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astolat: Sam/Dean, with kabbalah!
Dean gets a new hunting partner. Dean/OC, Sam/Dean. Sexual content.
You can read the whole thing here.
8.
Three months later, they had just finished up a simple salt-and-burn in an old Pennsylvania cemetary. The night was the kind of indigo-dark that swallowed light so fast that flashlights were just lines of unbearable brightness, not illuminating anything until just before you ran into it. But the darkness was the worst part of the job; the ghost had seemed almost grateful to be released, hadn’t even smacked them around any. Dean was looking forward to getting back to the motel, imagining hot water, cable, George’s warm body as a pillow behind him on the bed.
They had their shovels over their shoulders, walking up the gravel path towards the Impala, when Jo Harvelle popped out of nowhere, standing in their way.
“Hey, Jo,” Dean said, checking his reflexive move for his gun. “This one’s all set, nothing more to do.”
She brought her shotgun up, aimed right at Dean’s chest. “Oh, I think there’s something.”
“Jo, the hell?” he began, dropping the shovel to the ground, and then Sam came at George, lightning-quick. Dean thought he was going to punch George in the nose, but instead he stuck his fingers – Jesus, through George’s forehead, disappearing into the flesh like it was water, his other hand holding George in place.
George jerked and fell to his knees. Sam’s hands pressed him down. Green-yellow light flared in George’s eyes, then guttered out. He knelt, motionless, a life-size G.I. Joe waiting for a kid to play with. Sam muttered some words in a language Dean didn’t recognize, pulled his hand out of George and stuck it in his pocket, then returned with a scrap of paper held between his index and middle fingers.
“What’s that?” Jo asked, her voice high and nervous.
They were close enough that Dean could have reached out and touched Sam. But it didn’t take a shotgun held on him to keep him still. He felt like a passenger when the driver had stamped on the accelerator, his body pinned in place by the whirl of the world around him.
Sam put his fingers into George again, still talking – Dean caught what he thought was Jo’s name – and there was another green-yellow pulse, shining out of George’s eyes like searchlights.
“Sam Winchester,” Jo said dangerously, “what did you do?”
Dean swallowed, trying to shake off the frozen feeling of seeing Sam again.
“Gave you a partner,” Sam said to her, pulling back. His fingers were clean. George slowly got to his feet. “One who’s completely loyal to you.”
“You said we were just getting rid of it!” she snapped, edging away from George, who had turned towards her. George’s eyes were still glowing, though the light was fading. The expression on his face was familiar to Dean, but he wasn’t used to seeing it from this angle.
“Magic like this is too powerful to waste,” Sam said absently. “I need a minute, okay?”
Jo, obviously recognizing the futility of arguing with Sam at this particular moment (or, more accurately, ever, because that was just the kind of bastard Sam was), turned and stomped off down the dark path. George – George’s flashlight, anyway, and Dean guessed George was attached -- followed her, and if Dean’s eyes weren’t lying to him, his stride was already shortening to match hers. Dean sort of wondered what he’d look like when Dean saw him next.
He couldn’t go after them, not even if he knew the right words to write on George. Sam had to have known that Dean would never try to take protection like that away from Jo.
Which left him and Sam. With his flashlight pointed at the ground, Dean could just make out the vague outline of his brother, looming like a cenotaph. Maybe it was better that Sam couldn’t see his face.
Dean had let himself think that, since George couldn’t want to leave – well, he should have known better. Nothing certain but death and taxes, and he didn’t pay taxes.
It was fucking selfish of Sam to take George away just because it felt gross to know George was out there – but it was just as selfish of Dean to want to have him, so he wasn’t going to whine about it. “If you think I’m gonna stop hunting because –”
Sam grabbed his wrists, shocking him into silence. “Shut up and listen, Dean. I thought it was some sort of slow-acting incubus, but that wasn’t it at all, that was just you being stubborn. I tracked down that woman in Atlanta. She explained it all to me. George Clay, pretty fucking funny, was that your dumb idea?” Dean opened his mouth, and was further shocked when Sam’s palm covered it. “No, don’t answer that. The guy who hasn’t been fucking a golem who looks like me gets to talk for a while, ‘kay?”
With his left wrist still pinioned by Sam’s hand, it was hard to figure out what to do, so he just sort of waved his free hand, which was still gripping the flashlight.
“I told you I needed a break. Not that I was quitting. I needed some time to say goodbye to a part of my life that I already knew was over. And I needed to be sure I could do this without becoming a monster. But you just had to make it all-or-nothing.”
Dean could feel the moisture of his own breath bouncing off Sam’s skin, and discreetly tried to inch his head back. All that got him was pressure on his spine, because Sam said “No, you don’t,” and pushed harder, mashing Dean’s lips so hard he could feel a cut open up on the inside of his mouth.
