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SPN/J2 BIG BANG: DEAD YET AGAIN (SAM/DEAN, NC-17) II
Fic title: Dead Yet Again
Author name: arysteia
Genre: wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 21, 000
Warnings/Spoilers: Explicit sex. Some violence, but not more than you'd expect from an episode. No spoilers.
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are at odds while dealing with a seemingly routine haunted mansion. As usual, nothing is what it seems, and nothing goes according to plan. Before long Sam is experiencing strange dreams of another life. A life where he and Dean had a very different relationship. A life that shattered when Sam Menzies-Hall brutally murdered his lover. Or maybe the truth is not so simple. Is there really such a thing as past lives? Is the notion any crazier than anything else they've had to deal with? Is Sam finally just cracking up? Or is there some other force at work? Who really killed Dean Paterson? And what impact will the revelations have on Sam's relationship with Dean today?
Dean gets a rude awakening, and a pretty shitty thank you, when Sam kicks him half out of bed at four in the morning. The fact the idiot is probably still concussed, and Dean wasn't really asleep anyway for worrying about him slipping into a coma, is the only thing saving his sorry ass from a kicking. As it is, Dean shakes him gently awake, ducking the flailing elbow that would have blacked his eye for sure.
"Sam. Sam. Sammy."
Sam comes awake with a jerk, and looks around in confusion. "Huh," he says at last. "I had the weirdest dream."
"Weird how?" Dean demands, immediately alert. "Demons? Dead people? Apocalypse?"
"No, nothing like that." Sam rubs his eyes and it's kind of adorable, though Dean will never, ever tell. "Well, yeah, dead people, but no, nothing like that. It's just I've had it a few times now. It's not a vision though."
"Yeah? Clowns or midgets? Or porn stars? Oh. Please don't tell me the clowns and midgets are the porn stars."
Sam smirks. "Actually, you finally drive me crazy and I kill you."
"Oh, ha ha," Dean snaps. "Very funny. That's all the thanks I get for a lifetime of hauling your sorry ass around. Nice."
"It wasn't funny," Sam says, serious again. "I mean, the first time it was kinda funny, I was on death row and all emo about it, I don't know, writing poetry in my cell or something, but this one wasn't funny at all. I don't actually enjoy standing over your mangled corpse with a pair of bloody scissors in my hand."
"Scissors?" Dean feels a chill run down his spine despite himself.
"Yeah," Sam shrugs. "Stupid, huh? Like I'd have to use scissors with the number of guns and knives we leave just lying around."
Dean gives in to temptation and punches him in the arm, hard. "How the hell did you ever convince people you're the smart one?"
Sam has the cheek to look hurt.
"Didn't you say old Sam Whatsit killed whoever it was with a pair of scissors? I told you it was the owners."
Sam goes white in a way that seems out of proportion to his epic failure and Dean's triumph, but hey, you take 'em where you can get 'em.
It's the work of a few short minutes to pull up the relevant article on the net. It's just a short one, they'll have to hit the library once zombie!Sam's sure his pumpkin head won't fall off, but it's enough to start rubbing it in.
"Bigshot playwright Sam Menzies-Hall, and could you be any more pretentious, flips his lid one night and stabs some kid, lemme see, huh," – okay, this is less funny, Dean thinks to himself – "Dean Paterson twelve times with – ahem – a pair of gold plated barber scissors." He grins. "Because nothing says classy like nine carat."
Sam's aghast. "The victim's name was Dean?"
"Yeah, didn't you see that when you did the research?"
"No, I must have missed it."
"Huh." It's odd, but Sam's been off his game for days. Not to mention clingy, and whinier than usual. "You must have noticed subconsciously. It's why you had that whacked out dream. Well, that and the catastrophic brain damage."
Sam ignores the jibe. "You don't think it's kind of odd? That they were called Sam and Dean?"
Dean shrugs. "Tons of people are called Sam and Dean. Newsflash, Mom and Dad weren't the most imaginative people, even for a town like Lawrence. We were probably named for On the Road."
Sam's jaw drops visibly.
"I do read," Dean grits.
"I know, I know," Sam says, keen to avoid another explosion, and clearly restraining himself from pointing out it's Sal. Which Dean knows.
*****
They start the next day by canvassing the shops in the small stretch that makes up "downtown". One in particular catches Sam's eye, a jam-packed to overflowing antique store with an old school swinging sign reminiscent of an English pub, bearing the unlikely moniker The Laughing Giant – Fine Antiques – Curios – Clairvoyance – Occultism.
They walk in, Dean careful not to catch his elbows on the treacherously piled books and magazines, ashtrays, platters and statuettes. A small, fussily dressed man rushes out from behind the counter to greet them.
"Hello, hello," he enthuses, waving his hands dramatically. His cultured English accent is a perfect match for his tweed jacket. It even has elbow pads. "Do come in," he continues. "I'll just finish here."
He rushes back to the woman leaning over the counter. "Now. Before this delightful couple escapes…" Sam feels Dean bristle beside him, though whether it's at the "couple", or the exaggerated emphasis on "delightful" is even money. "It's a Hapgood, quite good condition. I'll give you $200 for it right now."
"It's a Stickley," Dean interrupts, surprising Sam. "It's worth $850. What?" he demands, rounding on Sam. "I have to watch something while you're moisturising. Antiques Roadshow is awesome."
"Nothing!" Sam throws his hands up. "I didn't say anything."
"Whatever."
The man smiles nervously, and nods. The woman tucks her coffee table under her arm with a glare and leaves.
"Now then, gentlemen." The man switches attention smoothly, and with surprisingly little annoyance. "What can I do for you on this fine day?"
Dean mumbles and wanders off, rifling aimlessly through boxes of trinkets, and Sam can feel the nerves rising off the owner. He leans in closer to block the poor man's view of Dean's depredations.
"I wanted to talk to you about the hotel. Brechin Lodge."
The man's face lights up. "Ah, yes, isn't it delightful? Are you staying there? Magnificent old girl."
"Yes," Sam agrees, putting on his best excited college boy expression. "But listen, we heard there was a murder there? The owner went nuts or something? Killed one of the servants?"
"What rot!" the man expostulates. "Stuff and nonsense."
"There wasn't a murder?"
"Well. I suppose. If you can call it that." The man claps his hands. "I say. Would you like a spot of tea?"
