How do mermaids fuck?
Title: Transcendence for Dummies
Fandom Supernatural
Pairing Sam/Dean
Rating R
Summary They will treat this life-changing revelation the way they always have: they will ignore it like professionals. In the end, everyone will forget but for them.
Notes Don't worry, I'm still a sappy fangirl. Happy ending guaranteed.
They walk into the bar like it's nothing.
Dean's all swagger, cocky smirk twisting his mouth, eyes cutting around the room, razor-sharp. The bar draws up tight around him, drinks him down, swallows him up. Contemplative looks from the regulars, not hostile, not yet. With the clear stance of a troublemaker, and Dean thrives in it, soaks it right up; you wanna dance, motherfuckers?
Sam's right on the other side of the spectrum, whole different fucking planet, but that's nothing new. Sideways glances through his bangs, wary, calculating hunch of his shoulders, instinct to make him look like less of a threat. Just a good ole' boy, don't mean no trouble. Jury's still out on whether the truckers in the corner buy into it or not.
But yeah. They head to a table, inconspicuous but not totally invisible, and that's good, that's fuckin-A. Silence stretched taut like a cord at the verge of snapping, and there's a roaring in both their ears from so many miles of nothing but the sound of classic rock and your only living blood relative ignoring the fuck outta you.
When the waitress comes over to take their order, Dean talks too loud, casual charm turned on full throttle like him and her in the restroom out back is a sure thing. She's pretty and blonde, great rack, and buys right into it, giggling and twirling a curl around her forefinger. Sam makes a disbelieving little noise, his mouth twisted to an ugly, wicked-sharp angle, and Dean ignores that too.
She leaves with a sway to her hips and a spring in her step. Dean doesn't even fake watching her ass.
Sam opens his mouth, venomous and about to lash out, but before he can, Dean says, "If you say something right now, I swear to God I'm gonna start swinging."
It's bravado and it's wearing thin, but Sam's been around his brother long enough to recognize the crazy reckless motherfucker looking out the flashing green eyes, knows what it looks like when Dean's backed into a corner and about to start throwing punches. He's the last sonofabitch any sane person would want to mess with, and Sam, bless his heart, thinks he's still on the right side of that line.
So Sam bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, and Dean gets up first chance he gets and heads to the restroom, being totally unsubtle about not meeting Sam's eye when he comes out fifteen minutes later followed by the pretty blonde waitress, both looking disheveled.
They're so, so fucked, Sam thinks, as Dean smirks and winks and Sam has to clench his fists at his sides. A lifetime of vengeance and betrayal and fucked-up loyalties, and none of it holds a candle to the clusterfuck they're knee-deep in right now.
*
They're in Texas, but it was Arkansas before. Seven hour drive made in five and a half, Dean driving like a madman running from his sanity and the Impala given wings by the steady, raw edge of tension between him and Sam.
In Arkansas, they fucked up.
This freak demon bat thing (even now, Sam refuses to call it a dragon) that they were hunting was supposed to be a quick job. They go in, they pull out the crossbow, and whammo-kazoo, dead punk-ass bat creature, and the Winchester bros. hightail it out of the town riding on the high of an easy, satisfying hunt.
At least, that was the plan.
Sam, for one, hadn't been counting on the post-hunt high that prompted Dean to suggest, "Let's get wasted, Sammy."
Sam bites his tongue until he tastes copper. Fuckin Arkansas. They both pronounce the name phonetically, Ar-Kansas, some old joke from their childhood that neither can quite remember. Sam tried and failed to break the habit; that wasn't how it worked.
Arkansas, Jesus Christ. Never again.
*
The drive to the motel is like a round at a gladiator's ring, their silence a vicious, snarling thing between them, clawing and kicking.
Dean raps his fingers against the wheel, his ring catching the neon lights and bouncing it off into the underworld-darkness of the car. AC/DC on the radio, last-ditch attempt to fill in the gap between them.
They head to their room, don't even bother to get into the standard argument about first shower. Sam goes in first, lets the water pressure rise until it's a fist pressing him down, knocking him out, face turned upwards. He jerks off hard and fast and comes with a groan bitten into the inside of his forearm.
