tabaqui | Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)... Chapter eight

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)... Chapter eight

Saturday, November 4th, 2006 07:54 pm

Hello!
*waves*

Well, this is it - final chapter! Thanks so much, flist, for jumping in and reading. Next up will be more 'Neverland', until it's all done. I know, i know - big sigh of relief! Heh. Again, many many thank yous and hugs to

reremouse,

darkhavens and

sweptawaybayou. You guys are the bestest!
Previous parts are here.

"Sam? Sam!"

"I'm here," Sam says and Dean lurches around, half-falling. Hand on icy, wet concrete and the nova of light and loudnoisetooloud is finally dimming. Stopping and slipping away and everything fades back into normal a blink at a time. Dean gets his feet under him, crouching right next to Sam, who's sitting on the curb. Sitting under a winter-bare tree, wet leaves and snow melting into their jeans. Sam's shivering – shaking so hard his teeth are chattering and Dean dazedly looks around. The hold-all and bundle of Sam's clothes are lying half in the gutter and Dean staggers up and grabs them – shoves thermal and flannel and coat at Sam, all blessedly dry.

Everything – his own clothes and Sam's and the hold-all – smell like new-mown hay and apples and wet, rich earth. Summer smells in the dead of winter and Sam holds the sleeve of his coat up to his nose for a moment, sniffing.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I... I guess I am. What – the hell?"

"I dunno, man." Dean shoulders the hold-all, looking around. He can hear the police, still – disjointed and static-ridden bursts of radio conversation, faint with distance. The air strobes red and blue and white and the helicopter is circling back, spotlight flickering madly. Seems like they're about a block from the church. "I really just don't fucking know but...time to unass this AO either way."

"Oooh, yeah. Damn right." Sam holds out his hand and Dean hauls him up and Sam pulls on his coat – rubs a hand wearily back through his hair. There's soot and blood on his face – dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes and Dean has to lean in and kiss him. Nothing too crazy, just a momentary press of lips – just Dean's palm flat and gentle on Sam's chilled, stubbled cheek.

"Sure you're okay?" Dean murmurs, and Sam nods jerkily, pushing his forehead into Dean's – letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just...fucking starving, man."

Dean laughs softly – leans back and gives Sam's shaggy hair a rough caress. "Now I know you're fine. C'mon – car's thattaway." They stumble off into the darkness, shoulders brushing and hips bumping, the tail-end of fight-or-flight chemicals making them both a little scattered. Fat, wet flakes of snow spiral lazily down out of the tar-black sky.

"You think she's dead?" Sam asks, and Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, hunching a little. Cold and starting to get the shakes.

*Need some damn coffee. Need some fucking food and a bed and Sam...*. "Yeah. I mean – locking up her power..."

"It was like she got...human. Or s-something." Sam's teeth are still chattering and Dean wants to wrap his arms around him. Wants to just be fucking done with this.

"No way she survived that." Image of shattered ribs and the pulp of exploded lungs – heart pouring out blood like an obscene fountain. *No way.*

"You think Rafe did?"

Dean glances over at Sam, whose gaze is intent on the sidewalk, navigating half-melted ridges of old snow and patches of ice. "I...dunno. I think he was...something else too. You know?"

"Oh, yeah. Something else."

They walk on, and through the clear, thin air comes a steady chime of bells. Dean half-turns, glancing up. The Holy Cross bells, chiming out the quarter, half and three-quarter hours. Then chiming the hour itself and Dean counts in his head. *...Ten...eleven...twelve...*. "It's tomorrow," Dean says, and Sam grins – bumps Dean with his shoulder. Looks at him, tired eyes in a bruised face but there and safe. Back where he belongs.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Happy birthday."

A week later they're in Key West and it's seventy-something fucking degrees and Dean's pretty sure the whiplash from winter to summer's made him catch a cold. That's his excuse, anyway, for lying around in the hotel room with the windows open and the TV on, watching re-runs of M*A*S*H and eating M&M's. Sam's been in and out half a dozen times, getting conch salad and crab cakes and some weird wheat-grass drink, threatening Dean with zinc lozenges and vandalism if he doesn't help with the damn laundry now.

