"Yeah. Me, too." Sam slides his laptop into his bag and Dean fits the journal back into his jacket as they get up from the booth. They're halfway to the door when some big, meaty guy with a hairnet and an apron stops them.
"Where you boys goin'? Your burgers'll be ready in a few minutes." Hairnet's voice is steady but he has a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes keep flashing out the window behind Dean and if there was any doubt before, he knows know that they've been recognized.
"I changed my mind; I'm in the mood for Chinese." Dean takes a step towards the door and Hairnet wraps a hand around one of Dean's biceps. Sam is at Dean's side, still as death, and the restaurant part of the truck stop is so quiet he thinks he can actually hear the cook's stomach churn.
Dean's considering pulling his gun, probably just to scare the guy. Sam knows this as sure as he knows that scar behind Dean's right knee. Dean wouldn't actually use it, though. Probably.
Dean's hand makes it to the gun in the back of his pants before Sam's light touch stops him. Dean brings his hand out from behind his back slowly, palm open, and shows it to Hairnet.
"Listen, Cletus, how about we strike a deal? You let go of me right now and we'll leave you with all three of your teeth still in your mouth, okay?"
Hairnet loosens his grip on Dean's arm but doesn't let go.
"You knew us enough to call the cops," Sam starts calmly. "You probably know just how stupid standing in the way of us getting out of here is."
"Just step back and let us walk away, man. There's no shame in looking out for number one." Dean's using his most persuasive voice, the one he thinks gets him all those phones numbers. His hands are open and out past his shoulders, unconsciously mimicking Sam's usual pose when dealing with psychotic murderers and other people who want them dead.
Sam goes for the bad cop approach. "If we're still here when the cops arrive, you really are not going to like it." It falls flatter than he'd like; it's been so long since he's been able to play the hard-ass that he's not used to it anymore. He sounds more like he's pleading instead of coercing.
Come on, he thinks, just let us go, just do it.
Hairnet finally lets go of Dean, slowly and warily, like he's waiting for Dean to whip out his gun or sock him. Dean doesn't, but Sam knows it's not for lack of wanting. If they weren't absolutely positive the cops were on the way the odds are that that guy would be on the ground and bleeding. But the cops are on their way and Sam is pulling at his jacket impatiently to get him moving.
It's another day and a half before they stop for food again, and then it's soggy sandwiches from a gas station off the 80: egg salad for Dean and tuna for Sam.
Sam's voice comes thundering out from the woods, "I'm not wiping my ass with my underwear, Dean!"
Dean's leaning against the hood, arms crossed over his chest. "You're the one who couldn't hold it in." He is trying not to be annoyed—really he is—but this is the fourth stop they've had to make in the last hour. They aren't on any particular deadline or anything, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
"We're supposed to have toilet paper!"
We did have toilet paper. We had three rolls an hour and a half ago. "Well, excuse me, Princess, I'm not the one who used it all!"
"Dean!" Dean has no idea how Sam manages to sound so damn whiny and pathetic and angry all at the same time. Especially after Dean told him not to get the tuna. Really, the little shitting crybaby brought it on himself for not listening. Dean never jokes about food, and only rarely about things that could hurt Sam.
"What do you want me to do, man? You want me to leave you here and find a town?"
"No," Sam answers. The anger is completely gone from his voice now and he just sounds pathetic and small. Young. Dammit.
"I think the nearest place in only about a half-hour up the road, forty-five minutes there and back if I hurry. You sure you don't want toilet paper?"
"Dean! You can't leave me alone here for an hour; I'm in the middle of a forest! Please?"
"Well, what do you want me to do, Sam?"
"I don't know. Something?" One day, he swears, One day I'm just gonna leave him by the side of the road and that'll be it. Dean's more likely to start listening to rap.
Dean sighs and trudges back to the trunk, roots around for a few minutes and walks back towards the front of the car. He throws a pair of gray jockeys in the general vicinity of Sam's voice and calls back, "Use mine, I'll get a new pair at the next Wal-Mart."
Sam doesn't say thank you when he finally comes back to the car, but he doesn't complain about the music either.
At least, not for the first five and a half minutes.
It's two hours, five stops, six more pairs of underwear and one undershirt later when Sam and Dean finally arrive at the next town.
Sam sits awkwardly in the car while Dean buys them a room.
Dean puts on a hat and sunglasses and shuffles slowly into the lobby. He keeps his head down, his voice low and tries to act as if he's barely awake. It's only about six at night, but it seems to work.
When the girl at the desk tries to make small talk, and they always do, Dean mumbles something about having the weekend off of work. When she asks what he does, he says the first thing that comes to his mind.
Unfortunately for Dean, the first thing that comes to his mind is, "Stuff." The girl doesn't try to make any more small talk though so Dean isn't too sorry for the implied attitude he gave her.
"Room 1102 is around the back of the building, by the pool, with a glorious and expansive view of the parking lot." She goes to hand him the key and it's nothing but pure habit that has him flashing his biggest smile at her. Her eyes go wide, her jaw drops and her voice actually squeaks out an, "Oh my God!" Before Dean can even begin to think of turning tail and running, she continues. "Oh my God! Oh my God! I love your show! Can I have your autograph?"
Dean has no idea who the hell she thinks he is, but he's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Well, of course you can! Who should I make it out to?"
Sam immediately heads towards the toilet once they're in the room. Dean brings in their bags and heads to the store for supplies.
He comes back an hour later with five four-packs of Charmin Ultra, two bottles of Pepto Bismal, two packs of jockeys, a bucket, and five small cans of some fancy deodorizer that's supposed to get rid of stank-ass smells, or maybe stank ass-smells.
