The Bonaventures Have No Ghosts (The "Back From The Dead" Remix) [NC-17, Sam/Dean]
LJ-SEC: (ORIGINALLY POSTED BY kamikazegordon)
Title: The Bonaventures Have No Ghosts (The "Back From The Dead" Remix) Author: mona1347 Word Count: 4,600 Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating: NC-17 Warnings: m/m incest Spoilers: Through season three. Original story: The Bonaventures Have No Ghosts by rejeneration Summary: Dean deserves this, deserves every single thing he never got. And if Sam can manage to give it to him, he's damn well going to.
A/N: This fic was coaxed along by three very special people who held my hand and tossed suggestions and ideas at me and kept me from the brink of insanity. You know who you arepoisontaster, nilchance and beanside, I thank you. Special thanks to my spectacular beta, the apple of my eye, the whip in my valise - the incomparable poisontaster.
Confusion never stops Closing walls and ticking clocks Gonna come back and take you home I could not stop that you now know
Sam doesn't think he'll ever get far enough from the Broward County Mystery Spot.
He thinks maybe there is no getting away. Maybe now instead of a time-loop, it's a space-loop. And they'll drive to some preordained place then snap back like a rubber band to the motel parking lot to do it all over again. Maybe when he wakes up tomorrow it'll be Wednesday again, or Tuesday again, or Friday. Maybe it's his turn to die.
Sam pulls at the unraveling thread on the left leg of his jeans. He threw them out months ago when they finally tore exactly there.
Dean's shooting increasingly worried glances his way and, all right, fine, maybe Sam's feeling a little insane right now, but he figures he's entitled to it at this point. Dean takes a deep breath and injects that everything-is-fine-here cheer into his voice.
"You know what would be awesome right now, dude? A swimming pool. Not like the motel Petri dish kind but one of those big ones. Like…like the kind you see on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous or some shit. You know?"
“Seriously?" Sam snorts out a surprised laugh and it doesn't even sound wrong. "Fine, but I’m drawing the line at caviar, dude. There are some things I’m just not willing to put into my mouth. Even for you.”
Dean mirrors his grin, wicked and relieved. "I'm not touching that one. But yeah, seriously, man! We could do a little B&E on some vacant summer home, raid the fancy-schmancy liquor cabinet, have a nice long swim… Hey." He elbows Sam gently in the side. "Even pick up a few girls, huh? Two for you and three for me." His expression turns completely lewd. "Or we can share… that'd be hot, right? Bikinis and cocktails by the pool at seven. Good times, dude. C'mon, am I right?"
Sam laughs full out, helpless with it, with the presence of Dean by his side. "What do you think this is? Weekend at Bernie's?"
Dean replies, mock-wounded, "Aw Sammy, that's not fair. It's been, like," he peers at his watch, "months now since we've even seen any zombies."
Sam leaves Bobby's house, the unmarked grave in the woods out back, and starts to drive. He knows it's not healthy, that it's actually kind of sick, but he hits all the places he and Dean spent any time in the last few years. He stops at Dad's storage unit and sleeps on the floor for a few nights. He checks all their old drop boxes in small town post offices. It takes the contents of the one in southwestern Utah to bring his brain online, force in a coherent thought.
"Shit. Shit, fuck, shit!" Sam kicks the bottom row of metal boxes, hard, and earns a dirty look from the mail clerk. He can't find his reassuring smile, so he grabs the letters and gets back in the car.
The first week of school – when Sam was still trying to be invisible and nervously using his last fake credit card to buy textbooks – he'd almost knocked Becky Warren over in the hallway outside the showers. Only years of reflex let him catch her by the shoulder and waist before she hit the floor. She was tiny and beautiful and wearing a towel. Sam almost gave himself an aneurysm apologizing and trying to look non-threatening and picking up her girly shower things.
Becky laughed at him, took the shower caddy from his fumbling hands and lightly patted his arm. "Don't worry about it, big guy. I'm Becky. And I have a boyfriend so while you're cute and all, there's no chance." Sam sputtered, trying to figure how to dig himself out of that before she continued. "But my roommate thinks you're hot. Actually, she won't stop talking about it so you should totally stop by on Saturday night so I don't kill her. We're having a little beginning-of-the-year, floor get together. Room 415: Becky and Jess. Got it?"
