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*waves*
Uber-early entry today 'cause we're not gonna be here again until tomorrow. So, to my flist - have a most Merry Samhain/Happy Halloween! Don't invite any strangers in and salt your doorways!
*eyes sky*
I kinda for once hope for *no* rain. Trick or treating in the rain isn't very fun. There will be pictures when we get back! Heee.
Previous chapters are here.
Chatham boasts several restaurants – quaint tourist attractions for the July crowds. They're all closed. The only thing open in mid-January is the kind of diner Dean and Sam practically grew up in: worn vinyl and flyers for potluck dinners – mismatched salt and pepper shakers. It's crowded with locals, the air full of that flat East Coast drawl – full of talk of fishing and tides and boats. It's a little past seven a.m. and a thin snow is drifting down out of the leaden sky. Rafe sits with his hands cupped around the thick pottery of a squat, white mug, sipping hot chocolate like it's going straight into his veins. Maybe it is. Dean's on his second cup of coffee before their food even comes.
There's a church across the street and Sam's talked his way in – gotten an old pair of sneakers, darned army socks and a ratty wool coat for Rafe. The coat smells, faintly and not unpleasantly, of cedar and church incense.
The diner smells of hot grease and sugar and it's comforting. Dean considers the fucked-up-ness of that and then decides he doesn't care. Sam is here and that's really all that matters. All that's mattered for most of Dean's life. Sam's pushing his bangs out of his eyes and chewing on that damn hangnail again. Flipping through a book from the trunk, pencil dancing between long fingers as he scans the crabbed text. Dean wishes he could reach over – push Sam's hair back for him. But that's not what they do, and especially not with company around, so he contents himself with looking until he notices Rafe is looking, too.
But Rafe's looking at him and Dean glares, knuckles whitening around his coffee cup. "What," he snaps, and Rafe's too-pale eyes flicker over to Sam – back to Dean. And he grins, sharp white teeth like a fox, tip of his red tongue.
"Do you know I can smell the sin on you, hunter?" he says, and Dean's across the table, fists in the scratchy lapels of the coat. Yanking Rafe up and over, heedless of cups scattering to the floor.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Dean snarls and Rafe's fingers lock around Dean's forearms like iron. There's blood spotting through the gauze wrapped around Rafe's wrists and Dean's much too close to those sharp fox teeth.
"It's like caramel and cream…ooh, rich enough to make you...sick." Rafe's tongue licks out over his lips and the musky scent of incense swirls in Dean's nostrils, thick and warm. "I could eat it, the air of your sin. Incest, murder…do you have no shame?"
"I will kill you," Dean growls, and Rafe laughs – barking fox-laugh, his eyes snapping fire.
"You'll try."
"Dean – Dean? Hey, you okay?"
Dean blinks – flinches automatically from the hard grip on his shoulder and then he blinks again and it's Sam, staring at him. Shaking him just a little and their waitress is standing there, loaded tray and a look of annoyance. "Huh?"
"Let her put our order down, Dean," Sam says, letting go of Dean's shoulder – leaning back. Dean leans back as well, automatic mimic – looks over at Rafe. He's pressed back tight into the corner of the booth, looking at Dean with wide, frightened eyes. The cups aren't spilled.
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, and watches the waitress slide plates of eggs and bacon and French toast and hash browns onto their table. She tops up the coffee cups and stomps away and Sam glances over at Rafe – looks back at Dean.
"Dude, what the hell? You were kind of…out of it."
"I don't… I dunno." Dean's gaze lifts and travels over the crowd and he takes a deep breath. "I'll tell you in the car, okay? I'm – okay."
"You sure?" Sam's eyes are wide with worry and a little impatience and Dean nods – finds Sam's foot under the table and presses gently.
"Course I’m sure. Let's eat before it gets cold."
Pressure returned – worry fading just a little and Sam picks up his roll of napkin and utensils – unrolls his fork from its white paper shroud. "Yeah, okay."
Sam starts forking up eggs and hash browns and Dean cuts his French toast, powdered sugar dissolving into the syrup. Eating fast, wanting out of there. It takes Rafe a little longer but eventually he eats too, head down and hands shaking and Dean's fingers touch the hilt of the knife at his hip again and again.
