Fic: Linger 'Til Dawn, SGA/Spn

[wesleysgirl]

Stargate: Atlantis and Supernatural, starring John Sheppard and Rodney McKay.
For podfic_lover in exchange for her generous donation to con_or_bust.
Many thanks to janedavitt for all her help.
9500 words, NC-17. Wincest-free.


Linger 'Til Dawn
by WesleysGirl


San Francisco ends up being a mixed blessing as far as Atlantis and her inhabitants are concerned.

Things are quieter, for one, which John Sheppard thinks is great at the outset. But as time goes on, he gets, well, bored. Not that he loved running from the Wraith or dealing with the Replicators, but after the first few weeks everything settles down into a routine that's predictable and John finds himself getting more and more antsy. He's waiting, he realizes, for some kind of emergency, a disaster, a catastrophe.

When it comes, it's in a form he wasn't anticipating.

"There is a celebration in the city this weekend," Teyla says, holding Torren's hands as the baby tries with great determination to walk. "Your city, not ours. I think we should all attend."

"What kind of celebration?" John asks. It's a couple of weeks too early for the Fourth of July, unless he's really lost track of time.

"S'called Pride," Ronon says around a mouthful of sandwich.

"It is a --" Teyla starts to explain, but John cuts her off.

"Yeah, I know what it is. You want to go?" He probably shouldn't be surprised, because there are ways in which Teyla and Ronon are a hell of a lot more accepting of people's differences than the average American, but he is surprised.

Teyla nods. "I think it sounds enjoyable. There will be a parade."

John manages not to choke on his own mouthful of food, but it's a close thing. "This parade," he says, trying to figure out how to word this. "It'll be, um... colorful. And some people might not... well. Wear a lot of clothes."

"I know," Teyla says, serene even as Torren face-plants on the floor, and then that's the end of the conversation because she's too busy comforting the baby.

* ~ * ~ *

"She thinks what?!!"

John winces and glances around the lab, but apparently everyone who works there is used to Rodney screeching indignantly at the top of his lungs. "You heard me."

"Yes, but you can't be serious. Does she realize what it's going to be like?" Rodney has stopped typing at his keyboard and swiveled his chair around to look at John.

"She claims she does."

"Which means no, of course." Rodney rubs his hands over his face. "There will be public displays of affection on a level she can't even begin to comprehend! Men wearing dresses! People wearing thongs on the streets!"

"I know," John says, trying to stay patient. "You don't have to tell me."

"Not to mention we won't be able to attend if she's expecting us to stand on the sidelines!" Rodney keeps his voice low now, hissing the words so only John can hear them, and wouldn't you know it that gets the attention of his co-workers and Radek comes over.

"Is there something I can help with?" Radek asks.

Rodney rolls his eyes. "No, unless you think that you can talk some sense into Teyla."

"Oh, the Pride parade?" Radek says, perking up.

"Oh my God!" Rodney throws both hands into the air, giving up. "Does everyone know about this?"

"So it would seem," Radek says mildly, and goes away again, which under the circumstances is probably the best course of action.

"Calm down," John advises, leaning against the desk.

"Yes, of course, easy for you to say. You don't care what anyone thinks of you," Rodney complains, but his shoulders have relaxed a little bit, at least. "What are we going to do?"

"Teyla doesn't ask for much," John says, which is as much answer as he figures Rodney needs.

Rodney nods and spins his chair back to face the desk. "Yes, all right, fine. Whatever you want, okay?"

It's the kind of statement that really ought to make John feel better than it does.

* ~ * ~ *

They've been sleeping together, in the literal sense, for months now. The figurative sense has been going on a hell of a lot longer, but it took them a while to stop pretending that it wasn't happening and admit that it was more than a series of repetitive one-night stands. The first time it happened was a happy accident as far as John was concerned, and he never expected a repeat because he had no reason to think Rodney was more than incidentally bisexual. John had had his share of male partners who'd never slept with another guy before or since. He figured it was something about him personally, like he was the human version of a two-beer queer.

But it just kept happening, and John had feelings for Rodney that ran pretty deep so it wasn't like he was going to complain.

"So I was thinking," Rodney had said one night, sitting on the edge of John's bed but not pulling on his pants like he normally would have.

"Uh-huh," John said, with a sinking feeling.

"That maybe I could," Rodney said. "You know."

"No," John said. "Actually, I don't know."

"Spend the night?" Rodney glanced at him nervously. "Um, not tonight necessarily. But, you know, some time. Unless you'd rather, um, have your bed to yourself, which would be completely understandable. Plus, to be perfectly honest, my bed is more comfortable than yours, so I'd get it if you wanted to --"

"Would you shut up for a minute so I can actually answer your question?" John said.

Rodney blinked and slid his hand closer to where John's was resting on the bed. "I don't think it was a question."

"Well, I'm gonna answer it anyway. Sure, I think that's a great idea. You should spend the night." John threw caution to the wind, let the words flow. "Tonight, tomorrow night. As many nights as you want. Okay?"

Rodney's smile had been incandescent. "Okay. That's -- yeah. That sounds good."

They haven't spent a night apart since, though there'd been a couple of times when Rodney was snoring to beat the band that John was tempted to kick him out of bed and onto the floor. He'd settled for kicking him in the thigh until Rodney had rolled over, which seemed to stop the snoring at least.

But other than the occasional snoring, Rodney is easy to live with. Sure, they argue, but ninety-five percent of the time it doesn't mean anything, and the five percent of the time it does they always seem to work it out. Living with Rodney is comfortable. It might even be awesome.

It's definitely something John wants to do for the rest of his life, which is probably why he comes close to losing his mind when it starts looking like it won't be possible.

