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roxyTitle: Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 4496
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
I got talky in this bit. I thought about cutting it, but then, it's been so long since I last posted this, I thought maybe ya'll would like a bigger chunk. Again, blaming the cut text on my beloved. ;)
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
"Hey…" Sam eases himself down on the bed next to Jess, runs his palm over Jess' hip, enjoying the silky-smooth, warm curve. "Sleepy?"
"Yes, damn it, I can hardly keep my eyes open."
"Oh!" Sam goes to move his hand and Jess grabs it back.
"Oh, no you don’t—I'm never that tired." Sam laughs, and Jess crinkles up with a bright smile, looking not a bit sleepy. "But if I close my eyes, and if you hear snoring, just ignore it…."
Sam laughs harder, burrows into Jess' neck, as always a little bit surprised at how smooth it is, how baby-fine the skin feels in his favorite spot right under Jess' chin. Smiles at himself—he's come to like that. "Okay," he murmurs, in between little kisses, "but it'll be a little like necrophilia, won't it, you lying all still and…quiet." He worms a hand under Jess' shirt, and bunches his fingers in the hem, scratching softly at warm smooth skin.
"Kinky—no, wait—actually, that's kind of gross. And yeah--somehow, I don't think we have to worry about me being quiet, sweetheart." Jess spread his arms with a wide smile. "Take it off, big boy."
"Ick. Never say that again, hear?" Sam sits up, straddles Jess' hips and slowly shoves the worn, thin material of the shirt up his body. Jess is small compared to Sam, small compared to Dean, lithe and compact, and golden all over. He's got the muscles of a swimmer, and at first had seemed so thin to Sam but now…Sam strokes his chest, thumbs his nipples. Traces the tattoo circling his navel. "Yeah," he breathes and yanks the hem upward.
Jess snickers and rolls his shoulders up, going with the motion of Sam working his t-shirt over his head and off, laughs at Sam's triumphant grin. Sam works it, whirls the shirt over his head, flings it into a corner with a little bump and grind.
Jess smirks, "Bring it on, Kansas," then follows that wicked look with a pout. "Kiss," he demands, and Sam brushes shaggy, twisted blonde curls off his face, mutters into Jess' cheek, "You need a haircut, babe, can't see your eyes…"
Jess growls and reaches up; he grabs a handful of Sam's own unruly bangs and pulls him down for a kiss. As fierce as the grab is, the kiss itself is kind of sweet, slow, thorough; the way Sam likes it…the way Patrick taught him. Jess' lips are as full and as soft as (Dean's) Patrick's, he likes sucking Jess' bottom lip in and nibbling, biting and licking the hurt away…like berries, sweet and full of juice…Jess moans, pulls Sam down on top of him. "Hurts…"
Sam pulls away." Really? Sorr—"
"Not really," he grins against Sam's mouth. "Do it again—harder."
Sam growls and bites down, tugs until Jess moans out loud, and licks, kisses his swollen lip until he purrs. "Kinky, yourself," Sam smirks.
"Ummmm-hum." Jess wiggles, getting his hands between Sam and himself, shoves his shorts and boxers down. Sam groans, flexes hard. Jess presses up against him. His dick is hard, and silky hot against Sam's belly. Sam rolls his hips against Jess until his own dick is steel hard, aching to get out of his jeans, and Jess yanks them down.
"Ouch!" Sam glares at him and rubs the red streaks on his thighs.
Jess rolls his eyes and bats at Sam's hands. "You didn't feel that, big baby. Swear, I've never met anyone as tender as you, the slightest little scratch and you're crying…" Jess crinkles his eyes at Sam, and then looks him over, his fingers drifting lightly over scars, dimples in Sam's flesh…"so how does such a big crybaby manage to have so many scars...?"
Sam grabs Jess' fingers and sucks on them, tickling between them with his tongue, nibbling at the pads until Jess is giggling and moaning at the same time. Sam lets them drop out of his mouth dripping wet. "Fuck me," he says, and Jess' eyes go dark.
"God, yes…"
Sam slides down and takes Jess' dick into his mouth, running his tongue along the velvet smooth curve, looping around the crown, teasing his tongue into the slit and sucking out every bit of taste--clean skin, with a hint of soap…a taste like the sweet-salt of blood, and almost as thick…Sam loses himself in sucking until Jess grabs his hair—
"Hey, unless you want the show to end here, you gotta let up, Kansas."
"Okay...okay...just…you taste so good, I can't help it."
Jess grins. "I know." He pushes Sam to his back and spreads his legs, to look, and touch, and Sam lets him; for these few minutes, he enjoys being treasured.
"God, you…you're…perfect." Jess strokes and touches him, teases him until Sam is twisting, trying to capture Jess' fingers, begging for him to open him, push inside. Shivers take him when Jess finally does—he loves the feel of his fingers fucking him open, sliding inside, loves the little burn and how it shifts into a wave of warmth, loves the electric sizzle that dances through him when Jess hits the right spot inside…he loves it all.
Sam's panting by the time Jess lifts his legs over his thighs and slides inside of him in one long push. Sam throws his head back, his arms going up and crossing over his face—he cries out, "fuck," and jerks against air….
"Hey, hey, sweetheart, look at me. I know you don't—look at me, okay?"
Sam pulls his arms down and forces his eyes open. Jess, Jess, this is Jess, he loves Jess, "love you—" he gasps.
"I know you do. I love you too," he replies and groans, "gotta move, okay?" And surges up, up, until Sam feels like he's hanging in midair, burning, burning…
In his mind, it's always Dean—it's why he has to close his eyes. He loves Jess, he really does—he makes him happy and helps to fill the empty spaces left behind when he excised that Winchester stuff. But…there's still a Dean shaped hole nothing can ever fill, so he dreams…imagines Dean is happy to be with him, wants him. Dean is sliding into him and praying, thankful for this, thankful that they can be together like this…Dean's long hand is wrapped around his dick and knows just the right way to touch him, how tight he wants it, how fast…Sam groans, bits his lip. Jess, Dean, they flash together in his head until he's really not sure who's fucking him…Jess' voice calls out his name, Sam opens his eyes again and tears spill out.
