When Push Comes to Shove, 2/3

[topaz119]

-- 2 --


When he gets back to the room, Sam expects to find Dean sleeping off the night, but there's no sign that Dean ever came back, and there's only so much note-taking he can do before the suite becomes less of a quiet, calm oasis and more of an oppressive box. Especially when the big find of the day is a couple of posts on a gossip site, insinuating that the only reason Melina's doing the Vegas show is to hide her lack of ability under the glitz of the Strip. He's not even a fan and he's rolling his eyes at the envy.

As he starts considering his options--if Dean wants him, Dean can track him down, Sam's tired of being the one sitting around waiting--the untraceable cell vibrates in his pocket, with one of Bobby's spoof numbers showing. Bobby barely lets him answer.

"What in hell did you boys get into out there in the desert?"

"It, uh, got a little complicated," Sam says.

"Well, no shit," Bobby answers. "Zombies usually do. I hear the half the hunters that didn't want to put you down after your little dance with Lilith are out for your blood now, 'cause the two of you took off on your own."

"Damn good thing we did, too," Sam says. "Most of the trouble we had was because of that idiot who thought he was dealing with a couple of ghosts instead of zombies. He burned half the cemetery before he stopped to think that maybe it wasn't working. At least us dropping him off at the sheriff's office meant he missed out on the damned lynch mob."

"I didn't say you weren't right," Bobby says. "I just said you stepped on a few toes. But all that don't even count the feds out looking for you."

"What? How did they find out we--" Sam starts.

"Well," Bobby says. "They don't know they're looking for you; they're just hell-bent on finding whoever it was that put a fireball on Park Service lands."

"Oh," Sam says, wincing. "That. Yeah, they, uh, kind of got us a little off guard. We had to go in before they scattered. But we weren't close to anything important." He thinks. "And the fire didn't actually burn anything, it just got... showy."

Bobby sighs. "I swear, every time I think you two might put your brains together and come up with an actual thought, you go and prove me wrong." Sam mumbles an apology, because, well, yeah. Not exactly their best job ever and nobody but him and Dean even knows the worst of it. Bobby just sighs again. "You said you were holed up someplace safe?"

"Bobby," Sam laughs, looking around the suite. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"Yeah? Don't tell me," Bobby says. "Just sit tight until some of this crap dies down. I'll call you if I hear anything."

"Okay," Sam says, sighing. "We can stay here."

"And try real hard not to do anything stupid," Bobby says.

The call goes dead and Sam drops his head back against the couch. Not that he thought Dean would let go of the Melina thing--he hasn't let anything go, not since he could stay on his feet for more than a minute or two after Lilith had dragged him back out of hell, and if Sam's being honest, he's been right there with Dean, because it's so much easier to hunt than deal--but he'd held out a little hope that Bobby might have had something enticing.

He tucks the phone away and goes back to thinking of something to do, because right now, he needs to get the hell out of this room, before he goes crazy. The casino doesn't hold any appeal for him, and the shows don't start until later in the day, but the pool is suitably lavish and tacky, and the concierge is happy to help him out there, too. He makes a quick detour through a couple of the shops, loading up on the necessities and if he's buying things based on how much they'll annoy Dean, at least he's spending the hotel's money on it. Sitting in a private cabana with a drink and a chilled towel is like some kind of karmic reimbursement for all the empty and broken pools he'd grown up seeing every time Dad had checked them into a new motel.

For whatever reason, there are a ton of kids around, shrieking and yelling and generally having a blast on the water slides. The noise and a novel he'd grabbed from the gift shop are enough to keep him from brooding and when his phone rings just before sunset, he's about as mellow as he's been lately, which isn't saying much, but he's taking whatever he can get these days.

Not even Dean telling him to high-tail it into the casino is enough to crack his mood, especially when Dean catches sight of him in board shorts and aloha shirt. Sam slows his pace to the lazy amble that he knows drives Dean insane even at the best of times and enjoys every second of Dean clenching his jaw so tight Sam can almost hear his teeth grinding.

"Sorry to interrupt your tanning time there, Sammy, but Kasey just heard something kind of interesting."

"And Kasey is?" Sam drawls, then feels himself blushing hard and fast when the pit boss standing behind Dean, the tall woman in a black suit so simply cut Sam can hear Jess sighing Armani in the back of his head, turns around and smiles a familiar smile at him.

"Me," she says, holding out her hand. "We, uh, haven't been formally introduced."

"Sorry," Sam manages to say as he takes it. He's deliberately not looking at Dean, not needing to to know that the irritated glare's morphed into the self-satisfied smirk.

"Don't worry about it." Kasey smiles and slants a glance at Dean. "There hasn't exactly been a good time for pleasantries."

"Kasey, Sam," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Sam, Kasey. Can we get on with the important stuff now?"