"That'd be great," Sam agrees.
"And your friend?" The man nods in the general direction of Dean's disappearing footsteps.
"Don't mind him," Sam whispers conspiratorially. "He only came along to humour me."
"Ah!" the man positively beams. "The best kind of companion." He grasps Sam's wrist and drags him behind the counter and into a small office set up as what can only be described as a parlour. Sam's last glimpse of Dean is of his hand closing rather harder than might be ideal around a porcelain figurine, and his eyebrow reaching his hairline.
Sam perches on a too small to really be comfortable ottoman, and allows the man – "Francis Heyward, I am being remiss" – to pour him a cup of tea English style, milk and two sugars. It tastes nothing like what passes for tea in motels and diners. A woman, even older than Heyward, emerges from the back room with a tray of small cakes. "Thank you, Mother," he says.
Sam suppresses a smile, and is glad Dean isn't there to make the inevitable Norman Bates comparison.
"So," he starts, after a polite interval. "I tried to look it up, but there wasn't really a lot written, that I could find. Did you live here at the time?"
"Oh, yes, I grew up right here in this town. Went back to the old country for a time, but Mother's getting on now, you understand. It's good to be back."
Sam smiles. "And you said it wasn't really a murder?"
"Well," Heyward sniffs. "In the eyes of the law, I suppose. And there was quite a frenzy at the time. Poor Mr. Hall."
"Poor Mr. Hall?" Sam's surprised. "What about the victim? Dean Paterson?"
Heyward suppresses a shudder. "Dreadful young man. Deserved exactly what he got."
Huh. "And what was that?"
"Well, if I remember," Heyward says with relish, "Mr. Hall stabbed him in the throat with a lovely pair of Die Schere barber scissors. Gold plated."
"Gold plated," Sam echoes. "What exactly did he do to deserve it?"
Heyward demurs, shaking his head. "I couldn't say."
"But you did say, Mr. Heyward. You said he deserved it." Sam puts on his most earnest look. "What did he do?"
"I'm more interested in what you do," Heyward segues smoothly, leaning towards Sam across the forgotten tea set. "Why are you so interested?"
"I guess I'm a bit of a fan," Sam shrugs. "I like ghost stories."
"I knew it!" Heyward pounces, faster than a man his age has any right to, taking Sam's hand and stroking it in a highly disturbing fashion. "I know a kindred spirit when I see one."
"Kindred spirit?" Sam gasps, struggling to detach his hand from the old man's papery one.
"A fellow spiritualist, of course. And quite a powerful one, I see, Sam."
"How do you know my name?" Sam yanks his hand back, elbow colliding with an armoire full of knickknacks and setting them clattering down.
Dean comes flying through the door a second later. "What the hell?" he demands.
"Just an impression," Heyward says, barely non-plussed. "But a strong one. I'm so sorry to have offended."
"No, that's fine," Sam insists, breathless.
"It's not fine!" Dean shouts. "What the hell is going on in here?" He looks at Heyward's hand, dropped limply to rest on Sam's knee. "O-okay, pops, you wanna explain why you're feeling up my brother?"
"Brother?" Heyward looks startled. "I just assumed..."
"Yeah, I know what you assumed." Dean looks ready to blow a gasket. "And you know what? Fine, okay, you assumed. So what the fuck makes you think I'd be okay with you molesting my boyfriend?"
Heyward's gaze is decidedly colder when fixed on Dean. "Young man, I assure you, my interest is purely professional."
"Uhuh."
"I assumed that's why you came? For a reading?"
Dean keeps glaring, but Sam thinks what the hell. If it's all a scam he can still use the time to wheedle more of Heyward's recollections out of him. The best "clairvoyants", in Sam's long and storied experience, are keen observers. In lieu of proper records, it's their best shot at finding out what happened. On the remote chance he's genuine... Well, he's no Missouri Moseley. It's hard to see someone so small and ineffectual as a threat.
"Sure, Mr. Heyward," he says with a winning smile. "I'd like that. Read me."
Heyward takes Sam's hand again. "I want you to relax. You're feeling very sleepy. And your hand is light, so light that if I let go it might float away."
Dean snorts from his perch a foot away. "Sammy..." he intones, menace in every syllable.
Sam keeps his eyes tightly closed. If a mock-séance is the price for information, so be it. He wants to close this damn case and get the hell out of Dodge.
"Tell me, Sammy," Heyward begins.
Sam's hand flies out of his grasp and his whole body tenses. "I've told you a hundred times not to call me that!" he shouts.
"Whoa, whoa," Dean snaps, diving in to get between Sam and Heyward. "Easy there, Sam."
"What?" Sam blinks and looks confused. "What just...? What did I...?"
"You had quite a strong reaction to-"
"Yeah, to some cheesy jackass calling him pet names and getting frisky," Dean asserts.
"Not at all," Heyward counters. "That was something else entirely. He wasn't reacting to me. I'd like to do a full session if I may."
"No way!"
Sam pats Dean's arm soothingly. "What's the harm, Dean?" There's an odd look on his face Dean can't fathom.
"Fine." He rounds on Heyward. "But I've got my eye on you. I see any hands wandering, and I'll break them, you got me?"
"Oh, quite clearly," Heyward agrees, unabashed. "Now may I?"
Faced with Sam's shaky nod and Dean's stony silence, he proceeds, picking up Sam's hand once more.
"Right. Now, Sam, I want you to concentrate on my voice. Only my voice, nothing else. I want you to think about your life, your relationships, whatever it is that's giving you stress."
Dean sighs and bites his tongue.
"It's Dean," Sam says suddenly.
"What?"
"He drives me crazy."
"Yes," Heyward agrees, as though it's no great surprise to him. "I think perhaps we'd better distance ourselves a little. You reacted quite violently before. I want you to tell the story as though it happened to a stranger, Sam, can you do that? It didn't happen to you, it's just a story you heard, it happened to someone else."
"Dean drives Sam crazy," Sam obediently parrots.
"What? Sammy!" Dean's immeasurably hurt that Sam would come out with this stuff in front of a stranger instead of... Well, okay, it's not like he'd encourage him to come out with it when they're alone either, but even still. This is a low blow.
"I take it you're Dean," Heyward sniffs, and it's clear it isn't a question.
