SpN: Lodi 13
4/8/09 12:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Lodi part 13
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3872
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
omfg, I've worked on this thing so much, it's like Frankenstein--stitched up from bits and snippets and my increasingly vanilla imagination. Curse my inability to bring the sexual hinkjinks! This is one of those things where I just kind of throw fic down, run and hope for the best. Just trying to get over this hump, as it were. Please enjoy a fresh slice of story.
*chews on fingers*
Lodi
13
The lake is key—it's not likely she wanders too far from the lake, they figure. They head straight to it, and begin searching along the shore, poking around the tree roots and underbrush, poking into little hummocks and between rocks that might hold bones, depressions, sunken spots in the ground that might be graves….
They work their way, as the sun drops, up one side of the lake and then the other. After a while, it's dark enough to use flashlights. The smell of the water is stronger at night, a weird combination of wet bark, locker room and cinnamon…and the light attracts every fucking blood-sucking thing with wings. There's a constant high-pitched whine in his ear, not to mention the low, steady stream of cursing coming from his brother. Dean is getting eaten alive.
At least that makes him smile.
They're not finding signs of anything that might be what they're looking for. What they are finding are tons of non-returnable bottles and cans and Sam just doesn't get it. "Other states have returns, why doesn't this one? What a waste. People say they're recycling—"
And Patrick echoes him, "--they're not recycling—"
Dean whirls around and shines the flashlight right in his eyes. "Shut. Up. Bitches." he hisses, and stomps off, swinging the flashlight over the ground in wide arcs.
"Dick," Sam whispers. Patrick looks at Sam with a little smile and shrugs. He's got an iron crowbar over his shoulder and a salt shaker in his pocket. He looks equally skeptical, and amused, obviously thinking this is the Winchester version of snark-hunting. Sam doesn't speak again, just walks next to him, every once in a while slipping his hand into Patrick's back pocket. Not really copping a feel. Well. Maybe a little.
"What are we looking for, again?" Patrick says, and kind of leans back into the touch of Sam's hand.
"Ghost, female," Sam says, "and it really is serious, Patrick. You have to keep your mind on the hunt. Make sure that you're alert, and not just for supernatural stuff, okay?"
"Then you're gonna have to get your hand out of my pocket and off my butt," Patrick mumbles, and Dean swings around, fixes them both with a basilisk glare. He moves ahead, and Sam pats Patrick on the back and moves up to talk to Dean.
"We're never going to find anything out here in the dark, Dean. We should come back in the day time."
Dean huffs, and finally, nods agreement. "I think we're going to have to go a different avenue all together. We're not going to find anything in the daytime either. Her bones are probably all over the place. What's left of them." Sam figures Dean's thinking the same thing he is, little finger bones spread everywhere, invisible in the mud….
"Um. We might be able to find a spell that'll show us where the bones are…maybe?"
Dean's staring over Sam's shoulder, hasn't heard a word he's said. His eyes are wide, and his face whiter than the weak light accounts for. He breathes, "Shit", so softly Sam can barely hear it. He whirls around….
Patrick is surrounded by a blue light, it arcs and shimmers around him. His head's tilted like he's listening to someone, and he's smiling, like he's hearing something wonderful. He lifts his hand and waves idly at them, his smile growing. He doesn't have the crow bar….
Sam gazes harder into the blue glow, and he begins to see...right. It's her, the Mardi Gras lady. Dean shoves Sam behind him, quick and startling; Sam goes stumbling before he grabs Dean's shoulder. "That's her—that's the ghost."
"Shit," Dean says again. "Fuckin' hippie chick dead girl…"
Patrick walks away but not before giving them a look—a look that makes Sam feel like he's betrayed Patrick in some way-- sad, so deeply sad. Patrick lets the ghost take his hand and they walk away.
Sam is frozen in place. This isn't right—he told Dean she wouldn't take Patrick. She can't be taking Patrick. It's not—that's not what she does, she takes the kids who have no one—unless he was wrong about her motivation--
Dean's already running after them, and somehow he's got a shotgun in his hand—the pistol grip sawed off Sam thought Dad had taken with him. He's running but not fast enough. She's almost at the lake with Pat, whispering in his ear, stroking his shoulder, and Pat's nodding, walking into the water, slowly but surely walking himself under the surface. She kisses his cheek, and Sam can see his eyes are closed, still smiling—fuck, he looks *happy*. Her hand tightens on Patrick's shoulder and now he's in water up to his chest and sinking under the weight of her hand and Dean fires.
*Brahm*. The sound echoes, she flickers, she's gone….
Dean and Sam drag Patrick out of the water, he's confused, coughing and calling for his mom, and fighting them, trying to get back in the lake…that makes Sam want to throw up, or spit, or—or punch Dean in his head, just keep punching and punching…
"Okay, okay," he hears Dean yelling, "I get it! Punch me after we get Pat out, damn it."
They pin Patrick down on the bank until he stops flailing about. He's okay, just wet, and freaked, disoriented. Dean jumps into the water, dips under a few times before coming up and sitting with them on the bank. "I can't see shit. We'll come back--*I'll* come back--tomorrow and check around. She's under there somewhere." His teeth are chattering. "Damn, water's cold as a bitch…."
