rivers_bend (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rivers_bend) wrote2009-08-28 11:35 am
rivers_bend) wrote2009-08-28 11:35 am
Entry tags:
In the beached margin of the sea (2/2)
to Master Post, to Part I
~~~~~||~~~~~
His escape thwarted by the side effects of whatever the hell got to them in the woods, Dean nonetheless needed a place to think, and settled on Alice's Restaurant, which is a couple of miles from Sam's school. He's been sitting in the back booth for going on four hours now and he still doesn't know what to do, possibly because he's been reading the paper someone left behind instead of actually trying to figure out a plan. Now that he's read every single word, he figures it's time to avoid his problems by ordering lunch before he gets kicked out. The waitress keeps glaring in his direction and tapping her order pad, and hasn't been by to top up his coffee in a while. Dean can't remember the last time he was so distracted that he couldn't even charm a waitress.
He snags the menu propped between the windowsill and the condiment rack, and decides on the chili cheese fries. When she comes over, the waitress—"Anne" her nametag says; she's young, pretty in a fresh-scrubbed way, and Dean should so have been able to wrap her around his finger without even thinking about it—asks so pointedly if he wants anything else that he adds a chocolate shake and a piece of pie to his order, too. With that she's all friendly grin and asking if his coffee needs freshening up, prompting Dean to smile in return.
As soon as she's gone, though, Dean forgets about her, his mind skirting towards Sam and the whole sharing-sex-dreams-about-each-other thing. Shying away from that, Dean eavesdrops on a couple sitting two booths away, who start fighting about whether or not his expressing a desire to sleep with her sister is grounds for breaking up. That distracts him for a while, until the woman says, "Really? You don't see anything wrong with suggesting I have a threesome with my sister?" reminding Dean what he's been thinking about doing with his brother, no excuse of a threesome needed. Then his food arrives and he tries to focus on that.
The chili is spicy and delicious, the fries cooked crispy but going soft under the sauce and cheese just the way he likes them. But in the end his meal can't really keep his mind off what happened last night. Once he's gotten some food into his stomach he feels less sick about the whole thing, though, and decides that if he can't leave, he'd be better off trying to figure out what is going on than trying to avoid the issue forever while living in the same room as Sam, who is not going to let it lie, Dean's sure.
Chili cheese fries demolished, Dean pushes the plate to the edge of the table and pulls his pie closer. It's peach, Sam's favorite, but only about fifth on Dean's list. He remembers when they were little, ordering the last piece of peach pie just so Sam couldn't have it—to get back at Sam for something, or maybe just to be a dick, he can't even remember. But then he'd felt guilty when Dad got pissed at Sam for sulking, wouldn't let him have any pie at all, and so when Dad went to pay, Dean gave Sam the last few bites. Dean hasn't ordered peach pie since. Today he'd ordered it without even considering what kind he wanted. It's odd enough that it seems as good a place to start as any.
Does ordering Sam's favorite pie have anything to do with the visions? Is it all part of whatever happened in the woods? Is it just that Sam's on Dean's mind, or is he somehow turning into his brother?
If Sam were here, he'd probably pull a pen out of somewhere, ask Anne for one, maybe, and start scribbling notes on his paper placemat. Dean's mat is soiled with smears of chili and grease, but writing shit down isn't really his style anyway. He prefers to go over things in the privacy of his own head.
Facts: Sam can sense Dean's feelings, at least when he's scared or angry. Dean can see what Sam's thinking, even what he's seeing maybe, in times of extreme emotion. A distance of three miles didn't hamper his view any. A distance of ten miles makes Dean want to black out with pain. This all started after they went to the clearing where two men were attacked by wild dogs or something that left marks enough like dog bites the authorities felt safe reporting it.
Facts Dean would rather not think about: Sam has vivid fantasies of Dean giving him blowjobs. Dean isn't actually opposed to the idea as much as he probably should be. Dean wakes up wanting to climb into bed with his brother and kiss him in ways brothers don't think about kissing. Sam might have been having these fantasies for a while, but it's also possible Dean put the idea into his head.
For the sake of being thorough, Dean gives the facts he'd rather not think about a moment or two in the spotlight before going back to the facts that don't make him want to get in his car, drive away, and never look back. Because it's easier than fumbling around with visions/thought-sharing/feelings-bleed/whatever, none of which is very accurate on its own, he decides to go with mind-meld as a name for what's happening to him and Sam. Maybe the woods are filled with Vulcans. He's pretty sure they're vegetarians, though, and why would they want to chew on rednecks even if they weren't? Probably not Vulcans.
Maybe what it is that did this isn't what's important, anyway. If Dean's being honest—and really, that's probably best, given how spectacularly badly running away from the issue went—then he has to face that the waking up hard from dreams about Sam didn't start this week, or even this year. And that from the quality of Sam's visions of shower blowjobs, it's unlikely Sam just started thinking this way either.
All the evidence points to the fact that Dean and Sam are on the same page.
Just saying that aloud, even only aloud in his head, makes a sense of calm spread through Dean's chest. Which is pretty much the last thing he expected to happen, and he's not sure he likes it. Admitting he wants to mack on his brother is something that should damage his calm, really. Instead, Dean has a feeling that giving in to the fantasies is more a solution than part of the problem. Maybe that's another side effect of the mind-meld.
Despite the somewhat disconcerting feeling like he didn't think it all on his own, that someone else sat him down and told him, Dean knows what he has to do. If he just talks to Sam, if they just— Whatever. Maybe they don't need to talk; Dean's not really a big fan of the talking. But if he and Sam work together, everything is going to be just fine.
~~~~~||~~~~~
Sam has second lunch, which he prefers, because it means only one class after. Unfortunately, that class is PE. He didn't exactly love it before, but it's sure to be even more fun with bruised ribs and a black eye, the guys who gave them to him right there to enjoy their handiwork. For a few minutes, as he doubled up in pain in the hall between homeroom and first period, Sam thought he'd be getting out of school early again. But as quick as it came on, the pain went, and rather than go to the nurse, he carried on to class. He could cut, maybe, but Dad said he'd pick Sam up after school , and John Winchester is not a big fan of cutting school unless there's a hunt.
"Please finish chapter twenty-one by tomorrow," Mrs. Fuller says, interrupting Sam's thoughts. "We'll talk about war reparations and treaties."
Sam can't wait. Nothing more exciting than war reparations. Fortunately, they had the same text book two schools ago and the test on chapters twenty and twenty-one was the last thing he did before they moved on.
The bell rings and the room erupts with everyone eager for lunch.
Gotta see Sam, gotta see Sam, gotta see Sam.
The thought is sharp and clear, almost like someone—Dean—is standing right behind Sam whispering in his ear. Instead of the cafeteria, Sam heads for the stairs at the front of the school.
Talk to him, gonna be okay, okay, okay.
Clear as he can, Sam pictures walking down the stairs to the drop-off/pick-up point, pictures seeing Dean's car, opening the door and getting in. There are no more words in his head to let him know if Dean gets the message, but when he gets to the front of the school, Dean is sitting there in his car, waiting.
"How did you—" they both say when Sam opens the door to get in.
Then, "It's some kind of mind-meld," Dean says, just as Sam says, "Somehow we have ESP."
When Dean merely chuckles and shakes his head, pulling out of the lot, Sam realizes that he was expecting that sense of worry again, almost bracing for it. Neither of them says anything else for a few minutes; Dean watches the road and Sam watches Dean, sensing a sort of satisfaction from him instead. Sam can't quite identify the feeling—it's not one he's experienced himself—but he thinks it is pretty much the opposite of what Dean was feeling when he went to hide in his car last night.
"So," Dean says, making Sam jump a little, as they turn in the opposite direction from their motel. "I brought you a burger and some pie. Bag on the back seat."
Now he knows it's there, Sam is amazed that he didn't smell the food as soon as he got in the car, except that the Impala has been pretty frequently scented with burgers since Dad got his truck and gave the car to Dean.
"You are the best brother ever," Sam says. He senses a flinch from Dean when he says "brother" but he's looking right at him and doesn't see anything.
Leaning into the back seat to get the bag, Sam ends up brushing his chest against Dean's shoulder. Sam feels an excitement that's half his own and half something he's learning to recognize as his brother's emotional touch. He wants to say something about it but can't imagine what, so he opens the bag to see what Dean brought him. When he spies the pie in its plastic clam shell, he says, "Dude, peach pie? I love you!" Which, yeah, okay, totally wasn't what he meant to say under the circumstances and will probably make Dean run and hide again. He can't help picturing Dean just pulling over, getting out of the car and leaving Sam forever.
"I'm not going to run off again," Dean says, almost dropping a hand onto Sam's knee, but pulling back at the last moment.
"Okay," Sam says, feeling weird that he doesn't feel weirder about the fact Dean knew what he was thinking.
The air in the car feels electric, too charged for Sam to want to eat anything, but he feels like he needs to do something with his hands, and ten minutes ago he was hungry enough that he was almost looking forward to the chef's surprise in the cafeteria, so he pulls out the burger and unwraps it, eating with a single-mindedness that allows him a moment to process the change in Dean's mood.
Burger half gone, Sam looks at his brother again, catching Dean with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, the one he gets when he's concentrating hard on something like memorizing an incantation. Sam has just enough time to wonder what Dean needs to concentrate so hard on while driving before he realizes there are words to back up the feeling of nostalgia he's been sensing as he chewed.
Peach always was your favorite.
"You remember when you took the last piece of peach pie that time?" Sam asks.
"You could hear me?" Looking pleased with himself, Dean glances at Sam.
"You were thinking about peach being my favorite."
"This is fucking weird." Dean says. "Can't decide if it's cool or scary."
"A little of both, probably." Sam wraps up the last few bites of his burger and trades it for the pie.
"It's good pie," Dean says. "First time I've had peach since that day."
"You always liked other kinds better. You were a jerk to order peach just because you knew I wanted it."
"I'm sure I had a good reason. You probably took something of mine first."
Dean's tone is belligerent, but Sam can feel fondness, affection, something thicker underneath. It makes him squirm with embarrassed pleasure.
Not long after Sam finishes his pie, Dean turns onto an old access road, driving past the first curve and stopping so they can't be seen from the highway and then turning off the engine. He turns toward Sam, putting his knee up on the seat so it almost brushes Sam's thigh.
"It really is freaky being able to feel you like that," Dean says. "But I'm starting to get used to it."
"Me too," Sam agrees, even though he's not sure he is.
"I have a theory. I think we should see what happens when I touch you. Now that the bond or whatever is getting stronger."
Sam can't help thinking about exactly where he'd like his brother to touch him.
"Heh, yeah, I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that."
Sam's face heats up. He's still not sure he will ever get used to Dean being able to read his pervy thoughts.
Dean just smiles, and then his hand alights on Sam's thigh, just above his knee. It does make the touch of Dean's mind stronger. He's terrified, eager, filled with awe.
