Chapter 13

Dean starts to warm up again, under the gentle sun. It lifts his spirits, and in the slow trudge up the gentle slope, one step at a time, he's actually smiling by the time they reach the top.

Sam isn't. He's quiet, almost silent. He's not showing any sign of fatigue, though, so it's not the jet lag.

They get to the top, and Sam stands in the shadow of the tower, stares up at it.

Dean looks up at him. "Finally found something bigger than you," he says. "Must be a rush."

Sam looks down, gives him a fond smile. It's the first time he's smiled since they left the well. "People have treated this place as sacred for a thousand years, Dean. Probably far longer. There's got to be something to it, right? It's not just stories?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Dude. King frickin Arthur is buried just over there." He points in an arbitrary direction.

Sam smiles and shakes his head. "It could be a thousand year old hoax, Dean. It could all be bullshit. It's just a pile of dirt, a natural hot spring. What if there's no cave, no portal, what if there's nothing? What if we came here for nothing?"

Something twists in Dean's stomach. "Sam," he says, and shakes his head. "Jesus, Sam." It's cold in the shadow of the tower, and Dean steps closer to Sam, presses himself into Sam's side to absorb some of his warmth. "All the things we've seen over the years, all the shit we deal with, and this you don't believe?"

This time, Sam wraps his arm around Dean's waist, pulls him into his side. He lifts his eyes back to the tower, and there's a streak of moisture running down one cheek. "I'm scared, Dean."

Sam can probably tell that Dean's eyes are on him, but he doesn't react. He should never have brought Dean back, that much is true, but Dean's here, but for the grace of— Some hoodoo in Louisiana.

And he needs to stay here. For Sam. Once again, Dean's going to stay, for Sam. If it kills him, he's going to stay. "It'll work, Sammy," he says. "We're going to find it. And we're going to finish this. Then we're going to go home, and I'm going to eat pie until I barf, and then I'm going to sleep for a week. And we'll look back on this and you'll wonder what you were ever worried about. We can do this, Sammy. We've done way harder stuff than this before."

Slowly, Sam turns back to Dean. He stares at him for a long time.

"What?" Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, smiles. He puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck, and he bends his head, and he brushes his lips over Dean's mouth, right there on top of a magic hill in England.

Dean tries to pull away at first. Tries to push Sam off him, because they're in public, and they're brothers, and this is wrong as far as the entire world is concerned.

Sam won't let him go.

He steps forward as Dean steps back, wraps one hand around his waist, holds him firm by the neck. Sam's hands on him are strong and warm. His mouth is wet, intense, hungry. Dean makes an involuntary noise, and then gives in. He relaxes in Sam's arms, wraps his arms around Sam's neck and he kisses Sam back, like he can't get enough.

Sam pulls back. "You're cold," he says, sliding his hands up Dean's arms, sliding them onto Dean's neck, thumbs tucking under his chin, lifting it. He presses another kiss to Dean's lips, then starts walking backwards, still with his arms around him, his hands on him.

He pulls Dean into the sunshine, out of the shadow of the tower, and then he turns to the view of the town below. "It's beautiful," he says. "We never do this."

"Do what?"

"We never stop, and just look. We've spent our whole lives chasing things, fighting. Have we ever had a single vacation? Something that wasn't Dad dropping us off at Bobby's so he could go do a job?"

"Nope," Dean says.

"I wish we had more time," Sam says. "I want to stop."

"Stop hunting? Because we've both tried that, Sammy. Doesn't work."

Sam shakes his head. "No. Just, take a break." He looks down at Dean. "Spend time..."

Dean turns back to the view. There's something stuck in his throat that he can't swallow back. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

---

They came here with nothing. They couldn't exactly bring weapons and tools on an international flight, and Dean misses the Impala, her trunk full of anything they might need to break, enter, and pry the cast iron grate off of a magic well to get at the portal inside.

They found a hardware store on the way back from the Tor. Sam went in alone, faked a British accent so as not to ring any alarm bells, and bought a crow bar. He leaves it in the rental car.

Now, they're back in their motel room. Sam has books and files spread out on the small table. There are the books he bought in town, and he's cross referencing the details to Terence's research.

Some of it matches. Some of it doesn't. There's little more than speculation in Terence's journals to indicate how the grail might cure or heal someone. He probably didn't care. It wasn't for that that he searched for it. He wanted it because he wanted to know.

"Blood of Christ," Sam murmurs, then he looks up at Dean. "No surprise there, right?"

"Huh," Dean says. He's cross legged in the center of the bed, paper spread out around him. The words are starting to dance in front of his eyes. "I got blood of a dead man." He waves the sheet of paper and barely resists the urge to throw it back over his shoulder. He puts it down carefully and picks up another. "And my blood." He tosses it down on the first. "Twofer, but good luck filling a cup with it, because the tank is empty." He frowns. "Also, why blood? That's just gross."

"Blood is life," Sam says, and he looks back down at his books. "Got anything on portals?"

"Nah. Fairyland, Oz, Heaven, Hell, advanced wormhole theory, blah blah. No caves under magic wells."

