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amberdreamsBack to Part 1
Victor and Reidy were a few minutes west of Teec Nos Pos on the US-160 when the reports came in of a shooting near Yah-Tah-Hey. The FBI wouldn’t normally be interested in disputes on Reservation land, but Victor exchanged a significant look with Reidy when the details filtered through. The report mentioned three things that got Victor’s pulse racing - a weird blue light; an apparent miracle; and last but not least, two male suspects taking off from the scene in a black classic car which might have been a Chevy Impala.
Reidy was taking a turn at the wheel, which left Victor scrambling for the maps, holding his small flashlight between his teeth while he worked out the best route to intercept what had to be the Winchesters.
“You know the military and the X Files crew will be all over this, don’t you?” Reidy observed with the quirk of an eyebrow.
“Yeah, well. We’ll just have to get there quicker.” Victor tapped the map with an emphatic forefinger. “There,” he said, “take the next left in about ten miles and head south on the 191. We might not get to intercept them at Burnside, but we’ll sure as hell be close behind them.”
Reidy nodded and unwrapped another Chupa Chup, one hand lazy on the wheel. “If I put my foot down we should get to Burnside first, I reckon,” he said, then offered a lollipop to Victor, who shook his head. They drove fast but in a companionable quiet, broken only by the soft sucking sounds Reidy made as he rolled the hard candy around in his mouth. Victor thought about rotting teeth and Dean Winchester’s serial killer smile.
Sam’s mouth was desert-dry, his body cold as a desert night. But that was all okay, because they were in a desert, weren’t they? So it made a kind of sense. It was the only thing that did make sense, though. Sam’s world narrowed to a confused procession of sensations; the reassuring rumble of the Impala’s engine and Dean’s voice; night dark chased by the glow of neon lights; elusive scents of juniper and sage sensed briefly over the pungent smell of iron; all overlaid by the constant throb of pain. Nothing to see here; move along, please.
Sam drifted in and out, weaving his consciousness through the web of familiar sensations, until the nothingness swallowed him up again.
The next time Sam woke, he snapped to full awareness almost instantly. This time, the input was strange and perplexing. His eyes were open and his vision clear. It was quiet; he missed the Impala’s rumble.
He appeared to be floating on his back surrounded by a blue light that simultaneously soothed and dazzled. His nostrils twitched, catching scents at once strange and familiar – ozone and sandalwood and something vaguely floral. His skin was warm and tingling, like taking a bath after rolling around in snow, and most remarkable of all, there was no pain.
One thing Sam was certain of – there should have been pain.
The blue light faded, gradually replaced by the more muted gold of a bedside lamp. The ceiling came into focus and Sam recognized his surroundings as a typical motel room, the softness underneath him was a bed.
Sam turned his head.
Dean – no – Jensen was lying on the coverlet beside Sam, staring at him. They were almost nose-to-nose, and Sam should have been freaking out at the intimacy, but somehow, he was infused with a sense of overwhelming calm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so peaceful. It didn’t take much effort to close the gap between them and press his lips against Jensen’s. Jensen was so soft and warm, and so alive. So not Dean. But those – those were Dean’s lips, and there was nothing to stop Sam tasting, touching, testing.
Empty of thought, instinctively Sam shifted his hips to move their bodies closer together. As their legs entwined Sam realized they were both naked. A shock like electricity shot through his veins and his cock jumped eagerly. Jensen’s hand moved down Sam’s side, gentle, teasing, unbearable. Sam’s mouth opened and Jensen’s tongue darted in, hot and wet and perfect, and holy shit, Jensen was good at this.
With difficulty Sam disengaged their mouths and tipped his head back so he could see Jensen’s face.
“Hey, how did you get so good when yesterday you couldn’t even string two words together?”
“Quick learner,” Jensen said, deadpan. Then he grinned, the green in his eyes glinting wickedly as he pulled Sam back in. “And there were a lot of instructional videos about human mating rituals on your primitive information device.”
So Jensen must have found Dean’s porn; except most of his brother’s downloads weren’t man on man action, surely? And when had the alien found the time to watch? Any other questions Sam might have had were chased away by Jensen’s talented tongue and the hesitation Sam had been harboring dissolved. Sam was left in no doubt that Jensen wanted this, and more surprisingly, that Jensen knew what he was doing. It was something Sam had never allowed himself to want, an undercurrent that tugged at his heart all his life in a quiet but powerful undertow.
Now, finally, Sam could let that current sweep him away.
Sam forgot all about the videos and flipped Jensen onto his back, straddling Jensen’s legs. Jensen tasted sweet, smelled wild. Sam wondered if this was what stars were like, then laughed silently at his fanciful imaginings. He pushed himself up onto his hands so he could savor the view. He’d seen Dean naked many times, but never allowed himself to really look. But this wasn’t Dean, this was Jensen, and his body was laid out on the motel coverlet for Sam’s delectation. Jensen was a dream-like vision and there was nothing to stop Sam looking his fill.
Jensen’s skin was creamy pale everywhere. Obviously he was virtually untouched by the sun in the brief time he’d been on earth and yet the cream was still liberally sprinkled with those faint copper freckles he’d noticed when he’d first laid eyes on Jensen. In a kind of wonder, Sam traced a line with one finger from collarbone to obliques, watching Jensen’s smooth skin quiver at his touch.
“No scars,” Sam said.
“Not Dean,” Jensen replied, reading Sam with uncanny ease, his face back in its somber cast. Sam wanted to see Jensen smile again, before he took him apart piece by piece, and showed him what human mating was really like.
“Not Dean,” Sam agreed, ducking down for another kiss, a motion that brought their erections together with a spark of desire. Sam moaned his pleasure into Jensen’s open mouth and for the next sweaty, passionate moments all thoughts of Dean were banished from Sam’s mind for the first time since that fateful Wednesday.