When he comes out, Dean's face down on a bed, limbs spread out like a crucifixion. Sam stares openly, drinks in the sight like a drowning man. He just stands there, dripping water on the carpet and clutching a towel around his hips, completely enthralled by the graceful curve of his brother's back.
And then Dean twitches a little, not looking up, not doing anything really, no real sign that he knows Sam's staring. It makes Sam start and go fire engine red, cutting his eyes away like a criminals making a run for it.
Sam gets dressed quickly, boxers and a T-shirt, even though it's boiling hot. An indeterminable time passes between him sliding, thief-quiet, into the bed closest and Dean getting up from his own to go to the bathroom.
Dean showers long and slow, biting down on the sharp clean taste of chlorine and water. He keeps his mind carefully blank and avoids touching his dick entirely.
Soaked through to the bone, washed clean of every dark thought. Too fucking much to ask for, but Dean can fake it with the best of them.
Sam's asleep by the time he gets out, his mouth settled into a soft, hurt shape. Dean darts just the one glance at him, just enough to determine that he's still in one piece. Then he gets dressed and lies in bed, staring at the coffee-colored stain on the ceiling and wondering how long it'll be until he sees light again.
*
Sam found them a hunt while riding shotgun, listening to the bass line like a second heartbeat, motion sickness stirring his stomach in a way it hasn't since he was five years old. Something about dead criminals and pedophiles within the city limit; Dean was barely listening, and Sam didn’t volunteer much anyway.
Dean's thoughts were boxed up and duct taped, and he stood guard with a shotgun, crazy-ass motherfucker that he is. There's no way in hell Sam or anyone else is getting anywhere near that thing.
That's not to say that Sam's not pissed off, too. He's spitting nails, killing angry, and as soon as Dean makes one more smartass comment he's gonna go nuclear.
No chance of that, though, not quite yet. They're not talking, silence coiling like cobras around their feet, and God help the bystanders when they finally do.
It's a spirit here, little nothing town just near Richardson where all the deaths are recorded and remembered. Research takes them less than a day before Sam comes up with a picture of a soccer mum who looks to be of the church-going, bake sale variety.
Dean raises a single eyebrow.
Sam looks exhausted, constantly rubbing the heel of his hand over his eye socket. "She wasn't all that big on sinners. Guess she thought she would do them a favor by killing them off." He jerks his head towards the newspaper reports scattered around the table. "All her victims were people she was protesting against while she was alive."
Dean smirks with no visible trace of humor. "Put the fear of God in them? Sounds kinda familiar."
Sam shakes his head, a frown creasing his forehead. "No, not quite like she thinks she's angel. This Catherine Newton, she's too petty to even kid herself, see," he picks up a newspaper cutting. "This girl, she's a college kid, no record at all, she was friends with our ghost lady's kid, even. And she was the second reported death. There's no way she can justify that killing in her head."
Dean leans forward to peer at the article in Sam's hand, specifically the picture. He snorts. "Except for the fact that she's a raging lesbo."
Sam's jaw drops a little.
Dean shrugs, nonchalant. "Got turned down often enough to spot one from a mile off. And that chick right there? Completely flamin' gay." he settles back in his chair, begins folding up the newspaper he'd been reading. "And I'm guessing, she hung around the Newtons a lot."
Sam blinks once, long and slow, and quickly looks back at his laptop. When he speaks, his voice is carefully even. "So you think Catherine figured that she was after her daughter."
Dean smiles toothily. "She had the right idea. Those bitches are fucking persistent."
Sam snorts, and then is shocked when he realizes that he really is amused.
When he looks up, Dean looks out the window, a faint smile curling his lips, and just looking so good it feels a little like Sam's underwater and sinking fast.
*
They go grave-digging that night.
Sam's T-shirt sticking to his muscles, flexing with each movement, and the moon hanging up above, and it all drives Dean a little crazy. He's got grave dirt in his eyes and they itch like a motherfucker, so he closes his eyes resolutely and tries not to think of Arkansas.
They got blind drunk that night, throwing back shots in a kind of low-key competition only siblings can achieve. Drunk on adrenaline and straight tequila, they stumbled out, holding each other up.
They stood very still in the parking lot, Sam looking down at him with this expression on his face that terrified the shit out of Dean. Couldn't stand that heat, couldn't deal with the focus in his kid brother's eyes, so he reached up, fisted a hand in his ridiculous hair, and...