"You won't be able to see shit even in the daytime—that water's too dark. Besides, if her bones are in there, they're spread all over the bottom of that lake. It's got to be about forty years gone by, you think?"
Dean nods. "Forty at least—head band and love beads? This poor bitch has been waiting a pretty long time…and you're right. We won’t get her bones. I was just hoping it would be simple." He shakes his head. "Might be there's a ritual for this, an exorcism? She's doesn't seem to be a vengeful spirit—more confused, hanh?"
Patrick sits up slowly while Dean's talking, is looking at him, with a kind of dawning horror. "You used me. You used me like—cheese for a rat."
"Dude, don't be stupid. We wouldn't…" Dean sounds pissed off, but he's not looking in Patrick's eyes. That's one of his tells and Sam knows, Patrick knows that, too.
Patrick is staring at Dean. "No. You knew…you knew she wouldn't come for Sam…or you. You're *family*," he spits. He's shaking, shivering so hard his teeth are clacking together painfully loud. Sam holds him, wraps his arms around him—Patrick is freezing.
"Hey, Dean." Sam nudges his brother. "Help me get him in the car—he's shaking to bits." Patrick stutters out bitter laughter, does his best to make it into the car without too much help.
~~~~~~
It takes the both of them to get Patrick out of the car; by the time they pull up in the driveway, he's shivering so hard he can barely walk. Sam remembers how cold he'd been after touching the Mardi Gras Lady, how the cold seemed to get worse instead of better, and how a hot shower had helped somewhat—
He tells Dean, and Dean shrugs. "Okay."
Patrick keeps trying to talk, but they won’t let him, they shush him, stagger together up the porch stairs, reeling and slamming against posts and the doorway like bumper cars…
They manhandle him into the bathroom, and Sam says, "Strip him down, I'll get the shower." And Dean just keeps taking orders from Sam, without a word. Patrick tries to stop Dean, but he ignores him, drags Patrick's shirt off. The tee-shirt hits the tiles with a squelch.
"Can you get your shoes off, Pat?" he asks, and Patrick struggles to move—it's like he's still underwater. Dean sighs and says, "Okay, just—hold onto my shoulder, and lift your foot if you can."
It's hard to get the soaking sneakers and socks off, even with Sam helping to hold Patrick up. By the time Dean's done, Patrick's breathing like he's run a race--skin's so blue, it's scary. Sam pulls Patrick up against him, hissing at the chill. He wraps his arms around Pat and wills his heat into him but Patrick, he's trembling so hard Sam almost feels like he's trembling too.
Dean's there too, his arms come up and wrap around Patrick too, surprising Sam and startling Patrick. Patrick looks so confused that Sam grabs Patrick by his ears, and kisses him, has to. It's just a quick press of lips, he doesn't want Dean going all homophobic on him, but Dean surprises him again. "It's okay, you know," he says slowly, "to…kiss. I don’t care. 'sides, he's your…y'know, whatever…" he trails off, but Sam feels the way he does when Dean actually remembers like, his birthday or something—
He kisses Patrick again, and Pat moans, but it's strictly out of pain—the cold's still shredding him to bits, and Dean says, "Hey, come on--gotta get the rest of his shit off and get him in there."
Sam rolls his eyes—didn't he already say that? Problem is, when Dean tries to take Patrick's shorts off, Patrick pushes him away, yelling, "Stop! Stop it!" He glares, shoves Dean hard enough to send him into the sink when he tries again. Dean yelps--curses when his elbow smacks into the sink, but he's trying hard to hold his temper in check. Sam can see that Patrick's not really getting what's happening—like Pat's not fully there.
"Dean…" Sam crowds him back against the sink. "He's not…he's not really fighting *you*."
Dean stiffens against Sam for a second, but relaxes, gives Sam a short, quick nod—he gets it. His eyebrows quirk up—his whole body is broadcasting why me? and Sam has to smile a little. It's always going to be you, dude.
Dean steps out around Sam, and smiles. "Pat! Hey, come on, Pat, it's just us. We're all taking our stuff off, man, relax. Look—I'll go first, okay?" Dean toes his sneakers off, steps back and shoves his shorts down, kicks them out onto the floor with one foot, and whips his shirt over his head. It plops on top of Patrick's tee-shirt, covers it....
Sam takes a deep breath, counts to five and prays for strength, or at least, to not get hard—and shucks off his clothes too. Standing next to Dean, wearing nothing but threadbare boxers with little candy canes all over, he feels stupid, and little, and…cold. Dean holds his hands out wide, does a quick turn and smirks like it's no big deal that he's almost naked, even though his ears are a hot red. "Here we are, nothing to hide, okay? All right, Pat? Now you?"
Patrick nods, tremors making his movements spastic, uncertain. Dean huffs, rolls his eyes. His expression is impatient, but he's very gentle, his hands careful, as he eases Patrick's shorts open. "I'm going to take your shorts off, okay, Pat? Will you help me?" Dean's trying to hold Patrick's eyes; his words are slow and clear, precise. Even his movements are slow and precise, like he' trying to calm a stray dog--one who's not certain if he should bite, or run. Sam's strung out between jealous and turned on. He's pretty sure it's just going to get worse.
