original by almostinstinct
Remix Title: We'll Ride Them Some Day
Remix Author: sirryluv
Original Story: No Such Thing As Unicorns
Original Author: almostinstinct
Rating: Adult (R)
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: The Winchester family is investigating a water horse
in small town Oklahoma, and Sam is just trying to wake up.
Warnings: underage (Sam is 17)
In the late 1990s, North Enid, Oklahoma has a population of nine hundred-fifteen and an endless stretch of farmland, roads twisting through open fields like ribbon falling through air, nothing but gold and dust. The Winchester family raises that number up by three, but Sam figures that it doesn't really count as a change when those three will disappear within a matter of months, nothing left behind besides fake credit card names and a broken front door from that time Dean was too drunk to properly use lock and key.
Before leaving, he'd turned to Sam, caught his cheek in a casual touch and said, "At least it's summer. Won't miss any school, Poindexter."
Sam had clambered into the back seat, long legs pushing his knees too high to be comfortable. He'd looked at Dean through the open window. "Yeah, we're real lucky, aren't we?"
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Sam wakes to the sound of Dean crawling in through the window, leather jacket scuffing against the marred wood. He calls his brother's name, voice sleep warmed and quiet. The smell of cheap beer and smoke permeates the room.
"Just me, Sammy. Go back to sleep." There is the sound of the bedsprings creaking, Dean's soft sigh. Sam turns over, watches Dean's movement, shifts of darker color against black night. He hears one boot drop to the floor, waits for the other. Before it can fall, Sam calls out again, fingers tripping off the edge of the bed.
"What?" Dean's voice is hushed and gravelly.
"C'mere." There is a pause in which the only sound is crickets singing beyond the open window. Then Sam feels Dean's hand on his head, a soft touch as he pulls the covers back. Sam pushes over, makes room for him. His toes slip off the edge of the bed, but Dean's got one hand covering the span of Sam's ribs as they sleep.
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The next time Sam wakes, he's shoved from sleep too suddenly, dream-disoriented. His father says, "Can't sleep all day, Samuel," and slaps his flat palm sharply against the wood. His heavy footsteps recede down the rickety stairs.
In the kitchen, Dean's leaning against the counter, hands curled over the edge and thumb playing with the lifted corner. "What I don't get is -- what's some Scottish sea horse doing in small town Oklahoma?"
John glances at him, mug half way to his mouth. He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, the only thing stopping him the black coffee he gratefully sips at. "Stop calling it a sea horse, Dean. It's a water horse, a njogel." He drinks, rolls the coffee in his mouth before swallowing. "And the lore originates from Scotland, but they're found anywhere that there's available water." He looks down at the notes scattered on the table, open files and newspaper clippings next to the plate of toast and dirty knives. "Preferably with lots of vegetation, too."
"So, we scope out all the bodies of water."
"Yep," John says, smacking his lips with another sip of coffee. "I want you two," - he gestures with his hand at his boys, acknowledging Sam's presence in the room for the first time --, "down at the local library. We need maps of the area and obits. See if you can get anything on the recent deaths, scope out what information is being released to the public." He pauses, eyes searching over a page in his journal. "Remember, they're shape shifters, they can turn into humans, so keep an eye out on the locals."
"Yes sir." Dean hooks his keys into the air and catches them in one swift movement, pocketing the chain and grinning at Sam. "C'mon, Sammy." He nudges him on his way by. "I'll even let you check out some books if you're good."
Sam rolls his eyes and tells him to shut up, following along in the wake of Dean's energy and nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Sammy, wait." John stops him by the shoulder, hands him a stack of toast and sausage wrapped in a napkin. "Gotta keep your strength up, son."
"Okay." There is an awkward moment in which they stand there, just watching each other. Then Sam says, "Thanks," and stuffs a piece of toast in his mouth, and John turns back to the files on the table.
Outside, Dean waits beside the car, face stone blank as the sun rises over the roof of the rented house.