"He drives him crazy, but meeting him was the best thing that ever happened to Sam," Sam continues.
Huh.
"Go on, Sam."
"It might have been the happiest day of his life."
Okay, now this is officially going round the twist.
"It sounds wonderful," Heyward continues without missing a beat. "Tell me about it."
"The house was almost finished," Sam says dreamily. "Most of the construction workers had gone, and only the woodwork and cabinetry was left. Dean was doing the panelling in the halls."
What the hell?
"Go on."
"It took a lot longer than it was meant to. It was obvious Dean didn't have a lot of experience. He used to stay on after the others had left and finish up. At first it was annoying, Sam had moved out of the hotel in the city where he'd been staying, and into the house. He was trying to work, and the noise was interfering."
Dean bites his cheek in a effort not to laugh. Sam's always been great at playing up to a delusional witness.
"After a while Sam just admitted he was blocked. He started sitting in the window nooks in the afternoon while Dean worked, and Dean would tell him stories about when he was a kid. He'd spent a lot of time travelling with his father, right across the country. It was all new to Sam, he'd never been outside New York State. It had a lot of appeal, the thought of just moving from one place to the next, nothing to tie you down."
Okay, now there's yarns and there's yarns, and this is just bullshit. Sam is pushing the envelope dangerously, and Dean is going to take it out of his hide later.
"He'd only been in the States for a year, it was all so new. It was a great time anyway. New York City was so exciting. Vibrant. People said it never went to sleep, and in those days it was true."
"In which days, Sam?" Heyward asks eagerly. "When are we talking about?"
"1948," Sam answers without missing a beat.
"1948?" Dean yells in disbelief. "Are you for real? Get your hypnotism mojo off my brother. Sammy, quit playing and let's get out of here."
"The war was over," Sam continues. "Everyone was so glad to be alive. Everywhere you went people were having fun. There was no rationing, it was nothing like London. There were parties every night, and everyone went. Even Sam. He found it hard, at first, being so far from home, but he was getting used to it. His plays had always been popular here, and the one he was working on already had a promised contract for Broadway. It was everyone's dream in those days, to make it in America. To leave the cold and the damp and the sadness behind."
Despite himself, Dean finds himself being drawn into Sam's fantasy, sepia tones and all.
"And three – two – one..." Heyward snaps his fingers and Sam shudders back to himself.
Dean's staring at him in undisguised horror, body quaking with rage or humiliation or both, scarlet edging up his throat and licking round his ears, across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Sam tears his eyes away, and forces himself to look at Heyward, who's fanning himself with an old copy of Life magazine.
"Well, well, my boy," he gusts. "You don't do anything by halves."
Sam pulls back, as far away as he can in the tiny space, and is mortified as he shifts to discover he's half hard himself. He pulls at his shirt as surreptitiously as he can. Heyward seems not to notice, but there's no way Dean can have missed it from his position, and when Sam dares to look at him again he's pointedly staring at the wall.
"I don't..." He turns back to Heyward angrily. "You didn't say they were together. You made it sound like they were strangers, acquaintances at best."
"How was I to know?" Heyward asks, unruffled. "No one advertised that sort of thing. Not like nowadays." His pointed look takes in Sam, Dean, and all the palpable tension between them. "But I always suspected it was something of the kind. You don't stab someone a dozen times because you catch them rifling your dresser drawers. Well, not unless it's a betrayal of a deeper sort than burglary."
"It was a robbery?" Sam's voice is small, and he feels a little broken hearted.
Heyward shrugs, unconcerned. It happened decades ago for him, after all; he didn't just meet them, just live through the first time they made love...
"The house had been ransacked, and there were several items of heirloom jewellery missing, pieces that had been in Mr. Hall's family for generations."
"Oh." Sam nods, inexplicably crushed. "They seemed so in love," he murmurs. He knows it's an odd reaction to have, but he can't help it.
"Yeah," Dean snorts, speaking for the first time. "Those are usually the ones that kill each other, Sammy." He's still not meeting Sam's eyes, and his posture is stiffer than Sam's ever seen it. "Let's get out of here, I need a drink."
Sam follows him mutely. They're no closer to solving the case than they were this morning, and he has a feeling they're even further from sorting out what's wrong between them than ever.
Part III
Author name: arysteia
Genre: wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 21, 000
Warnings/Spoilers: Explicit sex. Some violence, but not more than you'd expect from an episode. No spoilers.
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are at odds while dealing with a seemingly routine haunted mansion. As usual, nothing is what it seems, and nothing goes according to plan. Before long Sam is experiencing strange dreams of another life. A life where he and Dean had a very different relationship. A life that shattered when Sam Menzies-Hall brutally murdered his lover. Or maybe the truth is not so simple. Is there really such a thing as past lives? Is the notion any crazier than anything else they've had to deal with? Is Sam finally just cracking up? Or is there some other force at work? Who really killed Dean Paterson? And what impact will the revelations have on Sam's relationship with Dean today?
Dean gets a rude awakening, and a pretty shitty thank you, when Sam kicks him half out of bed at four in the morning. The fact the idiot is probably still concussed, and Dean wasn't really asleep anyway for worrying about him slipping into a coma, is the only thing saving his sorry ass from a kicking. As it is, Dean shakes him gently awake, ducking the flailing elbow that would have blacked his eye for sure.
"Sam. Sam. Sammy."
Sam comes awake with a jerk, and looks around in confusion. "Huh," he says at last. "I had the weirdest dream."
"Weird how?" Dean demands, immediately alert. "Demons? Dead people? Apocalypse?"
"No, nothing like that." Sam rubs his eyes and it's kind of adorable, though Dean will never, ever tell. "Well, yeah, dead people, but no, nothing like that. It's just I've had it a few times now. It's not a vision though."
"Yeah? Clowns or midgets? Or porn stars? Oh. Please don't tell me the clowns and midgets are the porn stars."
Sam smirks. "Actually, you finally drive me crazy and I kill you."
"Oh, ha ha," Dean snaps. "Very funny. That's all the thanks I get for a lifetime of hauling your sorry ass around. Nice."
"It wasn't funny," Sam says, serious again. "I mean, the first time it was kinda funny, I was on death row and all emo about it, I don't know, writing poetry in my cell or something, but this one wasn't funny at all. I don't actually enjoy standing over your mangled corpse with a pair of bloody scissors in my hand."
