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Black-Throated Wind 3/3
Dean lets the geeks fight it out over which spell and what material object will attract old Josiah the most. Dean would have voted for the black altar--if there's one thing a spirit, any spirit, likes it's ritual and predictability--but seeing as how it hadn't survived the last summoning, he doesn't have much to contribute to the conversation.
They settle on the ashes of his bones as a focus, which means Dean's fighting for a parking space outside the old cemetery and they're having to smuggle weapons in past all the tourists in broad daylight, but they're all on the same page: Josiah isn't getting another night to go out and party.
The mausoleum is quiet and peaceful in its corner plot; the tourists are staying out closer to the main gate and the ghost tours like to wait until dusk. It doesn't look as though anyone's found where they got into the mausoleum the night before, and Dean's starting to breathe a little easier when JD suddenly stumbles off the path and pukes his guts out behind a tree.
"Sam," Dean says, grabbing JD under the arm and pulling him back toward the small building, because he can feel it, too; that sick, cold shimmer in the air, like the warehouse. "I'm thinking our buddy decided not to wait on an invitation."
"Yeah." Sam turns back to help steady JD. "Yeah, I can feel him, like when he blew past me at the warehouse. Nastier now, though," he says, shaking his head, and the hell with the tourists. Dean reaches for his shotgun.
"Let's go; I need to get inside again, closer to the ashes," Sam says, right as the air behind him shimmers and folds.
Even in the hazy afternoon sunlight, Dean can see the figure taking shape. He loads and aims automatically, yelling for Sam to get down, but JD's already moving, kicking out and knocking Sam's legs from under him, the two of them crashing to the ground. Dean fires both barrels into the not-quite-solid face that's smirking at them.
"Shit," Sam says, untangling himself from JD and standing, reaching down unselfconsciously to give him a hand up. "That was a little closer than I like to cut things."
"New problem," JD says, pointing. He's still kind of green, but he looks fairly stable. "I think he's got some buddies with him." Dean looks to where the air is folding in on itself.
"He's got a posse?" Sam says, in that particular tone of pissy annoyance that's always driven Dad nuts, but sounds like home to Dean.
"Ah, hell," Dean swears, because nothing can ever be simple, can it? Sam grabs for Dad's journal, flipping through pages and cursing under his breath. Dean upends the shotgun and uses its stock to start drawing a warding circle. He smacks Sam on the hip as he moves to the second point; Sam shifts over without looking up, centering himself automatically, and JD steps up next to him without hesitation.
"How long is that gonna buy us?" JD asks, eyes tracking Dean's movements.
Sam looks up. "Caleb's wards?" he says, more a statement than a question, because of course Dean went with the hard-core stuff; they're on the wrong side of stacked odds. "As long as we can stand here," he says to JD, before asking Dean, "We can fire out, right?"
"Yeah, but there are people all over this place. How long before they call the cops or wander over to see what the noise is about and..."
"Fresh meat," JD says. "Delivery in thirty minutes or your order's free? You guys are every demon's wet dream."
"Right," Sam says, going back to the journal. "Got it."
"So, uh, what are we going to do about it?" JD says, and Dean would love to answer but he's pretty sure that ball's in Sam's court. It's quiet, almost oppressively still, and wherever Dean looks, the air's bending and twisting. The wards will hold, but they can't stay here forever and Dean's drawing a big blank on getting through this without any more casualties.
"Okay," Sam says slowly. "I knew I'd seen something in here..." He looks up and his eyes are uncertain. "Dad never tried it and he doesn't have much good to say about where he got it from, but it's, like, a mass undirected exorcism. You just throw it out there and it's supposed to take everything back to hell."
"Everything?" JD asks, and his face is suddenly even paler, though he's still using that calm, dry tone that makes Dean want to smack him.
"Huh." Sam hesitates a long moment before saying, "I don't know. I don't know if you count, and, if you do, if being inside the circle will make a difference. Hell, I don't know if it won't just grab everything here, including us. Dad has some... unreliable sources, and if he's not sure, that's a whole extra layer of I don't know."
