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Storms stir shit up. Like dogs and old war wounds, spirits get restless when the pressure drops. Then the wind kicks up and makes it worse. Bad things move in with bad weather. They ride in on the water. Torrential downpours are nasty; flooding is worse. Occultists and rootworkers understand that better than most hunters, and Dean respects them for it. Some of them go in for more superstition than he can stomach, but at least when it comes to hurricanes they know salt and Goofer dust are an essential part of battening down the hatches.
Which is why Dean is disgruntled to find himself barreling eastbound down I-10 under a threatening sky, straight towards New Orleans with a storm just hours from making landfall. It’s mid-morning but looks like twilight. Most of the cars are going the opposite direction but even they’ve dwindled to the last straggling evacuees. It feels like an ill omen.
“Remind me again why this couldn’t wait?” he asks for the umpteenth time since they left Lebanon late last evening. They’ve driven straight through the night to try to beat the storm, but it’s only picked up speed according to the hurricane trackers on WWL.
Sam is a rustle of discontent in the corner of his eye. A short huff of breath. “It’s a Category Four, Dean. Worst storm the city’s seen in years.”
“Yeah, which is why we should be heading the other way.”
He’s not actually trying to convince Sam. He committed to the trip the moment Sam gave him that look, the one that translates to a warning Dean, as in don’t try to worm your way out of this one and no excuses. Still, Dean feels owed, not least for the unnecessary risk the whole endeavor poses to Baby. He’s not sure Sam fully realizes how easy it would be for a deceptively deep puddle to ruin her engine or a branch to smash through her windshield, dent her hood.
Then there’s the reason they’re here in the first place. The man they’re supposed to meet is well-versed in Hoodoo. Dean’s sure he can handle himself just fine in a hurricane, doesn’t need the two of them to swoop in and save the day.
“Dean, we’re the Men of Letters’ legacy.” Sam sounds tired. Maybe of being on the road, maybe of Dean. It makes Dean’s eye twitch. “It’s our responsibility.” As if Dean doesn’t already know that. He feels irrationally pissed that Sam doesn’t get that he’s not really asking for a repeat explanation, or worse, that he does get it but is refusing to play. Dean just wants to fill some goddamn silence.
He understood perfectly well the first time around. The Men of Letters really screwed them over, Sam had told him, earnest as a pro bono lawyer. Basically stole all sorts of artifacts that had been in the family for generations, promising they’d give them back after they “studied” them. They didn’t care that they were basically leaving a whole community defenseless.
Deans gets it. It’s a worthy cause. It’s just that Sam happened to track down the descendants right as a storm was wheeling through the Gulf. It’s just that Sam insisted they go immediately, something his contact hadn’t even asked for.
It’s just that Dean’s restless. He’s got an itch under his skin he can’t scratch; it’s been there for weeks. In silences stretching over the library table, in stilted conversations over breakfast on the rare occasions they’re eating on the same schedule. It’s been too long since Dean saw his brother smile.
He doesn’t understand. Things had been good between him and Sam. Better than ever. They got back from their “we beat God” celebra-cation, they got into a routine. They went on hunts. They worked on personal projects: Sam in the archives, Dean in the garage. Things were good. And then, fresh off cleaning out a nest of ghouls in Milwaukee, they weren’t.
There has to be a reason. Something he overlooked, some mistake he can undo. There has to be, because if not—
It means it’s nothing he can fix. It means that maybe, in the absence of Chuck’s machinations, he and Sam just don’t have anything to keep them together anymore. No more divine glue sticking them to each other sure as conjoined twins, no more Biblical dramas to play out. Maybe, now the world’s been saved, they’re bound to drift apart.
Dean grits his teeth. He wonders if the storm is fucking with his head, scientifically. Something about the pressure differential between the inside of his skull and the atmosphere in the car. Makes it feel as if his brain’s about to explode like an overripe melon.
“I’m just saying, the timing, Sam. Cuttin’ it a little close.”
“Isn’t that what we do?” Sam mutters as if for his own benefit, as if Dean’s not right there to hear him.
Dean’s so at a loss, unsure whether he should be offended at whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean, that he shuts up the rest of the way into New Orleans.
***
The rain has started in earnest by the time they get where they’re going: a single shotgun with flaking paint abutting an overgrown vacant lot over the canal in Holy Cross. The traffic light at the bridge was out and they haven’t spotted another soul on the road since taking the exit. New Orleans is a ghost town.
Dean parks in the middle of the street, eyeing the already substantial puddles on what passes for the verge with antipathy. Sam grabs the cardboard box full of Hoodoo relics out of the backseat and makes a run for the front door. Dean follows. They’re both soaked through by the time they make it to the stoop, and the eaves offer no shelter. The wind carries the rain at an angle, fat drops slipping under Dean’s collar and running down his back.