"Oh, Sam, Sam…" Jess throws his head back, he shakes, groans with the intensity of orgasm…Sam can feel Jess flex inside him, he comes hard with him, biting his lip all the while, keeping his mouth closed tight.
After, cleaned up and relaxed, Sam rubs Jess's shoulder, gently stroking him into sleep. Smiles when he mutters and huffs and turns into Sam, curling like a kitten against him. Sam holds Jess, and murmuring stories quietly under his breath until he passes into sleep too.
He knocks on the door. It swings open and Dean's standing there, big grin on his face, skin glowing in soft candlelight that fills the apartment behind him. "Hey, we were waiting for you."
Sam puts his backpack down right inside the door and grabs Dean in a hug, pushes him back and stares, avidly raking him with his eyes. "God, you look good. Where is he?"
"In the kitchen. Waiting for you. But first—" Dean reaches out and touches him, fingertips soft as silk, stroke his cheek…"love you babe, missed you a lot--you know that right? Love you…."
~~~o0o~~~
Dean wakes up to Pat kneeling at the side of his bed, and for a moment, he's lost in dreams—he reaches out and touches Pat's cheek. It's soft as a peach, warm. His fingers curl around the curve of it, fingertips brush over the tiny, fine hairs there. It's nice. "Hey…"
"Dude, wake up," Pat says, and taps him on the arm, real gentle. "Wake up."
Dean blinks hard, and fakes that he'd been sleeping when he curved his fingers around Pat's cheek. "Wha—time already? Okay, fuck, I'm up."
Pat stands up and hunches over the crooked little table in the room, doing something…Dean smells coffee at the same time Pat turns with a take out cup in his hand.
"Thanks." He takes it, and drinks deep, groaning. Nothing like coffee in the morning to let you know you didn’t die in the night. Pat smiles at him. He's been entirely too happy since they talked to this Alex dude. Dean shakes his head. Yeah, and it was his business to worry about it how? Right. "Time for a shower?" he grumbles and Pat shakes his head no. "Shit. Okay."
Fifteen minutes later, they're standing in the motel lot, and here comes Dad, bearing down on them. His eyes take inventory quick as lightening. Pat— from the machete he's got hanging from a belt-loop and his little Glock tucked up in his waistband, plus the silver knives he'd taken with a frown. Dean watches his dad's eyes sweep over him, checking out the modified bag with gasoline, holy water just in case, sitting between his feet. He nods once, his eyes flicking over Dean's waist. Dad knows he's got his Colt--of course. He pats his pocket again, making sure for the tenth time the Zippo's in there. No good going to a party without party favors. He grins at Dad and Dad smirks back before his face goes blank—all business.
His dad's ready to war. He's got the Mossberg, along with iron and silver shot—"just in case" he'd said, and his Desert Eagle, because the thing will stop a crazed bear—hell, Dean blew a wyvern into kibbles and bits with it, and those bitches are armored like tanks. It's a good piece but still….
Dean's feeling bitter, and trying hard not to show it, but he thinks it's ridiculous that Dad's wasting the extra firepower he could provide. Sending him out with Pat, looking for something that's just not important, s'fucking busy work. What's important is nailing the warg; they can look for the fucking skin later. And like Dad's got ESP, his eyes shoot over to Dean; lock with his. "You got your part in this, right Dean?"
"Yes sir." What else can he say? Fucking Sam. Ever since he left, Dad's doing his best to shield Dean—god damn it. That's why he tries to hunt on his own, because Dad's driving him nuts with this. Doesn't he trust him not to get killed—doesn’t he *trust* him?
Pat makes a noise and Dean looks over at him. His eyebrows are asking if he's okay. Dean gives him a quick sharp nod. Yes. Fine.
The look John gives Pat makes Dean's chest burn. Damn it. Dad's testing this guy, that's what he's doing…Dean feels like Dad's checking Pat out, maybe thinking…if Dean leaves….
Dean shakes himself. Thinking like that is distracting and distraction will get you killed. He takes a deep breath and works hard to put himself in the space he needs to be. A job is a job. You do it and that's it. So. He's gonna find the fucking hell out of that fuckin' skin.
John moves past him and grabs his collar, whispers, "Don’t kid yourself boy—no job is simple and safe--no job. Be on point." He's in the front seat of the Impala before Dean can even inhale and Pat—Pat jumps in the back. Good. He'd have choked him if he'd grabbed shotgun.
~~~o0o~~~
It's a nice night—cool, with a little bit of a breeze, and Dean curses that. It shifts the leaves and small branches so there's almost constant noise. There are other constant noises—animals, distant traffic--so he stands still, concentrating as the sounds wash over him until he knows what to ignore. He sees Pat looking at him kind of oddly. S'okay, he'll get it, some day soon. He's not bad now, though. Pat smiles at him and Dean fights returning it, scowls back. Get to work. Pat rolls his eyes and walks off.
Dean walks behind him, eyes on the thick braid falling down Pat's back. He wastes long moments thinking about braids and holding on and yanking…he likes a chick with braided hair, and it's just…it's not Pat's hair he's thinking about, that braid just reminds him of other times—Dean stumbles a bit over a root growing close to the surface. Patrick turns and raises an eyebrow.
"Really, dude? You're going to stumble around in the woods and make noise like dinner?"
"Shut up." Sounded just like Sam right there—bitch bitch bitch. Dean notices Pat is actually really good at this—he moves through branches and scrub like he's made of fog. Silent. Weird for a guy that big, to be able to move so softly…where did he learn to do that, Dean wonders….
They're working the area that they first saw the thing, walking it in a loose kind of grid. After a while, it's too quite, and Dean starts muttering, "Why didn't he stick with us? What makes him think it just won’t eat us and then go after him? Man, I feel like it's freakin' Thanksgiving and I gotta sit at the kiddies table."
