By the Skin of Our Teeth

Fandom: RPS/Supernatural

Category/Rated: PG for implied M/M relationships

Year/Length: 2007/~4,777 words

Pairing: JP/JA, Sam/Dean

Disclaimer: Dean and his family belong to Eric Kripke and Supernatural, Jared and Jensen belong to each other, they totally do... or at least they do in my head.

Author's Notes: I am sneaking this in at the last minute, for the spn_Christmas challenge. Mu prompt was #68) Midnight rolls around on New Year's and the only one Sam can kiss is Dean-wincest. I've had all kinds of RL holdups, but this actually came to me, and I offer it up. It's not beta'd yet, but hopefully it will be soon, and I'll amend it then. It's kind of a crappy title too, but I will think of something... Anyway, here it is.

"You've got to be kidding me, haven't you?" Jared was reading the changes to the script that was for the episode due to go out straight after the Christmas hiatus, and his eyes were very wide. Desperately, he wondered what Jensen would say when he saw it and wished that his handsome co-star hadn't slept in yet again and missed his flight. He needed to see this as soon as possible. Jensen was inclined to be very protective of his character, and... well... suffice it to say, Jared knew that this would make him sit up straight.

"It's a nod to the fangirls," laughed Kripke as he took in Jared's horrified expression

Frowning, Jared got to his feet and went in search of his cell phone. He wanted Jensen's reaction as soon as possible. He didn't believe that they'd ever get this past the network, but he also knew that without a doubt the scene would be on YouTube within an hour of it being completed.

Bellingham, WA. December 31/2006

"Druids? But there have never been druids in the US. No, Dean, it's some wannabes messing around. I wouldn't worry about it." Sam scratched his head, frowning at the report in the local paper. "Besides, I thought that you had to have a sacred oak grove and stuff before you could do a proper druid ceremony."

Shrugging, Dean indicated the report. "Dude, I read it in the newspaper, so it must be true," he said, smirking as only he could. "And this seems to follow the druid MO. The guy was strangled, slit up the middle and left to bleed out. I think it warrants investigation."

"Well, okay," murmured Sam. "How do you want to tackle it? We're going to have to be careful. Whoever's doing this isn't messing about." He was typing rapidly as he talked, scanning the internet for any other information that might augment the simple report that Dean had circled and passed to him.

"No kidding," said Dean, scratching his head. "Library for you, I'm thinking. I'll go scout around and find out what the victim's habits were, because if he fell in with some weird new crowd, we need to know about it. I'll see if I can find an oak grove for you, Sammy, because I know you'll feel much happier when we find one."

Rolling his eyes at Dean's last comment, Sam agreed that his time would be best spent researching the situation. He still wasn't convinced that they were dealing with druids, but he would do the research as diligently as he could, because after all he was Sam Winchester, and that's what he did. That's who he was.

As usual, once the Winchesters were on a case, they moved fast. Dean dropped Sam off at the library and went off to try and find out what he could about the victim.

The library was reasonably adequate, and Sam soon lost himself in his research. Dean had said he would return for him at three and that would give him the time he needed to find out whatever he could. By the time Dean returned for him, sauntering into the library with a meaningful look at the librarian that visibly melted her frosty exterior, he'd amassed huge amounts of information about the sacrifices that druids had made, and the rituals that surrounded them, and he was beginning to be disturbed.

As Dean came strolling up to where Sam was buried in notes and stood smirking at him, Sam looked up and waved a bunch of papers at him. "There's a couple of examples of druid sacrifice that have been found," he said softly, offering Dean a couple of printouts. "Lindow Man in Britain was an obvious ritual sacrifice." Sam lifted his eyes to Dean's and smiled widely. "They found him in a peat bog back in 1984, and his body was preserved by the bog. He'd been hit on the head, then strangled and exanguinated. They'd slit him from crotch to sternum, and drained his blood." Sam raised his head and smiled at Dean, handing him the second set of papers. "Looks pretty much the same as our dude," he said. "So I guess that you're right."

"Course I'm right, dude," said Dean, the beam on his face just begging for Sam to ask him what he'd found.

"Okay, so tell me your bit." Sam was nodding as he powered down his laptop and stacked the papers he'd amassed.

"I found your oak grove for you, Sammy boy," announced Dean. "Seems that there's a lot of interest in ancient druid ways in this neck of the wood, too. I got an interview with the druid head honcho, and he was pretty open. He invited me to attend a ceremony tonight. Pretty cool, yeah?"