Meal finished and out in the car again, the steering wheel like ice under his fingers. Dean stares at Rafe in the rearview mirror. Sam slides into his seat and slams his door – twists around to look at Dean, all business.
"Okay, tell me what happened."
"I was…you were looking at that book and I was…"
"You were staring at me like I was gonna disappear," Sam says dryly, and Dean's eyes widen in surprise.
"No, I –"
"Dude, you do it all the time. I'm used to it." Sam's smile is amused and easy and Dean sputters around for another moment before just giving up. Sam always knows. Damn him.
"Fine, whatever." Dean shoots a look back at Rafe, who's studiously avoiding looking at Dean. "Cool guy back there was staring at me and I – said something and then he said something and it really pissed me off and I –" Dean flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, watching the scars on his knuckles whiten. "I grabbed him and jerked him up and my coffee hit the floor and so did yours."
Sam blinks – looks back at Rafe, back to Dean. "Dean, that…didn't happen."
"I know that. I mean – I know it didn't really but…it really did. In my – head or something."
"What – what did he say?"
"Oh fuck, Sammy –" Dean starts the car – pulls out into traffic with a jerk, windshield wipers squeaking as they clear the snow off the glass. There's no fucking way he's going to repeat what hissed out of Rafe's hate-twisted mouth. "I really don't wanna talk about it, okay? Just a bunch of shit."
"Dean –"
"I don't – remember," Rafe says, and Dean flicks a glance at him – negotiates a turn, careful of the snow blowing across the road in curling streamers. "I m-mean – I felt…strange, as if I were…looking at myself from outside." Sam twists more, one arm on the back of the seat, leg tucked under. Dean wants to tell Rafe to just shut up.
"Like – an out of body experience? Like you were – floating?"
"As if…I were watching a – a movie. Standing there… I saw your brother pull me up but… I couldn't feel it. I couldn't hear what we…said." His eyes meet Dean's in the rearview and Dean knows – knows – it's a lie. Knows Rafe remembers every second of it. Dean has no idea why he's lying, but...he's grateful.
*Just don't forget that he said it. Doesn't fucking matter – not gonna trust you, motherfucker.* Dean gives the tiniest of nods to Rafe's reflection and Rafe looks away, huddling down into his coat. He still looks like death warmed over despite the food – still looks as if he's going to collapse in a strong wind. But still… *Not forgetting, no matter what.*
The library is useless to them this time – there's nothing to research, no pattern to find. This is a demon like the one before; terrible and single-minded and not in the books and Dean watches Sam frown over the laptop and make a few phone calls. Watches him rub his forehead and close his eyes for a minute, wincing. Ever since the visions – the 'powers' – headaches come easier. Last longer. Another thing Dean can't fix – can't take on himself.
"Sam – take a break, okay?"
"I just need to follow this lead," Sam mumbles, knuckling his eyes one last time and leaning forward again, hunching his long frame over the laptop in a way that makes Dean wince.
"Follow it in half an hour, Sam. You're starting to look worse than him." Rafe jerks his head up out of a half-doze, curled in a knot in the other chair. Sam had offered to let him get a shower – loan him some clothes, but Rafe said he felt too tired, just wanted to sleep. And that's what he's mostly been doing for the past six hours while Sam carries on his fruitless, frustrating search. While Dean cleans guns and sharpens knives and suggests things and watches Sam. Fights his own exhaustion with cup after cup of poisonously bad coffee from the machine set up in the motel lobby.
Sam rubs his eyes again and Dean sighs – gets up and digs into his pocket for some dollars – goes over and pushes Sam back by the shoulder. "Go get some sodas, okay? Some...chocolate or something. Stand up and unkink your spine before you turn into a fucking hunchback."
Sam gives Dean a look but he levers himself upright – shrugs into his coat and takes the money from Dean. Dean follows him to the door – steps out behind him, taking a deep breath. The air is cold and damp – full of the smell of the ocean and snow. It goes right through Dean's flannel and t-shirt. Dean tips his face up to the tiny flakes that are still falling, blown sideways by an ever-present wind off the sea. Lets his eyes go half shut and so is totally unprepared when Sam's mouth touches his. When Sam's fingers slide, warm and gentle, along Dean's jaw and into his hair.