As soon as his shorts are off, Patrick turns to Sam. "Sam, don’t leave, okay? Stay here, all right?"
"Not going anywhere, Patrick. I promise. I'm right here."
"She tried to take me." His eyes are huge, and vaguely horrified, like a kid remembering a bad dream. "Cold. Just—so cold inside. Hurts." He slides his hands down his hips and grimaces. His boxers are streaked with slime, and he peels them off. He's naked, shivering, and when he holds his hand out to Sam, it makes his heart break—and the guilt pile up. Patrick is fucking beautiful--slimy, blue, and so fucking scared and he's still beautiful. Dean makes some sound that makes all the hair on Sam's body stand on end, wonder if Dean shares his opinion.
Fuck me, he thinks, and refuses to look at his brother. Instead, he helps Pat step over the edge of the tub, into the spray of steaming water. Patrick yelps and flails, shocked by the heat, struggling to keep his balance on the slick surface—
Sam hears Dean mutter, "Shit," under his breath and then he's stepping in with him, and kind of crowds Pat under the water-- keeps him there. The water, of course, instantly soaks his underwear and turns the cotton transparent. There's an incredible moment of stillness inside Sam's head—and then a sudden explosion of Oh, God, no and Fuck, yes and oh my *God*, yes! No! Because this is like his best fantasy come true. Because Dean is there with him. Because Patrick's naked, and this is the most he's seen of *him* since the first time at the lake. Everything they do happens blind in the dark. Hand-jobs. Sliding against each other mostly clothed. Coming in his shorts. He's never been like this, exposed, naked. Seen. So, it's been equal parts frustrating and pretty good, because any kind of sex is good sex…but all that skin he's not allowed, all that beautiful skin….
"St—starting to warm up some, Sam," Patrick stutters, and tries to smile. Water beads on his lashes, runs into his mouth.
Really. It's fucking unreal. It's cruel, is what it is. Sam hates Dean a little--again. Maybe hates Patrick, too.
Patrick stops talking and concentrates on not slipping--Dean's rubbing him with a washcloth like he's rubbing down a horse, but at least he manages to *sound* gentle. "That's good, Pat. Right Sam?" Dean says. Looks up and meet's Sam's eyes. His hand floats up Pat's side, rubbing wide circles and Patrick shivers, but this an entirely different kind of shiver, one Sam knows. Patrick arches into the touch, when he shivers again his dick flexes, starts to lift…Sam bites down hard on his lip, his fingers twitch.
Dean looks startled, starts to pull back and Patrick grabs his hands. "No, not yet."
"Whoa, whoa, careful, dude. You're going to knock us out of the tub."
Elbows knock against the tile, water splatters all over and Sam's thinking that cleanup is going to be a bitch…wonders about himself, really. Sam pulls himself together, manages to croak, "He ah…he needs more… to get warm." Sam swallows and wipes beads of water off his chest…his feet stick to the wet floor as he moves closer….
"Hunh?" Dean gapes at him, and then his eyebrows draw together, and he's shaking his head--has that look he gets when he's about to "Hell no," something, but Patrick relaxes into Dean's grip, like he trusts him. Dean Lick's his lips, bares his teeth. "Yeah. Okay."
Time stops. Sam thinks what a fucking stupid cliché, but there's no better way to describe it. Time's stopped, and all it will take is one word to make it tick again and everything will be like it was but he can't say it, and that moment passes. Patrick leans back against Dean. Wet, bare skin slides against skin, and it changes everything. Sam sees it, how it changes--in Dean's eyes, the way his fingers flex, the way Patrick moves--
Dean's hand hovers, then lands on Pat's waist, squeezes hard and Patrick moans. Dean glances at Sam before moving his hand up Pat's spine, and then he's using both hands and pulling Patrick against him. Patrick's hard; his dick is straining upwards, bobbing and dipping in the spray and he makes this move that has Sam throbbing…it's like this isn’t Patrick at all, this is some kind of…sex thing, incubus, just…not Patrick. Whatever, it makes Dean jerk, he grunts, the smallest noise, rolls his against the pressure. Patrick sighs Dean's name and asks for more. Dean touches him all over, light, uncertain, fleeting, but when he gets back to Pat's hips, he's surer, drops his hands to Patrick's ass and presses, pulls him apart, and Patrick coughs out a moan, "Oh fuck yeah…do that. Fucking touch me there--"
Dean's head's down, he's blinking hard against the water, mouth open so he can breathe and…he's looking--glaring at Patrick's ass like it's fucking math, dick sticking out of the slit of those soaking, see through, boxers. Got his thumbs hooked in Patrick, pulling him wide. He slides a couple of fingers in and Patrick shouts. Too much, too soon.
Sam licks his ash-dry mouth and stammers—"Conditioner. Helps. I. You know--"
Not going to tell Dean he uses it to jerk off in the shower, besides Dean probably knows all about that, and…he looks so fucking stoned…won't meet Sam's eyes, but he nods and squirts conditioner in his hand, on his dick, and Patrick's ass, so much, too much….
