Descent

~*~ ~*~ DESCENT ~*~ ~*~


~*~ SIX: Together, We Burn ~*~


September 5, 2008 – Cheyenne, Wyoming


“Okay, here's the invoice detailing your new contract. 10 x 20 non-climate controlled unit for twelve months, reflecting a fifteen percent discount for pre-payment.” The clerk, whose tag declares his name to be “Harley”, slides the invoice across the counter. “The total is $979.96, tax included.”

Sam scans the invoice and signs it. “MasterCard okay?”

“All the same to me,” Harley replies, studying the front of the card before turning it over to check the signature. Instead of sliding the card through his terminal, he enters the numbers manually, one at a time. “I really despise this new machine. Old one worked just fine.” He punches in the last number and the thing beeps at him. “Damn. Musta hit the wrong button. Lemme give it another try.”

Sam blows out a breath as Harley wrestles with the credit card machine.

He's decided to head back to Pontiac, feeling rather than reasoning that it's a good idea to be near Dean's remains when he goes for broke. Initially he'd thought the Gate in Wyoming to be the logical place to effect Dean's rescue, but it seems to make more sense to keep his shell safe in some hotel room rather than out in the open, exposed and vulnerable.

It'd struck him to retrieve the Impala while driving through Cheyenne, figuring that if his plan is successful, one of the first things Dean'll want to see is his car. He's decided to hang onto and store the Toyota rather than just abandoning it, as it definitely wont't hurt to have an extra ride stashed away for emergencies.

“There!” Harley declares triumphantly. “Finally got the damned thing to work.” He slides the card and two receipts to Sam. “Need your doodle again, and that one's mine. Damn technology. Too many bells'n whistles. Everything's so damn small, too. Practically need a microscope to use anything anymore.”

Sam hands over the signed copy and Harley staples it to his invoice, dropping it into a vertical file.

“Thanks, Mr. Zinn. Appreciate the business. Remember where your unit is?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Sam turns to leave, pausing to slide the card and receipt into his money clip.

“Okie dokie, Sam. Mighty sweet of you to remember Dean's car, not that he'll ever see it again.”

Sam whirls around as the demon fumbles with a gun, struggling to aim it and release the safety. Sam sends the gun flying before the demon can pull the trigger.

It tries to smoke out, but he grabs onto it, forcing it back into its host.

“I knew this old fart was too fucking slow,” the demon seethes, its eyes firered.

“Good thing I'm not.” Sam extends himself to scour its thoughts but he's forced back, unable to penetrate the demon's mental defenses. He tries again, with the same result.

“You're good, Freak Boy, but some of us have had a few hundred years to sharpen our skills.” It laughs as Sam forces it into a chair. “Have a nice trip.”

Sam pulls and nukes the demon, checking Harley's pulse and finding it weak but steady. He touches Harley's forehead, planting the suggestion that he'd grown faint and passed out after waiting on a customer. He cleans up the pile of ashes as best he can and heads for the Toyota.

~*~ * ~*~

Sam switches out the vehicles, locking up the unit with the Toyota inside. He guides the Impala past the rental office, relieved to find that no other customers had come by in the meantime. He heads for the interstate, waiting a few minutes before placing the infamous anonymous tip about someone needing help.

Seems as if his trip back to Pontiac isn't going to be as easy as he'd thought.


September 8, 2008 – Avoca, Iowa


Sam makes good time, breaking one of the Hunter's cardinal rules by sticking to I-80 instead of lesser traveled state routes or county roads.

Stopping only when he has to for gas and food will present fewer opportunities for ambushes by hellspawn.

Bishop hadn't been kidding about Lilith stepping things up and having eyes everywhere. He senses more demons than usual, but never really close by, which probably means they're still there, just occluding themselves.

He'd had to stop once so far for gas in Nebraska, fueling up and beating it back to the highway in less than five minutes. Nothing out of the ordinary had gone down, a definite plus.

He's been driving for almost nine hours and it's full-on night, which isn't helping him to stay awake. A huge yawn works its way out, and he finally admits that he'd better find a place to grab some shut eye. Either that, or end up in the median or a ditch.

