Chapter Text
Sam padded quietly through the concrete innards of the abandoned warehouse, a bloody silver knife in his hand. He listened for some sign of their target, but there was nothing to suggest the place wasn't empty. It was the kind of quiet that only gathered inside sealed tombs; he knew that firsthand. Wherever Dean was, he hoped his brother was having more luck, because he felt like he had been stalking through junk in the dark trying not to twist an ankle for hours without getting anywhere.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. How big could this place be? It looked like an average-sized building from the outside, but inside the large, open space, the concrete floor was crossed with so many makeshift obstacles cobbled together from leftover parts and pieces that it was like a maze from a myth, complete with the monster.
A clank echoed through the building, coming from somewhere behind him and to his right. Sam ducked around what looked like giant, rusted gears piled one on top of the other and retraced his steps. Maybe he should be more apprehensive about coming upon whatever made that noise, but he was just ready to get the hunt over with at this point.
As he crept closer, he could hear a familiar voice muttering, and after turning a corner, he saw Dean standing with his back to him. He could imagine the dire look he was giving the hunk of falling metal that had dared scare the bejesus out of him. Sam moved towards him slowly, looking around for whatever else the noise may have attracted.
His only warning was a blue glow so faint that it hadn't caught his eye until it was in motion.
"Dean!" he yelled as the djinn shifted in the shadow of an upright car frame right beside his brother.
The creature obviously hadn't come face-to-face with hunters before, because when Dean swung around, he didn't move away quickly enough to avoid the knife. He went down heavily, and his brother did a quick scope of his surroundings to check for others before he struck the killing blow.
But before the knife came down, Dean froze, and Sam caught a glimpse of his horrified face right before a hand latched onto the exposed skin at the back of Sam's neck.
His lungs felt like they were working in reverse, trying their best to push all of the air out of his body and refusing to take in more. His vision went quickly, and the sound of his brother calling his name became more garbled until he couldn't hear anything. Not silent like a tomb, but like an underwater grave, so quiet he could hear his own thoughts. As he struggled against unconsciousness, the last words that crossed his mind, bitter and self-recriminating, were, Of course there are two.
Sam started awake, gasping in air until his lungs ached. He sat up, leaning forward and kneading his eyes like he could massage the dream right out of his brain. He ran a hand through his hair and made a noise of disgust when he found that it was soaked with sweat.
When he raised his head, a blue glow caught his eye. His heart rate picked up before he realized it was just the digital clock display. It was 2:36 AM.
"You okay?" came a sleep-rough voice from beside him in bed.
"Yeah. Weird dream."
"Want to talk about it?"
"There was a lot of running. Nothing exciting." He turned to look at the blond head buried into its pillows next to him as he moved to get up. Before he could get on his feet a cold finger darted out and snagged him by the back of his boxer briefs.
"I don't know, sounds pretty exciting to me." Sam laughed at the interested tone and swatted the hand away.
"I'm going to get some water. You need anything?" he asked, dragging his feet across the floor as he moved towards the stairs, hoping the friction would keep the wood from leeching his warmth. All he got in response was a muffled grunt, which he interpreted as a "no."
Feeling his way through the dark, he thought back over the dream. It was already fading, but some parts of it still stuck out to him. It had been an enclosed space, amorphously large and dark. Dean had been there. He could remember the tense atmosphere, the feeling like he was stalking dangerous prey, though he hadn't hunted a day in his life. And those strange, glowing designs--he could almost see them now, moving along the walls in the living room. He shuddered and flipped on the light switch when he reached the bottom of the stairs, banishing the ghosts back to his nightmares.
When Sam reached the kitchen, he grabbed a rag and ran it under water, then used it to scrub his face and make his hair feel, if not drier, then cleaner. He filled up a glass from the tap and took a sip, rubbing the rag along the back of his neck where the dream phantom had grabbed him. It had definitely been more unsettling and vivid than his usual dreams, which were mostly about arguing the wrong case in court or missing classes, despite having finished law school almost six years ago. He had no idea what events in the waking world had caused his unconscious mind to come up with such a fantasy, but maybe the monsters were representative of more mundane worries. Maybe the warehouse meant that he needed more storage space.
He slung the rag over his shoulder and carried his glass of water back upstairs, turning off the light and then immediately stubbing his toe. He suffered in silence all the way back up to their room. He drank the rest of the water slowly and set the empty glass down on his nightstand before tossing the rag into the dirty clothes hamper. He took advantage of his interrupted sleep to use the restroom, then climbed slowly back into bed, not wanting to wake the other occupant.
"Still thirsty?" Luke asked suggestively, swinging his arm out in a wide arc to touch him. Sam chuckled when just the tips of his fingers grazed his side, then started laughing in earnest when they started tickling. He rolled over onto the arm, immobilizing it.
"You should go back to sleep. We've got to get up early to go to your brother's," he murmured, looking down into the heavy lidded blue eyes peering up at him. The brows above them knitted in an exaggerated frown.
"Or--and this is just a suggestion--we could not do that," Luke said. He rubbed stubble like coarse grit sandpaper against Sam's arm, then started pressing kisses against his skin along an upwards path until they were face-to-face. He snaked the arm not currently trapped beneath him around his waist. "We both have tomorrow off, and I can think of a million better ways to spend our three-day weekend than with Michael, off the top of my head."
"I promised Dean," Sam said sternly. Luke buried his face in his neck and made a disgruntled sound. "You said you would. Or were you lying?" he needled, his voice filled with amusement. The noise the blond made this time was louder and indignant, vibrating against his skin.
"Fine," he said petulantly, throwing himself back against his pillows. "But those million things I was talking about? We're doing them all over Michael's house. Everywhere." He drew the last word out into three spiteful syllables, pointing a finger at Sam for emphasis.
"Uh-huh," he agreed placatingly, leaning down and kissing him goodnight.
"I mean it. I have a whole plan. We'll start with the beds, then move on to the couches. The chairs will be trickier, especially the rocker, but you're resourceful and I'm flexible; we'll figure it out."
"Mm'hmm," Sam hummed while he allowed Luke to re-situate his trapped arm. He rolled over and pressed his back against him, held tightly by an arm resettling around his waist. He curled up and pulled the covers up to his neck, Luke's ranting a comforting drone in his ear; Sam was right where he should be. He caught something about "dinner" and "not forked in a good way" before he drifted back to sleep, dream forgotten.