* ~ * ~ *

"This is wonderful!" Teyla's voice is full of delight as she beams up at Ronon, who has Torren balanced on one shoulder, both hands carefully supporting the baby. Torren is clutching a small flag in one chubby fist and he squeals loudly as the next group of parade marchers goes by, most of them wearing less leather than John had figured they'd wear in public.

"They aren't wearing much," Ronon says, but his grin is wide -- it isn't a complaint.

"Are you sure this is appropriate for impressionable young minds?" Rodney asks Teyla, not for the first time.

"I am sure," Teyla says. She smiles at John, commiseration for the trial Rodney can be sometimes, and John tells himself -- not for the first time -- that he needs to come clean to Teyla and Ronon. They're his friends and they deserve to know about him and Rodney, and no matter how much Rodney protests to the contrary John knows it'll be better for both of them not to be hiding it anymore. He half figures Teyla suspects, anyway, so he doesn't think it's going to come as much of a surprise.

He glances at Rodney to find that McKay's looking at him, watching him with warm affection. "Having fun?" John asks.

"Other than the fact that I'm going to have permanent hearing damage?" Rodney shoots back at him, relaxed and happy, and then does something that surprises John completely; grabs John around the neck, tugs him closer, and kisses him on the cheek. "Hey, guys?" Rodney says, and waits until he has Teyla and Ronon's attention. "Sheppard and I are, you know, a couple."

"A couple of what?" Ronon asks, and then laughs at John's expression and punches his shoulder. "I'm kidding! Yeah, we know. It's about time."

"We are very happy for you both," Teyla says, and John, still shocked, blinks as they all watch a group of rainbow-decorated women in their sixties march past.

* ~ * ~ *

Rodney is having too good a time to be suspicious. Under any other circumstances -- say, for example, when he hadn't just spontaneously come out to two of his best friends -- he might have been, might have realized that something was up before it was too late. As it is, he sets his water bottle down against the building they're standing in front of and sort of forgets about it for a while, and by the time he remembers it and picks it up again it's warm and tastes terrible.

He accidentally swallows before he can stop himself, then chokes and almost gags on whatever his water turned into. Cigarette butt soup?

"You okay?" John asks, and Rodney makes a face.

"Some imbecile used my water bottle as an ash tray." It's so foul that he actually rubs the heel of his hand over his tongue as he holds up the bottle to look at the water. It's a pale golden color and there's definitely something floating in it. "God, it's disgusting."

John takes the bottle from him. "You drank this?"

"Yes, Einstein, rub it in, why don't you." Rodney's tongue is tingling in a way that isn't entirely unfamiliar. "Uh-oh."

"What do you mean, uh-oh?" John looks worried now, and shoves the bottle at Teyla. "Take care of this. Don't spill it."

It's not getting any harder to breathe, and Rodney's throat isn't closing. His tongue isn't swelling, and except for the purely intellectual reaction to the thought of having ingested nicotine he doesn't feel nauseated. "I think I'm okay," he says.

"Rodney?" John's hands are on Rodney's shoulders. "Rodney!"

"No, I think I'm all right," Rodney says, but in the space of time it takes him to blink, everything changes.

He finds himself standing on his sister's front porch, fist still raised from presumably having knocked on the door. "What the..." He's aware that John is behind him, not visible but definitely there, and he knocks again, hard. "Jeannie!" There are sounds from inside the house like someone shushing someone else, and he's flooded with the sudden memory of being ten and kneeling on the shag carpet beside the couch, one palm pressed to Jeannie's mouth, quieting her.

Shh! He'd shushed her just like she's shushing somebody now. He doesn't remember why, but he remembers the sense of half fear of being discovered, half thrill at the possibility that they might get away with whatever it was.

Now, he knocks again, his knuckles stinging with the force of it, but Jeannie doesn't answer the door, and when Rodney turns, he discovers that John isn't there, either.

He's alone.

* ~ * ~ *

Rodney drops like a stone, and despite John's attempt to stop it his head hits the sidewalk hard enough that John winces. He's already scrabbling in Rodney's pockets for his Epi-pen, even as his brain tries to make sense of how citrus -- or something else Rodney is allergic to, because there are other things, things John might not even remember, and he should have a list of them, damn it, maybe he should even think about getting it tattooed on his forearm -- of how citrus got into Rodney's bottle.

Teyla is on her knees beside John, hands moving to tilt Rodney's chin. "John. John! He is breathing."

"Yeah, but for how long?" John growls, but he stops and looks at Rodney, whose face isn't reddened and who is definitely breathing steadily and without difficulty. "What the hell is going on?"

In Ronon's arms, Torren squirms and protests, but Teyla ignores him. "His heart rate is regular. I think -- he seems to be sleeping." She sounds just as confused as John feels.

"People don't just fall asleep like that," John says. He doesn't know what else to say. There's a crowd of concerned people forming around them, and he touches Rodney's face once before standing up. "We've got to get him back to Atlantis."

* ~ * ~ *

"I don't know what to tell you," Keller says, frowning. "He's in a coma, but I have no idea why."

"He hit his head when he fell," Ronon observes, but Keller shakes her head.

"There's nothing wrong with his brain -- no bruising, no evidence of bleeding or trauma, no swelling."

"So he isn't in any danger," John says. He's still trying to figure out if this is good news Keller is giving them.

"No immediate danger," Keller admits. "But there's nothing good about being in a coma, obviously, and the fact that there's no reason for it is a serious concern. There's no medical explanation."

No medical explanation. The phrase sticks in John's head and repeats itself, because if there isn't a medical explanation, then there has to be some other explanation. "Hang on," he says. "I've gotta make a phone call."

* ~ * ~ *

"I gotta ask you boys a favor," Bobby says as soon as Dean answers the phone, and Dean sighs.

