Crush, Chapter 5
Chapter 5
March 2013
A few weeks later, Sam was on Spring break and he was around a lot, supposedly dealing with “the paperwork”. It was kinda annoying having him, like, constantly there, but it did put Dean in a good mood, so there were some upsides.
From my position at the front desk, covering for Tim (he was having a week at his aunt’s place in Florida), I could see Sam as he worked. He worked in long, never-ending periods, (seriously, the guy had some major focus) hunched over his laptop, with his tongue between his teeth and eyes fierce with concentration, an expression that reminded me of the one Dean got when he worked on an engine.
The next call was from some poor bastard broken down on the highway about fifteen miles south. I promised to send someone straight away and the guy hung up. When I looked up from the desk and glanced towards the office, I saw Dean standing over Sam, his fingers resting on Sam’s neck. He was looking down at Sam, at his crazy messy hair, with an expression on his face that made the breath catch in my chest, like I was seeing something I shouldn't. Sam got to his feet, fisted his fingers in Dean’s boiler suit and tugged him into a kiss, his hands wrapped around Dean’s back, pulling him in closer as they kissed harder and harder. Sam spun Dean around and slammed him up against the desk, forcing Dean’s head back and putting his mouth on his throat, licking and sucking and grasping at him… both of them making noises, breathy pants and moans that were better than my most watched porno.
I couldn’t look away, frozen to the spot, staring. I’d never seen two men kiss before and I’d never imagined it could be like that; they were properly making out, eating each other’s faces like they were starving for it. It was… God, like nothing I’d ever seen before, dirty and rough and crazy, and I’d never thought before how with two guys, you didn’t have to be gentle, you could be like this. Other couples were not like this, why were they… didn’t they get enough at home? And here and now, in the goddamn workplace, with the fucking door still open… Did they want to be caught? Or did they really and truly not give a shit who saw them? Or… were they just past caring?
I kinda thought it was the last option as I slowly sat back down again, sort of aware, at the back of my mind, in a place I didn’t want to go, that watching them like this was making my dick hard. I tried to swallow, but my throat had dried up, like, I couldn’t talk, and I was still holding the telephone receiver, had it in a fucking death-grip. I replaced it carefully and stared down at the notes I’d taken, feeling a weird sort of desperation: how was I supposed to go on in there and interrupt that to tell Dean about the poor bastard out on the highway?
I reached blindly for my pen, my stupid elbow knocked against my coffee mug and it spun off the desk, crashing to the floor and smashing. There was a flurry of noise from the office and Dean’s voice blurted out: “What the fuck was that?”
I jerked my head up and saw Dean pull away from Sam, straightening and scrubbing a hand through his hair, looking really pissed. I felt for a moment like ducking back behind the desk to hide.
“Uh, um, sorry. There was this call -”
“What call?”
“A guy. Stuck out on the highway, about twenty miles, uh, I’ve got it all written down. I said we could probably send someone. That we’d, uh, call back if we could.”
Dean scowled and clomped forward to grab the piece of paper off my desk.
“Right. I’ll go,” he snapped. Close up, I could see how flushed he was, his face and neck all pink, his lips wet and bitten from where Sam had kissed him. I stared, feeling my face start to heat up, unable to take my eyes off him. He yanked open the top drawer of the desk and snatched up the keys to the pick-up. “Call him. Tell him I’m on the way.” And he was gone, stomping out the door, still pissed.
I felt really hurt. I’d seen Dean be hard-edged and cold with Uncle Lou (can’t blame him there) and I’d heard him lay into Tim on a couple of occasions for shitty time-keeping and being generally useless, but he'd always been nice to me. I glanced back over at Sam; catching my eye, he smiled back at me, all kind understanding and sympathy. I felt like I wanted to smash something.
That night, I dreamed of Dean again and woke up with wet sheets.
Don’t get the idea that I’m some sort of ignorant slut. I’m not fucking stupid. I know that you don’t just start having wet dreams about someone for no reason. But I didn’t have a crush on Dean. That was fucking impossible. For a start, I was pretty damn sure I wasn’t gay. I’d definitely have remembered if a guy had ever gotten me hard before, and for the record, that had never happened.
When I was a sophomore, when Dad was sick, I’d gotten bullied. There'd been this group of kids in class who'd said things about me, calling me faggot, queer, cocksucker. I’d been quiet and withdrawn back then, and I’d just missed Dad so fucking much; missed Dad, the real Dad and not the sick and feeble thing that had taken over the dining room with all his sickroom crap. I’d hardly gone to school some days, not just cause of Dad, but because of them, those kids, those bullies.
Lucinda had saved me. After we'd started dating, it had died down. It was fucking stupid to call someone a fag when they had a girlfriend, and luckily for me, they were too goddamn dumb to think of anything more original to call me. After Lucinda and I’d broken up, well, we'd still been friends so that had been cool. It was better than it always being just me and Evan; extra friends meant extra security.
The thing with Lucinda though, she’d been… well, shit had been pretty tame between us, and that had suited me at the time, cause yeah… I was pretty fucked up. From the way people talked about sex, and from the pornos I’d watched, I’d expected it to be more than it was when we’d finally gotten around to doing it, but it had been… disappointing. Watching Sam and Dean this morning, was like… well, I don’t want to say it was a revelation, cause cheesy much? But, man, it was like… could it really be like that between two guys? Fuck.
I went out that evening with Evan. We were meeting up with Lucinda at Pete’s, we didn’t go there very often which meant they didn’t know us, giving us the perfect opportunity to try out our new fake ID’s, except Evan was already totally pussying out on me.
“Derek, I can't go order. That dude - he's one of Robert's friends. He knows how old I am."
I groaned and snatched my ID from his fingers. "Fine."
I went on inside and headed for the bar. It wasn't, like, madly busy and there was plenty of space at the bar when I got there. I was leaning on it, my ID resting in a sticky patch of something, attempting to get served, when a familiar voice barked out:
"Hey, let me take a look at that."
An arm came out and snatched up my brand new ID. I jumped and turned to take in the face next to me: the jagged scar running across his forehead, through his eyebrow, the green eyes and pink mouth... Dean.
"Now I know for a fact you aren't twenty-one, Derek. And Jesus... kid, this is some piece of shit ID. Where'd you get this?"
"Um, my uh, friend got them," I stammered, not managing to meet his eyes as he turned the ID over in his fingers, shaking his head in disgust.
He looked up and gestured for the bartender. "Whatta you and your friend drinking?"
"Uh, two beers."
He nodded and ordered for me.
"Who was that?" hissed Evan when I managed to escape with the beers. "Did he, like, just order the drinks for you?"