"Scissors?" Dean feels a chill run down his spine despite himself.
"Yeah," Sam shrugs. "Stupid, huh? Like I'd have to use scissors with the number of guns and knives we leave just lying around."
Dean gives in to temptation and punches him in the arm, hard. "How the hell did you ever convince people you're the smart one?"
Sam has the cheek to look hurt.
"Didn't you say old Sam Whatsit killed whoever it was with a pair of scissors? I told you it was the owners."
Sam goes white in a way that seems out of proportion to his epic failure and Dean's triumph, but hey, you take 'em where you can get 'em.
It's the work of a few short minutes to pull up the relevant article on the net. It's just a short one, they'll have to hit the library once zombie!Sam's sure his pumpkin head won't fall off, but it's enough to start rubbing it in.
"Bigshot playwright Sam Menzies-Hall, and could you be any more pretentious, flips his lid one night and stabs some kid, lemme see, huh," – okay, this is less funny, Dean thinks to himself – "Dean Paterson twelve times with – ahem – a pair of gold plated barber scissors." He grins. "Because nothing says classy like nine carat."
Sam's aghast. "The victim's name was Dean?"
"Yeah, didn't you see that when you did the research?"
"No, I must have missed it."
"Huh." It's odd, but Sam's been off his game for days. Not to mention clingy, and whinier than usual. "You must have noticed subconsciously. It's why you had that whacked out dream. Well, that and the catastrophic brain damage."
Sam ignores the jibe. "You don't think it's kind of odd? That they were called Sam and Dean?"
Dean shrugs. "Tons of people are called Sam and Dean. Newsflash, Mom and Dad weren't the most imaginative people, even for a town like Lawrence. We were probably named for On the Road."
Sam's jaw drops visibly.
"I do read," Dean grits.
"I know, I know," Sam says, keen to avoid another explosion, and clearly restraining himself from pointing out it's Sal. Which Dean knows.
*****
They start the next day by canvassing the shops in the small stretch that makes up "downtown". One in particular catches Sam's eye, a jam-packed to overflowing antique store with an old school swinging sign reminiscent of an English pub, bearing the unlikely moniker The Laughing Giant – Fine Antiques – Curios – Clairvoyance – Occultism.
They walk in, Dean careful not to catch his elbows on the treacherously piled books and magazines, ashtrays, platters and statuettes. A small, fussily dressed man rushes out from behind the counter to greet them.
"Hello, hello," he enthuses, waving his hands dramatically. His cultured English accent is a perfect match for his tweed jacket. It even has elbow pads. "Do come in," he continues. "I'll just finish here."
He rushes back to the woman leaning over the counter. "Now. Before this delightful couple escapes…" Sam feels Dean bristle beside him, though whether it's at the "couple", or the exaggerated emphasis on "delightful" is even money. "It's a Hapgood, quite good condition. I'll give you $200 for it right now."
"It's a Stickley," Dean interrupts, surprising Sam. "It's worth $850. What?" he demands, rounding on Sam. "I have to watch something while you're moisturising. Antiques Roadshow is awesome."
"Nothing!" Sam throws his hands up. "I didn't say anything."
"Whatever."
The man smiles nervously, and nods. The woman tucks her coffee table under her arm with a glare and leaves.
"Now then, gentlemen." The man switches attention smoothly, and with surprisingly little annoyance. "What can I do for you on this fine day?"
Dean mumbles and wanders off, rifling aimlessly through boxes of trinkets, and Sam can feel the nerves rising off the owner. He leans in closer to block the poor man's view of Dean's depredations.
"I wanted to talk to you about the hotel. Brechin Lodge."
The man's face lights up. "Ah, yes, isn't it delightful? Are you staying there? Magnificent old girl."
"Yes," Sam agrees, putting on his best excited college boy expression. "But listen, we heard there was a murder there? The owner went nuts or something? Killed one of the servants?"
"What rot!" the man expostulates. "Stuff and nonsense."
"There wasn't a murder?"
"Well. I suppose. If you can call it that." The man claps his hands. "I say. Would you like a spot of tea?"
"That'd be great," Sam agrees.
"And your friend?" The man nods in the general direction of Dean's disappearing footsteps.
"Don't mind him," Sam whispers conspiratorially. "He only came along to humour me."
"Ah!" the man positively beams. "The best kind of companion." He grasps Sam's wrist and drags him behind the counter and into a small office set up as what can only be described as a parlour. Sam's last glimpse of Dean is of his hand closing rather harder than might be ideal around a porcelain figurine, and his eyebrow reaching his hairline.
Sam perches on a too small to really be comfortable ottoman, and allows the man – "Francis Heyward, I am being remiss" – to pour him a cup of tea English style, milk and two sugars. It tastes nothing like what passes for tea in motels and diners. A woman, even older than Heyward, emerges from the back room with a tray of small cakes. "Thank you, Mother," he says.
Sam suppresses a smile, and is glad Dean isn't there to make the inevitable Norman Bates comparison.
"So," he starts, after a polite interval. "I tried to look it up, but there wasn't really a lot written, that I could find. Did you live here at the time?"
"Oh, yes, I grew up right here in this town. Went back to the old country for a time, but Mother's getting on now, you understand. It's good to be back."
Sam smiles. "And you said it wasn't really a murder?"
"Well," Heyward sniffs. "In the eyes of the law, I suppose. And there was quite a frenzy at the time. Poor Mr. Hall."
"Poor Mr. Hall?" Sam's surprised. "What about the victim? Dean Paterson?"
Heyward suppresses a shudder. "Dreadful young man. Deserved exactly what he got."
Huh. "And what was that?"
"Well, if I remember," Heyward says with relish, "Mr. Hall stabbed him in the throat with a lovely pair of Die Schere barber scissors. Gold plated."
"Gold plated," Sam echoes. "What exactly did he do to deserve it?"
Heyward demurs, shaking his head. "I couldn't say."
"But you did say, Mr. Heyward. You said he deserved it." Sam puts on his most earnest look. "What did he do?"
"I'm more interested in what you do," Heyward segues smoothly, leaning towards Sam across the forgotten tea set. "Why are you so interested?"
"I guess I'm a bit of a fan," Sam shrugs. "I like ghost stories."
