Meet Me in the Orchard by the Pale Moonlight
Title: Meet Me in the Orchard by the Pale Moonlight
Disclaimers: Sam and Dean, their canon universe and Supernatural are the sole property of Kripke, crew, and the CW
Spoilers: a brief mention of Sam's situation in Season Six; a mention of a known deity found in S2 on thru
Warnings: barebacking, blasphemy, cum play, dub-con cutting, dub-con piercings, **while I do not see this story as dub-con sex (consent is given in non-verbal cues) some may interpret it as such**, first-time, knotting (not beastiality; animalistic traits & behaviors), rimming, rough/graphic sex, water sports (once - as marking)
*Written in second person point of view
**Two parts, warnings and spoilers for both
***Edited. The beginning has been re-vamped since original posting, and in doing so is un-beta'd. Any and all mistakes, oddities, etc. per the entire fic are solely mine.
You’re fixating; fretting over a red sauce stain splotched in the middle of your tie, scritching it with a fingernail. When he looks over to you, he scoffs noisily. “Sam,” and you hmmm a response, too focused.
“It’s eight, heads up.”
He parks the Impala across the street from a tiny brick rancher, no more ordinary than the countless other homes in the vicinity. This job isn’t going to allow for much in the way of remaining undercover, unseen. The home is situated on a well-lit side street, towards the back of a middle-class neighborhood, with not enough space between neighbors. The last pit stop you made, Dean asked the kid working the register for some information on the place, if there was anything unusual to attract tourists or whatever and in return, got nothing but attitude.
The teenager, pimpled faced boy with hair longer than you'd ever dared, had thrown you both a look of disdain; his bitch face - one which you could respect - got Dean in such a tiff, he'd white-knuckled the bag of Doritos in his hand. Hell, the kid was bored out of his mind working long hours, a tedious gig. It didn't stop you either from wanting to smack him upside his head when he came out with, “Nothing to do here, man. This place, it's a black hole in a suburbia of old folks. Even the mosquitoes got AARP.”
You both had rolled your eyes, Dean wearing his in my day face, and that'd been a solid clue to finish with your purchase and head out. You'd laughed quietly, sliding in shotgun, called your brother out on his old man tendencies when he checked the rear view mirror once, twice. He'd retaliated, cranking the volume as high as it could go when Hendrix's "Red House" started. You'd given Dean an obligatory fuck my life moan, let him think he was stepping all over your last nerve while inside, you were happily spacing out to some sweet guitar riffs.
Both your boots vibrated on the Impala's floorboards as Dean had set her straight and fast down RT 147, and you had thought, in his day, Dean was just as disenchanted as any other hormonal adolescent, and then not two seconds later, abruptly shutting down that train of thought. Careening down that mental path always meant some whopping heartache, remembering how he may have screwed around in his day, bitched about there being nothing to do, but at sixteen, Dean had seen more action hunting monsters than others ever did in combat.
Ten minutes further up the road and Dean had pulled into the the post office, the only place in town either of you noticed having more than two cars out front. He'd gotten out of the car first, gave a few swipes of his jeans to rid them of orange cheese dust. "Worth a shot, yeah? We'll splurge, get an envelope," and you'd hummed in response, paused as you tripped over a crack in the pavement. "Living beyond our means, big spender."
It'd been worth it, the smile in his eyes when he turned to look at you, walking up to the tiny building's front entrance, relaxed and slurping up the last of the fountain drink bought at the Quick Stop. Before going in, Dean had chucked his empty plastic cup in the air, nailed the trash can's opening dead center, you quickly following suit, your cup going in only after bouncing off the rim of the can. "Five points, bitch," he'd given you a shoulder check, opened the door before you could reach the brass handle and waved you in. "After you princess."
Instantly, Dean had smoothed out the kinks of his big brother persona and put his best game face on, curled a corner of his lip, eyes crinkling in the way only a few older men could manage. His efforts paid off, drew the attention of the passport photographer, her smiles shy and her lips loose. It had been a spectacle, a scene you'd watched a thousand times, Dean charming strangers into opening up with nothing more than the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Two minutes of small talk and the photographer had confirmed that yes, the area was a calm refuge for exhausted military vets, retired power plant workers, and a few antiquity connoisseurs.