"That's my boss," I told him.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Dean join someone at a table: Sam, of course, not easy to miss. I watched Dean drop beers and shots onto the table between them, Sam's big hand covering Dean's as he took the beer from him, almost masking the bottle completely as he raised it to his lips. I felt myself start to blush, remembering what I’d seen that morning, how Sam’s huge hands had clawed at Dean, how one of them had covered his ass, pulling him in tight…
"Man, that was good of him. We should, like, totally go over and thank him. He paid for them too, right?"
"Uh, yeah? But, no, no, Evan." Fuck! It was too late. Evan was on a mission, already half way towards Dean's table. I watched him with a rising sense of despair, cringing as he leaned over and said something to them; Sam looked over towards me, a slight frown on his face. Evan twisted around and gestured to me, mouthing: C'mon.
Great, just fucking great, there was no escape now. I sighed and crossed the room.
"Derek, I was just saying to uh - Evan here, you were ripped off with those ID's, dude. If you want some good ones -"
"Dean," interrupted Sam.
"What? They're - what, nineteen?" Evan nodded enthusiastically, eyes fixed on Dean as if he were the answer to some big fucking prayer. "Yeah, so they can vote, get married, join the army, but they can't have a fuckin' drink in a bar? Dude, that's fucked up."
Sam shook his head and gave him an indulgent look. "Doesn't make it any less illegal."
Dean grinned and placed his hand on the back of Sam's neck, fingers brushing against the short hairs at his collar and, oh Jesus, here we go again… I swallowed and looked away, trying to push the memories of this morning from my head, trying to erase those images, those non-stop flashbacks. When I looked back, Dean was talking to Evan, telling him about this guy he knew who could fix us up. "Just tell him it was me who told you." Evan’s eyes were locked on Dean’s, drinking in every word falling from his lips.
"Dude, your boss is awesome," Evan breathed out after Dean and Sam had gotten up to play pool. "He's, like, the coolest guy ever." He stared at the chairs Dean and Sam had vacated with his creepy, fanboy look.
I was sick of Dean. Fed-up and sick and tired, and I didn’t want to think about Dean anymore. I didn’t want to think about Dean and Sam and Sam’s creepy-ass ways and their weirdo, fucking perfect, gay relationship and the way they kissed each other and how much thinking about it turned me on.
The whole thing made me sick and confused and lost. Ever since I’d started working for Dean, I’d felt uncertain of myself, well, even more than usual, cause it's not like I'd ever known what I was fucking doing with my life. But now... now I truly felt lost, and what was worse, Evan, my best friend, the person I relied on, was banging on and on about Dean as if the dude was the second coming.
"He's gay," I bit out. I wanted wipe that look off of his face, let him know that he was being pathetic.
"Well, duh.” He took a long pull on his second or third beer (courtesy of the other bartender, Cliff, a friend of Dean's). "Anyone can see that they're a couple."
"Well don't you think that..." I trailed off, confused by Evan's matter-of-fact acceptance.
"Think what?"
I shrugged and tore my beer mat in half. "Doesn't matter. Where's Lucinda? She's late."
"Don't know." Evan shrugged in turn and drained the rest of his beer. "Right, I’m gonna get some more.”
I looked back towards the pool area. Dean and Sam seemed to have beaten their opponents: a couple of drunk, preppy assholes, one of their girlfriends watching from the sidelines with a bored expression. Dean pocketed the bills and smirked at the two guys, smart-assed and cold.
The loser guys and the disgusted girlfriend left, and Sam bent over the table to rack the balls while Dean leaned over, way into his personal space, and said something, lips so close to Sam's face, they were practically touching his lips. I stared at Dean, at the half-shadowed side of his face, watching his lips move. I could feel that hot, prickly feeling fluttering in my chest as I watched him finish up whatever he’d been saying and step away, Sam looking after him with dark, glittering eyes.
"Hey, Derek! Derek Owen Ancona!"
I jumped at the sound, my beer almost overturning; people always seemed to be sneaking up on me these days. I dragged my eyes away from Dean and Sam to see Lucinda leaning over the table.
"Oh, uh, hey, Lucinda."
"You were miles away. Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, course I'm alright. How are you?"
"Good." She sank into the chair beside me as Evan came back with the beers, snagging one for herself.
She started talking about college, but paused halfway through describing her classes and laughed shakily, trying to distract from her red face, before she gabbled out: “…and the professor for this class, Sam Truman, he’s so great and he’s, just… he’s standing over there, you see - the really tall, hot guy?”
We followed where she was pointing, and ohhhhhhh… she was pointing to Sam, Sam who was a college professor. Of course.
"Him over there, by the pool table. That really tall, really hot guy, that's him. His class is awesome and he's just…" she sighed wistfully, "he's, like, so cool and smart? And you know, just, guh, so tall..."
I stared at her and kinda wanted to laugh, because… Lucinda had a crush on Sam? Dean’s Sam? Scarily intense, most definitely gay Sam? Possibly a Satanist, insanely protective Sam?
Wow, she could really pick them.
Evan laughed. "Don't get your hopes up, babe."
"What're you talking about? And don't call me babe."
"You are so S.O.L,” he slurred through more sniggers. “He’s totally gay. That guy with him - he's his boyfriend, and uh, Derek's boss."
"What?" she looked at me, her face scrunched up in confusion. "Your boss? The garage guy? You never told me your boss was gay." She said it as if it was, like, the coolest thing in the world, and not as if it meant that her crush on the cool, hot and super smart Professor Truman had not just crashed and burned, not that it had ever stood a chance, Sam never had eyes for anyone who wasn't Dean.
I rolled my eyes at her. Evan was already banging on and on about how and why Dean was "just so awesome". I didn’t want to join in their fan-boying and fan-girling, it was bad enough watching the way Lucinda’s eyes shone when she sneaked looks at Dean and Sam.
"When they finish up their game, d’you think, like, we can talk to them again? Shit, just wait till I tell Claire, she's got this enormous crush on Sam."
"Not like you then?" I snarked.
She blushed again and elbowed me. "Derek! Be nice. The guy's, like, majorly hot. And smart. He knows so much cool stuff about pagan rituals and witchcraft and old urban legends - some of which are actually true. Some of the stuff we study, it's, like, fascinating. You both so should be taking this class."
For once, I was disappointed when she stopped talking, Sam’s big boner for the occult was something I had my own theories about and I kinda wanted to hear more.
“So how much did you win?” Evan asked Dean and Sam when they came back to the table.
Dean fanned out the money in his hand, "Easy pickings, dude, 250 big bucks on two games. Preppy assholes didn't know what hit them." He grinned evilly and took a pull on his beer, eyes going over us and lingering when they got to Lucinda. "Hey there, sweetheart! So, ain’t you boys gonna introduce us to your charming friend?"
