they have these sharp teeth and they’re venomous. They bite you and you can’t run, can’t really move much, and then they drink your blood for a few days till you die.”
“You ever seen one?” Dean asks eagerly.
“Yeah, my mom killed one once when I was little. Silver knife to the heart.”
“Cool,” Dean says enthusiastically and Sam snorts.
“Yeah, I guess it was. I was like, five. I only saw it ‘cause I got hungry and I couldn’t get snacks out of the trunk by myself so I went in after her.”
That image - a tiny, chubby-fingered Sam tottering out of a car at night to find his mom because he wanted food - cools Dean’s burgeoning envy right down. Sure, hunting vampires and demons sounds pretty fucking awesome - the idea of being a hero, saving lives every night, sparks a weird kind of intense jealousy in Dean - but growing up in a warm safe home with no monsters under the bed was nice too.
“That’s young,” is all he can think of to say, and Sam makes a noise of agreement.
Dean’s saved from having to come up with anything else to say by the sight of the darkened administration building through a gap in the trees and he stops in his tracks. They click off their flashlights and put them away before crossing the open area in front of the building.
***
With Dean giving him a boost, it's easy to heave himself up into the window they just jimmied open. Dean crawls in after him and they pull the window shut behind them before pausing to give their eyes a chance to adjust. Dean goes to stand by the door, listening for any footsteps and Sam goes straight to the filing cabinet with the historical files. He finds the right drawer and starts sifting through the articles.
It's soon obvious that he was unbelievably lucky to find that article last time. There are hundreds of slips of paper in the drawer - some yellowed with age, others clipped out of newspapers, hell, there are even what look to be pages from personal journals. It's all organized in a vaguely chronological order, but not well enough that Sam can easily pinpoint 1938.
"Look in the desk, see if you can find a map or something," Sam whispers to Dean. Even if they find something mentioning the girl's burial, there's no guarantee the place will still have the same name. It could be anywhere, really, but Sam's at least pretty sure it's gotta be on the camp grounds.
Dean nods and starts going through the desk drawers, pulling out a few files here and there only to carefully replace them when they prove to be useless.
It takes another hour of searching, Sam in the filing cabinet and Dean around the rest of the room, until they find something promising. Dean's looking through an old log book which, in addition to row upon row of irrelevant numbers, contains a folded map in the back. The map is old enough that Sam's confident it'll have the right location names. Sam's just picking up what looks like a personal journal, the years 1918-1945 written in script on the front, when there's the unmistakable sound of the front door opening.
Sam and Dean spin to stare at each other, then at the closed office door. They have maybe thirty seconds to get out but Sam needs to get what he came for. He glances down at the journal, flips it open to the first page. "Reverend Jack -" Sam snaps it shut and stuffs it in his bag. Perfect.
He shuts the drawer as quietly as he can and finds Dean waiting for him at the window, holding it open and motioning for Sam to hurry. Sam swings himself out and waits for Dean to follow, closing the window behind him as he goes.
They sprint back to the path leading into the woods and Sam can hear Dean laughing beside him. Sam knows how he feels - the rush of adrenaline at almost getting caught, the exhilaration of having succeeded in not only escaping, but finding what they were looking for - it's all enough to light Sam up inside, make him feel more alive than he has in weeks. There's nothing like a good hunt to get his blood pumping.
The hike back seems quicker, Dean behind him the whole way, sometimes walking so close Sam swears he can feel hot breath on the back of his neck and whisper-light touches to his hip, the small of his back, the back of his wrist. He doesn’t call Dean on it.
They don’t talk until they’re stumbling into the cabin.
"So?" Dean asks, gesturing at Sam's backpack. "Where is she?"
Sam shrugs.
"Don't know yet." He pulls the book out of the bag and sits at the table while Dean come to peer over his shoulder.
"Reverend, huh? Good thinking," Dean says, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder for a moment before pulling away. Sam sort of wishes he'd left it there longer.
Dean putters around the kitchen, making coffee and a weird breakfast-dinner hybrid of pancakes and hot dogs while Sam reads bits of the book out loud. The reverend was apparently a forgetful man and only included dates for about a quarter of the entries, so it takes Sam a while to find anything relating to Rose's death.