Sam's head jerks up. "What?"

Dean sighs. "The wormhole thing might not have been in there."

"No. Fairies. What does it say about fairies?"

Dean shuffles his pile, finds the right piece of paper. "Um, Wells often feature in Welsh and Irish mythology as gateways to the spirit world?" He puts the paper down. "Hang on, that's not it." He rummages through them, looks around himself, because maybe he tossed that one, but there's nothing. "There was something about fairies, I swear to god."

"Of course," Sam says, though, anything but disappointed. He flicks through the pages of the book in front of him, then stops, and his finger runs along the line of text as he reads. "Dean, fairy lore features in a lot of the Arthurian Legends. Fairies and Avalon just go together." He looks up and shrugs. "It doesn't really go with the blood of Christ stuff, but..."

"But we might be dealing with fairies." Dean sighs. "I fucking hate fairies, Sam. They probably hate me, too. I microwaved one."

Sam flips his book shut, leans back in his chair. "We have no idea what we're dealing with, and no idea how to open the portal, even if we can find it." He sighs, and seems to deflate.

Dean scrambles down off the bed, bends over the table to bring himself down to Sam's level. "It's cool," he says. "It's going to be okay, remember?"

Sam shakes his head. "It's been three weeks, Dean. The month is almost up. If we can't figure this out—"

"No," Dean says. "We're going to figure it out, we're going to go in there tonight, and we're going to get through, I swear to god, because I am not leaving you, Sammy. I'm not, okay. You just need to believe that."

Sam looks square in Dean's eyes, and he shakes his head.

Dean twists away from the table, snatches one of his discarded bits of paper, and brings it back. He sinks to his knees between Sam's feet. "Gateways to the spirit world, Sammy. What do we know about the spirit world?"

Sam shakes his head again, but a little less definitely this time. "The veil. Most of the time it's just like here, but you have to die to get there."

Dean blinks.

Sam blinks back. "Oh my god, Dean."

"I'm the only one who can go."

Sam shakes his head, and he's definite this time, but with a little more panic. "No. You can't. You're bound to your body, you exist here."

"I've left it before."

"That was an accident. How do you know you'll even be able to leave on purpose? You're supposed to be locked in there for another week, and even if you can, what if you can't get back in? What if you find the cup, and it's all for nothing because you can't get back in?"

"Shh, Sammy." Dean slides his hands up and down Sam's thighs in an attempt to soothe him. "I can try. It's either that, or give up now."

Sam shakes his head. "No, Dean."

"It's all we got, Sammy, and I promised, didn't I? I'm not leaving you."

Sam takes deep, gasping breaths, and he reaches out and wraps one hand around the back of Dean's neck, combs the fingers of the other through Dean's hair. He pulls Dean's head back, and bends to kiss him. "You'd better not," he says, and he's trying to be fierce, forceful, but it just comes out desperate. "You'd better fucking not leave me, Dean."

Dean answers by kissing him back, by opening up and taking Sam's tongue into his mouth. The kiss gets heated fast, testament to Sam's desperation. Dean's hands slide further up Sam's thighs, his thumbs brush against the growing bulge in Sam's jeans.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice a strangled moan. "I need you alive." His thumb presses against the side of Dean's throat, the other hand slides down over his chest, lies flat against the bandage under his shirt. "I've got to feel your heart beat again. I want to feel your pulse racing when I touch you."

"Oh god, Sammy." Dean looks up into Sam's eyes. They're dark, the pupils enormous. They're beautiful, caught up in a conflict of desire and desperation. But the cock twitching against his thumbs is enthralling, too, and he slides his hand over it, and then flicks open the button of Sam's jeans.

They're not kissing anymore. Dean can't drag his eyes from Sam's face. But there's a cock in his hand, hot and damp, and the smell is heady, intoxicating. He could taste it, and if it tastes of nothing, at least he would be filled with heat in a way that might keep him from begging for things he's not yet ready for.

But he'd have to drag his eyes from Sam's face. No. He can't do that.

Dean puts a hand flat to Sam's chest, and pushes him back. "No," he says, when an apology appears in Sam's eyes and he bites at his lip. "No, I want— Oh god, Sammy, please let me."

Without losing eye contact, Dean sinks lower. He sits on his heels between Sam's thighs, gets right down so he can see the length of Sam's cock, poking out of his jeans, hard against his stomach. And he can see Sam's eyes, wide and pleading. "Yeah," he says, and he rises up, never breaking eye contact, and he drags his tongue experimentally up the length of Sam's cock.

Sam sucks in air like he's drowning. "Oh, god. Dean."

The heat is phenomenal. All Sam's body heat seems to be concentrated in his dick. "So hot," Dean moans, and then sucks the head of Sam's cock into his mouth. He takes in a little more, and more, as far as he can go without choking.

And what if Sam was to come in his mouth? If he were to swallow? All that warmth, and the look in Sam's eyes as well, that want, that need, that desire. The sounds Sam makes, small, choked off whimpers, loud, guttural groans. Dean would do anything for more of that.

