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This Is Not A Drive-By	By : karmascars Category: Supernatural > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1991 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or make any money writing fanfiction about it.

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CHAPTER THREE

Dean drove the Florida back roads ("because fuck I-95, that's why") like he lived there. The Impala almost got stuck in sand once or twice, but was going so fast she barely lost traction. Castiel gripped his seat with both hands, but his head was flung back against the headrest, his eyes closed, lips parted in what was almost a blissful smile.

"So, how do we find him?" Dean yelled over the music. It was about an hour in to their drive. They'd reached Jacksonville and had to get on the highway from there, so the windows were up and Castiel was no longer enjoying the trip. He remembered stop-and-go traffic from driving in the city, and also suspected that his vessel got motion-sick. He didn't like the feeling in his stomach one bit.

Focusing on Dean, the angel replied, "I can sense him to an extent - there's nothing in the world quite like Sam right now, so he stands out - but I can't take us to him, or get an exact location."

"So which direction?" Dean pointed out the windshield at an approaching sign.

Castiel peered at it. "North. Take us north."

When the daylight began to fail, Dean told Castiel he was considering driving through. The angel shook his head emphatically. Driving was one thing; being stuck as a passenger was awful.

They stopped in Waycross, Georgia. Their motel room was done in shades of lavender, and smelled faintly of cats. Castiel sat on the far bed from the door, and stared at the floor. Dean moved around the room, doing little bits of nothing.

After an awkward silence: "D'you want to watch TV, or something?"

Castiel looked up with a little smile. "If you like." I'm just glad to not be moving, for the time being. He felt like he did when he'd finally been able to stop driving, like the world was still moving quickly around him while he was sitting still.

Dean shrugged, thumbed the remote, and the TV crackled to life.

The angel tried to understand the show. He did. He saw the people doing things, heard them talking, but after several scenes he had to admit it just didn't make sense. "Dean," he said, and the hunter sighed. "What now, Cas?"

Castiel drew breath to speak, then closed his mouth. "Nothing," he said finally.

Dean turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. It was a fluid movement, and the flicker from the TV caught in his eyes like captive sparks. Castiel couldn't look away. He wanted to see in more detail, so he moved closer, but in his distracted state he flew closer. To Dean's eye, he disappeared and reappeared inches from Dean's nose.

"Cas!" Dean yelped, scrambling backwards so quickly he fell off the bed. When he poked his head back up from the floor, Cas was perched where he'd left him, wearing a look of abject confusion.

"What have I said about personal space, Cas?" Dean growled, trying to slow his heart rate. The angel canted his head to the side like he always did when he didn't understand, and it looked right this time. Dean's heart actually skipped a beat. He pounded his chest a few times, convinced it was a precursor to heart failure.

"I did not mean to startle you," Castiel was saying. "There was a reflection in your eyes I wished to inspect with closer scrutiny."

"It was probably just the TV," Dean grumbled, standing. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and the shitty motel coverlet had actually scratched his chest. He rubbed the spot absently.

Castiel's nostrils flared.

"I must... go," he said. "I will rejoin you after the sun rises."

The sound of retreating wing-beats marked his passing. Dean stared at the spot where he'd been crouching, his eyes retaining the inverted after-image. Then he shook his head, and ordered some pay-per-view.

~#~#~

Castiel hadn't gone far. In fact, he was in the parking lot, standing with a faraway look in his eyes and one hand on the Impala's hood. She was still warm from their long drive, ticking comfortably beneath a faded street lamp. He stood with her for awhile, remembering.

I drove you, he thought pleasantly. I would like to do it again.

Maybe I should ask Dean if tomorrow I could drive.

Wholly immersed in that train of thought, Castiel flew back into the motel room, but before he could reveal himself something made him stop dead in his tracks.