"You may be able to imagine how delighted I am to hear that," JD says, his smile tight. "Well, I guess we'll find out." He glances around like he's saying goodbye, and when his eyes meet Dean's, Dean has to grit his teeth and fight the urge to look away. Half the time he wouldn't mind sending JD and his smart mouth back to hell himself, but the guy's standing next to him, warm and tense, and if he hadn't connected some of the dots they might not even have gotten this far this fast--and given the shape he was in when he first popped in, hell must be... pretty hellish. Still, it's not like they've got a lot of other good options. Or any other options, period.
"There's nothing else in the journal?" Dean asks. Sam shakes his head and Dean bites back the 'check it again' that wants to come out, because he knows that look; if there was anything even close, Sam would be pulling it out. He looks over to where JD's standing, eyes sweeping over the almost-substantial shadows. "You keep coming up with all kinds of shit out of the blue--any bright ideas?"
JD glances back and Dean knows the feel of him, solid and warm and alive against his skin. JD frowns, rubs his face, and turns to Sam. "The exorcism you've got there, what's the relevant part? You know, after you get through the introductory bullshit."
Sam holds the journal out, pointing, and the two of them start muttering back and forth, having what seem to be abbreviated debates over the meanings of certain words. Somehow, it doesn't surprise Dean that JD corrects Sam's pronunciation a couple of times, growling something about tone and inflection and hick accents that has Sam making a face, but, hey, they need all the help they can get. Dean's pretty sure Dad wouldn't have written anything down that he wasn't at least marginally confident about, but like Sam said, Dad knows some total wack jobs. Can't be too careful.
They also can't take too long. Dean watches until the shimmers start looking a little too ominous, and then nudges Sam. "Hey! It's time to get this show on the road." Sam looks annoyed, but his eyes work just as well as Dean's, at least when he gets them out of the journal. "So, what are we looking at here, brain trust? Does it open a portal or is there just a big sucking whoosh? Is this," he toes the circle, careful not to smudge the line, "gonna do us any good, or should we all hold hands and sing Kum-ba-yah?"
Sam shrugs, looking at JD.
"Do it," JD says to Sam, but his eyes are on Dean. "I might have known something better, once, but..." He shakes his head. "Do it."
Sam looks at Dean until Dean nods, and then takes a deep breath and turns back to the journal. Dean moves closer to Sam, as if that's going to help, and then, after a second, reaches over and hands Sam's shotgun to JD. "Can't hurt," he says, and JD nods, mouth twisting up in a wry half-smile.
"Hang on," Sam says, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "Here we go," and motherfuck, the last time they did this sucked because it was on a plane, but this is seriously not fun either. Between the noise, like nails on the world's biggest chalkboard, and the smell--rotting flesh and more of the ever-popular sulphur--and the way the temperature is bouncing from freezing to sweltering, this is really not making Dean's top ten list. Give him a nice, clean beheading any day of the week. It's working, though, at least he thinks it is. The thing about exorcisms is that one wrong word can blow the whole thing out of the water, and the bad guys know that better than anyone; the closer you get to finishing, the nastier they get about stopping you.
So far, Caleb's living up to his rep. The wards are holding, but it's getting to where Dean's not entirely sure breathing is a good thing, and he can feel the energy crackling around them, everything centered on Sam, coming from him. JD yells at Dean, watch it, watch it, right as Sam's knees buckle and he goes down hard. Dean goes down with him, arm around his waist, and Sam's panting and gasping, but still gritting out the Latin and Dean thinks they're gonna be okay until Sam leans a little too far forward and one of those paws of his rubs over the rune that anchors the eastern point on the circle.
"Fuck," Dean snarls, getting the shotgun up just in time to take out the thing that's going for Sam's throat. Sam hesitates, stumbles over the next word, and Dean knows a split-second of helplessness before JD drops down next to Sam, Latin spilling fast and sure from his mouth. Sam's voice echoes him, gaining strength and certainty, and that leaves it to Dean to lay down the covering fire.
He's not going to have much time to reload, so every damn shot needs to count, but that's not a problem; this is what he does, who he is, and it's calm and quiet inside his head. He aims and fires, aims and fires, reaches for where JD dropped the second shotgun and empties it, too, and suddenly it's done.