::::
Sam floated, but this time was less literal, merely a post coital haze, fighting against the delicious lassitude that threatened to gently lull him to sleep. He needed something else more than sleep though.
“Why?”
Jensen looked up from where he was resting his head on Sam’s shoulder. His eyes were warm and it scared Sam how easy it would be to lose himself in that gaze.
“You needed this to fully heal. Intimacy. Love.” Before Sam could formulate a concern about Jensen thinking he had to give Sam some sort of sexual healing, Jensen moved his hand and placed it, heavy and reassuring, over Sam’s heart. “I needed it too. A memory of you to take home with me.”
“Well. Okay then,” Sam said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Sam covered Jensen’s hand with his own and closed his eyes.
::::
When Sam woke again it was from the first healthy, dreamless sleep he’d enjoyed for a long time. The early morning sun dazzling his eyes where it shafted through a gap in the curtains.
Morning. Sam sat up, wide-awake and instantly worried. Jensen was dressed and sitting at the table near the window, a dark silhouette against the light. The events of the previous day came flooding back and Sam realized something. He leaped out of bed, seized with a sudden urgent energy.
“Jensen?” Sam demanded, “You used one of your energy spheres to heal me, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for Jensen to reply, pulling his jeans on as he talked, digging out a clean t-shirt from his bag when he saw the bloody state of the shirts he’d been wearing when he was shot. Fuck, how could he have missed the significance of his healing? He’d let his dick do the thinking for him, for both of them, and now… “How much time do you have left to reach the rendezvous?”
“Two,” Jensen said, a seeming non sequitur.
“What?”
“I had to use two spheres. You were nearly dead, it required a lot of power to revive you.”
Sam stopped. Jensen hadn’t moved, was sitting with his back bowed and his hands resting on the table, and Sam wondered if Jensen had slept at all. If he even knew what sleep was and that all humans needed it. That he needed it. Jensen’s whole posture spoke of exhaustion.
“And the rendezvous?”
“I calculate I have four hours remaining before I will be unable to maintain this existence.”
Sam looked around the room, glanced at the motel sign outside. Double-checking changed nothing. This was Burnside, only a few miles west of the diner. At Sam’s best estimate, they were more than a seven-hour drive to their destination in Utah. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the inevitable knots in agitation.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just take the Impala and leave while I was sleeping?”
Jensen looked up at that. “I could not leave until I was sure you would live, Samwinchester. You needed me here.”
Sam couldn’t deal with that. Another willing sacrifice on the altar of Sam Winchester and there was too much blood on his hands.
They had to try and save Jensen now. Sam had to try.
“Jensen, come on, we need to get back on the road. You have one sphere left, right? You can call home, tell your people to pick you up somewhere else. I can look at the map, we can find a place, somewhere close…” There was a knock on their room door and Sam broke off. He flung the door wide; clean t-shirt still in his hand. He prepared to say no maid service, thanks, only to find himself face to face with an FBI regulation Glock 22.
Well, fuck.
Victor couldn’t believe his luck. They’d driven through the night, Victor taking over the wheel to give Carl a few hours shut-eye, and reached Burnside as the sun was rising. He turned onto the AZ264 to head west and they’d not gone more than a mile before Victor spotted a black classic car in a seedy motel parking lot, in full view of the road. Victor’s undignified whoop of triumph woke Reidy with a start that had his head connect with the car roof, but his cursing was short-lived when he too caught sight of the Impala.
“Are they getting arrogant or just plain careless?” Reidy mused, but the grin on his partner’s face told Victor that Reidy couldn’t care less either way. Victor pulled up so their car blocked the Impala in. The Winchesters were not getting out of this one. The morning air still retained that desert chill, dry and fragrant. To Victor, it smelled of success.
Gun in readiness, Victor stalked the row of rooms nearest the Impala, while Reidy ran to the office to check names against room numbers and get the desk clerk’s descriptions. Victor had already decided on the likeliest room when Reidy emerged from the office to confirm his guess with a wave and thumbs up. Victor didn’t wait, he knocked, gun raised and cocked. The PD reports had said the tall one had been gut-shot, and Victor knew that any injury to Sam Winchester just made the older Winchester even more dangerous.
He thought he was ready for anything, but the sight of Sam Winchester’s bare, hairy chest wasn’t exactly what he was expecting. Especially as all that naked flesh made it absolutely clear that Sam Winchester was fine; no bullet wounds, no blood, not even a – oh, wait, there was a scratch but it looked one made by fingernails running down those sculpted abs – and suddenly Victor was feeling a little hot under the collar, and the scent of sex on the enclosed air wafting out of the room made uncomfortable sense.
He swallowed hard. Collected himself. Come on Victor, you’re a professional. Act like it.
“Sam Winchester,” Victor said, his aim never wavering as he glanced inside the room. He didn’t like that his view was restricted, and there was no sign of Dean, apart from a pathetic heap of bloody shirts on the floor. So someone had been injured then. “Where’s Dean, Sam? Where’s your brother?”
The last thing Victor was expecting was to see Sam Winchester tear up, but that’s exactly what happened. Those broad shoulders slumped and Sam Winchester, wanted for murder, grave desecration, kidnapping and arson, choked up when he said, “Dean’s dead.” He was so convincing in his grief that Victor might even have felt a frisson of sympathy, thinking for a second that the reports had got the wrong Winchester being shot - were it not for the fact that, even as the words passed Sam’s lips, his brother, clearly very much alive, walked into the doorway to stand at Sam’s shoulder.
Victor almost laughed.
Reidy arrived at Victor’s side the moment Dean Winchester appeared, gun leveled and one of those ever present lollipops bulging out one cheek like a lopsided hamster.