Sam flushed and grinned helplessly. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there."
She never stopped calling him Big Guy and complained that he and Jess made her feel like a midget. Sam still got a smack for every Little Becky and a snarky, "You can shove that crap where the sun don't shine, Winchester."
Sam sorts through the letters, putting them in chronological order and reading them again. He feels like a shithead. He'd been thinking of Becky like just another 'normal' they saved, as if that's what she wanted, to never be reminded of him again. Just another figure in the rearview mirror.
Somehow he'd forgotten; she was his friend before he was the hunter that saved her life and kept her brother out of jail. Before a demon killed Jess and Sam dreamt the future and died in the dirt from a knife in his spine. Before Dean made that fuck-stupid deal.
Becky was his friend when he was just this awkward dude named Sam who lived in her dorm.
It'll take him less than a day to get to California and Sam is pretty sure the return address is the same place she moved to junior year.
"Wow." Sam holds a hand to his cheek. He says, "And here I thought you'd missed me," but it falls flat.
Becky is shaking a little, rubbing her palm on the leg of her jeans. She starts to cry when she says, "You're a goddamn asshole. They told me you were dead. The cops came here, you know. Some Henrickson guy asking a million questions about you."
Sam puts his hands up. "I'm sorry, Beck. I'm really, really sorry." She lets him tentatively touch her shoulders, then rises up on tiptoe and pulls him down into a tight hug. "I just," he says into the top of her head, "Things have been…not good."
Becky pulls away and makes a face, wiping her cheeks. "Well yeah, I figured that out, thanks." She sniffles and looks at the empty place over his shoulder. "Where's Dean?"
The look on his face must be pretty fucking bad judging by the way hers falls.
"I…" He swallows hard. He needs the practice; he needs to learn how to say it. "He's dead."
Becky's eyes fill again. "Oh my God." She grabs his arm, tugs him over the threshold. "Come inside, Sam. Come on."
He tells her everything, all of it. She listens, her mouth slowly dropping open, and doesn't say a word. But she doesn't question the truth of things and she doesn't doubt him, not even for a second.
It's okay. It's the right thing, as it turns out, because Sam just talks himself hoarse. Talks until he says, "I can't. Becky, I need him and I can't do this. He's hurting. As bad as it's possible to hurt and it's happening right now. And I can't… I don't how…what to…"
"Oh Sam." Becky's hand is cool against his face. Her t-shirt is old and soft against his face and it turns from pink to red as it soaks through with snot and tears. Becky's voice is soft nonsense words, soothing through the hours and singing him to sleep.
Sam wakes up on the couch fourteen hours later with a huge fuzzy blanket tucked up around his chin. Becky makes coffee and tells him he should stick around for a while, that he should stay. He kisses her forehead, gives her his new cell number and Bobby's house phone just in case. He's on the road an hour later, a backpack stuffed with books about breaking deals and hunting demons in the backseat. Sam knows what he has to do.
Work the job. Get it done. Every second spent second-guessing is another spent by the side of the road. And there's no more room for inertia, no room for self-hatred or fear or doubt. Just clear, sweet knowing, laid out step-by-step – weights and measures and expedient outcomes. The straightest way. Silence inside his mind.
Sam spends four months learning things that he'll never scrub off his soul – about the universe, about himself – before he's ready to go rip Hell a new asshole.
The one thing Sam is glad for when it's done – besides Dean's unconscious body in his arms, fever-hot and real – is that their father isn't alive to see what he did to make it happen.
Dad would have killed Sam himself before it came to this and Sam couldn't have blamed him one bit.
Not one bit.
Dean spends three days and nights snarling and swinging, retreating into corners, biting and scratching like a rabid dog when approached. He won't wear clothes and he won't eat and he runs for the door every time Sam needs to take a piss or, God forbid, almost falls asleep sitting up.
Sam finally shoots him in the thigh with the tranq gun on the third day.
