torch, [email protected]
July 12, 2007
Disclaimer: yea, verily, and this is it. Beta by Arduinna, yay her. Do not archive without permission.
consumed by either fire or fire
The second time Sam fell out of bed, Dean sat up and groped for a weapon with one hand and the lamp on the bedside table with the other. "Sammy? You okay?"
"No, that's not what I want," Sam said, very clearly. There was a brief pause, and then he sat up, so Dean could see the top of his head sticking up over the other bed. He looked a bit dazed, and then, as he noticed Dean watching him, embarrassed. "Uh. Bad dream."
"No, really," Dean said. "I would never have guessed." He put the gun down and leaned back on his elbow. "You want me to check with the front desk if they have bed rails?"
"Shut up." Sam crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up over his head, turning his back to Dean.
"Your feet are sticking out the other end," Dean said solicitously, and turned out the light just as Sam's middle finger made an appearance.
Dean had no trouble going back to sleep. He also had no trouble waking up when Sam started talking again. "No," Sam said. "No, no, I told you, that's not..." Sam sounded a bit more uncertain this time. Then he started flailing around. The pillows hit the floor, and Dean figured it was only a matter of time before Sam himself did, too. Again. "No!"
Forgoing the gun this time, Dean turned on the light and got out of bed. He shuffled over to Sam's bed just in time to get a glancing kick in the knee. "Hey! Sam!" Dean grabbed Sam's arm before he could get an elbow in the nuts, too. "Sammy, this is getting old. Wake up!"
"No," Sam said, but he did. He sat up and slumped forward, breathing heavily. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, and Sam dragged his legs out of the way with a glare.
"You wanna tell me what's going on? More bad dreams?"
Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Yeah."
Dean poked Sam's shoulder. "Like, vision bad?"
"No, not visions," Sam said, but he was staring at his own knee when he said it, bunching the covers up around himself.
"But you're seeing something, right?" Dean said, testing a theory, and bingo, Sam got a look on his face like he really wanted to say no but he knew Dean wouldn't believe it and it was pissing him off. "Spill."
"It's personal," Sam said, and okay, well, that definitely explained the heavy breathing. Dean grinned. Then Sam's face changed. "It's really weird, though. It's like someone else is trying to get me to have, you know, those kinds of dreams, and they keep picking things out of my brain that are... wrong."
Dean sat back. "Oh, great. Didn't I check you for curses just two days ago?"
"I'm not cursed," Sam said.
"That's what I'm saying," Dean said. "So it's got to be something else. You picked up any new stuff recently, clothes, I dunno, a book? Jewelry? Or wait, I know, that chick at Dunkin Donuts was totally giving you the evil eye."
"I haven't been poisoned by a cursed donut, either," Sam said, and now he sounded downright snippy.
"How do you know?" Dean got up and paced across the room. "Could be anything." He turned around and stopped. "It could be the bed."
"Dean," Sam said, exasperated, and then he paused. "Actually, yeah, you could be right."
"I'm always right," Dean said. "Let's burn it."
"We can't just burn the bed." Sam swung his legs over the side. "At least, not in here. Fire alarm. And what if it's not the bed?" He yawned.
"We'll test it," Dean said. "You take that bed, I'll take this one and see if I get any weird dreams." He waggled his eyebrows, then put a hand on Sam's shoulder and pushed. "Come on, move."
Sam didn't look entirely convinced, but he went over to the other bed, and Dean flopped down in the mess of covers Sam had left behind. The smells of Sam and sleep were stronger than the smells of cheap sheets and cheaper detergent, anyway.
"Maybe I'll just stay awake and keep an eye on you," Sam said.
"Whatever." Dean punched the nearest pillow and tried to get comfortable. Then he rolled over and looked at Sam. "Exactly how weird? I mean, are we talking like, jacking off in front of your high school class weird, or did you dream that you were having sex with snails or something?"
"Thanks for making me realize it could have been much worse," Sam said, and turned out the light.
Dean turned over and put his arm around the warm body lying next to him. At first it was Cassie, then it was Jo, and then, briefly, Ellen, the chick from Dunkin Donuts, Marie, Nick, the cheerleader from Little Rock, Dillie, one after the other like flipping through tv channels looking for something good. Dean thought it was all good, pretty much, but it was still a relief when the flipping stopped and he was in bed with someone who didn't flicker out like a ghost just when Dean wanted to get something started. It was Sam, who licked his lips and then started licking Dean's chest, and Dean rolled over on his back and went with it, only then Sam lifted his head and looked confused and moved back and started to flicker, too.
"No," Dean said, annoyed. "No, come on, fuck—" He sat up and reached for Sam, got a good grip and yanked him back down again, warm heavy weight landing on top of him. Sam was wearing a t-shirt now, and Dean frowned and ran his hands in under it to get at skin, and caught Sam's lower lip between his teeth.
