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Supernatural

Revelations Pt 3

Posted on 2006.05.06 at 17:51

Title: Revelations
Author: warchio
Characters: Dean and Sam
Rated: Adult

Pairing: Dean/Sam in the making

Summary: Dean and Sam are hunting monsters in a small town but their investigation reveals more than one secret..
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or the Winchesters

Authors note: Thanks to penndragon who is an amazing beta and made this story much, much better than it would have been.  Any spelling mistakes or error are mine own and nothing to do with her or her trusty red pen!

The Impala was parked crooked under a tree, the moon reflected in the polished black hood.  Sam popped the trunk and propped it open with the old sawn-off Dean kept for the purpose.  The walnut stock was gouged and chipped and there was a long crack in the barrel.  Dean hadn’t had it when Sam had left, he’d just used an old wrench them.  He’d not told Sam what happened with the sawn-off.

The first aid kit was hooked up at the back of the trunk.  Instead of the usual green plastic with a white cross it was a tightly strapped roll of black leather.  Easier to hide and less conspicuous.  Sam took it out and stuck it under his arm.  Then he grabbed their dad’s journal.

He moved the sawn-off and closed the trunk quietly.  There was no point in drawing any more attention.  Especially with Dean all messed up and pissy.

Something in the forest screamed again.  This time it wasn’t a human scream.

Sam stood there, watching the forest.  He could feel it watching back. 

 

Dean had gotten up while he was gone.  There was water running in the bathroom.  Sam tossed the journal onto the bed and started to unbuckle the kit.  At least this time he could be pretty sure Dean wasn’t jerking off.  Probably.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean came out of the bathroom.  He'd stripped down to his jeans and washed most of the blood from his face and chest.  Both of his shoulders were bruised and scratched from the creature’s talons.  They weren’t bleeding.  The cut on his head still was.  Dean was holding a towel to his forehead, it was already soaked with blood.

“You look like shit,” Sam said.  It was true.  Sam still felt himself harden and had to look away. 

Dean smiled crookedly, careful not to move his forehead on the cut side.  “Feel like it too.  You got any painkillers there?”

Sam unrolled the kit with a snap of his wrist and laid it over the bed.  He took out a bottle of anaesthetic and a syringe.  The tip of the needle pierced the thin metal lid with a pop and a faint hiss.  Sam drew the plunger back and watched the liquid rise carefully.

“I’m going to need to sew you up,” he said.

Dean took the towel away from his forehead.  Blood instantly started to drip from his forehead.  He wrinkled his nose at the bloody towel and tossed it on the floor.  Then he sat down on the end of the bed and tilted his head back.

“No shit,” he said.

“You should go to the hospital,” Sam said.  “I don’t like doing this.  You could get an infection or have an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic or anything.”

“I never have before.  Don’t be such a wuss.  You’re not the one with the gushing head wound.”

Sam snorted.  “If I was, I’d be at the hospital.”

He walked over to the bed, angled Dean’s head and carefully started to inject the local anaesthetic around the edges of the cut.  Dean hissed at the first pinprick and then clenched his jaw stoically.

“Liar,” he said, between injections.

Sam paused, the tip of the needle touching Dean’s forehead.  “What?”

“You’re a liar,” Dean said.  “You’d pull that whole martyr crap on me and refuse to do anything about it while slowly bleeding the hell to death.”

“I’m not a martyr,” Sam said.

“Yeah, right.” Dean said.  “And I’m a plumber with a wife and two rugrats at home.  Get real, Sam.  You’re the biggest martyr to ever mart.  Oh, look at me.  I did such a crappy thing I deserve to be eaten by some mirror chick or gutted by Hookman.”

Sam clenched his jaw until he could feel his teeth bedding down in his gums.  At least being reminded what an ass his brother could be stopped his mind wandering in the wrong direction.

“Shut up, Dean,” he said.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He finished injecting the anaesthetic into Dean’s head.  Then he went and got a clean towel from the bathroom.  He tossed it to Dean.

“Here.  Keep pressure on the wound with that till it goes numb.”  Sam sat down on the bed and starting getting the needle and thread ready.

Dean pressed the towel to his head with one hand and shuffled up the bed until he could lean against the headboard.  He crossed his bare feet at the ankles.  They sat in sullen silence for a while.

