Chapter Text
The snow-banked track leading uphill into the village is ice-roughed and crunches beneath the horses’ hooves. They step carefully on the ice, their puffing, labored breath whitening in the frigid air.
Letting go of the reins, Sam clenches his hands a few times to get his circulation going, his leather gloves offering little protection from the seeping cold. They’ve been riding since dawn, following the winding track through the mountains to get to the village. He's hungry and tired. The thought of hot food and something warm to drink makes him clutch the reins again and spur his horse onward.
Dean is ahead of him. He turns and smiles, his face just visible inside the hood of his shaggy sheepskin coat. The snow-reflected light makes his eyes look so green. Sam returns the smile. Thoughts of food and drink are pushed aside by the desire to be in something approximating a bed with his brother, wrapped in blankets and body heat.
They’ve been travelling for months now, following their dad’s trail through the black hill country and then north into the mountains. Hard country, and so cold. The sun has barely risen all day.
Candles glow in the windows of the houses they pass. The inn they were told about in the previous hamlet appears ahead, brightly lit, a beacon in the darkness that has suddenly descended.
A sullen-looking boy with a lamp comes out of the inn and leads their horses into the adjoining stables. He disappears when the horses are settled.
They make their way inside the inn where it’s warm and smoky. A log fire burns in the grate and there’s a rich, meaty smell of a stew cooking. Kicking off the snow from their boots, they remove their sheepskins and outer-layers of clothing, instantly starting to sweat in the warmth of the room.
The men at the bar are all burly, bearded woodsmen. They turn and nod in greeting, then go back to their drinks, disinterested, a weary set to their heavy shoulders, not talking.
The innkeeper comes out from behind the counter of the bar. “Passing through?”
“We need a room for the night if you have one, or the stable if you don’t.”
“There’s a room. Only the one. You’ll have to share.”
Sam’s lips twitch because he knows what Dean’s thinking when he says, “We’re used to sharing.”
“Stew’s in the pot,” the innkeeper says, pointing at it hanging over the fire. “I’ll get you some bowls.”
They eat hungrily in front of the fire, concentrating on the food, their damp clothes steaming in the heat. Sam leans back in his chair when he’s done and stretches out his legs, feeling full and satisfied. He wiggles his toes, grateful to know they’re still there after hours of numbing coldness. Dean is lazily rubbing his belly and Sam’s eyes are drawn to the bare stretch of skin revealed by his rucked-up shirt. Dean’s lips twitch and he scratches his fingernails through the line of hair that disappears into his pants. Sam raises his eyebrows and looks over his shoulder, but no-one’s watching them.
“Good to feel warm again. Thought my dick was going to freeze off when I went for a pee earlier. And how sad would that be, Sam?”
Sam snorts quietly and burrows his shoulders deeper into the cushion behind him, his eyelids growing heavy.
“Want a drink before bed?”
Sam nods and rouses himself. They go over to the bar and order a drink. One of the woodsmen, a guy with a big black beard and arms the size of tree trunks, looks them over and asks, “Did you come through the woods alright?”
Nodding, Dean answers, “A lot of snow on the ground and the track was pretty icy, but we got through alright.”
“See any wolves out there?”
“Why?” Dean asks casually. “There been wolves around?”
The woodsman gives a humorless snort. “You could say that.”
The older, grizzled man next to him shifts in his seat. “You’d be wise not to go out at night around here.”
Sam watches Dean swirl the whiskey in his glass, the lamplight catching the color, turning it gold, then amber. “Have they come into the village?”
The black-bearded guy snorts again and stares into the bottom of his glass, his jaw clenched.
“Anybody been bitten?” Dean asks, darting Sam a glance.
The innkeeper is polishing glasses with a cloth. “Three kids have been killed. First one when he went out to get firewood. Then a brother and sister were taken three days later from their backyard. Wolf tracks everywhere. Thank God they didn't find the remains. Too terrible for a parent to see something like that.”
“It’s not natural,” the old guy says, finishing his drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wolves don’t act like this. None that I ever saw or heard about.”