This was ridiculous, and there were about fifty things he could do to get Sam out of his face, only forty or so of them painful. He took a step backwards off the path, shifting his weight – and Sam hooked a foot around his leg, wrenching his left arm to the side as they fell, so that Sam’s full weight landed on him, knocking his breath out even as Sam’s hand finally, finally left his mouth.
“You weren’t supposed to find someone else while I was getting my head together,” Sam continued, his tone reasonable, as if this were an ordinary conversation. His body pressed Dean into the grass, which was cold and prickly against Dean’s exposed skin. His fingers stroked up and down Dean’s wrist as if he were trying to take Dean’s pulse. Sam was lighter than George, but not exactly a delicate flower; Dean’s lungs struggled for sufficient air. “Which, okay, you didn’t, but that wasn’t really obvious at the time.”
Dean got as far as “S –” before Sam brought his arm up to press against Dean’s throat, a little harder than necessary to make his point.
“Just so you understand, I’m not your fantasy. I’m not going to change into whatever you want.”
Dean couldn’t see Sam’s face through the white spots of oxygen deprivation and the looming darkness. But Sam was sliding up Dean’s body, getting to his knees as he went until he was almost sitting on Dean’s chest, Dean’s arms riding up his thighs, Dean’s belly exposed to the cool night air where his shirt had dragged up. Sam’s arm was gone from his throat but he was still having trouble breathing.
Sam’s voice fell softly from above. “But I know you’re not going to change for me either. And that’s okay, now that I know what you really want. I should have known you’d need more than talking.” Clinking and shifting noises – he was – he was opening his jeans -- Dean’s mind went into engine lock.
“You can use your mouth now,” Sam suggested, leaning forward – Christ, already hard, bumping against the roof of Dean’s mouth, the side of his cheek as he shifted to get a better angle. And it was awkward and even kind of painful, a cramp in his neck and an ache in his back that lasted even past the handjob he got after, Sam’s tongue in his mouth like a cork in a bottle all the way through. But when he shook himself silent in Sam’s arms, it was still better than he had ever let himself imagine, even in the deepest darkness of night.
“We should go back to Atlanta,” Sam whispered to him, before they got up to head back to the Impala. “Just to thank the rabbi for looking after you.”
Dean mumbled a protest – like he needed looking after. But he guessed he could get behind the idea of heading south, spending a couple of days on the road.
He had a lot to tell Sam.
Notes: thanks togiandujakiss for beta!
astolat: Sam/Dean, with kabbalah!Dean gets a new hunting partner. Dean/OC, Sam/Dean. Sexual content.
You can read the whole thing here.
8.
Three months later, they had just finished up a simple salt-and-burn in an old Pennsylvania cemetary. The night was the kind of indigo-dark that swallowed light so fast that flashlights were just lines of unbearable brightness, not illuminating anything until just before you ran into it. But the darkness was the worst part of the job; the ghost had seemed almost grateful to be released, hadn’t even smacked them around any. Dean was looking forward to getting back to the motel, imagining hot water, cable, George’s warm body as a pillow behind him on the bed.
They had their shovels over their shoulders, walking up the gravel path towards the Impala, when Jo Harvelle popped out of nowhere, standing in their way.
“Hey, Jo,” Dean said, checking his reflexive move for his gun. “This one’s all set, nothing more to do.”
She brought her shotgun up, aimed right at Dean’s chest. “Oh, I think there’s something.”
“Jo, the hell?” he began, dropping the shovel to the ground, and then Sam came at George, lightning-quick. Dean thought he was going to punch George in the nose, but instead he stuck his fingers – Jesus, through George’s forehead, disappearing into the flesh like it was water, his other hand holding George in place.
George jerked and fell to his knees. Sam’s hands pressed him down. Green-yellow light flared in George’s eyes, then guttered out. He knelt, motionless, a life-size G.I. Joe waiting for a kid to play with. Sam muttered some words in a language Dean didn’t recognize, pulled his hand out of George and stuck it in his pocket, then returned with a scrap of paper held between his index and middle fingers.
“What’s that?” Jo asked, her voice high and nervous.
They were close enough that Dean could have reached out and touched Sam. But it didn’t take a shotgun held on him to keep him still. He felt like a passenger when the driver had stamped on the accelerator, his body pinned in place by the whirl of the world around him.
Sam put his fingers into George again, still talking – Dean caught what he thought was Jo’s name – and there was another green-yellow pulse, shining out of George’s eyes like searchlights.
“Sam Winchester,” Jo said dangerously, “what did you do?”
Dean swallowed, trying to shake off the frozen feeling of seeing Sam again.
“Gave you a partner,” Sam said to her, pulling back. His fingers were clean. George slowly got to his feet. “One who’s completely loyal to you.”