Sam thinks, with a wild laugh, they're going to step in slick and break their necks before they can even—Dean shoves his dick in Patrick, one push, so hard and fast that Sam flinches, Patrick yells and there's a wet double smack as his hands hit the wall. Dean's face is twisted in a grimace as much pain as pleasure, and he's cursing.
Sam's never…he didn't know. Patrick's never even hinted he wanted that, and he's never, ever sounded like that, not with Sam. This huge, aching wave builds in his chest, sharp and sparkling and blows through him. It hurts, it's like being on fire inside and choking on it, like but—fuck, he's also harder than he's ever been, ever, and the two kinds of hurt make him wish his heart would just stop already. It's not fair, it's not fair…"Not fucking fair…."
Dean's head jerks up, and at the same moment Patrick howls--he's bent over, slamming back against Dean like he wants him to come out of his throat. Water's splashing everywhere, fucking floor's swimming with it…. Sam's not part of this, he feels dirty watching. Rejected. Dean has no idea he's in the room anymore, and it's Sam's fault. He made this happen…he wipes his hand over his eyes, hard enough to hurt and presses his other hand over his straining dick, palm over the wet spot spreading there, hating. Fuck it. He's leaving, shouldn't be there—he doesn't want to be there. Screw Dean and screw Pat and—
God. Shoves his hand into his shorts.
Fuck, Sam thinks, fuck me. Watches Patrick, the way he scratches at the tile wall, his mouth open and sobbing, his dick swinging with every stuttering lurching fuck into him. He watches Dean, and…Dean looks like he's unraveling, he doesn't look like it's good. He looks on the rough edge of losing it, his lips twisted and pinched red between his teeth, and the awful, raw sounds he's making--Sam screws up his free hand and pressed it in the hollow of his throat so hard, he can barely breathe and when he sucks in air, it sounds like he's sobbing. Dean's head swings towards him like a blind man's, and he calls his name—no, he begs, with his name….
So, Sam reaches out, pulled to Dean like a golem, a puppet, a thing with no choice and no free will and when he gets close, Dean pulls one hand off Patrick like it hurts to do it, grabs Sam by a handful of hair and drags him closer, so quick Sam's afraid he's going to fall into the tub.
The moment Dean has him, pulls him, so hard Sam feels hair popping from his scalp and feels Dean's nails rake his tender scalp, when Dean plants his mouth over his and bites almost as much as he kisses, Sam feels…wild, released, free. Free like finally, *finally* the glass around him is broken and he's breathing for the first time ever. Dean kisses him fiercely, rips at him, gasps in his mouth, vicious and painful, just like Sam's always imagined it would be—Dean fighting him into coming—Sam moans, and Dean jerks all over and comes. He's inside Patrick, coming as he's moaning Sam's name and it's pretty fucking amazing.
Water's still pouring all over everything, Dean's gasping for breath, still deep in Patrick. He licks water off Sam's chin, slides his hand under the wet cotton hiding Sam's dick. Fingertips graze the head, smear a little pre-come around--
Kind of embarrassingly, that's all it takes. Sam clenches all over so hard that his lungs lock up, and his eyes squeeze shut, his lips peel back from his teeth and he's making the most awful sound he's ever produced and it just makes him even hotter. It's wonderful, and scary, and it's the biggest, deepest, hottest, orgasm he's ever had.
When he can breathe again and remember how to open his eyes, he's got his hand clenched around Dean's like it’s a lifeline. Like it's the only real thing in fantasy land. Solid and warm, and slimy with his come…Sam smiles at him. Any minute now Dean's going to lose it, and Sam doesn't give a flying fuck. He's too happy. He has no idea how Patrick feels right now, but he's feeling generous enough to hope it's this good.
He shivers. The fucking water's gone cold….
~~~~~~
Anyway, they end up all three of them in Dad's bed, wrapped up in a nest of towels and sheets and the smell of come, and sweat. They're lying on their sides, barely fitting together on the bed. Patrick's out like he's drugged, so deep in sleep he's snoring….
Dean's got his hands around Sam's face and even though he's so careful, it hurts. But it's okay, it hurts in a good way. Dean's kissing him, kissing slow, deep, trying to touch every place inside. It's the most amazing kiss Sam's ever had and he's not going to think about all the fucking practice Dean's had, just concentrate on this. Dean makes noise kissing, like he's eating something good, pleased little noises, hungry little noises. Hungry little noises from the back of his throat, it goes on and on and Sam's wracked with slow, aching waves of pleasure, building, and building until he feels if Dean just breathes on his dick, he'd come again.
Dean smirks, licks Sam's mouth and says, "Good to be that young, hunh?" and brushes his belly against Sam's dick.
