Aug. 8th, 2008

gwenknight: (chaosgraphicskiss)

Title:  “Hide You Away”

Author:  Gwenknight

Pairing:  Sam/Dean

Rating:  Wincest.   A Hard R by my parameters, but maybe NC-17 by yours

Disclaimer:  Sam and Dean Winchester belong to Kripke and WB.  I mean no harm and make no money. 

Summary:  Dean’s year is slipping away and Sam’s freaking out.  A Smoky Mountain sunrise helps them sort it out.

Author’s notes:  This is about the magical place where I live.  This place and a love like Sam and Dean’s could, I believe, destroy whatever demons might be after you.   Big thanks to Kerry for beta duty.

Here’s the river and the sunrise that Sam is seeing.       

http://i328.photobucket.com/albums/l356/sandi5712/spn/SmokyMtnSunrise.jpg

http://i328.photobucket.com/albums/l356/sandi5712/spn/Oconalufteeriver.jpg

Hide You Away

 

Sam yawns and blinks his eyes to chase the sleep away, stretches his arms to get rid of the kinks in his back that are an inescapable result of a night spent in the back seat of the Impala.  He’s slept there so many times in his life.  As a kid, safe and secure, curled up on the warm leather interior, watching the stars glide by out the back window while his dad drove the endless highways and Dean rode shotgun, humming quietly under his breath.  Then as a teenager, sullen and resentful more often than not, just wishing for an end to the ceaseless traveling….*running*….from one place to the next, his long legs cramped in the confines of the back seat.  Dad still driving and Dean still humming and Sam feeling so out of place.

Now, things are different and the same.  They still drive the same highways, under the same stars, hunting the same things.  Only Dad’s gone and it’s Dean driving and Sam riding shotgun and humming under his breath.  And now Sam knows it’s the only place he wants to be.

Right now, they’re high up in the Smokies.  Not the tallest mountains they’ve ever been in by a long shot, but maybe the greenest.   Ancient and steeped in lore.  Home of the Cherokee, before Andrew Jackson and the good old U.S. of A. decided they’d be better off penned up on a reservation hundreds of miles from their home.  Only, a few of the bravest and more stubborn had decided to forego the hike to Oklahoma and so hid off up in these mountains, becoming the ancestors of the Cherokee who live here now.  Dean had liked that story.  Said he’d have done the same thing, that it would have been the Winchester Way.

It had been the spirit of one of those renegade Cherokee that had brought Sam and Dean to this place.  Apparently, the dead warrior hadn’t taken kindly to having a casino on his ancestral lands at the foot of the mountains and had been causing a lot of problems for a lot of tourists, not to mention the casino bosses. Under the circumstances, Sam couldn’t blame him.  But, sympathetic or no, spirits are spirits and the Winchesters are hunters.  Only one way that was going to end.

After the salt and burn, they’d opted to leave the reservation in the middle of the night as soon as the hunt was done.  But, once they’d left the flats and driven up along the Blue Ridge Parkway into the mountains, exhaustion had won out and Dean had found a place to pull off the road, parking back amongst the trees, the low rumble of the Impala shockingly loud in the quiet of the forest.

They had slept in the car, under old blankets that smelled like gun oil and places they’d been.  Sam thinks they smelled like his dad, but he knows that’s probably all in his head.

He looks around for Dean, forcing down the panic that is his immediate reaction now if his brother gets out of sight, and sees that he hasn’t gone far.  Leaning back against the cool metal of the car hood, watching Dean, Sam wishes he had a camera.  One of the expensive ones with the techno lenses that can pick up all the tiny details.  Like the way the sun is trying to find its way through the trees to chase away the dark, slowly bringing morning to the woods around them.  It’ll be a while before it’s bright and sunny here and that’s okay with Sam.  He doesn’t do well with bright and sunny nowadays, anyway.  The light is subtle, timid fingers of white sneaking through the mist, easing the forest into daytime.  It slides across Dean’s hair, making the tips look almost blonde. 

He’s standing out in the middle of the shallow river, on one of the many smooth, flat rocks that are scattered from one bank to the other.  He’s barefoot and the frayed hem of his jeans is soaked.  He’s got his hands on his hips, his back arched and his face lifted to the weak rays of the sun.  Just standing there, breathing it all in like he’s making a memory.

Sighing, Sam reaches into the car, rummaging around in his backpack. Grabbing his toothbrush and the cinnamon toothpaste that Dean insists on buying because the mint kind makes him gag, Sam makes his way to the bank of the river, shivering a little as the cold, wet grass tickles his toes.  Tries not to slip on the moss-covered stones at the edge of the water as he squats down to rinse his face and brush his teeth in the crystal clear, frigid water.  Running wet hands through his hair to try and tame it a little, he backs away from the water and settles down on the damp ground, breathing in the cool morning air with its biting chill, its whisper of leaves, its rich earthy smell, its feeling of timelessness.

Sam’s struck by the stillness.  Everything so hushed, except for the gurgling sound the water makes as it runs over and around the rocks.  Movement high in the sky above him catches Sam’s eye and he watches as a lone hawk circles slowly through a break in the canopy of leaves to settle in the treetops.   This seems a world away from the shit that they deal with in their lives.  No demons waiting to kill them or wanting to make Sam their new Evil Head Honcho.  No hellhounds on their trail, salivating after Dean’s soul.