Dean stared at them with curiosity, not an ounce of fear on that smooth, pretty face, and Victor’s dormant rage revived and burned bright.
He nodded. “Dead – yeah, right.”
The Winchesters spoke at once.
“I’m not/he’s not Dean Winchester,” they said, and this time Victor did laugh. Only to have the smile wiped off his face by Reidy, of all people.
Reidy pulled the Chupa Chup out of his mouth with an audible pop, and waved it in Dean’s direction.
“You know what,” Reidy said, “I think they’re right. That isn’t our Deano.”
Victor wanted to grab Reidy, look him in the eye and demand to know what he meant by that, and why he was acting so out of character agreeing with dangerous criminals, but he couldn’t risk taking his attention off the Winchesters, in spite of the fact that Sam Winchester’s expression right now was a man in utter shock. Victor didn’t know where to look, where the true danger lay, with Dean or with Sam. Sam was staring at Reidy as if his partner had sprouted an extra head, or worse, as if Reidy had personally ripped out Dean Winchester’s heart. Victor had never thought Sam Winchester was as vicious a killer as his elder brother, but at that moment Sam’s expression made him want to take a step back, as Sam’s initial incredulity morphed into loathing. Sam lurched forward, reaching for Reidy with nothing but murder in his eyes and a knife in his hand that had appeared from god knows where. Victor was a hair’s breadth from shooting Sam when Dean grabbed those impressive biceps and held him back.
And Reidy was laughing. A laugh that Victor, after five years as Carl Reidy’s partner, did not recognize. Reidy stepped backwards, both hands raised in the air and neither his gun nor stupid lollipop anywhere to be seen. What the fuck was going on?
“Okay, you got me. Easy, Sammy. No need for all this aggression,” Reidy said, but his voice sounded weird. Reidy’s body was wavering as if he’d been caught in some sort of desert mirage, and when Victor blinked, involuntarily, his partner was gone. In his place was a shorter, brown haired man with strangely tawny eyes and a mischievous smile. Victor’s gun wavered, uncertain which of the three men to shoot but feeling like he should be filling at least one of them with bullets right now.
“You!” Sam almost spat the word. Huh. At least one person here appeared to know who this – creature – was.
Sam couldn’t believe it. After all these months of fruitless searching, the Trickster had come to him.
“Let me tell you, whoever said Dean was the dysfunctional one has never seen you with a sharp object in your hands. Holy Full Metal Jacket.”
The Trickster’s tone was full of amusement and Sam saw red. Sam forgot about Jensen, forgot Henriksen was standing right there with a gun trained on him, forgot everything but the one most important thing.
“Bring him back.”
The Trickster raised an eyebrow. “Who, Dean? Didn't my girl send you flowers? Dean's dead. He ain't coming back. His soul's downstairs doing the hellfire rumba as we speak.”
“Just take us back to that Tuesday – Wednesday – when it all started. Please. We won't come after you, I swear.”
“You swear.” The Trickster and Henriksen spoke at perfect synchronization and Sam’s gaze flicked between them, answered them both.
“Yes.”
“I don't know,” the Trickster replied, Henriksen’s face a picture of bafflement. “Even if I could—“
“You can.” Sam had no doubt, couldn’t allow even the slightest uncertainty to creep in.
“True. But that don't mean I should. Sam, there's a lesson here that I've been trying to drill into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of yours.”
“Lesson? What lesson?”
“This obsession to save Dean? The way you two keep sacrificing yourselves for each other? Nothing good comes out of it. Just blood and pain. Dean's your weakness. And the bad guys know it, too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam. Sometimes you just gotta let people go.”
Sam couldn’t comprehend. This was a living death, this existence; what did his life matter if he couldn’t share it with Dean?
“He's my brother,” he said, as if that explained everything. Because, in every way that counted, it did.
The Trickster rolled his eyes then pointed at Jensen. “And what about him? Does he matter?”
Sam faltered when he realized Jensen was still holding onto his arm. He could feel the alien’s hand trembling. He glanced at Jensen and his stomach lurched when he noticed how sickly pale he was. Sam glanced at his wristwatch. Jensen only had a few hours left, and there was no way they could get him anywhere near the rendezvous in Utah in time. Unless…
The Trickster was looking at Sam, waiting for an answer. Sam opened his mouth then shut it again, his heart beating uncomfortably loud inside his head, disrupting his thoughts, confusing him.
“Let me make it easy for you, Sam. I’ll give you a choice. Save– what’s your name, kid?” the Trickster asked, addressing Jensen directly. Jensen answered with his full alien name, which the Trickster repeated effortlessly, of course. “ Save him, or have your brother back. That’s my offer. Your choice, one or the other. Jensen or Dean.”
The Trickster’s words washed over Sam like a cold Atlantic wave. He could see Henriksen demanding to know what was going on, he could see the Trickster’s mouth moving and knew there was a conversation happening, but he couldn’t hear anything, just the cold waters of that impossible choice, drowning him.
Then Jensen was in front of him, putting warm hands out to cup his face and Sam’s focus narrowed.
“Sam Winchester,” Jensen said. “It’s okay. You don’t have to choose. It’s too late for me, my last sphere is already nearly used up and Landing Area One is too far. Tell this Trickster you will have your Dean returned to you. Dean is what you need.”
Sam tried to shake his head, but Jensen’s grip was firm and held his head steady. Sam couldn’t move, transfixed by Jensen’s translucent green eyes. Although Jensen was essentially Dean, Sam thought Jensen’s eyes were lighter, somehow. As if the soul behind them shone through with a different cadence than his brother’s.
Sam stepped backwards, gently pulling free of the alien’s grip. He looked over Jensen’s shoulder to where the Trickster was waiting for his reply, Victor Henriksen standing in uneasy silence at the ancient god’s side.