Sam drew back, looking shocked. "Dean! Dean, it's me."
"I can see that," Dean said impatiently, twisting his hand into thin t-shirt fabric and thinking about ripping. Then he blinked. "Oh, fuck. I'm awake."
"Yeah," Sam said, still lying sprawled between Dean's legs, pressing him down into the mattress. He was much heavier when he was real. "Yeah, you are. And I'm thinking this is a yes on the bed being cursed." He shifted, then hissed between his teeth. "And you could let go? Of me? And we could burn it."
Dean shifted, too, pressing his hips up. One thing hadn't changed. Real Sam was as hard as dream Sam had been. "Or we could wait a bit," he said, voice rasping in the back of his throat.
"Cursed bed," Sam said, sounding strained. His eyes were very dark. "This isn't real, Dean, it's not what you really want."
"Feels pretty real to me." Dean threaded his fingers into Sam's hair and dragged his head down until Sam's mouth was right there, wide and soft, and he bit Sam's lower lip again and kissed him slowly, light airy kisses at first and then deeper and more lingering. When the tip of his tongue touched Sam's he felt the shock of it through his entire body.
Sam pulled back again, stubborn. "Dean." He breathed in, raggedly, and got up. Dean thought about trying to stop him; then he got up, too, and tackled Sam onto the other bed, landing on top of him.
"Not a cursed bed," Dean pointed out, and lowered his head and kissed Sam some more. Sam made a choked sound and then his hands were on Dean's back, big and warm, holding him closer.
Dean couldn't stop kissing Sam. He knew there was a lot of other good stuff that he wanted to get to, but Sam's mouth drew him in again and again. Sam had one hand on the back of Dean's neck now, and he kissed like it was the most important thing in the world. Like Dean was. Dean couldn't have pulled away from Sam any more than he could pull away from gravity.
Sam's nails trailed down Dean's spine, and he shivered. Dean wanted to keep his eyes open, to see what Sam looked like in the soft lamplight, but he couldn't, it was too much. He was consumed by the simple, overwhelming information his skin was sending him about what it was like to touch Sam, to be touched by Sam. Sam pushed his hand into Dean's boxers and grabbed his ass, kneading and then scratching his nails across the skin, teasingly. Sam's fingertips brushed up and down the crack of Dean's ass.
When Dean dragged his mouth along the line of Sam's jaw, he tasted sweat and salt. He chased that heady taste down Sam's throat, then returned to his mouth, again and again. Sam pressed a finger against Dean's hole, and Dean's hips jerked, his cock sliding against Sam's through two thin layers of cloth. "God," Sam said into Dean's mouth. "Dean."
Sam's finger pushed into Dean, and Dean rocked his hips, feeling sweat break out across his shoulders and in the small of his back, trying to get that finger deeper, trying to get it there, oh fuck yes, right there, like that.
"That's really good," he tried to say, but Sam's tongue was in his mouth, Sam was everywhere. Slow curling press of Sam's finger over and over, and Dean clenched his hands in Sam's stupid t-shirt and ground his hips down, slow and shivery and just enough to make him come.
Sam moaned in Dean's ear like he'd just come, too, but he hadn't, Dean could feel him, hot and hard. Dean breathed into Sam's neck for a little while, feeling his heart beat like a drum, or maybe that was Sam's. Another heavy shiver went through him as Sam worked his finger free. His arms felt unsteady, but Dean managed to lift up enough to shove at Sam's t-shirt, and Sam half helped and half hindered, squirming and thrusting up to rub his cock against Dean's belly.
All that bare skin, Sam's bare skin, felt so good. Dean rolled off Sam just long enough to get his boxers off, and Sam fumbled his underwear off too, and pressed up against Dean. Dean wanted to put his hands everywhere, all over Sam. He wanted to touch every part of Sam over and over. Sam thrust his hips against Dean, Sam's cock dragged against Dean's skin and Sam hissed, like it hurt.
"It's okay," Dean said into Sam's throat, into the smooth skin of Sam's chest, "it's okay," nipping at Sam's belly as he squirmed lower. "It's okay." He licked a stripe up Sam's cock and sucked the head into his mouth, pulled back and popped his jaw, then went down again. Sam was always such a damn overachiever.
Sam was breathing in short, desperate hitches, one hand gripping Dean's shoulder and the other clenched in the sheet, and his hips strained up against Dean's weight across his legs. Dean got a hand up and wrapped it around the shaft of Sam's cock, sliding it in and out of his mouth, and then he sealed his lips tight and just sucked, hard, and it was a good thing Sam came before his grip broke Dean's collarbone. Dean swallowed, and swallowed, and pulled back to breathe. He put his head down on Sam's chest and listened to Sam's heart and felt Sam tremble with deep-down aftershocks.
Squinting across the room like this, Dean thought he could maybe see something above the other bed, something like a heat haze. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face against the edge of Sam's ribs.
