SpN: Dark On The Ridge

[roxy]

Title: Dark On The Ridge
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean (implied). Dean/OMC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 13225
Summary:Takes place before Dean's year is up. Sam yearns for Dean, Dean's somewhat oblivious, and there's a ghost story, too.





1

Dark out on the ridge, up by the look-out. So dark not a bit of light showed through the trees, the lights from the dashboard looked like the klieg lights in front of the Odeon, that's how bright they were in the blackness. He could see wet spreading in his palm, the head of Trey's cock pushed across it, and the way it looked made him want to groan. The Wolfman whispered out of the radio, he could just barely hear him over the rasp of their breath. Trey's hand on him made him want to cry, to scream but he kept quiet—it was wrong enough, what they were doing. Wrong but…Trey's hand squeezed, rode up and down his cock and he was seconds from coming, pushed over the edge when Trey came first, moaning into his neck, "I love you, I love you," but he was too afraid to say it back….

"We can go to New York, there are places for people like us there, I know it. Come with me, please?" Trey zipped up, passed his t-shirt over and shrugged his letter jacket back on.

He wiped up the mess with a grimace and balled the messy t-shirt as small and tight as he could, shoved it under Trey's front seat. "I can't just go, what about school, what about my parents…what about yours?"

"Mine? I don’t have any, not any more." Trey laughed, harshly, but there were tears in his voice and that more than anything scared him.

"I—I got a girlfriend, I'm supposed to—Donna said—"

"God—shut up. Just…shut the hell up and get in the car."

Trey drove him back home, and only broke silence when they pulled up in the driveway, begged him one more time to come away with him, told him one more time that he loved him. Tried to kiss him but they were right in front of his parents house, and what if anyone saw? What if anyone saw…?

That was the last time he saw Trey.


2

"Haunted road, hunh?" Dean swiped a towel under his armpits and tossed it back through the bathroom door, bent over and dug around in his duffel for a fresh pair of boxers. Bare ass. Sam frowned and concentrated on the screen in front of him.

"Do you have to parade around naked? And yes, looks like." He glanced sideways and Dean was dressed from the waist down at least. He was pulling a t-shirt over his head and it muffled his reply, but Sam was pretty sure he'd said, "Need a band and more than one ass to make it a parade." Something like that.

"Anyway, haunted road. Over the course of a couple of decades, there's been at least one death every few months, cars lose control, spin out—no reason for it."

Dean dropped down to the bed, eyes on Sam, slipped tube socks on and his disreputable boots…Sam grimaced. Dean knew without looking down just what brought that face on. "Shut up. So, what makes this something more than a bunch of careless yokels?"

"Because the few people who didn’t die, claim a car shoved them off the road, a car that disappeared afterwards."

Dean shrugged, "Pissed off ghost car? Angry dead driver taking revenge? What?" He dropped back onto his elbows and looked down his nose at Sam, knees spread wide. "We're kind of spinning our wheels right now, waiting…"

Sam swallowed, hating being reminded, again. "Well. You want to take a look at it?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "Well, guess I'm up for anything that's not going to bleed stinkin' caustic fluids or explode into stinkin' chunks or dissolve into stinkin' puddles, yeah. Let's check it out…slowly, okay?" He rolled upright and flexed his hands, knuckles still raw and red from graveyard work a few days ago.

Sam smiled. "Sounds perfect. We need a little break. No traipsing around in the night after things that go—"

"Whoa, whoa, Samantha—there's no traipsing. We don’t traipse."

Sam just snorted and went back to his laptop.

Three days to get there.


3

The motel was…pretty nice, actually. Two double beds with a football field between them. Room to stretch out. Sam smiled and dropped his bag at the foot of the bed farthest from the door. He wasn't even going to argue with Dean. "This is nice. It'll be nice to stretch out and not touch a wall or furniture or you. Not that you would understand my pain."

Dean tossed him a look. "I'm not short, dude. I wish you'd stop acting like I'm some kind of midget, you freakishly tall bastard."

"Did I say anything?" Sam laughed, and grabbed his kit bag, headed to the bathroom, which ended up being a pleasant surprise too. It was roomy, and the tub looked almost big enough from him to use without having to crouch in it, limbs all drawn up like a dead spider. The whole room was brightly white, and all it smelled of was cleaner and raspberries. He checked out the little bottles of shampoo and bath gel lined up on the toilet tank—yeah, those were coming with when they left.

"Yo, Sammy, you can rub one out later, let's go eat."

Sam caught a glance of his face in the mirror as Dean's words percolated through his brain. Hunh. Dean really was right; bitch face described it pretty damn well. He was careful to keep that expression pasted on as he stepped out the bathroom.


4

"Okay, here's what's going on locally—" Sam spread the paper he'd snagged from the box outside the diner over the table. "There's a legend, of course—this being the anniversary of the legend, there's a lot of talk about it."

Dean nodded, chewing through a club sandwich, as he skimmed the article. "Lots of interest. Forty years ago…ah, the anniversary is a couple of days from now. It really sounds like a haunting. Hey, you know what would be cool? If it was like Christine." He grinned at Sam.

"Christine?"

"Yeah, you know--haunted car? Killer car?"

"Dean, how would that be cool? And specifically, how would you get rid of a haunted car?"

Dean stopped and pursed his lips…"Well…well, naturally, you'd have to exorcise it. Possessed car, right. Spirit in it." His raised eyebrows said 'duh' and the half shrug nailed it home. Idiot. He chewed some more, and fixed Sam with a glare. "Besides—we've already killed a haunted car."

"Oh. Right." Sam coughed discreetly and stared into his menu like it held the secrets of the universe."

"Asshole." Dean scuffed a foot across the small space, and under cover of the table kicked Sam so hard, he almost yelled out loud—jumped hard enough to draw looks anyway. Dean barely stifled annoying sniggers and did a truly lousy impression of an innocent five-year-old.

Sam loved his brother, God knew, loved him like nothing else in the world, and the proof of that was that his brother was still breathing. The thought took form before he could squash it, stabbed him hard in his ribcage. Dean. Damn it....Sam leaned back against the red vinyl back of his chair, and took a deep breath. "Anyway! Yeah. Forty years gone past doesn't leave us with a lot of leads, not a lot pf people to talk to. Memories that old tend to get fuzzy. We'll have to get what we can out of the legend, check old newspapers…yeah. 'Sure, Sam. We'll do that'." Sam mimicked Dean speaking in a high pitched whiney voice. Nothing.

He sighed, tracking the direction Dean's head swiveled in. He had his eyes glued to portions of their waitress, and Sam knew Dean hadn't heard a damn thing he'd said probably since "possessed car". A pinch of irritation, and something he put down to anger, snapped behind his breastbone before dissolving. "Anyway, I guess I'll run back to the motel, and meet you there later?"

"What? No, if you're leaving, I'm leaving. Might be a game on TV…say, did you know there's a judge show on every freakin' channel at this time of day? What the hell is it with people and these shows, man—"

Sam tossed a twenty on the table and smiled as he grabbed his jacket. Screw the tip.


5

It was dark out on the ridge; Sam watched Dean's breath puff out by the yellow glare of the Impala's headlights. They were lucky enough that not only was it ass freezing cold, it was also starting to spit big, wet flakes. Wonderful. "The cars skidded out on this curve, dropped over the side. What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Dean's boots scuffed across the gravel on the side of the road. He looked down. "This curve really isn't sharp enough, not for the amount of fatalities racking up. Man, I'm not a psychic kid but it feels…weird here, right? You feel it?" He looked at Sam, his eyes just a little wide. Sam shook his head.

"No, not feeling a thing. Wait." He walked back to the car, and rummaged about in the back seat. "Here." He jogged back to the curve, stood next to Dean and swept the area with the EMF meter. It booped quietly to itself, the signal swooping up and down. Sam shrugged. "Kinda sorta," he said, "But there are power lines higher up on the mountain, too…it just keeps jumping around too much to tell."

"Yeah…just, I don’t know, man. I…*feel* something." Dean glanced around with a frown, searching the trees, farther up the road.

Sam shrugged. "Well, I think we froze our asses off enough for one night. Feel like a beer or something? I could use one."

"Sammy! Good ideas, you have them sometimes."