Dean hasn't told Sam yet, but their last credit card got declined two towns back. After this trip to the store, Dean has one hundred and three dollars left to his name. They're at least two hundred miles from their nearest P.O. Box and there isn't a single pool hall in this whole fucking town. Dean doesn't want to worry Sam just yet, but if he can't figure out a way to get money soon, they're going to be stuck by the side of the road somewhere just waiting for the FBI to come and give them a ride.
When he gets back, Sam is still in the bathroom. Dean grabs a blanket off of what would have been Sam's bed, were he not sick as a damn dog, and drags it and the rest of the supplies into the bathroom. The blanket goes around Sam, who looks like death defrosting as he shivers on the toilet. The bucket goes at his feet and the Pepto on the side of the tub next to him. Dean sprays the deodorizer, ruffles Sam's hair and goes to see what's on HBO.
It's Tuesday night and Sam hasn't shaved since Saturday when he and Dean catch themselves on America's Most Wanted. They've finally managed to work up from "fifteen seconds of shame" to their very own segment. Dean thinks of it as a badge of honor. Sam hates if for a bunch of reasons. The biggest one being Dean talking him into growing a beard in an attempt to look less like the pictures of him now splashed all over the country.
Sam's face is red and puffy from where he's been scratching at it for the last two days.
He knows John Walsh is a good guy; he catches killers and baby-rapists and other scum like that. Hell, Sam will even go so far as to say that John Walsh is a great man.
That doesn't stop Sam from having fantasies about kidnapping him and beating him within an inch of his life.
"Stop scratching, dude, you look like a tweaker."
"I can't help it. It itches." Sam scratches harder with his knuckle at a patch by the left side of his mouth. "It's a blurry picture. Why can't I shave?"
"Because I don't wanna strip and get all comfortable and then have to shimmy out of a second-story bathroom window naked. Besides, I thought you liked stubble."
"Yeah, on other—" Sam stops himself suddenly, blushing. He clears his throat and speaks again. "Not on me." Dean chuckles and Sam kicks himself on the inside for giving Dean ammo.
"Sammy's got a thing for the manly men, does he? Likes his men with stubble on 'em, huh?" Dean snickers again and elbows Sam's side. Sam groans, rolls his head back and slouches down until his knees bang up against the dash.
"I hate you so much."
Suddenly, Dean is on him, pushing Sam flat against the seat and climbing on him, legs spread wide over Sam's hips and head bent low. Dean's hands slide along side Sam's face, his fingertips in Sam's hair and his thumbs rubbing along his cheekbones.
Sam tilts his face up towards Dean's, angles up for a kiss and is met with just the barest touch of lips. He feels Dean smirk against his mouth and pull back. "Say it."
"Dean," Sam protests and makes another move for a kiss. Dean ducks out of the way and pats his brother's face.
"Come on, Sammy." Dean kisses the spot right below Sam's ear, bites lightly at his earlobe. "Just say it. You'll feel much better after you do." He rubs his own stubbled cheek against Sam's neck, then bites a trail of kisses to Sam's mouth. "I promise."
It's been three days since they last kissed and Sam only has so much resolve. "I like—"
"No, say it right."
"I..." hate you so much right now, Dean. "Have a thing for manly men. With stubble. And muscles. Big, manly ones. And other manly stuff. Is that good enough?"
"'Manly stuff', huh? You mean like cocks and balls and other 'manly stuff' like that, don't you?" Sam can hear the laughter in Dean's voice; he'd have to be deaf not to, and his stomach tightens and twists, partially from discomfort and partially from something different altogether.
"Either kiss me or move, okay? I'm tired and I don't need to sit here and be made fun—"
Dean cuts Sam off with his lips, his mouth warm and wet over Sam's. Sam's neck is bent upward at an awkward angle and Dean tastes stale, like he hasn't brushed his teeth in days, but neither of those things matter at all.
Dean's hands are fisted in Sam's hair, the grip so tight it's pulling his head back. Sam fumbles with Dean's belt, tries to get it open and off so he can get to work on Dean's pants. Above him, Dean rolls his hips and Sam can't help the pathetic moan that escapes him. He tries to stifle it, since he knows noises like that freak Dean out, but it comes out anyway. Dean breaks the kiss and tries to pull away, breath coming fast and hot. "Dude, you know I hate it when you do that. It's creepy."
Sam doesn't let Dean pull away far. He chases Dean's mouth and refuses to let the kiss break, even after Dean's head thunks against the windshield and causes their faces and noses to mash together painfully. Sam finally gives up on Dean's chastity belt and slides his hand down a little, rubs it over Dean's erection and squeezes.
He breaks the kiss and licks at his lips. All he can think about is having his mouth around Dean's cock, sucking him off. The head of Dean's cock pushing past his lips, going all the way in and down his throat. "God, Dean, I want to suck you off so bad right now, you have no idea."
Dean exhales a shaky, "Fuck," and thrusts against Sam's hand shallowly. He's sweating, twisting in Sam's lap, and it's driving them both insane. "Fuck, Sam, do it. Suck me."
Sam sucks in a wet breath of air and can't bring himself to stifle the whimper that crawls from his throat. All these years later it still kind of amazes him that he can actually, really turn Dean on. The fact that he can make Dean hard, so hard that he's actually telling Sam what to do to him instead of just pushing or guiding like he usually does, sends a shiver up his spine and short-circuits his brain.