Kasey shrugs, but turns back to Sam. "I was getting set up for my shift, seeing who I had on the floor, checking with security about any issues I need to be aware of, things like that." She taps the clipboard she's carrying and smiles a little. "Usually, that means guests who've had too much to drink or maybe somebody was upset and making a scene. Card counting, slow play, things like that, not that somebody got through security and physically attacked a performer."

"Melina's show?" Sam isn't really asking; Dean wouldn't have dragged him inside for anything not related to her.

"Got it in one," Dean says, leaning back against the wall in a lazy slouch that doesn't fool Sam. He knows Dean's itching to be doing; the standing around is Dean's least favorite part of a job, even when he's not already strung-out and not sleeping. "Pretty damn odd after last night."

"It's weird," Sam agrees, keeping his voice low. "But I don't know if it's our kind of weird."

"I don't know if it's your kind of trouble, but things like that just don't happen here," Kasey says. "I've worked plenty of places that say they have security, but this is the big leagues here. They take it beyond seriously."

Sam nods slowly. He's seen the discreet security guys, but he knows there are a lot more whose job it is to be invisible.

"I don't know, Dean," he says. "I'm not finding jack connected to Melina, or her cous--"

"Get us into tonight's show," Dean says, ignoring Sam in a way that makes Sam itch to blow up. "I wanna check things out, sweep as much as we can for EMF."

Dean knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how much his tone gets to Sam; Sam holds on tight his control, because he knows it'll piss Dean off a little bit more not to get a reaction. He shrugs and pulls out his phone. "Early show or late?"

"What do you think," Dean snaps. "We're gonna need to crawl all over the stage."

"Awesome," Sam says. "I have dinner reservations at seven; I probably wouldn't be finished in time for the early show."

Dean's jaw tightens, but he turns away and stalks off without throwing the punch Sam knows is coiled up tight in his shoulder. It's less satisfying than Sam expects it to be, and he dials the number with a sigh. The concierge is quick and efficient and they have seats for the ten o'clock show in minutes. He texts the confirmation number to Dean and makes himself send it without adding any editorial comments.

"Not that I know all that much about what he does," Kasey says, looking at Sam thoughtfully. "What the two of you do, obviously. But comparatively speaking, this doesn't seem like enough to spin a guy like Dean up quite this tight."

"Sorry," Sam says. "It's been a long... year. Couple of years. We're kind of getting on each other's nerves. A lot." He scrubs hard at the bridge of his nose, right where the headaches always start. "It doesn't really matter now, I don't think, but what was it that Dean took care of back then?"

"Poltergeists?" She pitches her voice low, so no one can hear. "There had been a lot of renovations and they were disturbed. More than one, and not like anything I'd ever heard about them."

"They can be vicious," Sam tells her. "Not just little tricks, like the stories that get told around a campfire."

"It was...scary," Kasey says. "Terrifying. Walls bleeding, windows imploding, elevator cables fraying… A couple people landed in the hospital. I came here as a dealer during the middle of it. By the end, before Dean did whatever it was that he did, got rid of them, things were horrible. It was impossible to keep anyone working here. The whole place was on the edge."

One of the dealers comes up then, and Sam steps back to let Kasey take care of things. She walks off a few steps with the guy, words flying back and forth, rapid-fire. When she turns back, it's clear it's just to say good-bye.

"Uh, Kasey, look, do you have another minute or two? There's something I need to talk to you about." Sam can feel the blush starting, and he hasn't even gotten to the cringe-worthy stuff yet. It needs to be said, though, so he waits while she sends the dealer off. "I, uh, wanted to, um…"

Kasey tucks her pen behind her ear. "Look," she says. "I spend eight, ten hours a day being diplomatic and defusing things before they go from inconveniences to charges being filed. I'm pretty plain-spoken the rest of the time. Whatever it is, just say it. Trust me, I'll have heard worse."

"Yeah. Okay." Sam takes a deep breath and lets it sigh out. "I'm sorry for this morning." As hot as it feels, his face has to be beet red now. "About not leaving. I'm sorry. It was intrusive and inappropriate."

"Was it really an accident?" Kasey cocks her head at him, her gaze sharp and assessing, not missing a thing, Sam's sure. She might spend her days defusing things, but she also runs the floor and that's not a job for a push-over. "Or was it a set-up?"

"No!" Sam manages to keep his voice down, but just barely. "I swear I didn't know you were out there; I just wanted a bottle of water and--"

"It's okay," she says, and she's not laughing at him, but it's close. "Dean said it was an accident; I was just double-checking."

"No, yeah, it was. Completely an accident. And, and, yeah, I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," Kasey says, smiling for real this time. "Not that I necessarily have a problem with it happening even if it's not an accident," she adds. "I just like to be in on the decision-making process."

