Chapter 18: Sam's Concern
The rain was a relentless drumbeat on the cedar shingles. It was the sound that pulled Dean up from the depths of a grace-warmed sleep. He was nestled against Chuck’s side, Jesus a solid line of heat along his back. For a blissful, disorienting moment, there was only the warmth, the smell of their skin, and the rain.
Then the knocking started.
It wasn’t timid. It was three firm, spaced thuds that vibrated through the front door and into the bones of the house.
Dean’s eyes flew open. Hunter’s instinct, decades old, surged through him, tightening every muscle. He felt Jesus go still behind him. Chuck, however, only sighed, his fingers still lazily tracing patterns on Dean’s arm.
“Persistent, isn’t he?” Chuck muttered.
The knocking came again, harder. “Dean! I know you’re in there! Open the damn door!”
Sam. Dean’s heart, which had been thudding with alarm, did a complicated twist of guilt, relief, and acute anxiety. He was suddenly, acutely aware of his own nakedness, of the bite marks and love bruises that mapped the last few days across his skin, of the two divine beings in bed with him.
“Well,” Jesus said quietly, his breath warm on Dean’s shoulder. “We knew this was coming.” He pressed a kiss to Dean’s skin and sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He looked utterly unselfconscious.
Dean scrambled out of bed, his legs shaky. He snatched a pair of discarded sweatpants from the floor and yanked them on. “Just—just stay here. Let me talk to him.”
Chuck chuckled, lacing his hands behind his head. “He’s already seen the car, Dean. The jig, as they say, is up.”
The knocking became pounding. “Dean!”
“I’m coming!” Dean yelled, his voice rough with sleep and something else. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, through the main room of the cabin, to the heavy oak door.
He took a breath, steeling himself, and opened it.
Sam Winchester stood on the porch, soaked to the bone. Rain plastered his long hair to his forehead and dripped from his nose. His jacket was dark with water, his boots muddy. He looked tired, worried, and pissed. His eyes, cataloging Dean immediately, widened a fraction. He took in the sweatpants, the bare chest, the marks that were unmistakably not from a fight.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
Sam’s gaze shot past him, into the cabin. The fire was low in the hearth. Two empty wine glasses sat on the table. The door to the bedroom was ajar. Sam’s jaw tightened.
“Are you okay?” Sam’s voice was low, controlled, the one he used when he was trying very hard not to shout. “I’ve been calling for days. Bobby said you took off after that djinn nest, said you were ‘following a lead.’ This is your lead?” He gestured vaguely at the room, at Dean.
“I’m fine. Better than fine.” Dean stepped back. “Get in here, you’re drowning.”
Sam hesitated, a lifetime of caution in his posture, then stepped over the threshold. Water dripped from him onto the worn rug. He kept his eyes on Dean, a hunter assessing a potential threat. “Who else is here, Dean?”
The bedroom door opened wider. Jesus walked out, fully dressed in soft jeans and a simple grey t-shirt, his feet bare. He was holding a thick, dry towel. “Hello, Sam,” he said, his voice a calm counterpoint to the storm outside. “It’s good to see you again. Though I wish the circumstances were drier.”
Sam stared. His brain visibly short-circuited. He knew this face. Every Sunday school image, every stained-glass window. It was superimposed now over a man in jeans offering him a towel. “You…”
Then Chuck wandered out, wearing a silk robe that was loosely tied. He leaned against the bedroom doorframe, sipping from a mug. “Coffee’s still hot, Sam. You look like you could use some.”
Sam’s head swiveled. His eyes went from Jesus, to Chuck, back to Dean. The pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap. The writer God. The… the Son of God. And his brother, standing between them, marked up like a claimed bride. The air in the cabin wasn’t just woodsmoke. It was thick, sweet, and heavy with a power that made Sam’s hunter senses scream even as it pulled at something deeper.
“What is this?” Sam’s voice was a strangled whisper. “Dean, what have you gotten into?”
“It’s not a ‘got into’ thing, Sam,” Dean said, crossing his arms over his chest. A defensive gesture. “It’s… it’s a ‘is’ thing.”
“He’s my consort,” Chuck said, as if commenting on the weather. He took another sip. “And Jess’s soulmate. It’s a package deal. Quite harmonious, actually.”
“‘Consort’?” Sam repeated the word like it was foreign. He looked at Jesus. “Soulmate?”
Jesus stepped forward, placing the towel in Sam’s numb hands. “It is a bond of love, Sam. Deeper than any you have known. It is not a trick. It is not a spell.” His hazel eyes were earnest, kind, but held an immovable certainty. “Your brother is safe. He is loved beyond measure.”
Sam rubbed the towel over his face, a stalling tactic. He looked back at Dean, his eyes searching. “Is that true? You’re here… by choice?”
Dean’s defensiveness melted. He saw the pure, unvarnished worry in his brother’s eyes, the fear that Dean had been enchanted, possessed, or worse. He walked over and put his hands on Sam’s wet shoulders. “Yeah, Sammy. I am. I know it’s… a lot. But it’s real. I’ve never felt anything more real in my life.”
Sam searched his face, looking for a glimmer of doubt, of coercion. He found none. He saw peace. A peace he hadn’t seen on Dean’s face since they were kids, if ever. It disarmed him more effectively than any weapon.
The fight went out of Sam’s shoulders. He sighed, a long, weary exhale. “Okay.” It wasn’t acceptance. It was a ceasefire. “Okay. Start from the beginning. And for the love of… everything, someone get me that coffee.”
Two hours later, the rain had softened to a drizzle. The fire was rebuilt, crackling cheerfully. Sam sat in one of the large armchairs, a dry flannel shirt of Dean’s stretched tight across his shoulders, a third cup of coffee in his hands. He’d listened. He’d asked sharp, intelligent questions. He’d watched the way Jesus’s hand found the small of Dean’s back as he