Three Days

~~~~~ THREE DAYS: Six ~~~~~


“So what's that stuff, then?” Dean asks, pointing to a beaker filled with a roiling, blackbrown substance.

Luthar sighs heavily, dropping his pencil and staring at Dean a moment before answering. “I can usually appreciate genuine interest in my work, but considering the time restraints that we are operating under, I really can't be interrupted with your constant barrage of questions.” He raises both eyebrows. “Please, make yourself at home. Trini will see to your every need.”

At this, Trini's head pops up from behind a nearby table. “Hmpf.”

Dean raises both hands. “Fine. I can take a hint.” He winks at Trini. “Thanks, babe, but I'm good. Carry on.”

She growls and returns to whatever the hell she was doing behind the table.

“Do not worry. All is going smoothly,” Luthar says absently, comparing yet another pair of jars with seemingly identical contents.

Dean returns to his stool, memories of countless school detentions suddenly springing to mind.

He'd never been big in the patience department, especially when he was a kid.

He'd driven his teachers nuts with constant streams of questions, and he'd never been able to stay in his seat. It wasn't his fault that he'd always complete his assignments so much faster than everyone else. And he never felt that he was any smarter than the rest of his classmates as much as he just seemed to think...faster.

It'd probably been a good thing that he'd had to change schools so often; moving around as much as they did, Dean had avoided being forced on Ritalin, which more than a few overbearing school administrators had prescribed for his “condition”.

What a joke.

But that was probably the only advantage that had come out of his dad dragging him and Sam from one hick town to the next.

He'd also learned very early to erect walls, to keep all the kids at a distance. It just didn't make any sense to get to know anyone, to make friends, especially since they'd move on in a few weeks and never see them again. By the time he'd reached junior high, Dean was pretty much a pro at it. Sam, on the other hand, had never really mastered the art.

Dean brings his focus back to the present, realizing he's just as much frustrated as he is bored; naturally he's interested in whatever Luthar's up to. As time drags on, he's definitely getting a kick out of annoying Luthar, even though the reasonable portion of his brain keeps reminding him that such behavior, no matter how fun it is, probably isn't helping to cure Sam.

Dean really does hate feeling helpless. Luthar had been correct on that point, but it's also that he just isn't the type to sit around while someone else does all the work.

Especially when Sam's life is on the line.

He knows that Sam's with Serghei in some other part of the house “being prepared”, whatever that means. He's tried to check out the rooms on the other side of the entry hall once already, but Luthar had called out and warned him not to disturb Serghei's preparations.

Dean stands, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. “Um, I think I'll check out the grounds. Stretch the legs, get some fresh air.” He pulls on his jacket, leaning over Luthar's shoulder one more time.

“Do not stray too far...keep the house in sight at all times,” Luthar replies, never turning around.

Trini shoots him an especially nasty scowl as she arranges bottles and jars on a freshly cleared table.

“Got it.” Dean salutes and heads to the front door, the prospect of getting out of the house for a while pretty appealing. He's itching to reconnoiter the place anyway, and it's pretty clear that there's no point hanging around the lab. Luthar's not going to tell him anything until the little creepo's good and ready.

Dean pulls the heavy front door closed, ensuring that it remains unlocked. The last thing he wants to do is have to bang on the door and beg Trini to let him back in.

He zips up his jacket against the chill, staring up at the featureless grey skies. A slight breath of wind ripples through the limbs of the densely packed trees that encroach to within twenty feet of the house. A thin layer of fog creeps along the ground, thin tendrils weaving amidst the tree trunks.

Aside from the occasional, far-off cry of a bird, it's deathly silent.

The place is not only creepy, it's downright gloomy. Dean'd seen photos of Scotland in winter that were far less depressing.

He steps out from under the small roof over the door, immediately whipping out the satphone.

“Shit.”

He jabs at the power button a few times with no results.

“Great.”

Hopefully the thing just needs a recharge.

Slipping the satphone back into his jacket pocket, Dean turns around to size up Luthar's digs.

