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When Push Comes to Shove, 3/3
"Got it," Dean says.
"What?" Sam says. "Your Spidey sense is tingling? How do you know?"
"Fine," Dean snaps. "Bring me the EMF meter just to be sure, but this is it."
Sam crosses the room in three quick strides, crouching down next to Dean to check out the pair of old-fashioned handcuffs Dean's poking with a pencil. The meter lights up like Christmas and Dean grunts with satisfaction.
"Will that burn?" Sam asks. Leather is pretty tough and there's metal there, too.
"Put enough lighter fluid down and anything'll burn," Dean says. "We're gonna have to do this somewhere else, though."
"Cursed handcuffs," Sam mutters, digging in his pack for the pair of heavy work gloves they keep around. "That's a new one."
"Handcuffs, paintings, whatever," Dean says. "Let's just deal with it and get the hell out."
"Sorry to interrupt," a female voice says and Sam knows before he even turns around that this is not good. Hearing Dean say, "Easy now, let's not get crazy," doesn't do much to change his mind.
Dean's got his hands out, clearly visible, but Sam's getting all kinds of alarms from how Dean's standing, poised and tense, ready to move.
"Up," says the woman. "Nice and slow and yes, I do know how to use this thing."
Sam stands, carefully, hands out like Dean's and turns around, not at all surprised to see Melina covering them both with a businesslike .38. From the way she's handling it, yeah, she probably does know how to use it.
"Look," Sam says. "This isn't what you think--"
"Really?" Melina snaps. "You two didn't break in here, go through all my stuff, and decide to steal the one thing of any real value?"
Dean's edging away from Sam, slow and easy, no more than an inch at a time but Melina isn't at all distracted and she waves him back so she can cover them both without turning.
"We need to take care of those cuffs, okay?" Dean's got that edge to his voice, the one that says he's about ten seconds from going ballistic, which is bad enough, but Sam can tell Melina's reading Dean as easily as Sam is, and given that she's the one holding the gun, that's about a hundred times worse.
"Of course you do," Melina says, waving Dean closer to Sam. "The market for them on eBay is out of control."
"Aw, hell, Sam, I think I'm offended." As far as Sam can tell, Dean hasn't taken his eyes off the gun for even a split-second. He hasn't either, but with Dean, that's usually the sign that he's gauging angles and distances.
"Easy, man," Sam mutters, pretty sure Dean's not listening.
"As much as I'd love to get a buck or two out of this gig," Dean says, "that whole cursed object thing keeps tripping me up. You know, like people who know every inch of the stage falling and breaking bones? Stuff like that."
"This sounds crazy, I know," Sam starts.
"I really don't care how it sounds," Melina interrupts, backing carefully toward the phone. "You can tell security. They should be real happy to listen, seeing as how they fucked up again today and let you scum get past."
"Okay, you know what? I've had about enough of this," Dean says, rolling up on the balls of his feet. Melina brings her second hand up to brace the wrist of her shooting hand and there's an instant like in the desert, where Sam can see everything that's about to play out, Dean going for the handcuffs and Melina shooting, and Sam doesn't think she'll be any too careful where she's aiming.
"Goddammit, Dean," Sam snarls, the adrenaline slamming through him. "Back down." He takes a half-step toward Dean, not even sure of what he's going to do. Melina shouts something that's lost in the sudden pounding of his heart but Dean stops. He's not happy about it; they're gonna fight this one out later, Sam can tell, but he can breathe again, at least until Melina starts running her mouth.
"Ohh," she says, derision oozing from every word. "There's a short leash. Don't forget to tell him what a good boy he is."
There had been a couple of times, fighting with Dad before leaving for Stanford, when Sam had been so mad he'd literally seen red. This isn't quite as bad--nobody but Dad will probably ever be able to hit all his buttons like that--but nothing much else felt like this.
Sam grabs a charging Dean with one hand and slaps the gun out of Melina's hand with the other. By some miracle, it doesn't go off as it bounces and skitters across the floor. Melina dives for it, but Sam gets one foot on it before she can reach it. He loses Dean in the process, though, unable to hold on when Dean twists back against their combined momentum.
Everybody freezes, eyes bouncing between each other and the gun and the phone and Sam's suddenly over it.
"Enough," he says, mostly to himself. He looks at Dean, still focused on the handcuffs, and then at Melina, clearly trying to decide whether she can reach the phone before anyone can get her and repeats himself. "Enough. You want your toy? Take it." Dean opens his mouth, ready to argue. "No, Dean, I mean it. I'm sick of this, of driving with one hand so I can keep you from bleeding out with the other, sitting still so the stitches you're putting in me won't scar, all so we can get up and do it again the next day."
He turns back to Melina and gestures toward the table. "Seriously," he says. "Take them. You want to pretend like nothing's going on, not even try to listen when somebody tries to explain, fine. I'm done watching him," he jerks his head toward Dean, "die over shit like this."
"Sam," Dean says, his voice low and urgent. "C'mon, man, we need to get rid of those, you know we do."
"No, we don't."
"You know that's what's doing it," Dean says. "We stop now and they're not going to figure out what's wrong with him--"
"I don't care," Sam interrupts. "We'll be going now," he says to Melina. "You can call security or whatever, but you might want to head to the hospital, because they're not going to be able to stop whatever it is they think is wrong with your cousin."
"And I suppose you can tell me what's wrong with Alex," Melina says, still with the attitude.
"Aside from him probably being cursed?" Sam answers, shrugging. "Nah, I can't. I might be able to figure it out with some more research, but I can almost guarantee it's linked to those cuffs."
"And I should just give you them and you'll make it all better." Melina laughs, short and bitter. "Cursed handcuffs? I've heard some good scams in my time, but this one takes the fucking cake."
