The Flock (SPN / destiel)

The Flock: Part 2

Dean flicks open his lighter and holds it to the pyramid of scrap wood, paper, and dried leaves he assembled in the fireplace. The edges of the paper catch first, burn orange and curl as they blacken and shrivel. The wood smokes and snaps as the underside begins to glow. Dean rubs his hands together in the weak heat it puts off. The flue must be blocked; the smoke pours thick into the room but easily billows out the open window. The wood, fallen pieces that once made up the walls, begins to splinter and glow red in the crevices. He unconsciously moves to cover his forearm with a palm, feels the Mark's burn under his skin, concealed by his jacket.

He cranes his head to check on Sam, who is wasting thread stitching the hole in his pants back together. They should've stopped a couple hours ago, gotten some decent food in Sam's stomach. Dean's body hasn't felt right since he got the demon out of his system, but he could go for a burger, steaming pile of fries, big damn slice of cherry pie. He pokes around the duffel bag he hauled along and comes up with a pack of crackers, spicy jerky, and a partially melted Snickers bar.

"Here," he says, tossing the jerky and Snickers to Sam, who sets down the needle and tears the jerky packet open eagerly, bites the end off with his teeth. Dean wants to ask for a bite, but Sam's been bleeding. He needs the protein. The crackers will have to do until morning. They leave Dean's mouth dry.

"Cas claims you can't eat more'n six of these in a minute without water," he says once he manages to swallow. He scrutinizes the clear wrapper. It curls and melts when he throws it into the fire.

"He's really taken to the internet," Sam says without taking his eyes off the needle, a lump of jerky tucked in his cheek. He looks like a freaking hamster. "Actually, we tried that at Stanford, with the crackers. I got to five. Jess actually managed to chew up six but couldn't swallow it."

"Huh," Dean comments. He wipes the crumbs off on his pants and pulls out his phone. It's got a full charge but still no service. "Biggest network, my ass," he mutters.

He could try praying, but Cas is half a country away, assuming Cas can even hear him anymore. It's not like he's gonna haul his ass back to Kansas and scour every back road for the Impala because they're having car trouble. Dean isn't even sure what county they're in. No. They'll wait a few hours, get some rest, and he'll take care of everything at first light.

"Alright," he announces. "We'll stay here overnight. First thing in the morning, I'll head up the road, see if I can find someone or get a signal."

"Okay," Sam agrees, covering his mouth to conceal a yawn. It isn't warm in here, but the roof is keeping most of the rain out. If they huddle close to the fire, it's better than the car. More leg room, if nothing else.

"I'm gonna see if I can find more shit to burn," Dean says, rocking back on his heels and pushing upright. "Stay here."

Sam's answering expression is peevish, but he doesn't argue, just continues to sew.

Dean gingerly steps into the adjoining room, afraid the floor might give way. He conducted a quick sweep when he first got inside, just to make sure they weren't walking into a vamp nest or a ghoul's front hall. It's just an old house, beaten down by time. No hot spots, nothing registering on the crazy scale. Whoever occupied it left a long time ago. Most earmarks of a human resident are gone, but there's a clam shell on the window sill, an old phonebook on the floor next to a broken windowpane. Dean picks it up with care, sure not to touch the glass shards strewn over the cover. He shakes them off. They tumble to the carpet of leaves and animal waste covering the floorboards.

The phonebook's pages are dry. It will burn. He carries it and a couple broken pieces of wood he pried up, adds them to the fire, irritated to find that Sam isn't in the room any longer. Didn't Dean just tell him to keep his ass put? He's probably taking a piss or decided to help find firewood, but Dean calls his name anyway. The fire lets off ambers when he tosses the phone book on top of it, stirs it with the edge of a board before adding it too.

"Sammy?"

He keeps still, listening for Sam's response, but hears only the house groan under the strain of wind, the ruffle of feathers. That sound will always make him shiver, nevermind the protection on his ribs. He clears his throat and shouts Sam's name again, focusing on the black rectangle where the front door should be. The rain is coming down in sheets. Firelight reflects off of the raindrops, glinting like a curtain between this room and the outside. Sam doesn't walk through it.

"Sam, don't make me drag your ass in this house. Answer me," Dean yells.

Sam knows better than this. Dean stands in the doorway and squints into the dark. Baby's parked out there, about a quarter mile away, but he can't see her. There's nobody else around.

A gust of wind shifts the rain, soaking his hair and shirt and the front of his thighs.

"Son of a—" he mutters and steps backward, into Sam, who yelps and cries, "Needle?"

He glares at Dean from the floor, sucking his thumb into his mouth.

"Where the hell were you?" Dean snaps. "Don't you ever wander off like that."

"What're you talking about?" Sam asks, bewildered.

"I'm outta this room for maybe a minute and you're gone when I get back?"

"Dean," Sam says, shaking his head and sticking the needle into a cork. "I haven't moved since we got in here."

"I'm not in the mood for pranks, so just save it."

Sam gives him a funny look, cautious, like he's afraid of giving away too much, but Dean can't miss the way his eyes flit to Dean's arm, even though Sam tries to eclipse it with a cough.

"I'm not seeing things," Dean insists.

"I didn't say anything!" Sam defends, though he doesn't look Dean in the eye.

Dean doesn't want to call Sam a liar, but he knows what he saw. But, shit. Maybe he's just tired and his mind is playing tricks on him. It wouldn't be the first time. He needs his four hours of shut-eye, then he'll hike up the road, find out where he can get a tow, get Sammy home. He was itching to get back into their routine, but maybe more downtime is what they need: another afternoon sitting by a lake with a cooler of beer. One was a start, but Sam could use a few weeks—hell, a few months—catching up on sleep. He still carries the exhaustion from the trials, even though he does his damndest to hide it.

"Guess this spot's as good as any," Sam says. He lies back and props his head on the duffel bag, folds his hands on his stomach and yawns. "Night," he says with his eyes closed.

"Night," Dean replies.

Despite his exhaustion, Dean's mind won't settle, noting every creak and indication of movement, the scurry of rodent feet in the ceiling overhead; the plop, plop, plop of a leaking roof, snap of the fire. Page by page, it consumes the phone book. The heat it puts off is negligible; it's good for light and ambiance, but Dean's hands and face are cold. He'll be shivering by morning. Maybe he should've hiked up the road in the dark; they could be on their way by now if he'd found someone. This place gives him the creeps.

Could he have been sleepwalking earlier? Maybe it's the Vetala's venom; he got exposed to it when he was stitching up Sammy. That could make him woozy. Or could he...is it possible he blinked over to the door? Can he still do that? His soul is restored, Cas said so, but maybe this is an after-effect of the cure. It's not like they've got filing cabinets full of depositions from former demons. Dean's got no idea what to expect.

He sweeps up a handful of leaves and throws them on top, watches them ignite: the bright, instantaneous burn and flash of yellow light; the inevitable consumption. The room is dark again. He repeats it, each handful momentarily illuminating the space, burning out rapidly and totally.

He adjusts his position, bends his left arm and rests it behind his head, so his head is cradled in the crook of his wrist. He shuts his eyes.