Was Sam weighing two days acquaintance against a lifetime of love and obligation? Was there really a choice here or was the Trickster messing with him again? Trying to teach him more incomprehensible lessons. Sam didn’t even know if the Trickster truly had the power to bring Dean back – those Tuesday deaths had been real enough, but manipulating time for a matter of hours was one thing, but after six months? Yet wasn’t that the very outcome Sam had been pursuing all this time?
Jensen waited, silent and undemanding. He’d sacrificed his chance of getting home, of surviving, for Sam. This, here and now, was Jensen’s only chance. Sam would live to chase down the Trickster another day; he’d have more chances to save Dean, he’d make sure of it.
“I want you to save Jensen,” Sam said. His voice was steady even though his pulse raced and his stomach churned with the enormity of the choice he was making. Was Dean in Hell right now? Was Sam condemning his brother to an eternity of torment by his actions here? He didn’t know, but it was Dean’s voice inside his head, telling him he was doing the right thing.
The look of surprise on the Trickster’s face was somewhat gratifying, though did nothing to ease the feeling of dread and grief that was weighing Sam down like a stone. The Trickster snapped his fingers. There was a strange sound like the flapping of sails in a high wind and they were no longer standing on the doorstep of the Burnside motel. Sam looked around, wide-eyed, to see Victor doing the same. Jensen seemed unperturbed, while the Trickster was nowhere to be seen.
“What the fuck? Where are we?” Henriksen yelled, spinning as if he expected the view to make more sense on each turn of his heel.
“What…? Is this …?” Sam babbled, his brain struggling to catch up.
“Landing Area One,” Jensen said. He had his head tilted back, staring straight above them at the cloudless blue sky.
Sam swallowed, struck by the beauty and vulnerability of Jensen’s neck. Fuck. This wasn’t even the alien’s real body. What was Sam thinking? He’d had the Trickster in his grasp, had been offered his heart’s desire and he’d given it up for a stranger who had cloned his dead brother. Who’d been willing to die for Sam.
Sam swallowed down his doubts. He’d made his decision and his reasons were valid. Time to live with the consequences.
“If Jensen is right, this is roughly midway between Ely and Eureka in Nevada,” Sam said, and watched Henriksen go still. “I think those hills in the distance are part of the Wasatch Range.”
High above them, at the apogee of the sky’s dome, a flower of light blossomed like a new sun and Jensen smiled.
In a crackle of static, Henriksen’s handheld radio burst into life. Simultaneously from the eastern horizon came a faint whup, whup, whup sound – helicopters. Probably Chinooks from the sound of them, Sam thought. Henriksen listened to the radio chatter for a second, then strode over to where Sam and Jensen were standing. Sam automatically tensed and dropped into a fighting stance, but Henriksen’s face held more concern than anger, and his hands were empty of everything except the radio, no gun in sight.
“The military are coming for you,” Henriksen said, grabbing Jensen’s arm while pointing at the three black specks now visible to the naked eye, coming in fast from the Utah mountains. Jensen nodded.
“They are, but my people are coming too, and I think they will get here first,” Jensen said.
Sam and Henriksen looked up and gasped. Jensen took the opportunity to take Sam aside. The spacecraft that was descending rapidly over their heads was stirring up a swirling wind and dust stung Sam’s skin, abrasive as sandpaper. Jensen pulled Sam’s head down and rested their foreheads together, somehow calling up a pocket of calm within the whirling tornado of light and sand.
“Thank you, Sam,” Jensen said, his breath warm and moist on Sam’s face. “You have taught me much about what it is to be human, how to feel and how to love. I am grateful to you, for that, and for saving my life. I want to leave you a gift.”
Jensen opened his hand and there, nestled in the center of his palm was the last energy sphere. Jensen pressed the sphere into Sam’s hand and closed their fists together, wrapping his hand around Sam’s.
“Use it wisely, Sam.”
The light grew stronger and Sam had to close his eyes against the brightness, as well as shielding his face from the dust that was getting everywhere, so he didn’t see Jensen leave. When the wind finally died down, Sam slowly straightened up. Henriksen was still crouched down using a boulder for cover, and the three Chinooks were almost upon them. Sam didn’t want to linger here to explain any of this to the US military, or risk losing the gift Jensen had left him.
As Henriksen raised his head and shook sand out of his jacket, Sam realized what he had to do. He wasn’t certain the alien sphere worked this way, but he remembered how Jensen had looked at him when Jensen had given him the sphere, and he was pretty sure. Like eighty per cent sure. Jensen intended to give Sam what he wanted the most.
He held out his hand with the sphere resting on it and willed the Trickster to appear.
That same flapping noise as before, and the Trickster was standing in front of Sam, a confused expression on his devious face.
“Fix this,” Sam commanded. “Fix me.”
The sphere flared blue.
Henriksen was in Durango with Reidy, looking at a possible lead on the Winchesters that he knew deep down would come to nothing.
“Carl,” he said, tentative. “Do you like those Chupa Chup lollipops?”
Reidy stared at him. “I’m diabetic, Vic. I don’t eat that kind of crap.”
“Right. Sure, of course.” Victor ran his hand over his face and frowned. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”
::::
In Broward County, Florida, Dean brushed his teeth and complained about the crappy music on the radio. Sam’s heart was full to bursting, and when he pulled his brother in for a hug - real, solid and smelling of mint - Sam thought he might never let go.
~0~0~0~
Victor and Reidy were a few minutes west of Teec Nos Pos on the US-160 when the reports came in of a shooting near Yah-Tah-Hey. The FBI wouldn’t normally be interested in disputes on Reservation land, but Victor exchanged a significant look with Reidy when the details filtered through. The report mentioned three things that got Victor’s pulse racing - a weird blue light; an apparent miracle; and last but not least, two male suspects taking off from the scene in a black classic car which might have been a Chevy Impala.