If Sam flinches at Dean's shocked whimper and betrayed eyes, if he sits down for just a few moments and cradles Dean's head in his lap....well, no one will ever know but him.
Sam stands up and puts his boots on. He wraps Dean in an army surplus blanket and carries him to the car. He calls Bobby and tells him damn near everything – one eye on the road and one on Dean, twitching and curled small in the passenger seat. Then he says, "I need help, Bobby." He says. "I don't know what to do."
Bobby makes a rough, inarticulate noise. "Jesus, boy. Jesus fucking Christ, Sam."
Sam says, "We're on our way," and snaps the phone shut before Bobby can reply.
Three weeks later Dean eats creamed corn with a plastic spoon, looks up when someone calls his name and says "Sammy" in a cracked rasp. Three months after that, Dean crawls onto the cot Sam sleeps in beside him. His mouth opens against Sam's sweaty neck and his hips move in a tight grind. "Please. Missed you."
Sam feels like he's going to slip right from his skin. Pour out onto the floor with relief and tenderness. "Yes, fuck. Yeah, Dean. Anything you want. Everything."
Sam frames Dean's face in his hands and kisses him, his thumbs brushing the corners of Dean's mouth as he rubs off against Sam's hip and belly. The sweet taste of Dean's moans tears Sam over the edge, shaking and panting hard.
After, Dean tucks his face under Sam's jaw, breathes out, and sleeps straight till morning. Sam stares up at the cracked ceiling, sick gratitude bursting through his ribs. He doesn't think about the time he spent alone, ass-deep in things that'd burned their way inside. Nights spent organizing and reorganizing pieces of information until they fit themselves into place – time dilation and alternate dimensions, Tricksters and Tuesdays and all the different kinds of hell.
It gets better. Little by little, day by day. Six months after Sam brings Dean back, Bobby's hand comes down heavy as the weight of the world on Sam's shoulder. "It's just gonna take time now, kid."
Sam nods and doesn't turn from the window, still watching Dean sit silently on the porch and frown into nothing.
Bobby sighs. "Someone on the phone for you. Says her name is Becky."
"Sam Winchester, I swear to God. What did I say? What did I fucking say to you? Are your fingers broken now? You can't give a girl a call? Type a few lines of email?"
Sam leans his forehead on the kitchen cabinet and cuts off her only-slightly-teasing rant. "He's back, Becky. I got him back." Shocked silence echoes back at him. "I'm sorry I haven't. I–" He makes himself stop before he does something ridiculous like cry.
There's a long pause, punctuated by a couple of strangled non-noises. Finally Becky says, "Holy shit."
"Yeah," Sam laughs; it sounds all wrong. "Yeah."
"Is. I mean, what's…?" Becky sighs, a crackle of static through Bobby's old rotary phone. "Yeah, okay, I have no idea what to say."
Sam swallows hard. "They don't exactly make a Hallmark card, no. Can we just. How are you? Is everything okay?"
"Uh, yeah." Becky audibly shakes herself. "Yeah, everything's fine. I. Look. Remember my grandparent's house in Mendocino during spring break? I'm supposed to be house-sitting since they're with Mom and Dad in Paris this summer. But I just found out I got this post-grad internship down in L.A."
Sam says, "Oh, hey, congratulations, Becky," and only tunes out a little when Dean comes inside and grabs a sandwich from the plate in the fridge. Dean gives him an annoyed look when Sam smiles approvingly.
"….since Granpa Bonaventure is," Becky puts on a deep, old-man voice, "'Class of '51: Architecture and Engineering. The best years of my life!' I just told them a friend from school was taking over for the rest of the summer and they were good with it. I'll give you the money they were paying me, naturally. It's a lot more than necessary but, well, grandparents are like that. I thought maybe you could use some place to crash where no one would be looking for you. What do you say?"
"I can't..." Sam says, and it sticks in his throat, bitter pill he can't swallow. "I can't leave Dean."
"No, of course," Becky replies, sounding startled. "I mean now that... Both of you should come to–"
"Things are still fucked up, Becks. Like…" He laughs again, a sound like shards of dirty glass. "Way more fucked up than status quo, even."