His mouth is full of pancake when he finds the passage and reads it aloud:
"And after lunch was Ms. Avery's funeral, God rest her soul, and her brother was wrought with grief, and he insisted that she be put in the ground immediately, as he wished to have it done and over with. Ms Avery was well loved by the people, of course, though she left no children behind as she was unmarried. They served trout at the reception and Mr. Avery did not eat a crumb."
Dean stares at him.
"Dude was weird. Does it say anything about where she was buried?"
Sam throws him a dirty look.
"I'm getting there."
"Well, get there faster."
"I would if you'd shut up and let me read."
Dean mimes zipping his lip and Sam continues reading.
"In attendance were the... blah blah, he talks about a bunch of people who showed up for the funeral, blah blah, okay, here we go: Ms. Avery was interred under her favorite giant oak, in the shade of which she liked to read when she was a child. Mr. Avery chose the place because she loved it so, and because there is a most beautiful view of the lake, though of course, Ms. Avery shall not enjoy it as she will be in God's arms and not sitting atop her grave."
Dean laughs at that, but Sam frowns in disappointment.
"It doesn't give an actual location. We'll have to go back to Ms. Hamilton's office tomorrow night and try again."
"Actually, we don’t," Dean says, and Sam wants to wipe the smug look off his face almost as much as he wants to kiss the trace of maple syrup clinging to his lower lip. “There’s only one giant oak anywhere around the lake and I bet it’s the one he’s talking about. It’s dead now, but there’s this big rock under it...”
He trails off and looks up to meet Sam’s gaze.
“A headstone?” Sam asks, and Dean nods sheepishly, the smug look gone.
“I should have - ”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam cuts in, seeing the chagrined look on Dean’s face. “We couldn’t’ve been sure anyway, I woulda made us go to Ms. Hamilton’s office to check.”
Dean nods down at his coffee.
***
They can’t go back out tonight. The giant oak is on the other side of the lake, a good four hour hike according to Dean. They’ll have to leave tomorrow, in the early evening, in order to arrive after nightfall.
“Why can’t we just go during the day? I mean, I bet ghosts are way less scary -”
“Because,” Sam says, interrupting what was looking to be another excited description of how Dean imagines this spirit’s going to be - the guy really does love his horror films. “What do you think the camp is going to think if they see two guys burning a body by the lake?”
“Oh.”
Sam lies back on his bed. It’s two in the morning and they should be sleeping but this is the part of the hunt where he just wants to be taking action. He knows where she’s buried, all he needs to do is salt and burn the bones and two people’s lives will be saved, but he’s stuck here until tomorrow night, waiting, essentially useless.
Sam’s lying on top of his covers, wearing a towel and nothing else. They took turns showering away the mud from the hike earlier but he hasn’t changed into pajamas like Dean. This is a new situation for him - being the one who wants, rather than the wanted one.
He’s thinking about how to bring it up to Dean when Dean pushes himself off his bed and walks over to Sam’s. Sam scoots over without a word and Dean climbs on beside him.
“You wanna do something?” Dean asks needlessly and Sam nods, already reaching for the towel. He tugs it off and lies back as Dean pulls his own t-shirt and sweatpants off, tossing them to the floor. Sam’s skin prickles, hypersensitive with the need to be touched and he could just reach over, lean over Dean and straddle him, press their bodies together but for some reason he wants Dean to be the one to do it. He wants Dean above him, all over him, pushing inside him. Sam doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Dean speaks.
“You okay?”
Sam nods and parts his lips on a whine that becomes a quiet “please” and Dean rolls to face him, propped up on one elbow.
“Shh, you’re okay.” Dean brushes one hand down Sam’s arm, then down his chest, down over his hip, just missing his straining cock to grip his thigh and pull it until Sam spreads. Dean brings his hand back up to draw a line over Sam’s collarbones, first one, then the other, then up Sam’s throat, slowly making his way along Sam’s jaw and over to his lips. Dean traces Sam’s parted lips over and over before finally dipping inside, just one finger. He pushes is in and Sam presses his tongue to it, closes his lips and sucks, revelling in the sharp intake of breath from Dean.
Dean brings his wet finger down to circle one nipple, then the other, rubbing until Sam’s writhing and tensing to keep his hips from shifting. When Dean’s finger finally slips back into Sam’s mouth it’s joined by another and his lips close over them instantly, and he’s sucking and moaning and running his tongue over and under and between the digits before he even realizes it.