“Did you look in Dad’s journal?” Dean asked finally.

Sam didn’t look up from what he was doing.  “No,” he said.  “I haven’t had time.”

“Right.”  Dean tapped his bare-feet together.  Then he tilted the towel back so he could see and looked over at Sam.  “You’re wrong, you know.  About me not knowing what I’m talking about.”

This it was Sam’s turn to snort sceptically.

“You?  You don’t love anyone except the Impala and Metallica.”

“And you and Dad.”  There was a pause.  “And Mom.”

The mention of their mother made a ball of sickness knot in Sam’s stomach.  His mouth pursed around a sour taste and he shook his head.

“It’s not the same,” he said.  “It’s not your fault.”

Dean swore and tossed the towel onto the bed.  He swung his legs back off the bed and leant forwards to glare at Sam.

“Damnit, Sammy,” he said.  “It’s not your fault.  Blame the thing that killed her.  Blame me for taking you out of town that weekend.  Just stop beating yourself up.  You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Sam shook his head and looked down.  He picked up the needle.

“It wasn’t your fault.  Jessie wasn’t your responsibility.  She was mine.  I loved her.  I…”  He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.  It had been him who’d drawn whatever it was down, first on his mother and then on Jessie.  He couldn’t admit that though.  Not if Dean hadn’t thought of it himself.  “I should have protected her.  Is the anaesthetic working?”

Dean raised his eyebrows.  It made the cut start bleeding again but didn’t make him flinch.  A drop of blood caught in his eyebrow and then dripped down onto his cheek.

“That, or I’m dead from the eyebrows up,” he said.

“I’ve been saying that for years.”

Dean rolled his eyes and leant back, tilting his head up. His jaw was set.  Sam brought the needle to his skin and hesitated.

“Just do it,” Dean said.

Sam exhaled raggedly, blowing out his cheeks, and started to stitch.  They’d had lessons in this too.  Their dad had made them stitch up each others gashed knees and cuts.  The only time they’d been to hospital had been when Sam had fallen out of the tree and broken his arm.  They’d probably not even have gone then but it had been his dominant arm and Dad hadn’t wanted it to heal crooked.

“What?” Dean asked. 

“Huh?”

Sam looked down.  Dean’s eyes were half closed and his face was set in a tight, ‘get it over with’ expression.

“You got that look on your face,” Dean explained.  He pulled his mouth down and narrowed his eyes, mimicking Sam.  They’d never looked much alike but the expression caught the edges of similarity in their features.  “Like somebody stole your candy at Halloween.”

Sam lifted both eyebrows.  “You should know,” he pointed out. 

A grin slanted across Dean’s face.  “I didn’t want you getting cavities,” he said.  His expression was angelic.  “I was just looking out for like any big brother.”

“I was just remembering the time I broke my arm,” he said.  “It’s the first time I can remember Dad ever taking us to hospital.”

His voice sounded bitter, even to himself.

Dean looked up at him.  Sam caught his chin and moved his head back to where it should be.

“Don’t move.”

“Yeah, Dad was pretty freaked,” Dean said, slowly.  “He was always scared that someone would take us away from him, y’know.  They nearly did, after mum died. Dad wasn’t in a good way and this social worker came out a couple of times.  That was the first time we moved.”

Sam finished the stitches.  He tied the last stitch off and stepped back.  

“I never really knew Dad, did I?” he asked.

Dean fingered the stitches and shrugged.  “I was older,” he said.  “Dad put more responsibility on my shoulders.  Nice job on the stitches.”

“Maybe I should have gone into medicine instead of law,” Sam said.  He gathered up the bloody towels and dropped the needles and snipped bits of thread into the middle of it.  There should be a plastic bag in the first aid kit, he found it and stuffed everything into it.  They’d burn it later, once they were out of town.

Dean stood up.  He slapped Sam on the back and left his hand there.  The contact sent a shiver of reaction down Sam’s spine.  He closed his eyes and tried not to think.  If he thought about he'd have to move.  God help him, he didn't want to move.

“Nah,” he said.  “Your bedside manner sucks. Come on, let’s see if we can get any information on Birdy McFlap out there.”