Dean's mind snaps tight shut, like an avalanche caving him in, six feet under and no chance of survival.
They burn the bones, tattered white dress and all, and absolutely nothing happens. Sam chants some Latin at it, just in case; fuck-all.
They stare down at the burnt ashes a while.
It's Dean who speaks first. It's rusty from disuse, full of grit and dust, but still recognizable. "So. Guess there's more to it."
*
Katie Newton's a sweet kid with red hair and a hint of perpetual sadness and fragility about her. Dean immediately sees the appeal.
She lets them in without asking for ID, and they're very careful about what they say. The last thing they need is Martha Stewart showing up and offing them because they got too close to her lil' darling.
The kid doesn't seem to know anything. She's nineteen, just lost her Mum and a very good friend. Dean asks a little about her dead friend -Danielle- just for the hell of it and feels Sam's glare at the side of his head.
Once they've determined that she's not controlling the spirit, Sam smiles and begins making excuses, and then abruptly stops.
Dean shoots him a glance, on edge by such a large dose of naiveté. His eyes spit out the question, the fuck, dude?
Sam's eyes lead him to the huge-ass painting on the wall and Dean swears fluently and in several languages in his head. Painted right in the middle is a fuck-ugly pentacle, and it's fucking glowing.
"Katie," he says very evenly. "Whose painting is that?"
Her face clouds with confusion, and she whips around to look at what he's pointing at.
"Oh, Danielle gave it to me."
Dean looks at Sam, bewildered, and Sam mouths, get it outta here.
"It's real unique." Dean says, hedging for time until Sam figures it out.
Katie beams proudly, still managing to look so damn sad it's like talking to a stray puppy. "Oh yeah, Danny was good at spotting stuff like that."
"Like what, specifically?" Still super-friendly. Dean's got a whiff and it stinks of witch in here.
Katie shrugs. "Charms, bracelets, amulets. You know, magical stuff."
Sam lets out a sharp breath. Dean covers better; going all pseudo-admiring. Subtle seduction here, as with all the witnesses; whether she'll buy it or whether she's as much of a lesbian as her would-be girlfriend is still neither here nor there.
He charms all the information he can out of her, gets a lot of confused, flustered answers, and ultimately, her number. He crows about it all the way to the motel and Sam grins back helplessly.
“You’re gonna get in so much trouble, Dean,” Sam tells him, feeling kinda reckless, kinda like he might die if he couldn’t say that kinda thing anymore and get away with it.
Dean grins, white teeth catching the sunlight, and it’s like a knife under the ribs, pain like you’ve never felt before, pain like you can’t live without it. “Been in trouble our whole damn lives, Sammy, why stop now?”
*
The shit that went down in Arkansas? Not entirely their fault.
At least, that's what Sam tells himself.
They were drunk; oldest excuse in the book and in his head, it stands up against any counter-argument. Stone, blind drunk and fumbling, leaning into the heat of his brother's body and finding out the secret, magic fit of their bodies sliding together. Later, they will try to un-know this strange knowledge; they will fail
After that first kiss, Dean had fucked him. Motel room with a pattern of anchors and orange fish on the wallpaper, and Sam bit into Dean's fingers as he came. Dean hadn't met his eyes even once throughout the whole thing, and Sam hadn't been paying enough attention, distracted by Dean's tongue and Dean's cock an oh od, Dean's hands.
It hangs between them better than a battering ram, colliding with each in turn; the knowledge of how his brother looks like when he comes, and how much they want to make it happen over and over again.
The catch? Ladies and gentlemen, you seem to have missed the point. They're brothers. Going through with this might mean the loss of what they both hold close to their hearts and will break out the shotgun if you try and take it away from them; family. nbsp;
Witness two brothers who can recognize each other from space by the slightest tells. They're well and truly fucked.
*
They run into the ghost in person a day after that, black aura and all. She sneers at them, upper lip drawing over her front teeth, and lunges straight at Dean, who has the painting in his hands at the time. He hastily tosses it to Sam, and they begin the violent dance of hunter and the hunted.
Only, no matter how much practice they have, something goes wrong. Sam rips open a packet of salt from the diner from the night before, dumps it on the painting while Dean fires round after round into the evil bitch's face. She’s a tough bitch, hopped up on desperation, and she keeps right on coming.