"Fuckin' old man," Sam gasps. It's perfect, and scary. He keeps waiting for the implosion but Dean's just…okay. Fine with it. Sam stops thinking when Dean wraps his hand around his dick, and strokes like he's got all day. Sam's writhing all over the bed, moaning, and kicking Patrick, who sleeps through everything, including Sam screaming into Dean's chest and coming all over him.
part 14
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3872
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
omfg, I've worked on this thing so much, it's like Frankenstein--stitched up from bits and snippets and my increasingly vanilla imagination. Curse my inability to bring the sexual hinkjinks! This is one of those things where I just kind of throw fic down, run and hope for the best. Just trying to get over this hump, as it were. Please enjoy a fresh slice of story.
*chews on fingers*
Lodi
13
The lake is key—it's not likely she wanders too far from the lake, they figure. They head straight to it, and begin searching along the shore, poking around the tree roots and underbrush, poking into little hummocks and between rocks that might hold bones, depressions, sunken spots in the ground that might be graves….
They work their way, as the sun drops, up one side of the lake and then the other. After a while, it's dark enough to use flashlights. The smell of the water is stronger at night, a weird combination of wet bark, locker room and cinnamon…and the light attracts every fucking blood-sucking thing with wings. There's a constant high-pitched whine in his ear, not to mention the low, steady stream of cursing coming from his brother. Dean is getting eaten alive.
At least that makes him smile.
They're not finding signs of anything that might be what they're looking for. What they are finding are tons of non-returnable bottles and cans and Sam just doesn't get it. "Other states have returns, why doesn't this one? What a waste. People say they're recycling—"
And Patrick echoes him, "--they're not recycling—"
Dean whirls around and shines the flashlight right in his eyes. "Shut. Up. Bitches." he hisses, and stomps off, swinging the flashlight over the ground in wide arcs.
"Dick," Sam whispers. Patrick looks at Sam with a little smile and shrugs. He's got an iron crowbar over his shoulder and a salt shaker in his pocket. He looks equally skeptical, and amused, obviously thinking this is the Winchester version of snark-hunting. Sam doesn't speak again, just walks next to him, every once in a while slipping his hand into Patrick's back pocket. Not really copping a feel. Well. Maybe a little.
"What are we looking for, again?" Patrick says, and kind of leans back into the touch of Sam's hand.
"Ghost, female," Sam says, "and it really is serious, Patrick. You have to keep your mind on the hunt. Make sure that you're alert, and not just for supernatural stuff, okay?"
"Then you're gonna have to get your hand out of my pocket and off my butt," Patrick mumbles, and Dean swings around, fixes them both with a basilisk glare. He moves ahead, and Sam pats Patrick on the back and moves up to talk to Dean.
"We're never going to find anything out here in the dark, Dean. We should come back in the day time."
Dean huffs, and finally, nods agreement. "I think we're going to have to go a different avenue all together. We're not going to find anything in the daytime either. Her bones are probably all over the place. What's left of them." Sam figures Dean's thinking the same thing he is, little finger bones spread everywhere, invisible in the mud….
"Um. We might be able to find a spell that'll show us where the bones are…maybe?"
Dean's staring over Sam's shoulder, hasn't heard a word he's said. His eyes are wide, and his face whiter than the weak light accounts for. He breathes, "Shit", so softly Sam can barely hear it. He whirls around….
Patrick is surrounded by a blue light, it arcs and shimmers around him. His head's tilted like he's listening to someone, and he's smiling, like he's hearing something wonderful. He lifts his hand and waves idly at them, his smile growing. He doesn't have the crow bar….
Sam gazes harder into the blue glow, and he begins to see...right. It's her, the Mardi Gras lady. Dean shoves Sam behind him, quick and startling; Sam goes stumbling before he grabs Dean's shoulder. "That's her—that's the ghost."
"Shit," Dean says again. "Fuckin' hippie chick dead girl…"
Patrick walks away but not before giving them a look—a look that makes Sam feel like he's betrayed Patrick in some way-- sad, so deeply sad. Patrick lets the ghost take his hand and they walk away.
Sam is frozen in place. This isn't right—he told Dean she wouldn't take Patrick. She can't be taking Patrick. It's not—that's not what she does, she takes the kids who have no one—unless he was wrong about her motivation--
Dean's already running after them, and somehow he's got a shotgun in his hand—the pistol grip sawed off Sam thought Dad had taken with him. He's running but not fast enough. She's almost at the lake with Pat, whispering in his ear, stroking his shoulder, and Pat's nodding, walking into the water, slowly but surely walking himself under the surface. She kisses his cheek, and Sam can see his eyes are closed, still smiling—fuck, he looks *happy*. Her hand tightens on Patrick's shoulder and now he's in water up to his chest and sinking under the weight of her hand and Dean fires.
*Brahm*. The sound echoes, she flickers, she's gone….
Dean and Sam drag Patrick out of the water, he's confused, coughing and calling for his mom, and fighting them, trying to get back in the lake…that makes Sam want to throw up, or spit, or—or punch Dean in his head, just keep punching and punching…
"Okay, okay," he hears Dean yelling, "I get it! Punch me after we get Pat out, damn it."
They pin Patrick down on the bank until he stops flailing about. He's okay, just wet, and freaked, disoriented. Dean jumps into the water, dips under a few times before coming up and sitting with them on the bank. "I can't see shit. We'll come back--*I'll* come back--tomorrow and check around. She's under there somewhere." His teeth are chattering. "Damn, water's cold as a bitch…."