Wondering if it would be even more intense skin to skin, Sam brushes his fingertips over the back of Dean's hand where it rests on his thigh, settling his hand over Dean's when his brother doesn't flinch away. It's like turning up the volume on a TV and getting a problem with the antenna.
With his own emotions swirling around in his head, and Dean not thinking in pictures, or, at the moment, words, Sam can't pin anything down. Fear, happiness, peace, frustration, love, and—probably from his own brain—cocks, hands, mouths, tongues, in combinations that probably aren't even physically possible, not in the front seat anyway, and god, Sam fucking needs—
"Fuck it." Dean dives at him, too quick to broadcast his intentions, pressing Sam against the window, practically biting Sam's lower lip off in his eagerness to kiss him.
Sam had mostly gotten over his romantic notions—left over from when he was thirteen and never-been-kissed—of what kissing Dean would be like. The notions that there would be tunnel vision and ringing in his ears and fireworks, that it would seem like the world around them ceased to exist. But the pragmatism he'd gained with age hadn't reckoned on the effects of a mind-meld on lip-to-lip contact.
He is the pliant, whimpering need being kissed and the impatient, hungry desire kissing, is opening, wet heat and seeking, teasing tongue, fingers tangling in hair and arms braced against the seat. He is shy and confident, naïve and experienced, terrified and sure. He is the endless reflection of Sam in Dean in Sam.
Sam is still lost inside his brother when the car door drops away from behind his head and he's filled with the need to get outside where there's more room. Somehow he and Dean spill from the front seat onto the grass barely breaking their kiss. Sam is on top of his brother, legs spraddled wide over Dean's hips, dick crushed against Dean's pelvis in a way that's really not comfortable, but he doesn't even care. Dean's using his grip on Sam's hair to move Sam's head as though he thinks if he only found the right angle they could somehow get closer, even though Sam's lips and tongue are pretty much completely inside Dean's mouth.
Dean's need is breathtaking, feeding off and feeding Sam's own, and Sam is actually a little worried that they might set the grass on fire.
"Clothes off," Dean says, except he's still sucking on Sam's tongue, so he must have just thought it.
Either way, Sam's not interested in arguing, and starts fumbling with the hem of Dean's shirt. Unfortunately, it turns out to be impossible to get someone's shirt off while lying on his chest and kissing him, so Sam doesn't have much luck.
"Off," Dean says—this time with his mouth—and pushes at Sam's shoulders until Sam is forced to roll off Dean onto the ground.
Dean attacks his own shirt then, and Sam follows suit. As soon as Sam has his jeans undone, Dean dives at him again, knocking the breath half out of him, kissing his neck.
As Dean nibbles and sucks his way down Sam's neck to his chest, Sam tries to get his hand between them and into his brother's pants. Undercurrent to the never-been-so-horny-in-my-life is a sense that this is right. That under/in/around Dean is the place Sam belongs, the only place in this world that is perfectly, exactly, his.
"Me too," Dean says. "God, it's so fucked up, but me too."
Sam grins so hard his cheeks ache. "Less fucked up than—shit, there—" Apparently Sam really likes having his nipples chewed. "—than being eaten by dogs."
Dean doesn't answer, too busy proving to Sam that he likes Sam's nipples as much as Sam likes Dean's mouth.
They jerk each other off there in the grass, lying side-by-side afterwards, arms touching, playing with each other's fingers, each feeling the buzz of his brother at the edges of his mind.
Eventually the grass starts to prickle and their skin pebble with goose bumps. "We should go," Dean says.
His regret at the words feels just the same as Sam's.
~~~~~||~~~~~
Dean's still not home at three, and John's had enough of cataloging books for a while, so he goes to get Sam. But Sam's not waiting out front among the milling students, nor does he appear in the fifteen minutes John waits. Apparently he didn't hear John's offer to pick him up and went and got the bus before John got there. Not a big deal. Conrad lives a few streets over from the school, so John goes and drops off the books and cataloging he and the boys finished, stays for a few beers. It's after dark when he heads back to the motel.
What he finds when he gets there is the very last thing he ever expected.
Dean's car is parked in front of the room, but there's no light shining through the window next to the door. He figures the boys probably walked to the gas station up the street to get something to eat.
Dean's eating sure enough, but it isn't gas station food.
John makes it to the bathroom before he throws up the cheap beer that's the only thing in his stomach.
When he comes out again, Dean's standing between the beds struggling into his shirt, and Sam has the bedspread pulled up over his hips, but it's not nearly enough to erase the image of Dean lying between Sam's splayed thighs, hands on Sam's waist, head bobbing. John's afraid that image will be burned into his retinas forever.
"What in the hell are you boys doing?" His voice is deadly calm, and he even scares himself, so John's not entirely surprised that his boys flinch and Dean steps a little closer to the bed. Always has been protective of his brother. But there's protecting and there's—
John can't even think about it.
"I asked a question." He cannot begin to imagine he actually wants the answer, but one of them had better speak right now, because he's standing too close to where a gun is hidden under his pillow and he doesn't trust that he's not going to go for it if someone doesn't say something soon.
"He didn't make me."
John's looking at Sam, and Sam's mouth is moving, but he hears Dean too, and when he looks over at his other son, he realizes that they're both saying the words. Exactly together.
They glance at each other, quickly, and then Sam goes on alone. "We're both old enough to know what we want."
"You're not old enough to know anything, yet!" John yells.
Sam goes red, but John can see it's anger, not the shame he should be feeling. Dean's down on the floor, crouching, and John wonders for a second if Dean's planning on leaping for him, but he just stands and hands Sam his jeans.
"And you!" John rounds on his older son. The one who he's never had to worry about. The one who should know better. "He's your brother. I taught you to look after him. Not suck—not do that!" Clenching his fists tight at his sides so he won't do anything he regrets, John tries to take a deep breath, steady himself a little.
"We weren't—" Dean starts.
"What the hell did you two find in those woods?" Two steps and John's close enough to grab Dean's arm.
"Don't hurt him!" Sam says.
"Dean, come with me." John tugs. "Sam, for god's sake get dressed, and do not leave this room. I'm not fucking around here. Your brother and I are going to see what the hell is going on in that clearing."
Sam surges off the bed, angrily pulling on his jeans. "You're not going without me."
"You'll do as you're told." John knows, even as he's saying it, that Sam won't do anything of the kind. He's yanking on his shoes, staring at Dean like he's desperate to tell him something but doesn't want to say it in front of John.
"Fine. Both of you. Flashlights, and get in the car. We'll talk about this more later." He doesn't want them sitting next to each other, so he grabs Dean's keys out of his jacket, and stalks out to the Impala, climbing behind the wheel. Dean sits like stone beside him, and Sam huddles silently in the back seat the whole way out to the woods.
Coming out here at night was not one of John's best ideas ever, but he hands Dean and Sam pistols and grabs the shotgun for himself and tells Dean to lead the way, keeping between the boys, doing his best not to think about why. At least there's a path and they're not trying to break one in the dark.
Sam's furious and Dean's actively annoyed and it's not right. John's the one who should be pissed off. Whatever was done to them, he trained them better than that. Raised them up to talk to him before things got so far, so they could deal with whatever it was. Curses, hexes, voodoo, John doesn't even know what, but something is obviously wrong with them, and, damn it, they should have told him.
When they get in sight of the clearing, John makes them show him exactly what they did. He watches as they head for the middle of the clearing, looking right and left, and then Sam glances at Dean and they both lie down on the ground. After a few minutes, when they haven't moved, John goes over to see what they think they're doing.
They're holding hands, staring up at the sky. They don't move as John approaches.
"Tell me this just started today. Please," he says, standing over them, glaring down at their entwined fingers.
No answer.
"Boys?" He prods Dean's shoulder with the toe of his boot. "Boys?"
They blink, shaking their heads a little like they're shaking off a blow, and Dean says, "We didn't mean for you to see us before."
"Jesus!" John says. "I fucking hope not. But then I hope that you didn't mean to actually do it, either. Something obviously got into your heads, and we're going to find out what. Strange goings on out here, missing little girls, animal attacks, other stuff too. Not just whatever happened to you. Come on; help me search."
Sam and Dean get up then, shine their lights around. As far as John can tell, there is nothing at all remarkable about this clearing, other than that it exists. Then he hears a tinkling laugh from behind him. Whirling around, he shines his light towards where he heard the noise. Dean's light is a second behind, and Sam's a second behind Dean's. At first John doesn't see anything but foliage, but then, at the edge of the trees, he sees movement. A dozen—maybe fifteen—tiny people, no taller than a man's forearm, flitting in and out of the underbrush. Laughing.
You've got to be kidding me. Fairies?
John knows better than to give fae the satisfaction of knowing they've gotten to you, so he doesn't say anything out loud except, "Think we're done here, boys. Back to the car."
"What?" Sam starts. "But—"
Before John has to say anything, though, Sam shuts up, turning and leading the way back to the path. None of them says a word until they're on the road again.
"Were those fairies?" Dean is the first to break the silence.
"Can't think of anything else they could be." John has never actually seen a fairy, but he's read enough books and heard enough from other hunters to be nearly certain.
"Fairy pranks aren't like curses; they can't be broken, right?" Sam's contribution.
"We'll find a way," John reassures him.
"But if you try to bargain your way out of it or anything, you just make them angry and they do something worse," Sam insists.
John wonders what the hell could be worse than his sons being cursed into fucking each other.
"It's not so bad, now we're getting used to it," Dean says. "It'll probably even be useful for hunting when we can control it better."
Before John can ask Dean what the hell he's talking about, Sam says, "We'll learn how to use it. But we should probably do something so no one else gets pranked. ESP is one thing, but being eaten by dogs, even if you kind of deserve it, isn't exactly funny."
"How in god's name is sucking your brother's cock going to be useful in a hunt?" John's disturbed enough by his sons' nonchalance that the words just pop out, despite his having decided he was never going to say them out loud.
"What?" Both boys talking at once again.
Then Dean: "We're talking about being able to read each other's minds. Not—"
"Not the other thing," Sam finishes.
Now John's pissed off and confused. Fortunately, they're nearly back at the motel, because he's pretty sure this isn't a conversation they should have while he's driving. "Stop talking. Both of you. You can explain what the hell you mean when we get inside."
With the door shut and locked, John sits them down, his own back to the beds because it's hard enough to get that image out of his head if he can't see where it happened, never mind staring right at it. "Start at the beginning. Again," John says. "And this time don't leave out the part where you two suddenly have psychic powers."
Looking annoyed, Sam starts.
It turns out the boys had told John about the ESP, just not in so many words. Apparently he was meant to glean from their hints about seeing visions and feeling strange feelings that they were reading each other's minds.
Sam shares his theory that he sees the world in pictures and Dean in words, which is why it seemed at first like different phenomena.
That seems to be news to Dean, too, which John's not sure should be as reassuring as it is. None of what either boy says explains what John walked in on, though.
