"Jesus Christ," Bobby said. "There must be ten thousand of 'em."
"Sam," was all Dean said. Bobby looked round and spotted him: pale and limp, eyes closed, wrists tied up against a twisted black tree, on a hill in the middle of the whole goddamn demon horde. Bobby didn't see how they were ever goin' to get close enough, but soon as Dean had laid eyes on him, that was it for any chances of talking about it; he was off, right into them like he wasn't going to run out of salt shells and iron bullets less than halfway there.
And maybe there was something to it, because the demons started backing off from him a little ways in, after he'd laid down a trail of corpses behind him. Was about as much as Bobby could do to keep up and pick them off his back every so often. Dean wasn't even shooting half the time, just beating the fuck out of them with his gun stock, and when he spent the last shell he switched to a knife. If anything that made 'em back off quicker, because goddamn if he wasn't scary as hell with it in his hands, dripping blood. Bobby was fighting not to slip, and he wasn't looking down at what he wasn't slipping in, either.
It felt like it lasted forever, and Bobby thought left to his own devices Dean might've just kept going until all of them were dead, because he had to grab Dean's arm when they finally did get close enough, yelling, "Dean! Dean! That's good enough! We're there, set it off!" Dean just stared at him blankly for a second, tiger-striped bloody and nowhere near all there, and then he turned around, viciously gutted the black-winged fucker standing in front of him, and pulled the spell-bomb out of his jacket.
Everything went kind of white and blinding for a second, and Bobby threw his arms up over his head, shotgun sliding helpless out of his hands, no plan involved. The sound of it was so fuckin' loud it didn't register like sound, it was like getting hit in the face with a bucket of ice-cold water, took your breath away. When he managed to make himself uncurl out of the fetal position, they were back in the empty meadow, and Sam's body—Sam was there, still in the middle of it, pushing himself up as wobbly like a ten-minute colt, with the whole field flattened down around him.
He looked at them, mouth open, dazed. "Sam," Dean said, and was up from the ground and running for him.
Bobby staggered to his feet and stared around, feeling a little vertigo inside. The demons were gone, even the corpses, but there were scorch marks and stains on the ground, a broad swath of dead yellow grass where the trail led out to the edge of the meadow, even though they'd been standing right by Sam's body when they'd started.
"Sam, Sammy," Dean was saying, somewhere between sobbing and laughter, wild with it, and Sam was just clutching at him, shaking; they were on their knees together. Bobby looked away and rubbed the back of his hand across his face, pretending his eyes weren't smarting. He looked back; Dean was shoving Sam's jacket off his shoulders, and his shirt, groping at his back where the bloodstain had soaked through dark and stiff. Dean shuddered and hauled the t-shirt out of Sam's jeans and up over his head too, Sam putting his arms up obediently, and Dean had his arms around Sam, his hands pressing over the smooth unbroken skin, rubbing up and down over it.
"Dean," Sam was saying softly, holding Dean tight, stroking his head gently with one hand. "You got me."
"Yeah," Dean said, and backed off a little, caught Sam's face in his hands, tears sliding, his mouth working in a smile, looking Sam up and down. "I got you." His thumbs slid over Sam's face, and then he let go and shucked his own jacket, yanked his shirts up over his head.
Bobby stared. Dean was already grabbing back on to Sam, clutching him tighter, skin to skin, pressing his face against Sam's neck. Needing to be close, that was all it was; and Sam was closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around Dean's body like he needed it too. "Sam, God; thought I'd lost you," Dean said, brokenly, his hand on Sam's back again, spread wide and protective right where the knife had gone in.
Sam rubbed his cheek against Dean's and said, low and deep and sure, "I knew you'd come," and Dean threw his head back and crowed a laugh, that same crazy joy in the sound, and went for Sam's belt. It took Bobby half a minute to figure okay, that wasn't—and by then Dean was popping Sam's jeans open, and Sam wasn't doing a goddamn thing to stop him, either; Sam was just clutching on to Dean's shoulders like he was along for the ride.
Bobby took a step towards them, and then he stopped, because he didn't know what the fuck to do. If he'd had a hose he'd've turned it on 'em, but they were in the middle of nowhere, and even if he'd wanted to fire the shotgun over their heads, he was out. He cleared his throat loud as he could.
"Yeah," Dean said, paying no attention. "That's it, Sammy, come on," and he had his own jeans open. Bobby couldn't exactly see what they were doing, thank God, but their hips were pressed up so snug there wasn't any room for daylight, and Sam had his head tipped back and his mouth open. Dean had his hand between them working rough and fast; he was staring at Sam's face, hungry.
"Dean!" Bobby snapped finally, but too late, Sam was—Jesus, he sounded obscene, groaning like—
"Oh, God, yeah, baby," Dean said, drunkenly gleeful, and pulled Sam's head back towards him to kiss him. "Come on, gimme your hand," he said, sloppy-kissing along Sam's jaw, nuzzling, and Sam was putting his hand in there. Dean was thrusting up against him, jeans riding low on his hips—"Fuck yeah," Dean said, groaning, and they toppled over in a heap together.
Bobby turned away and rubbed his hands over his face. Screw John for checking out, anyway, this was not Bobby's mess to clean up, goddammit.
"Dean," Sam murmured behind him, soft and happy. They were kissing again.
"I swear to God," Bobby muttered without taking his hands off his face.
"Man," Dean said, "I'm gonna take you to a motel and just—"
"I'm right here!" Bobby yelled, lifting his face up.
"—make you give it up for me, make you give it all up." Dean didn't even slow down. "You're gonna do that for me, right, baby? Yeah," and Bobby looked back and wished he hadn't; Dean was sliding down Sam's body, and Sam was just sprawled out, legs and arms every which way, hand on the back of Dean's head.
"Yeah; God, Dean, please," Sam was saying, pleading. "Please."
"Yeah, already, huh?" Dean sounded like he was grinning. "Hang on, Sammy, I've got it," and Bobby started walking for the car, thinking it would just about serve them right if he took the damn thing and left them.
= End =
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