Dean is even less patient than his brother and only lasts through another few seconds of fumbling before he swats at Sam's hands. Try as he might, Sam can't stop touching. He settles for sliding his hands around to Dean's ass while Dean works on his belt. Sam can feel Dean's hands between their bodies, moans when Dean's knuckles rub against the seam of his jeans. He squeezes Dean's ass and thrusts up, rubbing his erection against Dean's. A shuddery exhale of air blows over his face as Dean pulls and pushes at his arms, pins them against the back of the seat and kneads lightly at his biceps. "You have to stop that or I'm gonna blow my load right now, man." Sam's hands clench and flex at his sides; it takes most of his willpower to keep from grabbing Dean again and testing out that theory.
Dean grips his brother's arms harder, uses them for leverage as he maneuvers himself off and back towards the steering wheel. It takes a little bit of work but after a few minutes, he's situated: crouched low on the seat with his upper back against the driver's side door. His legs are splayed wide and Sam leans forward immediately, mouth on Dean's exposed neck and hands heading back to Dean's belt.
Sam can't undo the buckle. He wants it so badly his hands are twitching and Dean doesn't even bother to give him a chance. It takes some push and pull but Sam gets himself high enough above his brother to let Dean undo the belt on his own jeans. The muscles in Sam's arms are quivering from the strain of holding himself above Dean at such an awkward angle. Dean finally gets his pants unzipped and Sam's muscles turn to jelly as he watches his brother pull out his dick.
Sam's hovering over Dean, braced on the dashboard and the back of the seat, and Dean's just sitting there: legs spread, cock out, and just waiting for Sam's mouth. It's so hot and so dirty that Sam groans and almost creams his pants right there.
It's like somebody's just opened a package of sour candies in front of him. He gets that weird tick in his jaw, like he can already taste it. Except what Sam's tasting is Dean's cock, because he wants it so fucking bad he can already feel it, hot and heavy against his tongue. His mouth is watering and he can't help but make these small slurping noises every time he swallows. Sam can see the way Dean's legs are shaking, watches as Dean's dick twitches and Sam feels heady, powerful, knowing it's him that's doing this to Dean.
Sam doesn't waste any more time and ducks his head down to take Dean's cock in his mouth. He takes in just the head at first and closes his mouth around it, gives it a firm suck, tasting Dean's precome and reveling in the salt-bitter flavor of it sliding down his throat.
There's a groan from Dean, a loud and guttural noise, and it hits Sam right where it counts. Dean's hands are in Sam's hair now, tight and hard and unrelenting as he guides Sam on his cock, and Sam's head is pushed down until he can feel his brother's cock pushing at the back of his throat, begging him to angle his head just a little bit more. Dean pulls Sam off until he is sucking at the tip almost painfully, desperate not to let go, to keep some kind of connection.
Sam whimpers and since Dean has that sound cataloged and memorized, he loosens his hold so Sam can get more comfortable. His brother is on his knees with an arm beneath one of Dean's still jean-clad legs, the one pulled up over Sam's shoulder. Dean knows from experience that Sam's other hand is between his legs right now, rubbing at his dick through his pants; he would know this even if it weren't the standard, the norm, because the moment Sam's hand squeezes his own erection, he groans around Dean's dick. It sends a ripple up Dean's spine and he thrusts up, hard, until Sam gags and starts to push back.
After a quick breather, Sam goes back to work, sucking hard and swallowing around Dean's dick. "Fuck, Sam," Dean stutters out in warning, not because he's about to come—Sam always, always swallows—but because he doesn't want to choke Sam for a second time when he loses control and starts fucking Sam's mouth again.
Sam sucks harder when his brother comes, swallows around Dean's cock and hardly even gags at all. The taste of Dean's come floods his mouth and it's so incredibly hot, so very much of a turn-on, that he barely has to touch his cock after that before he's coming himself. Sam rocks against his hand and huffs hard. His mouth is still firm on Dean's soft cock and Dean's hands are still buried in his hair.
They just lie there for a moment when it's all done, Dean tugging weakly at Sam's hair until Sam finally pulls off of Dean's cock. He presses his forehead to the sweaty, clammy skin of Dean's abdomen and breathes quick and heavy. After a moment, Sam sluggishly pulls his hands free from under his body and Dean's leg. Sam takes his time and tucks Dean away slowly, leaving small, chaste kisses to his dick and stomach as he does so.
Dean is out cold. Sam can tell by the lax hands still on his head, now just resting there instead of clenching. He buries his face in Dean's crotch, the crease between his thigh and pelvis, and inhales deeply. Dean smells like sweat and Cheetos and mustard. It's disgusting and gross, but it's Dean in all his napkin-hating glory and Sam feels safer in that moment than he has in a while.
Somewhere between five minutes and an hour later, Sam finds himself at the front desk of The Friendship Inn getting a room. His hair is a mess; it's greasy and dirty and sweaty and sticking up in every which way possible. The beard, the very little of it that he has right now, still itches and he swears he can feel the hair actually growing and pushing up through the skin.
Sam can't stop himself from touching his mouth, just rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip. Back and forth, back and forth. He has no idea if it actually is as swollen as he thinks it is, or if he's imagining things, the same way his lips felt red and numb for hours after the first time he kissed Dean.
The guy at the front desk is staring at him and part of his brain knows he should be worrying that he's being recognized but the first thought that goes through his brain is not oh, God, he's gonna call the cops. The first thought that goes through Sam's brain is, oh, God, I just blew my brother twenty feet away from this guy.
The second thought that goes through Sam's head is, oh, that probably shouldn't be as hot as it is.
"You need a room?"