"I'm Lucinda," she said, barely noticing him, instead staring at Sam like he was one of those chocolate sundaes she used to love.
Dean glanced between her and Sam and smirked. "Nice to meet you, Lucinda. I'm Dean and this," he clapped Sam on the shoulder, "this circus freak is Sam."
"I, uh, I know," she said, hesitating before plunging on, still staring at Sam with the worshipful look, "I - I'm in one of your classes. It's Freshman Intro to Cultural Anthropology, and it’s great, it's so great, really fascinating, my favorite class."
Sam looked surprised for a moment, before he smiled and nodded uncomfortably. "Uh, thanks. I try my best to make it not too boring."
"Oh my God, no! It’s not boring at all, it's so interesting... you know, learning everything about what people believe in, what different cultures believe. That lecture you gave last week, about neo-pagan rituals and their relevance to Old Norse mythology, was just amazing…”
I tuned out Sam’s answer, but Lucinda’s voice came back to me a moment later. She was gushing in that way she used to use on me when I told her I wasn’t gonna bother voting when I turned eighteen.
“…I mean, it’s just a different set of beliefs… it doesn’t have to be real, that’s what I’m always telling people - they’re, like, metaphors…”
Evan pulled a face and turned to Dean. “You might wanna warn him, dude, she’ll be like this all night.”
A couple of hours later, the crowd was thinning out, someone had put Bruce Springsteen on the jukebox and a few real drunk couples were dancing badly to Hungry Heart. Lucinda was still bending Sam’s ear about some boring shit, though he seemed to be giving as good as he got, and Dean was taking on Evan and me at the pool table. After wiping the floor with us twice in an embarrassingly short time, he’d soon gotten frustrated with our uselessness and started offering us hints which seemed to have led to a full blown coaching session. I leaned on my cue and watched him watch Evan flail around with his cue while he tried to line up a shot.
“Dude, I’ve told you, you’re doin’ it all wrong,” he snapped.
“Wha -“ Evan turned his head to peer up at Dean. “No, I - I’m doin’ like you said, man, gettin’ my sights fixed and…”
Dean sighed, “Here, look.”
He grabbed the cue from Evan, careful to keep about a foot from him, and leaned over the table, sliding the cue between his splayed fingers. I stared at the long line of his body, the way the dim, orange-yellow light hanging low over the table made the soft, downy hair on his arms look golden and fuzzy, the smooth, toned muscles of his arms flexing as he lined up the shot. His black t-shirt was tight across his shoulders and his jeans had eased down his hips, exposing a strip of his white boxer briefs...
A wave of heat tore through me, overwhelming and drowning out everything else...
I felt like I'd been punched, the breath slammed out of me like an elbow to the gut, and the only thing I was aware of was that I was hard... God, I was hard, and the reality… the one, the only thought beating in my head was that I wanted him, I wanted Dean, and I didn't know what I wanted to do with him, but God, I wanted him...
I gulped, trying to find my breath again, air hitching and fluttering in my chest, pulse racing crazily. I stared, stared at him: seeing him lift his beer to his lips, head tilting back and mouth wrapping around the neck, he lowered the bottle, lips moist as he mouthed along to the music, Everybody’s got a hungry heart, lay down your money and you play your part…. God, I wanted to kiss him, wanted to taste the beer on his lips, lick the moisture from his mouth. I wanted it, wanted to sink my teeth into him and taste him, press myself up against him, rub my dumb, hard cock up against his ass...
My boss, my fucking boss, with his huge, overprotective boyfriend… Just… fuck… What the fuck was wrong with me? What was happening to me?
The heat welled up again, swooping through my hazy, lost body, and thank fuck my mom always bought me such huge-ass, way-too-big, XXL size pants...
“Derek, you’re up, man.”
"I've gotta go to the bathroom." I dropped my cue and fucking bolted.
I didn't look back to see Dean and Evan's faces, I could guess at them anyway - surprise, confusion, what the fuck? I didn't stop, just dashed for the bathroom. I crashed into one of the stalls and gasped for breath.
I leaned against the stall wall, panting, so fucking sweaty, my t-shirt damp against my back and my armpits, and my cock... Jesus Christ, my cock... I jerked at my zipper and pulled it out, banging my head back against the stall wall and screwing my eyes tight shut.
It only took a couple of tugs before I was coming, sticky and gross in my hand. I gave myself thirty seconds, counting them down in my head, concentrating on each number, my stupid body still shaking from my wrung-out orgasm. I opened my eyes and grabbed for some toilet paper to clean up.
I felt exhausted, like I’d just finished a ten mile run, winded and shivering.
Everything had changed.
But I couldn't think about that now. There'd been too much beer, and my friends, and oh God, Dean, and Sam, were out there, and I had to be normal again, had to pretend that my life had not just gone to shit.
I slept heavily that night, not remembering any of my dreams when I finally woke up, thank God. I felt like shit, my head thick and pounding, my stomach churning, all that fucking beer. My whole body, tired as hell, and my stupid fucking dick, aching and hard.
I stumbled into the shower, just standing under the hot water, letting it run over me. I didn’t want to jerk off - I didn’t trust my brain not to play tricks on me, not to bring up things I was trying so hard to repress - but my stupid dick was still throbbing, and goddamnit it had gone past the point where I could just ignore the fucking thing. I jerked off half-heartedly, using my Mom’s apple scented conditioner. It didn’t take long, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried my best to think about nothing as I felt myself get closer.
It didn’t work.
Dean’s face sprang once again in my head as I came with a long hiss. I couldn’t stop myself from crying then, because this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t goddamned fair. Why did I have to be like this? Wasn’t it enough that I’d already lost my Dad? Hadn’t life shitted on me enough?
Because the thing was, like I'd said before, I wasn't fucking stupid. I knew now what this all was, the way I couldn’t stop thinking about him - about him and Sam - I knew pretty fucking well exactly what this was… what was making me feel like this.
I was gay. I was a dumb worthless gayboy, and my boss, fucking Dean Cooper, was to blame for it.
When I eventually got out the shower, Mom was hovering by the bathroom door, looking concerned. The walls in this place are far too fucking thin.
"Derek, honey. Are you okay?"
I couldn't look her in the eye, but just pushed past her into my room and slammed the bolt home behind me.
**********************************************
March 2013
On Friday, after office hours, Sam stays late to read a book Bobby’s friend sent him. It’s in Sumerian, and although his Sumerian is a lot better now than when they were on the road, it still takes him a long time to decipher through the first few pages. But he’s not going to give up because this could be it: this could hold the answer he’s been searching for.