"You're kidding me." Sam gaped at his brother. "They admitted it?"

"Sure did. Call themselves the Grove of Elder Trees, and apparently tonight is going to be a foretelling ritual – they can tell the future by performing it on New Year's Eve at the stroke of midnight." Dean sounded excited, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Dude, back in the age when druids were around for real they didn't even use the Gregorian calendar, so there was no New Year's Eve. They're having fun with you, jerkin' your chain." Sam tapped his papers again. "It's all touchy feely crystal gazing nonsense. You don't actually believe any of this crap, do you?"

"Say what you want, dude, I'm going. You coming?"

"I think you're nuts." Sam rose to his feet. Okay, tree hugger, I want something to eat, so let's go find a diner."

Over dinner, they'd discussed going together to the ceremony, and Sam, reluctant though he was for a whole number of reasons, had agreed to accompany Dean. In the event, they had no choice, because when Dean strolled out to fetch back coffee from the store across the street from the motel where they were staying, he didn't return.

Sam had waited until it had become obvious that something had happened. He peered out of the door, and the Impala was still parked in its spot, its black bulk looming, a silent warning to Sam that something was wrong.

He strode over the road to the 7/11 to which Dean had said he was going for their coffee and waited in line to speak to the counter clerk. They'd been into the store several times in the past 24 hours, and Sam was hoping against hope that Dean would be remembered. When it was finally his turn he paid for the gum he'd grabbed and took the opportunity to ask the clerk if he'd seen Dean.

"Yeah, he was here an hour or so back. He came in to get coffee, but his buddy arrived and they went off together." The clerk took Sam's money and smiled at him. "They were talking about going to a party."

"A party?" Sam frowned. Dean hadn't mentioned any party, and he hadn't told Sam about any plans for the evening other than attending the druid ceremony later that evening. "Hmmm... don't suppose that you know who the friend was, do you?" Sam thought that he was clutching at straws asking the question, but he had to try. When the clerk nodded, he felt a lightheadedness that swirled through him and making him cling to the counter.

"Guy called Desmond Shaw; lecturer up at the college. He seemed to know your brother, because he greeted Shaw like they was old friends." The clerk scratched his head and seemed inclined to gossip, and Sam relaxed visibly, leaning on the counter to listen.

"So did they say where the party was gonna be?" asked Sam, hopefully.

"Not exactly. I know that they were talking about it being an hour or so's drive out of town, but that's all I can tell ya." The clerk seemed to be done, and left the counter to go and run more coffee through the machine.

Sam thanked the man and went back to his room, very thoughtfully. Once there, he hit the net, looking for the man Desmond Shaw who lectured at the local college. Half an hour later, he was letting himself into Desmond Shaw's study to search for the whereabouts of the party to which Dean seemed to have been taken.

The Impala growled its way along the highway towards the state park at Silver Lake, Washington State. Sam was feeling antsy, the swirling nausea in the pit of his stomach testament to the feeling of hideous inevitability that he got each time he considered the plight that Dean fallen into.

Foot down on the floor, Sam observed no speeding regulations. He'd got an athame at his side and bunches of ivy and mistletoe lay on the passenger's seat beside him. He lacked rowan wood, and wished he'd had the time to identify some, not easy at this time of year, but perhaps what he had would be enough.

He was just entering the park, when the familiar headache suddenly took him, and he had to swerve onto the hard shoulder and stop so that he could collapse into the throbbing behind his eyes as a vision took him to places he really didn't want to go.

His visions were tied to the demon's presence; he knew that, and he knew too that the demon was close, was taunting him, about to rip away the only thing he had left to him, his brother. He sank into the vision, wanting to see so that he could know what he was up against, knowing that, however horrible, it was down to him to prevent what otherwise would happen... and oh, Dean, Oh, fuck, Dean! No. This would not happen. He, Sam Winchester, would not allow it.

Dean, bright blood flowering on his skin, bleeding out as he drained in agony, seemed to see him, smile at him and tell him at last that, "Sammy, I did all I could." Dean, bound and straining, hurling smartass comments even as the knife ripped him open from pubis to sternum. Dean, looking somehow as if it would be a relief when this night's revelry was done, while the yellow eyes of the demon smiled at Sam out of his vision as he raised the goblet to drink Dean's life blood from it. Dean himself watched, while the light slowly died from his eyes.

It wouldn't happen. Dean had said he didn't want to go on without Sam, and that went double for Sam. Sam would rescue Dean or the two of them would go down. That was how it would be.