Dean catches Sam’s eye and they look at each other silently, sharing the same unspoken thought. Sam can feel the hairs raising on his arms.
The innkeeper places the glasses he was wiping on a shelf behind the bar and throws the cloth over his shoulder. “Last night three of them got into somebody’s kitchen, brazen as hell, and grabbed a little boy right in front of his mother and his brothers and sisters. By the time anybody knew what was happening, the wolves had dragged him outside. Lucky for the boy, his father came along right then, had his axe with him and killed one of them. The other two got away.”
“What happened to the body of the dead wolf?”
The innkeeper raises his eyebrows. “What do you think. Threw it out at the edge of the forest. We didn’t give it a funeral or anything.”
“Was the boy alright?”
“Fortune was smiling on that kid. He was scared and shook up but there wasn’t a scratch on him.”
“Lucky,” the old guy says. The others nod.
Dean looks at a pair of shotguns propped against the bar. “Been out hunting them?”
“We’ve been out every day,” the black-bearded guy replies. “Shot one myself this morning. There’s a half dozen of them dead since this thing started, lying out there in the woods. But they’re not scared of anything. And there's so many of them. Never seen a pack so big.”
“Damn army of them,” the old guy adds. “You need to get that Satan-faced leader of the pack. Big grey wolf. Shoot him right between the eyes. They’ll scatter, move someplace else if you get him. Never seen anything like it. Unnatural.”
“Maybe they’re running out of food in the woods,” Sam offers. “It’s a cold winter. They’re hungry. Might be why they’re coming into the village.”
The black-bearded guy shakes his head. “Something strange about it. The way they target the children. And coming into a house to grab a child like that? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Wolf assassins,” the old guy mutters.
Dean gives Sam a look and Sam gives him a brief nod. “You going out tomorrow? My brother and I hunt. We could come out with you. Lend a hand.”
The black-bearded guy looks at Dean narrowly. “Why? You want payment?”
“No,” Dean says firmly. “Just doesn’t seem right what’s happening here. We’d be happy to help.”
“You got a gun?” the old guy asks.
“Of course they got guns, Isiah,” the black-bearded guy says with a snort. “Look at them.”
Sam has noticed how people have started responding differently to them. When they first left home, innocent and fresh-faced, they were sometimes treated like naïve youngsters. Now, after months of being toughened by rough living and scarred by experience, they elicit a different kind of response: suspicion, respect, and occasionally even fear.
“Where you boys say you were headed?”
“We didn’t,” Dean replies and swallows his whiskey.
“We’re looking for someone,” Sam says in a friendlier tone. “A man called John Winchester. We thought he might’ve passed through here.”
The innkeeper nods his head. “Sure. Dark-haired fella with a beard, travelling on his own. Passed through a few weeks back.”
“Taciturn.”
The two woodsmen turn to look at the third man at the end of the bar, who’s been silent throughout the conversation. He’s burly, red-haired and has thickly-muscled forearms. “Taciturn,” he says again. “It means quiet.”
The innkeeper laughs. “Yeah, that’s right. He was quiet. Why you looking for him?”
“He’s our father.”
The innkeeper raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t seem like a family man.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
The innkeeper shakes his head. “No, like I said, he kept to himself, only stayed the one night.”
“He took the road north when he went, heading higher into the mountains, up into wild country,” the red-haired man answers and gets up to leave.
The other two drain their glasses and get to their feet. “If you’re serious about helping," the black-bearded guys says, "we’ll be heading out in the morning. We need as many hunters as we can get.”
A draught of icy air fills the room when they go, banging the heavy door behind them.
The innkeeper gives the bar a final wipe with his cloth. “I’ll show you the room. It’s simple but clean.”
They gather their things and follow him down a passageway to a room at the end of it. There’s a frayed rug on the stone floor, two single beds, a roughly-hewn pine table and two matching chairs, a stack of wood in the fireplace, a washbasin on the hearth.
The innkeeper says goodnight and closes the door behind him.
Sam pushes the two beds together and Dean dumps his leather bag on the table. He takes out the revolver and shotgun and starts cleaning them. Sam watches the deft, practiced movements of his hands. The room is much colder than the bar. He looks at the logs stacked in the fireplace, concentrates, then watches the flames leap up and burn.