It's not that he doesn't want to help Bobby -- it's just that they've got so much on their plate, other stuff to worry about, and there are moments it seems like adding something else to the to-do list is going to push him over the edge. "Yeah, sure. Anything. What's up?"

"Friend of mine -- well, his kid, actually -- has another friend got himself into some trouble with some African Dream Root."

"Shouldn't that stuff be banned?" Dean asks.

"What?" Sam asks, sitting beside him in the car.

"African Dream Root," Dean says, glancing over his shoulder to look at Castiel and making a face he hopes conveys that he'll explain later. "Bobby wants us to go help somebody."

"Guy's in a coma," Bobby says. Dean wonders if he's remembering being in his own coma, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't escape. "They're in San Francisco. How long do you figure it'll take you to get there?"

Dean calculates. "Four hours, give or take? We're just outside Reno."

"I'll give you the address and tell 'em when to expect you. You need me to track down some of the Dream Root?" Bobby asks.

"Couldn't hurt," Dean says. "Talk to you later." He shuts the phone and puts the Impala in gear. "Well, this oughta be fun."

"That doesn't sound as if -- oh," Castiel says. "Sarcasm."

"He can be trained," Dean says. "Praise the Lord."

Cas ignores that -- he's learned by now that Dean is pretty much guaranteed to say whatever's most likely to push his buttons. Dean is convinced there's a part of Cas that likes that about him. "Where are we going?"

"San Francisco," Dean says, and Sam sighs.

"Kind of far."

"Yeah, but what are we gonna do? Leave this poor guy to waste away in a coma the rest of his life?" Dean sighs, too. Things with him and Sammy have been tense lately.

"We've got other stuff to deal with, Dean," Sam says. "Important stuff."

"It won't take that long," Dean says, shrugging, giving up. "But if you want to stay, stay. Me and Cas can go on our own."

Sam sighs. "No, it's cool -- I'll come."

"Don't do me any favors," Dean tells him. He isn't sure whether to be annoyed or to let it go, but decides it's easier not to be irritated. He's spent a lifetime letting stuff go -- might as well add this to the list.

He's also an expert at lying to himself, but he doesn't think about that.

* ~ * ~ *

"Are you sure that this is a good idea?" Teyla sounds worried.

"Depends on who you talk to," John says grimly. Keller sure as hell isn't crazy about it, but since she also admits that she doesn't know what else to do, he figures her vote doesn't count.

Bobby Singer has assured him that he's got friends who can help, and at this point, after way too long already of watching Rodney lying so fucking still, John would be willing to try just about anything. When he thinks back hard, he can remember overhearing Bobby and Uncle Jamie one night when he was just a kid, with his brother Dave sleeping in the tent beside him. They'd talked about monsters being real, a conversation that plays back like something in a dream, but John has always been convinced it was real, and once he'd tracked down Bobby and talked to him, now, he knows it was real.

Monsters are real, magic is real, and this thing going on with Rodney is some kind of weirdo mystical event.

But there are people coming who can help. John keeps reminding himself of that.

"I am talking to you," Teyla says. Right, they're in the middle of a conversation here. "What do you think?" She's sitting on the hotel bed where Rodney lies sleeping, one hand resting on Rodney's lower leg. Ronon's leaning against the wall over by the door, looming large in that way he has. It makes John feel like someone solid's got his back. It's reassuring.

It's getting late -- dinnertime was hours ago and none of them have eaten. John can't imagine ever being hungry again, but there's something in John that keeps him moving forward, keeps him moving.

Teyla's question is fair, so John does his best to answer it. "I think -- I don't know what else to do. So we have to try." That's the closest he's come to admitting that he isn't sure this will work.

"It'll work," Ronon says.

"I suppose a positive attitude is always beneficial," Teyla says, and reaches to pat John's arm just below the elbow. She's been a rock -- they both have -- and John knows that later he's going to be incredibly, embarrassingly grateful for the way they've stood by him.

Right now, though, he's running on fumes and can't see anything but the boring, semi-sterile hotel room and Rodney's still face. He's glad that they're not in Atlantis, where Rodney's silence would seem so much more extreme and wrong. It feels like they've been waiting for days, even though it's really only been, what, less than twelve hours.

"There's a car," Ronon says, unnecessarily because John can see its headlights through the curtains over the window just as well as Ronon can. It's not the first time they've seen headlights, though. Ronon tugs the curtain back and looks out. "Might be them."

John goes over and looks out, too, at an old Chevy pulled into one of the parking spaces, gleaming black under the hotel's lights.

Three men get out of the car and stand there a minute, talking. One of them's at least as tall as Ronon. Then they start walking toward the hotel entrance. It's only a minute or so later that there's a knock on the door.

"Who's there?" Ronon asks, apparently not in the mood to take any chances.

"We're friends of Bobby Singer's. He sent us to give you a hand."

John gestures at Ronon to open the door, and he does.

"You John Sheppard?" the man in front asks, looking at John, and John nods.

"Winchester, right?"

"Yeah. I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam." Dean jerks his head at the tallest guy as he comes into the room, and the one in the tan raincoat comes in last and steps to the side so Ronon can shut the door behind them. "This is Cas."

"Thank you for coming," Teyla says. She always steps into the ambassador role without the slightest effort. "This is Doctor Rodney McKay. We believe he has been... poisoned?" She adds the last word hesitantly.

"If it's African Dream Root -- and yeah, it sounds like it is -- then it isn't technically poison. More like a hallucinogen." Dean checks an inner pocket of the jacket he's wearing and brings out a plastic sandwich bag containing something dry and greenish-brown. "Sorry we weren't here sooner -- we had to stop and pick this up from a friend of a friend. Won't get far without it."

"Do you know how he got his hands on the stuff in the first place?" Sam asks.

"Somebody planted it in his drink," John says grimly, sitting back down on the side of the bed where Rodney's lying.