"Fuck you," Sam muttered, made bitch face, but mostly just to try and cover the grin trying to break out.


6

After a drink or two, and a not very serious game of pool, Sam wandered back to the motel all yawns, and Dean had another beer. He glanced over the crowd. There were a few possible candidates twitching their hips around the bar, but….Dean sighed. After it first sank in, that he was going to hell, he'd gone a little nuts. Just seemed like it didn't matter--nothing mattered. What the fuck, he was going to die and he knew when, and he *knew* he was going to hell—what difference could it possibly make if he snorted coke off a whore's ass, or fist fucked a chick while her friend blew him…okay, maybe that didn't happen but it could have if he'd wanted it to. He had kind of tried to fuck everything on two feet that jiggled and smelled good. Man, he still woke up sometimes dreaming about those the twins. That'd been some freaky shit there—hot as--as—hot. Dean shook his head.

But that was then.

He chugged the beer warming in his grip, and called for another. Thing was, he'd changed since then—there came a moment when he realized what he was doing was—stupid. It was almost as if something had dribbled out of him and left him empty. Craving something, and craving it *bad*, but he didn’t know what it was he wanted. Needed. The more it ached the more he turned inward, away from everyone, especially Sam.

Good old Sam, whose quiet suffering was so—so complete, it was driving him *crazy*. He twirled the bottle in his fingers and wondered idly if it'd help if he beat the shit out of his brother….

"Is it okay if I sit here? S'getting kind of crowded…"

Dean looked up into Captain America's face. Huge blue eyes blinked slowly, a big paw swept thick bangs back off a wide forehead. Except for a beat up old leather jacket, the guy looked like…like the big blonde hero captain of the football team, or some shit. Swear, he'd thought Sam was a white bread lookin' kind of guy—this dude took the cake. "Go ahead. I'm not staying."

"Oh." The guy looked vaguely disappointed, but smiled. "Thanks." He ordered a beer for himself, and for Dean anyway, ignoring his protests. Dean figured, what the fuck, he was in walking distance of the motel….


7

Sam woke up at two, and Dean was a loud lump under the covers in the next bed. Sam lay still, listening to him snore…knuckled the tears away and said another short prayer for his brother.


8

Sam was dressed in his Mr. Normal Guy uniform—tweed jacket and tie, khakis. He always felt like an imposter, probably because, y'know, he was. But it was freeing too, being dressed like a civilian. He smiled sympathetically at the girl behind the counter, and asked her what she thought about the accidents lately, hoped sincerely that no one she knew had been injured, and did she think it had something to do with the ghost? "I'm writing a book about haunted roadways…"

"Writing a ghost story? Really?" She eyed him with a bit more interest. "Well…" The accident involved no one she knew personally, but…her friend, her friend's cousin had died on that stretch of road. He'd been out there by himself for some odd reason, no one knew why. It was weird. She eyed him up and down, a sort of appraising look in her eye. "So…are you staying in town?"

He smiled wide, knowing dimples popped when he did that and he had a perfect knowledge how deadly they were, no matter what Dean said, and hell, no matter how much the guy tried to deny it, they worked on Dean, too. "I was hoping to look at articles about the accidents?"

"Sure." She hopped up and led him to a small study room, showed him to a desk and a dusty microfiche viewer. She leaned her hip against the desk and looked at him, twirled a long lock of dyed blonde hair around her finger. "Let me know if I can do anything for you. *Any*-thing…the library's pretty dead this time of day…."

He took a deep, relieved breath when she shut the door behind her. Dean might have taken that offer up—and an unwelcome vision of Dean doing just that on one of the desks flashed through his mind like an electric shock--pictured Dean's ass flexing as he drove into—someone, the little blonde, the waitress from lunch—it didn't matter much. The thought punched right through to his dick, and he had to blink hard a few times to rid himself of it.

He sucked in a calming gasp of air, closed his eyes and counted to ten. His nose twitched, and without wanting to, he smiled. Like the rest of the library, the study room smelled of old wood and baloney sandwiches. He liked the smell; it made him nostalgic, it made him feel comfortable, and hungry. Reminded him of one school district he'd been in that had provided breakfast and lunch to their students. Back in the day, he'd liked sitting on the old wood benches, eating free breakfast and reading whatever book had caught his interest at the time….

Sam sighed and reached out for the reader's controls. Dean was right, not all the memories of the old days were bad.

Pathetic maybe, but not all bad.


9

Glenn was humming, and as his headlights swept up the road, something stepped out into the glare…at first he thought it was a deer, but then he saw it was a man…shit. It was that kid from the bar, damn it. He slowed down; the kid was dashing out into the road, arms windmilling. Glenn slowed, came to a stop and the kid rushed up to his window. "Thank God!"

"Hey, it was fun and all, but I've got—"

"Get out of the car; get off the road, now!"

Great, he'd hooked up with some kind of psycho—"Look, kid, whatever your name is, just—just go home, sleep it off, all right?"

"No, you have to get out now, or you'll die—"

What? Glenn shoved the kid away from the car, threw it into drive and roared off. Psycho bitch, he thought…he checked his watch, one o'clock; Barb had to be asleep now…fuck, that kid had ruined it. It was a good fucking evening up until that part…he had a mouth on him, that one—Glenn heard an engine roar behind him. Someone thought they were going to play Death Race on this road? He edged to the shoulder to allow plenty of room for the idiot behind him to pass. They were coming up on that big curve but there was also a real wide shoulder so he wasn't worried—

The impact was glancing but it threw him against the steering wheel and he wished he'd buckled—in the rear view he saw a black Charger, its headlights blinding in the rear view. Impact again and the rear end slewed through gravel and the lights filling the inside of his car flashed from white to red. He could see the headlights bearing down on him, red as devil eyes, felt the next impact. He flew toward the edge of the road and before he could do anything to stop, the Charger shoved him off the edge, end over end into the dark….

10

"What if it's not a haunted car? Could be a 'woman in white' sort of deal," Sam said. He dropped back onto the double, groaned a little as he stretched aching legs out over the bed. "God, who designs library furniture--sadists?" He fished his laptop and notebook out of his bag. "Maybe it's like that deal in Jericho--you remember."

Dean raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips in thought and Sam just…stared a very little bit, before dropping his eyes to the messenger bag, stuffed with his notes and the laptop.

Dean said, "Um, maybe. I don't see how that squares with the few witnesses swearing a car chased them, though. The Woman in White wants to get home, or near their home--or some of them, back to their graves. None of them push a car over a cliff edge, Sam."

"Okay. Well, we could look at it from the angle of a--a possessed car, if you like."

"Sammy. You're humoring me. Good, I like it. But, nah. Possessed car doesn't work either. It's a real specific area this stuff is happening in."

Sam nodded. "Right. It's something that's tied to the area—kind of like a poltergeist, or a haunting. The last time we dealt with a possessed vehicle it was all over the damn town."

Dean stretched out across his own bed. "Yeah. Didn’t anything pop out at you in the library?" Sam blushed and Dean laughed. "You dog. What did you do—no, *who* did you do?"

"Shut the fuck up. There was nothing. The crashes began happening in 1968, around December…um. Let's see…" He grabbed a small notebook and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. "Here…first one was December 26. Car was found at the bottom of the hill, body inside—"

"Restless spirit—" Dean said. "--how much you want to bet? Doesn't know how to move on, so it's haunting that curve--"

Sam shook his head. "No, I thought of that. They released the victim's name, ah—Trevor Dane. His obituary notice says he was cremated."

"Shit. Anything else? 'cause we don’t have a lot to go on."

Sam flipped through his notes. "No, not really. The only other possibility is unfinished business—like the ghost—Molly--in Nevada. Ah, on 41, remember? Unfinished business can keep a spirit captive, make an angry ghost, in spite of cremation…"

Dean looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, I've been told that…I mean, I know that." He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed."Well, if that's the case, Sam, we need to help it find what it wants, somehow. Those types of ghosts are hard to destroy. Maybe…" he tossed Sam a wicked grin, "Maybe it's a hot ghost chick looking for one last—"

"Dean, Jesus. Can you keep your thoughts above the belt for one minute? You're a pig."

Dean just grinned as if Sam had told him he was a prince among men.

"Anyway!" Sam snapped, and then stopped, confused. "Wait…what was I talking about?"