"Your choice." Sam crouches down to pop the clip, dropping it in the pocket of his coat before kicking the gun across the room. "C'mon," he says to Dean.
"Wait a minute," Dean says, not looking up from where he's studying the handcuffs. "Please," he adds, and Dean never asks for anything. Sam shakes his head, but he stops and looks back at Dean. Dean nods once, then asks Melina, "How did Houdini die?"
"Ask him," she answers, all but snarling and looking at Sam. "He can research it."
"I'm asking you," Dean says. "I know already and he probably does, too; there's no telling what gets stored in that geeked-out head of his. I want to know if you know." She crosses her arms and stares at Dean, but since she isn't going for the gun or the phone, Sam's willing to let whatever Dean's working play out. For a bit. "C'mon, one question and we'll go."
"Fine," Melina snaps. "Houdini died of peritonitis from a ruptured appendix."
"Yeah," Dean says, smiling. "And what's the legend?"
"That it ruptured because some guy took him up on his claim that he could control his stomach muscles..."
Sam gets it at the same time Melina does, and finishes the sentence for her. "And sucker punched him. Nothing that actually has anything to do with the appendix, but the stories started before they even buried him."
"They think he might have ignored the pain from the appendix, thought it came from the punches." Melina's voice is subdued, but sure.
"And a couple of days before that?" Dean asks.
"He broke his ankle on stage during a show," Melina breathes. "Which is probably why he didn't avoid the punches."
"And the HH stamped on the leather, right at the base of the cuffs…?" Dean doesn't even have to point, but he likes the big moment and since he's been right all along, Sam's not going to give him a hard time about it.
"They're his," Melina says. "Houdini's. We won them at auction last week; Alex got to try them on before he brought them back here."
"Bingo," Dean says.
They end up needing acid to deal with the metal parts of the cuffs; Melina calls someone and has it delivered in less than ten minutes. She asks to stay with them, to see them take care of things, but otherwise doesn't say a word. She has a car waiting for her at the front desk; as soon as they finish up the salt and burn, she leaves for the hospital.
Sam expects Dean to disappear like he has been, but Dean rides the elevator up with him and when Sam gets out of the shower, he's still there, feet propped on the table in front of the couch and a rerun of The A-Team murmuring quietly on the plasma screen.
Sam leans against the doorframe and watches for a little while. "I remember this one," he says when Dean turns around. "Face's college girlfriend turns out to be a nun."
"Yeah," Dean says, smiling. "And she's the chick from Night Court. Who knew the sisters were so hot?"
They stay like that until the episode ends, and Sam falls asleep to Dean whistling the theme music in the shower.
He doesn't sleep straight through, but he's not alone in his dreams and every time he wakes up during what remains of the night, he knows Dean's there, too.
It's nearly sunset when he wakes up for real, still not quite slept out even with losing an entire day, but miles better than anything within recent memory. There's a room service tray with a half-dozen donuts sitting on it and a note in Dean's worst scrawl, something about princesses needing their sugar fixes along with their beauty sleep. Seeing as Sam hasn't eaten since before they started the crap with Melina and her show the previous night, he doesn't really care what Dean calls him, especially not when he notices the bottle of milk sitting in the room's ice bucket.
Dean wanders in right as Sam is finishing his fourth, a raspberry-jelly-filled cruller that's almost enough to send Sam into a sugar coma. "Got a visit from one of Melina's boys," Dean says, reaching for the Boston-crème-filled one. "Alex made a miraculous recovery; the opening's going off as scheduled tonight; and there are tickets to the show and the after-party waiting for us if we want them."
"Do we?" Sam asks, chugging the milk before Dean decides he needs that, too.
"It's not like we get invites to shit like this all the time." Dean eyes the now-empty bottle of milk in Sam's hand and grabs a bottle of water from the bar.
"Or ever," Sam says.
"That, too," Dean agrees. He pulls out a second bottle and tosses it to Sam. "You in?"
"Yeah," Sam says, a little surprised at even being asked. "Sure."
"Then shake a leg, princess. Showtime's in a couple hours and I'm gonna need more than sugar and grease before then."
One shower, two steaks and four mini-bottles of Jack later, they're front and center as Melina slams it into overdrive and puts an end to all the whispers and snide comments about how she's a pale imitation of the real thing. Even with the personnel shifts she's made to deal with Alex not being there, she makes sure to cover any rough edges with the force of her personality. Sam doesn't begrudge her the three curtain calls. Much.
The after-party in VIP at the biggest club at the hotel is more or less what Sam expected: crowded and loud, bars everywhere he turns, and the extra-special touch of girls in lingerie seeding the dance floors. He ends up in a corner, nursing a double shot of ouzo and watching Dean hold court at the main bar. He wouldn't have said it was Dean's scene either--he knows the techno has to be nearly causing Dean physical pain--but that's the thing about Dean: when he wants someplace to be his scene, it is.
And Dean's definitely decided to make it his scene tonight. There's a group of girls rocking the sequin and mini-skirt look, and whatever Dean's saying to them has them laughing and practically adopting him. The bartenders are dropping shots in front of him whenever one of them walks by, and even Melina stops and graces him with her presence as she arrives with her entourage.
Even in the dim lighting, Sam can see Dean's smile flashing and how he's lounging against the bar, legs and body stretched out lazy and relaxed. That's nothing new--Dean was that long before Sam was old enough to legally be in the bars watching him. Since the other night, though, with Kasey, he doesn't just know how Dean looks, he knows how he feels, warm and heavy and strong against Sam.
Maybe it's the ouzo on top of the Jack, but Sam can't shake the low, whispering ache to feel it again. He finishes off what he's got in his glass, one quick swallow that all but rips the skin from his throat, and goes to find someplace a little more quiet where he can get himself under control.