She gives him another not-quite-laughing-at-him smile as she turns to walk off. After a bit, Sam manages to get his jaw off the ground and gets his ass back out to the cabana, but he can't help wondering how much of that she's said to Dean, too.

***

The pool's lost a little of its easy charm, but it's still better than brooding in the room, so Sam drinks a couple more beers and finishes his book before he goes back up to shower. Anytime he's asked about dress codes, he's always been assured that anything is fine, but since he's set up for a real restaurant, not the café he's been practically living in, he digs out the suit he uses whenever they need to look respectable on a job.

In the end, he could have ordered the same steak from room service, but at least this way he has something new to look at while he eats alone. He halfway expects Dean to show up, like he did for breakfast, tossing aside the menu and asking for another bacon cheeseburger, but the extra seat across from him stays empty all the way through dessert.

It's empty at the table Dean insisted he reserve for the show, too, well after things get started; after intermission, even. He's alone long enough to work his way through two beers and start considering all the ways he can pay Dean back for blowing him off. He's gotten to non-permanent alterations to the car when Dean slides into the other chair and steals his beer.

"Ass," Sam hisses, grabbing for the bottle. Dean holds him off easily, mostly because Sam isn't quite ready to cause a scene.

"Aww," Dean whispers. "You missed me."

Sam shouldn't even dignify that remark with a response, but he can't help tightening his mouth, which is enough to put a full-on smirk on Dean's face. Luckily, a waitress comes by with a fresh beer, and Sam snatches it off the table before Dean can, which only earns him a sidelong look from the waitress as she takes Dean's order.

"Easy there, Sammy," Dean says. "There's plenty more where that came from." He smiles like he's sharing a joke with the waitress--So impatient, such a brat, what can you do with him?--but his smile doesn't really reach his eyes. That's how Sam can tell he's doing it just to piss Sam off. Even knowing it though, he still has to count backward from a hundred. Dean flirts a little, but eventually orders a beer for himself, so Sam doesn't say any of the ten or twenty nasty comments that occur to him and starts trying to pay attention to the show again.

"They're not too smooth tonight," Dean comments. Sam nods. It's not just the re-staging they've done to make up for Alex's absence. Melina's timing is off, forced. It's as though Sam's watching her through an imperfect window as she sets up each trick, like he could catch how the trick works if he watched out of the corner of his eye.

"The crowd isn't as into it either," Sam says. The previous night, Melina had had the audience eating out of her hand, but tonight, she's working for every second of applause.

"Well, you are. In fact, I think you're star-struck," Dean says as they applaud politely at the end of the show. "She always comes out to talk with the audience. She signs shit and all that. You're going to be her number one fan while I get backstage."

"Dean--" Sam starts, but Dean's gone, working his way back toward stage left and the shadows in the corner of the room. A part of Sam wants to follow him and have things out right here and now, but his feet are moving toward the knot of fans gathered in front of the stage, to set up the diversion, be the bait, lay down the covering fire. Be the good little brother.

He stands on the fringes of the group, angling himself so he can see the length of the stage, giving his best impression of eager anticipation while he waits for the crowd to thin and--more importantly--for Dean to roll up onto the stage. He catches the quick flicker of motion that's his brother in stealth mode right as the woman in front of him starts stammering out her excitement at actually being so close to Melina jumbled together with her pride in a girl from the neighborhood making good.

Melina handles it all with a deft and--to Sam's eye--surprisingly humble touch, sharing a couple of brief stories about churches and schools and posing for a picture with the woman, taken by an obviously mortified teenage daughter. When she turns to Sam, though, there's nothing humble in how she runs her eyes over him. Dean would love it, would be throwing the same attitude right back at her. It mostly just annoys the shit out of Sam.

"Thanks for waiting," she says, with a smile that's as false as the previous one had been sincere. "It's always a pleasure to meet someone who's a big enough fan to see me two nights in a row."

"I guess I'm busted." Sam smiles back with equal insincerity. "I've always been fascinated by magicians and how they make things happen."

"Years of practice," Melina answers, her voice edging toward brittle.

"I don't doubt it," Sam says. "This is all a little bit different than everything else you've done, though."

"I like trying new things," she says. "A show on this scale lets me do so many things that a street show can't handle."

And the payday definitely doesn't suck either, Sam thinks, but he tries to look impressed. At least he has a play card for her to sign; it was the only thing on the table other than the card with the drink prices on it. Predictably, Melina has a flashy autograph, her name taking up the entire length of the card.

"Where's your friend?" she asks, as she hands the card back. Sam reminds himself that she's made a very good living off reading people. He's good at faking people out, but he doubts that he's fooling her much.

"Right here," Dean says, coming up behind Sam. From how she narrows her eyes, Sam's pretty sure Melina hadn't seen Dean before he spoke, and he's positive that it bothers her a whole lot more than she wants to let on.