"Give it to me, Sammy," he spits as he pulls off, just for a moment. He bobs his head, slicking the length of Sam's dick in saliva. "Give me all of it."

Sam moans and his head rolls back on his neck. Eye contact is only broken for a moment, though, and when he lifts his head and looks back down into Dean's eyes, he threads his fingers through Dean's hair as well.

Just a little bit of pressure. "Please," he whispers, and then guides Dean's head. Dean goes with it. "So good, Dean," Sam continues. "Feels so good."

Sam's fingers tighten in Dean's hair, his jaw drops open, and his eyes go wide, just a single moment before he starts to come. There's a fresh flood of warmth on the back of Dean's tongue, and he barely has a second to prepare himself for the surge.

Sam's harsh grunt echoes in Dean's ears, and heat fills his throat. He'd choke if he needed to breathe, but he doesn't. It sears his throat when he swallows, warms him from the inside. Would being fucked be like this? Would it warm him like this? He swallows again, moans around Sam's pulsing dick. He's going to ask for it, soon. He's going to beg for it. Wrapped up in Sam's arms, slick with sweat under the duvet, he's going to want it.

Sam pushes him off. He's still staring down into Dean's eyes. Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He bites his lip, because Sam's eyes are wide and incredulous. Whose idea was that? Who made the first move? It'll never not be weird, this thing between the two of them, but was it too much? Has Dean made a mistake?

"I want to spend days in bed, Dean," Sam says, leaning over with his elbows on his thighs. "I want to go home, forget all of this." He pulls Dean into a kiss, slides his tongue into Dean's mouth and moans. He must be able to taste his own come.

Dean wants that, wants to be able to taste Sam, all of him. "Yeah," he says, when Sam takes a breath. "We're going to do that. Soon as this is over we're going to do that." He clutches at Sam's arms, hands sliding down over strong, muscular biceps and forearms. He's hard, aching, after sucking Sam's dick, after hearing the sounds Sam made. He needs, and all he wants to do right now is drag Sam into bed, rub against him until he comes. "Fuck, Sam. We're going to do a lot of that." He pushes up onto his knees, wedges himself between Sam's thighs, slides his hands up and over Sam's chest, under his shirt. All that heat. "Jesus, Sammy." He rubs himself against the inside of Sam's thigh. "I want— I need—"

Sam tugs at Dean's shirt, yanks it up over his head and throws it aside. He slides down to the floor, pushing Dean down onto his back. Dean's legs tangle in the chair legs, Sam's half under it, but Dean raises his knees, spreads his thighs to let Sam in. There's nothing between him and the cold linoleum, and he shivers, but nothing will make him shift from here. He tightens his thighs around Sam's hips, rocks up against him. "I want you to—"

"Shh," Sam says, hands either side of Dean's face as he kisses away the words. He pushes himself up onto his knees, knocking the chair back with a clatter, and he slides his hand down and pops open the button of Dean's jeans, tugs at them to open the zip.

And then Sam's hand is on his dick, a hot, firm grip, slicking the way with precome that leaks from the tip. "Just don't leave me," Sam says. "Whatever you do, don't leave me."

Dean arches up off the floor, thrusting his cock into Sam's hand. "I promise. Yes." He holds Sam's shoulders, uses the grip as leverage to jerk his hips up off the floor. "Jesus, Sammy. Anything. Just don't stop."

Sam kisses him then, swallows his words and cries. Trails kisses down his throat when he throws his head back as sparks flare up his spine.

He misses the start of his orgasm. The next thing he knows, he's already coming, Sam's half words in his ear, a rush of release already washing over him. It's like a strobe light without the dark between, Sam moves, his face, his hands, aren't where he left them.

"—ean?"

And again, like a kind of jump, a few moments forward in time, and he's done, a cold puddle on his belly, dripping down his side and onto the floor. He sits up, tucks himself back into his jeans, shifts out from under Sam and his furrowed brow. "What the hell?"

"What?" Sam says.

"What just happened?" Dean grabs for his shirt, scrubs at his belly with it, then drops it back to the floor. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" Sam's face falls, and he sinks back onto his heels. He tips his head to the side, eyes all scrunched up like he's trying to understand. "Dean, we—" He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, then covers them with his hand. "What are you asking me, Dean?"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean says, pushing himself up off the floor. "I'm not talking about the sex, okay?" He puts his hand out, pulls Sam to his feet and then lets go. "Something weird is happening—still not talking about the sex, by the way, though that's never not going to be weird. The poltergeist job, afterward, when we— Well it happened then, too. I think."

"What is it?" Sam says. "What's happening?"

Dean bites his lip and shakes his head. "I don't know. There's moments when... when I'm just not there for a second. Like, interference. I think I'm glitching, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head. "No. You've got another week. You're supposed to be bound to your body for another week."

Dean shrugs. "The magic is winding down, Sam. Getting ready to let go. I don't know." He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, and then shivers. He looks around for a clean shirt, finds one and pulls it on. "I don't know. We don't have time to worry about it right now." The sun is setting, and it will be dark soon. "We've got to find this cup."