Sam's flat on his back on the ground and JD's sitting next to him, head down and breathing hard, but the sun's out and the air's so still Dean can see the dust hanging in it.
"Fuck," Sam says, rubbing his face.
"You okay?" Dean doesn't see anything bad-wrong, but that doesn't mean he's not missing something under the fifty layers Sam would wear, swear to God, in Miami in July.
"Yeah." Sam waves vaguely. "That was..."
Dean grunts, because, well, yeah.
"JD?" Sam says, sitting up. "You good?"
JD doesn't look up and his voice is barely loud enough to hear when he answers. "I'm here."
Sam looks up at Dean, like Dean's supposed to be able to translate that. Dean shrugs, rolling his shoulders to loosen them, and looks around for the duffel. Sam kicks it over to him and Dean quickly stuffs everything inside, incriminating shit in the false bottom. It's almost nice here now that the air's cleared, trees bright green, and flowers every which way, but sooner or later someone's going to come see what all the noise was about and Dean would like to be someplace else when that happens.
"C'mon, boys," he says. "Miller time."
He pulls Sam to his feet, steadying him before offering his hand to where JD's still sitting in the dirt. JD looks at it curiously, as though he's not quite sure of what he's seeing, and then his hand is smacking into Dean's, hard and sure, and he grins as he stands up.
"Best idea I've heard yet," he says, and Sam laughs.
"God, don't tell him that; he's got a big enough head as it is."
Dean shoves Sam in the general direction of the back gate. "Little boys with bad attitudes don't get to drink with the grown-ups, Sammy."
Sam smirks back over his shoulder. "If the grown-ups are drinking Miller, I'm not seeing that as much of a loss. Also, who are you calling little?" Dean watches him carefully; all BS aside, Sam's not quite steady on his feet.
"Sloppy incantation," JD says, quietly, right by Dean's ear. "It pulled way too much energy from him. Nothing a couple of pounds of steak and fifteen hours of sleep won't cure."
Dean cuts his eyes at him. "Dude," he says. "Your brain is one weird place."
JD shrugs. "And yours isn't?"
"Point," Dean says, shouldering the duffel and following Sam.
***
Dean shoves enough food down Sam's throat to kill a horse, but what's really slowing Sam down is the exhaustion you can see written deep in his eyes. Not all of it's from the cemetery, but there was a hell of a lot of stuff crackling around, most of it coming from Sam. The fact that, as far as you can tell, he has no idea what's going on surely isn't helping any.
"I could feel him," Sam says while you wait for the waitress to finish shaking her ass for Dean and bring the check. "At the end, right before we got everything closed off."
"Yeah?" Dean leans back and smiles across the room at the waitress. "What'd he feel like?"
"Hate," Sam says. "Hate and fury and pride, all twisted up with taking care of what was his."
"Swell guy," Dean says. "Glad we could get rid of him." The waitress is all smiles and cleavage, but Dean's paying more attention to how Sam's wavering, like he's wishing he could put his head down on the table; Dean's smile is more automatic than appreciative when she slips him her number. Sam sprawls out in the front seat on the way back to the motel, but manages to stumble inside on his own, tipping forward onto the closest bed and smacking Dean's hands away as they try to peel off a layer or two of clothing.
"Dean, man, c'mon, just leave me alone," he slurs. "'m tired."
"Yeah, Sam, I got that when you nearly went face-first into your fries." Dean pokes and prods and nags until Sam's shoes are in the corner.
"Go away," Sam says, leaning up on his elbows and squinting at Dean. "For real. You're fucking wired and I can't, I can't not see you." Dean stills at that, and Sam rubs a hand over his face. "Just, gimme a knife and salt the door and go, I don't care, hustle a pool game or get laid or whatever, just not here. I feel like when I was fourteen and that chick who played with power touched me and I couldn't move for a week. I need to sleep and I can't with you right here on top of me."
Dean looks at him for a long couple of seconds and then pushes him back down on the mattress. "Long-legged freak," he says, dragging sheets up over Sam.