He’s been reading for fifteen minutes when his phone rings, vibrating its way across a pile of freshman papers with skips and jumps. Dean calling.
“I found us a new hunt,” says Dean, his voice barely holding in his excitement. “In Savannah.”
“Savannah? Let me guess - another haunting?”
“Nah, dude, not this time, this time it sounds like a werewolf. Missing hearts, Sammy!”
Sam resists the urge to smile; really, Dean is the only person who can get excited about missing hearts.
“Uh-huh?”
“Oh yeah. So, I’m thinkin’, we set off tonight, do the research tomorrow and waste the sonofabitch tomorrow night, which happens to be…”
“…first night of the full moon.”
“Yatzhee.”
Sam hesitates for a second, he wants to say no, he’s just started his reading and there’s no way he’s going to be able to do it with Dean around, and this hunt -
“C’mon, Sam, whatcha waiting for? People are dying! Two people last full moon; think how many it can take out this time around? We should hunt this bastard already.”
Shit. It’s not like he can argue with logic like that, people are dying. They’re not strictly hunters anymore, but now that they know this is happening, they can’t ignore it. Dean’s right, if they don’t get it now, then it’ll kill again, some other poor innocent will suffer, and honestly, the two of them need all the good karma they can get.
“Okay, alright. I’m on my way.”
“Awesome, I’ll be ready.”
Dean hangs up and Sam sits for a moment staring at his cell phone screen. He lets out a frustrated sigh and flips the book closed.
It’s about five hours to Savannah, but Dean makes it in four. He’s in a stupidly good mood, singing along loudly to the music and outlining the more gruesome aspects of the case to Sam with shining eyes. Just outside Savannah he shoves Appetite for Destruction into the tape player and turns to Sam to shriek: You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby! You’re gonna die! with the kind of timing that would make W. Axl Rose proud.
“Jesus, sometimes I’m embarrassed to know you, let alone be related to you.”
“Bitch, you love me,” Dean says with a toothy grin.
Sam shakes his head, but he can’t stop smiling.
They pull into a motel just outside the city and Sam’s surprised to find he remembers it from their previous visits, then he remembers that it has both magic fingers and pay per view and he’s no longer surprised.
It’s both strange and oddly familiar to be on a hunt again. Sometimes, he feels as if this is his real life and the time he spends lecturing students and working on his thesis some sort of elaborate dream, because really: he and Dean living the small town lifestyle as a couple, Dean owning his own business and being a pillar of the community: how can that be reality?
The “vicious wild dog” sightings and the police reports of the two murders put the wolf’s hunting ground around one of the city’s oldest cemeteries, so they set up patrol there on the second night in town, the first night of the full moon.
They pad across the cemetery in silence. It’s rained recently and the turf is slick and wet, the air heavy and close. Sam can feel sweat beading under his shirt as he rolls his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his shotgun.
Dean shoots him a look, “You alright?”
“I don’t know, it’s just, I gotta bad feeling about this.”
“Well, that’s specific, Luke.”
Sam rolls his eyes and ignores him.
They pause by a couple of massive family monuments, Dean propping himself up against one of them, eyes squinting half-shut as he stares out across the cemetery.
Sam tracks his gaze and feels the cold prickle of something’s not right down his spine as he spots a dark shadow disappearing between another couple of enormous monuments. Dean immediately springs to his feet, sprinting towards the shape.
“Dean, wait!” he screams as Dean skids to the ground, shotgun raised.
It all happens so fast. Dean takes aim in the split second the creature moves - jumping, springing - one inhuman, animalistic leap and it’s on Dean, the two of them tumbling to the ground. Snarls and growls and Sam’s breath is trapped somewhere in his chest, and it’s like that moment in every Vietnam movie when the grenade explodes and the screen whites out, everyone rendered deaf and mute with shock and fear…
…until he’s moving, training kicking in, synapses and adrenalin firing open as he raises his gun, sites fixed, a ghost of Dad’s voice in his head: that’s right, Sammy, gotta get it right between the crosshairs, son…
He squeezes the trigger.
The thing collapses with a howl of pain that shrieks through every pore in Sam’s body, but he doesn’t care, he’s running to Dean, falling to the ground beside him. Oh God, oh God… You stupid, dumb idiot. Why’d you do that? Why’d you not wait for me?
His brother’s face is deathly pale; completely still, Sam lowers his head, and there - thank God, Jesus, whoever - warm, faint breath of air against his cheek. Dean’s still breathing.
He gets to work automatically, because Dean’s gone: that sickeningly familiar blankness in his brother’s face, that not Dean, empty vessel, everything that’s Dean vanished the moment that creature touched him. He takes a breath and twines their fingers together, lips already shaping the necessary words to bring his brother back.
He feels the familiar tingle of dark nastiness curl awake in his belly as he speaks the words, the matching brands on their hands spidering awake, rippling, bright purple tongues up and over and around their entwined hands and wrists. The words spill off his tongue, lips curling around the evil, grasping consonants as he hears Dean’s breathing quicken, Dean’s soul slowly folding back into place as the black, forbidden power twists alive in his chest…
Dean comes back with gasp, that hiccupping, choking intake of breath that Sam’s heard too many times now. Sleeping Beauty woken by her Handsome Prince, he thinks hysterically as Dean’s eyes flutter open. He curls over Dean, shielding him, holding his hand up by his mouth and kissing his fingertips one by one, tasting the gunpowder and dirt ingrained in Dean’s skin.
“Sam...” Dean exhales.
Sam’s breath hitches, he still feels like he’s choking. It’s harder, tougher, every time he does this to force the darkness back, to tamp it away inside him.
“Give me a minute, Dean.”
Dean squeezes his fingers tight around Sam’s hand, a reassuring pressure; he looks down, Dean’s staring at him, unblinking, resigned.
“It happened again.”
“Yeah, you were gone.”
Dean’s eyes don’t break contact with his as he props himself up on his elbows. “Well… shit, I didn’t think, I thought it was only humans who could cause it to,” he waves a hand, eyebrows coming together in a frown, “you know, break?”
“So did I.” He gets to his feet, exhaling heavily, reaching to retrieve his gun. “But werewolves, I guess, they’re people for 20 odd days of the week. They’re pretty close to human.”
Dean nods thoughtfully, “Huh.” He winces as he slowly regains his feet, leans heavily against a gravestone and looks down at the dead animal. “You got it though? Good shot, man.”
“Thanks.” He gives Dean a rueful smile, prods the werewolf carcass with the toe of his boot. “Guess we should burn the body.”
And that’s when the other werewolf arrives.