Reidy was taking a turn at the wheel, which left Victor scrambling for the maps, holding his small flashlight between his teeth while he worked out the best route to intercept what had to be the Winchesters.
“You know the military and the X Files crew will be all over this, don’t you?” Reidy observed with the quirk of an eyebrow.
“Yeah, well. We’ll just have to get there quicker.” Victor tapped the map with an emphatic forefinger. “There,” he said, “take the next left in about ten miles and head south on the 191. We might not get to intercept them at Burnside, but we’ll sure as hell be close behind them.”
Reidy nodded and unwrapped another Chupa Chup, one hand lazy on the wheel. “If I put my foot down we should get to Burnside first, I reckon,” he said, then offered a lollipop to Victor, who shook his head. They drove fast but in a companionable quiet, broken only by the soft sucking sounds Reidy made as he rolled the hard candy around in his mouth. Victor thought about rotting teeth and Dean Winchester’s serial killer smile.
~0~0~0~
Sam’s mouth was desert-dry, his body cold as a desert night. But that was all okay, because they were in a desert, weren’t they? So it made a kind of sense. It was the only thing that did make sense, though. Sam’s world narrowed to a confused procession of sensations; the reassuring rumble of the Impala’s engine and Dean’s voice; night dark chased by the glow of neon lights; elusive scents of juniper and sage sensed briefly over the pungent smell of iron; all overlaid by the constant throb of pain. Nothing to see here; move along, please.
Sam drifted in and out, weaving his consciousness through the web of familiar sensations, until the nothingness swallowed him up again.
The next time Sam woke, he snapped to full awareness almost instantly. This time, the input was strange and perplexing. His eyes were open and his vision clear. It was quiet; he missed the Impala’s rumble.
He appeared to be floating on his back surrounded by a blue light that simultaneously soothed and dazzled. His nostrils twitched, catching scents at once strange and familiar – ozone and sandalwood and something vaguely floral. His skin was warm and tingling, like taking a bath after rolling around in snow, and most remarkable of all, there was no pain.
One thing Sam was certain of – there should have been pain.
The blue light faded, gradually replaced by the more muted gold of a bedside lamp. The ceiling came into focus and Sam recognized his surroundings as a typical motel room, the softness underneath him was a bed.
Sam turned his head.
Dean – no – Jensen was lying on the coverlet beside Sam, staring at him. They were almost nose-to-nose, and Sam should have been freaking out at the intimacy, but somehow, he was infused with a sense of overwhelming calm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so peaceful. It didn’t take much effort to close the gap between them and press his lips against Jensen’s. Jensen was so soft and warm, and so alive. So not Dean. But those – those were Dean’s lips, and there was nothing to stop Sam tasting, touching, testing.
Empty of thought, instinctively Sam shifted his hips to move their bodies closer together. As their legs entwined Sam realized they were both naked. A shock like electricity shot through his veins and his cock jumped eagerly. Jensen’s hand moved down Sam’s side, gentle, teasing, unbearable. Sam’s mouth opened and Jensen’s tongue darted in, hot and wet and perfect, and holy shit, Jensen was good at this.
With difficulty Sam disengaged their mouths and tipped his head back so he could see Jensen’s face.
“Hey, how did you get so good when yesterday you couldn’t even string two words together?”
“Quick learner,” Jensen said, deadpan. Then he grinned, the green in his eyes glinting wickedly as he pulled Sam back in. “And there were a lot of instructional videos about human mating rituals on your primitive information device.”
So Jensen must have found Dean’s porn; except most of his brother’s downloads weren’t man on man action, surely? And when had the alien found the time to watch? Any other questions Sam might have had were chased away by Jensen’s talented tongue and the hesitation Sam had been harboring dissolved. Sam was left in no doubt that Jensen wanted this, and more surprisingly, that Jensen knew what he was doing. It was something Sam had never allowed himself to want, an undercurrent that tugged at his heart all his life in a quiet but powerful undertow.
Now, finally, Sam could let that current sweep him away.
Sam forgot all about the videos and flipped Jensen onto his back, straddling Jensen’s legs. Jensen tasted sweet, smelled wild. Sam wondered if this was what stars were like, then laughed silently at his fanciful imaginings. He pushed himself up onto his hands so he could savor the view. He’d seen Dean naked many times, but never allowed himself to really look. But this wasn’t Dean, this was Jensen, and his body was laid out on the motel coverlet for Sam’s delectation. Jensen was a dream-like vision and there was nothing to stop Sam looking his fill.
Jensen’s skin was creamy pale everywhere. Obviously he was virtually untouched by the sun in the brief time he’d been on earth and yet the cream was still liberally sprinkled with those faint copper freckles he’d noticed when he’d first laid eyes on Jensen. In a kind of wonder, Sam traced a line with one finger from collarbone to obliques, watching Jensen’s smooth skin quiver at his touch.
“No scars,” Sam said.
“Not Dean,” Jensen replied, reading Sam with uncanny ease, his face back in its somber cast. Sam wanted to see Jensen smile again, before he took him apart piece by piece, and showed him what human mating was really like.
“Not Dean,” Sam agreed, ducking down for another kiss, a motion that brought their erections together with a spark of desire. Sam moaned his pleasure into Jensen’s open mouth and for the next sweaty, passionate moments all thoughts of Dean were banished from Sam’s mind for the first time since that fateful Wednesday.
::::
Sam floated, but this time was less literal, merely a post coital haze, fighting against the delicious lassitude that threatened to gently lull him to sleep. He needed something else more than sleep though.
“Why?”