"So why'd you spend the night in your car?" John asks Dean when no more information seems to be forthcoming.
Dean looks at Sam but won't meet John's eyes.
"Dean?" John presses.
"That part you probably don't want to know," Sam says.
John's had just about enough. "None of this makes any sense!" Fairies are notoriously capricious, and these ones seem to have a vicious streak, but it can also be argued that they're doing good deeds. Yeah, they kidnapped a little girl, but probably got her out of a bad situation, and some would say the dog killers got their just desserts. But what did his boys do to deserve this?
Movement catches his eye and John looks up to see Dean's arm jerk back from where he'd obviously been heading to grope Sam under the table.
"That's it," John says. "Sam, pack your bags."
"What?" Both boys say.
"I'm taking Sam to Pastor Jim. Dean, you stay here; I'll be back in two, three days, and we'll figure out how to break this damn curse."
"No." Dean sounds angry, but more than that, scared. "No, Sam, I'm not going to let him do that."
"Don’t see that you have any say." John cannot understand what is wrong with them.
"I'm not going." Sam's voice is loud, drowning out the pounding of John's heart.
"You're a minor, and you're my son. You're going if I say you're going."
"You'll have to take me too," Dean says, fear gone now, just a statement of fact. "I'm pretty sure whatever they did will kill us if you separate us."
"What the hell does that mean?" John would seriously like to wring every one of those fairies' necks.
"I tried—" Dean looks at Sam, face full of apology. "I tried to leave this morning. Made it about ten miles before the pain was so bad I thought I was being ripped apart."
"What?" Sam asks.
He and Dean stare at each other and the looks they're exchanging make John feel like he's walked in on them all over again.
"Jesus. Cut the ESP crap."
"We'll leave if you don't want us here anymore, but you're not separating us." Sam stands as he says it, leans on the table, arms stiff, probably trying to look threatening.
John can only see his little boy. He has no idea what to do.
"It's late. We'll talk about this again in the morning." John looks at Dean, who has reached up to put a hand on Sam's back. A calming gesture that John's seen a hundred times. But after what he saw today it turns his stomach.
"And you two are not sharing a bed." Fumbling in his pocket, John pulls his wallet out of his pants. "Dean, you go get yourself another room for tonight. If you made it ten miles, you'll be fine with a few hundred yards."
John's surprised when Dean just takes a credit card and does as he's told, but he doesn't let his reaction show on his face. "Get some sleep," he says to his youngest once the door shuts behind Dean.
He figures somebody ought to sleep tonight.
~~~~~||~~~~~
The rooms either side of their original one are occupied, but there's a double three doors down which Dean takes. On his way back he thinks about removing the distributor cap from Dad's truck and his car just in case, but there's no way Dad could get Sam into a car without hurting him, and mad as he is, Dean can't see his dad doing that. Besides, Dean can feel his brother, soft, like a hum under his breath, and nothing is going to happen to him. Dean still has trouble going to sleep, but eventually, with Sam's memories of the afternoon floating through his mind, Dean drifts off.
When he wakes up, Dad and Sam are gone.
There's no pain, not like yesterday, just a sick twisting ache in Dean's gut and nothing but white noise where Sam should be in his head. Not like it's gone back to the way it was before he ever could hear Sam, but like a car radio when you drive out of range, volume turned low. But Sam can't be out of range. Dean would have felt it.
"Fuck!" he says, punching the door. "You fucking bastard!" If Dad expects Dean to roll over, to just take this like he's taken everything Dad shoved at him all his life, Dad seriously needs to start thinking again.
Sam is Dean's and Dean is Sam's now. More than brothers, more than— More than what Dad walked in on. Dean couldn't explain what happened in those woods even with a gun held to his head, but he and Sam are two halves of something now, corny as that might sound, and Dad's moral outrage isn't going to change that any more than it could reverse gravity.
Back in Dad's room, Dean finds his own stuff, most of Dad's, but none of Sam's, except the tattered text books that belong to the high school. He wants to hurry, get on the road now, try to eat up some of Dad's head start, but Dean isn't sure that he's ever going to come back here once he finds Sam, so he takes the time to stuff the few things he'd taken out of his bags back inside, gather what belongings had migrated into Dad's things and find a spot for them in his duffle. He finds a roll of twenties in Dad's socks, enough of them his own earnings that he feels justified in taking it all.
Dad's first aid kit is gone, with all the drugs Dad keeps—morphine, codeine, god knows what else. That must be how he got Sam in the car.
Dean is starting to think he just might kill his father.
There isn't much to pack, since Dean had most of this stuff yesterday when he tried to run, so he's behind the wheel less than ten minutes after he discovered Sam was gone. Then he pulls out into the road and realizes he isn't sure where to go.
Dad said he was taking Sam to Jim—and since Dad's not speaking to Bobby Singer anymore, that's the only logical place to take him—but he also knows Dean knows that's the plan. If he wants to keep Sam away from Dean, it would be stupid to go there. Except. Dad is used to Dean doing what he's told, so it might not even occur to him that Dean would follow.
Which means two reasons to go to Jim's, only one not to. Dean turns and heads for Minnesota. If he pushes it, he can probably make it in fifteen hours once he's on the interstate. Dean wishes he knew how much of a head start Dad has.
Three or four hours in, Dean is rolling past a little Mom and Pop station when the need for coffee overwhelms him. His tank could do with a top-up, too. The girl behind the register clearly read the customer service manual—her smile as she tells Dean to have a nice day is blinding. He's about to say thank you, take his change, when he's hit with a wave of fury, frustration, and an odd sense of déjà vu. It takes him a second to steady himself, and then Dean manages to smile back at the girl.
"Long shift today?" he asks.
"Long enough. Seven to seven."
Dean checks his watch. 10:32. "Don't suppose you had a man come through earlier. Black pickup, brown leather jacket. He'd've bought a black coffee, had a kid with him, 'bout seventeen."
"Yeah," she says, still super enthusiastic. "I did. They boy was real tired looking. He woke up and looked at me for a second when the man got back in the car, though. I felt sorry for him. I always get a horrible crick in my neck when I sleep up against the window like that."
What kind of man gives drugs to his own son? Dean has to work to keep his voice from shaking when he asks, "D'you remember how long ago that was?"
"Sorry," she says. "I'd finished opening everything up, so after seven thirty, probably. I know we look real quiet, but we get more cars through here than you'd think."
It's better than he'd hoped for. He's less than three hours behind. Dad has a lead foot when he wants to, but he's also hauling a lot of truck around on a factory engine while Dean's spent the last year getting the Impala to run beyond her specs and then some. And now Sam's awake, he's gonna give Dad trouble.
The thank you Dean gives the clerk in return for the information is entirely heartfelt.
~~~~~||~~~~~
When Sam wakes up, his head is pounding and his mouth feels like he swallowed a sock. He's been dreaming about being on the road, but apparently that wasn't just a dream, because his face is pressed against clammy window glass, and he can still hear the engine.
"Dean?" he mumbles, tongue stiff. He's trying to open his eyes, but his lids feel stuck shut.
"Dean and I'll come back and get you when we've sorted out those fairies."
Not Dean, then. Dad.
Pushing himself off the door, Sam sits upright and finally gets his eyes opened and focused. "We said, 'No'." He's livid, so mad he should be shaking with it, but his words are flat and dull. "Did you— Jesus, Dad, did you drug me?"
Sam didn't even look at the pills dad gave him in the night when he asked for a couple aspirin for his ribs.
"You boys are obviously under this spell, can't listen to reason. You'll thank me once we deal with the curse."
Sam is not going to thank him, ever. He wants to shout at Dad, explain to him that Sam finally has what he's wanted for what feels like half his life, but the drugs have made him sluggish, which is probably a good thing. It's unlikely Dad would ever let Sam see Dean again if he knew the truth.
Instead Sam keeps quiet, face turned away from his father so he doesn't get too tempted to punch him in the face.
He thinks about Dean, not sure yet how to go about linking with him on purpose, or if that's even possible. The view out the window is no help at all with figuring out where he is, and the clock in the dash has said twenty past seven since Dad got the truck, so Sam can't even make a guess about how long they've been travelling.
There's no sign of the excruciating pain Dean mentioned last night, but Sam doesn't know if that means Dean is close or if it isn't actually distance that caused the pain to begin with but something to do with Dean's intent to leave. Or maybe it's just a random coincidence. Sam needs a minute to think. To breathe.
"I'm gonna be sick," he says.
"You'll be fine." Dad doesn't even look at him.
"Pull over." Sam starts rolling down the window, a threat to puke down the side of his father's truck.
"Okay, okay. The shoulder's wider just up there. Hang on."
By the time Dad stops the car a few hundred yards down the road, Sam is pretty sure he actually is going to throw up. While he stumbles to the bushes at the edge of the highway, Dad goes around to the back, gets a bottle of water from the cooler strapped in the bed. He reaches Sam's side just in time to lay a solid hand on Sam's back as Sam vomits bile into the greenery at his feet.
"You're okay," Dad says, rubbing up and down Sam's spine like he's not the one who gave Sam whatever drugs made him feel this way to begin with.
Sam takes the proffered water, but jerks away, putting a good ten feet between them before he takes a sip. With his mouth rinsed and a few swallows of water in his stomach, Sam feels better. He wishes he had some Tylenol, but there's no way he's taking anything else from his father, even if it comes in a blister pack. Ignoring the thump of his headache, Sam tries to feel for Dean in his mind.
There's nothing at first beyond an increase in the pain in Sam's skull, but then he recognizes the determination driving his anger as Dean's touch. It's soft and far away, like a few notes carried on the wind that you don't even know you've heard until you realize there's a song stuck in your head that shouldn't be there. Sam almost wilts with relief when he feels it.
"You ready to keep going?" Dad says, making Sam jump.
Sam considers stalling—Dean's on his way, he's sure of it—but if they get back on the road, they are bound to pass a road sign and Sam can send an image to Dean, give him an idea of where they are. What Sam would really like to do is knock Dad out, leave him on the side of the road, turn the truck around and head back to Dean. But dad has fifty pounds on Sam and years more experience, so it seems like a bad idea. Instead, Sam drains the rest of the bottle of water and climbs into the truck. He'll need to piss soon, and once he's figured out where they are, he can get Dad to stop again.
Twenty or thirty minutes later they pass a sign that says, "Pleasureville 5 miles." There's a fork and spoon placard on the sign which prompts Sam's stomach to growl.
"I'm starving," he says. "Food up ahead." He learned years ago that asking if they could stop usually led to Dad just asking if he couldn't wait. It's one of the few times being demanding gets you farther with John Winchester.
"We'll see what's there," Dad answers. "Maybe there's a drive-thru. We've got a ways to go."
Pleasureville is not exactly a hotbed of fast food. Their only option is a diner with three booths and half a dozen stools at the counter.
"Get something quick," Dad orders, but Sam's not sure what qualifies, so he gets pancakes, which are what he's craving.
