The Flock (SPN / destiel)

The Flock: Part 3

Sam opens his mouth to clear the cottony, stale feeling. He moves his tongue over the roof of it and his teeth, until his mouth waters. His neck and back are stiff; his whole body is cold. It stinks where he is, cloying and foul like mildew. Thunder rolls overhead, huge and deafening, Old Testament level. He pats his pockets until he locates his phone, holds it in front of his face and checks it with one eye. No service. He restarts it and waits to see if it will connect.

The phone scans for the network but comes up empty. No phone service, no data, not a wifi signal to borrow. With a frown and sigh, he switches off the phone and sits upright, rolling his head side to side to ease the tightness in his neck, bringing a hand up to rub it.

There's a cleared-off area of floor next to the fire, marking the spot where Dean's been sleeping. The fire is almost out, down to a reddish-dark glow. It's only four a.m., but maybe Dean took off already for help. It's not like him to leave without saying something—at the very least, he'd leave a note, a text, trace something in the dirt, but there's nothing Sam can make out.

He calls out once to be sure, but the patter of rain drowns out his voice. If something's happened to Dean, he might not be able to hear him. He yawns into his palm and switches on his flashlight, begins a check of the first floor. It requires concentration to step over the weak of broken areas. Sam tests them with a toe first, nudging to check if each section will hold his weight. His foot punches through four times, but Dean's not on the first floor. There's a staircase at the far side of the room, but Dean said it's collapsed, and there's no noise overhead.

He must be outside. He's gotta be soaked through, but what other choice do they have? Sam squints into the rain but can't detect any movement, shines his light into it. It looks like a starfield from one of those space movies Dean pretends not to like. The ground outside the doorway is sodden and turned to mud. There aren't any footprints, nothing that even resembles a footprint. Dean either left a couple hours ago or he didn't come this way. Why would he have gone out the back? Maybe he saw a light in the distance and is heading toward it.

Sam writes a text, "Where are you?" before he remembers that there is no signal, but maybe there's enough to get a text through. He sends it, crossing his fingers that Dean has wandered into a service area.

There's nothing Sam can do but wait, no point heading out into the dark after him. If they were in a motel, he'd go back to sleep, but this house disturbs him. The wind sweeps through front to back, like a groan. The house is breathing; Sam is planted in its lungs.

He stirs the fire, sits, draws his right knee up to his chest. He leaves his left extended, the swelling making it uncomfortable to bend for any length of time, and rests his head against the wall. A sudden noise, like someone moving, makes him jump, but closer inspection reveals it's just the wood settling in the fireplace, fitting itself into new, tighter positions as it's consumed. As a precaution, he keeps a hand ready on his knife handle.

He could easily sleep like this—it's an ability honed by a lifetime on the road—but exhaustion tugs at his eyelids. He lets them close. His breathing evens out, deep and calm, even though what he breathes in smells like age, like decay: smoke and rot and an old, old house.

Sam only sleeps for a few minutes, but it's enough. His eyes flutter open when footsteps announce Dean's return, knuckles bearing his weight, twisting into the grit as he pushes himself to his feet.

"Dean—"

But the room is empty, just Sam and what remains of the fire. Dean isn't in either doorway and doesn't answer.

Maybe he's hearing things. He gets out the EMF detector, powers it on. A walk around the room's perimeter, then the one adjoining, turns up nothing. He ends next to the fireplace with no readings, just the echo of his own movements. He must've dreamt the footsteps.

The night air blows in wet and cold. Sam rubs his arms and pokes the fire, coughs from the smoke.