With no one in line waiting, yeah, it'd been that easy. She’d been happy to tell them about the local gossip, let her fingers roam closer to Dean's shirt cuffs, and he smirked as she swiped the tip of her tongue over her glossed lower lip. As far as she was concerned, the reports of female shouting and wild drumming in the peach grove were the tourists’ imaginations gone wild.
She'd gone as far as to say that her momma and her auntie agreed; said they blamed it on one of the damn college sororities from State doing their initiations. She scoffed at the myths, that if a few freaky weather patterns happened, well then, that was nothing more to worry on than old Mother Nature. You nearly choked, stifled a laugh when Dean leaned in closer, her eyelashes fluttering and her speech stuttering. She'd allowed her golden-hued ponytail to fall in her face and told them there was nothing more sinister to the story than stupid hunters. She'd laughed, eyes blinking up to Sam when she said the hunters were actually poachers, idiots who ought to have been paying closer attention to the weather channel.
Not enough information, with time left to kill, you'd followed Dean's swagger out the building, moved on. You'd researched, filed away news articles concerning frequent lightning strikes, seen the autopsy reports on non-local game hunters, poachers, burnt to a crisp. According to a few locals sitting in camping chairs outside the pharmacy, old men in worn denim hanging on for dear life by suspenders, the weather had been right n’ blue. No cloud cover in sight for the last week or so, and all news sites you'd pulled up on the web back this up.
Now your parked conspicuously, a county map sitting in your lap which shows a small body of water that you want to verify only - it’s not visible from the car. Go over the material out loud with Dean as the Impala doors slam and you walk - both of you have your heads on straight about this case, ten to one it’s a female based cult dorking around, calling on some pagan deity. The problem lies with which one, the patterns in this job of mixed sorts and that's dangerous, for you and the women about to be interviewd. The plan is to go in there, rattle a few cages with a show of sane thinking and if necessary, guns. You need to find out if this is a deity or instead, a demon with a god complex, impersonating higher beings.
Dean agrees with your one-off theory, that the bastard deep-frying the bad guys is something perhaps not pagan; something far older coming out to play. Yes, it is unusual considering there aren’t enough locals in this small city to form the size cult the older gods prefer. Dean’s pointed out the area's lack of temples, says, "Loki," with a hoarse cough, face falling in discomfort.
You pick up on his hesitance, shruggingly admit, “It’s not as if minor deities have the luxury to be choosy these days, sure," and look to second check the moon’s position overhead as Dean lifts his watch to re-check the time.
Walking a bit off the driveway, you crane your neck to the side, get a clear sight on the backyard and ah, a lake viewable from the front yard as the moon reflects off the water’s surface. Pay special attention to an herb garden fancying up the place, most of which you instantly recognize as being more than pretty things strewn about.
Beacons here are numerous, offerings and tributes from the homeowner and friends - specifics such as Silver mound, Artemisia schmidtiana, lining the walkway on up towards the front stoop, with it's small, silver-green pom poms gleaming in the dark. Young willow trees adorn the lawn on both sides of the home, another more mature willow in the back sidling up to the lake, grand and crooked.
Wormwood sits on a plant stand by the front door, inconspicuous and innocent in a pottery piece straight out of a Pier 1 catalog although you’re willing to bet tonight’s dinner it's a genuine Neolithic creation.
In the midst of pointing out to Dean the pottery’s image of a goddess you seriously don’t want to cross paths with, the front door swings open. A tall, middle-aged blonde looks Dean straight in the eye and gives you both a shit-eating grin.
“John's boys! Heard you’ve been fishing around town so we've been expecting you,” which is, yeah, not as strange in so much as embarrassing. Incredibly, horribly embarrassing. You've not exactly been the dynamic duo of stealth while traipsing around the city so sure, the group has been expecting hunters. Hell, they probably started gloating when the Impala’s engine revved five streets over.