It's a good sized old house with two stories with a possible third under the steeply pitched roof. Bars on all windows and no signs of overhead electrical feeds. The stucco or plaster is peeling off the facade in chunks, and there are more than a few pieces of slate littering the ground that must have fallen from the roof. Weeds and brush reach to the windowsills, and it's pretty clear that the place had been uninhabited for a long time before Luthar arrived.

Dean notes some fresh carvings in the wooden posts supporting the roof over the door. They're definitely the same sigils that they'd seen the night before at the inn.

Evidently despite Luthar's statements about possessing powers, he isn't above resorting to standard wards to help keep nasties away from his crib.

He circles the house, which is ringed by a span of gravel, finding more wards and sigils crudely painted on the walls at vaguely regular intervals. All the remaining windows are either barred or boarded up. The rear door of the house is not only boarded, but also partly obstructed with debris from the collapsed rear porch roof.

Which leaves the front door as the only easy way in or out. Good to know.

Weeds and bracken take over at the edge of the gravel, and Dean makes out a decent sized outbuilding, maybe a small stable or dairy barn, about fifty yards behind the house. Two smaller sheds flank the barn, both nearly overtaken by the oppressive underbrush. All three show no signs of recent use.

On his way around the final side of the house, Dean spies a small section of the foundation that is clear of underbrush. Pretty much torched, really.

He squats down to examine the five-foot wide semi-circle of charred soil. Relatively fresh, and not exactly fragrant: Dean's more than familiar with the smell of cooked flesh. The section of wall immediately above the blackened soil shows signs of discoloration, almost like a blast point, and Dean can almost see a shape in it, an outline of...what?

The vague form of a person with their arms outstretched?

Someone got themselves fried, but with what? Phasers?

“Gnarly.”

He's about to stand when he notices the section of exposed foundation wall...and the clear indications of a bricked up basement window.

The place is basically a fortress, so what Luthar had said about the area being overrun with supernatural creepy crawlies was probably true, as the proof it was right in front of him.

Some places are just overrun with monsters. Like Ohio...

Rounding back to the front of the house, Dean moves past both cars to check out the winding, narrow driveway.

The distinct crunch of gravel under Dean's boots cuts through the heavy silence like a knife, and he's immediately aware of how damn quiet it is.

Too damn quiet. He slows his pace, looking over his shoulder back toward the house. He's gone maybe a hundred yards or so, and only a small corner of the house is still visible through the trees.

He takes another step forward, sensing movement out of the corner of his eye. He draws his Glock as a bird screams right above his head. He instinctively ducks, cold sweat trickling down his spine. A flapping of wings right over his head is followed by more birdcalls, and Dean falls to his knees.

Just ahead, thick patches of fog skim inches above the driveway.

“What the...?”

The pools of fog slide along slightly faster, some actually reversing direction and moving against the sluggish breeze.

Dean rises to his feet as the separate pieces of fog merge into a single wall of mist, roiling with increasing fervor and lifting itself higher and higher until it towers over Dean. He backs up several steps, but thankfully, the mist doesn't move any closer. It swirls around, almost as if it's angry for some reason.

He stares at the wall of mist, myriad slashes of pale yellow and amber arcing through it. It's really pretty cool. There's a sudden flurry of wings and something glances off the top of his head as what sounds like an entire flock of crows shrieks in warning.

Dean stumbles again, the onslaught of flapping and birdsound turning him around, away from the mist. He regains his footing and sprints toward the house, slowing to a stop after several seconds. He looks back at the mist, still roiling in frustration down the driveway. The mistwall hovers a few moments longer before collapsing, the immense mass breaking apart into smaller patches, once again floating innocuously amongst the trees.

Definitely the same stuff as the night before, and it seems to have Luthar's place surrounded.

Was the stuff trying to get closer to the house but somehow being kept at bay, or was it working to make sure that no one left? Whichever it was, Dean's sure that the mist's presence is too damn coincidental to be completely random.

If it's trying to get in, then what's it after?

Everyone in the house was at the inn the night before, so it could be anyone of them. There's clearly nothing special about Trini or Serghei, or himself, for that matter.