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The research is surprisingly easy. They gather maps of the area and make copies, circling the local lakes and ponds with a red Sharpie. Dean sweet-talks one of the librarians into letting them use the copy machine for longer than they should be allowed and walks away with her number. He makes a show of launching it into the trash once she's out of sight. "I don't date prude chicks," he says, watching Sam press the buttons on the machine. "You saw that sweater, right?"
The chief librarian, Mr. Magnusson - a thin man with sleek, black hair and a long neck -- starts to glare at them as the copy machine whirs on in the quiet hall. "Boys," he begins, hands tucked into his black sweater. "Be sure to let others have an opportunity to use the copier, please," he says, and Dean does impressions of him the whole drive back.
When they get home there's a note on the kitchen table from their dad saying he's gone to talk with a professor at the college from the next town over, won't be home until after dark.
Something heated curls in Sam's gut when he realizes they've got the house to themselves, and he moves away without comment, pulling his sweaty tee shirt off over his head with criss-crossed arms, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them drop in the hallway. "Coming?" he asks, looking back once before turning the corner to the bathroom.
His back is turned, fiddling with the shower knob to get the water temperature just right, when Dean comes up behind him and presses his already hard cock against Sam's ass.
"You think you're something, don't you?" he breathes, licking Sam's neck and pushing a hand into his boxers.
"I know I'm something," Sam counters, voice thin as heat climbs up his thighs, centers around Dean's fingers swatting at his dick. He pulls away and drops to his knees in one swift motion, hands already fumbling at Dean's zipper and swallowing him down before he has a chance to breathe.
He sucks Dean hard and fast, feels the fine tremors underneath his fingers as he brings him higher. He tries to watch Dean's face, likes to see the way his mouth goes slack and his eyes scrunch tight, but Dean hates it when he does that, pulls at Sam's hair and covers his eyes with shaking fingers. When Dean goes rigid and gasps, Sam pulls back and jacks him off over his face, something like rapture in his eyes. "Love the way you come," he murmurs, rubbing the head of Dean's cock over his lips.
"Fuck, Sammy." Dean's breath is so harsh it sounds like he's choking, swearing and biting back words. His thumb catches on Sam's slick, red mouth.
He pulls Sam up for a kiss, fingers curling over the smooth curve of his hip. He tastes himself on Sam's tongue, sharp and sweet, and he fumbles in closer, licking hard. Sam pulls back. "You're gross," he squeals, and Dean pushes him into the shower.
"You just let me come all over your face and I'm the gross one?"
Sam smirks, something harder underneath. "Exactly."
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The next day, all three of them are in a bad mood, overheated and irritable as they travel from lake to lake, searching and finding nothing more than empty beer cans and a couple of necking teenagers. "I don't know shit about horses," Dean says, twisting the keys in the ignition. "Don't ride 'em - girls are better for my balls, if you know what I mean."
Sam pulled his shirt off hours ago, but now his back is sticking to the leather and he can feel the sweat collecting at the dip of his spine. "We've been searching for hours," he complains, stretching gratefully on the side of the road, hips pinioned against the side of the Impala. He can feel Dean's eyes on him as his wrists twist up towards the sky, but he doesn't respond, feigning interest in the map their Dad has laid out over the hood of the Impala.
Sam wanders away, scuffing rocks with his shoes and bending down to pick them up and hurl them over the edge of the road. There's no wind, only the ever-present thickness of wet, hot air that curls the edges of his hair. It is still and silent but for the hum of his father and Dean, and for a moment he imagines throwing his head back and screaming into the sky, yelling until the whole world is filled up with real noise and not this unceasing buzz that lingers in the back of his head each hour of the day.
Instead, he watches his feet carry him back to the car, slide into the passenger side of the Impala. Watches his hand turn the tape player on until Zeppelin begins to croon from the speakers. Watches his knees as he waits for Dean to come back in, start up the car, and drive them to the next lake, the steady rumble of the engine like a lullaby in the dozing heat.
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"Want you to fuck me," Sam says, pulling the covers back on Dean's bed and straddling his hips.