It’s five minutes inside the house, reading the small group of women’s faces and getting no tells, and you see the moment Dean catches sight of it. No cloud cover to block his view, just stars for miles and the scene out in the backyard is unbelievably serene despite the wrong wrong wrong. When Dean got up and headed out you’ve no idea, blinking in confusion of your scattered thoughts as the women show no outward signs of anything amiss.
Sam, no harm to you, is a chorus of voices, rattles through your brain, and why you're not spouting Latin and bringing this group down a notch has leapt beyond highly disconcerting. A lithe woman motions for you to follow outside, you do which is upsetting, where there is a woman on the lake walking towards Dean, which is worse as you don't recall him leaving.
You want to clarify this vital piece of imagery, lake and walking across, with the brunette standing at your right side, her hovering, protective stance confusing. “Dean,” you shout, and, “is she…what have you done?” whispered after and you're watching the lake’s surface rippling.
The small brunette shows a touch of compassion, “you know this hunter mother, Sam,” and when did you feel it appropriate to carry on a conversation with this woman and why is Dean still standing there, ancient goddess – you know her in the literature sense – walking the surface of the water to get to him.
You’re running, feet molasses, calling as he turns to look at you with the goofiest smile you have ever seen Dean Winchester pull; this does include the time Lindsay ‘breeder hips’ Taluga gave your brother a peck on the cheek just shy of his fourteenth birthday and promised him homemade steak chili and apple pie on his special day.
It’s as hilarious on his features now as it was then, only now there’s imminent danger, as Lindsay’s only superpower was to sway those hips and make boys cry while The Great Mother Goddess - Agdestis, Artini, Lady of the Beasts - coming at Dean is renowned for causing men's deaths. And in all fairness, woman too, this deity soaking up moonlight until she’s luminescent, an equal opportunity kind of goddess with no qualms of putting a female through her paces.
Artemis, fully decked out in smart, modern hiking garb and sporting one amazing pixie hair-do, is in your face and feeling you up. You choke out a, “Chaste, right?” when she squeezes your junk so her followers laugh, bells tinkling in your head, and the cottontail deer straight out of a Disney classic springs over, nibbles at her hemline.
She tsks, chastises you, “as if I were to believe the youngest birthed of Mary to be impotent in the ways of the scholar. Virgin and the idea of belonging to oneself synonymous in my time. No mind to Aphrodite as I’ve no desires of this flesh," another painful squeeze, "...weaponry,” so you sigh into her face. Tall, as tall as you, built lean and muscular through and through. Her adoration and implied meanings flow over you no differently had you stepped in the lake.
Waking from a hypnotic stupor in this moonlit grove isn’t startling. No, that would be effected by the lying naked on a patch of grass with your limp dick flopped over a strange woman’s cheek. So...there’s no proper protocol here, no correct etiquette, and you’d move away quickly were it not for the bare foot of another woman stamping down not two inches from your face. You flinch, enough to hear another peal of bells as the woman kisses your equipment with no hesitation, stands and yawns, joins the others who are doing likewise to your brother.
Dean’s on the opposite side of a flattened grass circle you’ve been lying in, blinking wide-eyed and on defense as soon as he sits up. That, of course, would be the green light Artemis has been waiting for, lightning crackling horizontal across the sky. Dean’s the speed of sound, suddenly beside you and naked except for the goose bumps covering his chest, and this is neither an optimal nor impressive position either of you should be in.
“Oh, the freaky storm is just sooo random,” Dean is nasally, mimics passport girl as though she were a twelve-year old valley girl. Artemis shows her displeasure in a nifty streak of lightening that sizzles overhead, along the grove, lighting up the writhing mass of women dancing, shouting.
The hair on your head is damn near standing straight up by the time the goddess squats in front of you. She’s flanked by another woman, dressed in similar garb of khaki shorts and layered tanks, feet in hiking boots. Only Artemis wears a mask, Hecate’s, as white as moonlight and by the time she introduces Britomartis, you and Dean are reverential – not of your own accord are you on your knees in front of them. Those voices, hunters meet hunter and her good maiden, they fill you in as Artemis explains her intent.