Chapter 6
March 2013
A few weeks later, Sam was on Spring break and he was around a lot, supposedly dealing with “the paperwork”. It was kinda annoying having him, like, constantly there, but it did put Dean in a good mood, so there were some upsides.
From my position at the front desk, covering for Tim (he was having a week at his aunt’s place in Florida), I could see Sam as he worked. He worked in long, never-ending periods, (seriously, the guy had some major focus) hunched over his laptop, with his tongue between his teeth and eyes fierce with concentration, an expression that reminded me of the one Dean got when he worked on an engine.
The next call was from some poor bastard broken down on the highway about fifteen miles south. I promised to send someone straight away and the guy hung up. When I looked up from the desk and glanced towards the office, I saw Dean standing over Sam, his fingers resting on Sam’s neck. He was looking down at Sam, at his crazy messy hair, with an expression on his face that made the breath catch in my chest, like I was seeing something I shouldn't. Sam got to his feet, fisted his fingers in Dean’s boiler suit and tugged him into a kiss, his hands wrapped around Dean’s back, pulling him in closer as they kissed harder and harder. Sam spun Dean around and slammed him up against the desk, forcing Dean’s head back and putting his mouth on his throat, licking and sucking and grasping at him… both of them making noises, breathy pants and moans that were better than my most watched porno.
I couldn’t look away, frozen to the spot, staring. I’d never seen two men kiss before and I’d never imagined it could be like that; they were properly making out, eating each other’s faces like they were starving for it. It was… God, like nothing I’d ever seen before, dirty and rough and crazy, and I’d never thought before how with two guys, you didn’t have to be gentle, you could be like this. Other couples were not like this, why were they… didn’t they get enough at home? And here and now, in the goddamn workplace, with the fucking door still open… Did they want to be caught? Or did they really and truly not give a shit who saw them? Or… were they just past caring?
I kinda thought it was the last option as I slowly sat back down again, sort of aware, at the back of my mind, in a place I didn’t want to go, that watching them like this was making my dick hard. I tried to swallow, but my throat had dried up, like, I couldn’t talk, and I was still holding the telephone receiver, had it in a fucking death-grip. I replaced it carefully and stared down at the notes I’d taken, feeling a weird sort of desperation: how was I supposed to go on in there and interrupt that to tell Dean about the poor bastard out on the highway?
I reached blindly for my pen, my stupid elbow knocked against my coffee mug and it spun off the desk, crashing to the floor and smashing. There was a flurry of noise from the office and Dean’s voice blurted out: “What the fuck was that?”
I jerked my head up and saw Dean pull away from Sam, straightening and scrubbing a hand through his hair, looking really pissed. I felt for a moment like ducking back behind the desk to hide.
“Uh, um, sorry. There was this call -”
“What call?”
“A guy. Stuck out on the highway, about twenty miles, uh, I’ve got it all written down. I said we could probably send someone. That we’d, uh, call back if we could.”
Dean scowled and clomped forward to grab the piece of paper off my desk.
“Right. I’ll go,” he snapped. Close up, I could see how flushed he was, his face and neck all pink, his lips wet and bitten from where Sam had kissed him. I stared, feeling my face start to heat up, unable to take my eyes off him. He yanked open the top drawer of the desk and snatched up the keys to the pick-up. “Call him. Tell him I’m on the way.” And he was gone, stomping out the door, still pissed.
I felt really hurt. I’d seen Dean be hard-edged and cold with Uncle Lou (can’t blame him there) and I’d heard him lay into Tim on a couple of occasions for shitty time-keeping and being generally useless, but he'd always been nice to me. I glanced back over at Sam; catching my eye, he smiled back at me, all kind understanding and sympathy. I felt like I wanted to smash something.
That night, I dreamed of Dean again and woke up with wet sheets.
Don’t get the idea that I’m some sort of ignorant slut. I’m not fucking stupid. I know that you don’t just start having wet dreams about someone for no reason. But I didn’t have a crush on Dean. That was fucking impossible. For a start, I was pretty damn sure I wasn’t gay. I’d definitely have remembered if a guy had ever gotten me hard before, and for the record, that had never happened.
When I was a sophomore, when Dad was sick, I’d gotten bullied. There'd been this group of kids in class who'd said things about me, calling me faggot, queer, cocksucker. I’d been quiet and withdrawn back then, and I’d just missed Dad so fucking much; missed Dad, the real Dad and not the sick and feeble thing that had taken over the dining room with all his sickroom crap. I’d hardly gone to school some days, not just cause of Dad, but because of them, those kids, those bullies.
Lucinda had saved me. After we'd started dating, it had died down. It was fucking stupid to call someone a fag when they had a girlfriend, and luckily for me, they were too goddamn dumb to think of anything more original to call me. After Lucinda and I’d broken up, well, we'd still been friends so that had been cool. It was better than it always being just me and Evan; extra friends meant extra security.
The thing with Lucinda though, she’d been… well, shit had been pretty tame between us, and that had suited me at the time, cause yeah… I was pretty fucked up. From the way people talked about sex, and from the pornos I’d watched, I’d expected it to be more than it was when we’d finally gotten around to doing it, but it had been… disappointing. Watching Sam and Dean this morning, was like… well, I don’t want to say it was a revelation, cause cheesy much? But, man, it was like… could it really be like that between two guys? Fuck.
I went out that evening with Evan. We were meeting up with Lucinda at Pete’s, we didn’t go there very often which meant they didn’t know us, giving us the perfect opportunity to try out our new fake ID’s, except Evan was already totally pussying out on me.
“Derek, I can't go order. That dude - he's one of Robert's friends. He knows how old I am."
I groaned and snatched my ID from his fingers. "Fine."
I went on inside and headed for the bar. It wasn't, like, madly busy and there was plenty of space at the bar when I got there. I was leaning on it, my ID resting in a sticky patch of something, attempting to get served, when a familiar voice barked out:
"Hey, let me take a look at that."
An arm came out and snatched up my brand new ID. I jumped and turned to take in the face next to me: the jagged scar running across his forehead, through his eyebrow, the green eyes and pink mouth... Dean.
"Now I know for a fact you aren't twenty-one, Derek. And Jesus... kid, this is some piece of shit ID. Where'd you get this?"
"Um, my uh, friend got them," I stammered, not managing to meet his eyes as he turned the ID over in his fingers, shaking his head in disgust.
He looked up and gestured for the bartender. "Whatta you and your friend drinking?"
"Uh, two beers."
He nodded and ordered for me.
"Who was that?" hissed Evan when I managed to escape with the beers. "Did he, like, just order the drinks for you?"