And to seal the deal, the needle of the gas gauge is getting damn close to “E”. Fuel efficiency isn't one of the Impala's best attributes.

He takes the next exit, passing up the handful of motels clustered around the interchange and heading south toward someplace called Avoca.

He's there in a few minutes, and the town is much smaller than he'd hoped, little more than a main intersection with a handful of side streets. He peels off the highway and into a residential area, making a few random turns until he spots what he's looking for.

Sam kills the lights and backs the Impala into the driveway of a house with a scruffy lawn and a “for sale” sign.

A quick check confirms the house is empty, and within minutes, he's jimmied the garage door lock and parked the Impala inside.

He salts the garage door, the single window and the door leading inside the house. He grabs a blanket from the trunk and hangs it over the window.

Satisfied that he's taken every precaution possible, Sam climbs into the back seat and prepares to settle in. He reaches over the front seat to pop open the glove box, retrieving the Glock stored there. He freezes, staring at a lumpy brown package tied with rough twine.

He sinks into the back seat, turning the small package over and over in his hands. Holding his penlight in his mouth, he carefully unties the twine and unfolds the slick, brown wrappings to reveal some plant matter, a woody root.

Sam unfolds a scrap of paper wrapped around the root and instantly recognizes the handwriting:

Thought this iboga root might come in handy.
Supposed to be better than mugwart.
Wasn't easy to get, but I pulled some strings.
Couldn't chance giving it to you in person.
This was the only place I could think of.
Hope you get it in time to use it.
Good luck,
- B
.P.S. Sweet ride.

“Son of a bitch.” Sam re-wraps the iboga and drops it on the front seat. “Bishop.”

He finds it a bit creepy that Bishop had known where to find the Impala, let alone that he'd stashed it in the first place. Was the demon following him? If he was, he'd definitely have had to ditch that huge Ford, which could probably be seen from outer space.

At worst, Bishop was playing him just like Ruby had. But Sam had scanned Bishop's mind for days back in Hurricane, and there'd been no sign of any ulterior motives on the demon's part, unless they'd been hidden.

At best, Bishop had been keeping an eye on him from a distance, and he'd been tailed to the storage place when he'd hidden the iboga, which could easily explain why a red was waiting there.

Sam yawns again and settles down, throwing a long leg across the seat. She may get crappy mileage, but at least the Impala's backseat was big enough to get marginally comfortable in. He's spent more than a few nights back there, curled up on the black vinyl, listening to Dean snore up front.

And she's been witness to far more than just the two of them sleeping, as he and Dean had steamed up the windows and rocked the shocks on more occasions than he can count.

Ensuring that his gun is handy, he closes his eyes, planning to dream about that one time when he and Dean went through an entire squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup.


September 9, 2008 – Durant, Iowa


Sam finishes filling up the Impala, and as he's walking by to replace the fuel nozzle, he notices what could be a pretty good sized ding to her left rear quarter panel.

He replaces the nozzle and bends down to check out the possible dent when he senses movement out of the corner of his eye. He instinctively ducks in the opposite direction, but the demon gets the better of him.

The thing's knife doesn't find home, but it opens a deep gash along Sam's upper right arm.

A woman fueling her minivan on the opposite side of the pumps screams, and Sam sends the demon flying, its knife clattering to the concrete.

The demon lands a split second later, about fifteen feet away.

Sam jumps in and fires up the Impala, tromping on the gas. He fishtails his way across the gas station's parking lot, narrowly avoiding a collision with another car turning in.

He heads south and away from I-80 as blood pools on the seat next to him.


September 12, 2008 – Muscatine, Iowa


Sam changes the dressing on his wound, noting with satisfaction that there are no signs of infection. He cleans the eight inch long gash, ensuring that all of his stitchwork is holding up like it should. He applies a clean dressing and flops back on the bed.

After the attack, he'd driven as far as he could before stopping and parking behind a shopping center. He'd torn up one of his shirts and temporarily wrapped his arm before heading south again.