He grabbed the journal from the nest of blankets on his bed and flipped it open.  His fingers flipped the pages over one by one.  Sketches of various monsters and demons covered the pages, each described in their father’s small, scribbled script.  Some pages had incantations written on them, larger and in block capitals so they’d be easy to read.

“Bird monsters,” he said.  “Let’s see what we got.  An infestation of Harpies?  I don’t remember that…”

Sam walked over to Dean and peered over his shoulder.  His brother kept muttering to himself.

“It didn’t look like that,” Sam said.  “You should get some rest, Dean.  You lost a lot of blood.”

A flip of Dean’s hand dismissed the suggestion.  He walked over to the window and perched a narrow hip on the wooden ledge.  With a sigh Sam sat down on the bed.  It was going to be a long night.

 

The sound of the Impala’s engine jarred Sam out of his sleep.  The last thing he remembered was leaning back and closing his eyes for a minute.  That had been about three.  Now it was daylight. 

Dean was gone.

Sam rolled onto his back.  The blanket had been pulled up over him.  He pushed it down and sat up.

“Dean?”

No one answered. Sam swore and scrambled to his feet just as the door opened and Dean came in carrying a MacDonald’s bag in one hand. He had a Stetson tipped down over his eyes.

Sam stared at him.  He looked like something from a country and western video.  Sam didn’t know whether to take the micky out of his hat or complain about being left here alone.  From Dean’s smirk he expected Sam to ask about the hat.  So Sam didn’t.

“You just left me here?”

Dean kicked the door shut, took his hat off and set the bag of food on the bed.  The cut on his forehead was raw and bruised blue and green.

“You were sleeping.”  He hung the hat off the doorknob.  “I figured you needed it.”

Sam grimaced and opened the bag.  .The smell make his stomach hitch, somewhere between hunger and nausea.

“Burgers?” he asked.  “It’s morning.”

“It’s noon,” Dean corrected.  The news made Sam blink and look at his watch.  Dean was right.  That was the most Sam had slept for months.  He scrubbed his hand through his hair.

“Still,” he said.  “It’s not healthy.”

Dean pointed at his head.  “Getting chewed on by Birdy last night isn’t healthy either.  The burgers are the least of my worries.”  He reached out and flattened Sam’s hair.  “You can’t carry the punk look off, kid.  And I figured out what Birdy is.  Sorta Gimme the cheeseburger.”

“You did?”  Sam lifted out one of the four burgers and unwrapped it.  No cheese.  He set the wrapper down beside his knee and kept looking.  “You’re going to get fat.”

Dean didn’t bother to dignify that with an answer.  He grabbed the burger and passed the journal to Sam.

“Don’t get grease on it,” he warned.  “See the entry at the bottom.”

Healthy or not, the burger smelled good.  Sam’s stomach rumbled.  He sighed and took a bite.  It wouldn’t kill him.

“Mmm,” he chewed while he read.  The illustration at the bottom, all scribbled lines and suggestion, made him screw up his nose.  “I don’t know, Dean.  It could be or,” he turned the book, like looking at it sideways would make a difference.  “not.  It’s not the best drawing.”

“You’re such a critic,” Dean snorted.  “Fries?”

Sam passed the bag of fries over.  He waited while Dean doused them in ketchup.  Dean stuck a handful in his mouth and waved a ketchupy finger at the journal.

“Turn the page,” he said.

Sam rubbed his hands on the sheets.  He heard Jess’s voice in his head, telling him off.  She’d been exasperated by some of his habits when they’d first moved in together.  ‘What were you, raised in a barn?’ had been her favourite question for months.  When his fingers were clean he flipped the page.  He still left a smudge on the paper, in the top corner.  With any luck Dean wouldn’t notice.

“They can turn into a black cat,” he read aloud.  Dean said the next words along with him.  “Or a hideous black bird.”

Dean smirked at him.  “Told ya.”

Sam longed to prick that bubble but, he kind of thought that Dean was right this time.

“Good work,” he said.

Dean slouched down and stretched his legs out in front of him.  Denim stretched across his groin.  He picked up a ketchup dripping chip and put it into his mouth.

“See?  All that book learning, don’t get you nowhere,” he drawled.

Sam pretended he wasn’t looking at Dean’s mouth.  It wasn’t easy but he’d had a lot of practice.

“If you start talking about black gold,” he said.  “I’m taking that hat away from you.”