It was a half hour later by the time that Sam had recovered enough to drive again, but he was convinced that he had plenty of time. It was not quite ten, and the information Dean had been given had named midnight as the hour of sacrifice. Driving on, Sam bit his lip and continued to seek out the oak grove where the ceremony would be held.

The map he'd brought from Shaw's office showed the way, but it was almost eleven when Sam finally discovered the place and parked his brother's car.

He'd taken what precautions he could, having daubed himself in a number of signs from Bobby's book, and more from his dad's journal. He wore sprigs of mistletoe in his hair and was twined around with ivy too, hoping against hope that the information he'd unearthed about protection wasn't merely myth. He'd also got silver knives in his boots and sleeves, a pistol loaded with silver bullets stuffed down the back of his jeans and the ever popular 12 bore shotgun loaded with rock salt slung over his shoulder. He wished he could have found a flamethrower too, but one couldn't have everything. Next time, he thought.

Striding forward, athame in hand, Sam Winchester was intent on finding out just how much truth was to be had on the Internet.

The grove, when he reached it, was small. There were twelve oaks standing in what formed an uneven circle, with a thirteenth at the center, a huge, old tree that towered over the others and which had mistletoe growing from fissures in the bark. It was to this tree that Dean was tethered. There were people of both sexes milling around, chatting and drinking, for all the world as if they were attending a party, and Sam wondered if he could make it through and whisk Dean to safety before he was even spotted.

He was not to have his wish granted. A burly man approached him as he was halfway across the clearing, and as his eyes flickered yellow, Sam realized that this was no ordinary adversary. He stopped in his tracks and began to speak in Latin.

Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei, quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem.

"Oh, please," laughed the demon. "How rude!"

"I want Dean," growled Sam, not inclined to take any lip from a demon that sounded to all intents and purposes like a valley girl.

"You don't need him any more, Sammy," laughed the demon. "Why don't you just let him go? You know he's slowing you down, don't you?"

"I know nothing of the sort," snarled Sam, leaning forward to get into the demon's face and trusting to the sigils on his person to keep him safe. The demon laughed until Sam thought that he might bust a gut.

"See it from my point of view, Sammy-boy," murmured the creature, eyes glowing. "I've taken God the father, I've got God the son in my grasp right now, and all that's gonna be left is God the holy ghost. He ain't going to last long without the others, is he? That's a win for me! I love to win – it makes my pants happy."

Sam took a step towards Dean and stopped abruptly when without a word, the people who had been milling around, apparently greeting each other, turned without a word and began walking towards him, menace in their eyes.

"Come on," growled Sam, eyes fixed on Dean, who appeared to have been drugged, and who was lolling against the tree to which he had been bound, his eyes vacant as they rested on the scene playing out before him. "He's mine, not yours." He stepped forward again, determined to die with his brother, if he couldn't save him.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sam! You're a persistent child, aren't you? And an incredibly annoying one as well." The demon glared at him, seeming to have some inner conversation with himself.

Sam stared. Something he'd said... something... He racked his brains. There hadn't been much; what was it?

"He's mine, not yours," Sam repeated, and was rewarded with a flinch that rippled across the demon's face, almost too rapidly for him to catch. "Give him back to me; I claim him as mine."

That was it. He stepped forward again, almost at Dean's feet now, and reached out to touch his brother, to try and wake him. The demon's voice brought him up short. "If he's yours, then claim him in earnest. You have until midnight before he's sacrificed to ensure that the crops are good in the coming season. Best possible use for a firstborn, although I don't know how fertile he is; you think that there'd have been a by-blow or two before now, wouldn't you?"

Dean was used to being sacrificed for the good of the crops," Sam thought wildly. There must be something particularly nourishing about his blood. He'd tease the ass off him once they got out of here.

Twitching, he checked his watch. He had less than five minutes before his demonic deadline. It was almost the New Year, and Sam had to claim his brother in earnest, whatever that might mean.

"Uh, how...?" he asked, hopefully.

"Not a chance!" The demon smirked and licked his lips in suggestive way. "You want him; you work it out. Frankly, he's a little shop-soiled for me, but to each his own."

It seemed that the demon was talking for a purpose, and Sam thought that might be to distract him. He laid his hand on Dean, murmured, "I claim you," and heard derisive laughter from behind him.

"Try again, Sammy." The use of the diminutive name was calculated, and Sam resisted the urge to waste time remonstrating. He gritted his teeth and applied himself to what druid lore he'd learned. There seemed to be nothing that would help, and he could feel the seconds ticking away, each tick raising gooseflesh on his arms. The vision headache was pricking behind his eyes, and he fought it off, not daring to waste more time watching a scene he was determined to stop.