He hadn't gotten far when things took a turn for the worse, his head aching and his stomach doing loop the loops. The demon must've treated the blade of the knife with something unpleasant, and it was obvious that he'd have to find a place to crash and fast.

When his vision started to blur, he'd been forced to check into motel, despite the risks. He simply couldn't have driven any further at the time.

He'd spent the next forty-eight hours in his room, feverish and sick to his stomach, a sitting duck.

The fever had broken during the third night, and he'd awoken feeling much better but far from one hundred percent.

He hadn't been able to control his dreams during those three nights, and he'd been to The Pit every time, unable to do anything but watch. Most everything was the same as ever, with one troubling exception: Dean hadn't called his name, not even once.

Sam checks his watch and hoists himself from the bed, packing his duffel.

He's spent far too much time in one place, and he needs to get moving again.

He slings the duffel over his shoulder and flicks off the safety on his Glock, sliding the gun down the back of his jeans.

He scans the area one more time before turning the knob and opening the door.

September 14, 2008 – Pontiac, Illinois

Sam arrives in Pontiac without further incident, although he's sensed demonsign all the way from Muscatine. Pontiac seems to be clear, but it's a good bet that demons masking themselves are lurking around.

Not the best of situations if Sam can't sense them and they can't sense him. Funny in a sad way, like two blind, old dogs that can only fight if they stumble into each other.

Everyone's in the dark on this one.

The mechanics of exactly how everything will work boggles Sam's mind, and he's had to actively suppress his natural instinct to over-analyze.

He's got to go on faith this time out.

He checks into a hotel smack in the middle of downtown, hoping that the central location is public enough to deter demons from instigating a showy confrontation. While a reliable operating procedure in the past, there's no telling if it'll be effective now, especially considering the events of the last week.

Once he's salted the door and windows, Sam lies down, far more fatigued than he should be.

Although he feels much more like himself, the effects of the knife attack linger.

Hopefully another few days' rest and meditation will restore his strength.

If not, he's got to act anyway, as he's finding it increasingly hard to ignore the burning in his gut that keeps telling him Dean is running out of time.

September 17, 2008

Sam measures out six ounces of the iboga root tincture and swirls it around in the glass. It looks like mud and smells worse, but it's purported effectiveness at facilitating ehteric projection is pretty much unparalleled.

At least that's what his research tells him. Even if it proves to be no more effective than mugwart, it certainly can't hurt to try it.

He's a bit hesitant that he hasn't actually used iboga yet, but considering that he's just now regained his strength, he doesn't want to waste any more time experimenting.

Lilith will have to wait, too.

Dean's the priority right now.

Sam swallows the iboga tincture, and it's all he can do to force it down. He gags a few times, an uneasy heat forming in his belly.

Dropping onto the bed, he squeezes his eyes shut and prepares himself.

“Here I come, Dean.”

~*~ * ~*~

Chaos.

Insanity.

Confusion at every turn, blinding flashes and blasting sounds that make no sense.

Belched flame and searing clouds of smoke compete with nightmare fireworks overhead.

He slogs ahead, the acrid air heavier and more foul than its ever been.

Another crushing wave of sound, like a pipe organ screaming, flattens him to the rocky ground.

He's lost all track of time and place.

The chorus of twisted screams winds up again just as more explosions rumble and shake the earth.

It's not supposed to be like this.

Something's changed.

More flame, more smoke, more everything.

He drags himself up, hunched over and hands before him, feeling his way along as though blind.

Each step seems to take days, maybe years.

He stumbles forward again, crashing into an outcropping of sharpness.

It's shape is familiar and he steadies himself on it, pulling himself to his aching feet.

He leaps forward, struggling to keep upright for more than a few steps at a time.

Finally, the ground rises before him, that familiar, rocky slope.

He claws his way to the top, and gazes into The Pit.

Yet another discharge of impossible sound right overhead blasts the air from his lungs.

He rises up, standing at the very edge, buffeted by stinging whirlwinds of ash and smoke.