"Oh, hey, look." Dean takes the card out of Sam's hand. "You got your autograph." Sam grits his teeth at the condescension in Dean's voice, not caring at all whether Melina sees. "He's a big fan," Dean says to Melina. "I can't keep him away. It's really nice of you to come out and make people's dreams come true like this."

Every time Sam thinks Dean can't possibly get more irritating, he'll do something like this to top himself. The smirk he turns on Sam is proof enough that he knows exactly how much Sam wants to throttle him right now.

"Yeah," Sam makes himself choke out. "Thank you for this." He waves the paper with as much faked enthusiasm as he can muster, and if he comes a little too close to Dean's face, so he has to jerk back, well, too much excitement will do that to you. "Do you always change assistants between shows?" Sam manages to keep from poking Dean's eye out with the corner of the card by the slimmest of margins; the set of Dean's shoulders promises retribution, but that's nothing compared with the annoyance that flashes in Melina's eyes at his question.

"No," she says, short and crisp. "Alexander, my cousin--he's been with me since the beginning. He was a little under the weather, so we switched things around a bit." An older woman touches Melina lightly on the arm and Melina forces a smile that's as strained as the one on Sam's face. "I'm sorry," she lies, not even trying to cover it. "I have to go now. Thank you for coming to the show."

"Sammy wouldn't have missed it for the world," Dean says, but Melina's already walking swiftly across the stage.

Sam keeps quiet until they're back out into the lobby and the general noise level is enough to cover him hissing, "God, could you be any more obnoxious?" Dean smirks and Sam rubs at the bridge of his nose again, pushing back the headache. "Never mind."

"You sure you don't want an answer?" Dean threads his way through knots of people, dodging the ones bound for the casino on a mission and the tourists gawking at the murals on the walls and the open interior with equal ease, aiming for an empty grouping of couches and tables. "Good," he says when Sam shrugs. "Now can we maybe get down to some business here?" He pulls his EMF meter, the one that looks like an MP3 player, out of the pocket of his jacket and waves it in Sam's face. "Lit up all over the stage."

"Define 'lit up,'" Sam says. Dean drops down onto a couch and props his feet on the table. Sam kicks them down as he passes by; Dean has them back up before Sam even reaches the next chair, but it's the principle that counts.

"Solid ones and twos everywhere I could get to--" That's weak and Dean knows it without Sam having to tell him. "And three lights where the cousin went down last night."

"Dean," Sam sighs. "That's--I'm finding nothing on the research and that's barely more than nothing there. It could be anything--even just left over from before."

"Or it could be something," Dean says. "That guy's two for two in weird, nasty shit happening to him over the last couple of days, and that's just the stuff that's been public. I couldn't get back into the dressing rooms, but it was staying lit up even heading back that way."

"And I repeat, anything could be causing it."

Dean sits up, puts his feet on the floor so he can take the meter out of his pocket and slap it down on table. It's quiet, no lights or sounds, and Sam takes his point.

"We should keep digging, is all I'm saying." Dean's jaw is set.

"Fine," Sam says, rubbing his face. "What do you suggest we do next?"

"See what's in the dressing rooms, work from there." Dean stands in the quick, fluid motion Sam's never been able to match. "Give them a couple of hours to settle down and clear out first."

"Whatever. I'm gonna go crash." Sam stands up, too. "Come get me when you want to go."

"What? No reservations for the late-night hours?"

"Shut up, Dean. It's not like I'm the one who--" Sam stops, deliberately closes his mouth and edges around the table.

"You're not the one who what, Sam?" Dean's voice is tight and sharp.

"Never mind." Sam keeps walking. "You know where to find me when it's time to go chase whatever it is you think we're chasing." He stops for a second. "Unless you want the room tonight."

"Is that what this is about?" Dean asks. "This whole prissy little bitch attitude you've got working is cause of a chick?"

"You're kidding me, right?" Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "You think, after all these years of watching you work that punk-ass attitude, I give a flying fuck what you do on your own time?"

"I think 'watch' is the operative word here."

Sam counts to ten, but he knows he could count to a thousand and it wouldn't make a difference. "Actually," he snaps, nightmares fresh and vivid in his mind. "You're right. But not how you mean."

"Aw, that's too bad," Dean says, and he's all but purring with satisfaction. "Because I was gonna say that you didn't have to just watch if you didn't want to."

Sam can feel the slow heat across his cheeks, but he meets Dean's smug little smirk as evenly as he can. "Let me get this straight," he says, slow and deliberate, because as much as he wants to think he's jumping to conclusions, the expression on Dean's face, half-mocking, half-daring, is telling him he's not. "You're offering--no, wait--you're inviting me to--"

"Get down off that high horse and come roll around with the rest of us? Yeah." Dean whistles mock-admiringly. "Guess Stanford really did know what they were doing with that full ride they gave you."