He muttered a prayer to a deity he really didn't believe and cupped Dean's cheek, turning his brother's face up to study it. Dean's eyes were glazed, his stare vacant. When Sam called to him, there seemed to be no answering gleam, no sign of recognition, and that made Sam's heart thump painfully.

"Thirty seconds," said the demon's voice, and Sam cast his eyes to heaven. There was movement beside him, and for a moment, the younger Winchester was distracted as two of the congregation brought up an intricately carved, silver cauldron and deposited it at Dean's side. There were figures on it, figures that Sam didn't want to examine too closely – wild, half-human creatures, a horned god, and twisted bodies in agony. He looked back up at the sky, shuddering, and then... then he got it!

The mistletoe!

There were customs and legends about mistletoe, and they had to have originated somewhere. Sam had nowhere else to go; he was out of time, and he would do this, because Dean was his. Dean had always been his.

The Elder Oak, or whatever it was, bore clumps of mistletoe all over it, and parts of it were thick with berries. Reaching up, Sam plucked the closest sprig, held it over Dean's lolling head and tipped his face up. "Mine," he said. "I'm claiming him as mine." Dropping to his knees, he pulled Dean in and kissed him.

He'd intended the caress to be a mere peck, but somehow it wasn't. As his mouth made contact with Dean's, it felt as if he had closed a circuit and was now caught in an electrical dance along with his brother. He couldn't move, couldn't let go as the tree behind him shook and berries dropped onto them. He heard the demon's voice cursing, and then he heard nothing more.

He awoke sometime later because Dean was nudging him, calling his name. "Sammy? Jesus, Sam, sleeping on the job?"

Stumbling upright, Sam tried to gather his scattered wits and everything suddenly came back to him. "Dean?"

His brother was still bound to the oak tree, but he was in full possession of all his faculties, more was the pity, because his curses were both inventive and fluent, and Sam made haste to cut his brother loose, watching as he tried to rub feeling back into limbs that had been in one position for far too damned long.

"Jesus, Dean! You okay?" Sam hovered, guilt and fear written through every inch of him.

"I'm cold, sore, my hands and feet are going to get gangrene and drop off, and I would kill for a beer. Yeah, I'm okay, or I will be when we get out of here. Dude, this place is creepy." Dean was stumbling away as he spoke, and Sam shrugged, hurrying to catch up with him as usual.

"Dude, do you remember any of that? Any of what happened?" Dean shook his head in denial as Sam led him along to where the Impala was parked. There was no sign of the demon, or his acolytes, but Sam couldn't stop checking, following closely as Dean made for his car.

Once inside, Sam turned the vehicle and pointed it back the way they'd come. Dean didn't seem too interested in what had happened while he'd been tied to the tree, sliding past the subject when Sam attempted to tell him, avoiding hearing what Sam wanted to tell him with a skill that only Dean could have managed.

By the time they'd reached the motel once more, the sky was beginning to lighten and the rain was falling in sheets that made the first day of the year a monochrome, dismal grey sky and rotten leaves lying limp at the side of the grey, grey road.

Pushing open the door to their room, Sam held it for his brother, pursing his lips and frowning in annoyance as Dean sauntered in, apparently as if it was just any ordinary day.

"Dude, aren't you going to say anything at all about the fiasco last night? Why did you go off with that guy? You know that he was possessed, don't you?" Sam was inclined to be snappish. "They were going to slit you from top to bottom and use your blood in some fertility right. Don't you even care?"

"Course I care, Sam." Dean was frowning too now. "Not that I can do anything about it now."

"Yeah, typical!" Sam was angry now. "Dean, I nearly lost you. I had to... I had to kiss you."

"Yeah?" There was black humor in Dean's expression, and Sam wanted to punch him out even though he knew that Dean was probably coping in the only way that he could. "Well, if you think I'm gonna put out for ya, you'd better think again, dude. That's not the way I roll."

The derisive laughter sent Sam stalking haughtily to the bathroom. He almost missed Dean's softly spoken words.

"Thank you, Sammy,"

"Better," growled Sam, pausing in the doorway.

"But you're still sleeping in your own bed tonight." And with that and a laugh, Dean climbed into the bed he'd staked out. "G'night, Sam. Happy New Year."

The scene was in the can. Lounging in Jared's apartment much later that evening, the two principals were decompressing.

