Dark On The Ridge 2/4
1/13/09 11:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Dark On The Ridge (4parts/complete)
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean (implied). Dean/OMC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: part1: 2907 part2: 3461 part3: 3715 part4: 2745
Summary: Sam yearns for Dean, Dean's somewhat oblivious, and there's a ghost story, too.
all chapters
"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 designed 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…
Dean looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, I've been told 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 decide against it. He slid a ten 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, he wanted a beer. He licked dry lips and nodded. Cap got up to get them, smiled at Dean 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 fun at 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 bartender's 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 was falling.
14
Sam rolled over, and groaned. The door creaked shut, despite the care being used to ease it shut. "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 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?"
An old guy the next seat over was looking him over with an expression that said he was not very impressed. Sam flushed a little. "Boo—ah—yeah, that's me, I guess. Ghost stories are a pretty popular subject with the public lately." The old guy snorted, his ice blue eyes snapping in wry amusement.
"Hum. Avalon might be a nearly dead town, but there's no ghosts here. Pretty sure none 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 what I'm doing, 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 all perpetrated by 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. "JR, 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…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? We who? You didn't mention this 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. The fucking heater was acting 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 thighs 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 and Dean's tongue sought it 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.
part 3
tbc
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean (implied). Dean/OMC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: part1: 2907 part2: 3461 part3: 3715 part4: 2745
Summary: Sam yearns for Dean, Dean's somewhat oblivious, and there's a ghost story, too.
all chapters
"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 designed 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…
Dean looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, I've been told 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 decide against it. He slid a ten 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!"
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, he wanted a beer. He licked dry lips and nodded. Cap got up to get them, smiled at Dean 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 fun at 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 bartender's 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.
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.
"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 was falling.
Sam rolled over, and groaned. The door creaked shut, despite the care being used to ease it shut. "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.
"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 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.
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?"
An old guy the next seat over was looking him over with an expression that said he was not very impressed. Sam flushed a little. "Boo—ah—yeah, that's me, I guess. Ghost stories are a pretty popular subject with the public lately." The old guy snorted, his ice blue eyes snapping in wry amusement.
"Hum. Avalon might be a nearly dead town, but there's no ghosts here. Pretty sure none 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 what I'm doing, 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 all perpetrated by 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. "JR, 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…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.
"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? We who? You didn't mention this 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."
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. The fucking heater was acting 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 thighs 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 and Dean's tongue sought it 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.
part 3
tbc
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(no subject)
1/13/09 09:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/13/09 11:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/14/09 06:43 pm (UTC)This is so cool! I can't wait to see Sam's reaction to Dean finding his gay-ity. . . with a frickin' ghost, of all things! No, Dean, Sam's been hoping for this for years. . . you go over there now and snuggle. :) I am sooooo looking forward to more, babe!
(no subject)
1/14/09 09:58 pm (UTC)Exactly! On to more naughtiness! *happysigh*
(no subject)
1/15/09 02:07 pm (UTC)*shakes head*
And! Sam Elliot-cowboy-Pete! Heeee!
And 'Cap' is creeping me out. And...just....
*hands*
(no subject)
1/16/09 04:07 am (UTC)thanks for reading! Yeah, for a few minutes, back in the day, I had a thing for Sam Elliot! :)
AWwwww! Cap creeps you out? Poor Cap! And *thank* you!!!