An orchard tree sparks, a rabbit flees to safety as the wood splinters perfectly, “I know the woman’s fledglings, saw over your births. I’ve seen your cycles end and stood back to such unnatural occurrences, bade eons go by and here they are, encroachment,” she whispers, her voice loud enough to penetrate your skin and it makes your blood run cold. You and Dean are ineffective.
“I’ll not stand down,” the shouting of the frenzied group intensifies, a wail and the beating of their feet on the packed dirt thunders through you, “the hunt is mine,” coyotes pick up in accompaniment with their crackled barks, laughing, “the unnatural thrown off course in their benefit, the unnatural hunted stay mine.”
So there’s getting back to the car three hours later, the moon hidden behind the horizon when you go to speak, Dean beating you to it, “Sam. We are so screwed. If you say one word, one, I’m going to hit you,” and that is that until you get to Bobby’s.
Six hours later, you’ve very little recollection of what transpired last night, and Dean keeps getting this squint where his eyes narrow, pulling his face taut and thinning his lips. Your skin is too tight across your chest, Bobby inviting you in and saying there’s a name for goddesses who can’t keep their spells to themselves.
Two days later sees you and Dean only remembering the name Artemis, Bobby having enough to go off of with the case file but no other hunters to back-up that they've run into the queen bee. He's at an impasse. It’s breakfast, lunch, dinner, and staying out of Bobby’s way while he writes a mish mash of generic spell reversals. It’s you jumping in your seat every time Dean crosses your path, “Sam, you’re too damn over-sized to be twitching…house ain’t big enough,” and Bobby cusses in response to Dean's admonishment. He's cranky with you both in his space and unable to assist so he grabs a sandwich on his way upstairs - wants to change into something less greasy for the grocers.
Five minutes is what it takes, five minutes of Bobby simply out of your vicinity, and theres a building of static charge crackling through the house. Your legs are suddenly in motion, breathing in small huffs until you still, “Dean,” and he’s there in the junkyard, frozen over the carcass of a Chevy Cavalier.
Bobby’s skipping stairs, has three different tomes bunched in his hand, against his chest, but you can’t hear a word he’s saying as Dean tears into the house. It’s not any one thing you can explain, the sudden desire to raise up to your full height, show Dean just who the hell does he think he is causing chaos. Bobby’s sane, which is a fantastic thing as he bodily blocks Dean. You follow his shocked stare as yes, that is an electrical cord in Dean’s grip and no, he’s probably not looking to plug the den’s t.v. into a kitchen outlet.
Explosive, you are kinetic and suddenly in motion. Run, get him confused, the chase and your feet barely touch the ground.
Darting past, a purposed elbow to Dean’s lip stunning him, on to the kitchen, keys to a functioning Corolla yanked off their hook and in your hands. It is a chase, driving too fast when you feel your throat spasm, your mind reeling. And if Dean’s ringing you on your cell, too bad, as your brother is going to have to work a helluva lot harder than that.
The spell Dean’s been hit with has him chasing you across four county lines, employing every cat and mouse maneuver the old man taught you both. You’re starting to feel better, and yeah, you’re sure that urge to run is a spell but fuck all if you remember the event. Running is becoming a bore; sitting beside the jerk in his car is becoming an imperative. A strong one, as deep-rooted as the urge to run was, and by the time you’re pulled over, random motel Vacancy light gleaming, you’re pacing the parking lot until he finds you.
The first night is quiet, an alcoholic binge that just barely tames the need to fling open the door and take off. On foot. Both of you manage to stay grounded, whiskey and beer keeping you tipsy enough to fall asleep. The next day, the strings start fraying and while Dean’s too good at idle conversation to keep from unraveling, you're one cord shy of stable.
“Hey,” and the car is screaming past a row of upscale restaurants and condos, not a care in the world, “take-out, yeah?” Taking his eyes off the road, once, twice to see your reaction. Telling you, “Sam, I got a pretty decent feeling about the next couple jobs. Know that feeling, s’what you used to…hey, listen up, or I turn on BOC.”
“Jesus, I’m paying attention, Dean. Whatever you want, sure, we’ll take it." It’s rushed, you turning towards him, knee on the seat brushing close to Dean’s thigh and he jerks the steering wheel hard then over-corrects, “Or we can die happy in a fiery auto crash by a gelato joint.”