That leaves Sam, who's almost a full-fledged werewolf at this point, and Luthar, the self-proclaimed alchemist.

If Luthar's in control of the stuff, then it sure looks like he's using it as a kind of guard dog, to ensure that no one goes anywhere until he's ready to let them. But that doesn't add up, because Creepo's totally confident that he and Sam aren't going anywhere.

“Shit,” Dean sighs, sliding his gun into the back of his jeans. Too many damn loose ends, and no real hope of cleaning any of it up right away.

Dean catches his breath as he moves toward their BMW, scanning the sky for any sign of birds and finding none.

He tries the remote, and the electronic chirp sounds as the locks click and release.

“At least that's working again,” he says to himself as he slides into the driver's seat. He roots around in the glove box, locating the satphone's charger and plugging it into one of the charging ports. He turns the key to accessory, and the BMW's instrument cluster lights up just as it should. He then goes for broke, turning the key all the way to start. The BMW revs to life, ready to hit the nearest autobahn, which is hell and gone from where they're at right now.

He wonders what would happen to the mist if someone drove through it at eighty miles per...

The satphone beeps, its screen indicating that a charge is in progress.

“Awesome.”

He flicks on the radio, hitting the scan button; it riffles through the entire FM band twice without finding anything, so he turns the radio off. He revs the engine a few more times before killing it, and the satphone beeps again, still charging. Dean pops the trunk and collects the duffle containing their dad's journal, Sam's laptop, and their impromptu Hunter's emergency kit.

He locks the satphone in the car and heads back inside; at least he can go over the appropriate entries in his dad's journal again. Maybe this time through, something new will pop out at him.

He finds Luthar still bent over a worktable, but there are now dozens of beakers and flasks bubbling away over open flames. In one of the previously darkened corners, Trini works on what looks to be a sort of operating table. He moves closer as she finishes wiping the thing down. There's a loud clank, and she pivots the table from horizontal to vertical. Even in the dim light, Dean can easily make out iron restraining cuffs for wrists and ankles.

“What the fuck is that for?” He drops the duffle by his stool and shrugs out of his jacket.

Luthar looks up, clearly annoyed. “Ahh, Dean. Back so soon.”

“That's for Sam, isn't it?” Dean marches over to where Luthar's seated, his eyes drawn first to the granny glasses perched on Luthar's nose then to what looks like... “What the...? Is that a computer?”

Luthar sighs and removes his wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes, it is. While I loathe how technology has infected the planet, I'm not at all adverse to taking advantage of it. And this,” he nods to his fancy laptop, “is far easier to transport than an entire library of books. Those who do not adapt, do not survive.” Before Dean can say anything, Luthar continues. “There is a generator in the basement which provides a meager amount of electricity. You may use it for your own computer, of course. But sadly, there is no connection to the Internet.” He folds his arms across his chest, a totally smug expression on his face.

Dean would like nothing more than to wipe it off. With his fist. “Great, fine.” He points to the exam table. “Is that really necessary?”

“This we have discussed,” Luthar says, rising from his stool. “You are helpless to prevent your brother's change. I believe I can. And I will try. Without any further interference from you.” He stares Dean down, his super-bright grey eyes sharp and unwavering.

Dean tries to hold his gaze, but Luthar's eyes are...too intense. He looks away. “I don't want him hurt.”

“Nor do I, but there will be much pain. It is unavoidable.” Luthar sits again. “And Sam possesses formidable strength. His Wolf will fight with every fiber of its being to remain in his body. Part of the procedure requires that Sam be conscious. For the more intense, final portion of the ritual, I shall induce temporary coma. If all goes well, your brother will remember little of what is about to transpire.”

“Jesus.” Dean plants his fists on his hips and paces. “And what exactly is “about to transpire”? When can I get in on this super secret plan of yours?”

Luthar shakes his head. “Not now. Soon.”

Dean struggles to maintain his composure. Being in the passenger seat is far harder than he'd ever imagined. “All right. I get it. So when can you give me a hint?”