“You said we were just getting rid of it!” she snapped, edging away from George, who had turned towards her. George’s eyes were still glowing, though the light was fading. The expression on his face was familiar to Dean, but he wasn’t used to seeing it from this angle.
“Magic like this is too powerful to waste,” Sam said absently. “I need a minute, okay?”
Jo, obviously recognizing the futility of arguing with Sam at this particular moment (or, more accurately, ever, because that was just the kind of bastard Sam was), turned and stomped off down the dark path. George – George’s flashlight, anyway, and Dean guessed George was attached -- followed her, and if Dean’s eyes weren’t lying to him, his stride was already shortening to match hers. Dean sort of wondered what he’d look like when Dean saw him next.
He couldn’t go after them, not even if he knew the right words to write on George. Sam had to have known that Dean would never try to take protection like that away from Jo.
Which left him and Sam. With his flashlight pointed at the ground, Dean could just make out the vague outline of his brother, looming like a cenotaph. Maybe it was better that Sam couldn’t see his face.
Dean had let himself think that, since George couldn’t want to leave – well, he should have known better. Nothing certain but death and taxes, and he didn’t pay taxes.
It was fucking selfish of Sam to take George away just because it felt gross to know George was out there – but it was just as selfish of Dean to want to have him, so he wasn’t going to whine about it. “If you think I’m gonna stop hunting because –”
Sam grabbed his wrists, shocking him into silence. “Shut up and listen, Dean. I thought it was some sort of slow-acting incubus, but that wasn’t it at all, that was just you being stubborn. I tracked down that woman in Atlanta. She explained it all to me. George Clay, pretty fucking funny, was that your dumb idea?” Dean opened his mouth, and was further shocked when Sam’s palm covered it. “No, don’t answer that. The guy who hasn’t been fucking a golem who looks like me gets to talk for a while, ‘kay?”
With his left wrist still pinioned by Sam’s hand, it was hard to figure out what to do, so he just sort of waved his free hand, which was still gripping the flashlight.
“I told you I needed a break. Not that I was quitting. I needed some time to say goodbye to a part of my life that I already knew was over. And I needed to be sure I could do this without becoming a monster. But you just had to make it all-or-nothing.”
Dean could feel the moisture of his own breath bouncing off Sam’s skin, and discreetly tried to inch his head back. All that got him was pressure on his spine, because Sam said “No, you don’t,” and pushed harder, mashing Dean’s lips so hard he could feel a cut open up on the inside of his mouth.
This was ridiculous, and there were about fifty things he could do to get Sam out of his face, only forty or so of them painful. He took a step backwards off the path, shifting his weight – and Sam hooked a foot around his leg, wrenching his left arm to the side as they fell, so that Sam’s full weight landed on him, knocking his breath out even as Sam’s hand finally, finally left his mouth.
“You weren’t supposed to find someone else while I was getting my head together,” Sam continued, his tone reasonable, as if this were an ordinary conversation. His body pressed Dean into the grass, which was cold and prickly against Dean’s exposed skin. His fingers stroked up and down Dean’s wrist as if he were trying to take Dean’s pulse. Sam was lighter than George, but not exactly a delicate flower; Dean’s lungs struggled for sufficient air. “Which, okay, you didn’t, but that wasn’t really obvious at the time.”
Dean got as far as “S –” before Sam brought his arm up to press against Dean’s throat, a little harder than necessary to make his point.
“Just so you understand, I’m not your fantasy. I’m not going to change into whatever you want.”
Dean couldn’t see Sam’s face through the white spots of oxygen deprivation and the looming darkness. But Sam was sliding up Dean’s body, getting to his knees as he went until he was almost sitting on Dean’s chest, Dean’s arms riding up his thighs, Dean’s belly exposed to the cool night air where his shirt had dragged up. Sam’s arm was gone from his throat but he was still having trouble breathing.
Sam’s voice fell softly from above. “But I know you’re not going to change for me either. And that’s okay, now that I know what you really want. I should have known you’d need more than talking.” Clinking and shifting noises – he was – he was opening his jeans -- Dean’s mind went into engine lock.
“You can use your mouth now,” Sam suggested, leaning forward – Christ, already hard, bumping against the roof of Dean’s mouth, the side of his cheek as he shifted to get a better angle. And it was awkward and even kind of painful, a cramp in his neck and an ache in his back that lasted even past the handjob he got after, Sam’s tongue in his mouth like a cork in a bottle all the way through. But when he shook himself silent in Sam’s arms, it was still better than he had ever let himself imagine, even in the deepest darkness of night.
“We should go back to Atlanta,” Sam whispered to him, before they got up to head back to the Impala. “Just to thank the rabbi for looking after you.”
Dean mumbled a protest – like he needed looking after. But he guessed he could get behind the idea of heading south, spending a couple of days on the road.
He had a lot to tell Sam.
Notes: thanks to
giandujakiss for beta!Tags: