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Revelations Pt 2

Posted on 2006.05.06 at 17:52

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 motel was on the outskirts of town, built on a semi-circle of land carved out of the forest.  Sam walked across the carpark to the wooden fence that held back the forest.  He braced his hands on the fence and leant forwards.  His hair fell forwards over his face.  He didn’t need to look around to see that Dean was watching him, he knew he would be.  There was no way Dean would let him be out here without someone to watch his back.

It was freezing.  Sam wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his hands into his armpits.  His stomach hurt and he felt kind of sick.  He was also kind of turned on.  By his brother.  A shudder ran down Sam’s back that had nothing to do with cold.  There was something wrong with him.  He was sick or possessed or just....just fucking wrong.

He wasn’t sure when it had started.  It had snuck up on him, thought by thought.  He’d glanced up at Dean when he wandered through the motel room with a skinny towel barely hanging on his hips and noticed Dean looked hot.  It was a bit weird but well, Dean was hot.  Sam had spent most of his lanky, growing into his arms and legs teens envying his brother’s easy good looks.  It wasn’t that weird.  Then Dean’s hand rubbing his back comfortingly when he had a nightmare or got hurt had felt a bit too good.  But that was just comfort, it was ok. 

Sam had gotten good at rationalizing it to himself.  But it got more difficult every time he noticed Dean’s mouth or the way Dean cleaned his guns.  Sam slid his hand down and pressed his hand against his half-hard cock.  A sharp bolt of pleasure shot from to the small of his back.  It was hard to rationalise that away.

Sam rubbed his hand along his cock.  Once, twice and then he snatched his hand away.  What the hell was he doing?  He scrubbed his hands over his face.  His calluses scraped against his skin.  He took his hands away from his face and looked at them, rubbing his thumbs over the spots of hardened skin.  It had been years since they had been thick enough to notice.  He’d stopped practicing after his Dad threw him out.  Not totally, he kept up his martial arts, but the bow-shooting and the knife-fighting and the target practice he’d let slide.  Mostly because he knew it would piss Dad off.

Sometimes, when they were lying in bed, Jessie would trace the calluses with her fingertips.  Or her mouth.  He’d told her his dad was a survivalist.  At the time it had seemed better than the truth.

Maybe if he’d told her the truth she’d still be alive.

Sam wondered if that was behind his attraction to Dean?  Guilt over Jess.  He’d not had sex with anyone since she died.  He couldn’t, it was too much like cheating.  Besides, he knew he couldn’t bear the guilt if someone else died for him.  Because of him.  But it was safe to lust after Dean.  It wasn’t like replacing Jess.  Dean had been there before Jess.  For all their rows and bickering and the two years silence, Dean had his own place in Sam's heart.

And if there was one thing that Sam knew it was that whatever happened it would be Dean who was left standing.  Not Sam.  That was good, because he couldn’t bear to be the one to survive again.

It was a twisted kind of amateur psychoanalysis but it was better than the other option.

He was a sick bastard who wanted to fuck his brother.

Someone screamed in the woods, a high, warbling shriek.  Sam’s head snapped up, hard enough to make his neck click.  Whoever it was screamed again.  This time the sound cut off abruptly.

Sam spun on the balls of his feet and bolted for the hotel room.  The door swung open before he got halfway there.  Dean came out.  He had yanked on his jeans and grabbed their guns.

“Here,” he tossed the gun in his off-hand to Sam,who snatched it mid-air. There was no way Dean would give him an unloaded gun but he checked it anyhow.

“This is nuts,” Sam said.  “It there's something else out there, we can't just go running into the dark after it.”

Dean gave that cocksure, sidelong smirk.

“Then why were you heading back up here like your ass was fire?”

“Couldn’t bear another minute without your company,” Sam jibed back.  He stood on a rock and winced.  It gouged into the arch of his foot.  He had to bite his lower lip to stop from yelping.  “Dean.  We can’t go running into the woods barefoot and half-naked.  This isn’t a hazing prank for a fraternity.”

Dean stopped and turned to look at Sam.  He raised his eyebrows.

“You telling me you went running around in the woods bare-ass naked?” he asked. 

Sam gave him an impatient look.  “I didn’t join a fraternity, Dean.”

Dean pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully.  “Wouldn’t have you, huh?”

“I grew up in the Winchester Fraternity,” Sam said.  “I figured I’d take a break from rowdy guys getting drunk and fighting.”

Dean shook his head and turned his attention back to the forest.  It was silent.

“Pussy,” he said. 

Sam rolled his eyes.  “No more screaming,” he said.  “We’ve got time to get our shoes on.”

A muscle in Dean’s cheek twitched and his eyes narrowed.

“Or we don’t got any time at all,” he said.  “If our bogeyman has someone out there we don’t have much time to rescue them.”

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders.  He leveled his gun towards the forest.

“Fine,” he said.  “But if you get a tick I’m not pulling it out.”

Dean stopped. 

“We can probably move faster if we get our shoes on,” he said. 

They headed back into the room.  Dean hooked the door shut behind him.  He stuck his gun into the back of his jeans and sat down on the bed.  His boots, battered and black leather, were under the bed.  He bent down to get them out, tanned skin playing over the arch of his back.

Sam stared at him.  Then he closed his eyes, shook his head briskly and shoved his feet into his trainers.  He put his foot up on the bed to tie his laces. 

“What do you think it is?” he asked over his shoulder.  "Did we screw up on killing that thing earlier?"

"It was dead," Dean said.

"So what?  Another one?"

“Dunno,” Dean stopped in the middle of tying his boots.  The laces were doubled around his fingers and pulled taut.  "Could be.  There was nothing in Dad's journal about any supernatural activity around this area before this latest batch of murders.  So it's new to the area."

Sam switched feet.  “They're.  They're new to the area.”

Dean grunted acknowledgment and finished tying his laces.  He stood up, grabbing his t-shirt from the end of the bed. 

"Family unit?" he said.  "It'd explain why there were so many deaths in such a short period of time.  Somebody's killing for two."

Sam grimaced at the thought.  That was all they needed.

Dean yanked his t-shirt on and headed for the woods at a jog without even waiting to see if Sam was going to follow.  Sam swore and ran after him.  His long legs covered more ground and he caught up with Dean at the boundary of the forest.  He gave his brother’s shoulder a shove.

“Idiot,” he said.  “What would you have done if I’d not followed you?”

Dean had been staring, narrow eyed and intent, at the trees.  He took his attention away from them long enough to give Sam a shove back. 

“You saying you’d let me run into the Forest of Death here without backup?” he asked.

“Well, no,” Sam said.

Dean shrugged.  “See?  I knew you’d have my back, bro.  Now come on.”

He batted a low hanging branch out of his way and walked into the trees.  Sam stared at his back, mouth half open, waiting for a riposte to come to him.  Nothing did.  He shook his head and went after his brother.

“I left you on your own when I went to University,” he said.  That was an old guilt.  Most of the time, he’d been able to ignore it.  He’d told himself that he wasn’t part of the family anymore and what they did wasn’t his problem.  Then someone would call late at night and the conviction something had happened to them would gut-punch him.

Dean didn’t even bother looking around this time.  “Yeah, that’s true.  Asswipe.”

Sam stopped, one foot half off the ground, and glared at Dean.  Then he snorted half a laugh and shook his head.  He should have known better than to expect comforting lies from Dean. 

“Dick,” he muttered under his breath.  Something hooted overhead and a dark, cruciform shape swooped past his head.  He dropped to his knees and brought his gun up, tracking the shape.  Owl, his head told him. It took a breath before the information reached his fingers and he relaxed his finger on the trigger.  He looked at Dean.  His brother still had his gun raised, aiming at the trees.  While he watched Dean turned in a slow circle.

“Dean?  It was just an owl,” he said, getting back to his feet.  Dirt and pine needles clung to the knees of his jeans.  He brushed them off. 

“Yeah?” Dean said.  After another slow revolution he lowered his gun and rolled his shoulders.  “Yeah, I guess it was.”

The owl came diving out of the darkness behind Dean.  Except it wasn’t an owl.  Too big and it had a human face, blue eyes and freckled cheeks jostling for space around the hooked beak.  Flaccid breasts were visible through the downy feathers on its chest.  It hit Dean in the back, talons digging into his shoulders and beak gouging at his scalp.  A buffeting wing caught Dean’s arm, knocking the gun out of his hand.

“Sonovabitch!” Dean yelled, covering his eyes with one arm and thumping at the thing with the other.  “Jesus, Sam, shoot it.”

Always protect your eyes, their Dad had always said, you can’t fight shit if you can’t see.

Sam aimed but he couldn’t get a clear shot at the creature.  His lips tightened in frustration.

“I’ll hit you!”

“I’ll be fine, just shoot it.  Shitting thing.”

“You’ll not be fine if I shoot you in the head,” Sam said.

 The creature’s head stabbed downwards.  The hooked tip of its beak caught in the skin just above Dean’s eyebrow and slashed his forehead and a good part of his scalp open.  He cursed and grabbed one of its wings, pulling out a handful of bloody feathers.  It squalled and battered at his head with its wings, splashing blood all over the place.

“Get down!” Sam said, stepping forwards..

Dean didn’t waste time asking questions.  He dropped to his knees, pulling the creature down with him.  It flapped frantically and pecked at his head again.  Sam drew back and kicked it right in its twisted face.  It flew backwards and crashed into a bush.  Sam fired.  The silver bullets hit it square between its breasts.  It shrieked and flapped but didn’t bleed.  With a last hateful look it took off and flew away. Trained in habit made Sam track it with the gun but he didn't fire.  No point. He cursed, lowered the gun and turned to check on his brother.  Dean was still crouched on the ground, his weight braced on one arm.

“You okay?”

From under the mask of dripping blood Dean gave him a disgusted look.  “Do I look okay?” he asked, grabbing Sam’s hand. “And you didn’t want to shoot me in the head but kicking me in the head was just fine.”

Sam shrugged and hauled him to his feet.

“It was you,” he said.  “I figured there wasn’t much damage I could do.”   He paused and grimaced.  “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Dean wiped the blood off his face.  More welled from the cut in his forehead, the edges of which were already bruising.  Well, Sam hoped it was bruising.  He made a mental note to check the winged thing for venom.

“Fuck,” Dean swore.  He’d found the ragged tear in his jacket.  He poked his fingers into the holes.  “The bitch shredded my jacket.  Owl, my ass.”

“It looked like an owl,” Sam said. 

Dean squinted at him.  “That looked like an owl?”

“The first time,” Sam said.  He tilted Dean’s head back to look at the gash on his forehead.  Blood was still dripping from it.  He put his thumbs on either side of the cut and pressed.  Dean cursed thickly.  “Sorry,” Sam said.  He took his hands away and wiped them on his jeans.  “You’re going to need stitches.”

Dean made a disgruntled noise and blotted his forehead on his arm.

“I’ll patch it up when we go back.”

Sam smirked and raised his eyebrows.  “What?  And risk ruining that pretty face of yours?”

Dean folded his lower lip between his teeth.

“Whoever we heard is gone, Dean,” Sam told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “That thing wouldn’t be flying about if it still had live prey.  Come on.  We’ll get you to hospital and get you stitched up.”

The mention of hospital made Dean screw his face up.  He winced and touched his forehead, smoothing the wrinkles out.

“I don’t need hospital,” he said.

Sam turned him around and gave him a push. 

“Yeah.  You do,” he said.

They walked, limped in Dean’s case, back towards the hotel.  By the time they got there Dean’s shirt was covered with blood and he was swearing continuously.  Sam had tried to offer a helping hand but it hadn't been well received.  He jogged ahead of Dean and pushed the door of the room open.

“What a gentlemen,” Dean said, walking past him.  He sat down on the bed and flopped backwards.  His legs hung over the end, his feet braced on the ground.  “Harpy, you think?”

Sam looked around for the keys to the Impala.  They were nowhere to be seen.

“Wrong environment for it,” Sam said.  

Dean had the keys in his jeans pocket.  Of course he did.  Where else?  Sam took a deep breath and shoved his earlier thoughts to the back of his head.  They hadn’t meant anything.  He was just, thrown these last few months.  His life had gone to hell, literally.  He could be excused for being a bit confused.  But it was bad enough being a freak without being a pervert too.

He stuck his hand into Dean’s pocket and groped for the keys.  Dean obligingly lifted his hips up to make it easier for him.  Sam clenched his teeth and tried to ignore…everything.  He could feel the warmth of Dean’s skin through the pocket.  His fingers brushed the crease of Dean’s leg.  Sam took a shaky breath and bit his tongue. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dean pointed out.  “Things have been all riled up lately, worse than usual.  Besides, things follow people.  That’s how all the non-native stuff got here in the first place.”

There was a crucifix fob on Dean’s keychain.  Not that Dean was that religious, but it never hurt to have a back-up.  Sam caught it and pulled the keys out.  They were still warm.  He curled his fingers around them.

“Did Dad or you ever encounter a harpy?” he asked.

Dean lifted his head.  Lying with his head down meant the blood had dripped back into his hair.  It was standing up in red spikes.

“No,” he said.  “I don’t think so.  Not that he told me anyhow.”

Sam scrambled to his feet.  The bed bounced.  Dean groaned and dropped his head back down again.

“I’ll get his journal when I get the first-aid kit,” Sam said.  “We can have a look after we clean you up.”

Dean waved his hand in answer.

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