The club has everything anyone could want, even small alcoves that are little more than giant couches, shielded from the noise. The first two he passes are otherwise occupied, but the third one's free and he drops carelessly down on the cushions. These last months have done a number on him and he needs to get his act together before things with Dean slide completely out of control.
"Dude," Dean says, appearing out of what seems like nowhere. "You took off like a bat out of hell. You okay?"
Sam can't help laughing at how very not okay he is, even though he knows he's freaking Dean out.
"Seriously, Sammy." Dean hauls him to his feet, gives him a little shake. "How much have you had to drink? Because, yeah, it's been a hell of a week, but c'mon, the crazy-ass bitch who had a gun on us is still flitting around here, so I vote for the low-alcohol plan."
"I'm not drunk," Sam says. "I'm not."
"Then what the hell's your problem?"
All Sam's life, he's been the one who was good with words, who could write anything in no time at all, argue any side he felt like, whether he agreed or not. Words have always been his friends, but tonight there's nothing but Dean, his hand still curled in the front of Sam's shirt, warm and alive against Sam's skin.
"This," he says simply, leaning down to brush his mouth over Dean's, warm and soft and the slightest scratch of stubble, pulling back after a second and waiting for Dean's reaction. Dean stays quiet, still, like he's on a hunt and processing everything in front of him before he explodes into action, and Sam leans back in, before whatever's going to happen starts; kisses him again, more than the first time but still careful and controlled, slow press of Dean's mouth against his. Dean's been drinking ouzo, too; Sam tastes anise, sweet and nostalgic, like the hard black candy Pastor Jim shared from his desk drawers.
"Sam," Dean says, letting go of Sam's shirt. Sam gets set to step away before Dean can push him, but all Dean does is lay his hand flat on Sam's chest, right over his heart. "Sam," he says again, and this time, Sam hears things that fit into everything he can't find the words to say. That's right, he thinks; Dean knows how to say things without words so much better than Sam has ever learned. This time, when he leans in, Dean moves with him, into him. In Dean-speak, it's an engraved invitation to kiss for real, slow at first, aching want sliding hot and languid through his veins until Dean catches his bottom lip in a careful bite, exactly sharp enough to rock Sam back, hissing.
Dean watches him, still with the hunter's eye, until Sam smiles and slides his tongue over where Dean's marked him, challenging, daring. Dean takes him up on it, pressing Sam back into the couch, pushing him down and following him, dragging his hand through Sam's hair to hold his head steady and fuck, Sam thinks as Dean's mouth comes down on his own. Fuckfuckfuck, this is happening and not stopping and Dean wants it as much as Sam does.
Dean kisses like he hunts, focused and sharp and hungry, like he's only going to get one shot and he's damn sure not going to miss. Sam opens his mouth and lets Dean's tongue push inside, shivering at the easy way Dean takes what he wants, at how fucking turned on he is, from nothing more than a kiss. He arches up against Dean, rocking into him, slow heat building in his thighs and belly and dick.
"Wait," Sam gasps. Dean freezes and Sam knows he's a split second from running, knows it was the wrong thing to say. He grabs Dean before he can pull away completely, words spilling out in a rush. "No, not stop, I just…not here." He can feel Dean's pulse racing under his hand, and feels it jump even more when he brings Dean's wrist to his mouth bites a soft kiss on the underside; licks, careful and deliberate, tracing the veins with his tongue. "Come back upstairs with me?"
Dean stills for long seconds, his eyes dark and serious, and Sam doesn't bother to hide the tremor in his hand when he reaches up to trace along the jaw he knows can set hard with determination, hardly daring to breathe for fear Dean's going to feel like he should stop them. He's lucky, though; Dean lets him touch, closes his eyes and swallows hard and follows when Sam stands.
The sudden quiet outside the club strips off another layer of camouflage, but Sam doesn't hesitate and he doesn't think Dean is either. They stand close in the elevator, pushed together by the other people already on board, but they don't separate once they're in the hallway and walking toward the door.
Sam crowds close as Dean swipes the key and then they're inside and Dean has him up against the wall almost before the door closes.
"Yeah," Sam pants, tilting his head back as soon as Dean lets go of his mouth, encouraging the scrape of teeth under his jaw. He grabs Dean's hips, pulling him in close, shivering at the hard rub of Dean's dick against his own, spreading his legs and arching up into him with clumsy, fumbling jerks.
"God, yes," he hisses, every time Dean bites down. "Yes, yes, yes." Dean latches on to the spot at the base of Sam's throat, sharp nips and quick, flickering licks and hard suction, latches on and doesn't stop. Sam's shaking and whining, grinding his dick up into Dean's.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam chokes out. "Could come right here, I, you could make me come like this." Dean growls, the vibration settling deep under Sam's skin, and Sam doesn't care what he sounds like, whether he's whining or pleading; he wants more.
"Bed," he says, pushing Dean back, keeping one hand on him, pulling and dragging at shirts with the other. Dean moves willingly, hands weaving in and around Sam's, and they're down to just jeans by the time they stumble their way into the bedroom.
He pushes Dean down onto the bed, going to his knees in the same motion, sliding his hands along Dean's thighs and swallowing hard.
"Want you," Sam says, looking up at Dean, biting hard at his own bottom lip. "Want to taste you, suck you." He bites down again, harder, to keep from babbling, so fucking beautiful, gorgeous, want to make you scream, never let you go, everything that he fully intends on saying, but not in the words that'll freak Dean out. "Can I?"
"Christ, Sam," Dean groans, and Sam's never going to forget the thrill of making Dean sound like this. "You think I'm going to say no to that?"