“You could just light it with a match like a normal person,” Dean says dryly.
Sam shrugs. “You don’t complain when we have to camp out in the cold. So what do you think’s going on here? It’s not a werewolf.”
Dean checks the revolver’s safety. “No, it’s not a werewolf, but it sounds like something. We’ll check it out tomorrow.” He leaves the revolver on the table, moves a chair over to the fire and swings a copper kettle hooked on a lever over the heat, then sits and silently watches the flames. He looks tired. Sam stretches out on one of the beds and feels the muscles in his back and legs start to unknot. It’s warmer now that the fire has started heating the room.
When steam comes out of the kettle’s spout, Dean gets a cloth from the bag, pours the heated water into the washbasin and strips off his clothes, hanging them over the back of the chair. The flickering light from the fire makes his skin look like gold.
Sam watches Dean washing himself in the flickering firelight and feels a tightening in his groin. The sight of Dean’s naked body always does that to him. He eyes follow the line of a still-red scar across Dean’s rib from his spine around his side. Courtesy of a creature they hunted in the black hill country, something they didn’t even know the name for. Tall and upright like a man, long claws and teeth like razorblades, with an appetite for human flesh.
The need to touch his brother grows too strong to resist. Sam strips off his shirt and moves to stand behind him, pressing his bare chest to Dean’s back. He drops a kiss on Dean's shoulder and another at the top of his spine, nuzzling the hair at his nape. Dean sighs - a quiet, soft sound.
Reaching forward, Sam takes the wet cloth from his hand and starts wiping his back. Taking his time, he kisses the patches of skin he cleans, wiping with the cloth, then kissing and tasting with his tongue, mapping the whole of Dean’s back. Goosebumps appear on Dean’s skin. He leans forward, one hand on the mantelpiece. Sam kneels behind him, ignoring the way Dean stiffens, and runs the cloth over Dean’s legs, rubbing the tight muscles of his calves and feeling them relax under his hands.
Sliding his hand up the inside of Dean’s leg, he fondles his balls and feels them tighten in his hand. Dean groans low in his throat. Sam reaches up between his legs and strokes Dean's hardening dick, then leans forward to press a kiss to the hard muscle of his ass.
Dean stiffens again and says, “Sam,” in a warning tone.
“You’re allowed to want it,” Sam says quietly. He runs the cloth between Dean’s cheeks, leans forward and nuzzles him, hardening instantly at the intimacy, wanting to use his tongue to give Dean pleasure. Before he can, Dean pulls away and turns around, his expression tight and conflicted. Sam leans back on his haunches, looking up at him.
Dean presses his dick against Sam’s lips. “What I want is to see your mouth on me.”
Sam sighs, but opens his lips and lets Dean push inside, a hand on his erection as he feeds it into Sam’s mouth, the other cradling the back of his head. Sam sucks and darts his tongue into the slit, tasting salty fluid. Dean pushes deeper and Sam opens wider, letting him in, then reaches up between Dean’s legs and rubs his finger against Dean’s hole.
Dean makes a frustrated sound, reaches down and pulls him up into his arms, his expression irritated. “Why do you have to ruin it by doing that.”
Sam wraps an arm around him and kisses Dean’s neck, pressing patient kisses against his skin up to his ear. “It doesn’t have to be just when you’re drunk. I want to do it, with my tongue and my fingers. I like it. You like it. Stop being so stubborn.”
Dean huffs a sigh. “I’m the one who’s stubborn?” He pulls Sam over to the bed, pushes him down on it and collapses on top of him. “You should be re-named Sam, the Stubborn, the stubbornest person that ever lived.” He kisses Sam’s forehead. “You’re my brother and I love you, but you’ve got some serious personality flaws. Your stubbornness being one of them.”
“Really?” Sam says, widening his legs so Dean can fit between them. “If we’re being open about personality flaws, how about your dishonesty? I know you like it when I put my fingers inside you.” He digs his heels into the bed and rubs up against Dean, watching with satisfaction the way his mouth opens in a little gasp. “And I know you like it when I put my tongue inside you. It’s not dirty. It makes me really hard.”