"Next load's gonna have a whole cup of bleach in it," Sam warns, picking through the detritus of the dresser-top for more quarters. "Your lucky red shirt. That blue one that you claim makes you look like James Dean." Sam's gaze slides sideways, watching Dean. Mean and narrow and calculating. Dean feigns nonchalance. "The John Bonham shirt, Dean."

"Oh, you wouldn't dare," Dean breathes, but Sam's looking pretty annoyed and a little sweaty – sand on his bare feet and Dean knows when enough's enough. "Fine, Jesus. I'll save you from having to fluff and fold, you whiner."

"Like I'd fold your junk," Sam scoffs, but Dean knows he would, anyway. Sam can't not fold the laundry, it's genetic. Dad never left a t-shirt unrolled or a pair of jeans un-creased. Dean chalks it up to the Marines.

He rolls off the bed and shoves his feet into his boots; just 'cause you're forty feet from the Gulf doesn't mean you let your guard down. Plus, two words: broken glass. Sam acts like his feet are bullet-proof. Acts like the rest of him might be, too but he still winces when he stretches too hard. The glyph on his chest is fading but not fast enough for Dean. In the mid of the night Dean's traced it with fingertips and tongue, thigh across Sam's thighs and thumb rubbing slowly over the point of Sam's shoulder. Just making sure. For once, Sam lets him – leaves the heart-to-heart for another day.

Their ratty little motel faces west and the setting sun floods the room with light so rich and thick it's like syrup. Saffron and salmon and the pink of clover – the far, high arch of the sky shading from frail Kindergarten blue to dusky plum. It gilds all Sam's edges – makes him look unearthly, even in that stupid damn dog shirt. Sam just rolls his eyes when he catches Dean staring. Dean grins back, unapologetic. Stretches hard and follows Sam to the laundry room, bag of M&M's crackling.

There's someone sitting on their washing machine, feet swinging idly. Someone in ratty canvas sneakers and torn jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves chopped off that's really very...familiar.

"Hello, hunter," Rafe says, grinning at Dean and Dean stops dead, grabbing at Sam's arm and trying – unsuccessfully – to pull his brother behind him. The M&M's hit the floor with a sound like stones rattling in a cup. "Oh. I'm sorry," Rafe says, eyeing the scattering candy with what looks like disappointment.

"What are you...what do you want?" Sam asks, and Rafe leans forward, bracing his palms on the chipped edge of the washer. His muscled arms are smooth and pale – no sign of the gunshot wound, no sign of any wound.

"I just wanted to say thank you. For breaking the binding."

"Okay," Sam says, and Dean snorts in pure frustration.

"Okay? Jesus –"

"I'm not your enemy, hunter," Rafe says. He hops off the washer and stands there. Shorter than Dean, all whipcord muscle and bone. Fragile-looking, but Dean learned long ago not to take things like that at face value.

"We don't really know what you are," Dean points out, and Rafe grins.

"I know. But I do." Rafe crouches slowly – picks up the half-spilled bag of candy and picks one out – offers the bag back to Dean, who shakes his head. Rafe shrugs and tosses the yellow M&M into his mouth. "I remember. And I owe you a debt." He puts the M&M's down on the washing machine and takes the few, small steps that put him just way too fucking close to Sam and Dean moves in front of his brother on pure reflex.

"Nothing owed, we're even," Dean says, because you don't take favors from things like this – whatever this is. You don't make deals, you don't swear promises, and you don't let them in. Ever.

Rafe just stands there, looking up at Dean, the clear grey of his eyes flecked with silver, shimmer of sunlight on ice. "She just wanted to go home. But you can't ever do that, hunter, can you? Not without consequences." Dean just shakes his head. Not sure where this is going – not happy to have Rafe so close. "Do you remember," Rafe says slowly, "That I said your brother blinds? That he burns like a bonfire..."

Little noise of startlement – maybe protest – from Sam that Dean ignores. "Yeah?"

"He burns but you, hunter...you attract. Lodestone." Dean doesn't know what to say to that so he just stands there, totally unprepared for Rafe reaching out and taking his right wrist – putting his left hand palm to palm with Dean's right. Rafe's skin is hot – burning hot, and Dean feels it to his bones.