"Jesus, Sammy, it's the middle of the night." He sounds angry, but there's a grin lurking around the edges of his mouth and his hands are already settling on the curve of Sam's ass. He juts his hips up once; lets Sam feel his cock as it stiffens slowly against his body. "Get the lube," he says, hands playing over his skin.
They fuck with Sam's hands curled around the bars of the headboard, thighs held open across Dean's narrow hips, bucking hard each time Dean slides in and out of him. He moans sweetly in Dean's ear and watches the way his brother's control unravels a little further each time he begs for it deeper.
When they're finished, Sam sits up and looks at him. "I feel like I was made for you to fuck me."
"Shit, Sam. What the hell does that mean?" Dean grabs a tissue from the side table and wipes at Sam's come, pooled on his belly.
"I don't know. Just. No one else will feel like you do."
Relief washes over Dean's face, and he smirks. "That's 'cause I'm one of a kind."
"That's not what I'm saying." His voice is oddly grave, unwarranted grief coloring his face. "I mean, when I'm gone. Those girls you fuck, maybe that guy that'll bend over for you - they're not going to feel like this, they're not going to make you come so hard you see stars. I'm the only one who can do that, 'cause I know you." Here, he leans in closer, kisses him softly. "'Cause, I was meant for you."
Dean pushes him down onto his back, almost violence in his hands. "Don't go, then. Don't go off to school, to some white-picket fence life." He won't look Sam in the eye. "You don't have to leave."
Sam looks at him, sadness like pity in his eyes. Dean covers his mouth with his fingers before he can speak and Sam gives him his silence, drags his fingers across Dean's chest and over his heart. He leaves his hand pressed there, the beat of Dean's heart a familiar rhythm to send him off to sleep.
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Sam knows the fight's going to happen before it starts. The water horse hunt should've only lasted a few days, opening up the rest of the summer for a long-term vampire job in the area. Instead, it's dragged on, lingering in the August heat and sending them back to the books, the files, and the obits, wondering where they've slipped up, what they've missed. Worse, there's been another death.
Finally, Sam looks up from the book on his lap. "Maybe we should just go back to the lakes again?"
John grunts. "And waste another day so that it can take someone else? Not an option, Sam."
He doesn't even look up, and something hard bumps down into Sam's chest. "Yeah, well have we got any other options?"
"Don't take that tone with me, boy."
Sam's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. He shrugs off Dean's soft palm on his shoulder and stands. "So I should just sit here and let you mess up?" Dean makes a warning noise in the back of his throat, but Sam continues. "Watch this whole shitting catastrophe happen over and over again?"
"Don't you swear at me --,"
"You won't even look at me when --,"
"If I hear one more word, you'll be --,"
Dean edges in between them. "Hey," he shouts, "just stop it, both of you." There's silence for a moment.
Then, John swallows. "Dean, sit back down. Sam, go to your room."
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A spider unwinds from the ceiling of the bedroom, spins neatly across the corner wedge of the wall. Sam watches it, unsure whether to root for the clever spider or the fruit fly struggling to break free from silk strands.
He can hear the low murmur of John reprimanding Dean from behind the thin walls, and the room suddenly seems entirely too small for Sam. His elbows and knees jut outward, desperate for space. He needs air, needs to breathe.
He jabs his shoulder against the corner of the window as he crawls out, cutting a gash in the thin skin and bruising deep into the meat. He walks, ignores the blood, the tear in his shirt, strides across dead grass and through a cluster of low-hanging trees. Mosquitoes swarm around him, black dots against the tide of blue evening sky. He walks, aimless and along no path, until the blue fades and is replaced by velvet black, stars like pinpricks in the night sky.
When he comes to the edge of a river, he only knows it by the lap of water against his sneakers. Something like fear begins to snake up his spine; he's a boy, not a man, and he knows to be afraid of the dark. He's unarmed and unprepared, his one consolation being the waning moon hidden behind low-slung clouds.