"Dean," Sam said after a while, sounding like he had to winch his voice up all the way from the soles of his feet. He loosened his grip on Dean's shoulder and trailed his hand up to the back of Dean's neck, rubbing his thumb along Dean's hairline. Then he let go.
"Yeah, fine," Dean said without opening his eyes. "We'll burn the damn bed."
"There's a ritual," Sam said. "Less property damage."
"You're no fun," Dean said. Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes and looked at Sam. "Actually, I take that back."
Sam looked away. "It's almost five am," he said. "We can do it now and leave before anyone else wakes up." When he moved, his skin seemed to shrink away from Dean's touch.
Dean sat up. "You need any stuff from the car for that ritual? Or I've got matches right here." He got up and went to get his jeans. Once he'd pulled them on he turned to see Sam sitting in the pool of lamplight, naked, skin glowing a smooth gold. Dean's mouth went dry. "Or we could. Wait. Do it later."
"I need more chalk," Sam said. "It's in the side pocket of the blue sports bag."
Dean shoved his feet into his boots without bothering with socks and went outside. He could smell dawn on the air, sweet and chilly against his bare skin. All the other motel windows were dark. He fished around for the chalk and got another canister of salt too, just in case. And a bottle of accelerant.
When he came back into the room, Sam had pulled the cursed bed away from the wall, and the heat haze above it was clearer, seemed almost to have a shape. Dean frowned. He tossed the chalk to Sam and started to make a salt circle while Sam chalked marks onto the headboard. Sam finished chalking and backed up, and Dean closed the salt circle. The air above the bed roiled uneasily, and Sam started to recite in a firm voice.
Dean kept one eye on the bed and started to get their stuff together, putting Sam's shoes and laptop by the door, looking around for his shirt. The hot roiling air pushed outwards and met the salt circle and sizzled. Dean went to stand next to Sam, who was staring fixedly at the heat haze and speaking the last few words of the ritual faster and faster. When he finished, nothing happened, and then a face started to take shape in the heat haze. It didn't look friendly.
"Okay, plan B," Dean said and opened the bottle of accelerant. "Get the matches, they're in my pocket." He splashed the accelerant on the bed while Sam tried to get a hand into his pocket, which wasn't as much fun as it might have been under other circumstances. When Dean moved his hand a bit too recklessly and came up against the salt line from the outside, it was like putting his hand into an oven; his knuckles reddened, and one started to blister. "Any time now would be good, Sammy."
Sam got one match lit and tossed it on the bed, then another. For a brief moment, Dean thought the matches had gone out, and then flames leaped up from the bedclothes. The heat haze wavered and solidified, and Dean could have sworn he saw a face, saw a mouth, screaming and screaming and then popping out of existence as the flames rose higher.
Then the smoke detector started beeping and the sprinklers in the ceiling went off and drenched them both.
"I think we should leave now," Sam said. "Fast." They grabbed up their stuff and sprinted out of the door and over to the car, Sam swearing all the way at the loose gravel. Dean saw the lights come on in window after window as he dove into the car and dumped everything he was carrying onto Sam's side of the seat, started the engine and took off. Gravel sprayed from under the Impala's back wheels as they left the parking lot.
Fifteen minutes later, Dean looked over at Sam. "Dude. You're naked."
"You try getting jeans on in the front seat," Sam said, twisting around to fish for his shirt across the seatback. Dean took one hand off the wheel to run it down the long smooth line of Sam's back. Sam jerked up and hit his head on the car roof. "Dean, don't. I can fix this. The ritual—"
"No thanks," Dean said. "I really don't need you to set fire to me. I'm fine." He checked the rearview mirror and pulled off on the side of the road, in under the shelter of the trees. "Sammy." He took hold of Sam's arm and tugged. "C'mere, Sammy."
Sam only resisted for a second; then he yielded and shifted closer, until he was tucked against Dean's side, all warm skin and shadowy eyes. "Dean," he said, and to stop him from saying anything else, Dean kissed him.
"Look," Dean said, speaking with his lips against Sam's and tapping one hand against the steering wheel. "Not a cursed car. It's just us here. You want to stop, you just tell me, Sam, but—"
Sam's mouth cut him off, hot and more than a little desperate. Dean took his free hand from the wheel and tangled his fingers in Sam's hair. That seemed to be the right place for them.
"I don't want to stop," Sam said, and now his voice sounded like he'd winched it up from the center of the earth, deep and deeper than that and full of fire. He drew a heavy, shuddering breath. "But maybe we should go someplace where we didn't just commit arson."
"Okay," Dean said and kissed Sam again. He pulled back reluctantly and started the car. "Put some underwear on or something. You've got your bare ass on the seat, dude, that's gross."
Sam snorted and turned to rummage around in the backseat again, and Dean pinched his ass and Sam tried to kick him. Then Dean slotted Black Sabbath into the tape deck and drove towards the rising sun.