"Doesn't sound like the kind of thing that'd be an accident," Dean says.

"We were out in public," John says. "At the parade. I don't know if he was being singled out or not." It makes him a little crazy to consider the possibility, actually. The thought that they were having a great time, oblivious while someone was stalking Rodney, watching him, waiting for the right moment to slip something into his water bottle... it made John feel like an idiot for not noticing.

Dean looks like he's thinking about that. "There anybody who might want to, you know, hurt him?"

Ronon laughs darkly, not sounding amused. "Try anyone who ever met him."

"He can be... kind of difficult," John explains. "But other than his sister, I don't think anyone local even knows he's here. We're -- um, sort of isolated. We work a lot."

Nodding, Dean claps his hands together. "Well, we can worry about that later. Let's get this show on the road." He starts toward the bathroom, then pauses and tells Sam, "We're gonna need some of his hair."

"What?" John feels like he's missing something here. "Wait a minute -- hair?"

"If you want to go into his dream and convince him to wake up -- which might not be the easiest thing in the world, by the way -- some of his hair has to go into the... tea." Sam makes a face. "Sort of tea."

"Hallucinogenic tea with hair in it," John says. Obviously, he'd do anything for Rodney, but that doesn't mean he's going to like it.

"Pretty much."

"So what keeps me from slipping into the same drug-coma?" John asks.

Dean, who is doing something in the bathroom that apparently includes running water, answers. "You go into it knowing what's happening. That's your friend's problem -- he doesn't realize he's dreaming. He thinks it's real."

John looks down at Rodney, whose face is motionless. "So he's dreaming?"

"More like having a nightmare," Sam says apologetically. "So. Um. You've known Bobby a long time?"

Small talk. John knows it well, and appreciates the attempt to kill time while they wait for Dean to presumably finish making the hallucinogenic tea. And relaxing, opening up, probably wouldn't hurt. "Yeah. My uncle Jamie was his friend -- they used to take me and my brother Dave camping sometimes. Which makes me wonder what they were thinking, since they knew that monsters are real."

"We know that, too," Ronon says. "Wraith, remember?"

Dean sticks his head clear of the bathroom and raises his eyebrows. "What?"

"Nothing," John says. "Long story."

"Is there any danger to John?" Teyla asks, and Sam's expression goes from neutral to slightly worried, though John's pretty sure he's trying to hide it. The kid just isn't old enough or experienced enough to do a good job.

"I'm not going to lie to you," Sam says finally. "It's dangerous. But try not to worry -- we've done this before."

"Sam?" Dean calls to his brother from the bathroom, and Sam calls back, "Yeah, what?"

"Get in here a minute, okay?" Dean says.

Sam says, "Sure," and then, "I'll be right back," to John before joining his brother.

"They have private conversations in bathrooms a lot?" John asks Cas, and Cas, shoulders slumped inside his raincoat, sighs.

"You have no idea."

They've got the bathroom door closed now, and they're arguing. Loudly. And with a fair amount of swearing, which John appreciates as a stress reliever but which he could really live without right at this moment. Heck, for all he knows Nightmare on Elm Street had it right and if Rodney dies in his nightmare...

Jesus, he can't think about this. He just can't.

"John." Teyla has moved closer to him and touched his arm. "Are you all right?"

A little bark of not-quite-laughter escapes him, and he covers his face with his hand and takes a deep, shuddering breath, swallowing back the flood of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. He drops his hand back to his lap and leans forward until his forehead touches Teyla's. "No," he says hoarsely. "No, I'm not all right. How could I possibly be all right?"

It's a rhetorical question that he doesn't expect an answer to, but apparently Teyla doesn't know that, because she answers him. "I know. But you will be. We will rescue Rodney and go home to Atlantis."

John shudders again and resists the urge to close his hands around Teyla's solid upper arms. "Yeah. We will." He has to keep thinking that until he believes it, because any other option is unacceptable.

The bathroom door opens and Dean comes out, a bottle tucked under his arm and both fingers in his ears. "La la la not listening," he says over the sound of Sam's continued argument.

"Yeah, you are listening, 'cause I'm not through talking." Sam grabs onto Dean's wrist and tugs, unblocking one ear.

"Sam." This is Cas -- which must be short for something, though John doesn't know what -- who moves in close like he intends to protect Dean, or maybe just break up that fight that seems to be threatening to break out.

Sam lets go of Dean and backs off. "Sorry. Look, it's just --"

"You don't want me getting in over my head," Dean says. "I get it. But it'll be fine, Sam. I promise. By morning we'll have this all straightened out and we'll be back on the road, okay? Trust me."

And Sam, who has been studying Dean's face as he talked, sighs and nods. "Okay."

"Let's get this show on the road," Dean says to John, and begins to explain.

* ~ * ~ *

Rodney's dream world really sucks ass, John thinks. He wouldn't even be sure it was Rodney's dream world if he couldn't taste the bitter Dream Root tea at the back of his throat, but because of that, he remembers. He knows he's here to get Rodney.

He's standing on the front porch of Rodney's sister Jeannie's house, but other than the house he can't see anything in any direction. Not just no other houses -- even though Jeannie lives in a normal neighborhood with families on all sides -- but, literally, nothing. No roads, no trees, no grass. No telephone polls or electrical wires. Somewhere around the bottom edge of the steps, things get sort of fuzzy and blend into the complete bright-white that surrounds the house.

"Okay," John says. "This is weird."

"You're telling me," Dean says, appearing next to John so unexpectedly that John jumps. "Sorry."

"S'okay." John looks around again. The last time he was caught in Rodney's weird dream world, he was on a small boat in the middle of a big ocean. This time he's on a porch in the middle of a sea of white. He supposes it makes some kind of weird, twisted subconscious sense, but fervently hopes that this will be his final visit to the inside of Rodney's brain -- both figuratively and literally.