"No idea. I'm going out. The place we went last night. Feel up to it?"

Sam shook his head "Nooo…I think I'm going to run through what I have here again." He watched Dean slide into his jacket, slip a knife in his boot, debate taking his Colt and decided against it. He slid an eight inch, flat length of iron into his other boot and stood. He grinned at Sam.

"You sure you don't want to ride along? It was a nice place—they have great cheese fries…"

Nah," Sam insisted. "I'm going to keep picking at this--something might pop up."

Dean nodded. "Sure. Internet porn. Good choice, too."

"Dean!"


11

Dean was still grinning when he shouldered his way into the bar and grabbed a seat. He laughed a little into the neck of the bottle he had pressed against his bottom lip. Sam, Sam, Sam…so easy to wind up, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. God, he loved that giant goof.

"Hi."

He looked up and there was Cap again, smiling down at him. Dean looked him over, and it really didn’t take a genius to know he was being flirted at, but it was kind of cute in a way, like being made eyes at by a Lab puppy. "Hey Cap, sit down." For some reason, he had a good feeling about old Cap….

"Cap?" The grin Dean got in return was so full of question it made him laugh again. A warm wave swept over him and he felt really good, really relaxed.

"Yeah, Captain America—he's a comic book character—"

The guy blushed—*blushed.* "Of course I know who Captain America is. He's—is it because we're both blonde?"

"Captain's pretty hot, y'know, and…" Dean gave the kid a slow once over and grinned. He figured he must have looked calm and whatever on the outside, because Cap was grinning and shaking his head and about twenty shades more red. Of course, *inside*, Dean was screaming at himself. What the fucking fuck was that? What the hell? He was flirting. With—a dude.

"Well…think I'll get me a beer. You too?"

Fuck yeah, Dean wanted a beer. He licked dry lips and nodded. Cap got up to get them, smiled at him, and Dean calmed down. What the fuck, he'd be lying if he said he'd never flirted with a guy, for one reason or another. The little voice yelling yeah but not for funat the bottom of his mind kind of faded away. Dean tapped Cap's elbow. "Hey, let the waitress come, sit, talk."

Cap shook his head with a little frown. "They don't…they don’t seem to notice me. I usually have to get right in the bartenders face." He chuckled. "See? If I really looked like Captain America, I wouldn't have to do that."

Dean watched him almost disappear into the smoky gloom of the bar. Anyone who didn't notice him was blind and stupid and…and what the fuck? Dean gulped the rest of his beer and tried not to think about it.


12

Sam flipped through channels like he was being paid to do it. He bounced back and forth between a documentary on ancient Egypt and some show that was border-line gay porn. He was kind of turned on by the whole thing…the porn, not so much Egypt, and nervous as a cat that Dean was going to walk in the door. He was pretty sure Dean wasn't homophobic, not entirely…not a whole lot. Least, he didn’t think Dean would dump him on the side of the road if he knew.

What if he did? He'd never brought it up, not really. Besides, he could argue that bisexual didn’t mean…Sam sighed. Yeah, whatever. He hissed at the slide of cotton over his erection, slid under the covers. Wondered what Dean was doing right at that moment…more than likely, who. He frowned and scooted down lower under the covers.


13

"Oh. Impala. Kind of…Daddy's car, ain't it?"

"Well yeah—hey! You're insulting my car—be talking about my car!" Dean bristled at the kid's insinuation. He narrowed eyes at him, and lifted the brown bottle to his lips. Chugged, wiped his mouth and sneered, "Whata you got, some soccer mom van—oh. Whoa. Nice."

The kid was leaning against a 67 Mustang Fastback in perfect condition. Cherry red and sleek as hell. Cap's glance lingered lovingly over his car, his cheeks stained red with the chill, and the couple of beers he'd had. He was holding the last by the neck, swinging it, and he grinned at Dean. "Yeah, this is mine. Got it…my dad got it brand new." He looked down, looked at Dean through lowered lashes. "It's in almost as good shape as when he had it."

"Yeah, she looks sweet." He looked longingly at her but Cap didn't invite him to ride, so he didn’t ask. "So. You want a spin in the old man's car? And by the way, this was my dad's car too."

"Yeah? I guess that's cool." He beamed and Dean had a weird rush of feeling, like he'd tripped over some edge and was slow-motion falling.


14

Sam rolled over, and groaned. The door creaked shut, despite the care being used to ease it closed. "Dean?" Like it could be anyone else. Even so, Sam still had his hand under the pillow, closed over the hilt of a knife. It was kind of a Winchester's automatic reflex.

"Yeah, shhh, go to sleep," Dean said, keeping his back to him. Sam picked up the smell of smoke, and booze, and some other smell he figured was some chick's perfume, or some other motel's soap. Dean's voice was smoke soft and kind, almost apologetic, the way it always was when it was crazy late, he was lit, or fucked out.

Sam grit his teeth and rolled away from the sight of Dean's back, inhaled through his nose, and Dean knew that meant Sam was annoyed. At least, that's what Sam let Dean think…

"Sammy…Sam…have you ever thought…" his voice trailed off and Sam felt a bolt of lightning slam through him and then instinct took over—Dean was hurt.

"Shit, Dean—what happened? Are you okay? Did—" Sam jerked upright in bed and started to roll to his feet but Dean shook his head.

"No, no, I'm good, just. Wow, really drunk. Drunker than I thought. I'm okay. You go back to sleep," he said, and went into the bathroom, shut the door and locked it.

Sam lay on his back. He decided that he really hated this room. It was too fucking big, and too fucking lonely. It was cold and the curtains were fucking blackout curtains, it was black as the tomb in here, and the sheets always felt crumbly and…and…everyone was too far away and….

He fell asleep on his litany of dissatisfaction with the room.


15

"Is there something weird about me?" Dean asked Sam the next morning, and Sam looked at him over his menu.

"Weird? Are you serious? Let me see…you’re a male nympho, your taste in women and beer is ass, you're short, you're rude, and did I mention short—"

"Okay, okay," Dean said testily, but his cheeks were red, and he glared so hard at his menu, his eyebrows nearly met. His throat worked as he studied the plastic coated card with a ferocity that he usually reserved for—for the undead or the demonic. Sam got the distinct feeling that somehow, he'd blown--it big time. Shit.

"Hey…Dean. Hey, I'm sorry." He sat up straighter, and lay his menu down. "You want to talk and I'm being an asshole."

"Yeah, well…I guess it's fair to switch up every once in a while." He twitched a smile at Sam. "I'm—forget it, okay?"

"No, really, I want to. Is it…you're thinking about The Deal, aren't you?" He managed to suppress the wince that was automatic—he'd heard himself speaking in capital letters, and from the look Dean gave him, so had he.

"Jesus, Sam. No! I mean…fuck, of course I think about it, but no…this is…something else."

Sam couldn't imagine what the fuck could be more disturbing than Dean's stupid fucking horrible deal. There was just nothing he could imagine, nothing…"Dean. Something is going on. Talk to me."

"Scrapple or bacon?" He asked with a small stiff smile and stared at his menu and Sam knew that the conversation was done. For now.


16

Dean dropped him off in town, told him he had something to check out. Sam nodded and watched him drive off, hitched the strap of the messenger bag a little higher on his shoulder. He figured he'd start with the newspaper, see if he could get in to their morgue. That would take a while, but he'd expanded his search from highway fatalities to…well, *anything* not strictly the norm that long ago winter.

A few hours later, Sam was heading to the diner for coffee. He pulled the ski cap lower over his head and was grateful for it. The wind was really picking up and bringing ice with it.

He headed towards the booth in the back and contemplated calling Dean to meet him there.

"So, you're the kid who's writing that book?"

"Boo—ah—yeah, that's me, I guess. Ghost stories are a pretty popular subject with the public lately." The old guy holding his attention snorted, his ice blue eyes snapping in wry amusement.

"Hum. Avalon might be a nearly dead town, but there's no ghosts here. Anywhere," he said as his eyes tracked a boy behind the counter, serving coffee. Sam followed his glance and the old guy jerked his chin at the kid. "My grandson."

Sam smiled down at him. "You don’t look anywhere near old enough to have a grandson."