Sam knows that tone of voice right there very well; it's the standard voice of every "rooms by the hour" employee and most everyone who works graveyard at nearly any motel. It says, very clearly, that they could not possibly be bothered to care less about you or anything you do.
"Yeah, two queens, please." Sam begs the man not to make the joke and very nearly thanks God out loud when he doesn't.
The man, David, asks for his name, ID, credit card, and all the usual information. Sam takes the keycard—classy place here—and thanks the man.
When he walks back to the car, Dean is asleep against the window, drooling on himself and scratching his chest. Sam can't help it; he opens the door and cackles when Dean tumbles out backwards onto the ground.
"What the hell, man?" Dean asks from his sprawl on the asphalt. Sam doesn't feel bad, since Dean didn't hit his head or anything important.
"Up and at 'em, retard, we got a room."
"Fucking ass-faced loser. Next time, just fucking wake me up like a human, okay?"
"Whatever, man. Come on, let's go."
The first thing Dean does when Sam finally manages to get them in the room, stupid fucking door and its stupid fucking key card, is drop his bag on the floor and flop himself down face-first on the bed nearest to the door.
"Don't worry, Dean, I'll get the bags. You just lay there; I know you've had a rough day of doing nothing at all."
Dean doesn't answer; he can't with his face stuffed in the pillow. Instead, he throws an arm up and raises his finger in the Winchester Universal Gesture for you woke me up when I was asleep. Be glad I'm letting you live right now.
After the first few times they wake up in the middle of the night thinking they've heard something, they take to sleeping fully clothed. Pants, shoes, watches, everything. Their guns are just out of their reach on the nightstand and the knives go back under their pillows.
It almost makes Sam feel nostalgic for when he was little and Dad used to come home from hunts dead tired without any energy to change Sam for bed. Dean would pull off his shoes and take off his own boots and they would crawl under the covers, just like that.
He's never had a pair of pajamas and didn't actually think people really wore them outside of movies and TV. The closest thing he's ever had was when he was little and used to wear one of Dad's shirts to bed when he was sick or Dad was gone. Even at Stanford he slept fully-clothed. Jess used to make fun of him for it, say he was the only person she'd ever seen who, after having sex, would put on underwear, an undershirt, two T-shirts, and pants just to go to sleep.
Dean must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knows, he has a damp and heavy Sam lying across his back. Dean doesn't remember getting undressed, but he's nearly naked under the blanket so he figures Sam must have found a way to apologize for that incredibly rude wake-up earlier by making sure Dean didn't roll over onto his keys or Dad's journal in the middle of the night. Because, and Dean speaks from experience when he says this, that stings like a son of a bitch.
Sam's leg is hitched over his body and his arm is wrapped around his chest and trapped against the bed. His face is pressed against Dean's neck and Dean only barely resists the urge to shake his head and knock Sam's wet hair off of him.
"Nightmare?" he asks quietly.
Sam snuggles up closer to Dean, noses at his back. "No."
"You sure?" Dean feels Sam's lips against his back, between his shoulder blades and takes it as a yes. He knows his brother, and Sam isn't this affectionate after he has a nightmare. When he does, he just grabs and clings, squeezes him until Dean swears that he can feel his ribs cracking and breaking. They don't, of course, because Sam's too careful for that.
His brother murmurs against his back and presses another noisy, damp kiss there. Dean figures he has about half of Sam's weight on him right now, his shoulder aches and the muscle in one of his legs is cramping and begging to be stretched, it's not hard to breathe but it's definitely not the most comfortable thing in the world. Dean fucking hates the way Sam clings in his sleep, like he's never realized that once you don't fit your Underoos anymore you aren't allowed to sleep directly on your brother—or anyone really. It's annoying and girly and fucking clingy and Dean really hates it. More than he hates Sam's so called "taste" in music.
Dean is asleep in minutes, like always.
"Has your mouth ever actually watered for something?"
Dean looks up from the gun he's cleaning on his bed. "What?"
Sam is lying on his bed near the door. He's got his two pillows from the car and the two from his bed propped underneath him between his back and the headboard. He's typing on the computer but pauses for a moment to look over at Dean. "The commercial. It said they had 'mouth-watering burgers.' I don't think my mouth has ever watered for anything."
"Your mouth was watering pretty good for my cock last night." Dean grabs his crotch and smirks at Sam.
"Did you know that your body produces excess saliva to coat your throat and mouth so that it'll protect them from stomach acid before you vomit?"
Dean scoffs and throws back a lame, "Whatever," before going back to his job.
There are days when all Sam wants to do is rage.
Days when all he wants to do is kick and scream and throw one of those temper tantrums he remembers being told he'd never thrown when he was little.
It's after those close calls. Not the normal ones where one or both of them almost die on a hunt, those days are different because he knows they won't die like that--he doesn't know how he knows; he just knows.
It's after the times they almost get caught, when they do get arrested that he feels the anger boil inside of him.
It's the times when they have to bunk down in the car because John Walsh has a hard-on for them that rivals pedophiles and they can't risk trying to get a motel room.
It's after every time Dean goes three rounds with a half-dozen angry cops and Sam has to get them as far away as fast as possible and then clean of the worst of Dean's wounds.
It's after every fucking time that Sam has to drag Dean into the hospital and holds his breath until the doctor comes out and deigns to tell him that his brother doesn't have a skull fracture but they would like to keep him overnight, "just in case."
It's those days when all Sam wants to do is shake his brother and scream and yell, "Why doesn't this bother you? Why are you so goddamned calm? When they catch you they're going to kill you—when I fuck up, they're going to kill you!"