There's a second when Sam's sure that Dean wants him to start throwing punches, and then another second when he thinks Dean wants him to walk out the door and keep going, never come back, but then it all twists back to Dean on the floor, looking up at Sam as he comes. Sam shakes his head and turns blindly to go, not caring if Dean thinks he's running away.

***

In the end, after an hour of sitting in the atrium and staring blankly at the crowds, a latte going cold in his hands, Sam doesn't begin to pretend he's not going to take Dean up on his offer. He's not sure he gets points for honesty, but at least to himself, he's not going to make up excuses or elaborate explanations for why he's going back to the suite. He doesn't bother turning on lights when he gets inside, just pulls a beer out of the mini bar and drinks it at what's become his favorite spot in the room, next to the couch, looking out the window at the Strip. It's a hell of a lot easier not to think that way.

He doesn't look up when the door opens, just keeps watching the cars moving slowly down the road until there's a hand sliding up his arm and Kasey's there, leaning into him, waiting. Dean's behind her; Sam doesn't have to look to know he's strung as tight as Sam is himself.

"Are you staying?" Kasey asks. Her voice is little more than a whisper but her hand is steady on Sam's arm and when he nods, unable to find his voice, she tangles her fingers in his hair. He follows her lead, bending down to brush his mouth over hers, focusing on her, definitely not on his brother, no matter how aware the are of each other. Kasey starts off quick and light, easing him into it kiss by kiss, until Sam's got his hands on her waist and she's worked hers up under his shirt.

"C'mon, kids," Dean says. "Bedroom." He steps up close behind Kasey, his hands sliding around her waist, along and over Sam's, and Sam can't not gasp.

"Control freak," Kasey murmurs, kissing Sam one more time before she looks back over her shoulder at Dean. "What's wrong with right here?"

"Not a thing, darlin'," Dean tells her. "I was just trying for something a little classier." Sam can feel the tension in the muscles that lie under the skin next to his. Kasey must feel it, too, because she lets go of Sam long enough to curl an arm back and drag Dean closer, so she can kiss him, longer and deeper than she's been kissing Sam.

"It's okay, baby," she says, pulling back just enough to talk, her mouth still against Dean's. Even in the middle of all that's really not right in his head, Sam can hear the affection in her voice. "It's all good." Dean's mouth quirks up, not quite a smile, and he relaxes a tiny bit before he kisses her, hard. When she turns back to Sam and licks into his mouth, he can taste Dean and a jolt shocks through him when he realizes Dean's probably already tasted him.

If Sam thinks about it, he'll lose whatever control he's got, so he settles himself a little more firmly against the wall and focuses on the woman pressed close to him--her hands sliding up and under his shirt, nails raking a light path on the way back down--and not on the other hands that occasionally tangle with his own as he eases open buttons and fumbles with zippers, sliding the black Armani off and letting Kasey work his dress shirt open and his the t-shirt under it up. It's awkward and clumsy, but hotter than hell and Sam doesn't think that's just because there are three of them.

"You want it like this?" Dean asks, sliding his hands down so they span Kasey's waist, teasing at the elastic of her thong. Sam closes his eyes, just for a second, as the backs of Dean's fingers brush low on his belly, phantom touches that go straight to his dick. Dean's voice goes lower, hoarse. "You tell me, Kase..."

"Yeah," Kasey whispers, her hair falling over her shoulder, so Sam can't see her face. "Like this, right here." Her breath hisses in as Dean quits teasing and pushes her underwear down over her hips. She works her hand down, and Sam arches up as the heel presses sweet and hard along the length of his dick. He tugs at the button on his slacks, pulling them open, and groans when she gets his dick free, curving his hands around her hips to pull her closer and dropping his head back against the wall.

He doesn't have to open his eyes to know when Dean pushes into her, smooth and slow, an easy rocking rhythm that she mirrors on Sam. Dean's breathing in quick, tight gasps that tell Sam how hard he'd like to be going, but Dean's always had an iron-clad control when he wants it.

"That good, darlin'?" Dean says, leaning forward to bite along the curve of her neck, his hair sweat-damp and soft against Sam's skin. "You want more?"

"Don't be such a tease, Dean," Kasey pants. "It's really goddamn annoying."

Sam agrees, but that's nothing new. Dean just laughs, not changing his rhythm at all, and Sam slides one hand along the curve of Kasey's hip and down between her legs, slicks two fingers in her heat. He lets Dean's motion push her against him and sets his teeth against the whine that wants to slip free when she loses a little of her finesse and starts dragging her nails along his dick. He returns the favor, flexing his fingers to rub harder and faster, liking how Kasey almost growls against him and how Dean loses a little of that control and picks up his pace.