A man with a face wrinkled as old leather and coils of dreads piled on top of his head answers the door to Sam’s pounding. He’s wearing an oversized emerald suit cinched in around his skinny waist with a belt, a multicolored kerchief around his throat, and bright yellow shrimp boots. With his beady eyes, the overall effect is that of a particularly intelligent and ostentatious parrot.
“Hi, Mr. Robichaux? I’m Sam,” Sam says, as if this is some neighborly call and the sky isn’t emptying its bowels all over them. “I brought the…” He lifts the box.
The man looks them each in the eye, gaze inscrutable, and Dean wonders what he sees aside from a pair of overgrown drowned rats. Apparently they pass muster; the man beckons them inside with a knobby-knuckled hand, each finger sporting a ring the size of a lug nut.
The smell of incense hits Dean like a sucker punch to the sinuses as they step into the dim and mercifully dry front room. It takes Dean’s eyes a moment to adjust. A few candles provide the only light, whether because the power’s already out or for ritual purposes, he’s not sure.
“Didn’t think you boys would make it,” says Mr. Robichaux. He doesn’t sound too put out. Dean feels a surge of vicious vindication; hardly the life or death race against the clock Sam made this trip out to be. “You can set that down on the table.” Mr. Robichaux gestures to a coffee table surrounded by a mismatched assortment of ottomans and antique armchairs. From what Dean can tell the room doubles as living room and ceremonial space; there’s an altar covered in photographs, shells, candles, and statuettes opposite the coffee table. “And you must be Dean.”
Dean looks up. He wasn’t expecting the man to know that—it means Sam mentioned him by name in his emails. For some reason the thought makes something catch behind Dean’s sternum.
“Yessir,” he answers.
Mr. Robichaux laughs like Dean just told a good joke. “‘Sir,’ ‘mister’—you boys real polite, huh?”
Dean and Sam shift in awkward unison.
“Hey, Aaliyah,” Mr. Robichaux calls towards the doorway to the next room, “get out here and say hello to these nice boys.” He grins at them, gap-toothed, a glint of mischief in his eye. “You could give my daughter a lesson in manners. Know how to talk to your elders.” He mutters something to himself, still chuckling.
A young woman wearing a colorful head wrap and furry red bathrobe with matching slippers emerges from the back of the house. She gives Sam and Dean an unimpressed once-over and goes to the box on the table, examines the contents.
“You boys must be crazy driving into this storm,” Mr. Robichaux tells them. “Or do you just like drivin’ in the rain?”
Dean notes Sam’s awkward smile with smug satisfaction.
“We just wanted to help,” says Sam.
“Yeah,” says Mr. Robichaux, slow, assessing.
Dean clears his throat. “So, hope we did. Help. If there’s nothing else, we’d better be going.”
“Going?” Mr. Robichaux’s eyebrows climb up his creased forehead. Even Aaliyah turns to look at them. “You’re welcome to stay here, you know. We got room, and we could use some help eatin’ all the food ’fore it spoils.”
Sam perks up. “Thank you, that’s—”
“That’s awfully kind of you, but we’d rather get gone before this thing really picks up,” Dean butts in. He feels Sam’s eyes on him but doesn’t cave. There’s no way he’s leaving Baby on the streets of New Orleans during a hurricane.
Sam lets out a breath of disbelief. “Yeah, Dean? You think you can beat a hurricane?”
Dean goes hot in the face. He meets Sam’s pointed look, plasters on a cellophane grin. “I’ll take my chances.”
“This.” Aaliyah holds out something from the box. It looks like a pendant carved from bone. “You wanna help? Help us with this before you go.”
“Of course,” says Sam. “What is it?”
Aaliyah’s looking at Dean, waiting. He smiles tightly. “Whatever you need.”
She nods, a satisfied jerk of the chin. “It’s a powerful charm. It’ll protect the house till the storm passes. But it takes four people. One for each cardinal direction.”
“We got a ghost problem,” Mr. Robichaux confides, somber. He looks ten years older all of a sudden, wrinkles impossibly deeper, mirth gone from his eyes. “You know what you find when you dig in New Orleans, ’sides water?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Bodies. Whole city’s built on ’em. Every time someone tries an’ put in a pool in the Quarter: more bones. They get all up in the water supply, too. We showerin’ in our ancestors here. We drinkin’ ’em. Bodies everywhere.” He waves his hands wide as if encompassing all of New Orleans. “But ’specially”—he points out the window to the vacant lot—“right here. Old burial ground, back when this was plantation land. The spirits been gettin’ more restless with every storm. They downright angry.” He shakes his head, gaze distant. “Aaliyah and I do what we can. Everyone ’round here startin’ to have problems. This house’s been in the family a long time, long time, but this… it’s somethin’ else. Never seen anything like it in my life.”
Sam stands a little straighter. Dean swears he can feel the earnestness vibrating off him.
“We hope you can turn that around now. These things,” Sam gestures to the box, “never should have been taken from your family.”
“You Men of Letters?” Aaliyah asks, the words puckering her mouth.