"And you’re a crappy liar, but thanks for tryin'. Ghost stories, hunh? Guess someone told you that crap about the car?" Sam put his hand on the back of the free chair at the table and raised an inquiring eyebrow. The guy nodded. "Sit. Pete." He held his hand out, as big as Sam's, and Sam took it. The grip was firm, warm, calluses catching a little against Sam's palm.

"Sam—Samuel, ah, Bierce. Call me Sam," he said. He slipped a notebook out of his bag, flipped it open when the guy gave permission. "You're the first person I've actually talked to about the ghost, Pete. I'm surprised anyone knows what I'm doing here."

"Yeah, well, it's obvious you never grew up in a small town. Everyone minds everyone's business," he said, more bitter than amused. "Anyway, there's this local legend that says it's a demonic car, a black '68 Charger with red high beams. Makes it from my day."

Sam smiled. "And do you have an opinion about this?"

"I think too many people read Steven King." He shoved his chair back and called out to the boy at the counter. "JT, see you later." He smiled down at Sam and Sam noticed he looked pretty darn fit for his age, had kind of a Sam Elliot, cowboy sort of look going on…Sam blushed a little when he realized he was staring, and Pete looked…surprised, and for a quick second, Sam thought he read something else in his eyes.

Sam watched him walk away with an appreciative smile. Nice ass. It was odd…the guy had a real familiar way of walking. He made the connection a few seconds later, and blushed bright red. Pete was as bowlegged as his brother. God. Freudian much?

He sat and sipped coffee, called Dean a time or two before giving up, opened his notebook and wrote, '68 Charger. Christine???? and underlined it a few times. Next to that he wrote get pizza, half extra pepp. He stared at his sparse notes for a bit and then under Christine???? wrote Pete. Sam had a feeling Pete knew a bit more about the subject than he'd said.


17

"Come on, Dean. You're not doing anything to help out. You sleep all day, and then you're out all night. I think there's really a job here. Maybe you don't?"

"Jesus, Sammy, could you stop nagging for one day? I'll check out the road tonight. We're going to drive up there and wait around, see if the date coming closer makes a diff—"

"We? Since when are we doing this? You didn't mention anything to me…" Sam reached for his coat and Dean looked embarrassed, stopped him.

"Not you, Sam. Not tonight. Just…stay in, take a break tonight."

"Oh, *really*, Dean? Fine. Fine. But if you bring some girl up there with you, you're mixing civilians in and that's not right."

"Whatever, fuckin' whatever."


18

The heater in the Impala was behaving just fine this evening, small blessing. Cap was staring at the cassette collection in the shoebox, tapping his finger against the side and going 'hmmm'. Dean looked at him, a grin twisting one corner of his mouth. He'd never actually *heard* anyone go 'hmm' before. "The fuck, Cap, you never heard of any of these? None of them? What do you kids listen to today? The classics man—know where you come from in order to know where you're going, y'know?" Cap gave him the same look Sam would have.

"Um. Sure. I like the classics…" Cap's forehead wrinkled in thought and Dean felt this quick sort of impulse to reach out and stroke the lines away. "This one, this one I like."

He handed Dean a tape that he'd hardly ever listened to, one of Dad's. "Wheels of Fire, hunh?"

Cap nodded. "Crossroads. That's a favorite of mine."

Dean put the tape in. The opening riff rolled out of the speakers and the vocals jumped right out at him....
I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees--Down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees--

Dean shivered. Yeah…that was a creepy-ass choice. He reached over to the dash and cranked up the heat. *Now* the fucking heater had to act up again….

They sat side by side and listened to the music, watched exhaust waft past the windshield and after a while Cap asked, "So…we're here for what reason? I mean, it's cool and all sitting here but…what are you looking for?"

"Ah, trust me, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." He shifted, and so did Cap and their knees knocked and slid against each other. "Sorry."

Cap grinned. "Why apologize?" His knee slid a little more purposely against Dean's. Dean felt like squeaking. He wanted to rip his knee away, but he didn’t want to be rude, and it did feel warm and…he snorted.

"What? "

"Nothing." Except, if Cap had been a girl, Dean would have slid his knee between her knees and pressed her legs apart, ended up with a hand walking up between her thighs.

Cap turned to him. In the dark, his eyes were electric blue. Dean found himself reaching out to touch the thick gold waves that framed his eyes. "Sorry! There was something--fuzz—"

"It's really okay. I don’t mind." Cap's hand rose too, almost touching Dean's but not quite—close enough that Dean felt all the tiny hairs on the back of his hand trying to rise....

Dean shoved his hands under his arms. "It's still cold as hell in here. Fucking heater."

"Dean…" Cap's voice was low, and careful. "I really don’t mind. In fact, I wish…you would."

Dean jumped, and jerked away from Cap hard, right into the door, swore when he dug the window crank into his side. "No--no. That's not me. I've gone fucking nuts or something. Crazy."

Cap touched just the end of his fingers, and when Dean didn't jump up screaming, only sat and shivered, Cap touched Dean's wrist, his arm, shoulder, his jaw…pulled him forward when Dean leaned into it…Their lips were touching and he was losing it, quietly and thoroughly and then…it really was okay. Cap's mouth was warm and soft inside, and Dean's tongue sought that warmth out. Dean thought whatever was happening here, it wasn't his fault--he had no control over it, and when he decided that, it was like he was on fire. Cap sucked on his tongue—light, teasing and no, Dean thought, not on fire--boiling slowly, that's what it was. He reached for Cap, yanked him forward with a pained groan. He felt like…he was embarrassed, he felt like an idiot. He was also trying to climb Cap like a tree.

Cap made a noise, a laugh or something. He pulled back; put both warm wide hands on Dean's shoulders and held him in place. He smiled at Dean. "Hey. Let me handle this. You just…relax." Dean sighed. He could do that…maybe.

Cap kissed him; licked little points of flame onto his jaw, his throat, and Dean shivered but didn't move.

"That's it, that's my good boy," Cap breathed. "You're doing great."

Dean felt a little like he'd been conned—what the hell happened to that sweet little puppy dog, stumbling through a flirtation? On the other the hand, he felt ridiculously pleased at being praised. He wanted to be good.

"You're such a good boy, my good boy," Cap muttered and spread Dean's legs farther apart and kneaded the inside of his thigh. Dean was instantly, blindingly hard.

"Oh—maybe you should stop—I don’t think—I'm not—"

Cap bit down on his throat—"Don’t think, Dean. Just feel."

"Okay," Dean choked out. "Nunh—just feel…" He closed his eyes and let go, and it was a little bit like he'd imagined it'd be like, if he admitted to himself that he had these feelings, and about whom.


19

Sam left Dean snoring in bed, swiped his keys and drove out to the ridge on his own. He stood at the edge of the drop off and looked down. The drop-off wasn't all that steep, a person could just about manage it on all fours, he thought, but coming around that corner at speed—getting hit--meant flying off the road, rolling over and over, being shredded to bloody bits in a crumbling metal coffin….

Sam shook himself. That was kind of morbid, even for him. He wandered back to the car and sat up on the hood, watching the sun break through clouds higher up the hills. He thought about the case, about breakfast…about Dean. Specifically, where he was going at night. Sam hadn't noticed any change in Dean's attitude towards any of the girls in town, hadn't noticed any of them looking at Dean with that I've seen your 0-face look. He wondered…could Dean be meeting up with someone from out-of-town?

When he slid off the hood, his foot came down into tire tracks in the dirt. He noticed boot prints, and sets of sneaker prints overlapping them. He recognized the boot prints as Dean's, the tire tracks as the Impala's. Who did the sneakers belong to? The very large sneakers. Large, man-size sneakers. He fought down a stab of jealousy so sharp it made him gasp, and shook his head. Idiot. If there was a guy on this planet who loved tail more than Dean…well, he personally wouldn't want to know because that guy would be really creepy, Sam was sure.


He drove back into town, stopping to drop the car at the motel and finding Dean still snoring, decided he'd head into town, instead of pulling a chair up to his bedside and watching him sleep. Or tracing the fine lines at his eyes, his mouth…smoothing back his sweat damp hair.

Yeah. Because doing that would definitely put him squarely in that Creepy Guy category. Coffee. What he needed was coffee and lots of it, maybe a Danish or a bagel, whatever was this area's equivalent.