"Do you really suppose they're doing it?" Jensen flipped his bottle top in the general direction of the trashcan and stretched out comfortably, putting his feet up on the coffee table with a contented sound that rumbled deep in his chest.

"I can claim no opinion," murmured Jared, comfortably nestled on the floor with his back against the couch and the remote in his hand. "Since I don't have a clue what you're babbling about."

"Sam and Dean, dude," said Jensen, tilting his bottle against sinfully full lips and allowing the contents to gurgle into his mouth. "I bet that they'd be doing it."

"Get out." Jared was flipping channels, thumb aimlessly working to move restlessly from channel to channel as he sat in a sort of auto-induced trance, gazing at the screen as a parade of infomercials and short-lived series from the 70s flipped by.

"Think about it. Two kids with no roots, no way of making friends as they wander from town to town. They reach puberty, and they're way too close to each other physically all the time to pretend that they wouldn't notice wet dreams, that kind of thing. Not only that, but motels usually only have the two bed deal. You don't see too many with three now, do you?" Jensen fumbled under his T-shirt, scratched contentedly and took another swig from his bottle of Shady Island Pale. "So which way do you arrange the sleeping accommodations is what I'm saying. Dad and Dean? That would be wrong – very wrong. Besides, Dad was away a lot. No, man, I'm betting on Dean and Sam having a very personal, up-close relationship.

Jared tilted his head back, letting the remote fall as he tried to look at Jensen without disturbing his long limbs. "You're kidding. You think that they were doing each other for real?"

"Yeah. It makes sense, don't you think? Anyway, that's the way I play Dean. He loves his little brother on more than one level. He doesn't want to let him go." His empty bottle sailed over the coffee table in a perfect, arcing loop that netted it neatly in the trash as Jensen raised his hands above his head and congratulated himself. "Yes! He shoots; he scores!"

"He's an idiot," smirked Jared. "And he's going to go to the fridge right now for two refills.

"I'm assuming that you want one," grinned Jensen, rising to his feet and stretching again, his back popping luxuriously.

"Give the boy tonight's star prize." The remote was back in Jared's hand, and he was once more looking at the television. "Yeah, I want one, thanks."

Jensen sauntered off toward the kitchen, long legs clad in jeans that fit where they touched, Miners T-shirt that had seen better days hanging baggy from his broad shoulders. Jared watched him go, eyes narrowed, catlike, and licked his lips.

Returning with the two bottles, Jensen passed one to Jared and then slid his own down over the back of Jared's neck under the collar of his shirt, eliciting an obscenity from Jared that made him snicker. "You kiss your mama with that mouth, boy?"

Flopping back onto the couch, Jensen ruffled Jared's hair, and then smirked as his lanky companion smacked his hand away and turned to mete out summary justice.

"Bring it on, boy." Jensen hadn't stirred from his bonelessly relaxed pose, although his eyes were a little wary as he watched Jared gather himself. Jared had discovered that he was ticklish, and that was something he hated, because if Jared decided to tickle him, he would be reduced to a gibbering wreck.

About to pounce, Jared suddenly paused. "You play Dean as though he and Sam are actually lovers?" he asked, looking a little disturbed.

"Yeah. Like I said, what else do they have?" Happily distracted, Jensen scratched his head and watched as Jared subsided onto the couch beside him. The relief almost didn't show in his eyes as Jared looked down to twist off his bottle top. Crisis averted, he thought. "I figure that Dean has to be able to have something, and Sam is the only thing out there for him. The poor fuck was devastated in the script when Sam told him he wouldn't stay with him once they'd killed the fire-demon critter."

"Yeah, you did a good job with the tears, man." Jared tossed the cap, bouncing it off the side of the basket to rebound onto the carpet beside the coffee table. "Did you know that your nose turns pink when you cry?"

"You may mock me, my man, but let me tell you that you are laughing at the secret to my success." Jensen's lips did idle things with the neck of the bottle that made Jared's eyes widen momentarily.

Clearing his throat, he put his own to his lips. "Well," he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "All I can say is that, after today, I'm glad I'm not a method actor."

The beaming smile that spread over Jensen's face was filled with joy and something more. Reaching out to cradle the back of Jared's neck, he swooped in to kiss lips that were assuming a perfect 'O' of astonishment.

He took his time, lazily exploring the ridges and softnesses that were Jared's mouth, finally pulling away to lick at the slick lower lip and smile.

"And all I can say, hermano mio, is that I'm glad I am."

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