Dean kisses back with a sharp, surprised intake of breath, his own hand flat to Sam's chest, the other curling into the heated space between Sam's coat and his ribs. Sam makes a little sound – breathy encouragement – and Dean groans softly. "Sam, Sammy…"
"I know," Sam whispers back. Lips just brushing against Dean's, his thumb resting light and steady on the pulse of Dean's throat. "I just…needed that."
"Yeah." Dean lets his hand stroke down, ribs to hip, and then he's stepping back and leaning against the door jamb and Sam's giving him that shy-boy grin – the one Dean can't help but return. But then he lets it go, serious again. "We'll figure this out," Dean says, and Sam nods.
"Root beer?"
"Only if there's no Mountain Dew."
"Okay." Sam stalks away into the dim whiteness of the snow-filled air, mist coiling around his feet as he turns the corner, heading for the vending area. Dean licks his lips and shivers – ducks back inside. Rafe is awake, watching him with the slit-eyed intensity of a feral cat.
"Sam went to get some soda," Dean tells him and Rafe unfolds from his huddle in the chair – takes three steps and Dean's backing up, hand going out to the jacket slung over the bed and the gun half-hidden under it. Rafe slinks and Dean feels like he's swallowed a frozen stone.
"Sam. Samuel. Your brother. He has his voice of God – blessed among men. And you would take it from him."
Dean's reaching hand finds the gun – wrought iron inside it, blessed and anointed with myrtle and bay. The grip slides into his palm and he lifts it, his hand steady. "Back the fuck up," he says, and Rafe smiles.
"It wasn't that Abel's gift was better before God, but that he wished to marry and rut upon his wife." Rafe's voice is low and honeyed, the rasp gone to something like a purr. Dean swallows down panic and bile and lowers his head, just a little. Sighting carefully.
"Cain lusted for his brother, and killed him to keep him. Satan-El tempted Jesus in the desert – eldest wooing the youngest, jealous of the favored son. Is that why you lured your brother into sin, hunter? To stain his snowy wings?"
"Whatever you are, get out. If that body dies, so do you."
Rafe looks down at himself – lifts the sweater up and off in one smooth motion. His bare skin is white as salt – smooth and perfect and Dean stares in utter confusion. "What – the fuck –?"
"The only true sin…is lying," Rafe whispers. His hands stroke down his body – curl at his thighs as he steps closer, head down and his gaze fastened on Dean. "Lie about your lusts, lie about your desires…lie about your hate. What lies are you telling, hunter?" He blinks and his eyes gleam, shimmer of water on stone. Dean pulls the trigger.
The noise is too loud – the spark and smoke too much and Dean curses, ducking sideways, roll and crouch. Everything is static and buzz for a moment and then it comes clear. He can hear a thin, animal noise of pain and he lifts his head. Rafe is on the floor, halfway behind the chair. Sweater still on, thin hand clenched tight around thin bicep, blood welling between his knuckles. Dean stares at him and Rafe stares back.
"What the fuck was that?"
"I think –" Rafe licks his lips, his eyes fluttering almost closed. "I think that was a distraction."
It takes ten seconds – a little less. Too long. Dean runs, but Sam is gone.
Chapter five.
Uber-early entry today 'cause we're not gonna be here again until tomorrow. So, to my flist - have a most Merry Samhain/Happy Halloween! Don't invite any strangers in and salt your doorways!
*eyes sky*
I kinda for once hope for *no* rain. Trick or treating in the rain isn't very fun. There will be pictures when we get back! Heee.
Previous chapters are here.
Chatham boasts several restaurants – quaint tourist attractions for the July crowds. They're all closed. The only thing open in mid-January is the kind of diner Dean and Sam practically grew up in: worn vinyl and flyers for potluck dinners – mismatched salt and pepper shakers. It's crowded with locals, the air full of that flat East Coast drawl – full of talk of fishing and tides and boats. It's a little past seven a.m. and a thin snow is drifting down out of the leaden sky. Rafe sits with his hands cupped around the thick pottery of a squat, white mug, sipping hot chocolate like it's going straight into his veins. Maybe it is. Dean's on his second cup of coffee before their food even comes.