Sam ducks his head so Dean won't read the truth in his eyes. He makes his fingers, still clumsy and stupid, work at getting Dean's belt undone, but Dean sees through his pretense.
"I wouldn't," Dean says, hoarse and raw, his fingers combing through Sam's hair. "I'm not--God help me, but I'm not saying no now and I'm not gonna be saying it later."
Sam nods and leans into Dean for a second, rubs his cheek against the soft, worn cotton of Dean's jeans before he goes back to the belt and button and zipper. His hands are steadier now and it's short work to get Dean the way Sam wants him, naked and spread out, waiting only for Sam.
He takes his time; looks, then touches--thighs and abs, the smudgy bruises of his fingers along and under Dean's hips--and then finally tastes. Dean stays still beneath him, open and more patient than Sam's ever seen him, until Sam finally dips his head and traces his tongue along the length of Dean's cock and a long, slow shudder ripples through him. Sam licks again, as slow as he can make himself go, and then once again, coaxing Dean to helpless gasping before he takes the tip into his mouth with the barest of suction.
"Sam," Dean rasps, his hands knotted tight in the sheets, holding on so hard Sam can see the veins popping. "Fuck, please."
Sam relaxes his throat and lets Dean's cock slide, slow and steady, as deep as he can take it, then eases off and starts the whole thing again. Dean writhes under him, and he could grab at Sam, hold him down and make him stop teasing, but he's not, he's letting Sam draw it out, lying there, taking it. Sam groans at the thought, Dean's cock deep in his throat. Dean will stay like this; Sam knows it for sure. He'll force himself to not to move, no matter what Sam does, until Sam tells him it's okay, or probably even after, because that's what Dean does with him. Sam takes Dean deep again, swallowing around his dick and petting the tight, hard muscles under his hands, before he lets Dean go and looks up at him.
"Dean," Sam says, swallowing hard at the rasp in his throat. "I want it; I want you fucking my throat."
"Sam--"
"I can take it," Sam says, voice still hoarse. "I want it." He drops his head and mouths across the top of Dean's dick, holding it in his mouth, slow, steady curve of his tongue along the crown, but nothing more, nothing but the tease until Dean groans and pushes deeper. He's still careful at first, but when his dick hits the back of Sam's throat and Sam whimpers around it, an eager greedy noise he's sure he's never made before, Dean's hand slides into Sam's hair, tangling tight, and Sam can feel the control starting to crack. Dean pushes in again, harder and rougher, his hand tightening in Sam's hair so that he couldn't move even if he wanted to, and Sam's not quite gagging but he's leaning in for more and that's it. Dean slams his hips up, again and again, and Sam can't breathe, can't move, doesn't know anything that isn't Dean, his dick in Sam's throat, the weight of it and the heat, the taste. His own dick is hard and aching, rubbing and scraping against the zipper in his jeans and Sam thinks vaguely about getting his fly open, getting his hand on himself, but then Dean's coming and it's all Sam can do to take it.
Sam stays on his knees, leaning hard against Dean's leg, and tries to get the shaking under control, but Dean doesn't let him.
"Sam," Dean whispers, tugging on Sam's shoulders, his arms. "Sammy." Sam lets himself be pulled up, shifting and twisting until he's stretched out on the bed next to Dean, still strung tight with want and need. "Yeah," Dean says as his hands skim over Sam. "C'mon, let me, c'mon." His hands are quick and efficient, stripping Sam out of his clothes with the easy concentration Sam knows from a lifetime of Dean taking care of the things he loves, until there's nothing that can get in the way of Dean's hands, his mouth. Sam cries out--harsh, guttural--when Dean finally wraps a hand around his dick, but Dean isn't teasing. He strokes Sam slow and steady, covers Sam's mouth with his own and swallows down all the noises Sam can't help making.
Dean's hand is warm and callused; he figures out in a flash just how rough Sam likes it, and when he stops kissing Sam long enough to growl, "Can taste myself on you, Sam, all over you," Sam comes with a final high keen. Dean jacks him through it, stretching it out until Sam feels like he might shake apart and then slides down to lick Sam clean. He kisses Sam again, so that Sam can taste his own come, layered on top of Dean's, and then drags the comforter up and over them both and lets Sam wrap himself around him, not complaining even when it takes them hours to fall asleep.
Sam wakes up twice during the night, once when Dean shakes him, muttering, "Dude, my arm," and rolling him off his shoulder, and once when he loses the comforter during a nightmare, but after that, something in his brain turns off and he sleeps deep, so deep that he doesn't wake even when Dean gets out of bed. When Sam finally opens his eyes, Dean's standing at the foot of the bed, towel wrapped low on his hips and skin still damp from the shower. Exactly like two days earlier and wholly, fundamentally different. A drop of water slides down the back of his neck; Sam makes himself stay still, no matter how much his gut twists to taste it, chase the path right back up the curve of Dean's neck, strong and vulnerable and Sam's, now.
That surge of possessiveness is almost as scary as the knowledge that the other bed is neat and tidy, clearly not slept in, meaning that he and Dean didn't just fuck. From the way Dean's dressing and carefully not looking at him, Sam's pretty sure he's feeling the same way. When Sam sits up, though, Dean doesn't walk away, and some of the tension in the room eases.
"I can't hang around here today," Dean says, reaching for his boots. Sam pushes down the memory of Dean's fingers, quick and competent, stripping them off before pushing his jeans down and standing naked in front of him during the night.
"Yeah," Sam says, swallowing the disappointment. Dean still being here is a big enough thing; Sam needs to stop being greedy and wanting more.
"I figure it's about time I see what's up with my baby." Dean stands up and starts going through his wallet. He glances at Sam, quick and sidelong, before he adds, "You want to come with?"