“Not exactly,” says Sam, sheepish. “Our grandfather was.”
“We’re hunters.” Dean meets her eyes, level as the barrel of a rifle.
Aaliyah considers them. “Well, least you won’t wet your pants when the ghosts show.”
Dean keeps one eye out the window on the Impala as Aaliyah prepares the incantation. The wind’s picked up; a clump of banana trees in the yard opposite rustles and shakes like an agitated animal, swaying back and forth as if it might uproot itself and run away.
Mr. Robichaux converses with Sam about the storm, the preparations they’ve made and precautions taken. He’s never evacuated for a storm once in his life, not even in 2005 when some of the worst flooding was only blocks away. Dean remembers that. The last time he was here was just after Katrina: his last solo case before Sam was swept back into his life. He’d been worried sick about John, twenty-six and more alone than he’d ever been. It was in New Orleans that the idea to go to Sam took hold of him, tenacious as a stray dog with a scrap of meat. Dean’s chest aches, echoes of an old anxiety seeping through his bones.
Finally Aaliyah’s ready. She gives them each a conjure bag to hang around their necks while she wears the bone pendant, and directs them to stand against different walls, Aaliyah opposite her father, Sam and Dean opposite each other. “Papa and me’ll handle the incantation. You two better get ready,” she warns. “Once they get wise to what we’re up to, they’re gonna try an’ stop us. Just don’t cross the center line.”
Dean catches Sam’s eye, tilts his head towards the Impala, meaning shotguns?
Sam purses his lips, meaning not inside the house, Dean.
Dean shrugs. “You folks got any iron? Maybe a fire poker?”
Mr. Robichaux blows out a contemplative breath. “Fireplaces all boarded up. Wait a second though.” He disappears into the back of the house. Half a minute and some muffled clanging later he reemerges with two large cast iron pans. “How ’bout these?”
Dean takes a pan from Mr. Robichaux, hefts it in his grip. “Just fine.” He sends Sam a grin that says can you believe it? Fighting ghosts Looney Tunes-style! But Sam just frowns and contemplates his pan with a brooding set to his shoulders.
Mr. Robichaux claps his hands and rubs them together like Sylvester about to take a bite out of Tweety. “Let’s get cookin’.”
Aaliyah holds a candle in her hand, unlit. She begins to sing, something in Creole. Dean thinks he recognizes the words “my father,” but not much else. Mr. Robichaux chimes in, responding to Aaliyah’s lines.
Dean stands with his pan at the ready, but the song is so calming he’s almost surprised when the flames on the altar sputter and he senses the familiar presence of ozone and static in the air.
With no more warning than that, it’s right in front of him. A flicker, no time to make out features; he swings on reflex and it vanishes again.
“Steady, almost done,” Mr. Robichaux cautions.
A ghost pops up near Aaliyah. Sam launches himself over an ottoman to drive it off.
Aaliyah doesn’t stop singing. She strikes a match.
Dean feels a crackle of energy in his blind spot to his left, turns—and is flying through the air before he has the chance to lift his pan. He crashes into the altar and the whole thing goes down. He hears a crack and isn’t sure if it’s wood splintering or bone. He can’t breathe, nothing but numb shock. Then his whole right side gives a sickening throb.
“Dean!”
“Don’t cross the line, Sam!” Mr. Robichaux cautions.
“I’m good,” Dean groans, unconvincing. But then the ghost is right there. In his face. It’s a woman, features twisted with rage. She plunges her hand into his chest and closes her icy grip around his heart.
Dean gropes around, realizes he’s dropped the pan. He wheezes, chest constricting, heart thumping—and then the ghost lets go.
Dean gulps in air. He glances towards Aaliyah, who’s stopped singing, and sees she’s lit the candle. She’s looking expectantly at the ghost. The ghost turns to her, calmed now, gaze mournful. An understanding seems to pass between them. Then the ghost disappears like the exhale of a sigh.
“It’s done,” says Aaliyah.
In a heartbeat Sam is at Dean’s side. “Dean, you okay?”
“Never better.” He hides a wince as he takes Sam’s hand and staggers to his feet.
“You took quite a fall.” Mr. Robichaux regards him with concern, perhaps a glimmer of respect. “Better let me look at you.”
“Nothing a bag of frozen peas won’t fix. I’d feel better hitting the road.”
“Wait,” says Aaliyah. “Just one more thing.” She goes into the back of the house.
Mr. Robichaux shakes his head. “You boys sure are stubborn. Huh, guess it’s thanks to that you’re here at all.”
“Stubborn’s our middle name,” says Dean, glancing at Sam. Sam stays silent.
Aaliyah returns, presses two new mojo bags into their hands. “Hoodoo is based in exchange. You get what you give. Debts must be repaid. You both repaid a debt in returning these,” she nods towards the box, “and I’m repaying you for putting your bodies on the line.”
“What is it?” asks Dean.