Pat screws up his face and shoots Dean a sour look. "Fuck you, simple-ass bastard."
"Fuck you back. I'm just sayin'. Feel like bait…I mean if we need to be, fine…besides, what makes him think Wolfie's gonna go after him instead of us, hunh? It's stupid—and dangerous…"
"Blood." Pat says, like he's adding it to his grocery list.
"What?"
"He put blood on himself. Didn't you smell it?"
"Fucking hell!" Dean's so mad he's vibrating—pissed at Dad for being stupid, pissed at Pat for being so calm about it. "He's going to kill himself!"
"No, he's not," Pat says. He fingers something in his pocket, pulls it out and brushes it against his mouth. A rosary, an old one, made of glass beads and silver, looks like. He flicks a look at Dean and slides it back into the pocket he took it from. Hesitates, with a kind of guilty look, that makes Dean want to check what else he's got in that pocket.
"What, you're Catholic?"
Pat shrugs. "More or less. Come on—you start over here and I'll go that way."
Dean pushes past Pat, scanning the trees and feeling like a damn idiot, walking with his head to the sky. Skin, loose, empty…gross, so fucking gross. Anything that can slide out of one skin like that and into another is the definition of unnatural. And this fucker binding itself to something as evil as the thing that killed his mom—something like that needed to be dead. In his head he can hear Sammy arguing with him about that and he smiles.
He takes another stroll along his end of the grid. Through the leaves he can see Pat work his side. Pat's looking up into the trees, into the brush, along the ground, so serious, Dean thinks. It reminds him of Pat long ago. He fingers the carefully wrapped bit of wolf's bane both of them are carrying and moves deeper into the trees. Little drops rain down on him. well, that's just great. That's just what he needs to make this a perfect night. Looking for the skin of something he hopes isn't going to kill him and doing it in the rain, yay. He can feel drops spatter his hair and wipes his hand across his face and stares at his palm…"What the fucking fuck…?"
Pat whips his head Dean's way and yelps, points over his head and of course Dean lifts his head—and gets a thick drop of bloody mucous right between the eyes.
There's s deflated person over his head, draped around a tree branch….
"You got it, Dean!" Pat whisper-shouts, as excited as if Dean'd just found a good prize in his Cracker-Jacks, instead of a nasty stinking piece of supernatural shit. "Pull it down and rub that stuff on it."
He jumps and catches a deflated foot in his hand, fights to control the gag forcing itself out of his throat. Not gonna throw up in front of Pat, hell no. He yanks hard, and jerks back, surprised--the skin flops to the ground. It hits with an unpleasant wet sound. Rolls when it hits and the thing ends up on its back—Dean takes another step back and grimaces. "Fuck me…"
It's female, the skin. Breasts and bright red pubic hair, looking pasted on the empty, rubbery looking hide. The face is concave, smeared with mucus and blood and horribly, stuck in the face are flat, glassy blue eyes…why the fuck are there eyes in the thing--? "Geez, Pat, come look at this, it's…creepy. How the fuck does it get inside of this thing again? Magic—that's why we don't fuck with it. It's nasty." Dean shudders, and fishes 'that stuff' out of his pocket.
There's a long weeping slit running from the red hair in its crotch to right under its throat. "Fucking looks like zombie Gumby time, man—" He shakes himself and crouches, and rubs the bits of wolf's bane over the skin. 'You only need to touch it', he remembers that guy Alex saying but he rubs it all over anyway, and for good measure tosses the bits inside the skin, and wipes his hand on his thigh. "Got it, dude—"
The dark under the trees behind Pat shatters.
Pat doesn't even waste time looking behind himself, at the first crack of twigs and rustle of leaves, he jerks forward, running for Dean and he would have made it but that braid—the warg grabs that long black braid and yanks—
Pain rips over his skull and at first he thinks he's being scalped, that the thing wants to tear his hair from his head. He feels the hand—paw—fist more of the braid. He's pressed up against a huge furred chest, heat envelopes him, the smell—dead things and wet dog—fills his nose, his mouth. It yanks again and his head is on its shoulder, his neck arched and Patrick waits for the clash of teeth meeting in his throat.
It speaks. He hears it, in his ears and in his head. "Tha' pretty boy ya love is comin' for yer and killin' everythin' ya have, jus' 'cause he can, for fun," it slurs through a mouth not made for speech. It laughs. "Wadin' in their blood and keepin' yer alive to watch. Know why? Make ya hurt, like him. Run, hunter, future's comin'…"
Hot saliva runs over his cheek and Patrick can't stop himself from screaming. He rips the machete out of its scabbard and brings it down behind his back and screams again. A white-hot line of pain erupts on his shoulder but the grip is gone and he runs like crazy--
~~~o0o~~~
It looks to Dean like the thing is tasting Pat, and at first he's frozen in the bitch's grip--Dean figures poor Pat's paralyzed with fear, and shit, he can't fault him for that. And then, Pat's screaming like the thing is eating him, but he's moving too--jerking in it's grip, trying hard to get free. Dean dances from one side to the other but he can't get a shot off without hitting Pat. Pat whirls the machete out of its scabbard, it's flashing in his hand, and chops at the warg. He lets out another scream, lunges forward and the warg lets him go—Dean swears the bitch is laughing. It's not going after Pat. In fact it looks like it's about to leave—until it sees Dean with it's skin.
"No—" the sound rises and cracks, it turns into a howl that lifts all the hair on Dean's body, and then, the thing leaps for him, those wide shoulders spread like wings, flying right over Pat.
Dean's on the edge of frantic, he's upending the gas container over the skin, fumbling the Zippo out of his pocket and he can hear the thing's harsh breath, hear it growl, "no, yer don'"
It slams into him, knocking the wind out of him. Wiry hair scratches over his face, claws push through his jacket and shred it. He starts praying for…something. Swings at it and yells, "You *bitch*! You know how hard it is to get a field jacket like this anymore?"