"C'mon, c'mon," Kasey gasps, then cries out, high and sharp, when Sam slides his hand lower and pushes a finger into her, moving smoothly alongside Dean's dick. Dean freezes, eyes locked on Sam's, and Sam's heart stutters at the sight of Dean, raw and open in front of him, not even trying to hide and Sam can't--won't--give him anything less in return. It's only for an instant, and then Dean's dropping his eyes and moving again, hard now, not holding back at all. Sam pushes a second finger in and Kasey keens low in her throat, coming with her face pressed into Sam's shoulder. It's Dean Sam's watching, though, the flush crawling down his throat, the quick, shuddering breaths that are catching in his chest.

"God," Kasey breathes, shifting so she can start jerking Sam off again, long strokes, slow and tight, just a little too rough to let him come right there. Dean lifts his head, still breathing hard, and Sam should look away, there's no way they can deal with all this on top of everything else, but he can't. He doesn't want to and he won't. He leans his head back against the wall again and tries not to shake apart as Kasey draws it out and out and out, until he needs something more than the wall at his back, until he's reaching out and anchoring one hand on Dean's hip, solid and strong and always there for Sam.

***

There's awkward--walking in on your brother fucking--and then there's awkward--getting handed a washcloth to get cleaned up after you've just helped your brother with the fucking. Dean's not looking at him, but Sam still doesn't know exactly what to do, especially once Kasey kisses him one last time and disappears into the bathroom. He's torn between moving as fast as he can to get his shirt back on and his pants buttoned and zipped, and taking as long as possible, just so he has something to pretend to be doing. Dean opts for the quick route, but then, it's okay for him to slide into the bathroom, too. Sam finally just sits down on his bed and goes back to not thinking.

He admits defeat when Dean saunters back out of the bathroom, one towel looped around his neck, a second riding low on his hips. Sam takes it all in a quick glance, then looks back down, only to be hit with a damp, balled-up towel.

"God, what?" Sam says. Dean just smirks at him. "Fuck," Sam groans. "You of all people can't be wanting to talk about this."

"Hell, no," Dean says. "I just wanted to make sure you knew you didn't want to talk about it either." He picks up a pair of clean boxers, shoving the towel down over his hips, and Sam can't not see the reddened spot, right on Dean's hip, the one he knows matches his own hand. It'll darken to a bruise before long--Dean's skin has always marked easily--and Sam's really not ready to think about why that's almost enough to get him hard one more time. Or why Dean doesn't say anything when he catches Sam watching, just pushes his feet into his boots and grabs a shirt and a key on his way out to wait for Kasey in the other room.

***

Kasey makes noises like she thinks they should stay, but Sam manages to find the words to say that he's fine, it was all fine. He's pretty sure she's not convinced, but he must have looked desperate enough that she takes pity on him and leaves with Dean. Sam showers and crawls into bed, and isn't all that surprised when the nightmares get amped up an extra notch. He sleeps, and then doesn't, and then sleeps again, a vicious cycle that he finally gives up on late in the morning. By the time he gets out of the room, the café is in the middle of the lunch rush, but they greet Sam like a long-lost relative and have him seated at his usual table in the back in no time. Deb drops a mug of coffee in front of him while he's still booting up his laptop, so he gives up the vague idea of looking at the menu and goes with a short stack and an extra order of bacon.

He clicks through the standard list--the half-dozen email address he keeps up with, a couple of mailing lists, the Onion, News of the Weird, stuff like that. There's a message from Bobby in one of their inboxes, which is unusual enough that Sam clicks it open first. Bobby's not like his dad was--he can use technology fine, he's just stubborn enough not to want to--but all it says is that they should stay out of sight for a little while longer. Sam finds himself reading with exaggerated care.

It's better than thinking about the feel of Dean's skin against his own.

He keeps his eyes glued to the screen while he eats, looking up only to thank whoever's putting food in front of him. It helps, some--the routine--settling him someplace where he doesn't feel like he's going to jump out of his skin. The food helps, too; when Deb breezes by to clear empty plates and refill his coffee, he's thinking clearly enough to realize it's way past her normal shift.

"Pulled a double," she says, when he asks. "Don't mind the extra cash, but it's messing with the end of the semester something awful."

"Oh, yeah," Sam says. "I've been there." Most of the time these days, Stanford's nothing more than the fading pictures in his wallet, but occasionally something will send him right back there. Usually it's a girl, someone who really doesn't look like Jess, but there's a flash of hair or a laugh and it's enough.

"I have a final English portfolio due," she says, balancing plates and glasses on one arm. "In two hours. It'd probably be better if I went over it again, but that's not likely to be happening."