"Hey!" Dean tries to snatch his hand back and he can't. He can hear Sam saying something – feel Sam's hand on his shoulder but it's blurry, far away. It's drowned in the noise that's like the rushing of a thousand wings – like tide and heartbeat and time, thrumming through Dean's body. Nothing but the white-ice glimmer of Rafe's eyes and then Rafe's stepping back, letting him go, and Dean feels as if he just missed the last step. Comes back to himself with a jerk and a gasp, his heart pounding.

"If ever you can't go on, hunter...if ever the dawn seems impossible. My name will bring me. Lech le'shalom." Rafe turns and scoops up the M&Ms, grinning that fox-toothed grin and then he's just – not there.

"Dean? You okay? What the fuck did he do?" Sam's jerking Dean around by his arm – grabbing Dean's hand and tilting his palm to the light. There's a mark there, curving lines in a dull henna-red. Even as they stare down at it, it fades into nothing and Sam scrubs at Dean's palm with his thumb.

"What – do you know what that was?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head.

"Angelic script. I gotta –" They both jog back to the room, and Sam roots out a print-out he made three days ago, frowning down at it.

"Sam?"

"It's a name, Dean. An archangel."

"Which one?" Dean rubs absently at his wrist, Rafe's touch still burning through his skin.

"Raphiel. The angel Raphiel."

"Is he a...good guy? I mean –"

"He's not one of the angels that fell," Sam says, and tosses the print-out down. He takes Dean's hand in both of his and studies it for a long moment and then squints over at Dean. "Christo."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean mutters, but he lets Sam tug him closer – let's Sam press a kiss to the tingling, hot-cold center of his hand. Sam snorts out a jerky breath and Dean realizes he's laughing. "What the hell, man?"

"Touched by an angel," Sam wheezes out and Dean rolls his eyes.

Gives Sam a hard push that sends him windmilling back into the bed, where he sits hard. "Touched by something," Dean says, nudging Sam's thighs apart and putting a knee on the edge of the mattress – pushing Sam back with a hand in the center of his chest. "Want me to touch you?" Dean whispers, hovering there – feeling Sam's heart under his fingers, steady double-thump that never falters.

"Yeah," Sam whispers back, and Dean dips down, closer. Close enough to feel the warm, sharp puffs of Sam's breath on his lips.

"Where? Tell me where," Dean says, and Sam's lids are half-shut, his pupils gone wide. Flush coming up hectic and warm in his cheeks.

"Here," Sam says, his fingertips brushing his jaw, so Dean kisses him there. Kisses him again on his throat – his collarbones. On the hollow where there's still a mark from the knife and Sam shudders when Dean lets his teeth scrape, so lightly.

'Here...here...here...' and Dean follows Sam's fingers – tastes with an open mouth the skin of shoulder and sternum and ribcage. Sam's shirt pushed up and twisted in Dean's hand, Sam's thumb rubbing over and over the ridge of Dean's hipbone.

Outside, the sun is well and truly down, the sky shading to navy and velvet black, low smolder of violet all along the edge of the glinting, hidden sea. The waves rush in, a dry crooning that's the rhythm of Dean's breaths – the slow, steady lift and fall of their bodies. Sam's skin tastes like honey and salt and the warmth of his hand, palm to palm and fingers locked with Dean's, erases the lingering sensation of Rafe's touch.

*Bonfire,* Dean thinks, gaze doing a slow sweep of Sam's body. Following the lean curve of shoulder and chest and hip – watching Sam's eyes flutter shut and then open again as Dean eases himself slowly into slick, clenching heat. *Don't need an angel...got all of heaven I can take right here...* Words he'd never say aloud but he lets his lips shape them against Sam's mouth – lets his tongue trace them over Sam's bones.

"Dean..." Sam sighs, curve of his shoulders like angel's wings – the devil in the twist of his hips.

"Here, I'm here, Sam...don't ever..." More words he won't ever really say, but Sam knows. Sam knows, like he always does. Knows what Dean means – knows what to say.

"Won't," Sam says. "Won't ever...never... Dean..." In a cracked, sand-rough voice, soft as any whisper – more sacred than any prayer.

It's enough.

'Lech le'shalom' is Hebrew for 'Go in peace'.

Tags:

spn,
thou born

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