"I knew it!" Heyward pounces, faster than a man his age has any right to, taking Sam's hand and stroking it in a highly disturbing fashion. "I know a kindred spirit when I see one."
"Kindred spirit?" Sam gasps, struggling to detach his hand from the old man's papery one.
"A fellow spiritualist, of course. And quite a powerful one, I see, Sam."
"How do you know my name?" Sam yanks his hand back, elbow colliding with an armoire full of knickknacks and setting them clattering down.
Dean comes flying through the door a second later. "What the hell?" he demands.
"Just an impression," Heyward says, barely non-plussed. "But a strong one. I'm so sorry to have offended."
"No, that's fine," Sam insists, breathless.
"It's not fine!" Dean shouts. "What the hell is going on in here?" He looks at Heyward's hand, dropped limply to rest on Sam's knee. "O-okay, pops, you wanna explain why you're feeling up my brother?"
"Brother?" Heyward looks startled. "I just assumed..."
"Yeah, I know what you assumed." Dean looks ready to blow a gasket. "And you know what? Fine, okay, you assumed. So what the fuck makes you think I'd be okay with you molesting my boyfriend?"
Heyward's gaze is decidedly colder when fixed on Dean. "Young man, I assure you, my interest is purely professional."
"Uhuh."
"I assumed that's why you came? For a reading?"
Dean keeps glaring, but Sam thinks what the hell. If it's all a scam he can still use the time to wheedle more of Heyward's recollections out of him. The best "clairvoyants", in Sam's long and storied experience, are keen observers. In lieu of proper records, it's their best shot at finding out what happened. On the remote chance he's genuine... Well, he's no Missouri Moseley. It's hard to see someone so small and ineffectual as a threat.
"Sure, Mr. Heyward," he says with a winning smile. "I'd like that. Read me."
Heyward takes Sam's hand again. "I want you to relax. You're feeling very sleepy. And your hand is light, so light that if I let go it might float away."
Dean snorts from his perch a foot away. "Sammy..." he intones, menace in every syllable.
Sam keeps his eyes tightly closed. If a mock-séance is the price for information, so be it. He wants to close this damn case and get the hell out of Dodge.
"Tell me, Sammy," Heyward begins.
Sam's hand flies out of his grasp and his whole body tenses. "I've told you a hundred times not to call me that!" he shouts.
"Whoa, whoa," Dean snaps, diving in to get between Sam and Heyward. "Easy there, Sam."
"What?" Sam blinks and looks confused. "What just...? What did I...?"
"You had quite a strong reaction to-"
"Yeah, to some cheesy jackass calling him pet names and getting frisky," Dean asserts.
"Not at all," Heyward counters. "That was something else entirely. He wasn't reacting to me. I'd like to do a full session if I may."
"No way!"
Sam pats Dean's arm soothingly. "What's the harm, Dean?" There's an odd look on his face Dean can't fathom.
"Fine." He rounds on Heyward. "But I've got my eye on you. I see any hands wandering, and I'll break them, you got me?"
"Oh, quite clearly," Heyward agrees, unabashed. "Now may I?"
Faced with Sam's shaky nod and Dean's stony silence, he proceeds, picking up Sam's hand once more.
"Right. Now, Sam, I want you to concentrate on my voice. Only my voice, nothing else. I want you to think about your life, your relationships, whatever it is that's giving you stress."
Dean sighs and bites his tongue.
"It's Dean," Sam says suddenly.
"What?"
"He drives me crazy."
"Yes," Heyward agrees, as though it's no great surprise to him. "I think perhaps we'd better distance ourselves a little. You reacted quite violently before. I want you to tell the story as though it happened to a stranger, Sam, can you do that? It didn't happen to you, it's just a story you heard, it happened to someone else."
"Dean drives Sam crazy," Sam obediently parrots.
"What? Sammy!" Dean's immeasurably hurt that Sam would come out with this stuff in front of a stranger instead of... Well, okay, it's not like he'd encourage him to come out with it when they're alone either, but even still. This is a low blow.
"I take it you're Dean," Heyward sniffs, and it's clear it isn't a question.
"He drives him crazy, but meeting him was the best thing that ever happened to Sam," Sam continues.
Huh.
"Go on, Sam."
"It might have been the happiest day of his life."
Okay, now this is officially going round the twist.
"It sounds wonderful," Heyward continues without missing a beat. "Tell me about it."
"The house was almost finished," Sam says dreamily. "Most of the construction workers had gone, and only the woodwork and cabinetry was left. Dean was doing the panelling in the halls."
What the hell?
"Go on."
"It took a lot longer than it was meant to. It was obvious Dean didn't have a lot of experience. He used to stay on after the others had left and finish up. At first it was annoying, Sam had moved out of the hotel in the city where he'd been staying, and into the house. He was trying to work, and the noise was interfering."
Dean bites his cheek in a effort not to laugh. Sam's always been great at playing up to a delusional witness.
"After a while Sam just admitted he was blocked. He started sitting in the window nooks in the afternoon while Dean worked, and Dean would tell him stories about when he was a kid. He'd spent a lot of time travelling with his father, right across the country. It was all new to Sam, he'd never been outside New York State. It had a lot of appeal, the thought of just moving from one place to the next, nothing to tie you down."
Okay, now there's yarns and there's yarns, and this is just bullshit. Sam is pushing the envelope dangerously, and Dean is going to take it out of his hide later.
"He'd only been in the States for a year, it was all so new. It was a great time anyway. New York City was so exciting. Vibrant. People said it never went to sleep, and in those days it was true."
"In which days, Sam?" Heyward asks eagerly. "When are we talking about?"
"1948," Sam answers without missing a beat.
"1948?" Dean yells in disbelief. "Are you for real? Get your hypnotism mojo off my brother. Sammy, quit playing and let's get out of here."
"The war was over," Sam continues. "Everyone was so glad to be alive. Everywhere you went people were having fun. There was no rationing, it was nothing like London. There were parties every night, and everyone went. Even Sam. He found it hard, at first, being so far from home, but he was getting used to it. His plays had always been popular here, and the one he was working on already had a promised contract for Broadway. It was everyone's dream in those days, to make it in America. To leave the cold and the damp and the sadness behind."
Despite himself, Dean finds himself being drawn into Sam's fantasy, sepia tones and all.
