New 'Treadmill' - part fourteen!

[tabaqui]

Yes, it's been a while. What can i say? I'm just...lame that way.

Anyway! Some wonderful people left me some wonderful comments here, at svmadelyn's lj and at Cupid's Drop Box. I luff you guys, so much! Thank you!
:)

reremouse and cordelianne are co-mods at spring_with_xan this year, and sign ups have begun! Go here for information and to join in on the Xander love!

Now for the fic. Yay! This is getting close to the end, i do believe. I'm so pleased everyone has stuck around for my slow progress! I seem to be writing more slowly these days.

Previous parts here in tags. Beta'd, as always, by the delightful darkhavens, and encouraged by sweptawaybayou. Enjoy!





Dean finally naked, nothing left between them but air and tension. And he is different. He's a little thinner than...than Sam's Dean. (Sam will not let himself think 'real Dean' because that's unfair, and it hurts.) Not sick-thin, just...rangier. Whipcord muscle over bone, product of a diet that's less junk food and more beans-and-rice, or whatever the Apocalypse Survivor special usually is. More physical labor, less routine training. This Dean has more scars, too. A silver lace of them over his winter-pale skin, some straight as razor cuts and some curving – ragged. One that looks like it might have come close to killing him, ugly pock of twisted flesh over his hip and Sam wants to touch it. Wants to learn it, understand it. Understand him.

"What's this? Jesus, it's –"

"Fucking rawhead, 'bout scooped my liver right out."

"Holy... Is it sensitive? What if –"

"Christ's sake, Sam!" Twisting away like a snake and that makes Dean's fingers shift to a whole new angle inside, and suddenly Sam doesn't care about scars or anything else. Just this, just Dean, just the raw-silk roughness of his skin under Sam's palms and the push-pull feel of Dean's callused fingers stroking inside him. Little, hitching lungful of air and Dean grins down at him, eyes smoky-dark in the dull gold of the lantern light. "You like that? That what you want?" he says, his voice a graveled purr, his free hand on Sam's belly, rubbing and stroking like he's petting Sam-dog.

"Yeah, I...that...Dean, supposed to be...you...I –"

"Later, you can do that later," Dean hushes, and his knee is pushing at Sam's thigh. His hand is, pushing the other back – pinning it down to Sam's ribs. Taking his breath away, making him small. Blunt, hot tip of Dean's cock skidding on lube and then pushing, pushing. Easing right in alongside his fingers and Sam can't breathe, can't breathe, oh fuck, it's good...

"Ooh...oh gu-God..."

"Like that, just...like that..." Dean murmurs, his mouth on the knob of Sam's knee – on his collar bone and then on Sam's mouth as he stutter-glides in and in, callused knuckles scraping as his fingers curl around his own cock and Sam's nails sink in, ribs and hip, more scars in the morning for Sam to press his lips to.

"You awake over there, Sam?"

"Huh?" Sam lifted his head, groggy, from the seat back. Sam-dog's chin was on his hair and he tugged free – wiped at it to make sure there was no dog drool. "Where – we there?"

"'Bout half an hour." There was amusement in Dean's voice – amusement and maybe affection and Sam yawned wide enough to make his jaw ache, pushing his feet flat to the floor and doing his best to stretch his legs. Sam-dog made a little wuff sound, putting one paw on the seatback.

"Back up, Sammy," Dean ordered, and Sam-dog sighed heavily, the paw slipping away. "He doesn't like being back there."

"I'm...sorry." Sam twisted in his seat a little – held his hand up, fingers curled loosely over his palm. Sam-dog sniffed half-heartedly and sighed again and Sam gently rubbed the smooth curve of the dog's skull, sinking his fingers into the thick, black fur behind his ears. "Sorry, Sammy."

"He'll get used to it," Dean said, finality in his tone and Sam ducked his head a little and turned back around, suppressing the idiot smile that wanted to stretch his mouth wide open.



Bobby's place looked the same – for some stupid reason Sam expected it to be different, even though they'd barely been gone two days. Lisa's truck was there, and the kids were running with the dogs in the clear space between house and barn, yelling. Dean shut the car off and half-turned in his seat. "Come up," he said, and Sam-dog scrambled over the seat back and sat in the middle of the bench, ears pricked hard forward and his tail making tentative little sweeps against Sam's thigh. Every bit of his attention focused on Dean. "That's my boy, my good boy," Dean murmured, sinking both hands into the dog's ruff and scratching. "You know you're my number one guy, right Sammy? My good dog, good boy..." Dean's voice was low and honeyed; brimming with approval and outright love and it went straight to Sam's groin.