It’s Chinese take-out with a side of beer tonight, maybe some whiskey. Okay, it’s whiskey shots with a few drops of beer, Dean’s half conked out, and you’re, “T’morrow, Dean. We’ll figure out – stuff. Tired,” punctuating the clank of the decrepit a/c unit as it comforts you to sleep.
Filling up on steaming cups of coffee from the greasy spoon nearby the roach motel you're holing up in is a nice break. Observing Dean eating a raw sausage patty is not. It’s disgusting and by the time you leave the diner an hour and a half later, his belly full with sausage and two bloody cheeseburgers that you insist are still chewing cud, you’re threatening to have him tested for tapeworm.
That afternoon you’re half out the door of the Impala, while Dean’s still driving, and when he hauls you back in by your traitorous jacket you both shout, “Christo.”
There’s kicking, and bodily threats of dismemberment, the Impala wrenched off the road. You want to get out and sprint across the state as long as Dean’s going to chase; instead, you bite your lip bloody and stay. Somehow manage to overpower and hog-tie your brother, ring Bobby for a goddamned clue.
Back at Bobby's, his eyes lidded in disgust at the two of you saying, "Morons," and Dean’s laughing. Dean grins blood as he snips a piece of skin from your neck as you bend over him, tying him to a chair. You tell him how much it hurt in plain English, simple and cursory like, and he jerks his hips up, smirks when you follow the movement down to his groin. Dean’s sporting a raging hard-on, saying some nasty, if not impossible, acts he’d like to do with it - to you - and Bobby throws his hands up.
You’ve gotta go again, now because your blood is singing for the chase, to get the fuck out, and there’s the Corolla out back, flaunting your escape. Dean stops rocking the chair when you grab the keys, says he’ll break free if you step one foot out that door. Dean’s never been good at lying to you and when you do, he does. He is true to his word, twine shreds everywhere as you break the salt line and rip open the back door. Bobby’s showering the room with enough holy water to baptize the entire Southern Hemisphere, points a salt-loaded shotgun in Dean’s direction.
When Dean snatches the gun out of Bobby’s hands, then snaps the barrel in two, you're half expecting him to turn green and hulk out. He doesn’t - but what he does do is shove Bobby so hard the man hits the opposite wall. You're frozen, foot on the back porch, Dean leveling you with a twitching expression of malice, of vulgar promises.
“Now you may run, Sam.”
The first time he truly catches you, where there’s no giving in on your part, it turns into a brotherly spar in every way a Winchester brawl has always been. A wrestling match ensues, Dean opens his mouth and snaps his teeth in your face, surprising even himself, then using it to his advantage to get you down, him on top.
You realize you’re swearing worse than your dad on a bender and your knees are popping when you squeeze with your thighs to flip you both. It works until it doesn’t and the jackass manages to pin you to the stable floor. With your own knife, a pitchfork and perhaps a bucket of rusted garden tools but that’s between you and the grave. You waste ten embarrassing minutes wriggling free from your shirts, time enough so that Dean is long gone, saying it isn't time, flickers of your brother behind a wolf's eyes. You spend another ten explaining to an irate Bobby over the cell why you’re here - in an abandoned barn out in bum fuck nowhere, off Route 17, minus one seriously screwed older brother.
You dry heave, still talking to Bobby that his insane doesn’t begin to touch the crazed filth going on in your head.
You still consider it brotherly fighting on steroids, intensifying as the spell solidifies, Dean’s pupils blown to black when you sucker punch him outside a college deli in Williamsburg, Va. It’s a Friday night when he corners you, with students and tourists packing the street and he barrels straight towards you on the narrow sidewalk like there isn’t a soul around. Dean goes down hard, skin over your knuckles torn from his left cheekbone, tipsy co-eds squealing and flinching away from the violence.
He’s gotta work harder, doesn’t know how bad your bones itch for him to corner you for good, and you’ve no idea what that entails.
The next time Dean stops you in your tracks cannot be classified as anything but non-brotherly. You leave your cookie crumbles for him, out of the state, back in, until he's run you down on the Colonial Parkway - runs your piece of crap rental off the aggregate.