"Okay," Becky says, waits a beat. "Sam, come here. Both of you. Let me do this for you."
Sam thinks about how last weekend Bobby said, "Not that you boys've worn out your welcome or anything, but I'm goin' outta my fucking mind. Drive into town. Get the hell away from this house for a few hours." He thinks about Dean's increasing restlessness and how far he's come, how far he's got to go.
Sam nods then realizes Becky can't see him. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
Sam had a taste of this kind of life. The kind that doesn't involve worrying about where your next meal is coming from, or making your old clothes last just that little bit longer – just until the next town, the next grift – always pushing the boundaries of flat broke.
It's a tiny thing in the greater scheme, little comforts that don't do shit to keep the monsters at bay. Sam gets that now more than ever. But it would've been nice to have nonetheless, one less thing to worry about. Becky and Zach are great people, thoughtlessly generous; they'll never get how much they have and how shamed-grateful it made Sam when they shared it. Not really.
But Dean deserves this, deserves every single thing he never got. And if Sam can manage to give it to him, he's damn well going to.
"Holy crap, this place is a friggin’ mansion, Sammy." Dean gazes up at the stone-cobbled walls, the vines that climb them, crumbling the stone to dust on a time scale too slow to perceive. "So… Haunted?”
“Nope. Spook-free. No ghosts, specters or creatures. Sorry.” Sam enters the alarm code and opens the door.
“So you gonna to let me in on the big secret now? What’s the plan, Maverick? We here to steal from these good citizens?”
“Wrong again. These good citizens are the Bonaventures – Becky and Zach Warren's grandparents.”
Dean's brow furrows for a second. "Your hot friend from school Becky? With the skinwalker?"
"Got it in one. Her grandparents are paying us to house-sit for the rest of the summer. It's good money." Then Sam backs him against the heavy door as it closes. “And for the next six weeks, I'm going to fuck you on every available surface. There’s a leather couch.”
Dean licks his lips and breathes, "Oh yeah?"
“Mmm hmm. And a big-ass executive desk chair in the study. I wanna sit back in it and watch you ride me. You will, won’t you?”
Dean swallows, tilts his face up and slips his fingertips under the hem of Sam's t-shirt. “Hell yeah. Anything you want.”
“So ask me what else.” Sam smiles teasingly and skims his own fingers over Dean's throat, willing to push just a little farther if it keeps Dean talking.
Something in the center of Sam's heart begins to thaw when Dean's eyebrow playfully goes up and he obediently asks, “What else, Sammy?”
Sam leans close until their foreheads rest together, gently rubs the pad of his thumb against the slightly tilted curve of Dean’s mouth. “There's a pool. A huge goddamned pool."
Dean looks at him, too close and almost cross-eyed. "You remember that?"
"Yes, dumbass," Sam whispers against his lips. "I remember everything. I want you to have it all.”
Dean pulls back and frowns. "Uh, yeah, just one thing, Sam."
"What?" Worry slams into Sam's chest, half-frantic.
The bottom half of Dean's face stays frowning, but his eyes are almost smiling. "I believe I was promised some girls in this scenario? No offense but I really don't want to see you in a bikini, dude."
Sam blinks; his insides stretch out soft and tight, transparent like old cotton sheets. "Oh you son of a…"
He drags Dean over to the back stairs to begin breaking the place in. It's not ideal, maybe, but it's as good a place as any to start.
Sam lets himself pretend, just for a while, surrounded by sleek luxury and clean goodness. He pretends Dean isn't still half-broken, one leg still sunk in the underworld.
Dean comes down from his obscenely long shower in Sam's favorite pair of jeans. He picks up the crystal glass full of whiskey Sam plans to replace before they leave and takes a sip. His eyes widen and he makes a moany sex-noise. "Daaamn, dude."
Not for the first time, Sam thinks, I want you to have this. I want to give this to you. Everyday. For real. A home, man. A place of our own.
He has to lean in and lick the fiery drop of liquor from Dean's bottom lip before gently pushing him into one of the high-backed dining chairs. "Eat your dinner."