The definitive click of running out of rounds, in sync with the sound of Dean’s lighter not working.
Sam stares at the painting and the faulty lighter in something like dismay; he has a clean, clear moment of lucidity; thinking, not this shit again, goddamn. And then he's flying across the air.
Dean yells his name. And then howls in pain.
Sam strains, struggles so fucking hard, nearly snaps something in half, but it's all for nothing, bitch's got him pinned tight. Dean continues making these strangled, choked little noises, sounds like he just got a lung ripped out, and Sam can't fucking do anything.
The ghost begins a monologue that sounds like it’s made up entirely of hisses and snarls, but Sam’s lost the plot already, terrified, faced with the thought of Dean entirely at the psycho soccer mum’s mercy and completely losing it. He thrashes, lets out a series of swears when he still can’t fucking move.
“I’m not gonna sleep with your kid!” Dean snarls, and there’s broken glass in his voice, sounds like he’s choking.
Sam hits his head o the wall and nearly knocks himself out in the process of struggling.
And, in one of those daytime-sitcom fantasies the universe likes to indulge in, Katie fuckin Newton walks in, a Twizzler hanging from her mouth.
She sees Sam first, and her eyes bug out. She begins opening her mouth to scream, but something in Sam's face must alert her, because she takes a few shaky steps forward, and peers over.
"Mom?" she asks, in a barely audible voice.
For a second, nothing happens. Sam doesn't know what's going on, can't see at this angle, but somehow, the sight of her daughter makes Catherine's power ease up.
Sam hits the ground running, headed straight for the painting. He flicks the treacherous lighter open and the flame appears like magic. He tosses it so that it flies through the air in an graceful arc into the painting and the whole thing crashes out of the picturesque French window.
Explosion of glass and noise, unearthly wails and Katie's screams, and it could be dead quiet for all the attention Sam pays to the noise. He looks around, locates Dean. Just as the flames begin to crackle in earnest, Sam skids to his knees next to Dean's unmoving body.
Dean's throat looks horrible, bruises like a necklace, like she had a go at strangling him. Sam almost breaks down right there, cliché moment loved by all of Hollywood but gut-punch terrifying nonetheless: not now, not like this.
When Dean opens his eyes, it’s mostly to tell Sam (groggily) that he’s fine, to chill the fuck out, drama queen. Green eyes foggy but focused, trying to reflect in them all he can’t say out loud; praying Sam would get it, would read him like a book.
And that's when Sam laughs a little shakily, and bends down and kisses his brother straight on the mouth.
Dean's hands come up instantly, but he doesn't push away, just rests the against Sam's side. Long, slow shared inhale, Dean's dry lips against Sam's, taste of the pancakes they'd had for breakfast, taste of toothpaste and candy and their whole damn lives. Dean’s hands curling at his sides, do you get it now, how it’s gonna be, and Sam makes a small noise, yeah, yeah, Dean.
Sam pulls away first, breathless and foggy, a little lost already in Dean. Dean looks up at him, hooded eyes and bruised throat, and for an exhilarating, petrifying moment, it's like Arkansas all over again, flicker in his eyes. Sam was the one who fucked up back there, leaning in for another kiss before Dean could recover from the first, setting off all of Dean’s alarm systems, making him push away on instinct.
Here, now, in Texas, Dean wets his lips, and says hoarsely, like it's all he wants to say, "I get to keep my brother, right? We do this, I don't lose my kid brother."
Sam's shaking his head before he's even done talking, shaking his head so hard his hair flicks into his eyes and draws defensive tears. "No, Dean. You're not getting rid of me that easy. I, I'm gonna be your annoying geek brother, but there'll be this, too. Dean, I-"
Dean smirks. It looks like it hurts to move his facial muscles, but it makes Sam wind down a little.
"'S good." he slurs. "'s what I was worried about, why I din't..." he fades, comes back.”Just call a fuckin ambulance, Sammy."
Sam keeps his idiot grin on his face. Dean's hand comes up, tangles his fingers in Sam's jacket. Dean sounds a little punch-drunk, a little delirious, but mostly just fuckin overjoyed himself when he says, "After we make out some more."