Jensen looked up from where he was resting his head on Sam’s shoulder. His eyes were warm and it scared Sam how easy it would be to lose himself in that gaze.
“You needed this to fully heal. Intimacy. Love.” Before Sam could formulate a concern about Jensen thinking he had to give Sam some sort of sexual healing, Jensen moved his hand and placed it, heavy and reassuring, over Sam’s heart. “I needed it too. A memory of you to take home with me.”
“Well. Okay then,” Sam said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Sam covered Jensen’s hand with his own and closed his eyes.
::::
When Sam woke again it was from the first healthy, dreamless sleep he’d enjoyed for a long time. The early morning sun dazzling his eyes where it shafted through a gap in the curtains.
Morning. Sam sat up, wide-awake and instantly worried. Jensen was dressed and sitting at the table near the window, a dark silhouette against the light. The events of the previous day came flooding back and Sam realized something. He leaped out of bed, seized with a sudden urgent energy.
“Jensen?” Sam demanded, “You used one of your energy spheres to heal me, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for Jensen to reply, pulling his jeans on as he talked, digging out a clean t-shirt from his bag when he saw the bloody state of the shirts he’d been wearing when he was shot. Fuck, how could he have missed the significance of his healing? He’d let his dick do the thinking for him, for both of them, and now… “How much time do you have left to reach the rendezvous?”
“Two,” Jensen said, a seeming non sequitur.
“What?”
“I had to use two spheres. You were nearly dead, it required a lot of power to revive you.”
Sam stopped. Jensen hadn’t moved, was sitting with his back bowed and his hands resting on the table, and Sam wondered if Jensen had slept at all. If he even knew what sleep was and that all humans needed it. That he needed it. Jensen’s whole posture spoke of exhaustion.
“And the rendezvous?”
“I calculate I have four hours remaining before I will be unable to maintain this existence.”
Sam looked around the room, glanced at the motel sign outside. Double-checking changed nothing. This was Burnside, only a few miles west of the diner. At Sam’s best estimate, they were more than a seven-hour drive to their destination in Utah. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the inevitable knots in agitation.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just take the Impala and leave while I was sleeping?”
Jensen looked up at that. “I could not leave until I was sure you would live, Samwinchester. You needed me here.”
Sam couldn’t deal with that. Another willing sacrifice on the altar of Sam Winchester and there was too much blood on his hands.
They had to try and save Jensen now. Sam had to try.
“Jensen, come on, we need to get back on the road. You have one sphere left, right? You can call home, tell your people to pick you up somewhere else. I can look at the map, we can find a place, somewhere close…” There was a knock on their room door and Sam broke off. He flung the door wide; clean t-shirt still in his hand. He prepared to say no maid service, thanks, only to find himself face to face with an FBI regulation Glock 22.
Well, fuck.
~0~0~0~
Victor couldn’t believe his luck. They’d driven through the night, Victor taking over the wheel to give Carl a few hours shut-eye, and reached Burnside as the sun was rising. He turned onto the AZ264 to head west and they’d not gone more than a mile before Victor spotted a black classic car in a seedy motel parking lot, in full view of the road. Victor’s undignified whoop of triumph woke Reidy with a start that had his head connect with the car roof, but his cursing was short-lived when he too caught sight of the Impala.
“Are they getting arrogant or just plain careless?” Reidy mused, but the grin on his partner’s face told Victor that Reidy couldn’t care less either way. Victor pulled up so their car blocked the Impala in. The Winchesters were not getting out of this one. The morning air still retained that desert chill, dry and fragrant. To Victor, it smelled of success.
Gun in readiness, Victor stalked the row of rooms nearest the Impala, while Reidy ran to the office to check names against room numbers and get the desk clerk’s descriptions. Victor had already decided on the likeliest room when Reidy emerged from the office to confirm his guess with a wave and thumbs up. Victor didn’t wait, he knocked, gun raised and cocked. The PD reports had said the tall one had been gut-shot, and Victor knew that any injury to Sam Winchester just made the older Winchester even more dangerous.
He thought he was ready for anything, but the sight of Sam Winchester’s bare, hairy chest wasn’t exactly what he was expecting. Especially as all that naked flesh made it absolutely clear that Sam Winchester was fine; no bullet wounds, no blood, not even a – oh, wait, there was a scratch but it looked one made by fingernails running down those sculpted abs – and suddenly Victor was feeling a little hot under the collar, and the scent of sex on the enclosed air wafting out of the room made uncomfortable sense.
He swallowed hard. Collected himself. Come on Victor, you’re a professional. Act like it.
“Sam Winchester,” Victor said, his aim never wavering as he glanced inside the room. He didn’t like that his view was restricted, and there was no sign of Dean, apart from a pathetic heap of bloody shirts on the floor. So someone had been injured then. “Where’s Dean, Sam? Where’s your brother?”
The last thing Victor was expecting was to see Sam Winchester tear up, but that’s exactly what happened. Those broad shoulders slumped and Sam Winchester, wanted for murder, grave desecration, kidnapping and arson, choked up when he said, “Dean’s dead.” He was so convincing in his grief that Victor might even have felt a frisson of sympathy, thinking for a second that the reports had got the wrong Winchester being shot - were it not for the fact that, even as the words passed Sam’s lips, his brother, clearly very much alive, walked into the doorway to stand at Sam’s shoulder.
Victor almost laughed.
Reidy arrived at Victor’s side the moment Dean Winchester appeared, gun leveled and one of those ever present lollipops bulging out one cheek like a lopsided hamster.
Dean stared at them with curiosity, not an ounce of fear on that smooth, pretty face, and Victor’s dormant rage revived and burned bright.
He nodded. “Dead – yeah, right.”
The Winchesters spoke at once.