Dean sits up and pulls Sam’s pants off him. He throws them over his shoulder before fitting back into the vee between Sam’s legs. “Not everything is about what you want. That’s called selfishness. It’s another personality flaw.”
Sam wraps his legs around Dean’s body and hooks his ankles together. “It’s not selfish when I’m actually trying to give you what you want. It’s called doing somebody a favor. For their own good. It’s called mag—it’s called magnanimity,” he stutters, forgetting the word when Dean starts thrusting against him. The heated friction between their bodies causes a jolt of pleasure to run through him and his back arches against his will.
Dean laughs, the sound slightly breathless. “You’re a scholar, Sam, but nobody likes a person who throws big words around.”
Loosening his legs from around Dean’s waist, Sam places one foot against the mattress for leverage and rolls them over so he’s lying on top.
Dean laughs in surprise and grips the back of his neck, pulling him down into a rough kiss. “Turns you on to push me around, doesn’t it?”
Sam kisses him back, then lifts his head. “Turn over.”
Dean won’t meet his eyes and tries to reach between the tight fit of their bodies. Sitting up, Sam bats his hand away from his crotch. “Dean, turn over,” he repeats firmly.
Ignoring him, Dean lies on his back with his eyes shut and his arms at his sides. Sam waits him out. Eventually, he opens his eyes and growls, “Here’s another word for you, Sam. Bossy.”
“Just let me,” Sam insists quietly.
Dean’s expression shifts into resigned acceptance. When he rolls onto his stomach, Sam straddles him, taking a minute to admire the smooth lines and hard planes of his back before he starts massaging the tense, knotted muscles. They loosen under his hands. With a groan, Dean says, “That feels good.”
“You’re so beautiful,” Sam whispers and leans forward to kiss his ear. He shifts lower, sucks a finger into his mouth, wets it, and runs it down Dean’s spine, into the dip of his lower back and between his cheeks. Sam circles the outside before pressing in where it's hot and tight. Dean shifts against the mattress and makes a rough sound, a quick inhalation and a rough moan when he breathes out. Sam leans forward and kisses him between his shoulder blades, pushing his finger deeper, moving it gently inside him, rubbing, pulling out and back in again. Dean widens his legs and Sam spits on two fingers, easing both in. Dean starts thrusting against the mattress. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his back.
“Does it feel good?” Sam asks in a hushed voice, watching his fingers move in and out of Dean’s body.
“You know it does,” Dean replies hoarsely.
“Say it then.”
“Okay, you win, alright. It feels really good. Now can you put your dick inside me before I come from rubbing against the mattress.”
Sam laughs, pulls his fingers out and affectionately bites Dean’s butt cheek. “Can we try—can you,” he falters, then clears his throat.
Dean lifts his head and smirks over his shoulder. "What happened to being open? Can't have what you can't ask for, Sammy."
Sam clears his throat again. “Can you get up on your knees and put your hands against the wall.”
Dean gives a short, slightly self-conscious laugh, but lifts up and does what Sam asks. “Like this?”
“Yes,” Sam answers breathlessly, running his eyes over the taut stretch of muscle in Dean’s arms, down his back, his ass and thighs. He lines up behind him, spits on his hand and rubs it along the length of his erection. Holding onto Dean’s hips, he nudges forward, starts pushing in and feels the breach as he pushes past the tight ring of outer muscle. “Is this okay?”
Dean’s voice is rough when answers. “Yeah, it’s good. Just go slow.”
Sam inches deeper and eventually sheathes himself fully. Biting his lip, he tries not to come, tries to think of anything but this; this burying of himself in his brother.
Dean curves his spine and pushes back. “Okay. Come on.”
Sam takes a steadying breath and wraps one arm around Dean's body, pulling him closer against his chest. He uses his other hand to jerk him off as he starts thrusting. Dean curses and pants his name. His body feels fire-hot in Sam's arms and they're both sweating. Sam rubs his thumb over the head of Dean's cock and Dean bucks into Sam’s hand and comes, the contractions inside his body tipping Sam over the edge, making him come with a loud broken sound.