Sam was lonely, almost desperately so. America might be the land of opportunity, but it was still a strange new world, and Sam was alone in it. He'd left all his family and the friends of his youth behind, those who hadn't been lost in the war, and while he'd met a lot of people, been invited to all the right parties, it wasn't the same. The new house was beautiful, would be beautiful when it was finally finished, but it echoed sometimes with the silence, just him, his housekeeper, and her son to rattle around in it. It wasn't quite the thing, sitting around hobnobbing with the staff, and back home, for certain, it would have been frowned upon, but one of the benefits of being cast adrift in a brave new world was that there was no one to say him nay. The hour or so he spent in the late afternoons, watching Dean finish sanding down the mouldings after the day's cutting and fitting was done, soon became a highlight of his day.
At first their talk was perfunctory, superficial, but before long they began to talk about the war. Sam had been wounded at Dunkirk; Dean, four years younger, had watched with resentment as his older brothers volunteered after Pearl Harbor, and felt a selfish irritation mixed with the joy of victory and peace on VJ-Day. Four years seemed like a lifetime to Sam, and the width of the Atlantic might as well have been the distance to the moon, trying to explain what life in Europe had been like for six long, cold years. In the end, it seemed easier to change the subject entirely, to ask Dean what life was like in Kansas where he'd grown up, and what had brought him to New York at last. Loathe at first to speak, once the dam was broken Dean was like a river in spate, unstoppable, and a natural story-teller, his adventures on the road and various other places continuing unbroken until he ground to a halt at the recent death of his father from a heart attack. His mother dead when he was an infant, his two older brothers both married with families of their own, he had finally washed up in Saratoga and stayed, for want of any better plan.
"Anyway, so that's my story," he concluded at last, a couple of weeks into their acquaintance. "The sad life of the modern bachelor. Doomed to live a lonely life, roaming this quiet earth. But not for you. When's your wife coming over?"
"My what?" Sam's face froze.
"Your wife," Dean repeated, less confidently, motioning with the hand that still held the sandpaper at Sam's left hand and its plain wedding band.
"Oh," Sam answered absently. "She was killed in the Blitz. When the East End was bombed. The East End of London?"
"I'm so sorry," Dean gasped. "I didn't... I shouldn't have... I should go."
"It's fine," Sam said, reaching out to stop Dean's hurried packing of his tools. "It's fine. I mean... It's not fine. But it was eight years ago. I am all right."
It was true, he was surprised to realise, he was all right. At the time it had been a pain like he'd never imagined, and he'd wished to God he'd died with her, cursed himself for having left her to defend countries he had no love for, fight enemies he had no personal hatred of. But now, looking back, he was just glad to have known her, glad to have had the chance to love her. That life was over, though, and he couldn't imagine she'd begrudge him his new life in this strange new land.
"Oh. Well, okay. Sorry. Still, I should..." Dean looked around nervously, but made no attempt to step back or reclaim his arm from Sam's hold.
"You may as well stay for supper. Dinner. Whatever you call it here," Sam laughed. "I'm sure Anna is cursing my name as we speak, as she despairs over her soufflé or whatever delicacy she's concocted to tempt my unreliable appetite."
Sure enough, the redoubtable Anna cast a jaundiced eye over Dean's work clothes as he entered the dining room. He'd done his best to wash up in the downstairs bathroom, but a clean face and hands did little to disguise the fact that he was wearing ragged jeans and a pullover that had seen better days. The fact that Sam hadn't bothered to dress for dinner either was little consolation, given his habitual pressed shirt and slacks.
Still, the housekeeper dished up a roast chicken that was far more to Dean's taste than the threatened soufflé or whatever that was, and after a meal that was, truth to tell, by far the best he'd had in ages, and several glasses of a red wine Sam insisted he join him in, they'd broken out the cigarettes and the brandy and returned to talk. It was probably the wine that loosened Dean's tongue, he'd never had it before, but he found himself confiding in Sam, as he had in no one since the death of his father, his dreams of being more than a day labourer, how in fact he worked part time at the local garage too, and how he thought that perhaps, with dedication, and a few years more to serve out an appropriate apprenticeship, he might open a garage of his own some day. Sam seemed to think it was a grand idea, which might have been the brandy talking, or the fact that he knew nothing at all practical about cars or carpentry, but still he was an educated man, and clearly very clever. And in the end, maybe all you really needed was someone to believe in your dream for you, share the load, as it were.
In any case, despite the fact he'd barely made it back to the boarding house before he had to get up again, and despite the hellish hangover that lingered most of the morning – wine was clearly a different beast to beer – while the lord and master stayed snug in bed, Dean still found himself whistling happily as he worked. His smile only broadened when Sam finally staggered downstairs at four o'clock. Dean lit a cigarette, and sat back on the banister he'd just finished installing.
"How's the head?" he asked, only a fraction louder than he would usually have spoken.
"Fine," Sam growled. "Give me one of those."
Dean passed him the cigarette he'd already lit, reaching into his pocket for the pack. Sam looked at it dubiously for a second, then took a deep drag. Dean flushed as he realised Sam's lips were now where his own had been, and hastened to light another. They stayed there in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Sam stood up. "We're having steak tonight," he flung over his shoulder as he walked off. "Early. I'm starving. Hurry up in here."
Dean stared after him, non-plussed, then shrugged and headed for the bathroom. Who was he to question the guy with the cheque book?
He could have sworn Anna was giving him the evil eye as she held out the vegetables for him to help himself, and in truth he felt nine kinds of awkward being served by a strange woman old enough to be at least his big sister, if not his mother, but if there was one mercy in English reserve it was that she never said a word. He made a point of thanking her every time she came in, which Sam seemed sometimes to forget, and he figured she'd get over it. Sam seemed pretty fond of her, and the kid too, who Dean sometimes saw around during the day, doing typical boy things, though he never spoke, even when Dean said hello. In any case, it was none of his business.
That night they retired to the study, which Dean had finished a week ago, and was pretty much ready to go, though it still didn't have a lot of furniture. Sam dragged the drop cloth off a loveseat, and flung himself into it. Dean looked dubiously at the hardwood floor he'd spent a whole day polishing, and perched on the pile of rugs that hadn't yet been unrolled and laid.