Dad doesn't argue, so Sam figures he's safe, and excuses himself to go to the bathroom once the waitress has headed for the kitchen. While he's there he focuses as hard as he can on what the Pleasureville sign looked like, and on the façade of Lael's Diner and on hoping that Dean is coming after him. He doesn't get any words in reply, but a sense of relief and reassurance comes over him which he's sure must be Dean.
Sam manages to drag their stop out for almost half an hour before Dad gets impatient and practically marches him back out to the car and on the road again.
~~~~~||~~~~~
All day Dean gets flashes from Sam of road signs and mile markers. Dad seems to be sticking to highways instead of the interstate but is definitely heading north west, which is either gonna take him to Jim Murphy's or is a sign he's decided to bury the hatchet with Bobby Singer. There is no one else Dad would trust with Sam. Sure in his direction, Dean gets on the interstate, watching for speed traps, but going as fast as he dares.
It's nine thirty PM and Dean is a couple hours north of Cedar Rapids when Sam blasts him with an image of Pastor Jim's church. There's food, and Sam's safe, but he wants to know where Dean is.
"An hour," Dean says out loud. "I'll be there in an hour." He feels a little ridiculous talking to himself, but he feels like Sam's more likely to get the message that way.
The last hundred miles he keeps the needle at ninety, hoping the cops are busy elsewhere.
Dad's truck is parked next to Pastor Jim's sedan in front of the vicarage. Dean leaves his car on the street. Now that he's here, he has no idea what he's doing, what he's going to say. He can't go charging in guns blazing like the villain from a bad western, shouting, "I demand what is mine," even though that's pretty much what this whole thing feels like. Jim's done nothing wrong and Dad's just Dad, for fuck's sake, trying to protect his sons same as always.
Then Dean sees an image of himself taking Sam's bags out of the truck and loading them into the car, of Sam coming out the side door, them leaving without a fight. Sounds like a plan to Dean.
The plan worked better in Sam's head, though. In reality, Dad comes out as Dean's climbing up to get Sam's duffle. He's more mystified than angry at first, but that's before Dean jumps down and lands a right hook on his jaw.
He doesn't even mean to do it, it's just as soon as he sees his father standing there, all Dean can think about is what it felt like waking up with Sam gone.
"Dean! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dad sounds incredulous.
Dean thinks about Dad drugging Sam and hits him again.
Blood blossoms on Dad's lip and he takes a swing back, a glancing blow off the side of Dean's head. Suddenly Sam's there, hanging off Dean's arm, and Jim's standing in front of Dad blocking whatever punch was coming next.
At Sam's touch Dean lives Sam's whole day in a flash—puking, the diner, hours on the road trying to get Dad to stop, slow down, pull over without making him suspect Sam was trying to let Dean catch up. Sam's mad at Dad, but he doesn't hate him. Doesn't want Dean to hurt him. Just wants to leave.
"Dean, John, what's going on?" Pastor Jim is looking back and forth between them with concern.
"He kidnapped Sam," Dean accuses, wishing he could take the words back as he says them; they aren't the most politic choice.
"I'm his sole guardian! I can't kidnap my own son!" Clearly Dad is feeling guilty about drugging Sam—he wouldn't be so defensive otherwise.
"Let's go inside," Jim says. "I have neighbors."
Inside, Sam keeps Dean between Dad and himself, something that doesn't go unnoticed by the pastor. But Jim doesn't say anything, just pushes Dad down into a chair and asks Dean if he needs anything to eat.
"Thanks," Dean says and lowers himself to the sofa, Sam pressed tight to his side. Somehow he manages to resist the urge to put an arm around Sam's shoulders. Bad enough Dad walked in on them. Dean doesn’t need to exacerbate the problem.
Dad just glares at him like he's waiting for Dean to speak.
"You drugged him, stuffed him in a car and drove him across five state lines against his will. You can't say that doesn't look like kidnapping."
"And what does what you did to him look like? Sodomy is a serious crime in Virginia." Dad lowers his voice. "Sodomy with a minor who is also your brother—I hate to think what book they'll throw at you for that."
Dean feels Sam prickle a second before he explodes. "He didn't do anything to me! We did it. Together. Stop talking about me like I'm not even here!"
"Sam." Dad raises a placating hand, but Sam's having none of it.
Then Dean sends out a soothing blanket of thought, backed up with the idea that they just want to get out of here, and Sam backs down.
"What are you shouting about sodomy for, John?" Pastor Jim returns with a grilled cheese sandwich on a paper towel and a bottle of coke.
Dad, not surprisingly, doesn't answer.
"Thanks for cooking," Dean says. "You didn't have to."
"Is this the kind of talk that could use an unbiased outsider, or is it family business you'd just as soon I kept my nose out of?" Jim looks at all three of them as he says it, making it clear that this isn't just John's decision.
"We're fine," Sam says. "You don't need to worry."
Jim looks at him carefully then says, "Okay, then. There are a few things I should see to up at the church. There's still a trundle in Sam's room, Dean, if you all want to get some sleep."
Dad flinches at that but bites his tongue until Jim's gone.
Conversation degenerates immediately into a shouting match, Dad accusing Dean of rape, Dean accusing Dad of kidnapping, and Sam accusing them both of treating him like a child.
Dean isn't used to fighting with his father—he's always felt safer obeying—but now he can't stop. His own anger is compounded and multiplied by Sam's emotions, Sam, who never agrees with Dad anyway.
They get up in each other's faces again, so close Dean can see the cracks in the blood where it's dried on Dad's cheek, the flecks of grey in his beard. Dean suddenly understands that this fight is never going to end. John Winchester will never accept that his sons are more than brothers, and Dean and Sam will never agree to go back to what they were. They are at an impasse.
"We're going to go," Dean says, quietly, raising his hands and stepping back. "We're just going to go."
He can feel Sam's intake of breath, adrenalin not his own zipping through him, fear and excitement. He knows it's Sam's because Dean just feels numb.
Family is everything, it's all he has. And he's just given up on it. Not just joining the army, getting a job, going to college—he's leaving.
"If you boys go now," Dad says, voice deadly cold, "you never come back."
Sam's shaking, emotions so volatile Dean can't follow them, but Dean just says, "Yes, sir. I understand."
He doesn't look back as Sam follows him out the door.
The Road After
They headed west that night, Sam taking over driving when he felt Dean drifting towards sleep behind the wheel, pulling over to the shoulder an hour before dawn when neither of them could keep their eyes open any more. They tumbled into the back seat, clung to each other, and pretended they didn't know the other one was crying.
They can't do that anymore. They're so entwined with each other's thoughts and emotions that there's no pretending about anything.
They settled in Washington at first, enrolled Sam in school, found Dean a job fixing cars, but just before Sam turned eighteen, the garage was seized for back taxes and Sam decided he was tired of the rain anyway, so they headed down to California. Dean wanted to learn how to surf, so they landed in an illegally converted garage apartment in Santa Cruz.
They're on the west side of town, only five blocks from the beach, and close enough to the high school that Sam can walk. Their bed is on a platform over a sofa and a desk, and they have their own tiny kitchen and a bathroom. They have free use of the landlady's washer and dryer and can soak in the hot tub any time they want. It's bigger than a motel room and nicer than most of the apartments and ramshackle houses they'd lived in growing up, and best of all, they can afford it on what Dean makes working part time maintaining the shuttle buses up on the college campus. Sam works after school at a second-hand bookstore and earns enough to keep them in groceries and put a little by for a rainy day.
He's going to graduate in two months and he has a full scholarship to Stanford in the fall. Dean was so proud the day Sam got the letter that he was nearly bursting with it, and Sam thought he might blush himself to death with all the things Dean was thinking about him.
Dean's all for moving over the hill when school starts so Sam can be close to campus, but it's only an hour drive, their landlady here loves them, and their rent is half of what they'd have to pay in Palo Alto, so Sam plans on convincing Dean to stay where they are.
In the last year and a half they've learned to keep each other out as well as let each other in, which makes planning surprise parties a lot easier, and has kept them from going insane. Dean no longer has to listen in to Sam's physics teacher running a current through a string of students holding hands, and Sam doesn't know anymore when Dean drops a wrench on his foot, until he gets home and shows Sam the bruise.
But they can tap into the hum at the base of their skulls whenever they need each other, and when they touch it's still electric.
Dean misses hunting sometimes, and when it gets to be too much, Sam will drag him up into the hills and they'll hack their way through the woods, spar, and wrestle until Dean's tired and grumpy and just wants a shower and a soak in the hot tub. Or Sam will find him something to dig up and burn, and they'll go on a mini-roadtrip. Dean knows Sam's humoring him, but Sam knows Dean knows, so it works for them.
Dean also knows that Sam will go back to hunting full time if Dean decides he really can't stand being settled, and Sam knows that Dean wants him to go to college. Secrets like the watch Sam bought for Dean's birthday they can keep, but not anything important. It's not always easy being so tangled up inside each other's heads and hearts, but it's who they are. And neither of them would change a thing.
~~~~~||~~~~~
John is headed east from a haunting in Santa Barbara to deal with a Wendigo in Colorado, but he swings north first, works it so he hits Monterey Bay on the second of June. He takes highway 1 north, and then follows the directions he wrote down on an old envelope. Keeping his distance, he hides behind the bleachers, far enough back to not be seen, but close enough to the stage that he can hear the principal call Sam Winchester up to get his diploma. A familiar voice cat calls from the crowd, and Sam turns, looks out, and waves to his brother, with the biggest grin John has ever seen on his son's face.
It breaks his heart, but he stays to the end, until the graduates start milling with their friends and families, and Sam finds Dean in the crowd, crushes him with a hug.
Several parents and other kids congratulate Sam with hearty handshakes and pats on the back, greeting Dean like he and Sam belong together. From back here, John has to admit, it looks like they do.
He'd thought, a lifetime ago now—when he and Conrad caught one of the fairies and made a bargain to help them create a human-proof barrier in the woods if they would stop interfering with people—that the curse on his sons would be broken and that they'd come back. He'd waited, but they never called. Dean still has his phone—John gets the bills, so he knows Dean's still using it—but John has no idea what to say, so he's never called them either. They know how to reach him if they need him. But for now, they look happy.
When people start gathering their cameras and sweaters, John finally breaks away, heads back to his truck. The road out of Santa Cruz is winding and steep, and he has to take it slow. When he finally gets to the other side of the mountain, where six-lane freeways wait to take him in any direction he could want to go except back the way he came, it feels like he's left his boys in a whole other world.
~fin~
_____________________________________________________
A/N: First I must thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dreamlittleyo, who is the reason this exists. She gave me the plot bunny and let me run with it, and then was unendingly patient when I didn't so much run as crawl. It's only two months late :) This fic means a lot to me, for many reasons, and I cannot thank her enough.