"Get off him, you fucker!" Pat, swinging his machete, slices right into the warg. Bitter hot blood spatters Dean's face, and the thing swings on Pat. Dean hears the claws rip into Pat, feels more blood splash him…the warg knocks Pat across the path, and goes after him. Pain's turned off any humanity lurking in it, now it was just a supernatural creature wanting to get back at what had hurt it. Dean's flicking and flicking the lighter's thumbwheel, cursing, screaming at the lighter, the warg--
Two things happen. A shotgun blast explodes the night, so close it feels like it's going off by his ear, and the Zippo flares. Finally. He drops it on the skin. The air's split with a scream that Dean wishes he could unhear….
When he gets his eyes open again—no idea when he'd closed them--the warg's clawing at its face, ripping hair and skin away, screaming and screaming. His dad's staring at the two of them, mouth open and his gun still pointed at where the warg had been standing. Dean can't remember the last time he's seen his dad so completely stunned. Some other time, it'd even be funny.
Pat's got that Sammy BitchFace on, beat up but determined. He flings something at the warg, looks like whatever it is goes right into it's bloody red maw. The warg drops like a stone—slams into the ground. It arches, huge clawed feet drum at the ground and Dean watches as it rips it's own throat open. "Whoa…wolf's bane…ni-iice."
That's it. It's over. There's a dead beast on the forest floor in front of Pat, and the skin is twisting and burning behind Dean…he turns and the skin flops and Dean sees the face, the long hair catching and crisping…the skin curls in on itself and collapses into ashes. The breeze catches up the ashes and fling them into the air.
Dean looks to his dad. "So…what happened?"
His dad takes moment before he answers. "Looks like you guys killed it," he says.
There's a long, hot minute as the air between them shimmers, lots of things going unsaid, but the look grows…Dad blinks. "Good job."
"Patrick did most of the work—Pat?"
Pat's sitting on the ground, a big grin splitting his face. Blood's slopped over his neck and cheek. His arm is in his lap, racked by spasms. "Can't stop it," he says, the grin shaking, and Dean understands it's made of pain.
Between Dean and his dad, they manage to stuff Pat in the car, and Dad tells him he's going to drop them off at the motel and go back, look for the warg's clothing, whatever else of her he can find out there, and Dean just nods and nods. He's bone tired, knows Dad has to be too, but he's willing to go to the motel while Dad searches…feels a quick stab of guilt about letting him go it alone, but lets it go.
Pat's leaning against him, shivering and that's when he realizes—the blood all over Pat's neck and back isn't just the warg's…chopped off, uneven strands of his hair are everywhere.
When he gets Pat into the room, and pulls his jacket off, he finds a long shallow cut angling down one shoulder, the cut he made getting free of the warg. There are puncture wounds on the other shoulder and bruises all over him. He's biting his lip and shaking. He rolls his eyes to Dean and says, "Hurts. A lot."
"Yeah, I know…let's get your stuff off."
"It…she talked to me." Pat's shaking so hard, Dean thinks maybe he's hallucinating a bit.
"Yeah? What'd she say?"
"She…she said…I'm not sure what she said, what it meant." Pat stares into Dean's eyes then looks away. "Don’t know."
Looking into Pat's eyes, it's obvious that whatever the hell he thinks the thing had said, Pat was lying about not getting it. So what the hell *did* the thing say? Whatever it'd said must have been--"What about it, Pat? What do you think she said?" Dean nudges him until Pat sighs.
"She said, the future's coming. Obvious, right? No idea what that meant."
"Future's coming?" Dean pours saline solution into the gash on Pat's back. "Thanks, Miss Cleo…." Pat jumps and curses, grabs handfuls of the sheet and grunts when Dean presses a gauze pad down on the wound.
"It's not bad." He's looking at Pat's back, wide, thick with muscle, and so different than…the last time he'd seen Pat, he was thin, boyish and now, here he was, a grown man. The jagged ends of his hair are tumbled around his shoulders, all long and short, looking torn. Dean touches the hair, pulls his fingers through it and says, "I'm sorry."
"What, are you kidding? Every time I survive, it's a lesson learned. Long hair—fucking dangerous. On the job learning, that's me." He laughs, weak, thin, and Dean strokes the back of his neck.
"I think you need a coupla stitches, okay? It's really not too bad," he repeats. Considering what could have gone wrong, he thinks.
"Okay," Pat says, and bends his neck, and it's so…trusting, it puts a knot in Dean's throat. He makes sure the wound is clean, cups the back of Pat's head. "Ready right?"
Pat nods, and Dean gets to work. He tries to keep the stitches neat, and even as possible, so Pat doesn't end up looking like a quilt…but he will anyway. Nothing to be done about it.
By the time Dean's done, Pat looks pale and wrung out. Dean helps him out of the rest of his clothes, lays him out in the bed. When he wants to move away, Pat grabs his hand. "Please sit with me, just 'til I fall asleep…."
"Sure, Pat." He sits back down and Pat holds his hand tight. After a moment, he leans into Dean, head on his thigh. Before Dean can shift, Pat's out. Sound asleep. Dean leans his head back against the headboard. Closes his eyes and runs his fingers through Pat's hair, over and over, threading them though the chopped up ends.
part11
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 4496
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
I got talky in this bit. I thought about cutting it, but then, it's been so long since I last posted this, I thought maybe ya'll would like a bigger chunk. Again, blaming the cut text on my beloved. ;)
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
"Hey…" Sam eases himself down on the bed next to Jess, runs his palm over Jess' hip, enjoying the silky-smooth, warm curve. "Sleepy?"
"Yes, damn it, I can hardly keep my eyes open."
"Oh!" Sam goes to move his hand and Jess grabs it back.
"Oh, no you don’t—I'm never that tired." Sam laughs, and Jess crinkles up with a bright smile, looking not a bit sleepy. "But if I close my eyes, and if you hear snoring, just ignore it…."