The dark thing is nowhere in sight.

Nothing but light fills his blurred vision.

Leaping into the center of The Pit, he dives straight toward the blinding form there.

He grabs onto the brightness with his right hand, holding it with all his might.

It responds to him, entwining itself around his body.

He reaches out with his other hand, concentrating, drowning out the madness surrounding him.

He focuses every last shred of his energy, every molecule of his body on escape.

He wills them to rise.

With all his might he lifts them both, slowly at first but with ever increasing speed.

They rise above The Pit, a wave of rancorous despair surging toward them.

He takes them higher and higher, arrowing away from the tortured blackness below.


~*~ * ~*~


Fatigue.

Confusion.

His mind is dull, fuzzed, out of focus.

He strives to employ order, to envision his destination, his goal.

Impossibilities buffet him, wailing shards of light coupled with viscous, roiling screams.

Scrabbling, grasping, pulling.

He marshals his energies once more, channeling it all into one last burst.

He locks onto the image of the clearing in his mind, the ring of stately pines, the crude grave marker...

...and he wills them there.

Energy surging to every limb, every pore, every molecule.

He is fire.

Acceleration.

Pain.

They explode to the surface, his shockwave erupting outward and laying waste.

He crumples to the ground, dazed, momentarily lost, only one thought echoing in his mind.

As you were.

Another burst, and he's alone, the brightness gone.

He tries to stand, tries to move, but cannot.

His vision fades and his limbs refuse to respond as a frigid numbness overtakes him.

He rolls over, dragging himself toward the grave, horrified.

Hoarse cries assault his ringing ears.

Weak pounding from below ices his soul.

No.

His head swims, horror turning to rage.

NO!

The ground trembles as the crust of dead grass and weeds rises and spilts apart.

The end of the rough casket appears, splintered and broken.

He tries to scream, but a million knifepoints of pain pierce his body, immobilizing him.

He's done.

Finished.

Out of time.

Collapsing.

Get out. Go back.

Funkytown

The darkness claims him, and he knows no more.

September 19, 2008

Sam pulls on a clean t-shirt, feeling a helluva lot better after a shower. Unfortunately, the Astor won't rank very high as far as quality and quantity of hot water goes.

He's still a bit wrecked after his excursion downstairs, but aside from a mild headache and a few pulled muscles, he really can't complain.

Apparently the accolades concerning iboga root are for real. Sure, he'd been totally drained after snapping himself back into his physical body, sleeping ten hours straight. Considering the length of the projection and how long he'd stumbled around looking for The Pit, he still felt better than most of his shorter trips using mugwart.

He has no clue as to what was going on in Hell as he searched for Dean. Were the psycho pyrotechnics evidence of weather patterns? A downstairs version of a thunderstorm or hurricane, maybe? Whatever it was, he'd barely managed to get through it.

Sam sits at the table and pours himself a shot. It's refreshing to have a belt because he wants to rather than trying to drown in it. He wakes up his laptop and checks his watch.

The GPS on his Wedge Antilles cell had been activated almost eleven hours ago.

The most likely place Dean would go is South Dakota and Bobby's. If that's the case, and he's pretty sure it is, the drive from Bobby's to Pontiac is right around ten hours, so he's expecting company any minute.

At least he hopes Dean will turn up soon.

Until that email from his cell provider, he'd really had no indication that he'd been successful in getting Dean all the way back. Out of The Pit, yeah. But the most important thing? Nada.

He hadn't been in any state to make a dream journal entry when he'd made it back topside, so his memories of his experiences downstairs are sketchy. He clearly recalls the insane conditions, finding The Pit, and lifting them both out of there. Of the trip upstairs, Sam's memories are hazier still. He recalls a sense of profound weariness and then crushing anxiety as their ascent reached its end.

Sam reaches out to try and sense Dean's soul, pushing himself until his head's ready to explode. He can't find any sign of it, which could be good if he's been successful and Dean's soul is back where it belongs. He does note plenty of demonsign in the area though, but none close enough to the hotel to worry about.