Dean’s lost his mind and you're one-step ahead of him there, talking to yourself through the empty miles, realizing that you’re both quasi-living. You're adrenaline, instinct, and violence. Dean’s attacked more than one civilian getting to you. So you lead him away, wild, because Dean’s many things but monster’s your title and you’ll be damned if Dean’s going to win at this finders keepers, claim it as his own.
All your life seeing each other bare bones and innards, you know precisely how Dean can be stripped of what he claims as higher behaviors. The man keeps his few belongings close. Conceited, perhaps, but you are Dean’s and you know and he knows it and just that simple, you’re allowing Dean to hunt you.
Being caught is unsurprising, your body screams, dick fattening at the thought. It's less surprising as you both tumble to the ground. Only now, Dean’s base self is fueling a higher system of horse power and while you anticipate more of fight, you start violently as he moves up your body. You're between his thighs, on all fours, his leg strength holding you tight as he near sits on you and begins rutting up against your shoulder, wild, frantic. One hand under your chin, finger hooked in your mouth, while he grips the hair on the crown of your head, pulls.
This – this is a new freaking development so your mind pitches a fit and establishes poor logic, states that if you look up it will fix all of this. Dean can’t help this, there's no ample justification, but your bicep is starting to burn from his weight accompanied by the friction of his denim against your own sleeve.
A hesitant look up from your spot on the forest floor, beneath your big brother, reveals gentle, steady pools of pupil. Dean’s forehead is smooth, his mouth set in determination and you know he’s in there somewhere, no angst, no anger, because this is happening. This is why you’ve been running. You want this game to play out and he knows it.
You watch in your peripheral, feel, as his hips grind down on your arm once, twice, and breathes hard out his noise. Spent, Dean hisses at the catch of his dick on his zipper, a damp cum stain seeping through to your sleeve. It’s barely enough moisture to reach your skin, not enough to mark you up.
Dean’s body gives him away - pulse rapid-fire in the veins of his neck. Faces you, grabs the hollows of your cheek, squeezes them in reprimand, “Fuck,” as the ache settles into the muscles there. There’s the metal click of a zipper, he hasn’t even bothered with unbuckling his belt, and everything around you spins.
You know what he needs, neither of you better than a pair of dogs in bodily functions and instinct. You’re decided if he’s going down in this, head first and dying inside, “I understand, man,” you’re going with him this time. Nod your assent and gag when the first bit of piss splashes off your arm and splatters your chin.
Marked, claimed, an instinctual urge satisfied, and Dean twists his head to the side, face illuminated by the outer edges of the Impala’s headlights. You see him sniff in the wind that's rustling through the tree canopy, worry when he bares his teeth at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Feel horrible as he frowns in confusion and twists his head to face you, now standing and ready to tackle him. It takes him three solid jabs.
You’re an idiot, not prepared, head jerking back from the crush of bone connecting and you're sinking to your knees. It's a swift punch to your left side, aiming for the kidney.
Face down, ear to the ground, you watch as his boots walk to the Impala, crimson soaked vision as headlamps from the approaching car blankets your face as it rounds a turn, slows to a creep and stops as Dean is peeling off. You notice the direction, away, he’s getting away from civilization and you sigh with relief through the blood pouring from your nose and into your mouth.
Dean’s playing tag leader, a single step ahead of you, toying with your sensibilities, leaving an actual written note handed off to a cashier at a stop-n-rob. Written on a piece of hamburger wrap foil. The pretty girl with the brown doe eyes, cupie bow lips stained light coral hands it over to you. Auburn hair in pigtails, she pops a mint between her teeth, closes her lips around half and sucks on it as you glance at what Dean has written.
Pigtails eyes your crotch, a tiny slurp, rolls the mint on the tip of her tongue and gives it a suck into her mouth. It’s not that you’re not interested. You usually are, contrary to cock-rock loving assholes, so your dick has a pesky way of showing a keen interest in anything built petite and large breasted. Hell, you’ve been half-hard since walking in the place, spying tiny budded nipples erect and pointing forward through the tank top as she stretched, explained seeing the hot guy with the freckles.