Sam laughs harder, burrows into Jess' neck, as always a little bit surprised at how smooth it is, how baby-fine the skin feels in his favorite spot right under Jess' chin. Smiles at himself—he's come to like that. "Okay," he murmurs, in between little kisses, "but it'll be a little like necrophilia, won't it, you lying all still and…quiet." He worms a hand under Jess' shirt, and bunches his fingers in the hem, scratching softly at warm smooth skin.
"Kinky—no, wait—actually, that's kind of gross. And yeah--somehow, I don't think we have to worry about me being quiet, sweetheart." Jess spread his arms with a wide smile. "Take it off, big boy."
"Ick. Never say that again, hear?" Sam sits up, straddles Jess' hips and slowly shoves the worn, thin material of the shirt up his body. Jess is small compared to Sam, small compared to Dean, lithe and compact, and golden all over. He's got the muscles of a swimmer, and at first had seemed so thin to Sam but now…Sam strokes his chest, thumbs his nipples. Traces the tattoo circling his navel. "Yeah," he breathes and yanks the hem upward.
Jess snickers and rolls his shoulders up, going with the motion of Sam working his t-shirt over his head and off, laughs at Sam's triumphant grin. Sam works it, whirls the shirt over his head, flings it into a corner with a little bump and grind.
Jess smirks, "Bring it on, Kansas," then follows that wicked look with a pout. "Kiss," he demands, and Sam brushes shaggy, twisted blonde curls off his face, mutters into Jess' cheek, "You need a haircut, babe, can't see your eyes…"
Jess growls and reaches up; he grabs a handful of Sam's own unruly bangs and pulls him down for a kiss. As fierce as the grab is, the kiss itself is kind of sweet, slow, thorough; the way Sam likes it…the way Patrick taught him. Jess' lips are as full and as soft as (Dean's) Patrick's, he likes sucking Jess' bottom lip in and nibbling, biting and licking the hurt away…like berries, sweet and full of juice…Jess moans, pulls Sam down on top of him. "Hurts…"
Sam pulls away." Really? Sorr—"
"Not really," he grins against Sam's mouth. "Do it again—harder."
Sam growls and bites down, tugs until Jess moans out loud, and licks, kisses his swollen lip until he purrs. "Kinky, yourself," Sam smirks.
"Ummmm-hum." Jess wiggles, getting his hands between Sam and himself, shoves his shorts and boxers down. Sam groans, flexes hard. Jess presses up against him. His dick is hard, and silky hot against Sam's belly. Sam rolls his hips against Jess until his own dick is steel hard, aching to get out of his jeans, and Jess yanks them down.
"Ouch!" Sam glares at him and rubs the red streaks on his thighs.
Jess rolls his eyes and bats at Sam's hands. "You didn't feel that, big baby. Swear, I've never met anyone as tender as you, the slightest little scratch and you're crying…" Jess crinkles his eyes at Sam, and then looks him over, his fingers drifting lightly over scars, dimples in Sam's flesh…"so how does such a big crybaby manage to have so many scars...?"
Sam grabs Jess' fingers and sucks on them, tickling between them with his tongue, nibbling at the pads until Jess is giggling and moaning at the same time. Sam lets them drop out of his mouth dripping wet. "Fuck me," he says, and Jess' eyes go dark.
"God, yes…"
Sam slides down and takes Jess' dick into his mouth, running his tongue along the velvet smooth curve, looping around the crown, teasing his tongue into the slit and sucking out every bit of taste--clean skin, with a hint of soap…a taste like the sweet-salt of blood, and almost as thick…Sam loses himself in sucking until Jess grabs his hair—
"Hey, unless you want the show to end here, you gotta let up, Kansas."
"Okay...okay...just…you taste so good, I can't help it."
Jess grins. "I know." He pushes Sam to his back and spreads his legs, to look, and touch, and Sam lets him; for these few minutes, he enjoys being treasured.
"God, you…you're…perfect." Jess strokes and touches him, teases him until Sam is twisting, trying to capture Jess' fingers, begging for him to open him, push inside. Shivers take him when Jess finally does—he loves the feel of his fingers fucking him open, sliding inside, loves the little burn and how it shifts into a wave of warmth, loves the electric sizzle that dances through him when Jess hits the right spot inside…he loves it all.
Sam's panting by the time Jess lifts his legs over his thighs and slides inside of him in one long push. Sam throws his head back, his arms going up and crossing over his face—he cries out, "fuck," and jerks against air….
"Hey, hey, sweetheart, look at me. I know you don't—look at me, okay?"
Sam pulls his arms down and forces his eyes open. Jess, Jess, this is Jess, he loves Jess, "love you—" he gasps.
"I know you do. I love you too," he replies and groans, "gotta move, okay?" And surges up, up, until Sam feels like he's hanging in midair, burning, burning…
In his mind, it's always Dean—it's why he has to close his eyes. He loves Jess, he really does—he makes him happy and helps to fill the empty spaces left behind when he excised that Winchester stuff. But…there's still a Dean shaped hole nothing can ever fill, so he dreams…imagines Dean is happy to be with him, wants him. Dean is sliding into him and praying, thankful for this, thankful that they can be together like this…Dean's long hand is wrapped around his dick and knows just the right way to touch him, how tight he wants it, how fast…Sam groans, bits his lip. Jess, Dean, they flash together in his head until he's really not sure who's fucking him…Jess' voice calls out his name, Sam opens his eyes again and tears spill out.
"Oh, Sam, Sam…" Jess throws his head back, he shakes, groans with the intensity of orgasm…Sam can feel Jess flex inside him, he comes hard with him, biting his lip all the while, keeping his mouth closed tight.
After, cleaned up and relaxed, Sam rubs Jess's shoulder, gently stroking him into sleep. Smiles when he mutters and huffs and turns into Sam, curling like a kitten against him. Sam holds Jess, and murmuring stories quietly under his breath until he passes into sleep too.
He knocks on the door. It swings open and Dean's standing there, big grin on his face, skin glowing in soft candlelight that fills the apartment behind him. "Hey, we were waiting for you."
Sam puts his backpack down right inside the door and grabs Dean in a hug, pushes him back and stares, avidly raking him with his eyes. "God, you look good. Where is he?"
"In the kitchen. Waiting for you. But first—" Dean reaches out and touches him, fingertips soft as silk, stroke his cheek…"love you babe, missed you a lot--you know that right? Love you…."
Dean wakes up to Pat kneeling at the side of his bed, and for a moment, he's lost in dreams—he reaches out and touches Pat's cheek. It's soft as a peach, warm. His fingers curl around the curve of it, fingertips brush over the tiny, fine hairs there. It's nice. "Hey…"
"Dude, wake up," Pat says, and taps him on the arm, real gentle. "Wake up."
Dean blinks hard, and fakes that he'd been sleeping when he curved his fingers around Pat's cheek. "Wha—time already? Okay, fuck, I'm up."
Pat stands up and hunches over the crooked little table in the room, doing something…Dean smells coffee at the same time Pat turns with a take out cup in his hand.
"Thanks." He takes it, and drinks deep, groaning. Nothing like coffee in the morning to let you know you didn’t die in the night. Pat smiles at him. He's been entirely too happy since they talked to this Alex dude. Dean shakes his head. Yeah, and it was his business to worry about it how? Right. "Time for a shower?" he grumbles and Pat shakes his head no. "Shit. Okay."
Fifteen minutes later, they're standing in the motel lot, and here comes Dad, bearing down on them. His eyes take inventory quick as lightening. Pat— from the machete he's got hanging from a belt-loop and his little Glock tucked up in his waistband, plus the silver knives he'd taken with a frown. Dean watches his dad's eyes sweep over him, checking out the modified bag with gasoline, holy water just in case, sitting between his feet. He nods once, his eyes flicking over Dean's waist. Dad knows he's got his Colt--of course. He pats his pocket again, making sure for the tenth time the Zippo's in there. No good going to a party without party favors. He grins at Dad and Dad smirks back before his face goes blank—all business.
His dad's ready to war. He's got the Mossberg, along with iron and silver shot—"just in case" he'd said, and his Desert Eagle, because the thing will stop a crazed bear—hell, Dean blew a wyvern into kibbles and bits with it, and those bitches are armored like tanks. It's a good piece but still….
Dean's feeling bitter, and trying hard not to show it, but he thinks it's ridiculous that Dad's wasting the extra firepower he could provide. Sending him out with Pat, looking for something that's just not important, s'fucking busy work. What's important is nailing the warg; they can look for the fucking skin later. And like Dad's got ESP, his eyes shoot over to Dean; lock with his. "You got your part in this, right Dean?"
"Yes sir." What else can he say? Fucking Sam. Ever since he left, Dad's doing his best to shield Dean—god damn it. That's why he tries to hunt on his own, because Dad's driving him nuts with this. Doesn't he trust him not to get killed—doesn’t he *trust* him?
Pat makes a noise and Dean looks over at him. His eyebrows are asking if he's okay. Dean gives him a quick sharp nod. Yes. Fine.
The look John gives Pat makes Dean's chest burn. Damn it. Dad's testing this guy, that's what he's doing…Dean feels like Dad's checking Pat out, maybe thinking…if Dean leaves….
Dean shakes himself. Thinking like that is distracting and distraction will get you killed. He takes a deep breath and works hard to put himself in the space he needs to be. A job is a job. You do it and that's it. So. He's gonna find the fucking hell out of that fuckin' skin.
John moves past him and grabs his collar, whispers, "Don’t kid yourself boy—no job is simple and safe--no job. Be on point." He's in the front seat of the Impala before Dean can even inhale and Pat—Pat jumps in the back. Good. He'd have choked him if he'd grabbed shotgun.
It's a nice night—cool, with a little bit of a breeze, and Dean curses that. It shifts the leaves and small branches so there's almost constant noise. There are other constant noises—animals, distant traffic--so he stands still, concentrating as the sounds wash over him until he knows what to ignore. He sees Pat looking at him kind of oddly. S'okay, he'll get it, some day soon. He's not bad now, though. Pat smiles at him and Dean fights returning it, scowls back. Get to work. Pat rolls his eyes and walks off.
Dean walks behind him, eyes on the thick braid falling down Pat's back. He wastes long moments thinking about braids and holding on and yanking…he likes a chick with braided hair, and it's just…it's not Pat's hair he's thinking about, that braid just reminds him of other times—Dean stumbles a bit over a root growing close to the surface. Patrick turns and raises an eyebrow.
"Really, dude? You're going to stumble around in the woods and make noise like dinner?"
"Shut up." Sounded just like Sam right there—bitch bitch bitch. Dean notices Pat is actually really good at this—he moves through branches and scrub like he's made of fog. Silent. Weird for a guy that big, to be able to move so softly…where did he learn to do that, Dean wonders….
They're working the area that they first saw the thing, walking it in a loose kind of grid. After a while, it's too quite, and Dean starts muttering, "Why didn't he stick with us? What makes him think it just won’t eat us and then go after him? Man, I feel like it's freakin' Thanksgiving and I gotta sit at the kiddies table."
Pat screws up his face and shoots Dean a sour look. "Fuck you, simple-ass bastard."
"Fuck you back. I'm just sayin'. Feel like bait…I mean if we need to be, fine…besides, what makes him think Wolfie's gonna go after him instead of us, hunh? It's stupid—and dangerous…"
"Blood." Pat says, like he's adding it to his grocery list.
"What?"
"He put blood on himself. Didn't you smell it?"
"Fucking hell!" Dean's so mad he's vibrating—pissed at Dad for being stupid, pissed at Pat for being so calm about it. "He's going to kill himself!"
"No, he's not," Pat says. He fingers something in his pocket, pulls it out and brushes it against his mouth. A rosary, an old one, made of glass beads and silver, looks like. He flicks a look at Dean and slides it back into the pocket he took it from. Hesitates, with a kind of guilty look, that makes Dean want to check what else he's got in that pocket.
"What, you're Catholic?"