*Jesus...Christ.* Sam scrabbled at the door handle and yanked it up – all but leapt out of the car, slamming the door behind him and taking a deep, hard breath of the cold air. *Get a grip. Breathe.*

"Hi, Sam!" Daniel yelled a greeting from the middle of the milling pack of dogs, knotted and frayed length of rope in his hand. One of the dogs – a sort of hound/Sheppard mix – leaped for it, jaws snapping, and the boy laughed, spinning around.

"Hey, Daniel." Sam pushed his hands back through his hair and took one more long breath, the air burning in his nostrils and making his eyes sting. The sky was ragged with clouds, tiny scraps of blue shimmering through the streamers of grey. The wind pushed at him, strong as ever, and he turned and opened the back door, hauling out their bags.

Dean was climbing out on the other side – stood and watched Sam-dog leap away, joining the pack. "You all right?" he asked, and Sam hitched a duffel up higher onto his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm – good. All good."

Dean's eyebrow went up, little smirk twisting his lips. "Let's go see what Bobby's got on the stove."

"Sure, let's do that," Sam muttered, and followed Dean inside.


"Lisa's goin' over to Deadwood 'til the Solstice is over," Bobby said. Lisa and her kids had packed up some preserves and some of the venison Dean had brought from Popeye and left right after lunch. Bobby was sitting in his ratty office chair, crutches propped behind him, both hands on the stump of his leg, knuckles digging in. He noticed Sam's flick of a glance and made a little grimace of irritation. "Gets to aching from the cold."

"Yeah, I bet," Sam said. His own wrist, broken so long ago, still twinged from time to time. He couldn't imagine the ache of that severed limb. Bobby had lit three lanterns, lining them up on his table, the wicks turned up high. Coupled with the glow from the fireplace, they made Bobby's 'study' pretty bright.

"Why're they goin' over there? She was just up there," Dean said, and Bobby shot him a look.

"She doesn't wanna be here when the angel comes. Don't blame her, really – not with those kids. 'Sides, it's her sister up there. And they'll be happy to have a hunter with them for the Hibernal."

"So you think it'll be here tomorrow, then?" Dean was feeding ragged slats of wood and bits of split logs into the fire, gaze intent and voice calm. Deceptively so.

"Yeah, I do. Maybe you –"

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean snapped, betraying himself, and Bobby made a small snort of laughter.

"I know you're not, boy. Don't you wanna go give the barn a tour and get us a jug of the Recipe?"

"Not really."

"Git, boy," Bobby said – not unkind, but stern enough to make Sam twitch in his seat.

Dean stood up slowly, brushing off his fingers – looking at Bobby with a little scowl drawing his eyebrows down. "Bobby –"

"It's cool, Dean," Sam said. Finally catching on and feeling kind of stupid.

Dean's scowling face swung from Bobby to Sam and he stood there, chewing on his lip. "Fine. Fuckers." He stomped out of the room – down the hall and through the kitchen and, after a moment's pause to get his coat – out the door. He didn't slam it.

Sam let out a small sigh, and Bobby hitched himself a little higher up in his chair – pushed and pulled himself and his chair over to a crammed-full bookcase and started poking around. "Bobby, I –"

"Don't you start." Bobby looked at Sam over his shoulder for a moment and then went back to pulling out random books. "I believe your story, Sam. God knows, I've heard stranger ones. Seen some stuff you wouldn't believe. But..."

"But?" Sam stood up, restless, and moved to the fireplace. There were wax-encrusted candlesticks staggered across the mantle, stumps of candles unlit. Scattered among the brass or glass or black-iron sticks were rocks and cats-eye shells, feathers and pinecones and twists of dried herbs. Sam picked up a blue jay feather and absently smoothed the vanes. "What do you think's gonna happen, Bobby?" There was a sigh, and Sam twirled the feather in his fingers, watching the light slide off the dull-blue and black stripes.

"I don't know what's gonna happen, but I've been in this business all my life, Sam. And after all these years, there's one thing you can be sure of when you're dealing with the supernatural."

Sam finally looked over at Bobby again, letting the feather drift out of his fingers and back to the scarred wood. "What's that?"

"It'll fuck you up. C'mere." Bobby pushed himself away from the bookshelf, holding a smallish, thickish book in his hands. It looked moldy, or maybe scorched. Black along the edges, with splintery wood showing at the spine where the vellum binding had been rubbed away. Sam settled himself on the edge of Bobby's table, shifting a video card and a dusty hard drive out of the way. Bobby eased the book open, letting it go flat on the table top. The pages inside were stained with the years – chipped and crumbled at the corners. The text itself looked as if it had been copied over in newer ink, careful strokes that followed older, fainter markings.