“Road opener. For your journey home, and to help you stop standing in your own way.” She gives him a look that’s just a little too penetrating for Dean’s comfort.
“Thank you,” says Sam, solemn. They give back the pouches around their necks and tuck the new ones into their pockets.
“There’s enough power in these objects for us to finally lay those spirits to rest,” Aaliyah says, running her fingers along the edges of the box. “They’ve been in pain so long. Enslaved in life, forgotten in death. Their anger is justified.” She looks at them, chin raised. “I’m going to do what should have been done a long time ago.”
Dean wouldn’t admit it to Sam, but he thinks the trip was worth it after all.
They nod to Aaliyah and Mr. Robichaux and head for the door. Dean tries to hide his limp and his grimace at his smarting side.
“You boys sure you don’t wanna stay?” Mr. Robichaux tries one more time.
Dean gives the most confident grin he can muster. “Sure as shooting.”
Mr. Robichaux sucks his teeth, shakes his head. “Well, up to you. But I doubt you’ll make it past La Place.”
***
They do make it past La Place, purely by dint of Dean’s stubbornness. They’re taking Cancer Alley at a crawl, half the speed Dean would normally be going, rain slamming the windshield, making a racket. The steering wheel fights him with each gust of wind. They’ve been on the road over two hours and have managed maybe 80 miles, conditions only getting worse. Dean’s hip and ribs are killing him but if he can just push through it’ll be worth it.
Sam lets out another huff, what Dean’s dubbed in his head Sam’s “bitchy sigh.” He’s been doing it the last thirty minutes of otherwise stony silence.
Finally Dean breaks. “You got something you wanna say?”
“Do I really need to say it?” Sam turns to mope out the passenger window. “We should’ve stayed at Mr. Robichaux’s."
“And left Baby on the street to get carried away by the rain? No way.”
“Well, at this rate, you’re gonna drive her off the highway, Dean, and then what shape’s she gonna be in?”
“I’m not—look, storm’s swinging east. I bet you rains are gonna lighten up soon as we hit Baton Rouge—"
“We’re already in Baton Rouge!”
“No, we’re not. I know what Baton Rouge looks like.”
“When’s the last time you were in Baton Rouge?”
On my way to get you at Stanford, Dean doesn’t say. His heart gives a painful kick. “I remember it was more built up.” He swears he remembers every mile of that drive.
Sam rubs his forehead. “You’re probably thinking of 61. It goes right through town.”
And that—okay, maybe.
“Just”—Sam sighs—“find somewhere to pull over before you get us both killed.”
Dean bristles. “What’s with you, man? You’ve been acting like someone served you soup with a fork for weeks. I mean what was that back there, ‘you think you can beat a hurricane'?” Dean does an unflattering impression.
“Was I wrong?”
“You made me look like an asshole!”
“Dean, motel.”
“What?”
“Motel! Take the turn!”
More on reflex than out of agreement, Dean takes the turn, barely visible in the watery smudge of everything beyond the windshield. The Impala hydroplanes for two excruciating seconds, back end fishtailing while Dean grips the wheel and tries to correct. Sam splays a hand on the dash—overdramatic, if you ask Dean—and gives a death glare when Dean finally gains traction again.
Dean clears his throat, shakes it off. “How the hell can you tell it’s a motel anyway? Can’t see a damn thing.”
“My eyesight’s better than yours.”
Dean’s about to argue, decides against it. Sam turns out to be right anyway. It’s a two-story motel with blue railings, hardly any cars in the lot. Dean pulls up to the office, which looks closed. The lights are all out.
“Be my guest.” Dean gestures, pissed that he let Sam win so easily.
Sam spares him one withering glance before he pulls the collar of his jacket over his head and makes a run for the office.
Dean keeps the car running so the windshield wipers can stay on. He takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Sam getting drenched under the narrow eaves as he rings the buzzer. A red-hot stab in Dean’s hip cuts his gloating short. He’s got to have one hell of a bruise forming.
After a long, miserably wet-looking minute a man opens the door for Sam. Another minute and he’s back out, clutching a liter water bottle and a room key as he dashes to the car.
“Number fourteen, other side of the lot.” Sam points. He’s dripping all over the seat. “Power’s out. I’ll grab the flashlights.”
Dean wonders if it’s a concession due to his injury, though he’s done his best to hide it, or a thank you for stopping. He considers trying to convince Sam they should keep going till they find a place with power, but Dean has to admit the highway is losing its appeal with every throb of pain in his bones.
Jesus, he better not be going soft in his old age.
Dean parks right outside the door but they’re still soggier than they started by the time they make it inside. Dean’s clothes never dried properly from their first soaking outside Mr. Robichaux’s; he’s eager to put on fresh ones. By the muggy feel of the air condition-less room, that might have to be nothing but a pair of boxers.