“One hour, two at most.”

Dean looks at his watch. “By two, then.”

Luthar nods, holding Dean's gaze a moment before turning back to his bubbling concoctions. “In the meantime, I believe Serghei is finished with Sam. If you wish, you may see your brother now. He is upstairs resting in the room that you occupied this morning.”

Dean turns and dashes for the stairs.

“He has accepted what is to come, Dean. Do not upset him.”

Luthar's words fade as he takes the steps two and three at a time. Dean's heart thumps in his chest, and he's almost afraid of what he'll find. He gathers himself up, taking a deep breath as he opens the door and steps into the room.

“Sam? Sammy...” Dean closes the door and backs against it.

Sam's splayed out on his back on the bed, eyes closed, hands clasped over his belly. He's definitely been cleaned up after his run through the forest, and as Dean moves toward the bed, he can see that Sam's hair's been cut and he's had a shave,

He doesn't stir as Dean sits on the mattress.

Dean leans in, taking note of myriad signs and sigils inscribed on Sam's forehead and cheekbones. They're tiny, intricate...and a bit scary. Sections of Sam's chest have been shaved as well, and much larger, thicker symbols have been applied over his heart, to both pectorals, and along his collarbones. Long lines of delicate characters entwine down the length of Sam's arms, culminating in several thick rings around both of his wrists.

The artistry is incredible

If Serghei's responsible for Sam's markings, then the guy could make some serious dough as a tattoo artist back in the States. Dean's at a loss as to the meaning of the symbols, as they look Cyrillic, and that's definitely far outside Dean's realm of expertise.

He spies some odd marks to the inner crease of Sam's elbow; carefully lifting and straightening Sam's left arm, Dean notes the remnants of definite needle marks.

Sam moans as his eyes flutter open. “Hey.” He sits up and leans against the headboard.

Dean leans in, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Hey yourself, wavy gravy. How you doin'?”

“Okay, I guess. I mean I feel fine,” Sam replies around a yawn. “Serghei said I'd sleep for awhile.”

“What's up with these?” Dean indicates the needle marks.

“Blood samples for Luthar, mostly.”

“And?”

“Some kind of a tranquilizer. For what Serghei referred to as my inner Wolf.”

Dean nods, tracing a finger along the characters on Sam's collarbone. “Serghei was pretty busy.” He chuckles. “I'll have to start calling you Chakotay.”

Sam reaches up to touch his forehead. “Yeah. They're not permanent, though.”

“All part of Luthar's mysterious process. Any new info on what's gonna go down?”

“Not really.” Sam sits up straight, now wide awake. “Other than he's worked up some all-inclusive ritual that he's sure will cure me. Part of it involved a good bit of cleansing, external as well as internal.”

“Like?”

Sam nods at his bare torso. “There was a ritualistic cleaning of my entire body, complete with chanting, oils, you name it.”

“Your entire...” Dean's eyes go wide. “Bar Guy got you naked and felt you up?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No. It was more like a holistic, full body massage. Really, it was incredibly relaxing. I feel great.”

“Add the temporary tattoos, and that takes care of the external part.”

“Just some basic meditation after that, to help center myself, clear my mind. Plus the tranquilizers, and a couple other injections that Serghei described as herbal restoratives.”

Dean snorts, taking in the form fitting leather pants Sam's wearing. “You look like you're ready for a Renaissance Fair or a Hell's Angels' convention.”

“All part of the plan, I guess.” Sam toys with the leather drawstring of his pants. “Something about wearing natural hides.”

“Well, they do look good on you,” Dean admits, ghosting his fingers along the criss-crossed lacings to stop on Sam's rather pronounced bulge. “You'd be a hit in any leather bar back home.”

Sam shakes his head and smiles, a real, honest-to-goodness smile. Something that Dean hasn't seen in a very long time.

“So how do you feel about all this? You think Luthar's legit?”

Sam shifts around, considering his answer. “Yeah, I think he's for real.”

“Real, as in he knows his stuff, or real, as in he's an alchemist and he's actually cooked up the secret to immortality?”