Pat shrugs. "More or less. Come on—you start over here and I'll go that way."
Dean pushes past Pat, scanning the trees and feeling like a damn idiot, walking with his head to the sky. Skin, loose, empty…gross, so fucking gross. Anything that can slide out of one skin like that and into another is the definition of unnatural. And this fucker binding itself to something as evil as the thing that killed his mom—something like that needed to be dead. In his head he can hear Sammy arguing with him about that and he smiles.
He takes another stroll along his end of the grid. Through the leaves he can see Pat work his side. Pat's looking up into the trees, into the brush, along the ground, so serious, Dean thinks. It reminds him of Pat long ago. He fingers the carefully wrapped bit of wolf's bane both of them are carrying and moves deeper into the trees. Little drops rain down on him. well, that's just great. That's just what he needs to make this a perfect night. Looking for the skin of something he hopes isn't going to kill him and doing it in the rain, yay. He can feel drops spatter his hair and wipes his hand across his face and stares at his palm…"What the fucking fuck…?"
Pat whips his head Dean's way and yelps, points over his head and of course Dean lifts his head—and gets a thick drop of bloody mucous right between the eyes.
There's s deflated person over his head, draped around a tree branch….
"You got it, Dean!" Pat whisper-shouts, as excited as if Dean'd just found a good prize in his Cracker-Jacks, instead of a nasty stinking piece of supernatural shit. "Pull it down and rub that stuff on it."
He jumps and catches a deflated foot in his hand, fights to control the gag forcing itself out of his throat. Not gonna throw up in front of Pat, hell no. He yanks hard, and jerks back, surprised--the skin flops to the ground. It hits with an unpleasant wet sound. Rolls when it hits and the thing ends up on its back—Dean takes another step back and grimaces. "Fuck me…"
It's female, the skin. Breasts and bright red pubic hair, looking pasted on the empty, rubbery looking hide. The face is concave, smeared with mucus and blood and horribly, stuck in the face are flat, glassy blue eyes…why the fuck are there eyes in the thing--? "Geez, Pat, come look at this, it's…creepy. How the fuck does it get inside of this thing again? Magic—that's why we don't fuck with it. It's nasty." Dean shudders, and fishes 'that stuff' out of his pocket.
There's a long weeping slit running from the red hair in its crotch to right under its throat. "Fucking looks like zombie Gumby time, man—" He shakes himself and crouches, and rubs the bits of wolf's bane over the skin. 'You only need to touch it', he remembers that guy Alex saying but he rubs it all over anyway, and for good measure tosses the bits inside the skin, and wipes his hand on his thigh. "Got it, dude—"
The dark under the trees behind Pat shatters.
Pat doesn't even waste time looking behind himself, at the first crack of twigs and rustle of leaves, he jerks forward, running for Dean and he would have made it but that braid—the warg grabs that long black braid and yanks—
Pain rips over his skull and at first he thinks he's being scalped, that the thing wants to tear his hair from his head. He feels the hand—paw—fist more of the braid. He's pressed up against a huge furred chest, heat envelopes him, the smell—dead things and wet dog—fills his nose, his mouth. It yanks again and his head is on its shoulder, his neck arched and Patrick waits for the clash of teeth meeting in his throat.
It speaks. He hears it, in his ears and in his head. "Tha' pretty boy ya love is comin' for yer and killin' everythin' ya have, jus' 'cause he can, for fun," it slurs through a mouth not made for speech. It laughs. "Wadin' in their blood and keepin' yer alive to watch. Know why? Make ya hurt, like him. Run, hunter, future's comin'…"
Hot saliva runs over his cheek and Patrick can't stop himself from screaming. He rips the machete out of its scabbard and brings it down behind his back and screams again. A white-hot line of pain erupts on his shoulder but the grip is gone and he runs like crazy--
It looks to Dean like the thing is tasting Pat, and at first he's frozen in the bitch's grip--Dean figures poor Pat's paralyzed with fear, and shit, he can't fault him for that. And then, Pat's screaming like the thing is eating him, but he's moving too--jerking in it's grip, trying hard to get free. Dean dances from one side to the other but he can't get a shot off without hitting Pat. Pat whirls the machete out of its scabbard, it's flashing in his hand, and chops at the warg. He lets out another scream, lunges forward and the warg lets him go—Dean swears the bitch is laughing. It's not going after Pat. In fact it looks like it's about to leave—until it sees Dean with it's skin.
"No—" the sound rises and cracks, it turns into a howl that lifts all the hair on Dean's body, and then, the thing leaps for him, those wide shoulders spread like wings, flying right over Pat.
Dean's on the edge of frantic, he's upending the gas container over the skin, fumbling the Zippo out of his pocket and he can hear the thing's harsh breath, hear it growl, "no, yer don'"
It slams into him, knocking the wind out of him. Wiry hair scratches over his face, claws push through his jacket and shred it. He starts praying for…something. Swings at it and yells, "You *bitch*! You know how hard it is to get a field jacket like this anymore?"
"Get off him, you fucker!" Pat, swinging his machete, slices right into the warg. Bitter hot blood spatters Dean's face, and the thing swings on Pat. Dean hears the claws rip into Pat, feels more blood splash him…the warg knocks Pat across the path, and goes after him. Pain's turned off any humanity lurking in it, now it was just a supernatural creature wanting to get back at what had hurt it. Dean's flicking and flicking the lighter's thumbwheel, cursing, screaming at the lighter, the warg--
Two things happen. A shotgun blast explodes the night, so close it feels like it's going off by his ear, and the Zippo flares. Finally. He drops it on the skin. The air's split with a scream that Dean wishes he could unhear….
When he gets his eyes open again—no idea when he'd closed them--the warg's clawing at its face, ripping hair and skin away, screaming and screaming. His dad's staring at the two of them, mouth open and his gun still pointed at where the warg had been standing. Dean can't remember the last time he's seen his dad so completely stunned. Some other time, it'd even be funny.