"Uh, yeah," Sam stutters. "Sure, yeah. Just let me..." He gestures towards the bathroom, acutely conscious of being naked under the sheet.
"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. He ducks his head, but Sam sees the flush under the fair skin at the collar of Dean's shirt, the same thought maybe occurring to Dean. "No rush. I'm gonna go have them bring her up from the garage, get something for breakfast."
Sam waits until Dean leaves before he dives out of bed for the shower, stumbling in his haste, not at all sure of what's going on, but not telling himself to calm down at all.
Dean has coffee and a steak burrito from the food court on the casino level waiting for Sam; the valets have a freshly washed and detailed Impala waiting for them both. Juggling cups and wrappers and napkins keeps them both distracted until they're safely out of the city and heading back south the way they came. Dean quits fussing about not having a proper trash bag--not that they've ever had one, but apparently, since she's so clean now, it's necessary--and pops a tape in as he accelerates, which effectively stops any conversations Sam might want to have before they even start, but that's okay. Dean's in a Skynyrd mood, and a bootleg live mood at that. It's warm enough that they need the windows down; between the sun and the car and Ronnie Van Zandt wailing over the guitars on Simple Man, Sam has nothing to complain about, even if he doesn't know where they're going or if they're even going anywhere.
Dean's not just driving aimlessly, though; he pulls off Route 93 after less than an hour and Sam finds himself climbing out of the car, stretching out kinks and looking around at the visitor's center at Hoover Dam. He should have guessed; Dean loves shit like this, almost as much as he loves cars.
Normally, Sam would be checking the time every few minutes; feats of engineering are really not his thing, even before he factors in how easy it was to piss his dad off by not paying attention. He really doesn't give a damn how much water flows through the turbines or how many yards of concrete and steel it took to build the thing, but the sun's still out and the air is fresh, the wind whipping strong and brisk against his face. They end up standing along the railing, looking back across Lake Mead, shoulder to shoulder, easy with each other in a way they haven't been since long before Lilith reared her ugly head.
"I'm never not going to be stepping in front of you, Sammy," Dean says, still watching the sun dancing on the water.
"I'm never going to think it's worth it," Sam answers, turning his head to look at Dean, steady and serious, until he looks back, and Sam shrugs. "Never."
"Okay, then," Dean says, flipping his keys around the ring and letting them smack into his palm. "We're good."
"Yeah," Sam says, not lying at all. "We are."
Dean switches off from the Skynyrd on the drive back, popping in the lone Dead bootleg they have, the tape Sam found at a Goodwill for Dean's 21st birthday. He's a little ashamed whenever he sees it now; he bought it as much to score points against his dad in that last year before he left as to add to Dean's music collection. He's not surprised Dean still has it. It fits, mellower than Skynyrd, the melodies dipping and weaving between them, not covering things up like they're afraid to talk, but adding to what they've already said and strengthening what they don't need to.
Sam's stomach growls as Dean's coming up on their exit and Dean's smile flashes out.
"Hang in there, Gigantor," he says. "Almost there."
"Fuck off," Sam says, amiably. "Don't tell me you're not hungry, too." His eyes automatically scan the Gas-Food-Lodging signs as Dean brakes through the curve of the exit ramp. "Wait," he says. "Go left at the light."
"And I'm doing this, why?" Dean asks, but gets into the turn lane with his blinker on.
"Because I'm hungry," Sam answers.
"And the hotel with the free food is back the other way. There's what, seven? Eight? comped restaurants there."
"Ten," Sam says, catching sight of what he's looking for ahead on the right. "But this is better," he says, pointing Dean to the Blue Ribbon Diner sign. "Right?"
"If you say so," Dean says, but he's smiling and pulling the Impala into the last space out front.
"I do," Sam answers. "And I'm buying," he adds, remembering Deb's cash still in his pocket.
They have to wait a few minutes, but a booth comes free before Dean gets bored enough to start making trouble. It's the kind of place that has one of those golf tee puzzles at every table and a mini-jukebox at the end of every booth. The menus look like they were typed on an actual typewriter before being slid into vinyl holders and they have three times as many kinds of pie as they have vegetables, even if you stretch the definition of vegetables to count onion rings and fries and deep-fried corn nuggets.
Dean grins when the waitress calls him, "Hon," ordering a hot open-faced roast beef sandwich, with mashed potatoes and double corn, and when she turns to Sam, he shrugs and says, "Make it two."
They're served on plates that are more like platters and everything's fresh and hot and real--the roast beef sliced thin and the potatoes made with enough butter and cream to jump-start a heart attack. Dean makes a show of looking at the desserts, but Sam knows he'll go with cherry a la mode and steal half of whatever Sam orders. Sam gets chocolate silk, mostly so Dean can complain that pudding in a crust isn't really a pie while he scrapes the plate clean.
The coffee's rich and hot; Sam could stay there all afternoon and into the night, but Dean asks for the check as soon as they clear the last few plates. He's in the bathroom when it comes, but the cash in Sam's pocket covers it fine, and even if it's generous on the tip, the whole place was pretty much perfect. Sam smiles and tells their waitress he doesn't need any change.
He waits for Dean outside, leaning against the passenger-side door and letting the sun bake away the last of the too cool AC. No thinking, no worrying, just the car solid at his back.
"Dude," Dean says. "I don't care if you did just buy me lunch, no sleeping on my girl. She's a lady."
"I'm sure she appreciates your respect," Sam says, opening his eyes and pushing off the car to open the door.
"Oh, you know she does. Never let me down yet." Dean looks sidelong at Sam, clearly ready to keep going if Sam isn't showing the proper attitude. "Way too much crazy shit out there to not be taking any edge I can, Sammy."