"Window's broken," Dean points out, and John sees that he's right. There's broken glass inside the frame and shards on the porch just underneath the window. They glitter on the wood like wicked diamonds, strangely sinister, and at first John isn't sure why until he focuses on the glass still attached to the frame and sees the blood on it.

"Jesus, Rodney," he mutters under his breath. "What the fuck are you thinking?"

It's a good question, a valid question, and probably one worth considering since it could provide valuable clues. John thinks about it as he elbows some more glass free from the window frame and slips into the house. Weird, he thinks as he gets both feet on the floor -- it hadn't even occurred to him to try the door, or to knock. Of course, Rodney would have done both those things, and wouldn't have broken a window in his sister's house unless he thought it was his only option...

"What's his name again?" Dean asks once he's inside too.

"Rodney. McKay." John calls him by both names pretty equally.

Dean doesn't hesitate, just starts shouting. "Yo! Rodney McKay! We're here to rescue you!" John gives him a funny look, and Dean shrugs and strides off to look around. John follows him.

He calls for Jeannie and Kaleb, too, but they don't answer. Neither does Rodney. In fact, the house is freakishly quiet, to the point where John would suspect Rodney wasn't even there except that he has to be, doesn't he? It's his dream.

"Rodney!" John calls, and sees Dean is looking out the back door. "Anything?"

Dean shakes his head, and John turns and notices the basement door is slightly ajar. Very slightly, the door's equivalent of a whisper. He goes over to it and opens it. The light is on, the wooden stairs new and gleaming with polyurethane, the walls in the stairwell freshly painted beige. Which makes sense, since Rodney wouldn't have gone down there if the basement was horror movie creepy.

"Rodney?"

Nothing.

He can hear Dean going up the stairs to the second floor as he goes down. "Rodney? Come on, buddy, it's me." He doesn't know if Rodney can hear him, but the utter silence of the house is starting to get to him, and hearing his own voice out loud is reassuring. "Rodney. I know you're in here, so answer me. I'm not kidding -- you answer me right now, McKay." He's worried enough that it isn't hard to use the emotion to push the words, to make them sharp and commanding. "Now, Rodney."

One room turns into the next, and John is sure that Jeannie's house doesn't look like this in the real world -- he's firmly in Rodney's dream, in which the Miller's basement stretches on for miles.

It's not all fresh and clean, though -- John turns a corner and the lights are gone, the space before him so dark that he stops in his tracks.

"Rodney!" What can he say that will get Rodney to respond? He racks his brain and finally comes up with, "C'mon, McKay, you're scaring me!"

And that's what nets him what he was looking for -- Rodney's voice, hesitant, but sounding spectacularly good to John just then. "J-John?"

"Yeah, buddy, it's me. Can you follow the sound of my voice?"

"I -- I can't. I can't move."

"Okay, then, I'll come to you. Just keep talking, okay? Don't stop."

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say." That's not like Rodney at all; usually Rodney talks unendingly without needing anyone to suggest topics or even, really, participate. "I don't know what's happening. Is that really you?"

John stretches a hand out in front of him and steps forward into the darkness. It's freaky not being able to see at all and not knowing the landscape. "It's really me. Why wouldn't it be?"

"It's been so long." Rodney sounds small and scared and far away. "I didn't think you were going to come for me."

"I'll always come for you." John keeps moving in the direction of Rodney's voice, one step at a time. He bumps into a wall and blindly fumbles his way to the edge of it. "On my end, it's only been about half a day. How long has it been for you?"

"I don't know. Months, I think." Rodney might be crying. John reminds himself that if it's really been months for Rodney it makes sense that he'd be completely freaked out.

He trips on something and almost falls, his heart thudding in his chest as he rights himself. "I'm sorry, Rodney. I'd never leave you alone, okay? You're not alone now. I'm here, and we're gonna get out of here."

"Is this -- I don't even know if this is real," Rodney says. "Is this real?"

"Depends on your definition of real." It sounds like he's getting closer, at least. That's a relief. "You remember the parade?"

Rodney's quiet.

"Rodney. Do you remember the parade?"

"Yes."

"You gotta talk to me, buddy. Tell me what you remember." There's no way he can find Rodney in this pitch-black unless Rodney keeps talking.

"Um -- R-Ronon carrying Torren on his shoulder. The... the perfume that drag queen in front of us was wearing."

John feels his mouth curl into a smile. "Yeah, that smelled pretty bad, didn't it."

"Horrible. There should be laws against it." That's good -- Rodney's voice sounds stronger, like he's remembering whatever he'd forgotten about who he is.

"And then what? What else do you remember?"

Rodney hesitates, then says, "The last thing... that water I drank. I thought -- am I dead?"

John laughs even though it's not funny at all. "No. No, you're not dead. What the hell kind of afterlife would this be?"

"Exactly," Rodney says. He's even closer now. "That's what I thought it was -- hell."

"It might be a nightmare here inside your head, but this isn't hell. You're dreaming. But it's okay -- I'm here to get you out." John's foot comes into contact with something soft, and Rodney makes a little sound and lurches forward, wrapping his arms around John's lower legs. It's awkward, but John bends down and hugs Rodney back as best he can.

"Please tell me this is really you," Rodney is saying. "Because I don't think I could handle it if this isn't real. If you're not really real."

"I'm real," John reassures him, stroking Rodney's hair. "But the rest of this isn't, so you need to wake up. Okay?"

"If I knew how to do that, don't you think I would have done it already?" Rodney grumbles against John's knee. "Get down here, would you?"

John kneels down on the floor, which is cold and hard like concrete, and Rodney's mouth finds his. Rodney's lips are cold, too, and John steadies Rodney's face between his hands. "It's me, okay? I'm real. Now would you please wake up so we can get out of here?"