"Midget," Sam mumbles. "Dwarf midget. Pygmy dwarf midget."
"Whatever, Sammy; I can still kick your ass." Dean flicks him in the forehead and Sam makes a sleepy annoyed sound as he turns out the light beside the bed.
It's warm outside, just this side of steamy, the cracked concrete still radiating heat from the sun. You saw the knife Dean slipped under Sam's pillow; you're not surprised when he props the door open with a foot to pour a thick line of salt across the sill. He's unapologetic when he catches you watching him, and you get the message that he takes care of his own loud and clear.
He shuts the door carefully and stands looking at it for a minute before he turns toward you.
"You coming?" he asks, and you'd make the obvious crack, but then you get a good look at his face, his eyes, and the words die in your throat. He doesn't look back once you nod, just turns and walks down the sidewalk. Pool, Sam had suggested first, but if Dean's picking Door #2, you're not going to argue. He stops four rooms down, fumbling with the lock long enough that you can catch up, press close behind him as he gets the door open and then it's like it was in the mausoleum, skin and teeth and hard, hard muscle slamming you into the wall.
He has a thing for collarbones, but the jolt that arcs through you when he bites down on the bruises he left on you last night is proof enough that you don't have a problem with it. You'll return the favor, but later, because right now, you're definitely liking the way he's grinding into you as you dig your hands into his hips.
"What do you do?" he rasps, teeth moving up your neck to sink into the fleshy part of your ear, and you want to laugh, because, fuck, so not the time to be not knowing shit about who you are.
"What do you want?" you reply, and that must be the right answer, or at least a good one, because he laughs, short and sharp, and there's a thigh between your legs and teeth on the curve of your jaw.
"I want to get fucked," he growls. "Want a cock up my ass, hard and fast."
You get your hands into his hair, too short but if you try you can twist your fingers in it and pull tight, until he backs off your jaw and you get a little of your own back, biting into that lower lip until copper, hot and metallic, blooms in your mouth. "I can do that," you say.
His tongue slides along the cut you opened on his lip, over the blood you left behind. "Good," he says, wiping the rest of it with the back of his hand, and it's invitation and challenge all at the same time. You push him back, enough that you can step away from the wall, and he goes willingly enough, but the cocky-as-shit grin tells you you're gonna be working for every last thing tonight.
He lets you push him back once more, but only because his hand twists in the front of the thin cotton shirt you're wearing and pulls you along with him, momentum carrying both of you the three steps it takes to crash down onto the bed. You let yourself fall, let him take your full weight and use the split-second he takes to recover to work your hand between your bodies, grinding down hard between his legs.
His breath hisses in and the way his hips move under you makes the blood pound in your veins.
"Pretty slut," you say, squeezing roughly, more than you even intended, but fuck, that mouth, red and swollen and still painted with a drop of blood.
"Look who's talking," he says, half-laughing, half-groaning, getting one leg wrapped around your waist and it's your turn to groan. "Too many clothes," he pants.
"Yeah," you agree, because you're sure as hell not going to argue with anything that gets his skin on yours, but you're still working his dick and you don't see any reason to stop that party either. "Do something about that."
His eyes promise payback, but his hands are tearing at buttons and zippers, and the way they move low on your belly is worth ten times the hassle. Getting to wrap your fist around his dick, feel its heat and weight on the skin of your palm instead of through the heavy cotton of his jeans is pretty fucking good, too; the way every muscle tenses against you when you start jerking him for real is better.
This--how to set a rhythm that's not quite fast enough, how to stroke just hard enough to tease, the way to rub your thumb rough and careless over the head of his dick--you remember just fine. He likes it hard and nasty; you like the way his hips twist up and push his dick into your hand.
"Shit," he hisses through gritted teeth, fingers digging hard into your ass, and you back off some because no way is this ending this damn fast. He lets go of you, too, and you're left staring at each other, still half-dressed and the blood pounding through your veins, until he leans up and meets you halfway for a kiss that's long and hard, that settles the heat deep in your bones and ends with his teeth under your jaw.