"That's my boss," I told him.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Dean join someone at a table: Sam, of course, not easy to miss. I watched Dean drop beers and shots onto the table between them, Sam's big hand covering Dean's as he took the beer from him, almost masking the bottle completely as he raised it to his lips. I felt myself start to blush, remembering what I’d seen that morning, how Sam’s huge hands had clawed at Dean, how one of them had covered his ass, pulling him in tight…
"Man, that was good of him. We should, like, totally go over and thank him. He paid for them too, right?"
"Uh, yeah? But, no, no, Evan." Fuck! It was too late. Evan was on a mission, already half way towards Dean's table. I watched him with a rising sense of despair, cringing as he leaned over and said something to them; Sam looked over towards me, a slight frown on his face. Evan twisted around and gestured to me, mouthing: C'mon.
Great, just fucking great, there was no escape now. I sighed and crossed the room.
"Derek, I was just saying to uh - Evan here, you were ripped off with those ID's, dude. If you want some good ones -"
"Dean," interrupted Sam.
"What? They're - what, nineteen?" Evan nodded enthusiastically, eyes fixed on Dean as if he were the answer to some big fucking prayer. "Yeah, so they can vote, get married, join the army, but they can't have a fuckin' drink in a bar? Dude, that's fucked up."
Sam shook his head and gave him an indulgent look. "Doesn't make it any less illegal."
Dean grinned and placed his hand on the back of Sam's neck, fingers brushing against the short hairs at his collar and, oh Jesus, here we go again… I swallowed and looked away, trying to push the memories of this morning from my head, trying to erase those images, those non-stop flashbacks. When I looked back, Dean was talking to Evan, telling him about this guy he knew who could fix us up. "Just tell him it was me who told you." Evan’s eyes were locked on Dean’s, drinking in every word falling from his lips.
"Dude, your boss is awesome," Evan breathed out after Dean and Sam had gotten up to play pool. "He's, like, the coolest guy ever." He stared at the chairs Dean and Sam had vacated with his creepy, fanboy look.
I was sick of Dean. Fed-up and sick and tired, and I didn’t want to think about Dean anymore. I didn’t want to think about Dean and Sam and Sam’s creepy-ass ways and their weirdo, fucking perfect, gay relationship and the way they kissed each other and how much thinking about it turned me on.
The whole thing made me sick and confused and lost. Ever since I’d started working for Dean, I’d felt uncertain of myself, well, even more than usual, cause it's not like I'd ever known what I was fucking doing with my life. But now... now I truly felt lost, and what was worse, Evan, my best friend, the person I relied on, was banging on and on about Dean as if the dude was the second coming.
"He's gay," I bit out. I wanted wipe that look off of his face, let him know that he was being pathetic.
"Well, duh.” He took a long pull on his second or third beer (courtesy of the other bartender, Cliff, a friend of Dean's). "Anyone can see that they're a couple."
"Well don't you think that..." I trailed off, confused by Evan's matter-of-fact acceptance.
"Think what?"
I shrugged and tore my beer mat in half. "Doesn't matter. Where's Lucinda? She's late."
"Don't know." Evan shrugged in turn and drained the rest of his beer. "Right, I’m gonna get some more.”
I looked back towards the pool area. Dean and Sam seemed to have beaten their opponents: a couple of drunk, preppy assholes, one of their girlfriends watching from the sidelines with a bored expression. Dean pocketed the bills and smirked at the two guys, smart-assed and cold.
The loser guys and the disgusted girlfriend left, and Sam bent over the table to rack the balls while Dean leaned over, way into his personal space, and said something, lips so close to Sam's face, they were practically touching his lips. I stared at Dean, at the half-shadowed side of his face, watching his lips move. I could feel that hot, prickly feeling fluttering in my chest as I watched him finish up whatever he’d been saying and step away, Sam looking after him with dark, glittering eyes.
"Hey, Derek! Derek Owen Ancona!"
I jumped at the sound, my beer almost overturning; people always seemed to be sneaking up on me these days. I dragged my eyes away from Dean and Sam to see Lucinda leaning over the table.
"Oh, uh, hey, Lucinda."
"You were miles away. Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, course I'm alright. How are you?"
"Good." She sank into the chair beside me as Evan came back with the beers, snagging one for herself.
She started talking about college, but paused halfway through describing her classes and laughed shakily, trying to distract from her red face, before she gabbled out: “…and the professor for this class, Sam Truman, he’s so great and he’s, just… he’s standing over there, you see - the really tall, hot guy?”
We followed where she was pointing, and ohhhhhhh… she was pointing to Sam, Sam who was a college professor. Of course.
"Him over there, by the pool table. That really tall, really hot guy, that's him. His class is awesome and he's just…" she sighed wistfully, "he's, like, so cool and smart? And you know, just, guh, so tall..."
I stared at her and kinda wanted to laugh, because… Lucinda had a crush on Sam? Dean’s Sam? Scarily intense, most definitely gay Sam? Possibly a Satanist, insanely protective Sam?
Wow, she could really pick them.
Evan laughed. "Don't get your hopes up, babe."
"What're you talking about? And don't call me babe."
"You are so S.O.L,” he slurred through more sniggers. “He’s totally gay. That guy with him - he's his boyfriend, and uh, Derek's boss."
"What?" she looked at me, her face scrunched up in confusion. "Your boss? The garage guy? You never told me your boss was gay." She said it as if it was, like, the coolest thing in the world, and not as if it meant that her crush on the cool, hot and super smart Professor Truman had not just crashed and burned, not that it had ever stood a chance, Sam never had eyes for anyone who wasn't Dean.
I rolled my eyes at her. Evan was already banging on and on about how and why Dean was "just so awesome". I didn’t want to join in their fan-boying and fan-girling, it was bad enough watching the way Lucinda’s eyes shone when she sneaked looks at Dean and Sam.
"When they finish up their game, d’you think, like, we can talk to them again? Shit, just wait till I tell Claire, she's got this enormous crush on Sam."
"Not like you then?" I snarked.
She blushed again and elbowed me. "Derek! Be nice. The guy's, like, majorly hot. And smart. He knows so much cool stuff about pagan rituals and witchcraft and old urban legends - some of which are actually true. Some of the stuff we study, it's, like, fascinating. You both so should be taking this class."
For once, I was disappointed when she stopped talking, Sam’s big boner for the occult was something I had my own theories about and I kinda wanted to hear more.
“So how much did you win?” Evan asked Dean and Sam when they came back to the table.
Dean fanned out the money in his hand, "Easy pickings, dude, 250 big bucks on two games. Preppy assholes didn't know what hit them." He grinned evilly and took a pull on his beer, eyes going over us and lingering when they got to Lucinda. "Hey there, sweetheart! So, ain’t you boys gonna introduce us to your charming friend?"