It’s dim inside, little light offered by the window. At least the room is set back from the lot, somewhat protected by the overhang of the walkway. Sam’s already getting out of his wet things, back turned to Dean. His skin glows ghostly pale, like he’s his own source of light. Dean watches the confident movement of muscle under his skin, then tears his eyes away.
He grabs a pair of boxers from his duffle. He’s unsettled. Maybe the jerky he ate in the car isn’t sitting right. Or maybe it’s just the bruising getting to him. “Gonna get cleaned up,” he says by way of excuse to escape to the bathroom. He doesn’t want Sam to see when he examines the damage to his side.
Sam stops him with an outstretched arm. It makes Dean’s heart jump absurdly. It’s like he’s lost all ability to anticipate what his brother’s going to do, what he’s thinking.
“You’ll need this,” says Sam, and holds out a flashlight.
“Right.” Dean hurries to the bathroom, closes the door behind him.
It’s pitch dark. Quieter, the rain a muted thrum. He leans against the door, tries to make his mind as empty as the blackness around him. Sam keeps popping up though, swimming out of the dark like a mirage. His narrowed eyes, his pinched, displeased mouth. His bare back, turned to Dean.
Dean sighs, clicks on the flashlight. The images disintegrate like spirits.
“Hey,” Sam calls through the door. “Don’t use too much water. Manager said we might lose pressure.”
“Hope we’re getting a good discount.”
No response from Sam. Dean pushes himself off the door.
He rests the flashlight on the little shelf over the sink—no counter in this tiny bathroom—while he gingerly peels off his shirts. It hurts his ribs to raise his right arm too high. Next go the jeans and boxers, stiff with rainwater. He gives an involuntary hiss as he pushes them over his hip. Feels like the skin is broken.
Dean kicks the mess of jeans aside and aims the flashlight down. It’s worse than he thought. There’s a deep abrasion across the crease of his thigh and torso, oozing blood. He must have scraped it along a broken piece of the altar. Around the wound is a shock of magenta that spreads from his hip nearly up to his armpit.
There’s a single knock at the door and then it’s opening before Dean can say a thing.
“Hey, Dean, can I have a towel for my hair—”
Sam stops dead in the doorway. Somehow he still cuts an imposing figure in nothing but boxer shorts.
Dean’s shined the flashlight away from himself, but he knows Sam caught a glimpse. He’s suddenly very aware of his nakedness, even in the weak light, and angles his body subtly away from Sam.
“Geez, warn a guy, Sam.”
He grabs a towel and thrusts it at his brother, hopes he’ll leave.
No such luck. Sam crowds in behind him, tries to get him to open up his right side for inspection.
“Let me see.”
“Dude, it’s nothing—” but even as he says it Sam wrests the flashlight away from him and angles it onto his mottled, torn-up skin.
Dean turns his face away, sullen, like a kid caught stealing candy. He doesn’t see what the big deal is, why this feels so heavy even to him.
“You didn’t say it was this bad.” Sam’s voice is quiet but hardly gentle. Dean can’t read the tone.
“It’s a flesh wound.”
Sam shakes his head. “It could already be infected. I’m getting the kit.” He drops the flashlight in the sink and the beam streaks crazily over the walls like disco lights.
Dean resigns himself to the inevitable. He takes advantage of Sam’s brief absence to pull on the fresh boxers, leaves them tugged down on the injured side. He’s not sure why he’s so concerned with modesty all of a sudden.
Maybe, he thinks as Sam comes back in, jostling his shoulder and laying out first aid items on the shelf, it has to do with the close quarters, the thick, humid air, the furtive feel of working by flashlight.
“Keep the light steady,” Sam instructs as he wets a washcloth.
“You know, Sam, I got this,” Dean says even as he obeys.
Apparently Sam doesn’t think that’s worth dignifying with a response.
Dean’s heart skips a beat when Sam shoves his boxers down even further for better access to the wound. Suddenly Dean wishes he hadn’t bothered with them at all. He looks somehow more scandalous like this, thatch of pubes and base of his dick peeking over the waistband, highlighted by the flashlight, like he’s in some softcore porno.
He swallows, prays that Sam chalks up his tension to pain.
If Sam notices anything he keeps quiet. Too quiet, nothing but the wet snick of washcloth on skin to break the dense silence. Dean wishes he could think of something to say. Something funny. Only he hasn’t been able to make Sam laugh in weeks now. Anxiety claws up his throat, hot and outsized for the situation. He’s sweating. Blames it on the lack of AC.
Sam moves on to rubbing alcohol, and then at least Dean has the distraction of the stinging pain. Until Sam does something insane.
He blows on it.
Dean’s whole body convulses. His stomach muscles and dick twitch violently. His heart jumps into his mouth because—what the fuck?
Sam straightens, stares at him. Dean is still as a cornered rabbit.
“Dude,” he says. His voice comes out weak, not the accusation he meant.
Sam licks his lips. His eyes glint strangely in the dark. “You—uh. Looked like it hurt.”