You're both breathing heavily when you ease back, pulling off your shirt and shoving your jeans down over your hips. He rolls off the bed with an easy grace and bends down to pull his boots off, digging in the front pocket of his jeans as he straightens up. He doesn't quite meet your eyes as he drops a strip of condoms on the bed. You catch the flash of a switchblade as he leaves his T-shirt and jeans on the floor next to the boots, standing naked except for the amulet, and that's about it for your patience.
You wrap your hand around your own cock, squeezing tight, then stroking. His eyes follow every move, and you like that. You like that a lot, so you grin slowly and lean back a little, push up into your hand, let him see how you shiver as your thumb slides over the head.
"Fucking cocktease," he growls.
"No tease," you drawl, smiling.
"Better not be," he answers, and you have to force yourself to breathe slow and even as he stalks across the room, but nothing can stop you from gasping when he drops to his knees and flicks his tongue across the head of your cock. "Been wanting to do this since last night," he says, right before he knocks your hand out of his way and starts working your cock with that pretty, pretty mouth.
"Yeah," you moan. "Oh, fuck, yeah, you look so fucking good on your knees."
Your hands fist tight in his hair again, holding him right where you want him, right where your cock kisses the back of his throat every time you thrust into that mouth. He doesn't like being held down, fights it, but he's the one who hit his knees and he's moaning now and you think having to take it is punching buttons he doesn't want to admit he has. You push it as long as you can, until you have to stop, have to yank his head back, lose the hot and wet because you're not gonna miss the chance to fuck him into next week.
You keep one hand in his hair, pull him up so you can taste yourself on him, bite down and reopen the cut on his lip.
His mouth is swollen and used, lips pulled back in a snarl as soon as you let him go and fuck, you're playing with fire, walking a thin, thin line between hotter than hot and just plain stupid, because he could put you through a wall if he wanted and you're not quite sure why he hasn't already.
"Bed or floor?" His voice is just as used as his mouth, the hoarse whisper rasping over your nerves, curling deep in your belly, and you can't wait to hear it when your cock's buried in him.
"Right there," you answer, pushing two fingers in his mouth. His tongue curls around them, licking and sucking and it's almost enough to make you stop and go back to fucking his mouth. Almost. He shifts around when you pull them out, moving back and turning so you can slide to your knees behind him.
"You look good this way, too," you murmur in his ear, pushing both fingers hard inside him, and you were right, his voice is going to fucking kill you. He rocks back onto you, fucking himself on your hand until you're both groaning.
Condom, spit, pre-come and you're slamming into him, hissing, "Fuck, so tight." He shudders under you, bucking and twisting against where your hands are digging into his hips, holding them high, exactly how you want them. "How long's it been since you gave it up, Dean? Did you do it like this, on your hands and knees like a whore, lifting your ass and begging for it?"
He tightens around you, pushing back, meeting every thrust with a growl and the hell with control, with coherent thought, the hell with anything that's not your dick fucking into that hot, tight ass, your hand wrapped tight around his cock, too hard, too tight, too rough, skin and sweat and muscle sliding under your hands. His voice eggs you on, C'mon, c'mon, fucking do it, harder, fuck me, dammit, and you hang on long enough that the words fall apart into growls and low animal sounds, hot and wet and slick coating your hand, and when you come, you can't tell your voice from his.
Dean stays like that, head and shoulders down, long back stretched out in front of you even after your heart settles and you ease out of him, sitting back on your heels to deal with the condom. You can't resist the line of his spine, your thumbs sliding slow and careful over each dip and curve. His breath, easy and steady when your hands are on his back, catches a little as soon as you let your fingers trace the red marks they'd left on his hips. That tiny hitch sparks from nerve to nerve in your body but then he's up and walking away, long legs, tight ass and your fingers still feel his warmth.
He stops with one knee on the bed and looks back over his shoulder, the bruises you've left on his neck vivid and bright. "That all you got?" he says, mouth twisted up in a half-smile, and seriously, you can't remember who you are, but you're not an invalid, of course you're not done.