Those are the days when Sam feels every bit the PMSing woman Dean says he is, because he can't seem to decide whether he wants to punch Dean right in his big, stupid face or curl up into him and cry like he's seven again.
When Sam finally gets the balls to do it, they're in a restaurant in Santa Cruz at one in the morning and that fact alone is so funny Sam almost wants to kill himself from the irony of it.
Santa Cruz and Palo Alto are two of the only places in the country where Sam can name streets other than the numbered ones. They're two of the only places Sam has ever been in or around long enough to get recommendations for places to eat.
When Sam was in college, he dated a guy who lived and worked in Santa Cruz. Sam more or less lived with him for an entire summer and made his way up on the weekends to visit for months after classes started back up.
Jess lived in Santa Cruz. Or, at least, her family lived there, probably still does. He spent a Christmas break and a dozen or so weekends with her up here.
They're sitting in the Saturn Café, a gimmicky theme restaurant, when it happens. It's the perfect place once Sam thinks about it; he's fairly certain two men kissing would be no big deal in this place, if the lack of confirmed gender of pretty much all of the waiters, or waitresses, is anything to go by.
The café itself is one big space theme, of course, and each booth has garish, bright red vinyl seats and thick tabletops, dioramas really, with toys or board games or some other theme completely separate of the rest of the restaurant and the other tables. Their table has Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and G.I. Joes and Barbies with big, crimped hair under the glass.
"Hey, check it out, they got your favorite." Dean points to the Donatello in the table locked in combat with a half melted Treasure Troll. "Want me to nab him for you?"
"No! Dean, you can't." Sam catches himself before he can complain about stealing. They are paying for this meal with a credit card stolen out of an unlocked Mercedes. "You can't break the table here. What will we eat on?"
"We've got laps."
"Thanks, but that's okay. I haven't played with dolls in years."
"Dude, they're action figures."
"Sure, action figures. You know, the fact that you still play with your Boba Fett doll doesn't make you a girl. All that Bonne Bell lip gloss you wear—that's what makes you a girl."
"It's chapstick, asshole. That Carmex crap burns."
"It comes in a little glass jar with tiny pink hearts all over it and it makes your lips all shiny. It's lip gloss. Seriously, Dean, it looks like they're covered in c-c—" Sam's brain suddenly comes to a complete, stuttering halt and he feels his face get hot. He clears his throat, one, two, three times before speaking again. "Food. That's what, that, we, yeah. Food. I think I'm in the mood for some chicken alfredo. How about you?"
Dean smirks at him and it takes everything in Sam not to slide under the table and hide. To his luck, Dean lets it go. "I'm thinking western burger. Onion rings, barbeque sauce, bacon. Mm. So good." They spend a few minutes looking at their menus, trying to decipher the somewhat illegible font choice. "What the fuck?"
"Does that say tuno melt?"
"No! No more tuna melts."
"It wasn't a tuna melt. And it's not tuna, anyway."
"Tuna, tuno, whatever. You get it and I swear, you can shit your pants walking back to the motel."
"I'm not gonna order it, I don't even know what it is."
"You better not."
"It doesn't look like they have your chicken alfredo."
"I'll just get the chicken tenders, then." Sam has to look twice at the menu to make sure he isn't seeing things. "Why is chicken in quotation marks?"
"What the fuck is fakin bacon?" Oh, man. I am never, ever going to hear the end of this. "You brought us to a vegetarian place? What is wrong with you, you hippie?"
"It's not that bad." Damn you, Evan, I'll find you and kill you for this, you bastard. Sam should've known better than to come here. Jess's friend Evan is the one who recommended it to him. That bastard never liked him to begin with. Overprotective, my ass. "You could get some ravioli or something."
"Their fucking burgers are made out of grains and nuts. Grains. And. Nuts. Why are we wasting money on grains and nuts when we can go outside and eat dirt? It'll taste just the same. Hell, it'll probably even taste better."
Dean starts in on the ranting and Sam tunes him out within seconds; he's heard his brother's "damn hippies are ruining the world" speech enough times already by now. Now that Sam knows this is a vegetarian place, the dirty looks they've been getting make sense. He knew it wasn't the fact that they're two guys, because that almost never get those looks in a restaurant, but he couldn't understand why they were getting death glares from all the other patrons.
Now he understands, though, because Dean is wearing his leather jacket. And beyond that, he is ranting and raving about hippies and meat and, if he sticks to his usual script, "whiny little girly men." Sam never really realized before exactly just how much of a redneck his brother really is. They could probably wear "Bush/Cheney '04" shirts and get better looks then they're getting right now.
He doesn't know if it's the fact that everyone in the whole place probably thinks both him and Dean are misogynistic, homophobic assholes or the fact that Dean rarely looks hotter than when he's being a loud and completely unapologetic asshole but Sam can't not lean across the booth and kiss him right then.
When Sam first came up with his brilliant idea, several states and weeks ago, the plan was just a quick kiss: chaste, fast, and nothing but lip. It's more of a long peck than an actual kiss.
That is not an option right now, though; it's not even in the same galaxy.
Sam leans across the table and grabs Dean by his shirt; pulls him up and over; close enough so that Sam can catch his mouth in a kiss. Dean's lips are soft against Sam's own chapped ones and they taste faintly like fruit. Sam can't help but laugh a little into the kiss. The chapstick, or lip gloss, or whatever it actually is seems to be doing its job pretty well.