"I'm not arguing with you," Sam answers, and he's not, not about the car, at least. Dean nods, satisfied, and pulls out onto the street, away from the interstate. "Where're we going?" Sam doesn't really care; it's more idle curiosity than anything, but when Dean flashes him the skittering look, the one that means he's feeling guilty, Sam sits up straighter and eyes his brother curiously. "Dean? Something you want to share?"
"It's... nothing, man," Dean sighs. "I just…I've been playin' a little on the side, and I'm in this tournament at the Bellagio..."
"Playing a little what on the side?"
"Poker." Dean stares fixedly at the road in front of them and Sam has to look twice to be sure, but he's blushing.
"Poker," Sam repeats, like that will explain why his brother, who's spent a lifetime with a deck of cards in his pocket, would be embarrassed by the game he's supported them on, more than once--Sam grins, suddenly, remembering the stuff from the casino littered all over the suite when they checked in. "Just poker?" he says. "They play a lot of different games--"
"Texas Hold 'Em," Dean mumbles. Sam bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing right there.
"I'm sorry, I thought I heard you say you were playing that, wait, let me make sure I get your quote right, 'pretty-boy Texas TV shit.'"
"Sam--"
"Wait, wait, I forgot the part about how no self-respecting man would be caught dead playing it." Sam smiles as innocently as he can. "I know you've got a pulse, so I'm guessing you lost something else?"
"Shut up," Dean says. "It's not my fault you can't find a decent game of five-card draw in this tow--"
"Wait, is this where you've been?"
"Yeah," Dean says, quietly. "I should have just said, but I... I dunno. I haven't been sleeping much and it got me out of my head, y'know? Different game every day, nobody knowing who I was, nothing. Saying anything would've…"
"Jinxed it," Sam says, thinking of his odd days of doing nothing. "Yeah, I get it."
"I'd take you back by the hotel, but I don't have time before I'm supposed to be signing in, but you can have the car and--"
"No," Sam says. "I want to watch."
"Come again?" Dean takes his eyes off the road long enough that Sam smacks him.
"I can, right?" When Dean nods, Sam settles back in the seat. "Then I want to."
"Whatever, freak."
Sam's seen Dean play poker before, of course. He's spent his entire life watching Dean play poker, or more correctly, he's spent his entire life avoiding watching Dean play poker. But this is different. Dean's always serious when it comes to hustling, no matter where they are, but he almost always turns on the charm, plays down the part of himself that cut down his first shotgun before he finished elementary school, smiles and laughs and half the time people never even realize how much they're losing until Dean's long gone. Here, though, in the middle of ridiculous amounts of money and excess, Dean smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He plays with just a glance at his cards, with an attitude that says he doesn't need to be paying much attention, and pushes his luck on every hand, pulling back with just the right timing.
It almost doesn't matter what cards he's playing; the mindfuck he's throwing out has half the table off-balance. It's reckless and calculated and so utterly Dean that Sam can't imagine anything hotter.
Sam catches Dean looking across the room at him, a quick glance between hands; he pushes back the instinctive reaction to look away, not let Dean see. Dean's eyes are hooded, but he knows. After that, every look ratchets the tension a tiny bit higher. Hand after hand, the stack of chips in front of Dean grows. Sam stops drinking after two beers, switches over to water, because he's not going to be even the slightest bit drunk for the rest of the night. Dean has a fresh Jack and Coke by his elbow the whole time, but Sam knows the girl working the table is taking them away only because the ice has melted, not because Dean's finished them.
It's like a secret pact, unspoken and hidden, and Sam's never wished total bankruptcy on so many people so quickly in his life.
Sam waits while Dean cashes out, takes the stack of twenties Dean hands him and silently follows him out to pick up the car. Dean doesn't look at him, but he doesn't have to. He knows, too. His voice, when he thanks the valets, is steady, but softer than usual, and he doesn't do much more than smile when one of them tells him she's the sweetest rebuild he's seen in a long time.
Sam just gets in the car.
"How far?" he asks, once Dean's got them back out on the street.
"Sam--"
"How far?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes, in this traffic," Dean says, his voice still soft.
"Okay." Sam breathes deep, lets the air trickle out slowly. "I--okay."
"You were watching me," Dean says, not taking his eyes off the road. "The whole time; I could feel it."
"Yeah," Sam murmurs. "I know you could." His hand is itching to slide up Dean's thigh, feel the shift and clench of hard muscle under his palm as Dean drives. "Want to touch you, Dean, so damn bad."
"Sammy--"
"I don't know, Dean," Sam says, his voice fading out on him. "I know all the reasons why it shouldn't be this way; they just… they just--after everything else, I have a hard time thinking they matter. I want it. You." Even in the almost-dark of the car, Sam can see the muscles in Dean's throat working when he swallows hard.
"You don't fuck around, Sam," Dean says, at the next light. "I know that much."
"I don't," Sam agrees. He doesn't say, You do, because he knows that's not what's going on.
"I'm not now," Dean says. "I don't know what this is or what you think it is, but I'm not fucking around."
"I know," Sam whispers. He can see the hotel on the horizon, the palm trees and their spotlights against the ornate facade and he reaches across and lays his hand high on Dean's leg.
Dean stays right next to Sam the whole way across the lobby, but when they get into the elevator, Sam wraps his hand around Dean's wrist and pulls him closer. He doesn't let go on the short walk to their room and Dean doesn't try to pull away. Sam holds on until they're inside and alone and together. He strips his hoodie off as soon as the door closes behind them, and his t-shirt's on the floor before he gets two steps inside the suite. He stops at the door to the bedroom, balancing against it while he deals with boots and socks, and then it's easy to shove his jeans and boxers down over his hips and crawl naked onto the bed.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says from the doorway. Sam wraps his hand around his dick, long slow strokes that Dean follows with his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you," Sam says, rubbing his thumb over the head of his dick. "I want you to fuck me."