The TV flickered in flesh tones, painting the scene before him. Dean was splayed out on the bed, panting, eagerly fucking his hand. He hadn't even taken his jeans off, just opened the zipper. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, and every so often his lips would part wider so he could lick them, low moans carried on his breaths. The sight was so striking that Castiel suddenly wanted to watch this forever, hearing those panting little groans, Dean's eyes rolling into his head as his whole body tensed, pulsing liquid shooting between his fingers.

The hunter's languid sigh of satisfaction crawled its way up Castiel's spine, and the resulting shiver made the windows shake.

Dean's head whipped up. "Cas?" he croaked, hurriedly putting himself away.

But the angel wasn't about to appear now. He flew back out to the car, then to a distant mountain top, to stare at nothing and wonder, silently, what exactly had happened.

~#~#~

"Make me stronger."

Sam's voice carried confidently across the expanse of marble architecture, echoing slightly. The demon Cim raised a dark eyebrow, but gave no reply, turning back to the book he held. Sam strode across the ancient library floor, heedless of cracks and discarded furniture. Not much hindered him any more - unless it was a marquis of Hell more interested in Greek philosophy than in training his champion. He reached Cim and poked the open page of his book. "This won't win you wars, Cim. I will."

"On the contrary," the demon said, not looking up. "The ancient Greeks were formidable -"

He broke off, smiling. "You are already stronger than you were last month, Sam," he said, his voice faintly garbled. Sam grinned, lowered his fist. "Some day I'll be able to crush your throat - not that I want to kill you, of course."

Cim shrugged, closed the book. "The next step in your training will prepare you for a more distinct eventuality, but as a result requires a more intense focus." Sam leaned forward eagerly. "Up til now, you've been hunting monsters."

Far behind them, a section of the marble wall rumbled in on itself. Sam's nostrils twitched. Sulfur.

He spun to see a pack of five demons ranging out of the wall, leering. One was carrying a gun, the rest of them had knives.

"Now, you're going to hunt demons," Cim said, low in his ear. Sam's brow furrowed in both concentration and confusion as he raised a hand, but he didn't question it. Cim hadn't led him astray.

He focused on the demon holding the gun, twitching as power flooded through him. He didn't just exorcise the bastard, he smote it, wiping it from existence. It took a little more effort than the last time he'd done this, though, and as he turned to one of the others a thin sheen of sweat already stood out on his forehead. He managed to obliterate her, as well, but then they were on him and he had to dance away, ducking a knife thrust and lashing out with one long leg to catch another in the ribs.

The demons pressed in close, never leaving him longer than a breath between attacks, so he was hard-pressed to achieve the level of concentration he needed to exorcise them. He became a whirlwind of fists and feet, striking whenever he could, always looking for an opening. He took care of one of the others with the discarded gun and a messy beheading, but then the remaining three went completely feral and pounced as one. In moments Sam's forearms looked like raw meat, deep slashes on his back and torso breathing fire whenever he overextended.

The battle dragged on interminably, and Sam found his strength flagging. As an act of desperation, he threw himself backward, flipping up on one hand and using it to propel himself further across the room. He aimed for the mid-ceiling struts, but he misjudged the distance and his remaining strength and ended up crashing through an ornate screen, sliding with a screech across the marble floor.

In the gasping silence as he tried to catch his breath, Sam could hear the demons cackling.

Cim's voice in his ear. "Your telekinesis cannot help you if you cannot learn to use it unconsciously. It should be like breathing." Sam closed his eyes, shut out the world around him for a dilated instant as he focused, deep within himself. His harsh breaths were like an avalanche.

"More than breathing," Cim murmured. "Sam, this power should be as innate as the blood rushing through your veins."

He was the swell of his power, his blood, his breath. He sank in and let it consume him, washing everything together in brilliant shades of gold behind his eyelids. In one momentous existential clash, Sam was one with himself, and lightning sang along his body's leylines. He felt remade, unique, and more capable than ever before. This was the breakthrough Cim had been promising. This was the unleashing of his potential.

Sam had never felt so wildly free.

"With each beat of your heart," Cim proclaimed softly, "an enemy should fall."