"Yo, Sheppard!" It's Dean's voice, coming from behind them. Rodney tenses up.

"I'm here! I found him!" John answers Dean, then explains to Rodney, "It's okay, he's a friend."

"Oh, so now you have friends I don't know about?"

"Friends that are helping us get you out of here, so stop complaining." John tugs at Rodney and gets him on his feet. "Come on, let's go."

They manage to shuffle their way toward Dean, who it turns out has the good sense not to cross from the lighted area of the finished basement into the darkness. Gradually, the black starts to become gray, and then John can see the outline of the lit doorway.

"Dean Winchester, Doctor Rodney McKay," he says, and sighs with relief as they enter the room.

"Great," Dean says. "Now what? Shouldn't we be awake by now?"

"You're the expert," John tells him. Now that he can see Rodney, his relief is fading -- Rodney's face is pale and the skin around his eyes looks bruised. He even looks thinner, like he really has been here for months and hasn't eaten in all that time.

Dean looks at Rodney, too. "It's your dream, dude. All you have to do is decide to wake up."

"You think I want to be here? What are you, crazy?"

"You're the one with the crossover between Better Homes and Gardens and Nightmare on Elm Street in his head," Dean points out. "I don't think you want to get into a who's crazy contest here."

"If I knew how to wake up, I would," Rodney says. "What happened, anyway?"

"That water you drank had something called African Dream Root in it," John says. "That's what started this off. We don't know if you were being specifically targeted or if it was a fluke, but either way, you drank it."

"So I'm asleep? Why not shake me?"

"It's not that simple," Dean says. "You have to make a conscious decision to wake up. Out there, you're in a coma."

Rodney looks upset and irritated -- John prefers him irritated, not that anyone's asked him his preference. "A coma? Oh, great. Why does this stuff always happen to me?"

"That's the kind of thing to take up with your shrink," Dean says. To John, he suggests, "Maybe you should try smacking him around."

"What? No!" John glares at Dean.

Dean shrugs. "Or I could do it. What, you want to be stuck in here forever?"

"No one's hitting him." John's sure on that point, at least, even though he doesn't have any other ideas. "Think of something else."

"Cold water? Loud noises?" Dean claps his hands together sharply and Rodney and John both jump.

"Would you stop that?" Rodney screeches. "That is not waking me up, okay?"

"Well, I've already had enough of this place, so I'm pretty much willing to try anything I can think of." Dean gestures at the staircase. "Maybe we should go outside?"

Rodney looks alarmed. "I don't want to go outside."

"But you don't want to stay here," Dean points out.

"Well, no. But have you seen outside? There's nothing out there!" Rodney waves his hands around, but in a much less exuberant way than he usually does. "It's all -- white! There's nothing to go to."

"Maybe that's a good thing," Dean argues. "Maybe we're stuck here because we're stuck, you know, here. In this freaky house."

"This is my sister's house," Rodney says haughtily, but immediately deflates. "Sort of."

"Maybe we need to go back to the beginning," John says. "What happened when you got here?"

"Nothing. Have you looked around? What could possibly happen?" But Rodney is hiding something; John knows him well enough to be able to tell that.

He rubs Rodney's shoulder, not caring how Dean might take it. "Come on -- think. Something must have been going on."

Rodney won't meet his eyes. John shifts to one side, becoming a blocker between Rodney and Dean to create a sense of safety for Rodney. "There wasn't -- okay, fine. I could hear them."

"Hear who?" John guesses, "Jeannie?"

Rodney nods. "All of them. I could hear them inside, but they wouldn't let me in. They were pretending they weren't home so I'd go away."

"But there was nowhere to go," John says. "That's when you broke the window?" That reminds him of the blood. "Hey, are you hurt?"

"Not anymore." Rodney shows John freshly healed scars on his arms, and it sinks in for John that Rodney really has been here, alone, for a long time. "I could hear you, too."

"Me?" For some reason, John is startled by that. "What, in the house?"

"No, outside. That's why I came in." Rodney is curling in on himself without actually physically moving.

"What was I saying?" John is aware of Dean right there, listening to all of this, and he glances at the younger man. "Hey, give us a couple of minutes here, will you?"

Dean nods and moves away as John turns his attention back to Rodney.

"What was I saying, Rodney?" Rodney looks thoroughly miserable now, and John can't not put an arm around him. "Hey, it's okay. Whatever it was, it wasn't real."

"It was all of you. Saying -- that you weren't really my friend, that I was annoying and stupid and no one would really want to be around me." Rodney rubs his hand over his mouth. "You, Teyla, Jeannie... it went on and on for a long time. That's why I came down here, to try to get away from it. When I was in the dark, the voices were further away. Sometimes I could hardly hear them at all."

"Okay, first off, I would never think anything like that, let alone say it. You have to know that." John waits until Rodney looks up at him and nods slightly. "Good. Because I think you're amazing. I came in here to get you, right?"

"Right..."

"And none of the rest of it was real, either. This is your head talking -- things you're afraid of, probably. It doesn't have any basis in reality, and once you wake up, we'll do whatever it takes to convince you of that. Trust me?"

Rodney nods. "I do. I trust you."

"Good. Then wake up."

And just like that, John is sitting up on the bed in the hotel room, and beside him Rodney is opening his eyes, waking up.

"It worked," Rodney says, voice hoarse. "Wait, where are we?"

"Long story," John says. He's got his hands on Rodney now, touching his shoulder and then his face. "Good job, buddy."

Rodney looks up at him. "Thanks. And thanks for, you know. Coming for me."

"You don't have to thank me for that." He really, really didn't -- John would have gone after Rodney for purely selfish reasons, after all. He looks at Teyla. "Can you let Keller know it worked?"