“He definitely knows his stuff,” Sam says, leaning toward Dean. “And about the other thing...remember how I mentioned that his smell was off?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

“It's more than his scent...human, but not quite. Or maybe more than human. I don't know which, exactly, but I'm sure he's not normal. And there's this sense that I get...it's hard to describe, but I can sort of feel his age. What I mean is, that I can tell he's old. Really old. He has a sense of knowledge and experience that's so massive, so formidable, that it's almost a tangible part of his being.”

“Whoa.” Dean stands and moves to the unbroken window. “So Luthar's found the elixir of life, huh?”

“Maybe. If he's half as old as I think he is, then he must have.”

Dean hears the bed creak, followed by soft footfalls on the protesting floorboards. He turns, and Sam's right there. “And he somehow transmutes his aging organs into new? Revitalizes his entire body?”

Sam thinks a moment. “Makes sense. The Greeks always referred to their spargyric arts as having discovered this elixir, or panacea, capable of curing all diseases. It only stands to reason that such a formula could also prolong life indefinitely.”

“And somehow, he'll use aspects of this elixir to what, transform your inner Wolf into something else and then expel it from your body?”

Sam shrugs. “Any alchemistic process involves the separation of one substance from another. So it follows that his plan might involve separating this inner Wolf, isolating it somehow, so that it can be dealt with. But the completion of the process involves the re-joining of substances into something new.”

“The old legends of changing lead into gold.”

“Exactly.”

Dean sighs. “I wish creepo would just end the suspense and spill the beans.”

“If Luthar's a true alchemist, he's survived by not only concealing his identity, but also his skills. Being secretive is something that's second nature to him. The Church placed strict limits on the practice of alchemy at the beginning of the fourteenth century, and by the early fifteenth, the King of England had banned it altogether. Who knows how many alchemists were executed during that time, and how much knowledge and information was lost. Luthar could be one of a few alchemists left alive, if not the only one.”

“But doesn't the lore also mention how friggin' hard it was to actually perform these transformations, even if they'd managed to create this panacea? If I remember, they also had to have some sort of stone, right?”

“The philosopher's stone.”

“Great.” Dean snorts. “Now we're depending on Harry Potter to save your ass.”

“Where do you think Rowling got the idea? The legend of a philosopher's stone is firmly rooted in tons of Middle Eastern and European alchemy texts. It's supposedly an essential part of the formula for immortality.”

“You didn't get all of this from dad's journal.”

“Nah. Lots or research before we left the States. Dad mentioned the discipline, but never really had much of a need to research it in depth.”

It all sounded plausible, especially if Luthar was indeed for real. Sam seemed sure, and with his newly developed werewolf senses, maybe he could smell Luthar's age. They'd certainly run across stranger shit than that in the course of their hunts. And Sam not only looked a bit like his old self, he sounded and acted like it, too. So whatever bizarre little rituals Bar Guy had performed, they'd certainly had a positive effect.

“Luthar's definitely hard at work...it looks like a set from 'Young Frankenstein' down there.” Dean gazes at Sam for a long moment. “You seem pretty good...sort of like you were-”

“Before I was bitten,” Sam finishes. “I do feel more like myself. I can still sense the...other, the Wolf, I guess, but now it's faint, fuzzy. Sort of far away.”

“Good. Let's keep it that way. You definitely freaked me out earlier. After your, uh, hunt.”

Sam nods. “Luthar's idea. The theory is that the Wolf will be easier to handle if it was allowed to express itself: to run wild for awhile...and to hunt.”

“Hopefully you won't keep your taste for squirrel tartare after this is over.”

“Uh, it was rabbit,” Sam says, grinning crookedly.

Dean backs against the windowsill. “There's one thing that been bugging me, though. There were a few times that you spoke to Trini...and it sure as hell sounded like Romanian. What's up with that?”

“Luthar thinks it has something to do with the lycan bloodline. That the essence, or knowledge of the original werewolf is contained in the lycan blood elements, and as the Wolf asserted itself, I assimilated some of that knowledge. Like basic Romanian.”