“Jesus,” Dean exclaims when they collapse back on the bed and try to catch their breath.
“You alright?”
Dean rolls on his side. “Yeah, I’m good. Not sure I’m going to be able to walk tomorrow, but yeah. I came so hard I thought I was going to pass out there for a minute.”
Sam smiles and gives Dean’s face a gentle stroke before getting up. He rinses the cloth in the tepid water in the washbasin, wipes himself clean, rinses it again, then goes over to the bed and does the same to Dean, gently wiping his soft dick, the thatch of hair between his legs, his inner thighs. He pushes Dean’s leg out and gently wipes his hole. It's red and puffy looking. Dean hisses but doesn’t push his hand away, just allows Sam’s gentle ministrations, a half smile on his face.
Sam kisses the inside of his thigh and lies down next to him, pulling the blanket over them. He listens to the sound of Dean breathing, reaches out and places his hand on Dean’s chest so he can feel his heartbeat too. “Where do you think Dad’s heading?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know. I guess he’s hunting. Maybe he’s on the trail of the monster that killed mom. Maybe something else.”
“He passed through here a couple of weeks ago. We’re getting close.”
“Yeah, we are.” There’s a wary undertone to Dean’s voice.
“He can’t find out about this.”
“No, he can’t,” Dean agrees. “It’s nobody’s business but ours.”
“I want you all the time. When I look at you—it’s, just, well, it’s there all the time. It’s been like that since I can remember.”
Dean ruffles his hair. “I know. It’s okay. Me too.” Sam can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “It’s because I’m so irresistible, right? Did you say I was beautiful earlier when you were all hot and flustered? You’ve got a thing for my back, right? And you’ve obviously got a major thing for my ass.”
Sam snorts. “There’s a word for that personality flaw, you know. It’s called vanity.”
Dean laughs. “Just being honest, like you told me to.” He reaches up and turns down the gaslight until the flame disappears, kisses Sam’s forehead, and rolls over onto his side.
Sam lies in the dark watching the shadows flicker on the ceiling as the fire dies down. He’s tired but his mind won’t rest.
Listening to the sound of Dean’s deep breathing, he starts thinking about the families in the village mourning the loss of their children, tensing at the thought of an army of wolves ranged out there in the darkness of the forest, waiting. And it’s at that exact moment when a single howl breaks the stillness of the night.
He jolts upright, instantly alert. Dean mumbles something in his sleep but doesn’t wake up. Getting up, Sam walks over to the window, shivering in the coldness of the room now that the fire has died, pulls open the drapes and looks outside.
It’s still and silent, the snow glowing white under the full moon. He scans the road outside and the darkened houses. Nothing moves. Then something catches his eye, a movement in the darkness near the stables next to the inn. He strains his eyes but can’t make out what it is. There’s another movement and a shadow separates itself from the darkness and steps out into the moonlight. Something shaped like a person but bulky and shaggy looking.
It moves nearer and Sam realizes the bulky shape is some kind of animal skin coat when a hand appears and pushes off the hood. It’s a man. Or no, not a man, a teenage boy. His hair is long, black and wild. He stands there watching Sam and then his teeth flash in a white grin. He lifts his hand and does something at his neck. The coat drops to the ground and Sam sucks in a surprised breath to see he’s naked underneath, skin pale in the moonlight. Sam looks down and realizes he’s standing there in the window completely naked himself. There’s another flash of white teeth, then the boy picks up his coat and wraps it around himself.
Sam steps back a pace from the window when the boy lifts his head and howls. It sounds exactly like the howl of a wild wolf. There’s an answering howl further away in the woods. The boy flashes him another smile, then turns and lopes off toward the side wall of the stables. He scrambles up it, agile and something animalistic about his movements, then disappears.
Sam puts on his coat and watches at the window for over an hour, but nothing else happens. Eventually he goes back to bed. Dean grumbles and pulls him close. “Cold,” he mutters.
Sam gets very little sleep, the strangeness of the whole thing playing over and over in his mind.