With his next breath Sam flexed his mind on his inhale and unleashed with his exhale, grinning smugly when he heard a demon die. He sat up, and another died. He leapt to his feet.

The last demon, he let get within a yard. Then he folded it in half - backwards.

Cim opened another book, satisfied smile never quite touching his eyes.

~#~#~

"It might go faster if we split up," Dean said, glaring at the horizon. As much ground as he and Castiel were covering, they could only travel in one direction. "America is fucking huge."

The angel was silent in the passenger seat, like he had been for the past few days. Ever since that odd night in the motel. Dean wasn't about to ask him what was wrong, since he had a sinking feeling that it would stray into the uncomfortable, probing, lay-on-the-couch-and-tell-me-how-you-feel sort of conversation.

"I can sense him. You cannot," Castiel said suddenly, still gazing out the window. "Traveling separately would not be wise."

Dean shot him a sideways glance. Okay, then. "Can you tell how far away he is?" he asked, mainly to continue filling the silence.

A rustle of clothing as Castiel shifted. Dean could feel those blue eyes boring into his skin. "I can estimate a day's drive at our current speed." A pause. "A day is twenty-four hours, correct?"

Dean nodded, focusing a little too hard on the road. "If you want to drive through," he said.

"No!" Castiel cut him off hastily, sitting up a little straighter. "No," he amended, "my vessel's tailbone is becoming sore."

"Can't you just heal it?" Dean asked, curious. As far as he'd known, angels didn't feel pain. "I could," Castiel acquiesced, "but it would be more reasonable to forgo the need entirely."

A long moment of silence stretched between them. Before Dean could think of anything to say, however, he heard Castiel say in a very small voice: "And you... probably need to sleep."

Dean blinked. Hoped that didn't mean what he thought it might. Wondered what it would mean if it did.

I wonder where we'll be in six hours, his brain interjected numbly.

~#~#~

They stopped just inside of the Tennessee border and found a ranch-style motel where all the little buildings were one-story. Theirs was on the end, behind it a wide, scraggly expanse of empty lot. Castiel stared out across it as the light faded. He could hear Dean scrounging around in the trunk.

"Cas!" came a bellow, and the angel almost smiled as he turned. Dean was holding up two different bottles. "Whiskey, or tequila?"

The angel's head canted to the side; he did that almost automatically whenever Dean spoke. "I am not... why?"

The hunter grinned, replaced one of the bottles, and slammed the trunk closed. "Because I feel like drinking," he said when he drew closer. "Come on, let's do some shots."

It occurred to Castiel that something might be wrong, but if it made Dean happy... he'd figure out what shots were, and do them.

Dean led the way into their room. The air from the A/C came out musty from disuse, and everything was done in a horseshoe pattern, but the place was cozy and actually rather open. He could walk between the TV and the beds without feeling like he'd knock into them, and there was a little table with two chairs in one corner. The bathroom had a shower with an honest-to-God tub.

And here he was, about to teach an angel how to shoot whiskey.

He would have chosen the tequila, because it's complicated and fun and really puts the whammy on you if you're not careful, but he didn't have any limes. No shortage of salt in this house, he thought with a mental snort.

Dean turned to Castiel and noticed that the angel seemed, well, a little anxious. His face wasn't as expressionless as usual. It occurred to him that maybe Castiel himself had no idea anything was showing on his face - after all, it was just a vessel to house his true form. Blank or all-in seemed to be the only two speeds.

So he ignored it. Moving to the table, he set up two shot glasses and poured a full one for himself, a half for Castiel. The angel took the proffered drink and studied it, and the seriousness made Dean chuckle. "Like this," he said, and knocked his back like a pro.

Castiel followed suit, and swallowed with a look of distaste. Dean watched him try to understand the warmth spreading through his vessel's belly. "That is... not unpleasant," the angel said finally, "although the taste leaves much to be desired."

"That's the thing about drinking," Dean said lightly, pouring two full shots. "You keep going until the taste doesn't matter."