He starts to assess the situation then, cold panic replacing the anger that had carried him here. He looks around, hoping for a landmark, something that will beckon him home. He's wishing he'd paid more attention to the lake hunt before, when out of the water comes a horse's head, blacker than coal, white eyes blinking at him with purpose. A long neck, thin and sinewy, twists free from the smooth pool of water, shakes off droplets as if flicking off flies.
Sam watches, transfixed, as the rest of the body emerges, water spilling off the sleek coat, black as oil in the moonlight. The horse comes closer, soft hooves against the wet sand of the bank.
Sam's hand is out, fingers curled gently against the nose of the nudging horse before he realizes what he's doing. The horse is majestic - there's no other word for it - and oddly ethereal in the moonlight, and his fingers slip through the mane like silk ribbons. He's suddenly very sure that he could ride this animal, tame it, and he swings up on its back easily, as if he's done it all his life. For a moment, there is utter stillness and then the horse begins to move back towards the river, sure, even steps against the wet bank, into the lapping flow. The water horse's gait is like waves between his outspread thighs, undulations of a black lake at midnight.
He fights against the movement, feels a guttural scream climb out of his throat, but the silky mane has turned to rough, weed-matted hair beneath his fingers, and he can see the animal's ribs and hipbones poking through its patchy fur.
Sam's thighs are cold and sodden, and the horse moves faster than he had anticipated. Liquid pools in the spaces between his clenched fingers. He couldn't escape now, even if he wanted to. He hears his own name ringing through his mind, clear as a bell, and he takes a deep breath before falling beneath the surface.
Underwater, there is the absence of light and sound, and the horse continues to gallop deeper, disappearing beneath Sam's body, abandoning him to waterweeds and empty bones. Strong arms suddenly grab him around the shoulders, wrestling with gravity and the pull of the watery grave. Pressure builds against his skin as the familiar grip latches on and drags him to the surface.
When they break through, he gasps for breath and allows Dean, cursing and panting, to pull him to shore. He coughs up water and it dribbles down his chin, but Dean gathers him up, wipes at his face with a wet sleeve and carries him to the car, no words, just breathing. He feels awake.
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John is standing on the porch when they pull in the driveway, thumbs through his belt loops. He's startled out of his reverie when Dean pulls Sam from the car in his arms.
Understanding crosses over his face as he takes in their wet clothes, and he opens the door to the house, ushers them inside without a word. Dean stands on the welcome mat, Sam cradled in his arms, throbbing head against his chest. They're dripping river water on the carpet.
John begins to gather up supplies in an old army knapsack, stuffing papers and a map in next to his rifle and silver knife. "Where?" he asks.
"The lake by that old abandoned church, down on Agnes St."
"Got it." He swings the sack over his shoulder, grabbing his keys from the table. He pauses next to them, touches Sam's clammy cheek with his palm. "Get him in a warm bath," he says, and locks the door on his way out.
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The next morning when Sam wakes, the house is packed into canvas bags and cardboard boxes gathered from the dumpster behind the local grocery. There are clean clothes and his toothbrush laid out for him on Dean's stripped twin bed.
"Sammy." He looks up from where he's studying the bent bristles of his toothbrush. He really should get a new one. "You feeling okay?"
"I'm fine," he says, tone of voice like he has no idea what Dean's talking about. He slips a pair of socks over his bony feet.
"C'mon, kiddo." Dean brushes a finger over Sam's cheek. "You climbed on top of a water horse and let it walk into the lake with you on its back." He sits down on the sloping mattress, thigh pressed against Sam's toes.
"Did Dad get it?"
"Nah, by the time he got there, damn thing had disappeared."
Something like relief pools in Sam's stomach. He ignores it. "We leavin'?"
"Yeah." Dean pulls at a thread on the quilt. "Bobby's gonna take over the vamp case."
"What about the njogel?"
Dean leans over and kisses his forehead. "We'll get it someday."
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As a sleek, black Impala and an old truck drive down Main Street, heading towards the highway, Mr. Magnusson blinks his watery, pale eyes against the light and smiles as he opens the library for the day.