"You won't be able to see shit even in the daytime—that water's too dark. Besides, if her bones are in there, they're spread all over the bottom of that lake. It's got to be about forty years gone by, you think?"
Dean nods. "Forty at least—head band and love beads? This poor bitch has been waiting a pretty long time…and you're right. We won’t get her bones. I was just hoping it would be simple." He shakes his head. "Might be there's a ritual for this, an exorcism? She's doesn't seem to be a vengeful spirit—more confused, hanh?"
Patrick sits up slowly while Dean's talking, is looking at him, with a kind of dawning horror. "You used me. You used me like—cheese for a rat."
"Dude, don't be stupid. We wouldn't…" Dean sounds pissed off, but he's not looking in Patrick's eyes. That's one of his tells and Sam knows, Patrick knows that, too.
Patrick is staring at Dean. "No. You knew…you knew she wouldn't come for Sam…or you. You're *family*," he spits. He's shaking, shivering so hard his teeth are clacking together painfully loud. Sam holds him, wraps his arms around him—Patrick is freezing.
"Hey, Dean." Sam nudges his brother. "Help me get him in the car—he's shaking to bits." Patrick stutters out bitter laughter, does his best to make it into the car without too much help.
It takes the both of them to get Patrick out of the car; by the time they pull up in the driveway, he's shivering so hard he can barely walk. Sam remembers how cold he'd been after touching the Mardi Gras Lady, how the cold seemed to get worse instead of better, and how a hot shower had helped somewhat—
He tells Dean, and Dean shrugs. "Okay."
Patrick keeps trying to talk, but they won’t let him, they shush him, stagger together up the porch stairs, reeling and slamming against posts and the doorway like bumper cars…
They manhandle him into the bathroom, and Sam says, "Strip him down, I'll get the shower." And Dean just keeps taking orders from Sam, without a word. Patrick tries to stop Dean, but he ignores him, drags Patrick's shirt off. The tee-shirt hits the tiles with a squelch.
"Can you get your shoes off, Pat?" he asks, and Patrick struggles to move—it's like he's still underwater. Dean sighs and says, "Okay, just—hold onto my shoulder, and lift your foot if you can."
It's hard to get the soaking sneakers and socks off, even with Sam helping to hold Patrick up. By the time Dean's done, Patrick's breathing like he's run a race--skin's so blue, it's scary. Sam pulls Patrick up against him, hissing at the chill. He wraps his arms around Pat and wills his heat into him but Patrick, he's trembling so hard Sam almost feels like he's trembling too.
Dean's there too, his arms come up and wrap around Patrick too, surprising Sam and startling Patrick. Patrick looks so confused that Sam grabs Patrick by his ears, and kisses him, has to. It's just a quick press of lips, he doesn't want Dean going all homophobic on him, but Dean surprises him again. "It's okay, you know," he says slowly, "to…kiss. I don’t care. 'sides, he's your…y'know, whatever…" he trails off, but Sam feels the way he does when Dean actually remembers like, his birthday or something—
He kisses Patrick again, and Pat moans, but it's strictly out of pain—the cold's still shredding him to bits, and Dean says, "Hey, come on--gotta get the rest of his shit off and get him in there."
Sam rolls his eyes—didn't he already say that? Problem is, when Dean tries to take Patrick's shorts off, Patrick pushes him away, yelling, "Stop! Stop it!" He glares, shoves Dean hard enough to send him into the sink when he tries again. Dean yelps--curses when his elbow smacks into the sink, but he's trying hard to hold his temper in check. Sam can see that Patrick's not really getting what's happening—like Pat's not fully there.
"Dean…" Sam crowds him back against the sink. "He's not…he's not really fighting *you*."
Dean stiffens against Sam for a second, but relaxes, gives Sam a short, quick nod—he gets it. His eyebrows quirk up—his whole body is broadcasting why me? and Sam has to smile a little. It's always going to be you, dude.
Dean steps out around Sam, and smiles. "Pat! Hey, come on, Pat, it's just us. We're all taking our stuff off, man, relax. Look—I'll go first, okay?" Dean toes his sneakers off, steps back and shoves his shorts down, kicks them out onto the floor with one foot, and whips his shirt over his head. It plops on top of Patrick's tee-shirt, covers it....
Sam takes a deep breath, counts to five and prays for strength, or at least, to not get hard—and shucks off his clothes too. Standing next to Dean, wearing nothing but threadbare boxers with little candy canes all over, he feels stupid, and little, and…cold. Dean holds his hands out wide, does a quick turn and smirks like it's no big deal that he's almost naked, even though his ears are a hot red. "Here we are, nothing to hide, okay? All right, Pat? Now you?"
Patrick nods, tremors making his movements spastic, uncertain. Dean huffs, rolls his eyes. His expression is impatient, but he's very gentle, his hands careful, as he eases Patrick's shorts open. "I'm going to take your shorts off, okay, Pat? Will you help me?" Dean's trying to hold Patrick's eyes; his words are slow and clear, precise. Even his movements are slow and precise, like he' trying to calm a stray dog--one who's not certain if he should bite, or run. Sam's strung out between jealous and turned on. He's pretty sure it's just going to get worse.