“So the original werewolf was from here?”

“If the theory is right, then yeah. That's what it looks like.” Sam scratches at the markings on his forearm. “Luthar was pretty surprised by it, that's for sure. Almost excited. He'd heard of the phenomenon, but apparently he's never seen real proof, or had the opportunity to study it firsthand.”

“Now you're a science project, too.”

“As long as it all works out, I really don't care,” Sam replies. “So, what's been going on while I've been out of it?” he asks, noting Dean's pensive expression with a frown.

“Like I said, Luthar's one busy beaver downstairs.”

“Trini and Serghei, too. Pretty incredible how well they all work together.”

“I've got all of our stuff back.” Dean shows Sam the Glock. “Luthar says we're free to leave anytime. The car seems fine, and the satphone's charging right now. I made a quick check of the perimeter, and nothing unexpected turned up. The house is covered in wards, which makes sense. I did find signs that something got itself fried, recently. No clue as to what, or who.”

“Fried? You mean a burned body?”

“No, I mean fried, as in vaporized. Whatever's left of who or what it was is small enough to fit in a bottle cap.”

Sam's eyebrows knit together.

“What?”

“Nothing, probably.”

“C'mon, Sam. Out with it.”

“From what you describe, it seems like some incredibly intense source of energy could incinerate a body. A very intense, really bright source of energy.”

Dean snaps his fingers. “As in the bright light that saved our asses last night. But Luthar made it sound like he was the one that took care of the mist.”

“That's what he told me, too. If he's a true alchemist, there's no telling how much power he commands.”

Dean blows out a breath. Everything seems to point to Luthar being the original article, a real, bombad alchemist. And super powerful, to boot. But something just doesn't add up. Luthar's going to some serious trouble to save Sam by creating a new ritual, blood analysis, holistic massage. It's a serious amount of work to simply satisfy a personal debt. Dean's Hunter's sense tells him there's more to it...that Luthar's going whole hog because there's something in it for him, something about Sam that he wants...needs...or can use. He decides to keep that particular thought to himself; no point in muddying the waters any more than they already are.

“Speaking of mist, the stuff is outside, sort of standing guard at about 120 yards out. I got close, and it made a move for me, but didn't seem able to get any closer than where it already was. Whether it's keeping things out, or keeping stuff in, I don't know.” Dean shrugs. “So that's all I got.”

Sam absently scratches at the sigil over his heart. “Not sure what else we can do at this point.”

Dean turns to stare out the window again. “Do you know that you'll be shackled to a table for this process?”

“Yeah. Things could get pretty ugly once we get into it. I don't want to hurt anyone.”

Dean feels Sam's arms wrap around his waist.

“Especially you.” Sam nuzzles Dean's cheek.

Dean places his hands over Sam's. “Don't worry about me, Sasquatch. I'm good.”

“No you're not.”

“I'm good enough.”

Sam nibbles his way along Dean's jaw line. “It'll be okay. Don't worry.”

“I keep hearing that.” Dean presses against Sam, closing his eyes.

He knows that he's got keep his head on straight if he's going to be sharp enough to deal with whatever's coming next. He desperately wants to believe that Luthar can really pull the werewolf out of the hat; but in his experience, things rarely go as planned, especially something as complex and untried as the process they're about to subject Sam to.

Sam holds him tighter, his obvious hard-on sliding against the small of Dean's back.

“Sammy...” Dean breathes, his own arousal straining the front of his jeans.

Sam turns Dean around and hugs him tightly. “We've got to just go with the flow for once, Dean.” He leans down, capturing Dean's lips in a forceful kiss.

Dean responds, almost desperately, wrapping his arms around Sam's ass and holding on for all he's worth. He can't lose Sam...he can't lose this...especially after it'd taken him so long to find it.

Sam's big hands slide up to cradle Dean's head as he gently breaks the kiss and pulls away. He smiles before pushing Dean's flannel over his shoulders. “C'mon. We've got a bit of time.”

Dean allows his flannel to fall to the floor.