Dean doesn't seem to like being laughed at while kissing—and really, who would—and punishes Sam by forcefully taking control of the kiss. His right hand is at the back of Sam's head, fingers lightly digging into Sam's skull as he forces Sam to angle his head, tilts it to the side and licks his way further into Sam's mouth. Sam closes his eyes and lets the rest of the world and their eyes and their whispers just fall away from him.
He doesn't know how long they kiss or how borderline pornographic it is; he only knows that the one thing keeping him and his brother from rutting against each other like dogs in heat is the table between them, and even then only barely. Eventually, Dean pulls back. He keeps his forehead pressed to Sam's and his mouth only as far from Sam's as their noses force.
Sam's eyes are still closed and he can't help but flinch when he hears their waiter—or waitress—ask, in a voice that sounds far more amused than Sam can deal with right now, if they need more time or if they're ready to order. The tip of Dean's tongue dances across the bottom of Sam's lower lip quickly and Sam swears that he's blushed more in the last half hour than he has in his entire life.
"Two bowls of mac and cheese," Dean starts off, speaking directly into the small amount of space between their mouths. "A pitcher of PBR, a chocolate shake with Oreo and banana, and a Big Bang and two Chocolate Madnesses to go with the check. You want anything else, Sammy?" Sam bites his lip to keep himself from blurting out anything stupid, like a request for Dean to fuck him over the table right this second. "That's it. We're good now."
Sam finally opens his eyes but doesn't look at Dean. He doesn't look at anyone around them, either, despite feeling their eyes on him. His eyes are focused on his hand, still clenched in Dean's shirt. His voice is a strained whisper when he finally speaks. "That was... embarrassing."
Dean obviously, and predictably, has no such problems with it. His voice is strong and cocky when he speaks. It's also a few decibels louder than Sam would've preferred right about now. "Fuck embarrassing—that was hot, man. Who knew you had it in you?"
Sam leans back a little. Not far, though, because Dean doesn't let him sit all the way down. "Everyone's staring at us now."
"Damn straight they are. We are two fucking red-hot pieces of ass! People pay good money to see this shit, man, twenty bucks a pop."
Dean's hand is still in his hair, but slipped down towards the nape of his neck, rubbing lightly with his fingers as his thumb sweeps gently right behind Sam's ear. "You should come over to this side of the booth, man." His smile is wicked and sharp. "You'd like it over here."
Sam knows what will happen if they're both on the same side of the booth, and while he's trying to get himself used to the idea of public displays of affection, there's a big line between making out with Dean in the middle of a busy restaurant and trading handjobs with his big brother in the middle of a busy restaurant. "Yeah, I'm really not going anywhere for at least a few minutes."
"If that were true I wouldn't have this problem now, would I?"
"Damn it, Sam, stop moving the fucking light!"
Dean barely resists turning around and glaring at Sam over his shoulder. There's engine grease smeared on his hands, and he knows there has to be some on his cheek or forehead or somewhere else on his face where he wiped away sweat or scratched without thinking about it. He's tired and in a bad mood because they're stranded on the fucking highway in the middle of the night, and he still hasn't figured why the fuck the car won't start. Except for the possibility that he's pissed her off somehow and now she's pouting at him, but he can't for the life of him figure out what he might have done or how the fuck to fix it now.
"My arm is starting to get tired." That and his little brother is being a whiny little bitch. Not that Dean exactly blames him; they're both tired, and Dean knows he'd much rather be pretty much anywhere but here right now.
"Well, if you'd stop moving the light I might be able to figure out what's wrong." Dean tries to be patient—he really does—but he still can't help the annoyance he knows is creeping into his voice.
"The car is old, Dean. Maybe she just wanted to sleep," Sam suggests helpfully. And Dean's sure that's exactly why she's not moving -- she's tired. That and this whole damned, godforsaken state. Or not, since she's never given him trouble over such a stupid reason as being tired, especially not when Dean himself is exhausted. Besides, she might be old, older than Dean, almost a half-century, but she's far from worn-out. Then again, Sam's just trying to get Dean to give up for the night, adding, "Like we should be doing."
"We're not sleeping by the side of a highway near someplace called Skull City." It's like the beginning of a bad horror film. Dean readily, and vocally, admits that things in their line of work rarely happen exactly the way they do in the movies, but he's not stupid enough to go ahead and try to invite something to go and prove him wrong.
"Because it's smarter to stand outside in the open by the side of the highway in Skull City."
"Dean." Sam draws the name out for several whiny syllables.
"For the love of fuck, Sam, I'm almost done. Just give me five more minutes."
"You said that an hour ago. I haven't been slept in two days." Sam's head drops and he lays his forehead in between Dean's shoulder blades. He lets his weight shift until Dean starts to push back and they hit that perfect balance.
Dean laughs lowly. "Been slept?"
"Slept. Been to sleep. Whatever." Sam sighs into Dean's back and nuzzles it. "See, my brain isn't even going like it's supposed to anymore. My arms hurt and my head hurts and I," as if on cue he yawns; big and loud and warm against Dean's spine. "I want to go to sleep."
"If you would shut your trap and quit bugging me for five minutes, I'd have her fixed."
Sam's right hand is balancing the flashlight over Dean's right shoulder, his left hand tangled in the bottom of Dean's shirts and trapped against his stomach. He leans his head on Dean's shoulder and noses at the juncture of his neck, huffing lightly. "Dean, I'm tired. I wanna go to sleep."
"I heard you eight seconds ago, the first time you said that. What are you, six?"