At least he can use that to explain his presence in Pontiac.

He absently searches the web awhile before downing another shot and returning to his pacing of the room.

He's got to keep his head, especially in the homestretch.

The fact that he's going to have to act really fucking surprised when Dean shows up has been weighing on him all day. Worse, the realization that he'll have to keep it up indefinitely settles in, doing nothing to ease his anxiety.

The gravity of the whole thing is almost overwhelming, that he's going have to lie to Dean, right from the very first second he sees him.

How could he have not thought of this before?

Sam knows his brother well enough that it's not possible to say anything about most of his activities over the last four months. Okay, probably everything.

That he'd sucked demon blood would be enough to set Dean's head spinning, let alone any of the other gory details.

Dean can never find out what he can do or what he's become.

A super freak, a monster.

The possibility that Dean might have some sense of what happened crosses Sam's mind, too. Maybe he already knows what went down. There's also no telling how badly Dean's been damaged by forty hellish years of torture.

Way too many questions, and no possible answers until Dean actually walks in.

Sam's running through his possible reactions for the hundredth time when solid knocks rattle the door to his room.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, sucking in deep breaths as his heart tries to climb up into his throat.

He adopts what he hopes is his most annoyed expression and whips open the door. “Yeah, what is it?”

Sam swears that everything...the entire universe...stops for that second. There's no way he'll ever forget this moment.

Ever.

Bobby stands there, scruffy as always, but definitely tired. He gives a nearly imperceptible nod to Sam and then stares at the floor.

And there's Dean.

Just as Sam remembers him, just as he'd been.

Sam forgets how to breathe as Dean cracks his trademark crooked smile.

Dean's eyes travel the length of Sam's body, from head to toe and back again.

Sam tries to talk, but he's forgotten how to do that, too. If he didn't have one hand clamped to the door, he'd probably be on the floor right now.

Dean smiles. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam knows he's gawking like an idiot. Somehow, a tiny part of his brain pipes up to remind him that it's time for another performance. He releases his death grip on the door and backs up into the room.

Dean takes that as a sign to come in, and Bobby follows.

“I know. I look damn good.” Dean's looking around the room when Sam springs into action.

“What the fuck are you?” Sam roars, drawing the Knife and lunging for Dean. Of course he holds back, giving Bobby ample time to block him and knock the Knife from his hands.

“It's really him!” Bobby yells, shoving Sam against the wall. “It's Dean. Believe me, I've gone through all this already.”

Sam puts up a struggle for a few seconds more, staring at Bobby, who just nods.

“Yeah, it's really me,” Dean adds, planting both hands on his hips, his expression calm.

Bobby releases him and Sam takes a step toward his brother. “Dean?”

Dean nods and smiles that smile of his again, the blinding one that Sam can't believe he'd almost forgotten about.

Sam grabs Dean, pulling him in tight. He nuzzles the side of Dean's neck, working to press every bit of himself against his brother. He can barely believe that it's real, that everything worked, but there's no denying that it's really Dean—solid and in the flesh. He breathes in his brother's unmistakable musk as Dean nearly hugs the air out of his lungs.

Sam lifts his head, staring into Dean's eyes that have gone heavy lidded and hungry.

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, still holding Sam tight. He licks his lips before crashing them to Sam's.

Sam responds ravenously, lifting his hands up to cradle Dean's head.

Dean grabs Sam's ass with both hands, walking Sam backward and into the wall. He devours Sam's mouth, pausing to nip and bite Sam's bottom lip.

Sam moans in response, bucking his hips into Dean's waist, his cock hardening in his jeans.

“Uh, think I'll get a room,” Bobby says. “Gimme a call when you're, um, done.”

Dean breaks the kiss, turning to face Bobby. “You can stay. I know I don't mind.”

Sam watches as Bobby's eyes go wide. “Thanks, but I'll pass this time.” He starts to say something else, thinks better of it and makes a hasty retreat, slamming the door.

“Was he blushing?” Dean says, flashing his most wicked grin. “I think he was.”