He pushes you down on your back, not ungently, and this kiss is less desperate but just as thorough. You stretch out under him, and it's maybe almost too much, the low-quality mattress still a palpable pleasure, and Dean's weight and heat pressing you down, so you can feel every inch of your own body, flesh and bone and God, God, you're still here. You groan against his mouth, shifting, arching for friction, for touch, for more, and he bites at the corner of your mouth, then your chin, moving down, hands sliding down your arms to hold you splayed, willingly helpless as he maps your throat, the line of your collarbone, sucks and chews on your nipples, by then aching and hard, and whatever's going on in his head, you're grateful for it.
When he shifts lower, grinding on your leg as his mouth works your abs and his tongue teases and traces your navel before fucking in sharp and hard, you think maybe it's time for you to get involved in this, not just lie there like a buffet platter. But your attempt to move, to slide over, maybe put your own mouth to work, gets you a hiss and a sharp bite on the hip. "Stay," he growls, and you could take offense, but that seems like a poor choice, so you let him get back to what he's doing so incredibly well.
After a bit you can't keep quiet, and he doesn't seem to have any objection, so you give a little bit back that way at least, muttering a low accompaniment to his mouth on your dick, on your balls, whispering, "Fuck, fuck, yeah, Jesus, fuck that's good..." as he takes you down, tastes you, flicks his wet, pointed tongue over what seems like every screaming nerve in your body.
You think you know where he's going with this; the control side of it, the way he's winding you up, getting you to where you'd say yes to anything, and really, there's nothing in you that's thinking it'd want to say no anyhow. When he leans down and grabs the lube from where you'd left it on the floor earlier, you shift your legs open, no argument. But then he kneels up and swings one leg over your hips, straddling you, and you nearly swallow your tongue when he slicks up his fingers and reaches behind him, muscles flexing as he rocks down on himself, eyes steady on yours.
He rolls a condom onto you, which is a good thing since you're pretty sure your motor control went when your brain leaked out your ears just now, and then he's sinking onto you, holy Christ, just as tight as before, maybe even more, because of the position, and he's fucking himself on you and the look on his face would be enough to set your blood on fire, even without the smooth-hot perfection of him around you, taking you, greedy and giving all at once, and now when you put your hands on his hips, squeezing, he doesn't object, just lets his eyes fall half-shut and his head sink back, riding you like a wave, and you wish this could last forever but you're pretty sure it can't.
You move one hand to his cock, stroking and twisting, and he moans, his hips moving faster, and you bite your lip, wanting this, wanting to see his face when he comes, wanting to feel him spasm around you before you give in to what you can feel waiting, hovering, close and closer. "Yeah," he breathes, and you slide your thumb over the head, watching what makes him gasp, what makes his body shudder, his rhythm stutter. He's not exactly a hard sell, and you give him everything you can, but it's not until you reach up with your other hand, scraping your nails down his chest and belly while your other fist keeps pumping him, that he arches forward and comes, shooting hot over your skin, clenching tight on your dick, and the sound he makes is more than a sigh and less than a word.
Your hips buck up hard, once and again and again, and when you come, it's a tide that builds and builds, a low, humming intensity twisting higher and tighter until you can't think or see or breathe.
This time, it's you who shudders afterward, his thumb ghosting over your collarbone, the barest of touches; his weight still warm and solid on you. When he finally rolls off the bed, moving with something less than his usual grace, the smile that curves your mouth is self-satisfied and complacent.
"Smug bastard," he says, when he comes back from the bathroom. He drops a washcloth next to you and really, you don't see any need to argue the point. There's no rush now, no hurry, only a lazy, easy calm that's settled over you both. Without thinking, you reach up and touch the amulet he wears, let your thumb stroke over it, warm from his skin, and feel the low, distant buzz of power, muted after millennia, but still there.
"You know this," he says, wrapping his hand around yours, sliding his fingers along the surface with you, "but you don't know your name?"
"Who you are is nothing," you answer. "What protects you is everything." You see the questions in his eyes, and lean up to cover his mouth with your own, push your tongue alongside his, stop whatever he might say, because you don't know anything more true than the feel of his breath sighing into your own.