“I’m not/he’s not Dean Winchester,” they said, and this time Victor did laugh. Only to have the smile wiped off his face by Reidy, of all people.
Reidy pulled the Chupa Chup out of his mouth with an audible pop, and waved it in Dean’s direction.
“You know what,” Reidy said, “I think they’re right. That isn’t our Deano.”
Victor wanted to grab Reidy, look him in the eye and demand to know what he meant by that, and why he was acting so out of character agreeing with dangerous criminals, but he couldn’t risk taking his attention off the Winchesters, in spite of the fact that Sam Winchester’s expression right now was a man in utter shock. Victor didn’t know where to look, where the true danger lay, with Dean or with Sam. Sam was staring at Reidy as if his partner had sprouted an extra head, or worse, as if Reidy had personally ripped out Dean Winchester’s heart. Victor had never thought Sam Winchester was as vicious a killer as his elder brother, but at that moment Sam’s expression made him want to take a step back, as Sam’s initial incredulity morphed into loathing. Sam lurched forward, reaching for Reidy with nothing but murder in his eyes and a knife in his hand that had appeared from god knows where. Victor was a hair’s breadth from shooting Sam when Dean grabbed those impressive biceps and held him back.
And Reidy was laughing. A laugh that Victor, after five years as Carl Reidy’s partner, did not recognize. Reidy stepped backwards, both hands raised in the air and neither his gun nor stupid lollipop anywhere to be seen. What the fuck was going on?
“Okay, you got me. Easy, Sammy. No need for all this aggression,” Reidy said, but his voice sounded weird. Reidy’s body was wavering as if he’d been caught in some sort of desert mirage, and when Victor blinked, involuntarily, his partner was gone. In his place was a shorter, brown haired man with strangely tawny eyes and a mischievous smile. Victor’s gun wavered, uncertain which of the three men to shoot but feeling like he should be filling at least one of them with bullets right now.
“You!” Sam almost spat the word. Huh. At least one person here appeared to know who this – creature – was.
~0~0~0~
Sam couldn’t believe it. After all these months of fruitless searching, the Trickster had come to him.
“Let me tell you, whoever said Dean was the dysfunctional one has never seen you with a sharp object in your hands. Holy Full Metal Jacket.”
The Trickster’s tone was full of amusement and Sam saw red. Sam forgot about Jensen, forgot Henriksen was standing right there with a gun trained on him, forgot everything but the one most important thing.
“Bring him back.”
The Trickster raised an eyebrow. “Who, Dean? Didn't my girl send you flowers? Dean's dead. He ain't coming back. His soul's downstairs doing the hellfire rumba as we speak.”
“Just take us back to that Tuesday – Wednesday – when it all started. Please. We won't come after you, I swear.”
“You swear.” The Trickster and Henriksen spoke at perfect synchronization and Sam’s gaze flicked between them, answered them both.
“Yes.”
“I don't know,” the Trickster replied, Henriksen’s face a picture of bafflement. “Even if I could—“
“You can.” Sam had no doubt, couldn’t allow even the slightest uncertainty to creep in.
“True. But that don't mean I should. Sam, there's a lesson here that I've been trying to drill into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of yours.”
“Lesson? What lesson?”
“This obsession to save Dean? The way you two keep sacrificing yourselves for each other? Nothing good comes out of it. Just blood and pain. Dean's your weakness. And the bad guys know it, too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam. Sometimes you just gotta let people go.”
Sam couldn’t comprehend. This was a living death, this existence; what did his life matter if he couldn’t share it with Dean?
“He's my brother,” he said, as if that explained everything. Because, in every way that counted, it did.
The Trickster rolled his eyes then pointed at Jensen. “And what about him? Does he matter?”
Sam faltered when he realized Jensen was still holding onto his arm. He could feel the alien’s hand trembling. He glanced at Jensen and his stomach lurched when he noticed how sickly pale he was. Sam glanced at his wristwatch. Jensen only had a few hours left, and there was no way they could get him anywhere near the rendezvous in Utah in time. Unless…
The Trickster was looking at Sam, waiting for an answer. Sam opened his mouth then shut it again, his heart beating uncomfortably loud inside his head, disrupting his thoughts, confusing him.
“Let me make it easy for you, Sam. I’ll give you a choice. Save– what’s your name, kid?” the Trickster asked, addressing Jensen directly. Jensen answered with his full alien name, which the Trickster repeated effortlessly, of course. “ Save him, or have your brother back. That’s my offer. Your choice, one or the other. Jensen or Dean.”
The Trickster’s words washed over Sam like a cold Atlantic wave. He could see Henriksen demanding to know what was going on, he could see the Trickster’s mouth moving and knew there was a conversation happening, but he couldn’t hear anything, just the cold waters of that impossible choice, drowning him.
Then Jensen was in front of him, putting warm hands out to cup his face and Sam’s focus narrowed.
“Sam Winchester,” Jensen said. “It’s okay. You don’t have to choose. It’s too late for me, my last sphere is already nearly used up and Landing Area One is too far. Tell this Trickster you will have your Dean returned to you. Dean is what you need.”
Sam tried to shake his head, but Jensen’s grip was firm and held his head steady. Sam couldn’t move, transfixed by Jensen’s translucent green eyes. Although Jensen was essentially Dean, Sam thought Jensen’s eyes were lighter, somehow. As if the soul behind them shone through with a different cadence than his brother’s.
Sam stepped backwards, gently pulling free of the alien’s grip. He looked over Jensen’s shoulder to where the Trickster was waiting for his reply, Victor Henriksen standing in uneasy silence at the ancient god’s side.
Was Sam weighing two days acquaintance against a lifetime of love and obligation? Was there really a choice here or was the Trickster messing with him again? Trying to teach him more incomprehensible lessons. Sam didn’t even know if the Trickster truly had the power to bring Dean back – those Tuesday deaths had been real enough, but manipulating time for a matter of hours was one thing, but after six months? Yet wasn’t that the very outcome Sam had been pursuing all this time?