“It really is you,” Sam replies grinding his hips some more. “Perverted as ever.”

“Damn right it's me, Sasquatch.” Dean slides his hands up and under Sam's t-shirt, his fingers tracing the lines of Sam's abs. “Man, I've so missed this.” He lifts up the t-shirt and runs his hands over Sam's chest. He leans in, teasing a hard nipple with the tip of his tongue. Dean circles the mounded flesh a few times before taking the peak between his teeth and pulling, eliciting another moan from Sam.

“Take it off,” he commands, backing away and kicking off his boots.

Sam complies, yanking the shirt over his head and slinging it away. He then bends down to start on his own boots.

“Leave 'em on,” Dean barks, shrugging out of his denim shirt. “For now.”

Sam nods, noting the thick outline of his brother's hard-on stretching the fabric of his low-slung jeans. Dean's gaze lingers on his own fresh wound for a quick second, and then Dean's pulling off his own t-shirt. Sam's surprised to find Dean's torso as firm and muscled as ever, totally clear of the multitude of scars and scrapes acquired from years of Hunting.

Sam hadn't expected that, and then his gaze wanders to his brother's right shoulder where he finds another surprise. A fresh scar in the outline of a hand. A big hand. “Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the scar, which resembles some kind of relief in raised flesh, angry and red.

“Screw that,” Dean says, palming Sam's denim-clad cock. “We'll worry about it later. You don't have a clue about how long I've been thinking about this, needing it,” he breathes, stepping close to Sam and looking up into his eyes. “Too fucking long.” He grinds his groin into Sam's thigh, both hands slipping down and inside the back of Sam's jeans. “So fucking big.” He licks a trail up the center of Sam's chest and collarbone, stopping to suckle and lave at the taut skin. “So big, Sammy.”

Sam's fingers trace the cartography of Dean's back as he presses his hard-on into Dean's abs. He stares at the scar, his mind barely able to comprehend that he'd done it, that he'd marked Dean when dragging him from The Pit.

Dean's sucking turns to biting, each nip more intense than the last.

"Yours,” he says as Dean finishes marking him.

“Fuckin' A.” Dean pulls off his jeans and boxer briefs, his thick cock bobbing free.

Sam falls to his knees, his hands all over Dean's muscled thighs. He encircles the base of Dean's erection with one big hand while the other's fingers tease the crack of Dean's ass. He has to bend down to get his mouth on his brother's dick, swirling his tongue around the swollen head and teasing the slit a few times. Each lick and swirl draws a grunt of satisfaction from Dean, and Sam continues, sucking in Dean's cock and swallowing him whole.

“Suck it, big boy,” Dean blurts out, spreading his legs and placing a hand on the back of Sam's head. “That's it, suck me fuckin' dry.”

Dean's expletives turn Sam on, the heavy, raspy timbre of his voice incredibly arousing. Sam works up a smooth rhythm, working the entire length of Dean's cock and raking his teeth along its underside on every upstroke.

Dean begins to thrust his hips, matching Sam's ministrations. He bucks faster and faster, and eventually Sam just holds still and lets Dean fuck his mouth.

“Squeeze 'em,” Dean pants, beads of sweat popping out all over his body.

Sam rolls one of Dean's nuts between his fingers, then the other. He pulls and massages Dean's sac as best he can, no mean feat since he's working to keep his mouth on Dean's dick, too. His brother's pounding him mercilessly now, and Sam can tell by Dean's breathing that he's getting close to losing his load. He backs off, his lips raw and numb, standing up and kicking off his boots and losing his jeans.

“What the fuck?” Dean protests. “I ain't finished.”

“Neither am I,” Sam says, grinning as Dean's eyes are drawn to his own neglected dick. He's pretty damn big and knows it, though he never talks it up or brags about it. Really nothing but the random effects of genetics.

Dean, on the other hand, definitely gets off on his size. And he gets off on that. Totally awesome when a plan comes together.