Remix Author: sirryluv
Original Story: No Such Thing As Unicorns
Original Author: almostinstinct
Rating: Adult (R)
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: The Winchester family is investigating a water horse
in small town Oklahoma, and Sam is just trying to wake up.
Warnings: underage (Sam is 17)
In the late 1990s, North Enid, Oklahoma has a population of nine hundred-fifteen and an endless stretch of farmland, roads twisting through open fields like ribbon falling through air, nothing but gold and dust. The Winchester family raises that number up by three, but Sam figures that it doesn't really count as a change when those three will disappear within a matter of months, nothing left behind besides fake credit card names and a broken front door from that time Dean was too drunk to properly use lock and key.
Before leaving, he'd turned to Sam, caught his cheek in a casual touch and said, "At least it's summer. Won't miss any school, Poindexter."
Sam had clambered into the back seat, long legs pushing his knees too high to be comfortable. He'd looked at Dean through the open window. "Yeah, we're real lucky, aren't we?"
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Sam wakes to the sound of Dean crawling in through the window, leather jacket scuffing against the marred wood. He calls his brother's name, voice sleep warmed and quiet. The smell of cheap beer and smoke permeates the room.
"Just me, Sammy. Go back to sleep." There is the sound of the bedsprings creaking, Dean's soft sigh. Sam turns over, watches Dean's movement, shifts of darker color against black night. He hears one boot drop to the floor, waits for the other. Before it can fall, Sam calls out again, fingers tripping off the edge of the bed.
"What?" Dean's voice is hushed and gravelly.
"C'mere." There is a pause in which the only sound is crickets singing beyond the open window. Then Sam feels Dean's hand on his head, a soft touch as he pulls the covers back. Sam pushes over, makes room for him. His toes slip off the edge of the bed, but Dean's got one hand covering the span of Sam's ribs as they sleep.
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The next time Sam wakes, he's shoved from sleep too suddenly, dream-disoriented. His father says, "Can't sleep all day, Samuel," and slaps his flat palm sharply against the wood. His heavy footsteps recede down the rickety stairs.
In the kitchen, Dean's leaning against the counter, hands curled over the edge and thumb playing with the lifted corner. "What I don't get is -- what's some Scottish sea horse doing in small town Oklahoma?"
John glances at him, mug half way to his mouth. He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, the only thing stopping him the black coffee he gratefully sips at. "Stop calling it a sea horse, Dean. It's a water horse, a njogel." He drinks, rolls the coffee in his mouth before swallowing. "And the lore originates from Scotland, but they're found anywhere that there's available water." He looks down at the notes scattered on the table, open files and newspaper clippings next to the plate of toast and dirty knives. "Preferably with lots of vegetation, too."
"So, we scope out all the bodies of water."
"Yep," John says, smacking his lips with another sip of coffee. "I want you two," - he gestures with his hand at his boys, acknowledging Sam's presence in the room for the first time --, "down at the local library. We need maps of the area and obits. See if you can get anything on the recent deaths, scope out what information is being released to the public." He pauses, eyes searching over a page in his journal. "Remember, they're shape shifters, they can turn into humans, so keep an eye out on the locals."
"Yes sir." Dean hooks his keys into the air and catches them in one swift movement, pocketing the chain and grinning at Sam. "C'mon, Sammy." He nudges him on his way by. "I'll even let you check out some books if you're good."
Sam rolls his eyes and tells him to shut up, following along in the wake of Dean's energy and nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Sammy, wait." John stops him by the shoulder, hands him a stack of toast and sausage wrapped in a napkin. "Gotta keep your strength up, son."
"Okay." There is an awkward moment in which they stand there, just watching each other. Then Sam says, "Thanks," and stuffs a piece of toast in his mouth, and John turns back to the files on the table.
Outside, Dean waits beside the car, face stone blank as the sun rises over the roof of the rented house.