Dean groans and fucks his fingers in and out of Sam’s mouth a couple of times, muttering curses and praising Sam’s mouth under his breath. Sam gasps when he finds his mouth empty and then again when the wet pads of those fingers are circling his hole.
“Okay?” Dean murmurs against Sam’s ear, and Sam nods frantically, another strained plea falling from his lips.
The very tip of one finger pushes inside Sam and he thinks for a second that he’s going to come, like this, without a single touch to his cock. He holds onto the nonononono in his head, the fact that when he comes, he wants it to be because Dean wanted him to. Told him to.
Dean pushes with his finger, enough to have Sam whining but not enough to actually move deeper and brings his lips back to Sam’s ear.
“You’re so tight, Sam. You have any lube in that bag?”
Sam’s already red, flushed from arousal and the embarrassment of being naked and spread open for Dean, but he feels his face grow even hotter when he nods.
“In- in the bottom pocket. The little one.”
Sam gasps when Dean’s hand disappears but it’s back faster than he thinks is really possible, slick and a little colder. This time, Dean’s finger presses harder, pushing past the tight ring of resistance and into Sam.
“Fuck,” Dean groans, moving back to watch his own finger disappear into Sam’s ass. “You’re so hot, so tight.”
Dean uses his free hand to push Sam’s legs up, folding them against Sam’s torso and instructing him to hold them. A rush of heat follows the order and Sam immediately complies, spreading his own knees with his hands and holding as still as he can, resisting the urge to fuck down onto Dean’s thick finger.
The sting is sharper when Dean works another finger up into Sam, but the stretch has Sam arching his back and digging his fingers into his own thighs, sweat beading on his skin. Dean’s breathing is heavy and he’s leaning in close to watch, the damp warmth of his exhale sending goosebumps up Sam’s thigh, making his cock jerk and pulse precome.
“Tell me how - how you want it,” Dean says, voice stuttering on a soft groan as Sam pushes himself down onto his fingers. Sam tries to answer but instead of words, a garbled moan comes out. He takes a shaky breath and tries again.
“Like... hard, yeah. Oh God, and up, ah, feels good.” Sam can barely get the words out, punctuated with sighs and gasps as Dean pushes his fingers in, scissors them wide then curls them up, pads of his fingers skating over Sam’s prostate. Sam’s cock gives a jerk and his body tenses, shocky pleasure skittering up his spine at the touch. Dean does it again, and again, and Sam can’t hold himself still any more, twisting and writhing, hips rolling constantly.
“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it Sam, fuck yourself on my fingers, so good, such a good boy.”
Sam whines in pleasure at the praise, a twinge of embarrassment doing nothing to quell the need to please. He jumps when Dean’s fingertips slip through the mess of precome at the tip of his cock, gathering more from the tiny puddle on his belly before wrapping his hand around Sam’s cock and stroking.
In the end, Sam’s not sure whether it’s the perfect-firm-slippery grip on his cock, the fingers rubbing incessantly at his prostate, or the filthy way Dean murmurs how good, how sweet, how tight Sam is that gets him there, but he shoots all over his stomach and chest with an orgasm that tears through his nerves like electricity, muscles going tense and releasing, over and over, ass clenching at Dean’s fingers.
By the time Sam manages to open his eyes, ass still throbbing in time with rippling aftershocks, cock too sensitive, it’s to find Dean sitting back on his heels, jeans down around his thighs, hand wrapped around his cock and jerking rough and fast. Sam curls himself up and leans down, meeting Dean’s burning gaze as he barely slips his lips over the heavy head of Dean’s cock. Dean lets out a strangled moan and comes, thick ropes landing over Sam’s tongue, his lips, across his cheek, down to his collarbone.
Dean collapses beside him and rummages through the bedding before coming up with a t shirt. He wipes Sam’s chest and stomach, hesitating before cleaning Sam’s face.
“Sorry,” he whispers, running his thumb over Sam’s bottom lip, smearing the come over sensitive pink skin. Sam waits until Dean finally wipes his mouth off before answering.
“Mmf,” is what comes out on his first try, but his mouth seems to work better once Dean settles down beside him, gathering Sam up against his side and wrapping an arm around him. “S’okay, I liked it.”
He can feel Dean smile against his temple, and the even rise and fall of Dean’s chest slowly guides him into sleep.
***
Part VII