There's a church across the street and Sam's talked his way in – gotten an old pair of sneakers, darned army socks and a ratty wool coat for Rafe. The coat smells, faintly and not unpleasantly, of cedar and church incense.
The diner smells of hot grease and sugar and it's comforting. Dean considers the fucked-up-ness of that and then decides he doesn't care. Sam is here and that's really all that matters. All that's mattered for most of Dean's life. Sam's pushing his bangs out of his eyes and chewing on that damn hangnail again. Flipping through a book from the trunk, pencil dancing between long fingers as he scans the crabbed text. Dean wishes he could reach over – push Sam's hair back for him. But that's not what they do, and especially not with company around, so he contents himself with looking until he notices Rafe is looking, too.
But Rafe's looking at him and Dean glares, knuckles whitening around his coffee cup. "What," he snaps, and Rafe's too-pale eyes flicker over to Sam – back to Dean. And he grins, sharp white teeth like a fox, tip of his red tongue.
"Do you know I can smell the sin on you, hunter?" he says, and Dean's across the table, fists in the scratchy lapels of the coat. Yanking Rafe up and over, heedless of cups scattering to the floor.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Dean snarls and Rafe's fingers lock around Dean's forearms like iron. There's blood spotting through the gauze wrapped around Rafe's wrists and Dean's much too close to those sharp fox teeth.
"It's like caramel and cream…ooh, rich enough to make you...sick." Rafe's tongue licks out over his lips and the musky scent of incense swirls in Dean's nostrils, thick and warm. "I could eat it, the air of your sin. Incest, murder…do you have no shame?"
"I will kill you," Dean growls, and Rafe laughs – barking fox-laugh, his eyes snapping fire.
"You'll try."
"Dean – Dean? Hey, you okay?"
Dean blinks – flinches automatically from the hard grip on his shoulder and then he blinks again and it's Sam, staring at him. Shaking him just a little and their waitress is standing there, loaded tray and a look of annoyance. "Huh?"
"Let her put our order down, Dean," Sam says, letting go of Dean's shoulder – leaning back. Dean leans back as well, automatic mimic – looks over at Rafe. He's pressed back tight into the corner of the booth, looking at Dean with wide, frightened eyes. The cups aren't spilled.
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, and watches the waitress slide plates of eggs and bacon and French toast and hash browns onto their table. She tops up the coffee cups and stomps away and Sam glances over at Rafe – looks back at Dean.
"Dude, what the hell? You were kind of…out of it."
"I don't… I dunno." Dean's gaze lifts and travels over the crowd and he takes a deep breath. "I'll tell you in the car, okay? I'm – okay."
"You sure?" Sam's eyes are wide with worry and a little impatience and Dean nods – finds Sam's foot under the table and presses gently.
"Course I’m sure. Let's eat before it gets cold."
Pressure returned – worry fading just a little and Sam picks up his roll of napkin and utensils – unrolls his fork from its white paper shroud. "Yeah, okay."
Sam starts forking up eggs and hash browns and Dean cuts his French toast, powdered sugar dissolving into the syrup. Eating fast, wanting out of there. It takes Rafe a little longer but eventually he eats too, head down and hands shaking and Dean's fingers touch the hilt of the knife at his hip again and again.
Meal finished and out in the car again, the steering wheel like ice under his fingers. Dean stares at Rafe in the rearview mirror. Sam slides into his seat and slams his door – twists around to look at Dean, all business.
"Okay, tell me what happened."
"I was…you were looking at that book and I was…"
"You were staring at me like I was gonna disappear," Sam says dryly, and Dean's eyes widen in surprise.
"No, I –"
"Dude, you do it all the time. I'm used to it." Sam's smile is amused and easy and Dean sputters around for another moment before just giving up. Sam always knows. Damn him.
"Fine, whatever." Dean shoots a look back at Rafe, who's studiously avoiding looking at Dean. "Cool guy back there was staring at me and I – said something and then he said something and it really pissed me off and I –" Dean flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, watching the scars on his knuckles whiten. "I grabbed him and jerked him up and my coffee hit the floor and so did yours."
Sam blinks – looks back at Rafe, back to Dean. "Dean, that…didn't happen."