Once outside the room, he decided, out of the kindness of his heart, that he'd get Dean a coffee and something to eat too because he was awesome like that, and even if Dean was being a jerk and ignoring him, he'd be the bigger man.


20

Sam was just about to slide the cardboard box holding their two coffees and blueberry Danish across the front seat when a shadow fell against the window and he whirled. "Geez—Pete. You scared the hell out of me."

Pete grinned at him. "Hey, writer boy." He raised thick eyebrows at the two jumbo take-out cups in the tray. "Drink a lot of coffee, hunh?"

"No. this is for my—my partner. Who's a lazy son-of-a-bitch and won't get up unless I bribe him."

Pete glanced away, and looked uncomfortable for a moment. "Yeah…so. You wanted more info on the road. I'll tell you what I know. Mind you, it's not much."

"Great!" Sam glanced at the coffees and Danish in the paper tray he was holding. "So, um…how do you take your coffee?"

Pete said, "Strong. Black. The only right way to drink coffee."

Sam grinned. "Then how about some breakfast?" he asked, and handed Pete Dean's coffee.


They were sitting on top of a rickety old picnic table parked at the lookout on the ridge—a sort of long ago flail at a non-existent tourist trade, drinking coffee, and Pete was telling Sam about what it was like in the town when he was a kid. He talked about the night of the first accident, and told him that, yes; he'd known the first victim. They'd been buddies.

"It messed me up for a while, Trey dying like that, so young. Donna—she's my wife—she helped me through it."

Pete was quiet then, staring out sightless at the sky, remembering. Sam got the feeling Pete was leaving stuff out, but figured he shouldn't push it. Pete sighed then, leaned over, elbows on his knees and cup clutched in his hands. Sam noticed a pendent swinging against Pete's chest and it was distinctive enough that he asked Pete about it.

"Oh, this?" He pinched it between his thumb and index finger and raised it. "My wife gave it to me—supposed to keep me safe or something. She always was into that new age-crystals stuff. Had a fit if I took it off so I wore it all the time, got to be a habit."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, my brother wears a pendent I gave him when we were kids. Never takes it off either. Do you mind—?"

Pete held it out, and Sam cupped it in his hand. The design looked familiar. Pete said, "I got it from her after a couple of accidents on the ridge. Said she wanted to keep me safe—I drive for a contractor in town."

Sam nodded. The thing had nothing in common with any of the signs he knew that promised protection for travelers. There were what looked like letters cut in around the circular edge and a suggestion of a star, or a stick-figure man in the center—it was done in a very old style. Sam rubbed his thumb over it. It was textured, a little bumpy. He realized what he'd taken for black wire was black hair....

Pete leaned back and the pendent slipped out of Sam's fingers. "It looks so peaceful out here. It's been a pretty long time since I've sat here. Back in the day, I did come out here a lot…most of the kids in town used to. There was a little road back there, behind the trees. Private." Pete smiled and Sam chuckled.

"You met your wife out here?"

Pete glanced at him. "Not exactly. Well, it's time I got back into town."

Sam grabbed their garbage, and crammed it into the take-out bag, tossed it into the back seat. They brushed shoulders as they slid past each other and Sam felt a brief flare of warmth that embarrassed him. Pete jerked away, and smiled weakly, and Sam had a sudden flash…he was willing to bet Donna had never seen that 'private' little road behind the trees.


21

He'd had just enough time to hand off the keys to Dean, and start to take his coat off when Dean tossed him a "bye, be back later" and was gone.

Sam growled. Was he going to meet up with Sneakers? Bastard. Maybe he should give Pete a call, see if he wanted to meet him at the diner…he could tell him he wanted him to go over some pages from his 'book'. And forget to bring the pages? Sam flopped into the chair at the table he was using as a desk. Or, he could ask him why his wife believed that pendent would protect him. Sam toed off his shoes. Or he could just sit here like a lump and see if he could track down the symbol…Sam idly clicked through a few bogus sites promising protection from all sorts of evil, mostly evil neighbors bent on putting roots on, wondered if Pete had gone out there to the ridge with his friend when they were kids—if he'd parked on that private road. Pete was definitely not one hundred per cent straight. Sam wasn't Mr. Party Guy, but he wasn't totally clueless either. He knew interest when he saw it. And guilt.


22

"I like it out here, don't you?"

"Well, it's cold as a well-diggers asshole, and we're two six foot guys trying to share a seat wide as a saltine, but other than that, it's just peachy. Lucky for you I was dying to get in this awesome car."

"Oh—you just want me for my car!" Cap laughed, and a warm wave swept Dean from head to toe. Why couldn't he and Sam laugh like this, sit like this…Sam was so…What?

"Hey mister, you here with me?" Dean became aware of fingers under his chin, gently coaxing his head up. "I hope you're here with me. Dean." His name was breathed onto his mouth as Cap slowly pulled him closer.

Dean shuddered, his jeans suddenly too tight for comfort. "I—I'm here. Oh God, I'm so here," he said, and even with the damn heater going full blast, he could see his breath flow out white into the air. So fucking cold…except where Cap touched him, there it burned.

Cap laughed softly. "Dean, Dean. I love you. You're just so…don’t punch me if I say sweet, please. But you are. Not in some sugary way, y'know. Just…" He licked a little circle on Dean's collarbone, and made a contented sound. "Sweet."

Dean blushed, refusing to admit just how good that made him feel. "Fucking idiot, sweet's the last damn thing I am. But—why'd you say that--did you mean it? Not 'sweet'. That…before."

Cap pulled away from Dean's chest, eyebrows raised, and Dean colored a little more. He started to stutter, pissed off that he'd been so stupid. "Nothing, nothing damn it," Dean growled. "I didn't mean—"

Fingers laid over his lips stopped him from pulling away, blue eyes locked with his, gleamed with a bright light that Dean could only describe as happy. "I meant exactly what I said. Love you. It doesn't matter how long we've known each other, I just do. You feel the connection too, don’t you? I mean…geez, I hope you do. I'll feel really stupid if you don't…."

There it was, his fucking Achilles heel--big wounded eyes, hurt puppy face that he couldn't resist—it was like he was hard-wired to fall for that look, no matter if the eyes were bright blue, or hazel, he was powerless. Powerless when Cap took his hand, opened the door and pulled him into the god-awful tiny back seat. "It's kind of saltine sized too, but we can make it, I think. Dean." Cap pushed and pulled and arranged him until he was straddling Cap's lap, and it made Dean burn—by the time Cap had him how he wanted him, Dean was so hard, he thought he'd die. Cap was smiling, rubbing Dean's hips with firm strokes of his thumbs. "Pretty," he whispered.

Dean fell towards Cap, weak, no defense left against him. He didn’t want any defense against Cap. He wanted Cap kissing him, touching him, his chest, his dick—Dean shuddered so hard it hurt. He wanted to feel Cap come down his throat—wanted Cap to fuck him, God, so bad…

They kissed like they were starving for each other, Cap mumbling against Dean's mouth, sucking at his tongue, licking and pulling moans out of him, making him beg….

Cap rubbed the bulge pushing up against Dean's zipper, scratched his nails against the denim, driving sensation into his dick. "Trevor," Cap mumbled into his neck, and sucked a sharp, hot rose into his skin.

"Yeah, okay," Dean gasped. His head was swimming, and it took him a moment to realize 'Trevor' wasn't some kind of gay code for "fuck me." Cap didn't say anything else though, he just shoved those huge hot hands under his shirts, slid them up and up....

"Wha—" Dean held his arms up when Cap urged him to, let him pull his shirt off with the undershirt, leaned forward and latched onto a nipple, sucked it until Dean was grinding, rubbing hard against Cap and moaning. Cap wiggled a hand between them, undid Dean's pants, and undid his own. Dean was embarrassed—his shorts were so wet, he was so wet that Cap's hand slid around his dick like it was oiled.

"Dean, oh, you're a good boy, aren't you? You want it so bad, don’t you?" He reached under Dean, and rubbed a finger over his hole, so light a touch it was barely there—Dean could pretend it wasn't happening, he wasn't grinding down against it. "You want it, right. You'd let me fuck you here if I asked, wouldn't you?"