Teyla nods and lifts her hand from Rodney's ankle, then pats John's shoulder. "Of course."

"Dean isn't waking up." This is Sam, who sounds worried. "What happened in there?"

"Why does everybody keep asking me what happened like I'm supposed to know the answer?" John asks plaintively. Can't everything go right for five minutes? Apparently no. Apparently that's too much to ask.

"Dean." Cas sets one knee on the mattress of the other bed, next to Dean's waist, and shakes Dean's shoulders. "Dean, wake up."

"Shaking him isn't going to fix it," Sam snaps. "What happened in there? How can he be stuck in his dream when he's awake?"

"I don't know," John says, exasperated. "He was in there with us and then we woke up."

"With you with you?" Sam asks, like that's supposed to make sense.

"Well, not touching us. But he was there."

"Get them out of here," Cas says to Sam, gesturing at the rest of them. "I can fix this, but I have to be able to concentrate."

Sam stands up. Even near Ronon he seems to take up a lot of space in the room, and John has the idea he still hasn't settled into his body. In a couple of years, Sam's gonna be hella intimidating. "You heard the man."

* ~ * ~ *

Dean can't believe this. One minute he was there, waiting for McKay to get over his freak-out or whatever it was that was happening -- and at least this dream was a lot less intense than Bobby's about his ex-wife -- and the next thing he knows, they're both gone and he's there by himself. Is this even supposed to happen? Did they wake up and leave him here, or is there something else going on?

He walks the house calling for them, but there's no answer. He glances out the broken window that overlooks the front porch and sees nothing but that same bright white light. Maybe, he thinks, he should try slapping his own face to see if that wakes him up, but he doesn't really think it will.

Eventually, though, he tries everything. Slaps himself, splashes cold water from the tap on his face. He even tries leaving the front porch and walking out into the white nothingness, but it's like standing in the sand at the ocean's edge with your feet in the water -- as much as it feels like he's moving, he never makes any actual progress, and when he turns to look back at the house he finds that it's still right there. He gives up and goes back inside.

Bored, bored, bored. Also hungry, but the house is like a model home -- no food in the fridge and nothing to do.

It's the kind of place that could make you lose your mind, and Dean is well on his way by the time Cas shows up.

"Dean," a voice says, and just like that Castiel is standing there next to him.

"Jesus, Cas," Dean says, putting a hand on his chest. "Way to give me heart failure."

Cas smiles but doesn't look happy. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, no, it's good. Seriously, it's really good. I'm glad to see you." Dean finds himself hugging Cas, which is weird. But it feels like he's been alone for such a long time that the secure, warm bulk of Cas against him is something he's reluctant to let go of.

Cas doesn't really know how to hug. He stands there and lets Dean hug him, but doesn't return the embrace. Dean doesn't think that's right, somehow.

"Hugging's a two way street," he says, frowning. "You think you could try meeting me halfway?"

"I came all the way to find you." Cas sounds confused.

"Literal much?" Dean sighs. "Put your arms around me, would you?" He knows he's starved for more than food when Cas finally hugs him back and he relaxes into the embrace. "I think I'm kind of losing it here," he admits.

"It's all right," Cas says, and for once it's not wooden, like he just thinks it's what he's supposed to say instead of something he actually means. "Dean. What are you losing?"

Dean laughs and lifts his head, the surge of warmth and affection he feels for Cas threatening to overwhelm him. "My mind. I don't think a place this quiet suits me, you know?"

"You do like excitement," Cas says. He cups Dean's jaw in his hand and looks at him with the sense of wonder Dean's used to seeing directed toward him, and which Dean never really appreciated until now. "Are you okay?"

"Better now that you're here," Dean says, and leans forward to kiss Castiel.

It's as much a surprise to him as it is to Cas, he thinks, but he goes with it. He's a spontaneous kind of guy, and he's spent a lot of time not fighting it, just running with whatever idea pops into his head. This seems like a good one, with the way Castiel is kissing him back. Cas is uncertain, like he doesn't know how to do this, but that's okay with Dean because it still feels amazing. Cas has good instincts -- opens his mouth to Dean's, doesn't tense up when Dean's tongue flicks briefly inside to touch his.

"This okay?" Dean asks between kisses, and the hoarse eagerness in Castiel's "Yes" is enough to make him weak in the knees. "God, why didn't we do this before?"

"I don't know," Cas says. His eyes are wide. "I didn't know we could."

"We can," Dean tells him. "We can do this. We can do anything." In that moment, he believes it so completely that he goes from McKay's Barbie Dream House to fully awake and kissing Castiel on the hotel bed before he even realizes what's happening.

"Um, Dean?" Sam says.

Dean barely pulls his lips away from Castiel's enough to speak. "I'm fine, Sammy. I'm back. You want to get out of here and give me and Cas some alone time?"

Sam is silent for a few seconds, then says, "Uh, yeah. Sure. Right. I'll just --" And a few seconds later the door closes, and Dean turns all of his attention, all of his real, awake attention, to Castiel.

* ~ * ~ *

"He's fine," Keller says, finishing with her scans of Rodney. "So now the question is, why did this happen, and how do we keep it from happening again?"

"Let me take care of that," John says grimly.

* ~ * ~ *

It isn't easy, but Sheppard tracks the guy down. Some British guy with a twisted sense of humor, it turns out, who wasn't targeting Rodney but just screwing around. Rodney wasn't the only one who got a bottle full of dream root tea, but surprise surprise he was the only one oblivious enough to drink it. San Francisco police had four other bottles turned in to them, and tried analyzing it to find out what it was.

"We couldn't figure it out," the cop says, shrugging. "But no one reported drinking any, and the only people we had to take in for public drunkenness were drunk on the regular stuff."

"You got any of those bottles still?" John asks.

"Sure, in evidence. You want 'em?"