"I know that. I mean – I know it didn't really but…it really did. In my – head or something."
"What – what did he say?"
"Oh fuck, Sammy –" Dean starts the car – pulls out into traffic with a jerk, windshield wipers squeaking as they clear the snow off the glass. There's no fucking way he's going to repeat what hissed out of Rafe's hate-twisted mouth. "I really don't wanna talk about it, okay? Just a bunch of shit."
"Dean –"
"I don't – remember," Rafe says, and Dean flicks a glance at him – negotiates a turn, careful of the snow blowing across the road in curling streamers. "I m-mean – I felt…strange, as if I were…looking at myself from outside." Sam twists more, one arm on the back of the seat, leg tucked under. Dean wants to tell Rafe to just shut up.
"Like – an out of body experience? Like you were – floating?"
"As if…I were watching a – a movie. Standing there… I saw your brother pull me up but… I couldn't feel it. I couldn't hear what we…said." His eyes meet Dean's in the rearview and Dean knows – knows – it's a lie. Knows Rafe remembers every second of it. Dean has no idea why he's lying, but...he's grateful.
*Just don't forget that he said it. Doesn't fucking matter – not gonna trust you, motherfucker.* Dean gives the tiniest of nods to Rafe's reflection and Rafe looks away, huddling down into his coat. He still looks like death warmed over despite the food – still looks as if he's going to collapse in a strong wind. But still… *Not forgetting, no matter what.*
The library is useless to them this time – there's nothing to research, no pattern to find. This is a demon like the one before; terrible and single-minded and not in the books and Dean watches Sam frown over the laptop and make a few phone calls. Watches him rub his forehead and close his eyes for a minute, wincing. Ever since the visions – the 'powers' – headaches come easier. Last longer. Another thing Dean can't fix – can't take on himself.
"Sam – take a break, okay?"
"I just need to follow this lead," Sam mumbles, knuckling his eyes one last time and leaning forward again, hunching his long frame over the laptop in a way that makes Dean wince.
"Follow it in half an hour, Sam. You're starting to look worse than him." Rafe jerks his head up out of a half-doze, curled in a knot in the other chair. Sam had offered to let him get a shower – loan him some clothes, but Rafe said he felt too tired, just wanted to sleep. And that's what he's mostly been doing for the past six hours while Sam carries on his fruitless, frustrating search. While Dean cleans guns and sharpens knives and suggests things and watches Sam. Fights his own exhaustion with cup after cup of poisonously bad coffee from the machine set up in the motel lobby.
Sam rubs his eyes again and Dean sighs – gets up and digs into his pocket for some dollars – goes over and pushes Sam back by the shoulder. "Go get some sodas, okay? Some...chocolate or something. Stand up and unkink your spine before you turn into a fucking hunchback."
Sam gives Dean a look but he levers himself upright – shrugs into his coat and takes the money from Dean. Dean follows him to the door – steps out behind him, taking a deep breath. The air is cold and damp – full of the smell of the ocean and snow. It goes right through Dean's flannel and t-shirt. Dean tips his face up to the tiny flakes that are still falling, blown sideways by an ever-present wind off the sea. Lets his eyes go half shut and so is totally unprepared when Sam's mouth touches his. When Sam's fingers slide, warm and gentle, along Dean's jaw and into his hair.
Dean kisses back with a sharp, surprised intake of breath, his own hand flat to Sam's chest, the other curling into the heated space between Sam's coat and his ribs. Sam makes a little sound – breathy encouragement – and Dean groans softly. "Sam, Sammy…"
"I know," Sam whispers back. Lips just brushing against Dean's, his thumb resting light and steady on the pulse of Dean's throat. "I just…needed that."
"Yeah." Dean lets his hand stroke down, ribs to hip, and then he's stepping back and leaning against the door jamb and Sam's giving him that shy-boy grin – the one Dean can't help but return. But then he lets it go, serious again. "We'll figure this out," Dean says, and Sam nods.
"Root beer?"
"Only if there's no Mountain Dew."
"Okay." Sam stalks away into the dim whiteness of the snow-filled air, mist coiling around his feet as he turns the corner, heading for the vending area. Dean licks his lips and shivers – ducks back inside. Rafe is awake, watching him with the slit-eyed intensity of a feral cat.