Jensen waited, silent and undemanding. He’d sacrificed his chance of getting home, of surviving, for Sam. This, here and now, was Jensen’s only chance. Sam would live to chase down the Trickster another day; he’d have more chances to save Dean, he’d make sure of it.
“I want you to save Jensen,” Sam said. His voice was steady even though his pulse raced and his stomach churned with the enormity of the choice he was making. Was Dean in Hell right now? Was Sam condemning his brother to an eternity of torment by his actions here? He didn’t know, but it was Dean’s voice inside his head, telling him he was doing the right thing.
The look of surprise on the Trickster’s face was somewhat gratifying, though did nothing to ease the feeling of dread and grief that was weighing Sam down like a stone. The Trickster snapped his fingers. There was a strange sound like the flapping of sails in a high wind and they were no longer standing on the doorstep of the Burnside motel. Sam looked around, wide-eyed, to see Victor doing the same. Jensen seemed unperturbed, while the Trickster was nowhere to be seen.
“What the fuck? Where are we?” Henriksen yelled, spinning as if he expected the view to make more sense on each turn of his heel.
“What…? Is this …?” Sam babbled, his brain struggling to catch up.
“Landing Area One,” Jensen said. He had his head tilted back, staring straight above them at the cloudless blue sky.
Sam swallowed, struck by the beauty and vulnerability of Jensen’s neck. Fuck. This wasn’t even the alien’s real body. What was Sam thinking? He’d had the Trickster in his grasp, had been offered his heart’s desire and he’d given it up for a stranger who had cloned his dead brother. Who’d been willing to die for Sam.
Sam swallowed down his doubts. He’d made his decision and his reasons were valid. Time to live with the consequences.
“If Jensen is right, this is roughly midway between Ely and Eureka in Nevada,” Sam said, and watched Henriksen go still. “I think those hills in the distance are part of the Wasatch Range.”
High above them, at the apogee of the sky’s dome, a flower of light blossomed like a new sun and Jensen smiled.
In a crackle of static, Henriksen’s handheld radio burst into life. Simultaneously from the eastern horizon came a faint whup, whup, whup sound – helicopters. Probably Chinooks from the sound of them, Sam thought. Henriksen listened to the radio chatter for a second, then strode over to where Sam and Jensen were standing. Sam automatically tensed and dropped into a fighting stance, but Henriksen’s face held more concern than anger, and his hands were empty of everything except the radio, no gun in sight.
“The military are coming for you,” Henriksen said, grabbing Jensen’s arm while pointing at the three black specks now visible to the naked eye, coming in fast from the Utah mountains. Jensen nodded.
“They are, but my people are coming too, and I think they will get here first,” Jensen said.
Sam and Henriksen looked up and gasped. Jensen took the opportunity to take Sam aside. The spacecraft that was descending rapidly over their heads was stirring up a swirling wind and dust stung Sam’s skin, abrasive as sandpaper. Jensen pulled Sam’s head down and rested their foreheads together, somehow calling up a pocket of calm within the whirling tornado of light and sand.
“Thank you, Sam,” Jensen said, his breath warm and moist on Sam’s face. “You have taught me much about what it is to be human, how to feel and how to love. I am grateful to you, for that, and for saving my life. I want to leave you a gift.”
Jensen opened his hand and there, nestled in the center of his palm was the last energy sphere. Jensen pressed the sphere into Sam’s hand and closed their fists together, wrapping his hand around Sam’s.
“Use it wisely, Sam.”
The light grew stronger and Sam had to close his eyes against the brightness, as well as shielding his face from the dust that was getting everywhere, so he didn’t see Jensen leave. When the wind finally died down, Sam slowly straightened up. Henriksen was still crouched down using a boulder for cover, and the three Chinooks were almost upon them. Sam didn’t want to linger here to explain any of this to the US military, or risk losing the gift Jensen had left him.
As Henriksen raised his head and shook sand out of his jacket, Sam realized what he had to do. He wasn’t certain the alien sphere worked this way, but he remembered how Jensen had looked at him when Jensen had given him the sphere, and he was pretty sure. Like eighty per cent sure. Jensen intended to give Sam what he wanted the most.
He held out his hand with the sphere resting on it and willed the Trickster to appear.
That same flapping noise as before, and the Trickster was standing in front of Sam, a confused expression on his devious face.
“Fix this,” Sam commanded. “Fix me.”
The sphere flared blue.
~0~0~0~
Henriksen was in Durango with Reidy, looking at a possible lead on the Winchesters that he knew deep down would come to nothing.
“Carl,” he said, tentative. “Do you like those Chupa Chup lollipops?”
Reidy stared at him. “I’m diabetic, Vic. I don’t eat that kind of crap.”
“Right. Sure, of course.” Victor ran his hand over his face and frowned. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”
::::
In Broward County, Florida, Dean brushed his teeth and complained about the crappy music on the radio. Sam’s heart was full to bursting, and when he pulled his brother in for a hug - real, solid and smelling of mint - Sam thought he might never let go.
~0~0~0~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2017-12-04 09:34 pm (UTC)The Sam/Dean version, with bonus Victor, is awesomely fun and smile-inducing. Thank you so much for this!
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Date: 2017-12-04 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-04 09:40 pm (UTC)We use, "We mean you no harm" all the time, and just last night, I told OH that something was "better than Dutch apple pie." We use throwaways like that so often, I frequently forget where they originally came from.
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Date: 2017-12-04 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 12:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-11 10:48 am (UTC)And thanks for reading! Glad you enjoyed it - especially the bonus Victor. :D