"Yeah," John says. "Maybe there's some fingerprints on them."

There are -- plenty, in fact -- but most of them belong to innocent people in the crowd or police officers. There's only one set that makes John suspicious, and in the end he decides it's better to leave Bobby Singer to deal with the guy in question, since Bobby's the one who knows about all that mystical stuff.

He gets the phone call from Bobby late that night as he and Rodney are getting into bed. Rodney is still brushing his teeth, actually, and John is stretched out on their bed with his ankles crossed when his cell phone rings. He reaches for it, fumbles it to the floor because it's plugged in, picks it up and unplugs it, and finally answers it.

"Would you two stop it? For Christ's sake," Bobby is saying.

"Um, hello?" John says.

"Sheppard, it's me. Sorry, I've got a couple of fellas here acting like horny teenagers. Can't keep their hands off each other and it's making me crazy."

"But that's not why you're calling."

Bobby snorts. "Much as they're driving me nuts, no. I wanted to let you know Rayne's been taken care of."

"How?" John doesn't want this guy hurting anybody else; he wants to feel sure things have been handled appropriately.

"Binding spell." Having a conversation with Bobby is short and sweet, all business. Except for the part where he muffles the mouthpiece with his hand so he can shout at whoever he's shouting at some more, a colorful stream of invectives that finally ends with the slamming of a door. "Sorry. Yeah, no more troublemaking for him. He can't do anything that can cause anyone harm."

"You're sure?" John looks up and meet Rodney's eyes, then gives Rodney a thumbs up when Bobby says, "Sure as anything. Would I lie to you?"

John grins. "Aren't you the guy who tried to convince me that stuff I remembered from when I was a kid was just my imagination?"

"Well, yeah," Bobby admits. "But I was protecting you."

After professing his thanks and asking Bobby to pass them on to Dean and Sam, John hangs up the phone and turns to Rodney, who has just climbed into bed smelling like mint and something flowery that's in the shampoo.

"Oh, thank God," Rodney says fervently, using half his pillow and half John's like he always does, hogging the bed and the covers and John's heart. "I'm so tired."

"You slept ten hours last night," John says. He knows because he spent most of them watching Rodney and occasionally poking him to verify that Rodney really was just sleeping and not in a new coma.

"Then I think I'll go for eleven tonight." Rodney squirms closer and drapes an arm over John's waist. "After we have sex."

"Oh, you think we're having sex?" John finds this amusing because the night before Rodney had fallen asleep in the middle of kissing him good night, and Rodney still looks tired enough that it wouldn't surprise him if it happens again.

"Are you kidding me? I've been thinking about it for the past hour." A shift of Rodney's hips proves that Rodney is hard, but that's all it proves -- Rodney can get hard in about six seconds flat, faster than John ever did even when he was a teenager.

John licks Rodney's ear and slides a hand down along Rodney's body toward his dick. "Can I blow you?"

"Oh, right, like I'm going to say no to that offer," Rodney says, then gasps when John bends and sucks him in, just the tip because that's what makes Rodney really crazy and right then John wants to make Rodney crazy. He wants to hear Rodney moaning his name and begging him not to stop.

They've been together long enough that he knows what Rodney likes. Lots of attention on the ridge around the head, a thumb planted firmly in the spot between Rodney's balls and his asshole. The constant complaining that spills out of Rodney when he's annoyed -- and sometimes even when he's not -- turns into an endless babble of joy when he's aroused, and that's one of the many things that John loves about him.

"I love you," he mutters against Rodney's thigh, and Rodney says it back immediately, no hesitation at all.

"I love you, too. God, love the things you do with your mouth, and -- I want you to fuck me, John. Please? I really need -- need it, you, in me, I'm --"

"No," John says, and waits until Rodney lifts his head and looks at him. "Rodney. I love you."

And Rodney, thank God, understands what it is that he's saying. Looks astonished and pleased and grateful. "I -- I know. I do. I love you, too."

John can't remember feeling like this ever. It's so powerful that he can't breathe, that it's like time has stopped. For a long, long time he's frozen, the significance of his relationship with Rodney cascading over him.

Then Rodney says, "Hey. Breathe."

John does, and time starts up again.

"Don't tell me this is some kind of news to you," Rodney says. "I've loved you for a couple of years at least. It wasn't obvious?"

"I -- no, it was, but hearing it out loud is... different."

"Then I should have said it sooner." Rodney traces the edge of John's ear with one fingertip. "I love you, you idiot."

John laughs. "Thanks. I think."

"Well, you can hardly expect me to be eloquent at a time like this," Rodney says. "You do realize that this conversation is interrupting my blow job, don't you?"

Turns out that another thing that interrupts blow jobs is semi-hysterical laughing fits, but John can't help himself -- it's just so typically Rodney to complain that their declarations of affection are cutting into his happy-happy-orgasm time. Of course the continued interruption just annoys Rodney more, and he hrmphs in frustration and starts to get out of bed. John grabs onto Rodney's wrist to stop him. "Hey, come on."

"I was hoping to come," Rodney says, throwing himself back against the pillows. "That's certainly looking less likely if all you're going to do is giggle like a little girl."

John manfully tries to suppress his sense of humor, but is still grinning like a moron. "If I really loved you, I'd shut up and suck your cock?" he suggests.

"Exactly!"

"Okay. Just give me a minute and I'll get back to it." John bends his head and kisses Rodney's belly, then rubs his nose against it. Rodney isn't particularly ticklish. "I was pretty freaked out when you were stuck in that dream."

"So was I," Rodney admits.

"But you know, now," John says. "That I'll always come and find you. No matter what. You know that, right?"

Rodney smiles, his generous mouth widening, eyes soft and warm, and the way his fingers thread their way through John's hair is all the answer he needs.


End.