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The research is surprisingly easy. They gather maps of the area and make copies, circling the local lakes and ponds with a red Sharpie. Dean sweet-talks one of the librarians into letting them use the copy machine for longer than they should be allowed and walks away with her number. He makes a show of launching it into the trash once she's out of sight. "I don't date prude chicks," he says, watching Sam press the buttons on the machine. "You saw that sweater, right?"
The chief librarian, Mr. Magnusson - a thin man with sleek, black hair and a long neck -- starts to glare at them as the copy machine whirs on in the quiet hall. "Boys," he begins, hands tucked into his black sweater. "Be sure to let others have an opportunity to use the copier, please," he says, and Dean does impressions of him the whole drive back.
When they get home there's a note on the kitchen table from their dad saying he's gone to talk with a professor at the college from the next town over, won't be home until after dark.
Something heated curls in Sam's gut when he realizes they've got the house to themselves, and he moves away without comment, pulling his sweaty tee shirt off over his head with criss-crossed arms, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them drop in the hallway. "Coming?" he asks, looking back once before turning the corner to the bathroom.
His back is turned, fiddling with the shower knob to get the water temperature just right, when Dean comes up behind him and presses his already hard cock against Sam's ass.
"You think you're something, don't you?" he breathes, licking Sam's neck and pushing a hand into his boxers.
"I know I'm something," Sam counters, voice thin as heat climbs up his thighs, centers around Dean's fingers swatting at his dick. He pulls away and drops to his knees in one swift motion, hands already fumbling at Dean's zipper and swallowing him down before he has a chance to breathe.
He sucks Dean hard and fast, feels the fine tremors underneath his fingers as he brings him higher. He tries to watch Dean's face, likes to see the way his mouth goes slack and his eyes scrunch tight, but Dean hates it when he does that, pulls at Sam's hair and covers his eyes with shaking fingers. When Dean goes rigid and gasps, Sam pulls back and jacks him off over his face, something like rapture in his eyes. "Love the way you come," he murmurs, rubbing the head of Dean's cock over his lips.
"Fuck, Sammy." Dean's breath is so harsh it sounds like he's choking, swearing and biting back words. His thumb catches on Sam's slick, red mouth.
He pulls Sam up for a kiss, fingers curling over the smooth curve of his hip. He tastes himself on Sam's tongue, sharp and sweet, and he fumbles in closer, licking hard. Sam pulls back. "You're gross," he squeals, and Dean pushes him into the shower.
"You just let me come all over your face and I'm the gross one?"
Sam smirks, something harder underneath. "Exactly."
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The next day, all three of them are in a bad mood, overheated and irritable as they travel from lake to lake, searching and finding nothing more than empty beer cans and a couple of necking teenagers. "I don't know shit about horses," Dean says, twisting the keys in the ignition. "Don't ride 'em - girls are better for my balls, if you know what I mean."
Sam pulled his shirt off hours ago, but now his back is sticking to the leather and he can feel the sweat collecting at the dip of his spine. "We've been searching for hours," he complains, stretching gratefully on the side of the road, hips pinioned against the side of the Impala. He can feel Dean's eyes on him as his wrists twist up towards the sky, but he doesn't respond, feigning interest in the map their Dad has laid out over the hood of the Impala.
Sam wanders away, scuffing rocks with his shoes and bending down to pick them up and hurl them over the edge of the road. There's no wind, only the ever-present thickness of wet, hot air that curls the edges of his hair. It is still and silent but for the hum of his father and Dean, and for a moment he imagines throwing his head back and screaming into the sky, yelling until the whole world is filled up with real noise and not this unceasing buzz that lingers in the back of his head each hour of the day.
Instead, he watches his feet carry him back to the car, slide into the passenger side of the Impala. Watches his hand turn the tape player on until Zeppelin begins to croon from the speakers. Watches his knees as he waits for Dean to come back in, start up the car, and drive them to the next lake, the steady rumble of the engine like a lullaby in the dozing heat.
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"Want you to fuck me," Sam says, pulling the covers back on Dean's bed and straddling his hips.