The youngish couple two tables over catch her eye and she's off before Sam can answer, and when she circles around with the coffee again she's back to all business. Sam lets her go, but stops her as she drops the check on the table. "Look," he says. "I know this is a little odd, but… I could give your portfolio a quick look if you want."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I really have been there." Sam shrugs. "And it'd give me something to do." He laughs a little at the look of disbelief on her face. "Yeah, I know, but this place really isn't my scene and I'm sick of staring at the suite."

"Look, I appreciate the offer, but I really can't--"

"Like I said, I know it sounds odd, but nobody's going to care if I sit here with my laptop, right?" She nods, so Sam keeps going. "I'm gonna be here for a while anyway and all I'm doing is staring at crap on the screen. At least I'd feel like I was doing something worthwhile."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"I'm the geek of the family," Sam says.

Deb looks at him for another couple of seconds, then shrugs and reaches into the front pocket of her black slacks. "Everything's marked ENG1102," she says, laying a jump drive on the table. "Please don't lose any files."

"I'll be careful," Sam promises.

"Swear to God, this job is never going to get normal," Deb mutters as she heads back toward the kitchen for a pick-up.

Truthfully, Sam isn't sure why he offered--good karma, paying forward help from unexpected sources, or a not-so-subtle subconscious attempt to replace his current reality with a part of the past--but once he finds the right files and starts reading, it's perfect. His brain has just enough to keep it occupied, and going through and smoothing over the standard freshman comp essays--Kate Chopin's use of symbolism, Tennessee Williams and his issues with women--has an easy nostalgia to it. He keeps a close eye on the clock, working steadily for an hour, until Deb has a break and can look over the changes before she disappears to send the files to her professor.

He signs for the check and is finishing off one last swallow of coffee when Deb comes back. "Thanks," she says, handing him an envelope that he knows has cash in it. He tries to not take it, but she stares at him, determined. "I appreciate your help, really. But…."

"It's better if it's strictly business," Sam finishes for her. "I get it." He does; he was the same for the longest time and never really got beyond letting more than two or three people cross over the line.

"Don't be leaving it as a tip either," Deb warns. She's smiling as she turns back to her other tables, but Sam knows she's serious. He shoves the envelope in his jacket pocket right as his phone vibrates with a text from Dean.

loading dock/10 min/don't forget your toolkit princess.

***

The damn hotel is so big it takes Sam all of the specified ten minutes and more to make it back up to the room and grab the backpack with his best set of lock picks and the good Maglite. Dean's pack is gone already, so Sam's assuming that they'll have all the basics. He just likes to have his own stuff.

Dean hisses at him from a partially open door when he finally figures out how to get around to the loading dock without being directed back to the more conventional guest areas, waving Sam over and all but dragging him inside.

"Ready to get your B&E groove on, Sammy?" Dean doesn't wait for an answer, just starts weaving through a maze of utility corridors, moving fast enough that Sam has to concentrate on keeping up in the dim light.

"All right," Dean says, coming to a sudden stop at a set of heavy double doors. His voice is low, not a whisper because the hiss carries, but the quiet that's one step up from hand signals. Sam wonders why he can remember his dad telling him shit like that when he finds himself forgetting so much else, but then Dean pokes him to make sure he's listening. "If I'm remembering right, on the other side is the back hall where all the dressing rooms and stuff are. There should be a prop room or something. I figure we start there and see what turns up. You set to pop a few locks?"

There are people around; Sam can hear muted voices, but Dean barely waits for Sam's nod before he's easing the door open and moving through, quick and clean and quiet. The hallway's narrow and curved, but lit well enough that it only takes Sam a couple of seconds to pick the lock on the door Dean points him to. All in all, they're in the hall for maybe ten seconds, which isn't bad, considering they're barely speaking to each other.

Sam doesn't bother looking for the light switch; Dean's already got the EMF meter and his flashlight out. Sam lets his play over the room, rows of wardrobe racks and shelves, everything organized and labeled by hand. There's more stuff than Sam remembers being used in the show; Melina must like having everything nearby, whether she needs it or not.

Dean makes a disgusted sound, waving the EMF meter when Sam swings the light around to him.

"Nothing," he says. "I'm not even getting what I had up on the stage."

"Dean--" Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off.

"If it was left over from the last time, I'd at least be getting something," Dean says. "I was getting readings off the high side then, everywhere."

"Okay," Sam says. "So, what now?"

"We're gonna have to get into the dressing rooms," Dean answers, right as someone out in the hall starts shouting. "Shit," he swears, flicking off his light a split-second after Sam kills his own. Sam stays still until his eyes adjust to the tiny bit of light coming in under the door, then inches across the room to join Dean. The shouting outside ebbs and flows, but it doesn't seem to have anything to do with them. Which is good, but they're still stuck until whatever's going on gets settled..

Dean slides down the wall to sit next to the door. Sam's not sure whether to follow, but he feels stupid standing there, so he takes the wall on the other side of the door.