Pat's got that Sammy BitchFace on, beat up but determined. He flings something at the warg, looks like whatever it is goes right into it's bloody red maw. The warg drops like a stone—slams into the ground. It arches, huge clawed feet drum at the ground and Dean watches as it rips it's own throat open. "Whoa…wolf's bane…ni-iice."
That's it. It's over. There's a dead beast on the forest floor in front of Pat, and the skin is twisting and burning behind Dean…he turns and the skin flops and Dean sees the face, the long hair catching and crisping…the skin curls in on itself and collapses into ashes. The breeze catches up the ashes and fling them into the air.
Dean looks to his dad. "So…what happened?"
His dad takes moment before he answers. "Looks like you guys killed it," he says.
There's a long, hot minute as the air between them shimmers, lots of things going unsaid, but the look grows…Dad blinks. "Good job."
"Patrick did most of the work—Pat?"
Pat's sitting on the ground, a big grin splitting his face. Blood's slopped over his neck and cheek. His arm is in his lap, racked by spasms. "Can't stop it," he says, the grin shaking, and Dean understands it's made of pain.
Between Dean and his dad, they manage to stuff Pat in the car, and Dad tells him he's going to drop them off at the motel and go back, look for the warg's clothing, whatever else of her he can find out there, and Dean just nods and nods. He's bone tired, knows Dad has to be too, but he's willing to go to the motel while Dad searches…feels a quick stab of guilt about letting him go it alone, but lets it go.
Pat's leaning against him, shivering and that's when he realizes—the blood all over Pat's neck and back isn't just the warg's…chopped off, uneven strands of his hair are everywhere.
When he gets Pat into the room, and pulls his jacket off, he finds a long shallow cut angling down one shoulder, the cut he made getting free of the warg. There are puncture wounds on the other shoulder and bruises all over him. He's biting his lip and shaking. He rolls his eyes to Dean and says, "Hurts. A lot."
"Yeah, I know…let's get your stuff off."
"It…she talked to me." Pat's shaking so hard, Dean thinks maybe he's hallucinating a bit.
"Yeah? What'd she say?"
"She…she said…I'm not sure what she said, what it meant." Pat stares into Dean's eyes then looks away. "Don’t know."
Looking into Pat's eyes, it's obvious that whatever the hell he thinks the thing had said, Pat was lying about not getting it. So what the hell *did* the thing say? Whatever it'd said must have been--"What about it, Pat? What do you think she said?" Dean nudges him until Pat sighs.
"She said, the future's coming. Obvious, right? No idea what that meant."
"Future's coming?" Dean pours saline solution into the gash on Pat's back. "Thanks, Miss Cleo…." Pat jumps and curses, grabs handfuls of the sheet and grunts when Dean presses a gauze pad down on the wound.
"It's not bad." He's looking at Pat's back, wide, thick with muscle, and so different than…the last time he'd seen Pat, he was thin, boyish and now, here he was, a grown man. The jagged ends of his hair are tumbled around his shoulders, all long and short, looking torn. Dean touches the hair, pulls his fingers through it and says, "I'm sorry."
"What, are you kidding? Every time I survive, it's a lesson learned. Long hair—fucking dangerous. On the job learning, that's me." He laughs, weak, thin, and Dean strokes the back of his neck.
"I think you need a coupla stitches, okay? It's really not too bad," he repeats. Considering what could have gone wrong, he thinks.
"Okay," Pat says, and bends his neck, and it's so…trusting, it puts a knot in Dean's throat. He makes sure the wound is clean, cups the back of Pat's head. "Ready right?"
Pat nods, and Dean gets to work. He tries to keep the stitches neat, and even as possible, so Pat doesn't end up looking like a quilt…but he will anyway. Nothing to be done about it.
By the time Dean's done, Pat looks pale and wrung out. Dean helps him out of the rest of his clothes, lays him out in the bed. When he wants to move away, Pat grabs his hand. "Please sit with me, just 'til I fall asleep…."
"Sure, Pat." He sits back down and Pat holds his hand tight. After a moment, he leans into Dean, head on his thigh. Before Dean can shift, Pat's out. Sound asleep. Dean leans his head back against the headboard. Closes his eyes and runs his fingers through Pat's hair, over and over, threading them though the chopped up ends.
part11
TBC
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
7/29/09 04:02 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/30/09 12:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/29/09 06:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/30/09 12:58 am (UTC)Poor little Patrick, everything happens to him!
(no subject)
7/29/09 07:26 pm (UTC)*sniffles*
And the warg, creepy and *psychic*, or something, just.....gah!!
*shudders*
(no subject)
7/30/09 01:00 am (UTC)Sam! No one cares about poor Sam and what he's going through!
*holds him up for hugs*
(no subject)
7/30/09 04:37 am (UTC)Pat smiles at him and Dean fights returning it, scowls back. Get to work. Pat rolls his eyes and walks off.
And I love that for every time you call me on sneaking in little hints at my various boys' hurt-y pasts (Lin, Jason, Dean, etc.), you do the same! *waggles finger* You're just as cruel to your boys, if not worse sometimes. And I mean that in the best possible way, hon. XD
I tend to forget in between posts how much I dig your writing and storytelling. Part of it is due simply to the fact that you can write anything really well. The inner conflicts of the characters here are boiled down to sentences, but they encapsulate so much tension and feeling. The action is wonderful and spot-on in terms of "mirroring" the show's. God, I envy you.
Although, I'm devastated that Pat's hair had to die. *says O Gentlest heart of Jesus prayer for poor butchered locks* (And I like that you made Pat kinda, sorta Catholic. Lapsed, maybe? There're no atheists in foxholes, and all that. . . XD)
Not the end! Nooooooo! :(
(no subject)
7/31/09 05:05 pm (UTC)Yah. That's a good line. Dean's a little dense, ain't he?
I enjoyed this part. I loves me some Pat n' Dean. And warg is still damn cool.
Luv!
(no subject)
8/4/09 09:18 am (UTC)Nice fight/hunt scene - very visual.
Love these boys!