"Cap!" Dean shuddered all over, and pre-come spurt hot and wet between them.

"Trevor, that's my real name…I love that you call me Cap, but if I'm going to fuck you, you need to know my real name."

Dean jerked hard—their dicks crossed and rubbed in the space between them, sent a fresh wild wave of sensation through him. This thing—this thing was incredible. He was losing it, like a kid his first time. "Yes, I want that, I want you to fuck me, Tre—Trevor. Yeah, whatever, I want that."

Trevor stopped what he was doing. "Dean. Dean," he said, and shook Dean gently. "Have you ever—have you ever done this—" He circled Dean's hole—"with any one? Anything?" he grinned wickedly.

Dean hid his face against Trevor's shoulder, shook his head, too strung out to speak, so hot he couldn't keep his hands off his own dick, and Cap—Trevor--groaned.

"Oh fuck, we probably shouldn't do this in the car then, lover."

"Oh shit, yes we should, it's the perfect place and we're going to do it—I know we need condoms, and lube, and—lube. Which I have in my pocket because, it’s good for all kinds of stuff and I stole some from the mart earlier." Dean prayed his mouth would Just. Fucking. Stop.

Cap laughed, and threw his arms around Dean. "I love you so much Dean. You're a miracle, you really are."


23

He had the feeling Pete's wife had created the haunted car. Revenge, maybe? Pete's "friend" had been the first victim…but he'd died. Why was it ongoing? Once she got what she wanted, it should have disappeared. Not only that, Donna had given her husband a protection that made him essentially invisible to supernatural forces. Invisible…why? Why make him invisible—

Sam sat back in his chair, his mouth hanging open, the ache in his neck and shoulders completely forgotten. He felt like he was drowning, like he'd forgotten how to breathe-- How the fuck…

He called Bobby.


24

Dean's head dropped back on Cap's shoulder, and he groaned. "Fuck, Cap—fuck, it kind of…kind of hurts."

He shivered, and his dick softened. Cap mouthed Dean's back, rubbed his thumbs where his dick stretched the tight ring of Dean's ass. "I know, let me—" Cap shifted, spread his legs wider and slouched a little; he splayed one hot hand against Dean's stomach, pulled Dean tight against his chest and wrapped the other one around his dick. Cap started stroking, slow, murderously slow, so that Dean felt every little bit of it, felt pulled away from pain, so fucking slowly. Dean arched over Cap's arm and Cap started to move, shallow thrusts, letting him get used to it, "My good boy. You're so pretty, you're my boy. You're so sexy. I'm watching you suck my dick up, it's the hottest thing, I wish you could see, so hot...I love you, you're such a good, good, boy…."

Dean was quivering now, moaning, begging Cap not to stop, to never stop, "Please, come on, please, come on, Cap—Trevor, *please*!" Feeling Trevor start to come was all it took to push Dean over the edge. He felt like he was being torn to bits, turned inside out, the pleasure was so intense, so deep, so overwhelming. He'd *never* felt anything like it in his life.


25

"No. It's not going to work for your brother. I'm sorry Sam. I know it seems like it should, but what you're describing is a specific spell, made to protect against ghosts—with the symbols you’re describing it's against a specific ghost. Whoever did this probably *made* the ghost, you know?"

"No, I don't." Sam felt the cloud of black despair settle over him again. For a few glorious minutes, he'd thought…fuck, he'd thought he'd saved Dean. "What the hell does that mean? Who the fuck makes a ghost?"

Bobby was quiet for a bit, and Sam was afraid he'd pushed it. Dean had always been the one who could get away with more…when he spoke again, Bobby's voice was soft. Fuck. Even worse than Bobby being pissed off at him, was Bobby was feeling sorry for him.

"I'm real sorry, son. I am. See, what I mean is, the person who did this knew the ghost, most likely killed the poor son of a bitch. The person with this pendent? Was important to the ghost—like a—a parent, or a lover, a brother—"

Sam almost dropped the phone. "Ah—what? I missed that."

"I said, the person has some strong connection to the dead one, and the pendent keeps the ghost from haunting them, driving the loved one crazy. Sometimes, they don’t mean to. It's just—unfinished business, y'know?"

Sam pondered Bobby's words after he hung up. Donna had done something wrong. Something evil. And now, the whole town was paying for it. He should probably talk to Pete again—and this Donna, if he could. He stuck a few items in the deep pockets of an old Carhartt jacket—a sawed-off, shells filled with salt and iron filings, and hoped that was all he would need.

He locked the motel room door behind him, turned--and did a double-take. The Impala was there—sitting in the lot. Empty. What the fuck, someone had picked Dean up and he hadn’t noticed?

He ran back into the room and fished around in his duffle. He pulled out the extra keys he had stuffed down in the seam. Crap. He checked his watch. Dean had been gone four hours—it was dusk. The time had slipped completely away from him…what the hell was Dean doing?


26

"You can stay with me," Cap said." You can be with me, for as long as you want, and I promise you, you'll always be happy, and you'll always be safe. That's why I wanted us to take my car. I'm ready and I think you are. I'll love you, Dean, the way you want, the way no one else ever could. We can go from here. Right now."

Dean listened to Cap, tried to listen mostly. He was wiped out, dripping sweat, the cold in the car a distant memory. He felt like heat was bubbling and popping right under his skin, flaring to prickly life inside his mouth, his nose, his ass. His eyes itched and burned so he kept them shut, and licked his lips…he tasted sweat, tangy and salt. He was snugged back up against Cap's chest, their pants still around their ankles. Bet they looked stupid from the outside, Dean snickered sleepily.

Cap was still talking, so he nodded, trying to remember why what Cap was suggesting was a bad idea. Honestly, the most he could somewhat clearly imagine was a nice cool shower—would be good right about now, or a long soak in a tub, or maybe just catch a few z's, he was that fucking wrung out. He wondered if that was how Sammy felt after. Or did Sammy pitch? Catching was good, too, it was way fucking good. He shifted and winced and Cap chuckled, and it made him smile. He was about a hot second from purring….

"Hey…next time, we can switch if you want--" Dean rolled his head, cracked an eyelid and gave Cap a look. "--or we can just talk a little," Cap finished with a warm smile. Dean leaned into Cap's touch, he was stroking all of Dean's skin he could reach, waves and waves of summer heat filling him, soothing him--

Talk. His brother was a big one for talking. Dean yawned. Wonder what Sammy was doing right now, should call him….

Dean's phone dropped to the ground and under the seat. Cap was licking burning little circles into his neck, sucking gently on his earlobe. Amazing how he knew where all Dean's spots were…..


27

"Hi Pete. I was wondering…would you mind if I talked to your wife?" Sam was standing on Pete's porch, doing his best to ignore the sting of icy little flakes, trying to sweep them off his lashes and look sincere at the same time. "For, ah…the story? More local flavor." He grinned, like the cold wasn't biting his cheeks….

Pete looked at him quizzically, obviously wondering, and rightly so, why in the hell he'd show up on his doorstep in the middle of the night on—oh, wow. "It's Christmas Eve, isn’t it? I'm sorry--"

Pete made a dismissive gesture. "'S'okay, we just got back from church a little bit ago. The kid's are home, tucked up. As for talking to Donna, well, it'd be kinda hard, but maybe not impossible for someone who's intimate with the other side, hunh?"

Sam stopped short. A searing wave of cold shot through him that had nothing to do with the ice pelting him…he swallowed and said, "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Pete came out on the porch. "You know, you—writer of the supernatural? Donna's been gone for a while. Cancer."

Sam cursed inwardly. Another fucking dead-end. There went any chance of finding out what she did—or how to reproduce it. He took a deep breath, and decided, what the hell. "Pete, I figure we got very little time before this thing pops up again. I think—and I know what this sounds like—I think your wife accidentally created a thing—an evil force—that's taken on a life of its own. It's killing people out there on the ridge. I--fuck. If she's gone, I have no damn idea how to stop it. I don't know what she did."

Pete came down off the porch. "I know about it. I think, I kind of figured it out a few years back. This thing all began this same time, forty years ago. I think…she cursed him, or the road, or something…and then he came back. For me." Pete held up the necklace. "This makes me invisible to him. If I take it off--"

"He'll make your life miserable." Sam looked at him, trying to feel sympathy, but he felt nothing…this man let people die. He'd known—or suspected, and didn't do anything, didn't try.