When they finished off the bottle, Dean was weaving on his feet. Pounding that many shots one after another will drunken even the most experienced drinker, he reassured himself, but it was still disconcerting when his eyes crossed of their own accord. He focused on the angel. Castiel's face was slightly flushed, but he didn't even look tipsy. "Is there any more?" he asked in that growl of his.

"There's tequila in the trunk," Dean said, proud of himself for barely slurring the words. "But we don't have any limes." Not so proud of that sentence.

"Limes?" Those blue eyes just got so damned wide when Castiel was confused, which was always. Dean laughed, and the room tilted, so he flopped sideways on to a bed. "Limes," he said slowly, stretching the sounds.

"You are drunk, Dean," Castiel said observationally. Dean nodded. "Yup. Drinking with you apparently lowers my tolerance."

"Do you want to watch TV?"

There was something in the angel's voice when he said that, but Dean's mind was slippery and he lost whatever inkling he might have had. "Nah," he replied, staring at the ceiling. "I might just pass out like this."

He could feel Castiel watching him, so he propped himself up on an elbow. The angel was still standing by the table, holding his empty glass. Dean gestured to the other bed.

"I know angels don't sleep," he said, suddenly too tired to focus on not slurring, "but you should lay there and contemplate the universe, or something. 'S creepy, you standing there all night."

"I can leave," came the reply.

"Nah," Dean said, scootching on his back up to the pillow. He was fighting unconsciousness by this point but wanted to say this one last thing. "Nah, Cas, you should definitely stay here. We're in this together, remember?"

Then he was out, snoring in seconds, so he missed the light that came into those blue eyes. Castiel positioned himself on his back on the bed, but then he remembered that the brothers usually turned out the lights in the room when they went to sleep. He rolled on to his side.

Even sprawled out, snoring like a hacksaw, his freckled face flushed with drink, Dean Winchester was beautiful, and when Castiel realized that was truly what he thought, the light went out on its own.

Actually, the whole motel lost power.

~#~#~

The sub-basement was lit with hundreds of candles, turning the dank space into a flickering cavern. Sam stood opposite a cloth-draped altar from Cim, who was thumbing through an enormous book and frowning. The younger Winchester shifted his weight. "Can't find what you're looking for?" he asked, trying and failing not to sound impatient.

"I am trying to find the more concise version of the ritual, since you seem to be so concerned with time." Cim's voice was strained. He leafed through a few more pages. "I know I had it marked, but -"

"Yeah, yeah. I said I was sorry." Sam had been itching to turn it up to eleven once he figured out how to flex his power, and when he finally did, the entire library imploded.

"Not to say I wasn't impressed," Cim said with a thin smile. "Ah, here we are. Right - put your hands on those two symbols on the altar, and focus."

The ritual was a complex one, and Sam wasn't even sure he properly understood it, even after he had endeavored to do just that. He didn't like walking in to anything unprepared, particularly not a demonic sacrament. Hell, he'd never considered participating in a demonic anything, but he was all for furthering this awesome potential he held within himself.

He thought it couldn't get better, after his zen session during the demon match, but after the inertia died down he'd still felt an untapped well just out of reach. And Dean hadn't gotten all the stubborn in the Winchester family.

So, that led to this ritual. Oh, Sam understood the basics of what they were doing just fine, for the most part. Cim would say the words, and Sam would channel his power through the symbols on the altar until it - or something - filled the chalice that sat in the middle. Then he'd drink what was in the chalice, and burn it away inside himself. Somehow. Cim got very frustrated when Sam kept asking how, exactly, he would be doing that.

"You'll feel it," the demon snapped. "It will make sense. Just please, stop pestering me."

Now, as Cim spoke the incantation - first Latin, then the tongue of demons - Sam realized that was the case. He felt the symbols stir beneath his hands and he closed his eyes, willing his energies along his arms and down into them. He heard a rushing of liquid and his eyes snapped open, focusing on the chalice, which was filling with something silvery. It glowed pleasantly. Sam's eyes narrowed in suspicion. What is that I'll be drinking?