“Jesus effin' Christ,” Dean murmurs, throwing himself at Sam and digging his fingers into Sam's buttcheeks. “So damn big, little bro.” He ruts against Sam, their erect dicks sliding together in a delicious friction. He sets to marking Sam's left shoulder while awkwardly walking them toward the bed.

The backs of Sam's knees hit the edge of the mattress and he loses his balance, falling backward and bringing Dean with him.

Dean bears down hard, his teeth breaking the surface of Sam's skin.

“Ow, man,” Sam yelps, using his elbows to move toward the center of the bed.

Dean laughs, clearly pleased with his handiwork. “That'll be there for a long time.” He knee-walks over to Sam, his cock red and pointing straight up. Dean straddles Sam's thighs, sitting on his haunches and grabbing Sam's erection.

Sam watches as Dean wraps his other hand around his own cock, stoking both of them at once.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean growls, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.

Sam lies there, watching, until Dean once again shows signs of getting off. He pushes Dean's hand from his dick and rolls his hips, knocking Dean off balance.

“Son of a bitch!”

Sam scoots up against the headboard and leans over to grab the tube of lube on the nightstand. He squeezes some of the goop into his palm and slathers it along the entire length of his erection. He looks up to see Dean staring like a kid seeing his first ice cream cake. “You want this?” Sam asks, making his voice as low and gravelly as possible.

Dean nods, biting his bottom lip, his fingertips absently toying with his dick.

“Then get your ass over here and get on it.” Sam sits up, his back flat against the headboard and his legs straight out in front of him.

Dean crawls to him, once again straddling Sam and smearing some lube around his crack and hole. His heavy cock bobs right in Sam's face as Dean lubes himself, and he finally finishes, drawing himself up and looking down at Sam. He closes his eyes, reaching around for Sam's dick and lowering himself down, wriggling around to make sure he's positioned correctly.

Sam slouches a little, grabbing Dean by the hips.

Dean pushes himself down, forcing the wide head of Sam's cock through his tight ring of muscle. He gasps and cries out, stopping for a brief second before lowering himself some more.

Sam feels Dean opening up to him and adds some pressure of his own by guiding Dean's hips downward.

Dean pants for a few seconds before shoving himself down in a single, smooth motion. He yells then, Sam fully embedded in him.

Sam sucks in deep breaths, the sensation of being encased in Dean's tight heat setting his head to spin. He jostles his hips slightly, hoping to spur Dean into action.

Dean doesn't disappoint, as he slowly lifts up a few inches, then back down again. He grasps his dick with his right hand, his left hand flat on the wall. He rises up again, higher this time, lowering himself and lifting right back up. He rides Sam's cock, up and down, up and down, stroking his own erection as he goes.

Sam sees stars as Dean picks up speed, pistoning on his throbbing cock with abandon. Dean's covered in sweat now, every flat plane and supple muscle of his body drenched in a satiny sheen, and Sam's sure he's never seen anything so fucking beautiful.

Nothing so goddamn gorgeous as his Dean.

Sam's toes tingle as the heat mushrooms out from his groin, and he closes his eyes, gasping for air, digging his fingers into Dean's hips, thrashing his head from side to side and calling Dean's name.

The heat explodes like a supernova, the liquid fire shooting through his veins and paralyzing him for a split second.

“Dean! Gonna go!” he manages to force out, trying to slow Dean's movements.

Dean drops down and clenches around Sam one last time, just as Sam's orgasm erupts, pouring from him and filling Dean.

Sam flings open his eyes, holding onto his brother as tightly as he can, attempting to keep his spent cock inside Dean, to maintain their bond, their connection, for as long as possible.

He watches as Dean tortures his own dick furiously, yanking and pulling, his face a mask of concentration.

Dean's body jerks once, then twice. He groans and cries out, opening his eyes to watch as his come spatters Sam's chest and stomach, the final spurts covering his fingers. He stares down at Sam, his pupils dilated, his lips red and fuller than ever.

Sam wraps one hand around Dean's, swirling his fingers in the spunk and licking them clean.

Dean releases his spent cock, pressing his sticky fingers to Sam's lips.