"Oh, for god's sake," Sam exploded, looking up from the brandy he'd been pouring. "Sit on the damn sofa. I may have made some money, but I'm not the Prince of Wales."
"Uh, okay." Dean got up obediently, and moved to the couch. The new Duke of Windsor was nothing like Sam, he thought, remembering the news reels that had played before every picture when he was a kid, though he had, of course, fallen head over heels for an American, and been made to pay for it. And what that had to with anything was anyone's guess. He sat down gingerly; the loveseat really wasn't built for two, at least not two men over six feet tall. Maybe if one of them was a petite beauty, and the other wanted to be close to her. Okay, he definitely didn't need the brandy Sam was passing his way. Was there some trick to wine? Dean had never felt so giddy.
Sam seemed perfectly at ease, however, draping his long frame against the sofa-back, his head hanging over, exhaling smoke languidly, and talking about the protagonist of his new play, who was singularly unmotivated at the moment and had ground the whole thing to a halt. His throat flexed as he talked, and it was oddly hypnotic.
'Pull yourself together!' Dean sternly told himself, taking a gulp from the proffered snifter.
"Hmm?" Sam asked, sitting up suddenly, and smacking the glass with his hand. Brandy splashed over Dean, and Sam patted at it reflexively, cursing as he realised he still held the lit cigarette. Dean swiped at the spreading pool more urgently, catching it before it dripped off his leg onto the expensive brocade, rubbing it instead into the fabric of his jeans. Anna would have a fit if she saw. And... Anna would probably have a stroke if she saw the way Sam's hand was curving over Dean's thigh. He'd switched the cigarette to the other hand and was absently stroking in small circles, fingernails snagging in the rough catches of Dean's oldest pair of jeans. Umm... Sam's fingers dragged over Dean's own, paused for a second and continued on their way. Dean looked at their hands suspiciously, then at Sam's face which looked little different from the way it always did when he started talking about his new play. He was still raving on about the main character, though when the young man had become a juvenile delinquent Dean had no idea. Dean wiped the trickle of brandy off his chin with the back of his hand, and there was no denying Sam's intake of breath at the sight.
Dean breathed deep himself, and the whole world seemed to pause for a heartbeat, two. Then it was like he was possessed, leaning in across the space between them to press his mouth hard to Sam's. Sam sat up in surprise, then pulled back, hastily stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray balanced on the sofa arm.
Dean flushed scarlet with shame, and more than a little fear. "I'm so..." God. Forget being sacked, he'd be lucky if Sam didn't call the police. He tried to get to his feet but something stopped him from moving. He looked down to see what it was. Sam's hand was still in his lap, not holding him down, exactly, but it was a heavy weight across the top of his thigh. "Umm..."
Sam cut him off before he could finish whatever thought he was hoping to express, leaning in himself, and licking a broad stripe across Dean's chin where the trickle of brandy had been. Dean gasped, but didn't move. Whatever happened next would have to be up to Sam. Sam nosed his jaw hard, breathing him in, then shifted to the underside, licking along the swell of his throat and down his neck to the hollow where his collar bones met. Frustrated by the neck of his shirt he moved back up, trading small nips for the licking, until he met the corner of Dean's mouth where he pressed a tiny kiss. He pulled back and met Dean's eyes for the first time.
"I don't... I haven't... I mean, I've never..." Dean managed.
Sam smiled. "Me either," he said, shrugging, and the movement made him Sam again, the slightly absent dreamer, who for reasons unknown had chosen to be friends with Dean.
"I have with a girl," Dean added, because it seemed important. "Two girls."
"I was married," Sam countered. "It can't be that different."
Dean looked at him sceptically.
"Right," Sam agreed ruefully. "Yes. Still. There's no need to rush."
"No," Dean sighed, immeasurably relieved. He leaned back into the kissing. There was no trick to kissing. Except that it seemed that there was, because Sam's kiss set him on fire like nothing ever had before, like neither of those two obliging girls, or Ella his first sweetheart, who he'd thought he might marry, who he'd never done anything but kiss, and who'd made him crazy in the summer sunshine that whole long season they'd been courting before her ma took ill and she'd headed back to Tennessee to take care of her. He was hotter now, and harder, than he'd ever been back then. He squirmed, uncomfortable, trying to rearrange himself in his jeans without Sam noticing, and then Sam's hand slid off his shoulder where it had settled, stroking down his body to trail across his belt and right to where Dean needed it most – least – most. Dean opened his mouth to protest and Sam dived right in, tongue swirling around Dean's own, lips pressing alternately hard then soft, making him forget every reason why this was bad and wrong. Dean sighed and gave in to it.
Sam's long fingers trailed along the seam of Dean's jeans, catching on every button of his fly, then curling to press against the solid ridge inside. Dean shuddered, then pressed up into it. Sam pressed harder, hand opening briefly to cup Dean, then flicking back up to the buckle of his belt. He pulled it open, then the buttons on Dean's jeans as well, clever fingers slipping inside, even as he kept kissing Dean's feverish mouth. His right hand still braced on Dean's thigh, he swung his left leg over Dean's, resting lightly for a man of his height on Dean's knees, his own knees wedged tightly against the sofa. Dean collapsed into the sofa-back, giving Sam the room he needed to pry open Dean's jeans and pull down his briefs. Dean's erection sprang free with an eagerness that was embarrassing. He didn't want to look down, didn't need to to know that it would be red and leaking. He could feel it slapping against his stomach, wetness soaking through his thin t-shirt. He closed his eyes hard and hid his face against the side of Sam's neck as Sam shifted to nuzzle his jaw once more.
He couldn't stop the moan when Sam took him in his hand, fingers curling round him just right, just hard enough. The tight channel of his fist slid up and down a few times, then his thumb slid over the tip, gathering moisture and smearing it around, slicking the way, making it even better. Dean writhed against him, body stiffening, back arching, and then – no – Sam was sliding off him onto the floor.
"Ungh-" Dean tried to protest but words wouldn't come, Sam's face dragging down his torso, sharp teeth scraping across his nipple, agonising through the wet fabric, then biting at his ribs, his navel, Sam's head dragging across his stomach, mouth sliding back up and carrying the bottom of his t-shirt with it, licking a broad stripe across his stomach muscles, then across the head of his –
Dean sat up and shoved Sam off with the hand that had been curled around his neck. Sam sat back panting. "Wha-?" he asked, breathless.