Sam sits down too, not at the other end of the ostentatiously long table, but right by Dean's side, the way it’s always been. He watches as Dean looks down at his plate, then up at Sam, eyes lit with aching surprise at the grilled steak, corn on the cob and baked potato wrapped in foil.
“Steak! I musta done somethin’ right.”
Sam grins. "Yeah. Musta."
Dean slips into the pool like he was born to it, like he spent four years on some small town high school team. Sam's been watching Dean’s every move all his life – more so these days than ever – but somehow he hadn't anticipated this magnetic grace. Elegant, efficient strokes through the clear water, like a creature of the sea, liquid and untamable.
Sam watches him from the veranda for long minutes. The scenic mountain view would actually be distracting if it wasn't facing off against a wet, half-naked, beautifully content Dean, his muscles working to pull him along toward the glass-walled infinity edge of the pool. He hangs there on his folded arms, looking out at the sparkling nighttime lights of the valley spread out below, legs slowly kicking out behind.
The amber poolside lights illuminate the wetness across Dean's shoulders and back. He shines with places Sam wants to put his mouth, his hands. Places he wants to cover and keep.
Sam's feet hit the concrete without a sound but Dean turns to track his movement anyway. Sam slides into the still sun-warm water; he can't see Dean's face clearly until he reaches out and wraps an arm around Dean’s body, licking at the perfect curve of his shoulder.
It’s unspeakably easy – too easy like this, in someone else's house, living among the objects of other people's lives – to skim the elastic of Dean’s cheap swimsuit down. It's perfect. There's absolutely no reason to stop.
Sam lifts Dean out of the water and push-helps him up to perch on the ledge. Dean goes, safe with Sam's hand on the small of his back, and whole world stretched out behind him. Dean helpfully spreads his thighs, open-mouthed and hungry-eyed. Sam pulls the tube of oily lubricant from the waistband of his trunks, opens it with his teeth.
Dean groans when Sam tips his hips up and slides one finger in, two. Dean gasps, jerking, the motion reflected in the ever-changing rhythm of the water, constantly flowing, constantly pouring over the edge, inexorable, endless.
Dean's cock tastes like pool water at first and Sam licks desperately, moaning, until there's only Dean in his mouth, hot against his tongue. It's crazy-sloppy, artless, finger-fucking and sucking him as fast and good as Sam knows how. Dean arches up and throws his head back with a yell when Sam hits just the right spots inside and out then keeps on, tonguing and thrusting over and over until Dean comes hard, salty and shuddering.
But Sam's not nearly done.
He pulls Dean back into the water, boneless, pliable, pupils blown wide. Dean's arms are shaky from holding himself up and he murmurs into Sam's neck. "Holy crap. Whuh wuzat for, S'my?"
"You," Sam rasps and gently pushes him back, kicks his own suit away and splits Dean's legs open, glides between them and then up, in, easy as dying. Dean makes a noise like a vocalized sigh, toneless and open-lipped. “Just hang on,” Sam instructs, breathlessly guiding Dean's hands behind him to curl around the ledge again.
Dean follows his order to the letter, white-knuckled grip, Sam’s hands on his hips, working quickly into a hard rhythm. Can't wait anymore. Need this. Need Dean's body tight and welcoming. Now. Always.
Dean makes gorgeous, sex-drunk sounds, deep and satisfied, mixed up with, "Sam, Sam," intoned like the name of God. Sam presses Dean’s body up against glass, the level drop-off making it feel like they're floating in mid-air.
"Shit, Sam. Jesus, yeah." Dean moves back against him in hot little grinds, moaning and grasping the ledge. His whole body stretches out on display, muscles flexing in perfect waves as he rolls his hips up and back, breaking the waterline, taut and ringing like a freshly struck piano wire. Dean's head drops back and he watches Sam fuck him with half-lidded eyes.