Sam suckles all four fingers at once, then each in turn, licking and laving up Dean's release.

Dean smiles down at him, his crooked grin firmly in place. “Who's the pervert again?”

~*~ * ~*~

Sam pulls on a pair of sleep pants as Dean kills his cell.

“That was Bobby. He wants to meet up at that diner down the street tomorrow morning.” Dean works the towel over his hair again and dumps it to the floor. “Says he knows some psychic chick who might be able to help figure out who cracked me outta Hell.”

“Okay. Sounds good,” Sam lies, watching as Dean roots around in his duffel, extracting a pair of black boxer briefs and stepping into them.

Which is a shame, though, as Sam would just as soon have Dean strut around in the buff all the time. Not that he doesn't look hot in his briefs, either.

They'd barely managed to get through their shower together before the hot water had turned cold. Dean'd bitched and moaned the entire time, complaining about everything from the soap to the paper thin hotel towels.

It was all good though, almost like old times.

Dean's back, and that's all that matters.

“So, how are you, really?” Sam asks, sitting on the bed, feeling the slightest pang of guilt for not asking the question before they'd fucked themselves silly.

“I'm good, Sammy. Don't know how or why, but I'm good.” He sits next to Sam, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together.

“I'm just glad you're back, man. You don't know how bad it was, ya know, without you.”

Dean nods, still staring at the hideous carpet. “Pretty bad all around, I guess.” He locks gazes with Sam, but says nothing.

Sam notices the difference in Dean's eyes then. Still bright and full of piss and vinegar, but also older somehow, a hint of underlying tiredness, a weariness that hadn't been there before. “You wanna talk about it?”

Dean doesn't say anything for a long time, his eyes unfocused, far off. “Someday, maybe. I need some time, okay?"

"Sure, yeah. I understand." Sam watches as Dean's jaw muscles clench and flex.

"Sammy, I need to know what you did to get me back."

The air's sucked right out of Sam's lungs as if he's been sucker-punched. "I did everything I could to get you back, Dean. Tracked down every demon expert I could find, researched every ritual, even thought about opening the Gate in Wyoming."

"Don't lie to me, man," Dean says quietly, still staring at the floor. "How much did it cost you?"

"I tried to deal for your soul, but no demon would give me the time of day. You were rotting in Hell, and there was nothing I could do about it." Sam stares at Dean, his mind aswirl. Everything he'd said is true, so he hadn't lied.

Dean nods slightly, finally turning to Sam. "Seriously?"

"I didn't sell my soul, man."

"I believe you."

"Good."

"How'd you get that?" Dean nods to Sam's stitches.

"Demon in Iowa. Got the jump on me." Again, the truth.

"Fuckin' freaks. Can't wait to get back in the game and gank as many as I can." Dean yawns. "We should hit the sack. You know how cranky Bobby gets if we're late.”

“Okay, sure.” Sam gets up and rounds the right side of the bed, pulling the covers back.

“What the hell are you doin'?”

“What's it look like I'm doing? I'm getting in bed, Dean.”

Dean pulls a face. “Dude, that's always my side.”

Sam drops the covers and crawls across the bed. “My mistake.” He slips under the covers on his side, watching as Dean hops in and makes a huge fuss arranging the sheet and blanket.

“Now what?”

“I'm making sure I've got enough covers, 'cause someone always seems to steal 'em during the night.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“Sorry the truth hurts, little bro.” Dean flicks out the light, plunging the room into darkness.

Regular flashes of red from the hotel's sign wash through the two windows, with the occasional flicker of lightning from an approaching thunderstorm.

Sam lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Dean's breathing as it evens out into a familiar rhythm.

Lighting flashes more frequently as the rumbles of thunder grow louder.

He's gotten Dean back, and he's not going to lose him again.

He vows to do whatever it takes to keep Dean from learning the secrets of his lost summer.

More lightning with a simultaneous crack of thunder, and the first spatters of rain from the approaching storm hit the windows.

Nothing gonna take Dean away from him again.

Nothing.

~*~ fin ~*~