"What are you...? What...?" Dean stammered.
"I want to..." Sam breathed. "I want..." He looked debauched, hair mussed to hell and back, mouth wet and swollen from the kissing and the... Dean shuddered again, but didn't let go his other hand, still clenched in the collar of Sam's shirt.
"I want to," Sam repeated, more calmly. "Didn't either of your girlfriends...?"
"No!" Dean answered indignantly. "They weren't that kind of..."
"Rachel did it for me all the time," Sam countered, a gleam in his eye.
"You shouldn't talk about her like that!" Dean insisted, a part of him genuinely angry for Sam's dead wife, and another part... jealous?
"Why not?" Sam demanded. "It's nothing shameful. I loved her. And she loved me."
"Oh." Dean didn't know what to say, didn't think there was anything he could say.
"Let me," Sam repeated.
Dean nodded weakly, and before he was even done nodding Sam was leaning in again. His mouth as it closed around Dean was like a furnace, hotter and wetter than Dean could have imagined. He licked all around the head, then shifted to lick up one side and down the other, breathing deep. He got as much of Dean in his mouth as he could, about half, and wrapped his hand back around the rest, stroking and rubbing as he sucked. He was making little choked moaning sounds as he did it, and Dean couldn't help himself, he put his hand on the back of Sam's head. He knew enough not to push down, that that would be unspeakably rude, but he held him there gently, and from the way Sam sucked harder it was obvious he liked it. Sam leaned down further, lips brushing his own hand, then the hand was moving and his nose was grazing Dean's stomach. Dean felt himself curling around him, leaning over him, and then he was slipping up and in, further than he would have thought possible, and Sam was swallowing convulsively, and god, he was in Sam's throat, and it was hot and wet and tight, and just incredibly good, and Sam was choking for real now, coughing and pulling back. Dean let go of him immediately, gasping as the cold air hit the wetness of Sam's spit on him, and he looked at Sam where he was sprawled, throat working, mouth open and gasping for air.
"I'm sorry!" he managed, desperate, "I didn't mean..." even as Sam was choking out, "I'm sorry, I've never..." and of course he'd never, but before Dean could reassure him, or apologise again, he was leaning back in. He was more careful this time, keeping Dean in his mouth, but he was smiling again, and with the hand that wasn't clamped around Dean's hip he reached out and took Dean's hand and put it back on his neck. The shock had pulled Dean back from the brink, but not far, and another moment or two of Sam's soft wet licking and gentle sucking was enough. Dean tried to pull away but Sam followed, held tight, and kept stroking Dean's hip as his release flooded his mouth. He pulled off as Dean started to shudder, resting his head for a moment on Dean's leg, then rearing back up to kiss him again.
Dean opened his mouth, unthinking, to the kiss. The shock of himself, salty and thick on Sam's tongue, threw him for a second, but only a second, as Sam pressed hard against him, forcing him back against the back of the loveseat. Sam was hard himself, his once smart slacks did nothing to conceal it as he dragged against Dean's leg, and Dean didn't hesitate, pulling him the rest of the way back up to sprawl across Dean's lap. Sam was out of control, mouthing mindlessly against Dean's neck, biting at his earlobe and the point of his jaw, and Dean clamped a hand to the back of his head, crushing his face into the soft part of his shoulder, as he fixed his eyes on the fastening of Sam's trousers, and struggled to undo them left handed.
Sam moaned like a hurt animal as Dean's hand slipped inside, and again as his fingers closed around him. Dean didn't have the first clue what to do, but he figured, as much as he was up to figuring, that you couldn't possibly go wrong doing what you liked yourself. It was awkward, the angle was wrong for one thing, and there wasn't a lot of room between them the way they were slammed together, but he held tight, and stripped Sam firmly, long smooth strokes to cover the whole length, and the odd pause to curve his thumb over the tip, remembering how much he'd liked that when Sam had done it for him. It only took six strokes, and Sam was pulsing in his hand, the whole length quivering, and jets of warm wet gushing out to cover Dean's hand. He kept moving his fingers gently till Sam's moans sounded more pained than pleasured, and the whole heavy weight of his body had slumped over Dean, boneless and exhausted. His breath was gusting in wet puffs in Dean's ear, and Dean snaked an arm around his waist to hold him tight as their racing hearts slowed –
"And three – two – one..." Heyward snaps his fingers and Sam shudders back to himself.
Dean's staring at him in undisguised horror, body quaking with rage or humiliation or both, scarlet edging up his throat and licking round his ears, across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Sam tears his eyes away, and forces himself to look at Heyward, who's fanning himself with an old copy of Life magazine.
"Well, well, my boy," he gusts. "You don't do anything by halves."
Sam pulls back, as far away as he can in the tiny space, and is mortified as he shifts to discover he's half hard himself. He pulls at his shirt as surreptitiously as he can. Heyward seems not to notice, but there's no way Dean can have missed it from his position, and when Sam dares to look at him again he's pointedly staring at the wall.
"I don't..." He turns back to Heyward angrily. "You didn't say they were together. You made it sound like they were strangers, acquaintances at best."
"How was I to know?" Heyward asks, unruffled. "No one advertised that sort of thing. Not like nowadays." His pointed look takes in Sam, Dean, and all the palpable tension between them. "But I always suspected it was something of the kind. You don't stab someone a dozen times because you catch them rifling your dresser drawers. Well, not unless it's a betrayal of a deeper sort than burglary."
"It was a robbery?" Sam's voice is small, and he feels a little broken hearted.
Heyward shrugs, unconcerned. It happened decades ago for him, after all; he didn't just meet them, just live through the first time they made love...
"The house had been ransacked, and there were several items of heirloom jewellery missing, pieces that had been in Mr. Hall's family for generations."
"Oh." Sam nods, inexplicably crushed. "They seemed so in love," he murmurs. He knows it's an odd reaction to have, but he can't help it.
"Yeah," Dean snorts, speaking for the first time. "Those are usually the ones that kill each other, Sammy." He's still not meeting Sam's eyes, and his posture is stiffer than Sam's ever seen it. "Let's get out of here, I need a drink."
Sam follows him mutely. They're no closer to solving the case than they were this morning, and he has a feeling they're even further from sorting out what's wrong between them than ever.
Part III