"I'm sorry," he says, into the darkness.

"Sam," Dean sighs. "Seriously. We do not need to share. It was what it was--"

"Not about last night," Sam says and wants to laugh at how fast Dean shuts up. "I'm sorry I just assumed Dad was who the letter was addressed to."

"Not that big a deal, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam says. "That's why you got so pissed off when I did it. I should have known it from the start." Maybe it's because sitting here in the dark reminds him of when they were kids, just him and Dean alone, but it's easier to say the things that have been needing to be said. And maybe it's easier for Dean to hear them, too, because there's no smart-mouthed comeback when Sam finishes. "I mean, Dad helped a lot of people, yeah, but most of them never really wanted to ask him back once he was finished."

"Could have used you then," Dean says. "Worst set of poltergeists I've ever seen. Kasey just about lost--" He breaks off at the unmistakable squawk of an emergency band radio just outside the door. They're both end up on their feet, barely breathing.

Dean presses up close to the door, listening hard. "EMTs?" he says. "Not cops, not security." Sam leans in, too, so he can hear, ignoring the solid heat of Dean right next to him. They're definitely listening to the familiar cadence of someone calling vital signs, while someone else is taking some serious heat from a pissed-off female voice that can only belong to Melina.

"Yes," she's saying. "Of course I understand Alexander needs to go to the hospital immediately; I'm the one who called you. But I want to know how his appendix could have ruptured so quickly. He was fine an hour ago, and now you're telling me it looks like peritonitis?"

Her voice fades as they move past the door; Sam knows Dean's counting, probably to a thousand before he moves, just to make sure everyone's gone.

"This is the weirdest fucking case," Dean mutters. "What the hell gives a guy a ruptured appendix?"

"Beats me," Sam answers. "I'm thinking we should check his dressing room first."

"Good by me," Dean says, opening the door.

Sam gets the lock picks out again and he's a couple of seconds slower this time, but they're still back inside in less than a minute.

"Losing your touch, Sammy?"

There are days when Sam honestly wonders if Dean's even remotely aware what he's saying, or if the crap he dishes out is just on automatic. He isn't paying attention to Sam; he's got eyes for nothing but the EMF meter, but he still can't be quiet.

"Guess I'll never make master criminal now," Sam answers, because apparently he can't shut up either. "And speaking of losing your touch, are you getting anything or is this another gut feel that isn't quite working out?"

"A little higher than what I was getting on the stage, even that one spot where Cursed Boy fell--"

"Which is still not much of anything," Sam interrupts. Dean's being extra-thorough, but Sam can see the scale on the meter, and other than a quick flicker to three when Dean goes over the wardrobe rack, it's not budging past two lights.

"We've got a couple more rooms yet."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Sure."

"Dude," Dean snaps. "Give it a rest, okay? It's not like you haven't been having yourself a grand old time here with your dinner reservations and nifty new clothes." He mutters something else under his breath; all Sam catches is fucking desert.

"What?" Sam demands, grabbing the EMF meter out of Dean's hands so he has to look at Sam. "What about the desert?"

Dean glares at him, pure simmering rage in his eyes, which is fine because Sam's got enough of that on his own to match Dean any day.

"I said, and it's not like giving me a little credit here isn't gonna be a drop in the bucket compared to what you owe me for the crap that went down in the desert."

"Oh, no," Sam all but snarls. "I had it. I had one last phrase--three words--in that ritual and I was done and you crossed the salt line and--"

"Fucking distracted the one that was about to take your head off, because, 'oh, no, Dean, I can handle it, no problem,' does not mean I get to watch while something kills you ag--"

"--I sent you with them," Sam finishes, and he doesn't care that his voice is shaking. "I couldn't stop in the middle and it took you, too."

"I knew you couldn't," Dean says, very quietly, but clear and direct. "I knew it before I started moving."

"That's supposed to make it better?" Sam takes an extra second to try to get his voice back under control. "I see it every single night, over and over and over, and it doesn't matter that it's a dream now; it happened.

"Yeah," Dean says, in that same quiet voice and Sam knows there isn't an answer to any of it, but he can't not try.

"I just--" he starts.

"It all worked out," Dean says, like that's supposed to help. Sam would be really fucking pissed if it didn't sound like Dean's trying to convince himself as much as he is Sam. "We're here. We lived to tell the tale, man. You can't ask for much more in hunting."

"No," Sam says, the words bitter in his mouth. "I guess you can't." The room's quiet and still; Sam leans back against the wall and listens to Dean breathe.

"All right," Dean says, after a bit. "Let's try Melina's dressing room and see if anything turns up there."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Jesus, Sam, I don’t know, okay? One fucked-up thing at a time."

Since that's about the best description of their life Sam can possibly imagine, he shrugs and follows Dean out the door.

***
***

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Acknowledgements & Thanks