Thanks also tosylvanwitch who did a FANTASTIC job with beta and reassurance. Any remaining errors are mine.
Thank you also to my flist for helping me choose a title, even though they didn't necessarily know that was what they were doing at the time.
Filcher's Hollow and all its residents are nothing more than figments of my imagination.
His escape thwarted by the side effects of whatever the hell got to them in the woods, Dean nonetheless needed a place to think, and settled on Alice's Restaurant, which is a couple of miles from Sam's school. He's been sitting in the back booth for going on four hours now and he still doesn't know what to do, possibly because he's been reading the paper someone left behind instead of actually trying to figure out a plan. Now that he's read every single word, he figures it's time to avoid his problems by ordering lunch before he gets kicked out. The waitress keeps glaring in his direction and tapping her order pad, and hasn't been by to top up his coffee in a while. Dean can't remember the last time he was so distracted that he couldn't even charm a waitress.
He snags the menu propped between the windowsill and the condiment rack, and decides on the chili cheese fries. When she comes over, the waitress—"Anne" her nametag says; she's young, pretty in a fresh-scrubbed way, and Dean should so have been able to wrap her around his finger without even thinking about it—asks so pointedly if he wants anything else that he adds a chocolate shake and a piece of pie to his order, too. With that she's all friendly grin and asking if his coffee needs freshening up, prompting Dean to smile in return.
As soon as she's gone, though, Dean forgets about her, his mind skirting towards Sam and the whole sharing-sex-dreams-about-each-other thing. Shying away from that, Dean eavesdrops on a couple sitting two booths away, who start fighting about whether or not his expressing a desire to sleep with her sister is grounds for breaking up. That distracts him for a while, until the woman says, "Really? You don't see anything wrong with suggesting I have a threesome with my sister?" reminding Dean what he's been thinking about doing with his brother, no excuse of a threesome needed. Then his food arrives and he tries to focus on that.
The chili is spicy and delicious, the fries cooked crispy but going soft under the sauce and cheese just the way he likes them. But in the end his meal can't really keep his mind off what happened last night. Once he's gotten some food into his stomach he feels less sick about the whole thing, though, and decides that if he can't leave, he'd be better off trying to figure out what is going on than trying to avoid the issue forever while living in the same room as Sam, who is not going to let it lie, Dean's sure.
Chili cheese fries demolished, Dean pushes the plate to the edge of the table and pulls his pie closer. It's peach, Sam's favorite, but only about fifth on Dean's list. He remembers when they were little, ordering the last piece of peach pie just so Sam couldn't have it—to get back at Sam for something, or maybe just to be a dick, he can't even remember. But then he'd felt guilty when Dad got pissed at Sam for sulking, wouldn't let him have any pie at all, and so when Dad went to pay, Dean gave Sam the last few bites. Dean hasn't ordered peach pie since. Today he'd ordered it without even considering what kind he wanted. It's odd enough that it seems as good a place to start as any.
Does ordering Sam's favorite pie have anything to do with the visions? Is it all part of whatever happened in the woods? Is it just that Sam's on Dean's mind, or is he somehow turning into his brother?
If Sam were here, he'd probably pull a pen out of somewhere, ask Anne for one, maybe, and start scribbling notes on his paper placemat. Dean's mat is soiled with smears of chili and grease, but writing shit down isn't really his style anyway. He prefers to go over things in the privacy of his own head.
Facts: Sam can sense Dean's feelings, at least when he's scared or angry. Dean can see what Sam's thinking, even what he's seeing maybe, in times of extreme emotion. A distance of three miles didn't hamper his view any. A distance of ten miles makes Dean want to black out with pain. This all started after they went to the clearing where two men were attacked by wild dogs or something that left marks enough like dog bites the authorities felt safe reporting it.
Facts Dean would rather not think about: Sam has vivid fantasies of Dean giving him blowjobs. Dean isn't actually opposed to the idea as much as he probably should be. Dean wakes up wanting to climb into bed with his brother and kiss him in ways brothers don't think about kissing. Sam might have been having these fantasies for a while, but it's also possible Dean put the idea into his head.
For the sake of being thorough, Dean gives the facts he'd rather not think about a moment or two in the spotlight before going back to the facts that don't make him want to get in his car, drive away, and never look back. Because it's easier than fumbling around with visions/thought-sharing/feelings-bleed/whatever, none of which is very accurate on its own, he decides to go with mind-meld as a name for what's happening to him and Sam. Maybe the woods are filled with Vulcans. He's pretty sure they're vegetarians, though, and why would they want to chew on rednecks even if they weren't? Probably not Vulcans.
Maybe what it is that did this isn't what's important, anyway. If Dean's being honest—and really, that's probably best, given how spectacularly badly running away from the issue went—then he has to face that the waking up hard from dreams about Sam didn't start this week, or even this year. And that from the quality of Sam's visions of shower blowjobs, it's unlikely Sam just started thinking this way either.
All the evidence points to the fact that Dean and Sam are on the same page.
Just saying that aloud, even only aloud in his head, makes a sense of calm spread through Dean's chest. Which is pretty much the last thing he expected to happen, and he's not sure he likes it. Admitting he wants to mack on his brother is something that should damage his calm, really. Instead, Dean has a feeling that giving in to the fantasies is more a solution than part of the problem. Maybe that's another side effect of the mind-meld.
Despite the somewhat disconcerting feeling like he didn't think it all on his own, that someone else sat him down and told him, Dean knows what he has to do. If he just talks to Sam, if they just— Whatever. Maybe they don't need to talk; Dean's not really a big fan of the talking. But if he and Sam work together, everything is going to be just fine.
Sam has second lunch, which he prefers, because it means only one class after. Unfortunately, that class is PE. He didn't exactly love it before, but it's sure to be even more fun with bruised ribs and a black eye, the guys who gave them to him right there to enjoy their handiwork. For a few minutes, as he doubled up in pain in the hall between homeroom and first period, Sam thought he'd be getting out of school early again. But as quick as it came on, the pain went, and rather than go to the nurse, he carried on to class. He could cut, maybe, but Dad said he'd pick Sam up after school , and John Winchester is not a big fan of cutting school unless there's a hunt.
"Please finish chapter twenty-one by tomorrow," Mrs. Fuller says, interrupting Sam's thoughts. "We'll talk about war reparations and treaties."
Sam can't wait. Nothing more exciting than war reparations. Fortunately, they had the same text book two schools ago and the test on chapters twenty and twenty-one was the last thing he did before they moved on.
The bell rings and the room erupts with everyone eager for lunch.
Gotta see Sam, gotta see Sam, gotta see Sam.
The thought is sharp and clear, almost like someone—Dean—is standing right behind Sam whispering in his ear. Instead of the cafeteria, Sam heads for the stairs at the front of the school.
Talk to him, gonna be okay, okay, okay.
Clear as he can, Sam pictures walking down the stairs to the drop-off/pick-up point, pictures seeing Dean's car, opening the door and getting in. There are no more words in his head to let him know if Dean gets the message, but when he gets to the front of the school, Dean is sitting there in his car, waiting.
"How did you—" they both say when Sam opens the door to get in.
Then, "It's some kind of mind-meld," Dean says, just as Sam says, "Somehow we have ESP."
When Dean merely chuckles and shakes his head, pulling out of the lot, Sam realizes that he was expecting that sense of worry again, almost bracing for it. Neither of them says anything else for a few minutes; Dean watches the road and Sam watches Dean, sensing a sort of satisfaction from him instead. Sam can't quite identify the feeling—it's not one he's experienced himself—but he thinks it is pretty much the opposite of what Dean was feeling when he went to hide in his car last night.
"So," Dean says, making Sam jump a little, as they turn in the opposite direction from their motel. "I brought you a burger and some pie. Bag on the back seat."
Now he knows it's there, Sam is amazed that he didn't smell the food as soon as he got in the car, except that the Impala has been pretty frequently scented with burgers since Dad got his truck and gave the car to Dean.
"You are the best brother ever," Sam says. He senses a flinch from Dean when he says "brother" but he's looking right at him and doesn't see anything.
Leaning into the back seat to get the bag, Sam ends up brushing his chest against Dean's shoulder. Sam feels an excitement that's half his own and half something he's learning to recognize as his brother's emotional touch. He wants to say something about it but can't imagine what, so he opens the bag to see what Dean brought him. When he spies the pie in its plastic clam shell, he says, "Dude, peach pie? I love you!" Which, yeah, okay, totally wasn't what he meant to say under the circumstances and will probably make Dean run and hide again. He can't help picturing Dean just pulling over, getting out of the car and leaving Sam forever.
"I'm not going to run off again," Dean says, almost dropping a hand onto Sam's knee, but pulling back at the last moment.
"Okay," Sam says, feeling weird that he doesn't feel weirder about the fact Dean knew what he was thinking.
The air in the car feels electric, too charged for Sam to want to eat anything, but he feels like he needs to do something with his hands, and ten minutes ago he was hungry enough that he was almost looking forward to the chef's surprise in the cafeteria, so he pulls out the burger and unwraps it, eating with a single-mindedness that allows him a moment to process the change in Dean's mood.
Burger half gone, Sam looks at his brother again, catching Dean with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, the one he gets when he's concentrating hard on something like memorizing an incantation. Sam has just enough time to wonder what Dean needs to concentrate so hard on while driving before he realizes there are words to back up the feeling of nostalgia he's been sensing as he chewed.
Peach always was your favorite.
"You remember when you took the last piece of peach pie that time?" Sam asks.
"You could hear me?" Looking pleased with himself, Dean glances at Sam.
"You were thinking about peach being my favorite."
"This is fucking weird." Dean says. "Can't decide if it's cool or scary."
"A little of both, probably." Sam wraps up the last few bites of his burger and trades it for the pie.
"It's good pie," Dean says. "First time I've had peach since that day."
"You always liked other kinds better. You were a jerk to order peach just because you knew I wanted it."
"I'm sure I had a good reason. You probably took something of mine first."
Dean's tone is belligerent, but Sam can feel fondness, affection, something thicker underneath. It makes him squirm with embarrassed pleasure.
Not long after Sam finishes his pie, Dean turns onto an old access road, driving past the first curve and stopping so they can't be seen from the highway and then turning off the engine. He turns toward Sam, putting his knee up on the seat so it almost brushes Sam's thigh.
"It really is freaky being able to feel you like that," Dean says. "But I'm starting to get used to it."
"Me too," Sam agrees, even though he's not sure he is.
"I have a theory. I think we should see what happens when I touch you. Now that the bond or whatever is getting stronger."
Sam can't help thinking about exactly where he'd like his brother to touch him.
"Heh, yeah, I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that."
Sam's face heats up. He's still not sure he will ever get used to Dean being able to read his pervy thoughts.
Dean just smiles, and then his hand alights on Sam's thigh, just above his knee. It does make the touch of Dean's mind stronger. He's terrified, eager, filled with awe.