"What's that?"

"It's a book," Bobby said, shooting Sam an exasperated look and Sam stifled the urge to roll his eyes. "It's some very old charms for protection from possession."

Sam blinked. "You think I'm going to be possessed? What kind of angel are you calling, Bobby?"

"I'm calling the kind that ain't human. I don't care if they're the good guys or not – they're not us, and they don't think like us. They can't be trusted, Sam."

"He's right, little brother," Dean said from the door, startling them both.

"Damnit, boy –"

"The livestock's fine, Ma," Dean said, grinning. He lifted a green-brown clay jug to shoulder height and shook it. "Magic and the Recipe go together?"

"They're practically the same thing," Bobby muttered, but he was smiling a little, under his beard. "Now, Dean. You and I both know you get twitchy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs whenever there's magic going on."

Dean shrugged and sauntered over to the recliner, snagging three jelly glasses from the top of a bookshelf on his way. He flopped down into the chair, dropping the glasses to the floor by his feet, and started picking at the wax seal around the corked mouth of the jug. "Magic makes my skin crawl. Makes my brain hurt."

"Sometimes, I don't think you got a brain." Bobby glanced up at Sam. "Go get that feather you were playing with. And you." Bobby leveled a callused, ink-stained finger at Dean. "Just sit there and be quiet or I swear I'll take a stick to you."

"Sir, yessir," Dean muttered, digging his fingers into the cork and prying at it. "What the hell, Bobby? You thinkin' this is gonna need to survive reentry or something?"

"Hush up, you." Bobby was rooting around in a drawer while Sam walked over to the fireplace and retrieved the blue jay feather.

Sam couldn't help feeling a little...weirded out. A little nervous. "Is Dean gonna get a charm, too?" It popped out before he'd really thought about it and he cringed a little. He sounded six years old, asking if Dean was gonna get a shot, too – a trip to the dentist, a haircut, grounded. Dean shot him a sideways look, digging the blade of a pocket knife down between cork and jug lip and Sam covered his embarrassment by marching back over to Bobby and holding out the feather.

Bobby snatched it from Sam's hand. "No angel in his right mind would want inside that head," he said, snorting, and Dean grinned.

"It'd never get back into heaven, that's for sure." Then he lifted his head just a fraction, looking up at Sam through his eyelashes, lip caught between his teeth for a moment.

*Oh, fuck. Did that on purpose, you bastard,* Sam thought, looking hastily away before the heat in Dean's gaze did anything more than make him blush. "Uh, yeah, but – really – is he?"

Bobby pulled a cloudy-looking bottle of ink from the drawer, holding it up to the light and squinting. He shook the bottle and looked up at Sam – over at Dean – and sighed. "Yeah, sure, if it'll make you feel better."

"Ah, hell," Dean muttered. He stuck a bleeding thumb into his mouth, glaring at Sam. Cork from the jug held loosely in his fingers with the knife. "I hate that shit, Sam."

"It's just...a spell. You trust Bobby, right?"

Dean looked over at Bobby who studiously ignored him, shaving delicately at the quill of the feather. "Not since that whole...cat...thing."

"Cat thing? What cat thing?" Sam looked back and forth between Dean and Bobby. Dean looked a little flushed, examining his nicked thumb. Bobby seemed to be wheezing a little.

"It was, uh...pretty fucked up."

"You only thought you were a cat."

Dean glared down at the jug of Recipe. "My mouth tasted like mouse for a week."

"Be happy it didn't taste like ass."

"No thanks to you."

"I told you a hundred times, don't talk to the books." Bobby looked up from the feather, his face set in stern lines. Lines that were quivering from the strain of holding them.

Dean made a disgusted noise and swam up out of the recliner, clashing the jelly glasses together as he snatched them up and stalking over to Bobby and Sam. "If you're gonna infect me with that shit, I need a drink first."

"We all do." Bobby looked up at Sam, little grin twisting his mouth. "Sam?"

"I'm good, I'm good," Sam said faintly, arm wrapped around his belly. It hurt to hold the laughter in. He watched Dean sloppily pour the glasses nearly full of Recipe, sharp apple-sour smell rolling up fragrant and rich from the jug. Sam took the slippery-wet glass from Dean's fingers and held it up. Bobby did the same, clinking the lip of his glass against Sam's and then tilting it toward his mouth.

"Here's to having a rodent-free house."

"Oh God." Sam couldn't hold it in anymore, huffing Recipe out of his mouth in a fine spray, half on the floor and half on Dean, who blinked at him with all the offended dignity of...a cat.

"Laugh it up, Sasquatch," Dean snarled. Sam had to go into the bathroom and all but drown himself in the sink to get his control back. Bobby just wheezed into his beard.