As soon as his shorts are off, Patrick turns to Sam. "Sam, don’t leave, okay? Stay here, all right?"
"Not going anywhere, Patrick. I promise. I'm right here."
"She tried to take me." His eyes are huge, and vaguely horrified, like a kid remembering a bad dream. "Cold. Just—so cold inside. Hurts." He slides his hands down his hips and grimaces. His boxers are streaked with slime, and he peels them off. He's naked, shivering, and when he holds his hand out to Sam, it makes his heart break—and the guilt pile up. Patrick is fucking beautiful--slimy, blue, and so fucking scared and he's still beautiful. Dean makes some sound that makes all the hair on Sam's body stand on end, wonder if Dean shares his opinion.
Fuck me, he thinks, and refuses to look at his brother. Instead, he helps Pat step over the edge of the tub, into the spray of steaming water. Patrick yelps and flails, shocked by the heat, struggling to keep his balance on the slick surface—
Sam hears Dean mutter, "Shit," under his breath and then he's stepping in with him, and kind of crowds Pat under the water-- keeps him there. The water, of course, instantly soaks his underwear and turns the cotton transparent. There's an incredible moment of stillness inside Sam's head—and then a sudden explosion of Oh, God, no and Fuck, yes and oh my *God*, yes! No! Because this is like his best fantasy come true. Because Dean is there with him. Because Patrick's naked, and this is the most he's seen of *him* since the first time at the lake. Everything they do happens blind in the dark. Hand-jobs. Sliding against each other mostly clothed. Coming in his shorts. He's never been like this, exposed, naked. Seen. So, it's been equal parts frustrating and pretty good, because any kind of sex is good sex…but all that skin he's not allowed, all that beautiful skin….
"St—starting to warm up some, Sam," Patrick stutters, and tries to smile. Water beads on his lashes, runs into his mouth.
Really. It's fucking unreal. It's cruel, is what it is. Sam hates Dean a little--again. Maybe hates Patrick, too.
Patrick stops talking and concentrates on not slipping--Dean's rubbing him with a washcloth like he's rubbing down a horse, but at least he manages to *sound* gentle. "That's good, Pat. Right Sam?" Dean says. Looks up and meet's Sam's eyes. His hand floats up Pat's side, rubbing wide circles and Patrick shivers, but this an entirely different kind of shiver, one Sam knows. Patrick arches into the touch, when he shivers again his dick flexes, starts to lift…Sam bites down hard on his lip, his fingers twitch.
Dean looks startled, starts to pull back and Patrick grabs his hands. "No, not yet."
"Whoa, whoa, careful, dude. You're going to knock us out of the tub."
Elbows knock against the tile, water splatters all over and Sam's thinking that cleanup is going to be a bitch…wonders about himself, really. Sam pulls himself together, manages to croak, "He ah…he needs more… to get warm." Sam swallows and wipes beads of water off his chest…his feet stick to the wet floor as he moves closer….
"Hunh?" Dean gapes at him, and then his eyebrows draw together, and he's shaking his head--has that look he gets when he's about to "Hell no," something, but Patrick relaxes into Dean's grip, like he trusts him. Dean Lick's his lips, bares his teeth. "Yeah. Okay."
Time stops. Sam thinks what a fucking stupid cliché, but there's no better way to describe it. Time's stopped, and all it will take is one word to make it tick again and everything will be like it was but he can't say it, and that moment passes. Patrick leans back against Dean. Wet, bare skin slides against skin, and it changes everything. Sam sees it, how it changes--in Dean's eyes, the way his fingers flex, the way Patrick moves--
Dean's hand hovers, then lands on Pat's waist, squeezes hard and Patrick moans. Dean glances at Sam before moving his hand up Pat's spine, and then he's using both hands and pulling Patrick against him. Patrick's hard; his dick is straining upwards, bobbing and dipping in the spray and he makes this move that has Sam throbbing…it's like this isn’t Patrick at all, this is some kind of…sex thing, incubus, just…not Patrick. Whatever, it makes Dean jerk, he grunts, the smallest noise, rolls his against the pressure. Patrick sighs Dean's name and asks for more. Dean touches him all over, light, uncertain, fleeting, but when he gets back to Pat's hips, he's surer, drops his hands to Patrick's ass and presses, pulls him apart, and Patrick coughs out a moan, "Oh fuck yeah…do that. Fucking touch me there--"
Dean's head's down, he's blinking hard against the water, mouth open so he can breathe and…he's looking--glaring at Patrick's ass like it's fucking math, dick sticking out of the slit of those soaking, see through, boxers. Got his thumbs hooked in Patrick, pulling him wide. He slides a couple of fingers in and Patrick shouts. Too much, too soon.
Sam licks his ash-dry mouth and stammers—"Conditioner. Helps. I. You know--"
Not going to tell Dean he uses it to jerk off in the shower, besides Dean probably knows all about that, and…he looks so fucking stoned…won't meet Sam's eyes, but he nods and squirts conditioner in his hand, on his dick, and Patrick's ass, so much, too much….