It should have bothered him that he didn't question the whole thing further.

Cim's voice reached a clarion pitch and then he cut off, and Sam staggered back from the table, gasping. His arms ached. It felt like he'd drained all the blood out of them three days prior and they hadn't recovered - a dull, empty pang.

The chalice was full to the brim.

Sam knew what he had to do. He moved around the table, took up the cup in trembling hands, and raised it to his lips. The silvery substance was warm, but not displeasing; it had a taste like honey wine. He kept drinking, but it was a large chalice, and after a bit he began to notice that the liquid was souring, tasting like the smell of garbage. All of a sudden he choked, some of the stuff sloshing back into the cup.

"Finish it, Sam," Cim said, and there was black warning in his tone. Sam groaned, closed his eyes, and downed the awful substance in one sickening swallow.

The moment the last of it hit, his stomach cramped up and he doubled over with a gasp. Cim was there, catching him, holding him upright. "Concentrate!" the demon was saying, but the pain and the roiling in his gut were turning him inside out. Sam could barely hear him.

Cim slapped him, hard across the face, dragging him up to look him in the eye. "Finish the ritual, Sam," the demon growled. Sam shook his head, blinking, exhaled loudly through his nose -

- and concentrated.

Later he would think of it as a blinding flash, even though there was no visible light, and everything took place in his stomach. But it felt as though the whole place went nuclear. There was a void within him, then a rush like displaced energy, and Sam cried out, falling to his knees. The stuff was burning him up from the inside out, but he smothered it, turned it to mist like he had the ghoul, and then pushed, integrating that mist within his very atoms. His eyes rolled back into his head, and the world went white.

He awoke on a cool stone floor. Cim looked up the moment Sam opened his eyes.

"It is done," the demon said, with an air of heavy finality. "How do you feel?"

Sam struggled to sit up.

'I -" he paused to think about it, and the candles flickered en masse. His eyes widened. "Did I just -" He exhaled through his nose, and all but a few of the candles snuffed themselves. "Oh, wow."

It was dark, but somehow his vision was clearer. He felt light, unburdened. Better than he had in... well, in ever.

Sam hummed contentedly to himself, and the floor cracked.

He never saw the shadow cross Cim's eyes.

~#~#~

Triumph singing through his veins, Sam decided to visit his brother. He found him almost instantly, tucked away in dusty country motel. For some reason, he appeared a ways away, behind the building that housed Dean's room, rather than right at the door. He strode up to the room, a huge grin plastered on his face, all ecstatic and bouncy from what he'd just done - only to stop, and stare hard at the curtained window.

Castiel was in there, too. He could hear the angel's three-pack-a-day voice, apparently having figured out how to banter, ebb and flow around Dean's. The familiar golden rasp of his brother's voice was warm, a little slurred. He was drunk, having fun. With the angel.

A sudden surge of - Sam didn't know, jealousy? Rage? Disappointment? - flooded through him and his hands balled into fists. He was staring at those curtains, he could almost see through them, and he could hear his brother laughing with the angel and it just made him feel so...

Before he knew what he was doing his fist was millimeters from the glass.

Sam choked out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He couldn't let Dean know he was here. Angel or no angel, Dean would drag the truth of everything out of his little brother faster than he could reload a pistol, which considering everything they'd been through was pretty damn fast. Dean was ruthless, he was stubborn, and he was family. And Sam had no intention of revealing himself at this stage in the game. Not when it still looked wrong.

So Sam bit down on anything he felt like storming in there and saying. He turned on his heel, followed his tracks back into the empty lot, and escaped on a thought and a breath.

~#~#~

Dean stirred in his sleep. "Sammy..." he groaned softly. Castiel turned his head, but the hunter shifted restlessly for a moment and then began to snore even louder.

A/N: Please review? (And trust me, the best part is yet to come...)
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This Is Not A Drive-By