Wondering if it would be even more intense skin to skin, Sam brushes his fingertips over the back of Dean's hand where it rests on his thigh, settling his hand over Dean's when his brother doesn't flinch away. It's like turning up the volume on a TV and getting a problem with the antenna.
With his own emotions swirling around in his head, and Dean not thinking in pictures, or, at the moment, words, Sam can't pin anything down. Fear, happiness, peace, frustration, love, and—probably from his own brain—cocks, hands, mouths, tongues, in combinations that probably aren't even physically possible, not in the front seat anyway, and god, Sam fucking needs—
"Fuck it." Dean dives at him, too quick to broadcast his intentions, pressing Sam against the window, practically biting Sam's lower lip off in his eagerness to kiss him.
Sam had mostly gotten over his romantic notions—left over from when he was thirteen and never-been-kissed—of what kissing Dean would be like. The notions that there would be tunnel vision and ringing in his ears and fireworks, that it would seem like the world around them ceased to exist. But the pragmatism he'd gained with age hadn't reckoned on the effects of a mind-meld on lip-to-lip contact.
He is the pliant, whimpering need being kissed and the impatient, hungry desire kissing, is opening, wet heat and seeking, teasing tongue, fingers tangling in hair and arms braced against the seat. He is shy and confident, naïve and experienced, terrified and sure. He is the endless reflection of Sam in Dean in Sam.
Sam is still lost inside his brother when the car door drops away from behind his head and he's filled with the need to get outside where there's more room. Somehow he and Dean spill from the front seat onto the grass barely breaking their kiss. Sam is on top of his brother, legs spraddled wide over Dean's hips, dick crushed against Dean's pelvis in a way that's really not comfortable, but he doesn't even care. Dean's using his grip on Sam's hair to move Sam's head as though he thinks if he only found the right angle they could somehow get closer, even though Sam's lips and tongue are pretty much completely inside Dean's mouth.
Dean's need is breathtaking, feeding off and feeding Sam's own, and Sam is actually a little worried that they might set the grass on fire.
"Clothes off," Dean says, except he's still sucking on Sam's tongue, so he must have just thought it.
Either way, Sam's not interested in arguing, and starts fumbling with the hem of Dean's shirt. Unfortunately, it turns out to be impossible to get someone's shirt off while lying on his chest and kissing him, so Sam doesn't have much luck.
"Off," Dean says—this time with his mouth—and pushes at Sam's shoulders until Sam is forced to roll off Dean onto the ground.
Dean attacks his own shirt then, and Sam follows suit. As soon as Sam has his jeans undone, Dean dives at him again, knocking the breath half out of him, kissing his neck.
As Dean nibbles and sucks his way down Sam's neck to his chest, Sam tries to get his hand between them and into his brother's pants. Undercurrent to the never-been-so-horny-in-my-life is a sense that this is right. That under/in/around Dean is the place Sam belongs, the only place in this world that is perfectly, exactly, his.
"Me too," Dean says. "God, it's so fucked up, but me too."
Sam grins so hard his cheeks ache. "Less fucked up than—shit, there—" Apparently Sam really likes having his nipples chewed. "—than being eaten by dogs."
Dean doesn't answer, too busy proving to Sam that he likes Sam's nipples as much as Sam likes Dean's mouth.
They jerk each other off there in the grass, lying side-by-side afterwards, arms touching, playing with each other's fingers, each feeling the buzz of his brother at the edges of his mind.
Eventually the grass starts to prickle and their skin pebble with goose bumps. "We should go," Dean says.
His regret at the words feels just the same as Sam's.
Dean's still not home at three, and John's had enough of cataloging books for a while, so he goes to get Sam. But Sam's not waiting out front among the milling students, nor does he appear in the fifteen minutes John waits. Apparently he didn't hear John's offer to pick him up and went and got the bus before John got there. Not a big deal. Conrad lives a few streets over from the school, so John goes and drops off the books and cataloging he and the boys finished, stays for a few beers. It's after dark when he heads back to the motel.
What he finds when he gets there is the very last thing he ever expected.
Dean's car is parked in front of the room, but there's no light shining through the window next to the door. He figures the boys probably walked to the gas station up the street to get something to eat.
Dean's eating sure enough, but it isn't gas station food.
John makes it to the bathroom before he throws up the cheap beer that's the only thing in his stomach.
When he comes out again, Dean's standing between the beds struggling into his shirt, and Sam has the bedspread pulled up over his hips, but it's not nearly enough to erase the image of Dean lying between Sam's splayed thighs, hands on Sam's waist, head bobbing. John's afraid that image will be burned into his retinas forever.
"What in the hell are you boys doing?" His voice is deadly calm, and he even scares himself, so John's not entirely surprised that his boys flinch and Dean steps a little closer to the bed. Always has been protective of his brother. But there's protecting and there's—
John can't even think about it.
"I asked a question." He cannot begin to imagine he actually wants the answer, but one of them had better speak right now, because he's standing too close to where a gun is hidden under his pillow and he doesn't trust that he's not going to go for it if someone doesn't say something soon.
"He didn't make me."
John's looking at Sam, and Sam's mouth is moving, but he hears Dean too, and when he looks over at his other son, he realizes that they're both saying the words. Exactly together.
They glance at each other, quickly, and then Sam goes on alone. "We're both old enough to know what we want."
"You're not old enough to know anything, yet!" John yells.
Sam goes red, but John can see it's anger, not the shame he should be feeling. Dean's down on the floor, crouching, and John wonders for a second if Dean's planning on leaping for him, but he just stands and hands Sam his jeans.
"And you!" John rounds on his older son. The one who he's never had to worry about. The one who should know better. "He's your brother. I taught you to look after him. Not suck—not do that!" Clenching his fists tight at his sides so he won't do anything he regrets, John tries to take a deep breath, steady himself a little.
"We weren't—" Dean starts.
"What the hell did you two find in those woods?" Two steps and John's close enough to grab Dean's arm.
"Don't hurt him!" Sam says.
"Dean, come with me." John tugs. "Sam, for god's sake get dressed, and do not leave this room. I'm not fucking around here. Your brother and I are going to see what the hell is going on in that clearing."
Sam surges off the bed, angrily pulling on his jeans. "You're not going without me."
"You'll do as you're told." John knows, even as he's saying it, that Sam won't do anything of the kind. He's yanking on his shoes, staring at Dean like he's desperate to tell him something but doesn't want to say it in front of John.
"Fine. Both of you. Flashlights, and get in the car. We'll talk about this more later." He doesn't want them sitting next to each other, so he grabs Dean's keys out of his jacket, and stalks out to the Impala, climbing behind the wheel. Dean sits like stone beside him, and Sam huddles silently in the back seat the whole way out to the woods.
Coming out here at night was not one of John's best ideas ever, but he hands Dean and Sam pistols and grabs the shotgun for himself and tells Dean to lead the way, keeping between the boys, doing his best not to think about why. At least there's a path and they're not trying to break one in the dark.
Sam's furious and Dean's actively annoyed and it's not right. John's the one who should be pissed off. Whatever was done to them, he trained them better than that. Raised them up to talk to him before things got so far, so they could deal with whatever it was. Curses, hexes, voodoo, John doesn't even know what, but something is obviously wrong with them, and, damn it, they should have told him.
When they get in sight of the clearing, John makes them show him exactly what they did. He watches as they head for the middle of the clearing, looking right and left, and then Sam glances at Dean and they both lie down on the ground. After a few minutes, when they haven't moved, John goes over to see what they think they're doing.
They're holding hands, staring up at the sky. They don't move as John approaches.
"Tell me this just started today. Please," he says, standing over them, glaring down at their entwined fingers.
No answer.
"Boys?" He prods Dean's shoulder with the toe of his boot. "Boys?"
They blink, shaking their heads a little like they're shaking off a blow, and Dean says, "We didn't mean for you to see us before."
"Jesus!" John says. "I fucking hope not. But then I hope that you didn't mean to actually do it, either. Something obviously got into your heads, and we're going to find out what. Strange goings on out here, missing little girls, animal attacks, other stuff too. Not just whatever happened to you. Come on; help me search."
Sam and Dean get up then, shine their lights around. As far as John can tell, there is nothing at all remarkable about this clearing, other than that it exists. Then he hears a tinkling laugh from behind him. Whirling around, he shines his light towards where he heard the noise. Dean's light is a second behind, and Sam's a second behind Dean's. At first John doesn't see anything but foliage, but then, at the edge of the trees, he sees movement. A dozen—maybe fifteen—tiny people, no taller than a man's forearm, flitting in and out of the underbrush. Laughing.
You've got to be kidding me. Fairies?
John knows better than to give fae the satisfaction of knowing they've gotten to you, so he doesn't say anything out loud except, "Think we're done here, boys. Back to the car."
"What?" Sam starts. "But—"
Before John has to say anything, though, Sam shuts up, turning and leading the way back to the path. None of them says a word until they're on the road again.
"Were those fairies?" Dean is the first to break the silence.
"Can't think of anything else they could be." John has never actually seen a fairy, but he's read enough books and heard enough from other hunters to be nearly certain.
"Fairy pranks aren't like curses; they can't be broken, right?" Sam's contribution.
"We'll find a way," John reassures him.
"But if you try to bargain your way out of it or anything, you just make them angry and they do something worse," Sam insists.
John wonders what the hell could be worse than his sons being cursed into fucking each other.
"It's not so bad, now we're getting used to it," Dean says. "It'll probably even be useful for hunting when we can control it better."
Before John can ask Dean what the hell he's talking about, Sam says, "We'll learn how to use it. But we should probably do something so no one else gets pranked. ESP is one thing, but being eaten by dogs, even if you kind of deserve it, isn't exactly funny."
"How in god's name is sucking your brother's cock going to be useful in a hunt?" John's disturbed enough by his sons' nonchalance that the words just pop out, despite his having decided he was never going to say them out loud.
"What?" Both boys talking at once again.
Then Dean: "We're talking about being able to read each other's minds. Not—"
"Not the other thing," Sam finishes.
Now John's pissed off and confused. Fortunately, they're nearly back at the motel, because he's pretty sure this isn't a conversation they should have while he's driving. "Stop talking. Both of you. You can explain what the hell you mean when we get inside."
With the door shut and locked, John sits them down, his own back to the beds because it's hard enough to get that image out of his head if he can't see where it happened, never mind staring right at it. "Start at the beginning. Again," John says. "And this time don't leave out the part where you two suddenly have psychic powers."
Looking annoyed, Sam starts.
It turns out the boys had told John about the ESP, just not in so many words. Apparently he was meant to glean from their hints about seeing visions and feeling strange feelings that they were reading each other's minds.
Sam shares his theory that he sees the world in pictures and Dean in words, which is why it seemed at first like different phenomena.
That seems to be news to Dean, too, which John's not sure should be as reassuring as it is. None of what either boy says explains what John walked in on, though.
"So why'd you spend the night in your car?" John asks Dean when no more information seems to be forthcoming.