Pete shook his head. "No, I think he'll take me with him."

28

"Sam, I'm thinking maybe what it is, is a kind of tulpa. Might explain why it's doing what it's doing. That woman might've called it into being to do that one thing, but now, it's taken on a life of its own. Don't sound like it's changing up like the last one you dealt with, lucky you. But…hard to get rid of. Can't exactly dynamite the damn road, now, can ya? Sam? Sam? Sam—ya can't' dynamite the road, damn it!"

"What—no, no! I was thinking of what Pete told me earlier about that pendant, remember? I think it's also tied to that thing—like her whole wish and desire is inside it, living past her death. Destroy the pendant, you kill the car. But."

"But the protection's gone and from what you told me, means this Pete is dead too, if you do it. Rare for a ghost to target just one person like that but it happens. Well…I'll keep looking—you too."

"Thanks, Bobby." Sam shuddered, crammed his hands under his arms. The gloves he wore were leather, but thin, so he could pull a trigger—they weren't helping much in the cold that ripped across him with each gust of wind. He pulled his sleeve back. Nearly twelve. Almost Christmas day, Dean hadn't answered his phone yet…maybe he went back to the ridge, maybe he was there now with Sneakers. Maybe he wasn't answering because he was busy--

The little burst of angry warmth in his chest almost made him forget the gnawing bite of the cold. Almost.

29

Sam drove as quickly as he could around the curving road—icy rain was making it dangerous, the road was a long black slick and he could feel the slight sideways creep when the tires hit ice. His hands were white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel; all he could think about was Dean out there somewhere, alone and in trouble—worse, maybe not alone. He gnawed at his lip, his eyes aching from staring out into the darkness. It was taking forever and he had to fight his instinct to speed up. He jumped a little when lights suddenly flashed in the rear view mirror. Someone else was out on the road too—what an idiot.

Oh. Shit.

The lights raced up behind him, blinked a time or two, and went red.

The black Charger was racing up behind him. He'd forgotten all about it. Dean would have smacked the back of his head hard enough to make his ears bleed—shit. He'd deserve it too. In the second before impact, he had one wild moment in which all he could think of was how much Dean would have loved that car--impact, and the Impala shuddered all over, and slewed too easily on the ice slicked road.

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—" Sam fought to keep the car on the road; the roar of the engine behind him filled the inside of his car, his head.

The Charger made contact again and Sam jerked hard against the lap belt, the Impala started to slide towards the edge of the road…the other car pulled alongside of him and began shoving against him--tap, and tap, and tap, driving him always closer to the edge. Sam swallowed hard, breath moving in and out of his mouth in arid gusts…this was it. The end. He tried to think—what to do if—when--the car went over the side, could he survive…he glanced over and the interior of the Charger was black—pitch black, but Sam didn't need light to tell him the fucking thing was empty. He could feel his teeth bared, he could feel fear like a brick of ice inside his gut--thought he should let go of the wheel, try to roll up, but his fingers were welded to the steering wheel. Dean—who's going to take care of Dean--

The Charger pulled away, dropped behind him and Sam gasped in a long breath. "Thank God…"

He pressed on the accelerator, ready to try and break for it, when an angry animal roar beat against his ears. He glanced up and the Charger was bearing down on him, the red lights flashing like wicked eyes winking and Sam had no doubt that thing was looking right at him—seeing him. He blinked, and it was on his tail, blinked again and it slammed into the rear bumper. Sam was cursing, yelling at the thing, yelling for his brother and the Impala jerked and slid, gravel ran rough under the tires. The Charger dropped back a bit, enough so Sam could straighten out; pull the car back onto the road. It headed for him again, filled the rear view mirror and then—nothing.

Sam almost ran himself off the road, staring behind him instead of in front. The damn thing was gone, gone like smoke; like it was never there…he glanced at his watch. Midnight, almost. Was that it? Was it just--time for the thing to disappear? "Okay, okay, fine—"

He picked up speed and headed towards the ridge.


30

Dean felt like he was swimming through oatmeal. The thought made him giggle…oatmeal, sticky and warm, just like he was. Fuck…he was higher than he ever remembered being in his life—he must have done something earlier…drank too much, or…"Hey, were we smokin' or…or…somethin'…"

Cap laughed out loud—"What, you mean like pot? Like we're a couple of hippies? No—do you want to? Bet I can give you something better than pot could ever be." Cap opened the door and slid out. "Come on. Let's sit outside for a while, watch the stars come out."

Dean grinned; he could feel it, big, sloppy grin all over his face. He knew he must look fucked out, he felt like it, but Cap wanted outside, soooo…"Okee-dokee. Lemme get my shirt. Look like shit." He scrubbed at his belly, and made a sort of wavery effort to pull up his pants, button them again, but the button wouldn't cooperate. Cap put his hands over Dean's.

"Lover, no one's out here except me and you. Let me look at you."

Dean looked up at the guy talking to him and was confused. Where was the stupid floppy brown hair, weird ass cats-eyes that he loved looking into, not that he'd admit it out loud and especially not to—?

"Earth calling Dean, Earth calling Dean—you in there, buddy?" Cap waved his hands in Dean's face and made him laugh.

"Okay, okay, I'm comin'." He slid to his feet in the gravel, stretched his arms, and arched with deep, deep satisfaction—he felt loose, warm, and full of *pleasant* twinges, for once. He tilted his head to the sky and heard Cap—Trevor, whatever—gasp.

"Man, you don't know what you do to me; you're like, so—so natural. So real. I promise you Dean, I swear by all that's holy, I'll protect you, make you happy." He slid behind Dean, planted himself against his car and pulled Dean back to him, hips cupping his ass. He looped one arm across Dean's bare chest, the other resting the length of his thigh, fingers dancing across the loose denim, teasing the fly wider. Dean nodded in and out, enjoying the heat of the night, the warmth that came off Cap.

Cap was kissing up and down Dean's neck, nuzzling under his chin—suddenly jerked back like he'd gotten a shock. "Ouch…ow, that was weird." He laughed, surprise and confusion coloring his voice. "It felt like touching a live wire—did you feel anything?"

Dean roused himself enough to make an inquiring sound, but Cap stroked his jaw and whispered in his ear, "Never mind lover, it was nothing. Just…old dreams, old memories... we'll make new ones, between the two of us. Let go, you know I'll catch you."


31

Sam roared up into the long sweeping curve that marked the top of the ridge. It was dark, dark enough that the deep shoulder cut back off the road was pitch black. He could barely make out the lone, rickety old picnic bench chained to the ground, and farther back, the stand of trees behind it. He creeped slowly toward the rest area, realized the sound he could barely hear over the howl of the wind was a car engine running. He could just see the exhaust billowing into the night air. There was a car parked near trees, a classic Mustang, and leaning up against it was his brother. Dean. With…with some guy.

Sam smashed his hand down onto the dash—fucking Sneakers! Any money it was the first victim, Trevor Dane, nailed down to this world through a mistake made by a jealous, stupid girl.

He swung the wheel about sharply, crunched to a stop on the icy gravel, peering out of the ice coated windscreen. A few feet away, Dean was motionless, slouched there in the guy's arms. The sight made Sam's throat close up, and he blinked hard. Dean was out there shirtless—practically fucking nude!

Sam barely remembered getting out of the car, panic and fear and anger making him pant like he'd run a race. "Dean!" His brother barely responded, barely turned his head towards the sound.

"Dean! Come on, come—" he tried to take a step towards his brother and the thing wrapping its arms around him, but before Sam could move, he was slammed back against the hood of the Impala. He pushed hard against the car, strained muscles to the point of pain, trying desperately to move. His hands struggled to reach for the sawed-off--to reach out to his brother. "Dean!" His voice was whipped out of his mouth, torn away by the icy wind.

"Shhh. Leave him, Sam. Let him go. He'll be happier with me. He'll never have to suffer if I take him, no one, nothing, will find him. He'll escape." Even over the shriek of the wind, Sam heard it easily, a voice no louder than a whisper, like the speaker was right next to his ear.

Sam rocked back on his heels. His knees wanted to buckle, but whatever it was holding him back—was holding him up, too. "Free? No…hellhounds, no taking—"

"Just his body—I'll have his soul."