Dean can’t think of an answer to that, because yeah, of course it did, but not enough to warrant that, something Sam’s never done for Dean, and which Dean hasn’t done for Sam since he was tiny, patching up scraped knees and elbows, and besides, it would only make it worse to have to explain to Sam why he shouldn’t blow air on a wound four inches from his brother’s dick, and really, Sam should know that anyway, what the fuck.
So Dean just nods vaguely, mumbles, “Whatever,” and gets back in position. Sooner this is over the better.
Sam’s motions are more careful, calculated, as he lays a patch of gauze over the abrasion and tapes down its sides. Perhaps he’s being gentle because of the bruising. Or maybe it’s all in Dean’s head. He’s hyperaware of Sam’s fingertips smoothing down the tape on the top edge, outside edge, bottom edge, inside edge. He grazes the tender skin of Dean’s groin. Dean tries to suppress a shiver, can’t help the goose bumps that blossom over his flesh. He can feel his heartbeat down there, blood filling him up and making his balls heavy.
Sam’s fingers linger on the bandage, barely-there pressure like a perched butterfly. Dean needs to do something before this turns catastrophic.
He clears his throat, tries for levity. “Well, if you’re done checkin’ me out, Sammy…”
Sam inhales, brings his eyes up to Dean’s face. Pulls his hand back. Yahtzee.
But then Sam wets his lips, slow swipe of tongue. Shifts in close to Dean’s side. His breath puffs over Dean’s shoulder in a little laugh, makes the hair on Dean’s neck stand on end.
“Looks like you don’t mind the attention,” Sam comments, soft, wry.
Dean’s stomach flips. He looks down in horror. Sure enough, his chub is all too obvious with the band of his boxers pulled low. It creases into his dick just where it swells out from his pubic hair.
Dean has to drag air into his lungs. He could laugh it off, make it all a joke. Sam’s left the door open for him.
He makes the mistake of looking at his brother. Sam’s eyes glitter.
Dean’s mouth is parched. His throat clicks. He says the first thing he can think of.
“You wish.”
Shit. He’s pretty sure that was the wrong thing.
Sam’s eyes darken. He glances down. In one decisive move tugs the boxers to mid-thigh. Exposes Dean’s thickening cock, dusky with blood.
“Don’t have to,” Sam says, somewhere between smug and awed.
Neither of them breathes. They just watch, Dean with a furious rush of humiliation and arousal, as his cock twitches and rises. He feels thirteen again, morbidly fascinated and embarrassed by his own anatomy. He’s underwater, slow and stupid and possibly drowning.
“Knew you were an exhibitionist,” Sam murmurs, close to his ear, and his hand moves back in, big and hot, exploratory. Touches the inside of Dean’s thigh, knuckles bumping his dick and balls. Dean looks on rapt as Sam turns his palm upward, cradles the weight of his erection. His palm is callused, rough against tender skin, and Dean has always thought himself respectably large thank you very much, but he feels almost dwarfed in Sam’s giant hand.
Then Sam wraps his fingers around him and strokes. Slow and firm, hot jolt to the gut.
Dean drops the flashlight. It clatters in the sink, rolls side to side. Disco lights again. He braces his hand flat on the mirror. Makes a noise in his throat that might be the start of a protest, might be helpless pleasure. This is way out of hand. He doesn’t know what’s going on. Sam, little brother Sam, has his dick in his grip, pumping him like it’s something that happens every day, like it’s possible at all for Sam to be touching him like this, making his balls ache and his gut go molten and his bones rubbery.
Dean lets out a breath that might be a sigh, might be a laugh, because this is insane, unreal. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, illuminated eerily from below. Mouth a gaping pink surprise, eyes lost in shadow. Then he sees Sam at his shoulder and he knows, from the way the whites of his eyes catch the light, that he’s looking back at him.
His cock throbs. “Ch-christ,” he gasps. Every twist of Sam’s wrist sends sparks of electricity skittering through his nerves to every extremity. His toes curl on the tile floor. He’s white-knuckling the edge of the sink.
Sam shifts behind him, brings his free hand to Dean’s uninjured hip. Steps in close and—holy baby Jesus that’s Sam’s dick, hard and blunt as an old spade, poking him through his boxers. Sam’s breath is ragged in his ear. Dean latches onto that, proof that this is affecting Sam as much as him. It seems important.
He wonders distantly why Sam is doing this. Realizes he never told him to stop. Realizes he doesn’t want him to.
Without thought he presses into the curve of Sam’s body. Back to chest, skin to skin. Sam’s a fucking furnace, feels hot enough to brand him. Sam curls around him tighter. His dick slots into the cleft of Dean’s ass, prods firm and insistent and Christ, Dean never imagined that would be a good feeling but it makes everything inside him go liquid in an instant.
Sam moves his hand from Dean’s hip to his outstretched arm, trails along it to find his hand on the mirror, covers it with his own. His open mouth brushes wet against Dean’s neck, letting out soft grunts that Dean knows are going to be the backing track to every jerkoff session for the rest of his life.
The sound of Sam jacking him is obscenely wet. His fingers rub over his crown with every stroke, coaxing and swiping precome from his slit. Dean grits his teeth against the pleasure.
Sam shifts his grip, cups the head of his cock in his palm and massages. Dean’s entire body snaps tight. The pressure builds in his gut, his balls tighten.
His arm shakes, his hand slips down the mirror. The weight of Sam at his back sends him forward till his forehead’s pressed against the glass, smearing through sweat and the fog of his own harsh breaths. Sam follows, flush to Dean, slipping against him from hip to shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam mumbles senselessly into the shell of his ear.
That does it for Dean. With a helpless groan he creams into Sam’s hand, cock jerking in his grip with each hot pulse.
Dean’s lightheaded, floating up to the ceiling. Sucking in air. It takes several moments for him to become aware of movement. Sam’s still panting in his ear, his hands at work behind him, making quick, slick sounds. Through a thick, sleepy haze, Dean realizes that Sam’s touching himself. Using Dean’s come as lube. Heat flares in his stomach. He feels the tip of Sam’s cock—bare now, when did that happen?—sliding against the swell of his ass and Sam’s wet hand working furiously just below.
Sam’s gasping, short and sharp, every few seconds, like a fish out of water. Dean almost laughs at the image—and then Sam’s release is splashing hot across the small of his back.
That jerks him awake. Every muscle in his body taught again, stakeout-alert. Sam shudders, nothing but a quiet, bitten-off moan, and goes boneless, leans heavy against him.
A deep sigh. Then an inhale like waking to a noise in the night. For an instant Dean feels Sam tense, and then his heat and weight are gone as he stumbles back.
The air is thick with the musk of sweat and semen. Dean’s all wrapped up in it, hundred percent humidity, sweating bullets; he can kiss the thought of ever getting dry goodbye. He just breathes. Doesn’t lift his head from the mirror. His heart is racing. He has no fucking clue what happens now.
Behind him, Sam swallows heavily. Just as lost as he is. No grand plan behind his brilliant idea to give his brother a hand job.
Dean’s gut lurches. Not the good kind this time. He pushes himself upright, hopes he doesn’t look as shaky as he feels.
He clears his throat. “Uh.” His voice is scratchy as five a.m. rise-and-shine. “Hand me a towel?”
“Yeah.” Sam exhales like he’s been holding it in. The apprehension in his voice makes Dean’s skin crawl. He presses a towel into Dean’s hand, steps back again. As if a safe distance can exist between them.
Dean swipes at his back. Tries to keep his mind blank, not think about the fact he’s cleaning off his little brother’s come.
He drops the towel. Hopes they’ve got extras because that one’s ruined. Pulls up his boxers. Waits—to see, he supposes, if Sam’s got anything to say for himself. But Sam’s quiet.
Dean can’t take it. “I’m gonna get some rest.” He leaves Sam in the bathroom.
Dean lowers himself onto his bed, on his left, facing the window. It’s streaked with fat raindrops flying in across the walkway. He can just make out a blur of rustling greenery across the lot and the roof of the Impala getting pounded by the elements. He winces in sympathy, feels suddenly ancient and all too aware of the massive bruise on his side. He wishes the ice machine were working. He wishes he were in a climate-controlled room instead of sweating on top of bleach-stiff motel sheets. He wishes he were in his bed at home and it was two weeks ago before everything went to shit.
Sam emerges from the bathroom. Sounds like he’s standing still. Dean wonders if he’s watching him but doesn’t turn to look.
Sam sighs quietly, stretches out on his own bed. Probably on his back, staring at the ceiling, like Dean’s seen him do a thousand times.
Dean listens to the wind and the rain. Doesn’t blink. His eyes dry and burn.
“Milwaukee.”
Dean’s so deep in his window-trance he doesn’t process it immediately. After a moment he thinks to ask, “What?”
“The ghoul job, in Milwaukee.” Sam’s voice is soft, sounds tired, or maybe sorry.
Dean wonders if he missed something crucial, like getting pulled through a portal into another reality. If any of those even still exist. He and Sam just got to second base and Sam wants to talk about their last case.
“What about it.” It comes out sharper than he meant, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Sam hesitates. “Why I’ve been acting…”
Dean thinks about the dour cloud that’s been hanging over his brother. He fails to piece together any plausible connection between that and the ghoul job in Milwaukee, let alone what just happened in the bathroom. Dean is all off-kilter and it’s Sam’s fault, and Sam—what, expects him to forget? Dean’s head hurts. He wishes he could go to sleep.
“It’s just. I got stuck in that basement and you… I didn’t even know where you were or if—” Sam breaks off but Dean knows the rest.
He clears his throat. “You found me, though. Missed the party, but you got there in time for the cleanup.”
“It was five on one. I should’ve been there.”