She states she doesn’t go for the junkies, scratching a button nose with a manicured fingernail, “…cause he’s one, you know that, right? My type’s healthier, less Michael meets Van Gogh more Adonis,” causing you a quick snort, utter an “okay, I’m…yeah.”
You fold the wrapper and shove it in your pant's pocket, head out to leave and she shrugs, turns. Get yourself a freebie noticing her ample bubbled ass bound tight in khaki shorts, saving the image for rubbing one out in the car, understanding it's the spell making you horny, less talking involved and what the hell, you’ve got napkins. You walk out, concrete fairly pristine thanks to the kitty litter housed in containers all along the property. Swipe your hand down your shirt, no one around and the cashier can’t see so you adjust and tuck your junk.
Climb into the car and unzip once you’ve rounded a nasty curve, shaft solid steel, obscene against the steering wheel, against your shirt. You pull that up, not stopping to strip and edge, press hard against the glans, knees holding the steering wheel long enough to get yourself situated. It's slow, methodical, balls tight and you're cussing out your lack of preparedness, your family’s constant involvement in getting whammied by djinn and witches and whatever else the fuck wants to string you both like puppets. The anger stirs you up; thighs straining your pants as you grunt, jerk-off quicker.
Release is so close, about to come undone when you spot her, the Impala sitting off to the side of a boat launch, none of the locals paying her a bit of mind. No mind as they're more concerned in getting out on the river to get their fishing on. Dean's out there, waiting, a new twist to the chase. You cum as an afterthought, hot splash against your stomach and in your navel; surprising yourself when you let loose a loud string of nonverbal noises, Dean's name, your ass grinding into the seat, riding out residual after jolts. There’s just enough presence of mind to ease the vehicle in beside Dean’s baby, wipe your hand off on spare napkins stashed in the glove compartment and zip up.
The locals pay you no mind as you step out and head over to the Impala’s driver side. In fact, they’re already buzzing down the James, fishing poles and libations at the ready. You look across the river, spotting dense woods on the horizon, a rippling current causing some serious choppy waters between the shores.
No two ways about it, Dean wouldn’t swim across; feral or not, your brother’s not an idiot. Catching that current would’ve carried his body downstream god knows where, not optimal with the Impala being here, and that’s only if he wasn’t snagged under by sunken trees. No, Dean wouldn’t swim but then he wouldn’t have stayed here either. Too much traffic along the riverfront, a chance for stragglers, whereas out there, he could stay away until you found him or the spell wore off. Or he died from starvation, injury, the spell going wonky. Shit.
You drive a little further down the road, a rental place in mind, has to be one along these roads and within the next two hours, you’ve rented a small johnboat of your own. There’s a stash of peanut M&M’s for Dean, a large sub sandwich for you both, and a stash of bottled water on the seat next to you as you launch yourself onto the river.
You’re not fool enough to just go out and explore, the owner of the rental shop growing up on these waters, having seen your brother earlier, rented to him as well, “Ya’ll aren’t up to fighting out there, cause I don’t wanna send a search party out. Waste a ton of taxpayers money using local EMS on some men not wantin' to be found,” and you nod. Tell him your brother has been planning this trip solo and you’re worried, does he have a map of the James and her beaches and such where his brother might camp out. The man nods, double chin and all.
So when you do happen to see the johnboat, you know Dean’s not even trying to hide from you, keeping the vessel right there off the fourth alcove you’ve come across on your journey. It seems too easy, as if someone could’ve seen him and found him but you’re actively looking and the alcove is recessed and thank god, or whatever, there’s only one boat pulled up on shore. Two as you pull yours beside his.
You see him, it’s not as if he’s some illusive feral so that your training is useless. See, the thing is, your training is useless. When he sneers, stands up lazily from a crouch, he means business, so you widen your stance. This is ridiculous; you’re so going to knock his ass out, pills to sedate him in your pocket. Heavy dosages, can’t chance him waking up in a boat, the both of you mid-river.
What happens is you don’t anticipate a fucking booby trap until his sneer disappears and the circle of twine you’ve stepped into springs up, closes around your ankle.
You fall, a crack. Then…nothingness.