Dean looks at Sam but won't meet John's eyes.
"Dean?" John presses.
"That part you probably don't want to know," Sam says.
John's had just about enough. "None of this makes any sense!" Fairies are notoriously capricious, and these ones seem to have a vicious streak, but it can also be argued that they're doing good deeds. Yeah, they kidnapped a little girl, but probably got her out of a bad situation, and some would say the dog killers got their just desserts. But what did his boys do to deserve this?
Movement catches his eye and John looks up to see Dean's arm jerk back from where he'd obviously been heading to grope Sam under the table.
"That's it," John says. "Sam, pack your bags."
"What?" Both boys say.
"I'm taking Sam to Pastor Jim. Dean, you stay here; I'll be back in two, three days, and we'll figure out how to break this damn curse."
"No." Dean sounds angry, but more than that, scared. "No, Sam, I'm not going to let him do that."
"Don’t see that you have any say." John cannot understand what is wrong with them.
"I'm not going." Sam's voice is loud, drowning out the pounding of John's heart.
"You're a minor, and you're my son. You're going if I say you're going."
"You'll have to take me too," Dean says, fear gone now, just a statement of fact. "I'm pretty sure whatever they did will kill us if you separate us."
"What the hell does that mean?" John would seriously like to wring every one of those fairies' necks.
"I tried—" Dean looks at Sam, face full of apology. "I tried to leave this morning. Made it about ten miles before the pain was so bad I thought I was being ripped apart."
"What?" Sam asks.
He and Dean stare at each other and the looks they're exchanging make John feel like he's walked in on them all over again.
"Jesus. Cut the ESP crap."
"We'll leave if you don't want us here anymore, but you're not separating us." Sam stands as he says it, leans on the table, arms stiff, probably trying to look threatening.
John can only see his little boy. He has no idea what to do.
"It's late. We'll talk about this again in the morning." John looks at Dean, who has reached up to put a hand on Sam's back. A calming gesture that John's seen a hundred times. But after what he saw today it turns his stomach.
"And you two are not sharing a bed." Fumbling in his pocket, John pulls his wallet out of his pants. "Dean, you go get yourself another room for tonight. If you made it ten miles, you'll be fine with a few hundred yards."
John's surprised when Dean just takes a credit card and does as he's told, but he doesn't let his reaction show on his face. "Get some sleep," he says to his youngest once the door shuts behind Dean.
He figures somebody ought to sleep tonight.
The rooms either side of their original one are occupied, but there's a double three doors down which Dean takes. On his way back he thinks about removing the distributor cap from Dad's truck and his car just in case, but there's no way Dad could get Sam into a car without hurting him, and mad as he is, Dean can't see his dad doing that. Besides, Dean can feel his brother, soft, like a hum under his breath, and nothing is going to happen to him. Dean still has trouble going to sleep, but eventually, with Sam's memories of the afternoon floating through his mind, Dean drifts off.
When he wakes up, Dad and Sam are gone.
There's no pain, not like yesterday, just a sick twisting ache in Dean's gut and nothing but white noise where Sam should be in his head. Not like it's gone back to the way it was before he ever could hear Sam, but like a car radio when you drive out of range, volume turned low. But Sam can't be out of range. Dean would have felt it.
"Fuck!" he says, punching the door. "You fucking bastard!" If Dad expects Dean to roll over, to just take this like he's taken everything Dad shoved at him all his life, Dad seriously needs to start thinking again.
Sam is Dean's and Dean is Sam's now. More than brothers, more than— More than what Dad walked in on. Dean couldn't explain what happened in those woods even with a gun held to his head, but he and Sam are two halves of something now, corny as that might sound, and Dad's moral outrage isn't going to change that any more than it could reverse gravity.
Back in Dad's room, Dean finds his own stuff, most of Dad's, but none of Sam's, except the tattered text books that belong to the high school. He wants to hurry, get on the road now, try to eat up some of Dad's head start, but Dean isn't sure that he's ever going to come back here once he finds Sam, so he takes the time to stuff the few things he'd taken out of his bags back inside, gather what belongings had migrated into Dad's things and find a spot for them in his duffle. He finds a roll of twenties in Dad's socks, enough of them his own earnings that he feels justified in taking it all.
Dad's first aid kit is gone, with all the drugs Dad keeps—morphine, codeine, god knows what else. That must be how he got Sam in the car.
Dean is starting to think he just might kill his father.
There isn't much to pack, since Dean had most of this stuff yesterday when he tried to run, so he's behind the wheel less than ten minutes after he discovered Sam was gone. Then he pulls out into the road and realizes he isn't sure where to go.
Dad said he was taking Sam to Jim—and since Dad's not speaking to Bobby Singer anymore, that's the only logical place to take him—but he also knows Dean knows that's the plan. If he wants to keep Sam away from Dean, it would be stupid to go there. Except. Dad is used to Dean doing what he's told, so it might not even occur to him that Dean would follow.
Which means two reasons to go to Jim's, only one not to. Dean turns and heads for Minnesota. If he pushes it, he can probably make it in fifteen hours once he's on the interstate. Dean wishes he knew how much of a head start Dad has.
Three or four hours in, Dean is rolling past a little Mom and Pop station when the need for coffee overwhelms him. His tank could do with a top-up, too. The girl behind the register clearly read the customer service manual—her smile as she tells Dean to have a nice day is blinding. He's about to say thank you, take his change, when he's hit with a wave of fury, frustration, and an odd sense of déjà vu. It takes him a second to steady himself, and then Dean manages to smile back at the girl.
"Long shift today?" he asks.
"Long enough. Seven to seven."
Dean checks his watch. 10:32. "Don't suppose you had a man come through earlier. Black pickup, brown leather jacket. He'd've bought a black coffee, had a kid with him, 'bout seventeen."
"Yeah," she says, still super enthusiastic. "I did. They boy was real tired looking. He woke up and looked at me for a second when the man got back in the car, though. I felt sorry for him. I always get a horrible crick in my neck when I sleep up against the window like that."
What kind of man gives drugs to his own son? Dean has to work to keep his voice from shaking when he asks, "D'you remember how long ago that was?"
"Sorry," she says. "I'd finished opening everything up, so after seven thirty, probably. I know we look real quiet, but we get more cars through here than you'd think."
It's better than he'd hoped for. He's less than three hours behind. Dad has a lead foot when he wants to, but he's also hauling a lot of truck around on a factory engine while Dean's spent the last year getting the Impala to run beyond her specs and then some. And now Sam's awake, he's gonna give Dad trouble.
The thank you Dean gives the clerk in return for the information is entirely heartfelt.
When Sam wakes up, his head is pounding and his mouth feels like he swallowed a sock. He's been dreaming about being on the road, but apparently that wasn't just a dream, because his face is pressed against clammy window glass, and he can still hear the engine.
"Dean?" he mumbles, tongue stiff. He's trying to open his eyes, but his lids feel stuck shut.
"Dean and I'll come back and get you when we've sorted out those fairies."
Not Dean, then. Dad.
Pushing himself off the door, Sam sits upright and finally gets his eyes opened and focused. "We said, 'No'." He's livid, so mad he should be shaking with it, but his words are flat and dull. "Did you— Jesus, Dad, did you drug me?"
Sam didn't even look at the pills dad gave him in the night when he asked for a couple aspirin for his ribs.
"You boys are obviously under this spell, can't listen to reason. You'll thank me once we deal with the curse."
Sam is not going to thank him, ever. He wants to shout at Dad, explain to him that Sam finally has what he's wanted for what feels like half his life, but the drugs have made him sluggish, which is probably a good thing. It's unlikely Dad would ever let Sam see Dean again if he knew the truth.
Instead Sam keeps quiet, face turned away from his father so he doesn't get too tempted to punch him in the face.
He thinks about Dean, not sure yet how to go about linking with him on purpose, or if that's even possible. The view out the window is no help at all with figuring out where he is, and the clock in the dash has said twenty past seven since Dad got the truck, so Sam can't even make a guess about how long they've been travelling.
There's no sign of the excruciating pain Dean mentioned last night, but Sam doesn't know if that means Dean is close or if it isn't actually distance that caused the pain to begin with but something to do with Dean's intent to leave. Or maybe it's just a random coincidence. Sam needs a minute to think. To breathe.
"I'm gonna be sick," he says.
"You'll be fine." Dad doesn't even look at him.
"Pull over." Sam starts rolling down the window, a threat to puke down the side of his father's truck.
"Okay, okay. The shoulder's wider just up there. Hang on."
By the time Dad stops the car a few hundred yards down the road, Sam is pretty sure he actually is going to throw up. While he stumbles to the bushes at the edge of the highway, Dad goes around to the back, gets a bottle of water from the cooler strapped in the bed. He reaches Sam's side just in time to lay a solid hand on Sam's back as Sam vomits bile into the greenery at his feet.
"You're okay," Dad says, rubbing up and down Sam's spine like he's not the one who gave Sam whatever drugs made him feel this way to begin with.
Sam takes the proffered water, but jerks away, putting a good ten feet between them before he takes a sip. With his mouth rinsed and a few swallows of water in his stomach, Sam feels better. He wishes he had some Tylenol, but there's no way he's taking anything else from his father, even if it comes in a blister pack. Ignoring the thump of his headache, Sam tries to feel for Dean in his mind.
There's nothing at first beyond an increase in the pain in Sam's skull, but then he recognizes the determination driving his anger as Dean's touch. It's soft and far away, like a few notes carried on the wind that you don't even know you've heard until you realize there's a song stuck in your head that shouldn't be there. Sam almost wilts with relief when he feels it.
"You ready to keep going?" Dad says, making Sam jump.
Sam considers stalling—Dean's on his way, he's sure of it—but if they get back on the road, they are bound to pass a road sign and Sam can send an image to Dean, give him an idea of where they are. What Sam would really like to do is knock Dad out, leave him on the side of the road, turn the truck around and head back to Dean. But dad has fifty pounds on Sam and years more experience, so it seems like a bad idea. Instead, Sam drains the rest of the bottle of water and climbs into the truck. He'll need to piss soon, and once he's figured out where they are, he can get Dad to stop again.
Twenty or thirty minutes later they pass a sign that says, "Pleasureville 5 miles." There's a fork and spoon placard on the sign which prompts Sam's stomach to growl.
"I'm starving," he says. "Food up ahead." He learned years ago that asking if they could stop usually led to Dad just asking if he couldn't wait. It's one of the few times being demanding gets you farther with John Winchester.
"We'll see what's there," Dad answers. "Maybe there's a drive-thru. We've got a ways to go."
Pleasureville is not exactly a hotbed of fast food. Their only option is a diner with three booths and half a dozen stools at the counter.
"Get something quick," Dad orders, but Sam's not sure what qualifies, so he gets pancakes, which are what he's craving.