Dean just smirked and finished off his fries.  He balled up the greasy paper and tossed it into the wastepaper bin.  Then he went back to work on his burger.

“A Kludde,” Sam took another bite of his burger and then set it down.  There was still about two-thirds of it left.  Dean gave him a worried look, but didn’t say anything..  Sam appreciated it.  “What do we know about them?”

Dean pulled a face.  “Not much more than I’ve told you,” he said.  “They’re shapeshifters..”  Dean took a bite of his burger and chewed it thoughtfully.  “They hunt during sunset and sunrise, no particular prey preference.”

Sam fretted at the burger bun, ripping it into small pieces.

“And you think they’re breeding?”

“Makes sense,” Dean said.  “We killed Papa Kludde and now Mama Kludde is out for our blood.”

Sam stopped picking at the bread, brushed his fingers off and tossed the mess in the bin.  Then he stood up. 

“I’m gonna go clean up,” he said.  “Then we can head into town and do some research.  See if we can track down what brought them here.”

Dean nodded and waved him away with one hand.  There was ketchup on his fingers.  He noticed and sucked it off, leaving his long fingers wet and slick.

Something low in Sam’s gut clenched, hard and urgent and with a direct line to his balls.  He had to clench his teeth to stop from groaning.  His balls were going to turn permanently blue at this rate.  If Dean had this effect on women it was a wonder Sam didn’t get chucked out of the motel room more often.

He turned away before Dean noticed him staring and stumbled on numb feet into the bathroom.  It was just as grotty at the rest of the motel.  A small room that had been painted white, once upon a time, but was now nicotine yellow.  The toilet was stained and cracked.  The chrome was peeling off the taps and handles and the shower curtain was grimy.  When he touched it the fabric felt greasy.

Sam had a lot of practice turning a blind eye to rooms like this. 

He stripped quickly and tossed his clothes over the towel rail.  Then he climbed into the tub and turned the shower on.  Cold water hit his skin, stinging.  He hissed and closed his eyes but he didn’t step away from the stream.  Instead, he stepped into it.

 Maybe a cold shower would work where common sense and the fact he was lusting after his damn brother hadn’t.  He bent his head and let the water beat against the back of his neck and shoulders.

It didn’t work.

He closed his eyes and chewed his lower lip.  The water started to warm up.  Or he just got used to the temperature.  He rubbed his hand over his chest and then let it slide down, over his stomach and to his groin.  His cock was already half-erect.  He curled his fingers around it.  A few long, quick strokes made him hard.  He braced his hand on the wall, supporting himself, and jerked himself off.

His mind flicked from image to image.  Jessie.  The priest’s daughter.  Angelina fucking Jolie.  But it kept coming back to Dean.  He couldn’t do that to Jessie, think of her while getting rid of the hard-on he had for his brother.  The others just didn’t do it.  He didn’t want them.

“Fuck.”  He screwed his eyes tighter shut and imagined Dean.  His hand curled around Sam’s cock, callused skin and the cool silver of his rings.  His green eyes were heavy lidded and hungry.  That fucking mouth of his damp and open, ready to suck Sam off like he had his own fingers.

That was the image that followed Sam into his orgasm.  His brother’s mouth around his cock, his tongue sliding around it and his hands gripping Sam’s thighs. 

After a long, aching moment he opened his eyes and straightened up. 

For the first time in, weeks, he didn’t have a dull, unsatisfied ache in his groin.  He felt guilty, vaguely horrified at what he’d just done but it had felt good.  It had felt like what he wanted.

Sam sat down on the edge of the bath and buried his head in his hands.  He wanted to fuck a guy.  Worse, he wanted to fuck his older brother.  He’d jerked off to images of his brother going down on him.  He was going to go to hell.  That was, he was pretty sure, what God did to people who did this sort of thing.

Not that he was going to do it.  It was bad enough he was thinking about it but he wasn’t going to actually do it.  He raked his fingers through his hair, making it stick up in wet punk spikes.  Then he covered his face and laughed into palms.  If he tried Dean would kick his ass.

“Yo, Sam.”  Dean banged on the door.  “Those toilet piranhas got you or what?

“Nah,” Sam said.  His voice sounded thick.  He scrubbed the back of his hand over his face and sniffed.   “I’m finished.”


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