Sam thinks, with a wild laugh, they're going to step in slick and break their necks before they can even—Dean shoves his dick in Patrick, one push, so hard and fast that Sam flinches, Patrick yells and there's a wet double smack as his hands hit the wall. Dean's face is twisted in a grimace as much pain as pleasure, and he's cursing.
Sam's never…he didn't know. Patrick's never even hinted he wanted that, and he's never, ever sounded like that, not with Sam. This huge, aching wave builds in his chest, sharp and sparkling and blows through him. It hurts, it's like being on fire inside and choking on it, like but—fuck, he's also harder than he's ever been, ever, and the two kinds of hurt make him wish his heart would just stop already. It's not fair, it's not fair…"Not fucking fair…."
Dean's head jerks up, and at the same moment Patrick howls--he's bent over, slamming back against Dean like he wants him to come out of his throat. Water's splashing everywhere, fucking floor's swimming with it…. Sam's not part of this, he feels dirty watching. Rejected. Dean has no idea he's in the room anymore, and it's Sam's fault. He made this happen…he wipes his hand over his eyes, hard enough to hurt and presses his other hand over his straining dick, palm over the wet spot spreading there, hating. Fuck it. He's leaving, shouldn't be there—he doesn't want to be there. Screw Dean and screw Pat and—
God. Shoves his hand into his shorts.
Fuck, Sam thinks, fuck me. Watches Patrick, the way he scratches at the tile wall, his mouth open and sobbing, his dick swinging with every stuttering lurching fuck into him. He watches Dean, and…Dean looks like he's unraveling, he doesn't look like it's good. He looks on the rough edge of losing it, his lips twisted and pinched red between his teeth, and the awful, raw sounds he's making--Sam screws up his free hand and pressed it in the hollow of his throat so hard, he can barely breathe and when he sucks in air, it sounds like he's sobbing. Dean's head swings towards him like a blind man's, and he calls his name—no, he begs, with his name….
So, Sam reaches out, pulled to Dean like a golem, a puppet, a thing with no choice and no free will and when he gets close, Dean pulls one hand off Patrick like it hurts to do it, grabs Sam by a handful of hair and drags him closer, so quick Sam's afraid he's going to fall into the tub.
The moment Dean has him, pulls him, so hard Sam feels hair popping from his scalp and feels Dean's nails rake his tender scalp, when Dean plants his mouth over his and bites almost as much as he kisses, Sam feels…wild, released, free. Free like finally, *finally* the glass around him is broken and he's breathing for the first time ever. Dean kisses him fiercely, rips at him, gasps in his mouth, vicious and painful, just like Sam's always imagined it would be—Dean fighting him into coming—Sam moans, and Dean jerks all over and comes. He's inside Patrick, coming as he's moaning Sam's name and it's pretty fucking amazing.
Water's still pouring all over everything, Dean's gasping for breath, still deep in Patrick. He licks water off Sam's chin, slides his hand under the wet cotton hiding Sam's dick. Fingertips graze the head, smear a little pre-come around--
Kind of embarrassingly, that's all it takes. Sam clenches all over so hard that his lungs lock up, and his eyes squeeze shut, his lips peel back from his teeth and he's making the most awful sound he's ever produced and it just makes him even hotter. It's wonderful, and scary, and it's the biggest, deepest, hottest, orgasm he's ever had.
When he can breathe again and remember how to open his eyes, he's got his hand clenched around Dean's like it’s a lifeline. Like it's the only real thing in fantasy land. Solid and warm, and slimy with his come…Sam smiles at him. Any minute now Dean's going to lose it, and Sam doesn't give a flying fuck. He's too happy. He has no idea how Patrick feels right now, but he's feeling generous enough to hope it's this good.
He shivers. The fucking water's gone cold….
Anyway, they end up all three of them in Dad's bed, wrapped up in a nest of towels and sheets and the smell of come, and sweat. They're lying on their sides, barely fitting together on the bed. Patrick's out like he's drugged, so deep in sleep he's snoring….
Dean's got his hands around Sam's face and even though he's so careful, it hurts. But it's okay, it hurts in a good way. Dean's kissing him, kissing slow, deep, trying to touch every place inside. It's the most amazing kiss Sam's ever had and he's not going to think about all the fucking practice Dean's had, just concentrate on this. Dean makes noise kissing, like he's eating something good, pleased little noises, hungry little noises. Hungry little noises from the back of his throat, it goes on and on and Sam's wracked with slow, aching waves of pleasure, building, and building until he feels if Dean just breathes on his dick, he'd come again.
Dean smirks, licks Sam's mouth and says, "Good to be that young, hunh?" and brushes his belly against Sam's dick.
"Fuckin' old man," Sam gasps. It's perfect, and scary. He keeps waiting for the implosion but Dean's just…okay. Fine with it. Sam stops thinking when Dean wraps his hand around his dick, and strokes like he's got all day. Sam's writhing all over the bed, moaning, and kicking Patrick, who sleeps through everything, including Sam screaming into Dean's chest and coming all over him.
part 14
TBC