***
Looking at Sam sprawled out on his back, taking up every available inch of space on the lumpy mattress that's passing for a bed, Dean's glad he went to the effort of opening the door as quietly as possible. And yeah, he's not totally unselfish in being glad Sam's sleeping--sneaking in with his boots in one hand is way too close to high school to think about--but mostly it is that he hates watching Sam jerk awake sweating and panting, and knowing there's nothing he can do about it.
He drops his boots and jacket and makes it to the bathroom without Sam so much as moving, and deliberately doesn't look in the mirror as he strips off the rest of his clothes. Crappy beds aside, this place at least has decent water pressure and enough hot water to get a start on working through the night's aches.
It's not as easy to ignore all the shit that's bouncing through his head as it was to not look in the mirror, but he gives it his best shot, because all that happened was sex. Really excellent, come-until-you-see-stars, catch-your-breath-and-do-it-again sex, but just sex. Sam might be working the abstinence vibe, but that's never been Dean's thing. Just because it was the first time with a guy in... a long time... doesn't have to mean anything.
The water starts to cool; he turns the hot all the way off and finishes with an icy blast that drives everything but the heart-stopping cold from his brain. The towels are tiny and so threadbare they're nearly transparent, but they catch at least some of the water. He wraps one around his waist and reaches for the toothpaste.
The room's still dark when he eases the bathroom door open, but he only gets three steps toward his duffel before Sam says, his voice heavy with sleep, "Dean?" and the light on the bedside table comes on. Dean's nailed his fair share of pick-ups with Sam around--they have their own little routine of Sam giving him shit the morning after--but this is different, somehow. Sam's eyes move over him, dark and unreadable, and Dean can almost feel them as they flicker over every mark JD left on him.
"Yeah, Sam; duh," Dean reaches for his most flip tone, the one that's guaranteed to piss Sam off, no matter what. "You were expecting someone else?"
Sam's quiet, long enough to start to weird Dean out, and when he answers, he only says, "You okay?"
Dean wants to brush it off, but there's genuine concern in Sam's voice and he can't make himself ignore it. "Yeah, man," he says, quietly. "I'm fine." He finds a T-shirt and clean boxers and crawls into the other bed, the sheets cool against his skin.
"'kay," Sam says and turns out the light. Dean lies in the dark and listens to him breathe for a long time before he finally falls asleep.
***
You know it when he leaves, pulls on his clothes and quietly eases out the door. There doesn't seem to be anything important to say, so you keep your mouth shut, and you even grab a couple of hours' sleep before you roll over sometime around gray o'clock and figure it's time to roll. You reek of sex--of Dean--so you chance a lightning-quick shower before pulling on last night's clothes and peering out the window to check on activity in the parking lot.
Well, that'd be good news and bad news all at once, you figure, pulling the door open and stepping outside. The parking lot is as quiet as you'd hoped, as you'd pretty much expected this early, but Sam's leaning against the Impala, a paper coffee cup set on the hood next to him. Back at the cemetery, you were on the same team, and honestly, you like the guy fine, but you suspect what's coming next won't be quite so collegial.
You nod at him, taking the few steps to bring you close enough to talk without making a commotion.
"Going somewhere?"
You pitch your voice low. "We didn't exactly stop at the front desk last night to rent the room. So I figured an early checkout was a good idea."
You wouldn't have thought his lips could flatten further than they already were. You can almost hear his teeth grinding. "Have a good night?" he asks, eyes focused on your neck where you can feel the bruises, hot and livid.
You smile, because hell, he's got inches and pounds on you, but you damn sure did have a good night, and if this is the price, well, you've paid worse. "Good's just the beginning of it," you say, stretching partly to see his eyes narrow and partly because you want to feel it, savor every ache and scratch, weary and alive. "You're up early yourself. Trouble sleepin' again?"
"I slept fine," he says, and you wait, silent, to see what's coming next. "What's your plan?" he asks after a moment. "Dean and I, we'll be headed out later today; you got an idea where you're going? Somewhere we can drop you off?"
You raise an eyebrow. "Which is it? You afraid I'm ditchin' out too soon, or you want to give me a ticket to wherever you won't be?"