Sam drags Dean in, steps ever closer to the edge, rocking inside, holding himself on the brink as he strokes Dean off, steady and strong. It feels like it lasts forever. Sam could do this forever. Listening to Dean's whimpers echo in the steamy air, watching the fingers of one of Dean's hands flail forward to dig into Sam's shoulder, the solid feeling of his own hand gripping Dean's blood-hot dick, fully hard again.
Sam whispers, "C'mon, one more time. Come for me," and Dean does, just like that, impossibly long and shuddering, making unknowable sounds. It all becomes one mind-melting sensation as the universe explodes behind Sam's eyes when he follows.
They float on the edge of infinity together, letting the water cradle them. Outside of time and space and still together. Sam’s hand wrapped around Dean’s hip. Dean's arm thrown around Sam's neck. The sound of the ever-flowing water, carved into the air around them.
Later, when they're curled together in an astonishingly luxurious bed. Later, when they're too tired to fuck again and the house is silently enveloping them. Later, when they still smell of chlorine and Sam is waiting for Dean to figure out they're cuddling.
Dean's breath grows soft and deep, his body loose and his heartbeat slow and steady under Sam's palm. That's when he asks, “So there’s really no job here?”
“Nope,” Sam answers, amused, feeling Dean shift and take another long, steady breath. “No job.”
It isn’t until Dean is still and sleeping soundly – just before Sam tips over the edge himself. It isn't until then that Sam whispers into the top of Dean's head, “Just you and me.”
Sam feels it coming.
Vibrations in the fabric of space-time, rippling echoes of what he's done.
You can patch up a torn shirt, repair it, stitch it together so nice and neat hardly anyone even notices. But it's still there. A ridged seam, only obvious under the close scrutiny of sensitive fingertips. Repaired, patched, and the first thing to rip wide open under brutal force.
Sam always paid attention in science class and he remembers all three of Newton's laws of motion. The last plays through his brain pretty often these days.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. All forces occur in pairs, equal in magnitude and opposite in direction. Magic isn't so different from science, not really. Not down at the core of it.
He's taken something out of Hell, through the deadly force of his will, his fury and his raw power. Hell's going to apply an equal force in the opposite direction and a patched up tear won't hold.
The Bonaventures may have no ghosts. Sam Winchester's got a few.
But Sam’s got everything he needs. Sam's got Dean by his side. The way it should be.
“C’mon, dude,” Dean calls, slamming the trunk closed. “We’re burning daylight.”
“Yeah.” Sam takes a last look around and swings the door shut with a ringing click. In his head, he's already writing a letter of thanks to Becky.
Dean's standing at the driver's side door. Sam is only surprised at that when he finds himself automatically rounding to the other side. He stops and looks at Dean over the roof.
"Yeah?" Sam says again, looking at Dean, then down at the car.
"What?" Dean sounds belligerent and Sam has to suppress a shout of joy.
"You, uh." There's clearly no way to ask without pissing Dean off and Sam's so eager for it he can hardly draw breath enough to form the rest of the question. "You good to drive?"
"Yes, I'm good to fucking drive, Sam. You gotta problem with that?"
"Not a single one."
Dean rolls his shoulders, pops his neck to the side a little and squints back at the house. His voice lowers, gentles slightly. "All that swimming did me a world of good. You know?"
Sam beams. "I'm glad." When they get into the car and the engine growls to life under Dean's touch, Sam reaches out and squeezes Dean's thigh. "Look man, I know we still got....issues to deal with."
Dean releases the parking brake and looks over at him, mouth curving and eyes bright. "Issues, huh?"
Sam feels slightly hysterical, looking from Dean's face to his hands on the wheel as he responds, "Yeah. Issues, all right?"
"Oh sure, Sammy. Got it."
"Well what the hell would you call it?" Something wild and huge is growing inside Sam as he gazes, stupid-happy, into Dean's eyes.
Dean spreads his hands out. "Dude. I got no idea." He looks at Sam through his lashes, eyes bright and lips parting now, teeth almost showing, something very near to a smile.
"Thank you. So 'issues' then, if that's all right with you."
"Yeah, let's stick with that." Dean pulls out of the long curved driveway, flipping on the radio and driving into the sun. And yes, it's a definitely a smile. Maybe even a grin.