"I'm Lucinda," she said, barely noticing him, instead staring at Sam like he was one of those chocolate sundaes she used to love.
Dean glanced between her and Sam and smirked. "Nice to meet you, Lucinda. I'm Dean and this," he clapped Sam on the shoulder, "this circus freak is Sam."
"I, uh, I know," she said, hesitating before plunging on, still staring at Sam with the worshipful look, "I - I'm in one of your classes. It's Freshman Intro to Cultural Anthropology, and it’s great, it's so great, really fascinating, my favorite class."
Sam looked surprised for a moment, before he smiled and nodded uncomfortably. "Uh, thanks. I try my best to make it not too boring."
"Oh my God, no! It’s not boring at all, it's so interesting... you know, learning everything about what people believe in, what different cultures believe. That lecture you gave last week, about neo-pagan rituals and their relevance to Old Norse mythology, was just amazing…”
I tuned out Sam’s answer, but Lucinda’s voice came back to me a moment later. She was gushing in that way she used to use on me when I told her I wasn’t gonna bother voting when I turned eighteen.
“…I mean, it’s just a different set of beliefs… it doesn’t have to be real, that’s what I’m always telling people - they’re, like, metaphors…”
Evan pulled a face and turned to Dean. “You might wanna warn him, dude, she’ll be like this all night.”
A couple of hours later, the crowd was thinning out, someone had put Bruce Springsteen on the jukebox and a few real drunk couples were dancing badly to Hungry Heart. Lucinda was still bending Sam’s ear about some boring shit, though he seemed to be giving as good as he got, and Dean was taking on Evan and me at the pool table. After wiping the floor with us twice in an embarrassingly short time, he’d soon gotten frustrated with our uselessness and started offering us hints which seemed to have led to a full blown coaching session. I leaned on my cue and watched him watch Evan flail around with his cue while he tried to line up a shot.
“Dude, I’ve told you, you’re doin’ it all wrong,” he snapped.
“Wha -“ Evan turned his head to peer up at Dean. “No, I - I’m doin’ like you said, man, gettin’ my sights fixed and…”
Dean sighed, “Here, look.”
He grabbed the cue from Evan, careful to keep about a foot from him, and leaned over the table, sliding the cue between his splayed fingers. I stared at the long line of his body, the way the dim, orange-yellow light hanging low over the table made the soft, downy hair on his arms look golden and fuzzy, the smooth, toned muscles of his arms flexing as he lined up the shot. His black t-shirt was tight across his shoulders and his jeans had eased down his hips, exposing a strip of his white boxer briefs...
A wave of heat tore through me, overwhelming and drowning out everything else...
I felt like I'd been punched, the breath slammed out of me like an elbow to the gut, and the only thing I was aware of was that I was hard... God, I was hard, and the reality… the one, the only thought beating in my head was that I wanted him, I wanted Dean, and I didn't know what I wanted to do with him, but God, I wanted him...
I gulped, trying to find my breath again, air hitching and fluttering in my chest, pulse racing crazily. I stared, stared at him: seeing him lift his beer to his lips, head tilting back and mouth wrapping around the neck, he lowered the bottle, lips moist as he mouthed along to the music, Everybody’s got a hungry heart, lay down your money and you play your part…. God, I wanted to kiss him, wanted to taste the beer on his lips, lick the moisture from his mouth. I wanted it, wanted to sink my teeth into him and taste him, press myself up against him, rub my dumb, hard cock up against his ass...
My boss, my fucking boss, with his huge, overprotective boyfriend… Just… fuck… What the fuck was wrong with me? What was happening to me?
The heat welled up again, swooping through my hazy, lost body, and thank fuck my mom always bought me such huge-ass, way-too-big, XXL size pants...
“Derek, you’re up, man.”
"I've gotta go to the bathroom." I dropped my cue and fucking bolted.
I didn't look back to see Dean and Evan's faces, I could guess at them anyway - surprise, confusion, what the fuck? I didn't stop, just dashed for the bathroom. I crashed into one of the stalls and gasped for breath.
I leaned against the stall wall, panting, so fucking sweaty, my t-shirt damp against my back and my armpits, and my cock... Jesus Christ, my cock... I jerked at my zipper and pulled it out, banging my head back against the stall wall and screwing my eyes tight shut.
It only took a couple of tugs before I was coming, sticky and gross in my hand. I gave myself thirty seconds, counting them down in my head, concentrating on each number, my stupid body still shaking from my wrung-out orgasm. I opened my eyes and grabbed for some toilet paper to clean up.
I felt exhausted, like I’d just finished a ten mile run, winded and shivering.
Everything had changed.
But I couldn't think about that now. There'd been too much beer, and my friends, and oh God, Dean, and Sam, were out there, and I had to be normal again, had to pretend that my life had not just gone to shit.
I slept heavily that night, not remembering any of my dreams when I finally woke up, thank God. I felt like shit, my head thick and pounding, my stomach churning, all that fucking beer. My whole body, tired as hell, and my stupid fucking dick, aching and hard.
I stumbled into the shower, just standing under the hot water, letting it run over me. I didn’t want to jerk off - I didn’t trust my brain not to play tricks on me, not to bring up things I was trying so hard to repress - but my stupid dick was still throbbing, and goddamnit it had gone past the point where I could just ignore the fucking thing. I jerked off half-heartedly, using my Mom’s apple scented conditioner. It didn’t take long, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried my best to think about nothing as I felt myself get closer.
It didn’t work.
Dean’s face sprang once again in my head as I came with a long hiss. I couldn’t stop myself from crying then, because this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t goddamned fair. Why did I have to be like this? Wasn’t it enough that I’d already lost my Dad? Hadn’t life shitted on me enough?
Because the thing was, like I'd said before, I wasn't fucking stupid. I knew now what this all was, the way I couldn’t stop thinking about him - about him and Sam - I knew pretty fucking well exactly what this was… what was making me feel like this.
I was gay. I was a dumb worthless gayboy, and my boss, fucking Dean Cooper, was to blame for it.
When I eventually got out the shower, Mom was hovering by the bathroom door, looking concerned. The walls in this place are far too fucking thin.
"Derek, honey. Are you okay?"
I couldn't look her in the eye, but just pushed past her into my room and slammed the bolt home behind me.
**********************************************
March 2013
On Friday, after office hours, Sam stays late to read a book Bobby’s friend sent him. It’s in Sumerian, and although his Sumerian is a lot better now than when they were on the road, it still takes him a long time to decipher through the first few pages. But he’s not going to give up because this could be it: this could hold the answer he’s been searching for.