Sam lets out a pathetic whimper that is usually reserved for small children who haven't had their naps or, in this and many other cases, Sam Winchester after he's gone more than two days without sleep. Dean sighs and cracks his neck to the right. Sam slides his face down until his closed eyes are pressed against the juncture. His breath is warm and moist on the collars of Dean's shirts.
"Half an hour. If I don't have her fixed by then; I'll get out the salt and kick the bench back."
"Pinky swear?" Not six; five. Five and a half maybe. At the absolute most.
"Pinky swear," Dean says.
Half an hour later, to the minute, Dean closes the hood with a sigh. "Every single time without fail. I fucking hate Utah." Just once he would like to get through the state without it trying to break his car.
"D'ja her d't," Sam slurs against Dean's neck and makes a slurping noise, sucking back the drool sliding down the side of his face.
"I asked," Sam's voice is more coherent, if still slow, "if you heard that."
"Heard what?" Dean strains his ears but hears nothing more than his and Sam's breathing.
"I don't—" He hears it then, a low rumble that sounds almost like... "Was that a sheep?"
Sam's answer is mumbled noises that Dean takes to mean, "I don't know; my head won't turn because it's currently buried in your neck. Also, I want to bathe you in my slobber like the yipping little bitch that I am."
Dean hears the noise again, louder, amplified and, if he's not mistaken, angrier. He tries to turn around to see what the problem is but is promptly struck by the realization that the two hundred and sixty-eight pounds of sleepy brother on his back moments ago is now two hundred and sixty-eight pounds of unconscious brother.
"Oh, you tubby motherfucker, come on, you can't be asleep right now." Dean tugs and pulls at Sam's arms and hair in an attempt to wake him up. It's no use, though; Sam is dead to the world. "Of course, the one time that I actually need you for something."
Dean hitches Sam up on his back, high enough to lift his Sideshow Bob feet off the ground and maneuver them both to see what the hell the noise behind them is.
He almost drops Sam flat on his ass. There in front of him are hundreds, maybe thousands, of sheep. And not just normal sheep; no, it couldn't be that. It had to be flickering sheep. Ghost sheep.
Baah. That fucking sound cuts him off again and this time he also gets the added visual of a thousand ghost sheep flickering into half-rotted bones with decaying meat falling off of them.
Dean doesn't know how the hell he does it but he manages to get him and Sam into the car before the sheep, goddamned fucking ghost sheep, start to charge. Sam is exhausted and still asleep for the most part. His jaw is slack and his eyes are hooded and barely open so his body doesn't think to flinch back when the sheep start climbing up and over the car.
Dean is just staring out the window. He can't help it. "I didn't know sheep could jump."
"They jm'p 'ver logs, bu' only, only when y' n'mber 'em." Dean cocks his head and Sammy's asleep again, chin on his chest with a thin line of drool dried to his cheek.
And then suddenly, of course, the windshield starts to crack. Dean throws himself over Sam, tackles him sideways into the seat and curls over his brother. He's almost positive that the windshield isn't actually going to break but he hitches his jacket over their heads anyway, just in case.
"You okay, Sammy?" Sam's only response is to shift under Dean and roll his head to the side. Dean can't stop the small huff of laughter at the absurdity of the last ten minutes. He shifts around to make himself more comfortable, arm braced against the passenger's side door, forehead on forearm and mouth against Sam's forehead. "If you wake up screaming, I'm tearing out your voicebox."
The moment Dean woke up without morning wood he knew the day was going to be shit.
He just had no idea how literal that was.
It's hot and windy and four in the afternoon. Dean's been awake for nine hours already, Sam for almost a half an hour.
Dean's been waiting eight hours for Bobby's friend in Colorado to find someone near them who is willing to tow them without turning them in for a reward.
Eight hours. Apparently every single person on this Earth really is a greedy bastard.
But that's not even the worst part.
"It's not that bad, Dean." Dean has no response for that. He is currently sitting by the side of the road with his head in his hands and cursing the state of Utah, and everyone in it, under his breath. "You can wash it off. And the dents should come out easy. And the windshield and battery should only be like, what? Two hundred bucks?" For the battery, maybe. "And, I mean, all we need is like some antiheat and we can get the hell out of here."
Dean's head shoots up, eyebrows reaching for his hairline. "Antiheat?"
"Yeah. So we don't overheat again?" Dean's sure that Sam must be joking but the fucker has the audacity to look at him like he's the idiot.
"When we get into town, I'm buying you a helmet."
"What'd you say happened last night?"
"I've said it nine fucking times, Sam. I don't care if you believe me or not."
"Yes, you do."
"So we were really attacked by angry sheep spirits?"
"They left their ghost shit all over my girl, what do you think?"
"Are you sure it was sheep, though?"
"No, I think maybe it was ten thousand midgets in sheep suits."
"What would piss off sheep?"
"Lamb chops? Lonely farmers? Scottish dudes?"
"You're going to hell," Sam states, as if it's actually boring him to say. "What would make a sheep so angry that it would leave ectoplasm behind?"
"It wasn't a sheep. It was a ton of them."
"Same question, magnified. Whatever."
Fixed dents in 1967 Chevy Impala (including labor and price gouging): $8,570.
New windshield for a 1967 Chevy Impala (including more labor and even more price gouging): $653.
New car battery: $110.
Two gallons of water: $1.25.
Hotel room (two Queens): $59.67 (per night).
Air conditioning, television, clean blankets, fluffy pillows and beds big enough for one giant and one Gigantor to fully stretch out on: Priceless.
Some things money can't buy. For everything else, there's Leroy Jenkins' credit card.
"Man, I don't see why you bother with the act. Just get a fucking milkshake and stop faking."