Dad doesn't argue, so Sam figures he's safe, and excuses himself to go to the bathroom once the waitress has headed for the kitchen. While he's there he focuses as hard as he can on what the Pleasureville sign looked like, and on the façade of Lael's Diner and on hoping that Dean is coming after him. He doesn't get any words in reply, but a sense of relief and reassurance comes over him which he's sure must be Dean.
Sam manages to drag their stop out for almost half an hour before Dad gets impatient and practically marches him back out to the car and on the road again.
All day Dean gets flashes from Sam of road signs and mile markers. Dad seems to be sticking to highways instead of the interstate but is definitely heading north west, which is either gonna take him to Jim Murphy's or is a sign he's decided to bury the hatchet with Bobby Singer. There is no one else Dad would trust with Sam. Sure in his direction, Dean gets on the interstate, watching for speed traps, but going as fast as he dares.
It's nine thirty PM and Dean is a couple hours north of Cedar Rapids when Sam blasts him with an image of Pastor Jim's church. There's food, and Sam's safe, but he wants to know where Dean is.
"An hour," Dean says out loud. "I'll be there in an hour." He feels a little ridiculous talking to himself, but he feels like Sam's more likely to get the message that way.
The last hundred miles he keeps the needle at ninety, hoping the cops are busy elsewhere.
Dad's truck is parked next to Pastor Jim's sedan in front of the vicarage. Dean leaves his car on the street. Now that he's here, he has no idea what he's doing, what he's going to say. He can't go charging in guns blazing like the villain from a bad western, shouting, "I demand what is mine," even though that's pretty much what this whole thing feels like. Jim's done nothing wrong and Dad's just Dad, for fuck's sake, trying to protect his sons same as always.
Then Dean sees an image of himself taking Sam's bags out of the truck and loading them into the car, of Sam coming out the side door, them leaving without a fight. Sounds like a plan to Dean.
The plan worked better in Sam's head, though. In reality, Dad comes out as Dean's climbing up to get Sam's duffle. He's more mystified than angry at first, but that's before Dean jumps down and lands a right hook on his jaw.
He doesn't even mean to do it, it's just as soon as he sees his father standing there, all Dean can think about is what it felt like waking up with Sam gone.
"Dean! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dad sounds incredulous.
Dean thinks about Dad drugging Sam and hits him again.
Blood blossoms on Dad's lip and he takes a swing back, a glancing blow off the side of Dean's head. Suddenly Sam's there, hanging off Dean's arm, and Jim's standing in front of Dad blocking whatever punch was coming next.
At Sam's touch Dean lives Sam's whole day in a flash—puking, the diner, hours on the road trying to get Dad to stop, slow down, pull over without making him suspect Sam was trying to let Dean catch up. Sam's mad at Dad, but he doesn't hate him. Doesn't want Dean to hurt him. Just wants to leave.
"Dean, John, what's going on?" Pastor Jim is looking back and forth between them with concern.
"He kidnapped Sam," Dean accuses, wishing he could take the words back as he says them; they aren't the most politic choice.
"I'm his sole guardian! I can't kidnap my own son!" Clearly Dad is feeling guilty about drugging Sam—he wouldn't be so defensive otherwise.
"Let's go inside," Jim says. "I have neighbors."
Inside, Sam keeps Dean between Dad and himself, something that doesn't go unnoticed by the pastor. But Jim doesn't say anything, just pushes Dad down into a chair and asks Dean if he needs anything to eat.
"Thanks," Dean says and lowers himself to the sofa, Sam pressed tight to his side. Somehow he manages to resist the urge to put an arm around Sam's shoulders. Bad enough Dad walked in on them. Dean doesn’t need to exacerbate the problem.
Dad just glares at him like he's waiting for Dean to speak.
"You drugged him, stuffed him in a car and drove him across five state lines against his will. You can't say that doesn't look like kidnapping."
"And what does what you did to him look like? Sodomy is a serious crime in Virginia." Dad lowers his voice. "Sodomy with a minor who is also your brother—I hate to think what book they'll throw at you for that."
Dean feels Sam prickle a second before he explodes. "He didn't do anything to me! We did it. Together. Stop talking about me like I'm not even here!"
"Sam." Dad raises a placating hand, but Sam's having none of it.
Then Dean sends out a soothing blanket of thought, backed up with the idea that they just want to get out of here, and Sam backs down.
"What are you shouting about sodomy for, John?" Pastor Jim returns with a grilled cheese sandwich on a paper towel and a bottle of coke.
Dad, not surprisingly, doesn't answer.
"Thanks for cooking," Dean says. "You didn't have to."
"Is this the kind of talk that could use an unbiased outsider, or is it family business you'd just as soon I kept my nose out of?" Jim looks at all three of them as he says it, making it clear that this isn't just John's decision.
"We're fine," Sam says. "You don't need to worry."
Jim looks at him carefully then says, "Okay, then. There are a few things I should see to up at the church. There's still a trundle in Sam's room, Dean, if you all want to get some sleep."
Dad flinches at that but bites his tongue until Jim's gone.
Conversation degenerates immediately into a shouting match, Dad accusing Dean of rape, Dean accusing Dad of kidnapping, and Sam accusing them both of treating him like a child.
Dean isn't used to fighting with his father—he's always felt safer obeying—but now he can't stop. His own anger is compounded and multiplied by Sam's emotions, Sam, who never agrees with Dad anyway.
They get up in each other's faces again, so close Dean can see the cracks in the blood where it's dried on Dad's cheek, the flecks of grey in his beard. Dean suddenly understands that this fight is never going to end. John Winchester will never accept that his sons are more than brothers, and Dean and Sam will never agree to go back to what they were. They are at an impasse.
"We're going to go," Dean says, quietly, raising his hands and stepping back. "We're just going to go."
He can feel Sam's intake of breath, adrenalin not his own zipping through him, fear and excitement. He knows it's Sam's because Dean just feels numb.
Family is everything, it's all he has. And he's just given up on it. Not just joining the army, getting a job, going to college—he's leaving.
"If you boys go now," Dad says, voice deadly cold, "you never come back."
Sam's shaking, emotions so volatile Dean can't follow them, but Dean just says, "Yes, sir. I understand."
He doesn't look back as Sam follows him out the door.
They headed west that night, Sam taking over driving when he felt Dean drifting towards sleep behind the wheel, pulling over to the shoulder an hour before dawn when neither of them could keep their eyes open any more. They tumbled into the back seat, clung to each other, and pretended they didn't know the other one was crying.
They can't do that anymore. They're so entwined with each other's thoughts and emotions that there's no pretending about anything.
They settled in Washington at first, enrolled Sam in school, found Dean a job fixing cars, but just before Sam turned eighteen, the garage was seized for back taxes and Sam decided he was tired of the rain anyway, so they headed down to California. Dean wanted to learn how to surf, so they landed in an illegally converted garage apartment in Santa Cruz.
They're on the west side of town, only five blocks from the beach, and close enough to the high school that Sam can walk. Their bed is on a platform over a sofa and a desk, and they have their own tiny kitchen and a bathroom. They have free use of the landlady's washer and dryer and can soak in the hot tub any time they want. It's bigger than a motel room and nicer than most of the apartments and ramshackle houses they'd lived in growing up, and best of all, they can afford it on what Dean makes working part time maintaining the shuttle buses up on the college campus. Sam works after school at a second-hand bookstore and earns enough to keep them in groceries and put a little by for a rainy day.
He's going to graduate in two months and he has a full scholarship to Stanford in the fall. Dean was so proud the day Sam got the letter that he was nearly bursting with it, and Sam thought he might blush himself to death with all the things Dean was thinking about him.
Dean's all for moving over the hill when school starts so Sam can be close to campus, but it's only an hour drive, their landlady here loves them, and their rent is half of what they'd have to pay in Palo Alto, so Sam plans on convincing Dean to stay where they are.
In the last year and a half they've learned to keep each other out as well as let each other in, which makes planning surprise parties a lot easier, and has kept them from going insane. Dean no longer has to listen in to Sam's physics teacher running a current through a string of students holding hands, and Sam doesn't know anymore when Dean drops a wrench on his foot, until he gets home and shows Sam the bruise.
But they can tap into the hum at the base of their skulls whenever they need each other, and when they touch it's still electric.
Dean misses hunting sometimes, and when it gets to be too much, Sam will drag him up into the hills and they'll hack their way through the woods, spar, and wrestle until Dean's tired and grumpy and just wants a shower and a soak in the hot tub. Or Sam will find him something to dig up and burn, and they'll go on a mini-roadtrip. Dean knows Sam's humoring him, but Sam knows Dean knows, so it works for them.
Dean also knows that Sam will go back to hunting full time if Dean decides he really can't stand being settled, and Sam knows that Dean wants him to go to college. Secrets like the watch Sam bought for Dean's birthday they can keep, but not anything important. It's not always easy being so tangled up inside each other's heads and hearts, but it's who they are. And neither of them would change a thing.
John is headed east from a haunting in Santa Barbara to deal with a Wendigo in Colorado, but he swings north first, works it so he hits Monterey Bay on the second of June. He takes highway 1 north, and then follows the directions he wrote down on an old envelope. Keeping his distance, he hides behind the bleachers, far enough back to not be seen, but close enough to the stage that he can hear the principal call Sam Winchester up to get his diploma. A familiar voice cat calls from the crowd, and Sam turns, looks out, and waves to his brother, with the biggest grin John has ever seen on his son's face.
It breaks his heart, but he stays to the end, until the graduates start milling with their friends and families, and Sam finds Dean in the crowd, crushes him with a hug.
Several parents and other kids congratulate Sam with hearty handshakes and pats on the back, greeting Dean like he and Sam belong together. From back here, John has to admit, it looks like they do.
He'd thought, a lifetime ago now—when he and Conrad caught one of the fairies and made a bargain to help them create a human-proof barrier in the woods if they would stop interfering with people—that the curse on his sons would be broken and that they'd come back. He'd waited, but they never called. Dean still has his phone—John gets the bills, so he knows Dean's still using it—but John has no idea what to say, so he's never called them either. They know how to reach him if they need him. But for now, they look happy.
When people start gathering their cameras and sweaters, John finally breaks away, heads back to his truck. The road out of Santa Cruz is winding and steep, and he has to take it slow. When he finally gets to the other side of the mountain, where six-lane freeways wait to take him in any direction he could want to go except back the way he came, it feels like he's left his boys in a whole other world.
~fin~
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A/N: First I must thank
dreamlittleyo, who is the reason this exists. She gave me the plot bunny and let me run with it, and then was unendingly patient when I didn't so much run as crawl. It's only two months late :) This fic means a lot to me, for many reasons, and I cannot thank her enough. Thanks also to
sylvanwitch who did a FANTASTIC job with beta and reassurance. Any remaining errors are mine. Thank you also to my flist for helping me choose a title, even though they didn't necessarily know that was what they were doing at the time.
Filcher's Hollow and all its residents are nothing more than figments of my imagination.
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