“I’ve seen worse odds and turned out all right.”
“That—that’s just it. You acted like it was nothing. Like you think you’re invincible.”
Dean’s temples pulse in irritation. “I thought ganking the monsters was the point.”
“Just, you never would’ve been in that situation if we hadn’t taken the case—”
“That Milwaukee job was your idea.”
“Exactly.”
“And it was your idea to drag my ass out here.”
“And look what happened. It was supposed to be a milk run.”
Dean drags a hand over his face, exhausted. “What, you don’t want me to do my job?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Sam’s voice is gentle, repentant. It eases the tension from Dean’s shoulders.
Dean sighs. “I’m not some fragile flower.”
“I know you’re not. I know. You’re the best hunter alive. I’d just like you to stay that way.”
A flicker of warmth in Dean’s chest. “You’re my only competition.”
“I meant alive.”
Oh. That’s what this is about? “This is nothing, Sam,” he says, meaning his contusion. “And Milwaukee? I barely had a scratch on me.”
“We got lucky.”
“Thought you said I was the best hunter alive.”
“Yeah, that’s part of it, but so is luck. You know that better than anyone. And we… we don’t get any more do-overs.”
Dean inhales. Finally, he turns to Sam.
His brother looks every one of his thirty-eight years, pale and monochrome in the watery light. Dean’s caught by surprise sometimes by the lines on Sam’s face, the glimpse of gray at his temples. More than he’s surprised by the same in his own reflection. He’s spent more time looking at Sam’s face than his own over the course of his lifetime, watched it change with the years, but some part of him still expects to find fresh-faced, dimpled Sammy looking back at him.
Something catches in his throat at the sight of Sam now, hair splayed over his pillow, those deep set eyes trained on him. For the first time in weeks—since Milwaukee—they’re open to him. Truly open, letting him see back into them.
“I’m just… I want…” Sam swallows. “I don’t want to stop hunting. But don’t die on me, okay?”
Dean’s chest is expanding. The throb of his bruise subsides. He’s full of helium, he’s high, he’s incredulous.
He laughs. Sam’s forehead furrows.
“You idiot,” Dean says, meaning I love you.
Sam’s expression turns exasperated, familiar. He shakes his head, quirks his lips, meaning yeah, love you too.
The smile slides from Dean’s face as he looks at his brother. Everything he wants, everything he loves, right there where he can reach out and touch. Not drifting away at all. Maybe Dean’s been an idiot, too. “You don’t go dyin’, either,” he whispers.
He holds Sam’s gaze. It’s not something either of them can promise, and they both know it. But they choose this life, and they choose each other. And for the first time, they can be sure it’s their choice and no one else’s.
Sam’s mouth curls up, just barely, hopeful. He holds out a hand, licks his lips. His eyes gleam, the way they did in the bathroom mirror. “Come here.” His voice is steady, rough with a new undercurrent.
Right. Because Sam doesn’t just want him alive. He wants him.
Dean’s stomach swoops. His heart somersaults.
He goes to Sam.
***
Dean awakens sore but sated. Sam’s hand rests lightly on the tender skin of his side. His exhales tickle the back of Dean’s neck. The bruise aches dully but Dean doesn’t mind. Sam’s lips have been over every inch of it three times over. Other parts of his body too. He sighs, content. He’s slept better than he has in ages.
Night has fallen and the rain has slowed. He guesses it’s past midnight but there’s no working clock to check.
Gently as he can, he extracts himself from Sam’s hold. He gropes his way to the door, cracks it open. Stands naked facing the night.
The air is mercifully cool, the rain loud but no longer fierce. It’s a steady shush, almost comforting. A promise of cleansing.
Dean finds the faint outline of the Impala. She’s only feet away but he can barely see her in the black-out dark. It reminds him of hunting cabins they stayed in sometimes when he was young, where he’d look out the back door at night, seeing nothing but feeling a great presence pressing back. He’d keep watch like that, Sammy asleep on the couch behind him.
There’s something strange about it. Sleeping with his brother. He’s not sure if that will ever go away, or if it even should. So much has changed in the past few hours it’ll make him dizzy if he thinks too hard about it.
Behind him, Sam stirs. “Dean?” His sleep-soft voice sounds years younger.
Well, not everything has changed. Not the most important things.
“Here, Sam.”
Except one: something feels settled now, that didn’t before. Something that wasn’t laid to rest by getting Chuck out of their lives or finding new, apocalypse-free routines. An answer to a question Dean didn’t even realize he’d been asking for years.
Sam yawns. “What’re you doing?”
He glances out into the night again. No landmarks, not even a star in the sky. But he knows where he is.
He closes the door and returns to Sam’s bed. “Just thinking, you were right.”
“About?” Sam pulls him close, careful of his side. Slips a leg over Dean’s.
“We are in Baton Rouge.”
Sam smiles into his shoulder. “Told you,” he sighs, warm and happy, already half asleep.
*