"This isn't gonna stay on," Sam said. He was sitting off to the side of the fireplace, his back against the warm surround, his legs flat to the floor, sprawled wide. Holding his hands out, palm-up, staring down at the angular runes that Bobby had inked there. The covered both palms and wound around his wrists. Another rested over his heart and a third on his belly. That one had tickled.

"It don't matter if it stays on," Bobby said, not looking up from his work. He'd had Dean pick his own feather, and was currently using a ratty crow quill to draw the final design around Dean's navel. Dean looked intensely unhappy, reclining back on the table so Bobby could reach him, his elbows stuck in drifts of print-out and colored wires, his shirts rucked up around his armpits. "It's the intent that counts. Your soul remembers, even if your skin don't."

"You drew on my soul?" Sam squinted up at Bobby, who rolled his eyes.

"S'a fuckin' lightweight, Bobby," Dean said. He balanced on one elbow and lifted his second glass of scrumpy to his lips. "A black mark on the Winchester...honor."

"I'm not drunk." Sam picked up his own glass and studied the clouded, honey-colored liquid inside. "This's really good, though." Sam drained the couple inches that were left in the glass – second glass – and carefully set it back down on the smooth tiles of the hearth. He folded his legs up under him and pushed, surprised when he had to grab the mantel to keep from folding right back down onto his ass.

"Yes you are," Dean said, chuckling, and Bobby jabbed a ragged pinky nail into his ribs.

"Sit still. M'almost done."

"You're drunk...both of you are...drunk." Sam swayed away from the fireplace, heading for the recliner. He ended up against a bookshelf and stared at it, puzzled. "This's not s'posed to be here."

"Okay –done. Jesus. Get your brother to bed, Dean."

"Yeah, Dean." Sam swung around on one heel – swung too far and ended up facing the bookshelf again. "Get me to bed." He glanced over at Dean, wondering if he'd get a repeat of that look from earlier.

"Fuck. I told you, Bobby." Dean was rubbing his knuckles over his forehead, eyes squinting shut. "Told you fuckin' magic made my brain hurt."

"That's the Recipe talkin'. Go on, both of you. Sun up's at seven...twenty-four, I expect you boys up by six."

"Why we gotta get up so early?" Sam asked the books – jerked in startlement at Dean's hand coming down on his shoulder.

"Eggs won't get collected on their own."

"I don't like...chickens," Sam muttered, turning under the pressure of Dean's hand and staring over at Bobby, who was levering himself carefully upright, his crutches wedged under his arms. Bobby lifted his own glass – he'd only had one – and drained the last of his scrumpy.

"I'll p'tect you from the chickens, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam smiled down at his brother.

"You always did. Always p'tected me from...everythin'. From...bad kids and...bad people and bad...things..."

"Good night, boys," Bobby said, but Sam didn't notice him swinging out of the room – thumping up the stairs. Didn't notice anything but Dean's hands on his shoulders, warm and heavy. Dean's face, flushed from the alcohol and the warmth of the room. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide under half-closed lids. His mouth was wet and Sam dipped down, wanting to taste it.

"Sam –"

"You'd let...you'd get hurt so I wouldn't, Dean. You'd...take the hard...jobs and do the...bad stuff and...you just...just...took care of me."

"Course I did. C'mon, Sam, we gotta get up early."

"Angel day tomorrow," Sam mumbled, letting Dean tug him into motion – guide him along the hall and up the stairs. Dean tripped a couple of times, his shoulder under Sam's arm and Sam wrapped his other arm around Dean's ribs, holding him close. "D'you really think an angel would...possess s'body?"

"I dunno. They're bastards. Can't trust any of 'em. Just trust...trust..."

"Trust you, Dean. Always trust you. Won't let me get eaten by an angel." They swayed to a stop at the top of the attic stairs, Dean's bed lit by the antique gold light of lantern turned low, night wick barely burning. Sam-dog laid there, his eyes glittering in the dimness, black puddle on the pale quilts. Dean put his hand on Sam's chest and Sam leaned into him, his head coming down somewhere on Dean's shoulder, his lips pressed to the warm skin of Dean's throat. "You won't let it, right? Right, Dean?"

Dean rubbed his cheek against Sam's temple – dropped a kiss into his hair and Sam smiled against his neck. "I won't let any angels eat you, Sammy. Promise."

"Love you, Dean," Sam whispered. "Always...did, always...do, every time, all of...them, all of...you. Deans. Love you all."

"Okay, Sam. Okay. Me...me, too," Dean murmured back, and Sam shivered all over, hugging Dean hard.

"Okay."


Part fifteen.