He half-expects Dean to balk at it, and he's prepared to fight dirty if he has to, but Dean just pulls his t-shirt over his head and crouches down to unlace his boots. Sam keeps his rhythm steady, easy; there's no way he's getting himself off, not tonight.
Dean stops at the edge of the bed, trails his hand up the inside of Sam's thigh, whisper-light touch that has Sam gasping and spreading his legs wider. Dean curves his mouth in a possessive, hungry smile that says he knows just how he's going to make Sam wail.
"This your first time, Sammy?"
"Like it's not yours?" Sam says, setting his jaw hard against the whimpers that want to come out every time Dean touches a new bit of skin. "Oh, god," he gasps, as Dean flicks his index finger over Sam's nipples, scraping them with his nail and then catching them one after another in tight, twisting pinches.
"We're taking this slow," Dean says, and Sam knows if argued, he could make Dean change his mind, but Dean's gone back to the fleeting touches and Sam needs all his concentration just to keep from begging. He knows for sure Dean can make him whine and plead--and probably will before they're done--but he doesn't have to give it up right away.
Dean leaves him just long enough to grab rubbers out of his duffel and lotion from the bathroom, but then he's kneeling up on the bed and Sam gets to strip him out of his jeans, run his hands up Dean's thighs, cup his dick and balls in one hand and knead his ass with the other.
"I liked sucking you last night," Sam says. "I liked it when you let go and fucked my mouth, my throat."
"Such a filthy mouth," Dean breathes, fumbling open the lotion and slicking up his hand. "Keep talking."
"God, Dean," Sam groans as Dean pushes a finger into him, no teasing at all. "I know your dick now, can't wait 'til it fills me up, 'til you're fucking into me--"
His voice breaks when Dean works a second finger in, stretching him, opening him wide, but that's nothing in the next second, when Dean curves his fingers at exactly the right angle. Sam keeps talking, because that's what Dean wants, but he doesn't know what he's saying other than a crazy jumble of please and Dean and wordless noises.
Dean takes his time, fingering him deep, two fingers, then back to one, slick and deep, teasing until Sam moves with him, fucking himself, half-crazy and sweaty and begging for more.
"Roll over," Dean finally says, his voice as gone as Sam's. "C'mon, Sam, it'll be easier like that." Sam nods and whimpers a little when Dean's fingers slide out of him.
"Dean," Sam whispers, catching Dean's wrist in his hand, making him look at Sam. "I want this."
"Yeah, Sammy, I kinda figured that out."
"Not just... " Sam trails his hand down Dean's back. "I want this," he repeats and Dean stills.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, okay." Sam leans up and kisses Dean, slow and long, not words, because Dean doesn't really trust them, but Sam's not good without them and this is the best he can do.
He doesn't stop kissing Dean until he has to, until he has to let go of Dean to breathe, and then he lets Dean roll him over. He raises his hips when Dean wants him to and spreads his legs and rocks back, keeping contact while Dean deals with the rubber and more lube and when Dean hesitates, Sam looks back over his shoulder and whispers low and hoarse how much he wants Dean, because he's never going to be able to say that too many times.
"Relax for me, okay?" Dean says, his hands shaking a little where they rest on Sam's hips. Sam breathes out, slow and steady, pushing all the tension in his muscles out with the air in his lungs, and feels Dean settle, too. It's easier than he thought to stay that way, even when Dean's thighs push his farther apart and the slick pressure of Dean's dick opens him up, spreads him wide and pushes inside. Dean's hard and thick and right as Sam thinks it's too much, right when he thinks he might lose that calm, Dean groans, "Fuck, Sam, fuck," his voice so alive Sam doesn't ever want to hear it any other way, and it's enough to keep him easy.
"Yeah," Sam gasps back, dropping down onto his elbows and putting his head down on the sheets, cool and silky against his skin, arching his back and lifting his ass high. "God, that's so good, Dean; c'mon, c'mon." Dean keeps the same steady pace, sliding deep and hot and sweet, fuck, so sweet in Sam. "More," Sam says, pushing back into the burn, the stretch. "Dean--I want--"
Dean doesn't answer, not in words, but he doesn't stop, and his hands keep Sam steady, fingers holding tight on Sam's hips while he moves faster, harder, rocking into Sam with an ever rougher pace, until he finds the right spot, drags his dick over it, again and again, and Sam buries his face in the sheets, moans caught low in his throat that don't even sound human.
"Like that, Sam," Dean growls, fucking in harder. "Keep making those noises for me." One hand slides of Sam's hip and down to stroke his balls, rolling and squeezing them, stripping away the last of Sam's control so he's bucking wildly in Dean's grip, shaking and pleading, Now, Dean, please, now, now. He reaches back blindly, clawing Dean closer, wanting, needing, more, needing Dean as crazywild as Sam is himself. Dean growls again, wordless this time, but possessive and demanding, like nothing Sam's ever heard from him before, and everything he's never known he's wanted.
"Please," Sam begs. "Pleasepleaseplease," and Dean listens, wrapping his hand around Sam's dick, fast strokes that walk the line of almost too hard, too harsh.
"Now, Sam." Dean's voice shakes, almost pleading. "Now."
Sam sobs once and comes hot and slick on Dean's hand, shaking and whimpering, not letting himself slide down until he feels Dean's smooth rhythm falter and knows Dean's coming, too.
"How long do you think we can stay?" Sam keeps one hand low on Dean's back; he likes the way it makes Dean lean into him, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.