Sam thinks if he’s very still and listens really hard, he can hear the echoes of those who took shelter here in years past.  The renegades who had hidden out in these mountains, breaking away from the rest of the world in order to hold onto what they’d loved, what they were.  He can feel their reverence for the land.  There’s nothing to destroy here.  This is a place of peace.  A place where time has no meaning.  Where a year seems like just a word and not a death sentence.  This is a place of living. 

 Sam wants to keep Dean here, wants to hide him away. 

The still is broken by the sound of a splash and a yell from the river and then Dean’s calling his name, evidently having been quiet as long as Dean ever can. 

“Hey, Sammy!  Check this out!”  Squatting down on the rock with the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up, Dean plunges his hands into the river for a minute before almost losing his balance and taking a header into the water.  Barely escaping an icy bath, he jerks his hands outs, shaking the water off and then wiping them on his jeans.  “Son of a bitch!  I almost had him!”

 “Yeah?”  Sam’s almost afraid to ask.  “What are you after?”

“Breakfast!”  Hands on his hips and a wide grin on his face, Dean looks relaxed and happy and nothing like the devil is after him and Sam wants that camera really bad right now.

He draws his knees up and rests his forearms on them, settles in for the show.

Dean’s trying to catch a fish with his bare hands, like he’s the Last Freaking Mohican or something.  He’s elbow deep in the water again, balanced precariously on the rocks.  He’s splashing around and laughing and cussing a blue streak which, of course, is chasing all the fish away and Sam’s pretty sure they’ll be eating breakfast at the first Waffle House they come to when they leave here and get back down to the highway.

After a few minutes of futile hunting and gathering, Dean makes his way cautiously across the slick, moss-covered rocks to the river’s edge.  Sam watches him move, slender and athletic and young and alive and so goddamned beautiful.  Sam feels something give way deep down inside him and ducks his head, blinking furiously.  He refuses to cry.  He’s cried enough for a lifetime and it’s done him no good.  Dean’s still running out of time.

He waits as Dean makes his way across the grass to step between Sam’s legs.  Dean drops to his knees.  His voice is a little hoarse and raspy from the lack of morning caffeine and he breathes the words against Sam’s mouth.

“Stop thinking, Sam.”

Sam whimpers, he tries really hard not to, but he can’t help it.  Just like he can’t help the way his hand catches Dean on the back of his neck, pulling him in, holding him too tight and kissing him with a fierce, desperate need until Dean breaks the kiss, hushing him with soothing whispers.  Sam jerks a little when Dean runs icy, damp fingers underneath the hem of Sam’s t-shirt, coaxing him to lie back, following him down.

“Shhh….sorry, sorry……shhhh, baby, don’t.”  Dean warms his hand against Sam’s skin, sliding his fingertips across his chest.

“Don’t let them in here, Sammy.”  His hand is solid and strong against the beat of Sam’s heart.  He bends his head, his breath soft against Sam’s ear.  “They don’t belong here.”   Sam trembles when Dean kisses the pulse at the base of his throat.  “This is just you and me.”

Dean kisses him, long and slow and easy, until he feels almost drugged, like he could lay here underneath his brother’s solid, reassuring weight for one year or a thousand years.  Early morning toothpaste kisses like they’ve shared a hundred times before, when hell wasn’t beating down their door, when forever stretched out in front of them like a promise.  Dean’s hands are warming against Sam’s skin, sliding over his chest, down his sides, and Sam relaxes under his touch.  Opens his mouth and lets Dean’s tongue tangle lazily with his.  Feels the fear bleed away because right here and right now he’s got Dean, safe and alive and his.  Dean’s right, Hell can’t have this.

He tightens his arms around Dean, swallows the quiet moan Dean makes when Sam shifts his hips.  He arches his neck as Dean licks a long stripe down his throat.  Sucks in a breath when Dean’s fingertips slide down his belly to the button on his jeans.

The silent still of the woods is broken only by the rustling of their clothing, the quickening of their breath, the whispers that grow more urgent, full of want and need and love.  Jeans half off, shirts rucked up, they move against each other.  Dean’s teeth graze Sam’s collarbone just on the right side of too hard and Sam arches up into him.  Dean holds Sam’s hips still and presses him into the damp ground, pushing until Sam wraps a hand around both their cocks and finds the rhythm they need, the one that makes Dean fuck up into Sam’s hand and bite down hard on Sam’s shoulder when he comes.  The one that leaves Sam gasping for breath for long minutes after they ease apart, his muscles trembling, his hands shaking.

He lies on the damp ground, half-dressed, his legs tangled up with Dean’s, his chest stinging from the rub of Dean’s five o’clock shadow, Dean’s hand resting low on his belly.  The sun is breaking through the trees now and Sam knows they need to get going before the nearby road gets busy with tourists.

Here in this place, in this mountain fortress that has stood just like this, lush and peaceful, infinite and undisturbed, for thousands of years, Sam is hopeful.  These mountains once worked to save men who were lost and seemingly hopeless, their place in the world being stripped away from them.  Those men had lived; their descendents had lived, despite the odds.

And, yeah, maybe the enemies of Sam and Dean are darker and more powerful than Andrew Jackson and the US Government.  But, then Sam and Dean aren’t your ordinary renegades, either.

They’ll come up with something, some way to beat this.   It’s the Winchester Way.

 

 

 

 

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