He’s been reading for fifteen minutes when his phone rings, vibrating its way across a pile of freshman papers with skips and jumps. Dean calling.
“I found us a new hunt,” says Dean, his voice barely holding in his excitement. “In Savannah.”
“Savannah? Let me guess - another haunting?”
“Nah, dude, not this time, this time it sounds like a werewolf. Missing hearts, Sammy!”
Sam resists the urge to smile; really, Dean is the only person who can get excited about missing hearts.
“Uh-huh?”
“Oh yeah. So, I’m thinkin’, we set off tonight, do the research tomorrow and waste the sonofabitch tomorrow night, which happens to be…”
“…first night of the full moon.”
“Yatzhee.”
Sam hesitates for a second, he wants to say no, he’s just started his reading and there’s no way he’s going to be able to do it with Dean around, and this hunt -
“C’mon, Sam, whatcha waiting for? People are dying! Two people last full moon; think how many it can take out this time around? We should hunt this bastard already.”
Shit. It’s not like he can argue with logic like that, people are dying. They’re not strictly hunters anymore, but now that they know this is happening, they can’t ignore it. Dean’s right, if they don’t get it now, then it’ll kill again, some other poor innocent will suffer, and honestly, the two of them need all the good karma they can get.
“Okay, alright. I’m on my way.”
“Awesome, I’ll be ready.”
Dean hangs up and Sam sits for a moment staring at his cell phone screen. He lets out a frustrated sigh and flips the book closed.
It’s about five hours to Savannah, but Dean makes it in four. He’s in a stupidly good mood, singing along loudly to the music and outlining the more gruesome aspects of the case to Sam with shining eyes. Just outside Savannah he shoves Appetite for Destruction into the tape player and turns to Sam to shriek: You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby! You’re gonna die! with the kind of timing that would make W. Axl Rose proud.
“Jesus, sometimes I’m embarrassed to know you, let alone be related to you.”
“Bitch, you love me,” Dean says with a toothy grin.
Sam shakes his head, but he can’t stop smiling.
They pull into a motel just outside the city and Sam’s surprised to find he remembers it from their previous visits, then he remembers that it has both magic fingers and pay per view and he’s no longer surprised.
It’s both strange and oddly familiar to be on a hunt again. Sometimes, he feels as if this is his real life and the time he spends lecturing students and working on his thesis some sort of elaborate dream, because really: he and Dean living the small town lifestyle as a couple, Dean owning his own business and being a pillar of the community: how can that be reality?
The “vicious wild dog” sightings and the police reports of the two murders put the wolf’s hunting ground around one of the city’s oldest cemeteries, so they set up patrol there on the second night in town, the first night of the full moon.
They pad across the cemetery in silence. It’s rained recently and the turf is slick and wet, the air heavy and close. Sam can feel sweat beading under his shirt as he rolls his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his shotgun.
Dean shoots him a look, “You alright?”
“I don’t know, it’s just, I gotta bad feeling about this.”
“Well, that’s specific, Luke.”
Sam rolls his eyes and ignores him.
They pause by a couple of massive family monuments, Dean propping himself up against one of them, eyes squinting half-shut as he stares out across the cemetery.
Sam tracks his gaze and feels the cold prickle of something’s not right down his spine as he spots a dark shadow disappearing between another couple of enormous monuments. Dean immediately springs to his feet, sprinting towards the shape.
“Dean, wait!” he screams as Dean skids to the ground, shotgun raised.
It all happens so fast. Dean takes aim in the split second the creature moves - jumping, springing - one inhuman, animalistic leap and it’s on Dean, the two of them tumbling to the ground. Snarls and growls and Sam’s breath is trapped somewhere in his chest, and it’s like that moment in every Vietnam movie when the grenade explodes and the screen whites out, everyone rendered deaf and mute with shock and fear…
…until he’s moving, training kicking in, synapses and adrenalin firing open as he raises his gun, sites fixed, a ghost of Dad’s voice in his head: that’s right, Sammy, gotta get it right between the crosshairs, son…
He squeezes the trigger.
The thing collapses with a howl of pain that shrieks through every pore in Sam’s body, but he doesn’t care, he’s running to Dean, falling to the ground beside him. Oh God, oh God… You stupid, dumb idiot. Why’d you do that? Why’d you not wait for me?
His brother’s face is deathly pale; completely still, Sam lowers his head, and there - thank God, Jesus, whoever - warm, faint breath of air against his cheek. Dean’s still breathing.
He gets to work automatically, because Dean’s gone: that sickeningly familiar blankness in his brother’s face, that not Dean, empty vessel, everything that’s Dean vanished the moment that creature touched him. He takes a breath and twines their fingers together, lips already shaping the necessary words to bring his brother back.
He feels the familiar tingle of dark nastiness curl awake in his belly as he speaks the words, the matching brands on their hands spidering awake, rippling, bright purple tongues up and over and around their entwined hands and wrists. The words spill off his tongue, lips curling around the evil, grasping consonants as he hears Dean’s breathing quicken, Dean’s soul slowly folding back into place as the black, forbidden power twists alive in his chest…
Dean comes back with gasp, that hiccupping, choking intake of breath that Sam’s heard too many times now. Sleeping Beauty woken by her Handsome Prince, he thinks hysterically as Dean’s eyes flutter open. He curls over Dean, shielding him, holding his hand up by his mouth and kissing his fingertips one by one, tasting the gunpowder and dirt ingrained in Dean’s skin.
“Sam...” Dean exhales.
Sam’s breath hitches, he still feels like he’s choking. It’s harder, tougher, every time he does this to force the darkness back, to tamp it away inside him.
“Give me a minute, Dean.”
Dean squeezes his fingers tight around Sam’s hand, a reassuring pressure; he looks down, Dean’s staring at him, unblinking, resigned.
“It happened again.”
“Yeah, you were gone.”
Dean’s eyes don’t break contact with his as he props himself up on his elbows. “Well… shit, I didn’t think, I thought it was only humans who could cause it to,” he waves a hand, eyebrows coming together in a frown, “you know, break?”
“So did I.” He gets to his feet, exhaling heavily, reaching to retrieve his gun. “But werewolves, I guess, they’re people for 20 odd days of the week. They’re pretty close to human.”
Dean nods thoughtfully, “Huh.” He winces as he slowly regains his feet, leans heavily against a gravestone and looks down at the dead animal. “You got it though? Good shot, man.”
“Thanks.” He gives Dean a rueful smile, prods the werewolf carcass with the toe of his boot. “Guess we should burn the body.”
And that’s when the other werewolf arrives.
Chapter 6