Dean shrugs, a slow ripple of warm skin and muscle under Sam's hand. "Doesn't really matter," he says, reaching down for where his jeans are on the floor and passing Sam a wad of folded papers. Given the smug smile on Dean's face, Sam isn't all that surprised to see that he's holding receipts for cash placed in the hotel safe.
"How much?" he asks.
"Five, six grand," Dean says. "Plus what I won this afternoon."
"Hell," Sam says. "And here I was, feeling really proud I picked up forty bucks yesterday."
"You bought me lunch," Dean says, like that's a big deal.
"I guess," Sam says, stacking the receipts on the bedside table and putting his hand back on Dean. "What do you want to do next? Bobby still says we should lay low."
"Staying here works." Dean shrugs. "You said it early on--it's not like we hang out in places like this."
"Yeah, but do you want to?" Sam likes the way his thumb fits neatly between Dean's vertebrae; from how Dean stretches under him, he thinks Dean likes it, too.
"Not really my scene," Dean murmurs, crossing his arms under his head and using them as a pillow. Sam spiderwalks his hand a little higher. "We got clean laundry?"
"Yeah," Sam answers. "Everything's back. I think they might have ironed your boxers."
"Kinky," Dean says, slow and slurred, already more than half-asleep. Sam reaches the top of Dean's neck and starts back down and doesn't really care if they're staying or going.
Checking out's only slightly more difficult than checking in had been, but only because Dean has to sign for the cash from the safe at the front desk, and gets caught up with some executive-type. Once Sam makes sure it's nothing but a standard courtesy call, probably pegged to their comped reservation, he heads outside to have them bring the car up. They're backed up, but Sam's not really in a hurry. He leans back against a pillar and lets the heat sink into him, stretching out the little aches and soreness from the night before, straightening up only when he sees the flash of red hair following Dean through the revolving door.
"Hey, you," Kasey says, smiling. "No fair hiding out." She pokes him in the ribs. "Especially not when Dean's dodging me on where you're headed next."
"He's dodging me, too," Sam says, looking over her shoulder at Dean. "We're going; that's all I know." He doesn't think Dean's got a plan; they'd slept themselves out and woken up and started packing without much discussion at all. He figures they'll take the long way to Bobby's and then see if the rest of the world's stopped howling for their blood and decide from there, but there's not really any way to explain that.
"Sammy," Dean says, tossing him an envelope presumably full of cash as the Impala arrives. "I hooked her up with Bobby's number but give her an email address while I load up the trunk here."
Since that's code for No way am I letting anybody near the weapons cache, Sam juggles his laptop case and the envelope and a pen without complaining. "I check this one pretty often," Sam says, writing as neatly as possible. "So if you need to get in touch with us, it should work."
"I'm pretty sure I already know the answer to this," Kasey says, "But what if I don't need to get in touch with you, what if I just want to?"
Sam gives a half-shrug and the same answer he's given all his life. "We move around a lot."
"That's what I thought." Kasey takes the page Sam tears out of the notebook. "Don't let him play blackjack. Really." She touches him quickly on the arm and turns away to where Dean's eying where the finish is still a little bit dulled from the desert, talking with the doorman about what the detailers did. Sam dumps his laptop in the backseat where he can reach it if he gets bored and/or driven to the brink of insanity and wonders if it's bad luck to count your money before you get out of the city. Dean says something that makes Kasey laugh, but she sobers up fast, shaking her head and answering right back.
"C'mon, darlin'," Dean says, as he gets into the car. "'No stupid risks' is my middle name." Kasey rolls her eyes, but Dean surprises the hell out of Sam when he leans out and adds, "I'll try." She nods and waves and Dean deliberately isn't looking at Sam as they pull out onto the road.
"We could go up north," Dean says, in that careful, disinterested voice that he thinks Sam doesn't know is nothing but a cover.
Sam nods, hiding his surprise. "Montana? Wyoming?"
"Jellystone," Dean says, smirking.
"Shut up," Sam says. "I was, what? Five?"
Dean snorts. "More like eight or nine. Talk about embarrassing, especially when I was trying to look cool."
"I was seven," Sam says, slotting the school and park he's remembering into their proper time. "And the high school girls you were so hot to impress were only talking to you because they thought it was so sweet that you took care of your 'adorable' little brother," Sam adds, quoting one Daphne Patterson of Manassas, Virginia, whom he knows Dean had a serious thing for. Dean waves one hand and Sam knows he's about to get into it, if for no other reason than to cover his tracks on actually wanting something. "Do you want to go there or not?"
"Yeah," Dean says, paying careful attention to the traffic light in front of them, slowing the car like he's in a defensive-driving video. "We could do that."
"Okay, then. Yellowstone, it is." Sam starts looking for the map book, twisting around to see if it's in the back seat. Dean stops him with a hand on the arm, his face suddenly serious. He reaches up, his hand sliding into Sam's hair, not quite pulling Sam down, hesitating at the last second, but it's so easy for Sam move the rest of the way on his own. Dean kisses him, slow and careful, and something inside Sam lightens at this, them, being okay in the day, instead of just something they hide away in the night. He kisses Dean back until the light changes and the car behind them honks. Dean gives them the finger and then smiles, easy and bright, as he lets Sam up.
"Bet I can make you say Jellystone in front of a park ranger," Dean says, his smile shifting to the familiar maddening smirk, but Sam can't really be bothered to care. He digs under his seat and tosses Sam the map book. "Oh, no, wait, double or nothing, I can get you to ask after Yogi and Boo-Boo. Triple or nothing, I can do it without you being drunk."
"God, shut up," Sam says, not bothering to hide his own grin as he flips through the book and tries to figure out the best way. "We're not even on the highway yet."
"Oh, yeah," Dean says, turning on the radio and cranking the volume. "It's gonna be an awesome drive."
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Acknowledgements & Thanks
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