"Jesus, Sammy, it's the middle of the night." He sounds angry, but there's a grin lurking around the edges of his mouth and his hands are already settling on the curve of Sam's ass. He juts his hips up once; lets Sam feel his cock as it stiffens slowly against his body. "Get the lube," he says, hands playing over his skin.
They fuck with Sam's hands curled around the bars of the headboard, thighs held open across Dean's narrow hips, bucking hard each time Dean slides in and out of him. He moans sweetly in Dean's ear and watches the way his brother's control unravels a little further each time he begs for it deeper.
When they're finished, Sam sits up and looks at him. "I feel like I was made for you to fuck me."
"Shit, Sam. What the hell does that mean?" Dean grabs a tissue from the side table and wipes at Sam's come, pooled on his belly.
"I don't know. Just. No one else will feel like you do."
Relief washes over Dean's face, and he smirks. "That's 'cause I'm one of a kind."
"That's not what I'm saying." His voice is oddly grave, unwarranted grief coloring his face. "I mean, when I'm gone. Those girls you fuck, maybe that guy that'll bend over for you - they're not going to feel like this, they're not going to make you come so hard you see stars. I'm the only one who can do that, 'cause I know you." Here, he leans in closer, kisses him softly. "'Cause, I was meant for you."
Dean pushes him down onto his back, almost violence in his hands. "Don't go, then. Don't go off to school, to some white-picket fence life." He won't look Sam in the eye. "You don't have to leave."
Sam looks at him, sadness like pity in his eyes. Dean covers his mouth with his fingers before he can speak and Sam gives him his silence, drags his fingers across Dean's chest and over his heart. He leaves his hand pressed there, the beat of Dean's heart a familiar rhythm to send him off to sleep.
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Sam knows the fight's going to happen before it starts. The water horse hunt should've only lasted a few days, opening up the rest of the summer for a long-term vampire job in the area. Instead, it's dragged on, lingering in the August heat and sending them back to the books, the files, and the obits, wondering where they've slipped up, what they've missed. Worse, there's been another death.
Finally, Sam looks up from the book on his lap. "Maybe we should just go back to the lakes again?"
John grunts. "And waste another day so that it can take someone else? Not an option, Sam."
He doesn't even look up, and something hard bumps down into Sam's chest. "Yeah, well have we got any other options?"
"Don't take that tone with me, boy."
Sam's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. He shrugs off Dean's soft palm on his shoulder and stands. "So I should just sit here and let you mess up?" Dean makes a warning noise in the back of his throat, but Sam continues. "Watch this whole shitting catastrophe happen over and over again?"
"Don't you swear at me --,"
"You won't even look at me when --,"
"If I hear one more word, you'll be --,"
Dean edges in between them. "Hey," he shouts, "just stop it, both of you." There's silence for a moment.
Then, John swallows. "Dean, sit back down. Sam, go to your room."
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A spider unwinds from the ceiling of the bedroom, spins neatly across the corner wedge of the wall. Sam watches it, unsure whether to root for the clever spider or the fruit fly struggling to break free from silk strands.
He can hear the low murmur of John reprimanding Dean from behind the thin walls, and the room suddenly seems entirely too small for Sam. His elbows and knees jut outward, desperate for space. He needs air, needs to breathe.
He jabs his shoulder against the corner of the window as he crawls out, cutting a gash in the thin skin and bruising deep into the meat. He walks, ignores the blood, the tear in his shirt, strides across dead grass and through a cluster of low-hanging trees. Mosquitoes swarm around him, black dots against the tide of blue evening sky. He walks, aimless and along no path, until the blue fades and is replaced by velvet black, stars like pinpricks in the night sky.
When he comes to the edge of a river, he only knows it by the lap of water against his sneakers. Something like fear begins to snake up his spine; he's a boy, not a man, and he knows to be afraid of the dark. He's unarmed and unprepared, his one consolation being the waning moon hidden behind low-slung clouds.