"Sam went to get some soda," Dean tells him and Rafe unfolds from his huddle in the chair – takes three steps and Dean's backing up, hand going out to the jacket slung over the bed and the gun half-hidden under it. Rafe slinks and Dean feels like he's swallowed a frozen stone.
"Sam. Samuel. Your brother. He has his voice of God – blessed among men. And you would take it from him."
Dean's reaching hand finds the gun – wrought iron inside it, blessed and anointed with myrtle and bay. The grip slides into his palm and he lifts it, his hand steady. "Back the fuck up," he says, and Rafe smiles.
"It wasn't that Abel's gift was better before God, but that he wished to marry and rut upon his wife." Rafe's voice is low and honeyed, the rasp gone to something like a purr. Dean swallows down panic and bile and lowers his head, just a little. Sighting carefully.
"Cain lusted for his brother, and killed him to keep him. Satan-El tempted Jesus in the desert – eldest wooing the youngest, jealous of the favored son. Is that why you lured your brother into sin, hunter? To stain his snowy wings?"
"Whatever you are, get out. If that body dies, so do you."
Rafe looks down at himself – lifts the sweater up and off in one smooth motion. His bare skin is white as salt – smooth and perfect and Dean stares in utter confusion. "What – the fuck –?"
"The only true sin…is lying," Rafe whispers. His hands stroke down his body – curl at his thighs as he steps closer, head down and his gaze fastened on Dean. "Lie about your lusts, lie about your desires…lie about your hate. What lies are you telling, hunter?" He blinks and his eyes gleam, shimmer of water on stone. Dean pulls the trigger.
The noise is too loud – the spark and smoke too much and Dean curses, ducking sideways, roll and crouch. Everything is static and buzz for a moment and then it comes clear. He can hear a thin, animal noise of pain and he lifts his head. Rafe is on the floor, halfway behind the chair. Sweater still on, thin hand clenched tight around thin bicep, blood welling between his knuckles. Dean stares at him and Rafe stares back.
"What the fuck was that?"
"I think –" Rafe licks his lips, his eyes fluttering almost closed. "I think that was a distraction."
It takes ten seconds – a little less. Too long. Dean runs, but Sam is gone.
Chapter five.
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The scene in the restaurant is just as powerful this time as it was the first time I read it. It still pushes me back in my chair as if I'm trying to get a safe distance from this story and still keep reading it.
The kiss outside in the snow.
Rafe pulling his shirt off and confronting Dean, talking about lies and angels and scripture and Sam. Gone.
You totally own me. You know that.
:)
Happy Halloween! Have a wonderful time tonight!
**hugshugshugs**
*luffs*
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Yis. You just made my day.
*luffs more*
:)
See you tomorrow, bay-bee!
Merry Samhain/Happy Halloween!
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I love your split personality Rafe and your Dean/Sam interaction is perfect.
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I swear, I had this line in my head before I opened this story today--sooooooo creeepy! So, this Rafe is being used, eh? Yanked back and forth like a ragdoll, just like I am!! This is too good. These guys were meant for you to write!
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Lovely build up of affection between Sam and Dean, then you took Sam away!
Loved it!!
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Already hooked.
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Amazing story. So visceral.
It's like this really cool movie in my head, surround sound and everything.
Wow.
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Jesus. Kill me why don't you here? FIND HIM, DEAN, FIND HIM!
Going to go whimper incoherently for a while...
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*finally remembers to breathe*
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:)
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Thank you!
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Thank you!
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BT!!
*smooooooch*
Thank you, bay-bee!
*snuggles*
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*smooch*
Thanks!
*icon lurve*
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:)
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Thank you!
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Thanks!
:)
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*bounce*
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Sorry!
Heee.
*cough*
Thanks!
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Thank you muchly!
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Just did me a little 'archangel' googling, hmmmmmmmmmmm....interesting nick name there Rafe...heh.
Going to read the next chap. now.
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*google is your friend*
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That was terrifying.
Sam and the visions.
Dean and the astral projection.
Poor Rafe, carrying around God only knows what.
Damn.
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:)
*bounce*
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holy crap.
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*bounce*