Dean's head rolled on Trevor's shoulder, sweat glazing his face, his chest. His eyes were slits, glassy and red…he was smiling, a drunken smear of a smile. Dean's hand was locked over Trevor's arm, holding on—"No! No," Sam shouted. "Give him back."

Trevor looked at Sam in surprise, the hand stoking Dean's thigh moved to rub his stomach. "*That* greedy? Could you really be that greedy, you’d rather he suffer than be with me?"

"Yes! I mean--no! No. What you're offering—it’s not a solution. It's wrong. He'd hate it, it's wrong."

The hand reached lower, scratching at the thick brown curls just visible through the gap in Dean's jeans. "I can give him what he's always wanted, all the love he needs, and oh, he needs so much. It's like a flare, roaring out of him, lighting everything for miles—so hot and bright and *wanting* so much it can't be ignored. You can't fill that need, but I can. I can…

Sam's whole body was a searing ache, every muscle strained towards his brother, his face was freezing—iced over with tears and snot. His heart was burning—this *thing* was trying to take Dean, trying to steal Dean away—

"No! Give him back!" He shouted, until it rose to a scream that ripped his throat, burned it like live coals. He pulled his arm free, and slammed his fist down on the hood of the Impala. "Give him back! He's mine. Mine!"


32

Dean's head snapped forward, and he looked around blearily. Sam? Sammy? He tried to pull away…and Cap tightened an arm around him, whispered hot and damp against his neck. "Don’t go, don't look. Don't let go of me."

Dean flexed the fingers wrapped around the arm that cradled him, and heard Sam's voice again—the arm that kept him trapped tightened.


33

"Trey."

Sam lurched against the invisible hold. There was someone behind him and he hadn't heard anything. There was a truck parked behind the impala. "Pete…Pete." Sam wanted to warn him, but his voice dried up....

Pete nodded at Sam, came to stand next to him. "I broke that thing in half, threw the bits in the fire. She was…" he laughed. "She was a piece of work." And that was all he had to say about Donna. He dropped a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed, and suddenly, Sam was free. He drew his arms up, and shuddered. Pete let go." Nice meeting you, Sam. Good luck on that book. Looks like you got plenty of story here." He winked at Sam, and stepped out from around him. "Hey, Trey."

Trevor's head shot up and he stared around himself, like Dean had done.

"All right then, Trey. I'm ready to go."


34

Dean gasped…Cap's fingers bit down hard on his shoulder—it sent icy shards of pain through him. He blinked hard—there was an old guy standing on the road, long salt and pepper hair whipping in the wind, blue eyes boring into him like search-lights. He felt Cap shudder, heard him speak, his voice tinged with wonder, and fear. "Pete?"

Dean winced—what the fuck…he was dizzy, and alternately burning hot, and freezing cold and--and Sammy was standing on the road, crying, and some cowboy was staring at him and where the fuck were his shirts? Where the fuck was his coat? He turned in Cap's embrace and Cap let go, and fucking hell, the cold hit him like a kick in the nuts.

"Dean. Dean. Oh, I'm sorry, I am, but I was so lonely and so were you, and it just…called me." Cap grabbed his face in both of those giant paws of his, and pulled him into a kiss. "You'll be okay. I think you'll be okay. You just…" Cap laughed, and sounded like he was crying." You have no idea how much you really deserve it, you do. Just—let it. It'll be all right."

Cap was glowing and Dean shook his head—his brain had finally caught up with his dick, and he knew he was in trouble. He ripped out of Cap's arms, and staggered toward Sam.

Cap was throwing off light like a star now; long streaks of white light flew skyward, and the old guy walked right into it. Dean couldn't look anymore; it was like staring at an arc welder. He tried to walk away, and everything shifted sideways. "Well fuck," he said. And felt the ground rush up to grab him.


35

"Hey. Hey, Dean. Come on, wake up for me, come on—"

Someone was touching him with a dead fish. Dean reached out and slapped it away, but it kept coming back, damp and cold and spiny, now it was trailing over his cheek and it was spitting water on him too….

"Dean, please wake up, you're scaring me, come on—"

Dean's eyes flew open. "Sam?" He tried to leap to his feet. "What—what's—" His flailing hand smacked up against his jacket—not his jacket. Need gun, Sammy's in trouble.

His other searching hand hit the vinyl bench seat…he was in the back of the Impala. The fish was a hand and the water was tears…what the fucking fuck?

Sam had a hand on his cheek, and his eyes were red and swimming. Dean felt cold, so fucking cold and now that he was thinking of it, it hit him like a freight train—his teeth clattered like castanets against each other, he swore the car was rocking with his shivering—he was practically fucking *convulsing*. "What the fuck dude—did you strip me and throw me out in the storm?"

"Don’t you remember what happened? Sam asked, and his face was a twisted up mess of emotions: fear, amusement and anger…Dean watched Sam's face twist a little more, anger almost winning out, before he laughed ruefully. "You don’t remember a thing, do you?"

Dean lay back on the seat, the pillow cushioning his head against the door was his leather jacket, rolled in a loose ball. The coat he was wearing was Sam's, the sleeves embarrassingly long. His baby was doing her best to heat the car, the sound of her fans a low roar…Sam was wet--wet-faced, wet haired, and that cold damp thing was on Dean's chest—naked chest—was Sam's hand. "Unh…I do. Yeah, I do. What happened after?"

Sam sat back, relief coloring his cheeks with red. His hand twitched, and before Dean could lay his own over it, was gone. "I'll tell you later. Let's just—get the heck out of here." He slid back over to the driver's side, and ordered Dean to stay where he was. Of course, Dean's first impulse was to tell him to go to hell, but…Dean had a pretty good idea how close he'd come to checking out early tonight, and he wasn't about to piss Sam off now.

Besides, it was Christmas, or close enough.

Sam put the car into drive, and pulled out of the rest stop. Dean watched the stop recede in the rear window…something incredible had happened there. He knew how close, how dangerous it had been but still….

A part of him hoped that Cap was happy now. He looked over the seat at Sam, and what he could see of him was not especially heartening. His expression was pinched: narrowed eyes, mouth tight in a severe line, turned down at the corners the way it was when he was trying to suppress deep emotion—like almost losing his brother. Dean pulled the beat-up old Carhartt coat tighter—an ancient hand me down from Dad, he was surprised Sam still had it. He glanced at Sam again.

"So…Sammy."

Sam threw him a quick glance. "*What*?" Terse, to the point…pure Sam.

Dean grinned. "Mine, hunh?"

Sam paled, then colored…and smiled a little. "That's right, jerk."

Dean lay back again, closed his eyes and grinned even wider. "Bitch."

1-17-2009
~fin~

Comments

[darkemeralds]

Oooh! I started reading this when you posted it on LJ, but as I recall, it was in parts, and I think I stopped at the car-going-over-the-edge.

So I downloaded it last night and started re-reading from the top, and it's great! I get stories much better when they're in one piece, on my reading device, when I'm lying down and cozy for reading.

I'll finish it up tonight, but I just wanted to say that you write the best sex scenes! Just the right balance of POV sensory detail, positioning, action--they're terse and hot and clear, and I really admire that.

[roxy]

You have no idea how pleased I was that you think my scenes work! My niece and I were talking about this very subject tonight, how hard it is to tell if it's working or not. Writing the sex makes it impossible to have the distance to know if it's hot or not, we're just too wrapped up in the logistics of it to be able to assess its hotness. There have been very rare occasions that I *know* something I've written is hot like fire, and weirdly, those scenes have almost always just been about kissing!

[darkemeralds]

I'm pretty sure it's impossible to find a gauge of hotness that applies equally to all readers, but I've almost always found that less is more in that realm. Sex itself is NOT infinite in its variations, while the characters involved in it can react in infinite ways, feel endless varieties of things, etc.

I've read a lot of fic that has pushed out the porn bounds by getting more and more and more detailed in its descriptions of body parts, sub-parts, and their--you know, fluids and stuff. It's educational, but not especially erotic--at least, not to me.

Whereas a good kissing-groping scene, with surprising or revealing reactions in one or the other character's point of view can be freshly fiery and hot every time. For me, you hit a nice sweet spot along that continuum.