Sam sighs a fake put-upon sigh, and obliges. nbsp
-THE END
Fandom Supernatural
Pairing Sam/Dean
Rating R
Summary They will treat this life-changing revelation the way they always have: they will ignore it like professionals. In the end, everyone will forget but for them.
Notes Don't worry, I'm still a sappy fangirl. Happy ending guaranteed.
They walk into the bar like it's nothing.
Dean's all swagger, cocky smirk twisting his mouth, eyes cutting around the room, razor-sharp. The bar draws up tight around him, drinks him down, swallows him up. Contemplative looks from the regulars, not hostile, not yet. With the clear stance of a troublemaker, and Dean thrives in it, soaks it right up; you wanna dance, motherfuckers?
Sam's right on the other side of the spectrum, whole different fucking planet, but that's nothing new. Sideways glances through his bangs, wary, calculating hunch of his shoulders, instinct to make him look like less of a threat. Just a good ole' boy, don't mean no trouble. Jury's still out on whether the truckers in the corner buy into it or not.
But yeah. They head to a table, inconspicuous but not totally invisible, and that's good, that's fuckin-A. Silence stretched taut like a cord at the verge of snapping, and there's a roaring in both their ears from so many miles of nothing but the sound of classic rock and your only living blood relative ignoring the fuck outta you.
When the waitress comes over to take their order, Dean talks too loud, casual charm turned on full throttle like him and her in the restroom out back is a sure thing. She's pretty and blonde, great rack, and buys right into it, giggling and twirling a curl around her forefinger. Sam makes a disbelieving little noise, his mouth twisted to an ugly, wicked-sharp angle, and Dean ignores that too.
She leaves with a sway to her hips and a spring in her step. Dean doesn't even fake watching her ass.
Sam opens his mouth, venomous and about to lash out, but before he can, Dean says, "If you say something right now, I swear to God I'm gonna start swinging."
It's bravado and it's wearing thin, but Sam's been around his brother long enough to recognize the crazy reckless motherfucker looking out the flashing green eyes, knows what it looks like when Dean's backed into a corner and about to start throwing punches. He's the last sonofabitch any sane person would want to mess with, and Sam, bless his heart, thinks he's still on the right side of that line.
So Sam bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, and Dean gets up first chance he gets and heads to the restroom, being totally unsubtle about not meeting Sam's eye when he comes out fifteen minutes later followed by the pretty blonde waitress, both looking disheveled.
They're so, so fucked, Sam thinks, as Dean smirks and winks and Sam has to clench his fists at his sides. A lifetime of vengeance and betrayal and fucked-up loyalties, and none of it holds a candle to the clusterfuck they're knee-deep in right now.
*
They're in Texas, but it was Arkansas before. Seven hour drive made in five and a half, Dean driving like a madman running from his sanity and the Impala given wings by the steady, raw edge of tension between him and Sam.
In Arkansas, they fucked up.
This freak demon bat thing (even now, Sam refuses to call it a dragon) that they were hunting was supposed to be a quick job. They go in, they pull out the crossbow, and whammo-kazoo, dead punk-ass bat creature, and the Winchester bros. hightail it out of the town riding on the high of an easy, satisfying hunt.
At least, that was the plan.
Sam, for one, hadn't been counting on the post-hunt high that prompted Dean to suggest, "Let's get wasted, Sammy."
Sam bites his tongue until he tastes copper. Fuckin Arkansas. They both pronounce the name phonetically, Ar-Kansas, some old joke from their childhood that neither can quite remember. Sam tried and failed to break the habit; that wasn't how it worked.
Arkansas, Jesus Christ. Never again.
*
The drive to the motel is like a round at a gladiator's ring, their silence a vicious, snarling thing between them, clawing and kicking.
Dean raps his fingers against the wheel, his ring catching the neon lights and bouncing it off into the underworld-darkness of the car. AC/DC on the radio, last-ditch attempt to fill in the gap between them.
They head to their room, don't even bother to get into the standard argument about first shower. Sam goes in first, lets the water pressure rise until it's a fist pressing him down, knocking him out, face turned upwards. He jerks off hard and fast and comes with a groan bitten into the inside of his forearm.
When he comes out, Dean's face down on a bed, limbs spread out like a crucifixion. Sam stares openly, drinks in the sight like a drowning man. He just stands there, dripping water on the carpet and clutching a towel around his hips, completely enthralled by the graceful curve of his brother's back.
And then Dean twitches a little, not looking up, not doing anything really, no real sign that he knows Sam's staring. It makes Sam start and go fire engine red, cutting his eyes away like a criminals making a run for it.
Sam gets dressed quickly, boxers and a T-shirt, even though it's boiling hot. An indeterminable time passes between him sliding, thief-quiet, into the bed closest and Dean getting up from his own to go to the bathroom.
Dean showers long and slow, biting down on the sharp clean taste of chlorine and water. He keeps his mind carefully blank and avoids touching his dick entirely.
Soaked through to the bone, washed clean of every dark thought. Too fucking much to ask for, but Dean can fake it with the best of them.
Sam's asleep by the time he gets out, his mouth settled into a soft, hurt shape. Dean darts just the one glance at him, just enough to determine that he's still in one piece. Then he gets dressed and lies in bed, staring at the coffee-colored stain on the ceiling and wondering how long it'll be until he sees light again.
*
Sam found them a hunt while riding shotgun, listening to the bass line like a second heartbeat, motion sickness stirring his stomach in a way it hasn't since he was five years old. Something about dead criminals and pedophiles within the city limit; Dean was barely listening, and Sam didn’t volunteer much anyway.
Dean's thoughts were boxed up and duct taped, and he stood guard with a shotgun, crazy-ass motherfucker that he is. There's no way in hell Sam or anyone else is getting anywhere near that thing.
That's not to say that Sam's not pissed off, too. He's spitting nails, killing angry, and as soon as Dean makes one more smartass comment he's gonna go nuclear.
No chance of that, though, not quite yet. They're not talking, silence coiling like cobras around their feet, and God help the bystanders when they finally do.
It's a spirit here, little nothing town just near Richardson where all the deaths are recorded and remembered. Research takes them less than a day before Sam comes up with a picture of a soccer mum who looks to be of the church-going, bake sale variety.
Dean raises a single eyebrow.
Sam looks exhausted, constantly rubbing the heel of his hand over his eye socket. "She wasn't all that big on sinners. Guess she thought she would do them a favor by killing them off." He jerks his head towards the newspaper reports scattered around the table. "All her victims were people she was protesting against while she was alive."
Dean smirks with no visible trace of humor. "Put the fear of God in them? Sounds kinda familiar."
Sam shakes his head, a frown creasing his forehead. "No, not quite like she thinks she's angel. This Catherine Newton, she's too petty to even kid herself, see," he picks up a newspaper cutting. "This girl, she's a college kid, no record at all, she was friends with our ghost lady's kid, even. And she was the second reported death. There's no way she can justify that killing in her head."
Dean leans forward to peer at the article in Sam's hand, specifically the picture. He snorts. "Except for the fact that she's a raging lesbo."
Sam's jaw drops a little.
Dean shrugs, nonchalant. "Got turned down often enough to spot one from a mile off. And that chick right there? Completely flamin' gay." he settles back in his chair, begins folding up the newspaper he'd been reading. "And I'm guessing, she hung around the Newtons a lot."
Sam blinks once, long and slow, and quickly looks back at his laptop. When he speaks, his voice is carefully even. "So you think Catherine figured that she was after her daughter."
Dean smiles toothily. "She had the right idea. Those bitches are fucking persistent."
Sam snorts, and then is shocked when he realizes that he really is amused.
When he looks up, Dean looks out the window, a faint smile curling his lips, and just looking so good it feels a little like Sam's underwater and sinking fast.
*
They go grave-digging that night.
Sam's T-shirt sticking to his muscles, flexing with each movement, and the moon hanging up above, and it all drives Dean a little crazy. He's got grave dirt in his eyes and they itch like a motherfucker, so he closes his eyes resolutely and tries not to think of Arkansas.
They got blind drunk that night, throwing back shots in a kind of low-key competition only siblings can achieve. Drunk on adrenaline and straight tequila, they stumbled out, holding each other up.
They stood very still in the parking lot, Sam looking down at him with this expression on his face that terrified the shit out of Dean. Couldn't stand that heat, couldn't deal with the focus in his kid brother's eyes, so he reached up, fisted a hand in his ridiculous hair, and...
Dean's mind snaps tight shut, like an avalanche caving him in, six feet under and no chance of survival.
They burn the bones, tattered white dress and all, and absolutely nothing happens. Sam chants some Latin at it, just in case; fuck-all.
They stare down at the burnt ashes a while.
It's Dean who speaks first. It's rusty from disuse, full of grit and dust, but still recognizable. "So. Guess there's more to it."
*
Katie Newton's a sweet kid with red hair and a hint of perpetual sadness and fragility about her. Dean immediately sees the appeal.
She lets them in without asking for ID, and they're very careful about what they say. The last thing they need is Martha Stewart showing up and offing them because they got too close to her lil' darling.
The kid doesn't seem to know anything. She's nineteen, just lost her Mum and a very good friend. Dean asks a little about her dead friend -Danielle- just for the hell of it and feels Sam's glare at the side of his head.
Once they've determined that she's not controlling the spirit, Sam smiles and begins making excuses, and then abruptly stops.
Dean shoots him a glance, on edge by such a large dose of naiveté. His eyes spit out the question, the fuck, dude?
Sam's eyes lead him to the huge-ass painting on the wall and Dean swears fluently and in several languages in his head. Painted right in the middle is a fuck-ugly pentacle, and it's fucking glowing.
"Katie," he says very evenly. "Whose painting is that?"
Her face clouds with confusion, and she whips around to look at what he's pointing at.
"Oh, Danielle gave it to me."
Dean looks at Sam, bewildered, and Sam mouths, get it outta here.
"It's real unique." Dean says, hedging for time until Sam figures it out.
Katie beams proudly, still managing to look so damn sad it's like talking to a stray puppy. "Oh yeah, Danny was good at spotting stuff like that."
"Like what, specifically?" Still super-friendly. Dean's got a whiff and it stinks of witch in here.
Katie shrugs. "Charms, bracelets, amulets. You know, magical stuff."
Sam lets out a sharp breath. Dean covers better; going all pseudo-admiring. Subtle seduction here, as with all the witnesses; whether she'll buy it or whether she's as much of a lesbian as her would-be girlfriend is still neither here nor there.
He charms all the information he can out of her, gets a lot of confused, flustered answers, and ultimately, her number. He crows about it all the way to the motel and Sam grins back helplessly.
“You’re gonna get in so much trouble, Dean,” Sam tells him, feeling kinda reckless, kinda like he might die if he couldn’t say that kinda thing anymore and get away with it.
Dean grins, white teeth catching the sunlight, and it’s like a knife under the ribs, pain like you’ve never felt before, pain like you can’t live without it. “Been in trouble our whole damn lives, Sammy, why stop now?”
*
The shit that went down in Arkansas? Not entirely their fault.
At least, that's what Sam tells himself.
They were drunk; oldest excuse in the book and in his head, it stands up against any counter-argument. Stone, blind drunk and fumbling, leaning into the heat of his brother's body and finding out the secret, magic fit of their bodies sliding together. Later, they will try to un-know this strange knowledge; they will fail
After that first kiss, Dean had fucked him. Motel room with a pattern of anchors and orange fish on the wallpaper, and Sam bit into Dean's fingers as he came. Dean hadn't met his eyes even once throughout the whole thing, and Sam hadn't been paying enough attention, distracted by Dean's tongue and Dean's cock an oh od, Dean's hands.
It hangs between them better than a battering ram, colliding with each in turn; the knowledge of how his brother looks like when he comes, and how much they want to make it happen over and over again.
The catch? Ladies and gentlemen, you seem to have missed the point. They're brothers. Going through with this might mean the loss of what they both hold close to their hearts and will break out the shotgun if you try and take it away from them; family. nbsp;
Witness two brothers who can recognize each other from space by the slightest tells. They're well and truly fucked.
*
They run into the ghost in person a day after that, black aura and all. She sneers at them, upper lip drawing over her front teeth, and lunges straight at Dean, who has the painting in his hands at the time. He hastily tosses it to Sam, and they begin the violent dance of hunter and the hunted.
Only, no matter how much practice they have, something goes wrong. Sam rips open a packet of salt from the diner from the night before, dumps it on the painting while Dean fires round after round into the evil bitch's face. She’s a tough bitch, hopped up on desperation, and she keeps right on coming.
The definitive click of running out of rounds, in sync with the sound of Dean’s lighter not working.
Sam stares at the painting and the faulty lighter in something like dismay; he has a clean, clear moment of lucidity; thinking, not this shit again, goddamn. And then he's flying across the air.
Dean yells his name. And then howls in pain.
Sam strains, struggles so fucking hard, nearly snaps something in half, but it's all for nothing, bitch's got him pinned tight. Dean continues making these strangled, choked little noises, sounds like he just got a lung ripped out, and Sam can't fucking do anything.
The ghost begins a monologue that sounds like it’s made up entirely of hisses and snarls, but Sam’s lost the plot already, terrified, faced with the thought of Dean entirely at the psycho soccer mum’s mercy and completely losing it. He thrashes, lets out a series of swears when he still can’t fucking move.
“I’m not gonna sleep with your kid!” Dean snarls, and there’s broken glass in his voice, sounds like he’s choking.
Sam hits his head o the wall and nearly knocks himself out in the process of struggling.
And, in one of those daytime-sitcom fantasies the universe likes to indulge in, Katie fuckin Newton walks in, a Twizzler hanging from her mouth.
She sees Sam first, and her eyes bug out. She begins opening her mouth to scream, but something in Sam's face must alert her, because she takes a few shaky steps forward, and peers over.
"Mom?" she asks, in a barely audible voice.
For a second, nothing happens. Sam doesn't know what's going on, can't see at this angle, but somehow, the sight of her daughter makes Catherine's power ease up.
Sam hits the ground running, headed straight for the painting. He flicks the treacherous lighter open and the flame appears like magic. He tosses it so that it flies through the air in an graceful arc into the painting and the whole thing crashes out of the picturesque French window.
Explosion of glass and noise, unearthly wails and Katie's screams, and it could be dead quiet for all the attention Sam pays to the noise. He looks around, locates Dean. Just as the flames begin to crackle in earnest, Sam skids to his knees next to Dean's unmoving body.
Dean's throat looks horrible, bruises like a necklace, like she had a go at strangling him. Sam almost breaks down right there, cliché moment loved by all of Hollywood but gut-punch terrifying nonetheless: not now, not like this.
When Dean opens his eyes, it’s mostly to tell Sam (groggily) that he’s fine, to chill the fuck out, drama queen. Green eyes foggy but focused, trying to reflect in them all he can’t say out loud; praying Sam would get it, would read him like a book.
And that's when Sam laughs a little shakily, and bends down and kisses his brother straight on the mouth.
Dean's hands come up instantly, but he doesn't push away, just rests the against Sam's side. Long, slow shared inhale, Dean's dry lips against Sam's, taste of the pancakes they'd had for breakfast, taste of toothpaste and candy and their whole damn lives. Dean’s hands curling at his sides, do you get it now, how it’s gonna be, and Sam makes a small noise, yeah, yeah, Dean.
Sam pulls away first, breathless and foggy, a little lost already in Dean. Dean looks up at him, hooded eyes and bruised throat, and for an exhilarating, petrifying moment, it's like Arkansas all over again, flicker in his eyes. Sam was the one who fucked up back there, leaning in for another kiss before Dean could recover from the first, setting off all of Dean’s alarm systems, making him push away on instinct.
Here, now, in Texas, Dean wets his lips, and says hoarsely, like it's all he wants to say, "I get to keep my brother, right? We do this, I don't lose my kid brother."
Sam's shaking his head before he's even done talking, shaking his head so hard his hair flicks into his eyes and draws defensive tears. "No, Dean. You're not getting rid of me that easy. I, I'm gonna be your annoying geek brother, but there'll be this, too. Dean, I-"
Dean smirks. It looks like it hurts to move his facial muscles, but it makes Sam wind down a little.
"'S good." he slurs. "'s what I was worried about, why I din't..." he fades, comes back.”Just call a fuckin ambulance, Sammy."
Sam keeps his idiot grin on his face. Dean's hand comes up, tangles his fingers in Sam's jacket. Dean sounds a little punch-drunk, a little delirious, but mostly just fuckin overjoyed himself when he says, "After we make out some more."
Sam sighs a fake put-upon sigh, and obliges. nbsp
-THE END