He starts to assess the situation then, cold panic replacing the anger that had carried him here. He looks around, hoping for a landmark, something that will beckon him home. He's wishing he'd paid more attention to the lake hunt before, when out of the water comes a horse's head, blacker than coal, white eyes blinking at him with purpose. A long neck, thin and sinewy, twists free from the smooth pool of water, shakes off droplets as if flicking off flies.
Sam watches, transfixed, as the rest of the body emerges, water spilling off the sleek coat, black as oil in the moonlight. The horse comes closer, soft hooves against the wet sand of the bank.
Sam's hand is out, fingers curled gently against the nose of the nudging horse before he realizes what he's doing. The horse is majestic - there's no other word for it - and oddly ethereal in the moonlight, and his fingers slip through the mane like silk ribbons. He's suddenly very sure that he could ride this animal, tame it, and he swings up on its back easily, as if he's done it all his life. For a moment, there is utter stillness and then the horse begins to move back towards the river, sure, even steps against the wet bank, into the lapping flow. The water horse's gait is like waves between his outspread thighs, undulations of a black lake at midnight.
He fights against the movement, feels a guttural scream climb out of his throat, but the silky mane has turned to rough, weed-matted hair beneath his fingers, and he can see the animal's ribs and hipbones poking through its patchy fur.
Sam's thighs are cold and sodden, and the horse moves faster than he had anticipated. Liquid pools in the spaces between his clenched fingers. He couldn't escape now, even if he wanted to. He hears his own name ringing through his mind, clear as a bell, and he takes a deep breath before falling beneath the surface.
Underwater, there is the absence of light and sound, and the horse continues to gallop deeper, disappearing beneath Sam's body, abandoning him to waterweeds and empty bones. Strong arms suddenly grab him around the shoulders, wrestling with gravity and the pull of the watery grave. Pressure builds against his skin as the familiar grip latches on and drags him to the surface.
When they break through, he gasps for breath and allows Dean, cursing and panting, to pull him to shore. He coughs up water and it dribbles down his chin, but Dean gathers him up, wipes at his face with a wet sleeve and carries him to the car, no words, just breathing. He feels awake.
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John is standing on the porch when they pull in the driveway, thumbs through his belt loops. He's startled out of his reverie when Dean pulls Sam from the car in his arms.
Understanding crosses over his face as he takes in their wet clothes, and he opens the door to the house, ushers them inside without a word. Dean stands on the welcome mat, Sam cradled in his arms, throbbing head against his chest. They're dripping river water on the carpet.
John begins to gather up supplies in an old army knapsack, stuffing papers and a map in next to his rifle and silver knife. "Where?" he asks.
"The lake by that old abandoned church, down on Agnes St."
"Got it." He swings the sack over his shoulder, grabbing his keys from the table. He pauses next to them, touches Sam's clammy cheek with his palm. "Get him in a warm bath," he says, and locks the door on his way out.
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The next morning when Sam wakes, the house is packed into canvas bags and cardboard boxes gathered from the dumpster behind the local grocery. There are clean clothes and his toothbrush laid out for him on Dean's stripped twin bed.
"Sammy." He looks up from where he's studying the bent bristles of his toothbrush. He really should get a new one. "You feeling okay?"
"I'm fine," he says, tone of voice like he has no idea what Dean's talking about. He slips a pair of socks over his bony feet.
"C'mon, kiddo." Dean brushes a finger over Sam's cheek. "You climbed on top of a water horse and let it walk into the lake with you on its back." He sits down on the sloping mattress, thigh pressed against Sam's toes.
"Did Dad get it?"
"Nah, by the time he got there, damn thing had disappeared."
Something like relief pools in Sam's stomach. He ignores it. "We leavin'?"
"Yeah." Dean pulls at a thread on the quilt. "Bobby's gonna take over the vamp case."
"What about the njogel?"
Dean leans over and kisses his forehead. "We'll get it someday."
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As a sleek, black Impala and an old truck drive down Main Street, heading towards the highway, Mr. Magnusson blinks his watery, pale eyes against the light and smiles as he opens the library for the day.