He frowns, like that's a tough problem to figure out, and you shake your head. "Don't worry; I'm not gonna be all up in your business much longer--and I wasn't planning on leaving without a goodbye kiss, either."
That just about gets you a right to the jaw; you can see his muscles jump, and you can't help laughing at that, though you keep it quiet; no need to wake up the whole place. "You really don't like sharing, do you?"
"That's not--" he starts. "What, you think you're the only guy Dean's ever hooked up with?"
"He know you hang around outside, give 'em all the 'treat my baby right' talk the morning after? You do know he's all grown up, right?"
"He deserves someone who's gonna stick around," he says, and suddenly the puzzle pieces shift again, clicking into place differently than you'd expected, and you're still not certain what you're thinking can be right, but yeah, it makes sense. Except isn't that interesting: the look on his face, he doesn't get it, still.
You could leave it. Should leave it, probably. This might not be the sort of thing that gets better from being told, or being done. On the other hand, it's not your problem, now, is it? And what fun is life if you don't stir things up now and then?
"Then maybe it's time for both of you to sort that out, 'stead of spending all your time sticking each other's pigtails in inkwells," you say, and grin as you leave him standing there like a fish. Unfortunately, you don't have a key, so you can't make him watch you stroll into the room where Dean's presumably sleeping. You settle for heading to find some coffee yourself--which may be a bit of a challenge, with nothing in your pockets but lint, but you think you can manage.
***
Dean isn't surprised when he comes back from gassing up the car and getting the oil changed and finds JD waiting for him outside, cheap black nylon duffel at his feet.
"You taking off?" he asks, and JD shrugs.
"Figured since you bought me dinner and all, I could at least say good-bye," he says, standing up and slinging the bag over his shoulder. "But yeah. There's a ton of shit in my head that needs figuring out and you've got your own thing here."
There's a lot Dean could say, but he settles for, "Watch your back."
JD takes a couple of steps before he turns around. "Tell Sam thanks for the clothes and that I said if he doesn't grab what he wants, he shouldn't be surprised when someone else does."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, because Sam's always had so much trouble doing exactly what he wants."
JD just throws him that borderline smirk and walks off. Dean watches until he's out of sight and doesn't even slam the door when he goes back into the room.
"You alone?" Sam asks, emerging from the bathroom in a towel and a cloud of steam.
"Yeah, JD took off," Dean says.
"Where's he going?"
"You're the psychic, not me."
One finger up. "You're... okay with that?" Sam asks, digging through his bag for clean clothes.
"What, you thought we were gonna adopt him or something?"
Sam shrugs. "I dunno. It seems... weird. He doesn't even know his name. How's he gonna get anywhere, no ID, no money..."
Dean coughs. "I gave him a card. Came across one this morning that said Josh Durham on it; it seemed like a sign." Sam actually laughs at that, and Dean grins. "Hey, we don't have room for a puppy, but that's no reason to send him away into the cold cruel world all alone."
Sam nods. "Good, I'm glad. He... wasn't a bad guy. Though I gotta admit, I'm curious how he ended up where we found him."
"Not as curious as he is, I'll bet."
Sam pulls on his clothes, rubs the towel over his head, and looks around the room. "You ready to hit the road?"
"Waiting on you, dude."
Sam flips him off again. "I'm not the one who had to be pried out of bed this morning."
Dean grins as he checks one last time for stray belongings before letting the door close behind them. "Jealous, Sammy? Who knows, maybe we'll run into him again, you can get your chance."
He waits for Sam's comeback, but Sam folds himself into the passenger seat quietly, rolling down the window and looking out even before the car starts moving.
***
***
Sam and Dean and the rest of the crew belong to Mr. Kripke and the WB/CW/whoever. JD (and all his memories) belong to Mutant Enemy and whatever corporate entities take their piece of the pie these days. No copyright infringement is intended and we're certainly not making any money off this. Title and lyrics from the Grateful Dead song, Black-Throated Wind. Words by John Perry Barlow; music by Bob Weir. Copyright Ice Nine Publishing. Absolutely no infringement intended there; it just fit too well to pass up.
Annotated lyrics to Black-Throated Wind can be found here
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