"'Course I did." Dean drops a small paper bag on the table and straddles the chair across from Sam. "You find anything?" Sam nods.
"Okay, so." Sam reaches in the bag and breaks a piece of coffee cake and a sandwich in half, hands the larger of one and smaller of the other to Dean. "The website says, 'On April 12, 1968, several thousand sheep in Skull Valley were killed by VX gas,' that's nerve gas, 'released in a test from the nearby Dugway Proving Ground, as noted in the Stephen King novel The Stand.'"
"That was real?" Dean sounds surprised.
Sam looks up at Dean mid-bite and doesn't bother to try and cover his food-filled mouth as he speaks. "You read The Stand?"
"I read," Dean says, sounding vaguely offended.
"You hate Stephen King."
His older brother chuckles, giving Sam a crooked smirk. "No, you hate Stephen King. I think he writes great comedies."
"Whatever, it doesn't matter. We have to figure out how we're gonna get rid of them."
"What do you mean 'get rid of them'? They're sheep on a stretch of dirt near a town with thirty-one people in it."
"So animals don't deserve to rest in peace, too?"
"Oh, you have got to be shitting me."
"Sam." Dean's mocking him, imitating the exact tone of voice Sam uses when he's trying to annoy Dean into submission. It always throws Sam, to have the irritating little brother voice turned back on him.
"I know my name, dude, you can stop repeating it now." Sam shoots Dean a look and Dean has to keep himself from suggesting a laxative.
"Just because they don't walk on two legs doesn't mean—"
"Okay, whatever, Sammy, you win. Sheep should go to animal heaven. That doesn't mean we're gonna be the ones to send 'em there."
"Who else will? It's not like anyone else around here knows how."
"I don't know if you've noticed this, but we're on an Indian reservation right now, dude. You may not remember this, but on reservations there are the tribal police and the Feds. We're white. That means when we get arrested for desecration of Indian land or loitering or something, they're going to walk three feet to the left and bring the FBI right to us."
"People could die."
"They could still die."
"People die every day."
"Kids could die."
"There aren't kids for a hundred miles around here."
"People go on vacation."
"In January?" Dean can see Sam set his jaw. Sam's arms cross over his chest as he leans back in the booth stiffly.
Dean just rolls his eyes and goes back to reading the paper. Sam doesn't even bother trying to steal bites off Dean's half of the food.
"What about Spiderman?" Sam asks suddenly in the middle of a commercial break. It's a Thursday and they only have another two and a half days before they have to be on the road and somewhere that doesn't get America's Most Wanted.
"What about him?" Dean flips the channel in an attempt to find something on besides shitty talk shows. Jerry, Maury, Montel, Starting Over. Fucking daytime TV.
"He got bit by a radioactive spider and got spider powers." Dean waits for more, but apparently, that was it.
"And?" Dean prompts. He knows there has to be more to this argument; Sam never comes to a fight anything less than over-prepared.
"And? You don't want people walking around with... sheep powers or anything, do you?" What?
"Nerve gas, Sam, that's how they died. Nerve gas is not the same as radioactive crap."
"The government is trying to get the okay to start dumping radioactive waste here, though. If they do, then who knows what'll happen to the sheep spirits? They might bite people when they're corporeal and then those people could get radioactive sheep spirit powers or become weresheep or something like that."
Dean stares at Sam for the length of an entire commercial break and part of Montel's interview with a doctor who was once a kidnapped teenage prostitute (and survived). It's possibly the worst logic he's ever heard. He wonders if he should point out to Sam that Spiderman was a comic book character and that things like that don't really happen. Then again, given their line of work...
He settles for asking, "Did you snort Pixie Stix again?"
"Shut up." Dean sighs and rubs at his forehead. "Is it really that important to you?"
Sam answers back instantly, "Yes."
"Why?" As far as they can find nobody has been killed by the sheep, no one has been hurt by them. A few cars seem to come through battered like theirs is every few months but that's about it. Dean cannot figure out why Sam is so fucking adamant about this.
"It just is."
There is a long silence after that. The television blares on and Montel turns into one of the ten-thousand judge shows on TV.
That's really the only thing that could make Dean do it. Not Sam's brilliant, absolutely ridiculous Spiderman logic, not all the babbling that amount to but sheep are people, too. Just the fact that for some stupid, insane reason, this is important to Sam.
"Just so you know, I have no idea how the fuck we're going to do this. They were killed by nerve gas and I don't think it would be a good idea to light their bones on fire. We might have to consecrate the land or smudge it or something."
Dean pretends not to see the blinding smile on Sam's face.
They're standing naked in a fucking field in the middle of the night, and it's maybe three degrees above freezing. The dirt under his feet is cold. His toes are cold. He still doesn't see why he couldn't at least wear his boots. They've got shotguns sitting out on the closed trunk of the car, but without anything on him, Dean feels naked. Of course, he is naked, but he feels perfectly secure without his clothes when he's got a gun or a knife in easy reach. This is different.
He's also really fucking cold.
"Is it really necessary for us to be naked for this?"
"That's what the site said. Do you really wanna have to do this again 'cause we dressed wrong?"
"Yeah, well, hurry it up, man. I'm getting cold out here." Dean's pretty sure his balls are shriveling because they're freezing, too. A glance downwards confirms his suspicions, and he stifles a groan.
Sam looks far too amused by this for his own good. "I can see that." It's not really much of a consolation, but at least Sam's are, too.
"Shut up and keep mixing that virgin goat blood, okay?" he snaps, reaching down to place a protective hand over his cock.
Fuck, it's cold.