Sam's hands are instantly up an under his t-shirt. Sam drops to his knees, and Dean's belt and jeans are undone in a second. Sam shoves Dean's jeans and undershorts down, releasing Dean's erect dick. Sam pushes Dean backward a few steps and against the wall.

“Sam,” Dean gasps as Sam's tongue teases the tip of his cock. He clamps both hands to Sam's head as Sam swallows his erection whole, sucking and laving like mad.

One of Sam's hands squeezes Dean's bare ass while the fingers of the other pull and squeeze Dean's sac.

It's rough and hard, and just the way Dean likes it.

Sam begins to stroke Dean's length with his hungry mouth, swirling his tongue along the entire span of Dean's cock, pausing at the head for an especially intense suckling. Sam then sucks Dean back in again, repeating the process, slightly faster each time.

Dean leans against the wall, his fingers digging into Sam's hair, holding on as Sam worships his dick, pumping faster and faster. Dean cries out on the next upswing, as Sam drags his teeth along the underside of his cock. The heat builds and Dean moves his hips now, thrusting up as Sam's mouth moves downward. He grasps Sam's head ever tighter, his breath becoming more ragged as he fucks Sam's willing mouth.

Sam lets Dean take over now, suckling and laving as Dean plunges his aching cock in and out of Sam's mouth, faster, harder.

Dean can barely hold on, his hips pounding feverishly, his balls smacking Sam's chin.

The heat blossoms from deep inside, erupting upward, consuming him bit by bit. Dean struggles to keep moving, his eyes squeezed shut, lungs gulping in air, bucking against Sam as the fire overwhelms everything...

Dean cries out again, shuddering to a halt, his dick fully embedded in Sam's mouth.

Sam bears down on his cock, grasping Dean's clenching ass as hard as he can.

“Sammy...” Dean rasps as he lets go, his come filling Sam's mouth. He's boneless, totally fluid, paralyzed in that terrible, fantastic moment of release.

He slumps against the wall as Sam sucks him dry.

“Fuck, Sam.”

Sam slowly releases him, pausing for one last swirl of his tongue around the head of Dean's now hypersensitive dick.

Dean jumps even though he knew it was coming; Sam's pretty predictable about some things, especially stuff that drives Dean wild. He pulls away, his softening cock flopping against his upper thigh. He shivers, the cool air on his damp flesh helping to clear his hormone-soaked brain. Dean opens his eyes to find Sam staring up at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Pretty intense, Sasquatch,” Dean says through a wan smile.

Sam threads his arms around Dean's waist, nuzzling his head to Dean's groin. “Love you, man.”

Dean cards his fingers through Sam's shaggy head of hair. “Me too, dude. Me too.” He takes a deep breath, enjoying the afterglow. Hell, with all the crap they've been through, they both deserve it. His mind clears a bit more, and as the annoying rational side of his brain reminds him of their current situation, he hears telltale squeak of hinges...

“Ahh, shit.”

The door swings open and Serghei strides in. He stares a moment but says nothing, his only reaction a slight lift of one eyebrow. And maybe the tiniest hint of a smile.

“Can you give us a minute, Lurch?” Dean says as Sam opens his eyes and looks toward Serghei.

Serghei folds his arms across his barrel chest. “Supposed to be resting,” he says, obviously to Sam.

Sam nods as he stands, blushing.

It's all Dean can do to keep from laughing at Sam's reaction as he yanks up his undershorts and jeans. For such a big guy, his brother could be so nelly at times. “Ever hear of knocking?” he says, buckling his belt.

Serghei nods to Sam. “You lie down, rest more.” He turns to Dean. “You, come.”

Dean loses it, turning away to pick up his flannel from the floor. When he stands back up, Sam's covering his mouth, having little success at concealing his giggles.

“So what's up now?” Dean asks as he forcefully pulls on his flannel shirt.

Serghei says nothing for a long moment. He looks to Sam, then at Dean, a crooked smile on his face. “It is time. We are ready to begin.”


~~~~~ tbc ~~~~~