He still doesn't know how that officer had managed to see his gun; all his shirts and jackets are long and he knows better than to bend over while armed. It doesn't matter, though, because one second Sam has a couple of two-liters in his hands and the next he is being ducked into the back of a squad car.
It only takes him three days to talk his way out of jail. One of the things Sam loves about small towns is that a lot of them either just don't bother with fingerprinting or don't have the ability to get them back in less than a week.
The town has only about two or three thousand people. There's no hotel and the cops know what Sam looks like now, obviously, so he can't stay. He wouldn't even if he could though, Dean's long gone by now and Sam is on a time-table.
Dean's got the fucking car so Sam has to hoof it north to the next town. It takes him a day and a half to get there. It would've been shorter but there was a roadblock at the edge of town and he had to ditch his newly acquired Buick La Crosse and walk the rest of the seventeen miles to the next hole in the wall.
It's bigger, much bigger than the last. Sam spends a day trying to find the car and fails miserably. That night, he finds a phone book at the local Circle K, calls the first motel, and asks for Rockford.
Sam is man enough to admit that he very nearly burst into tears, manly ones like Dean cries, when the woman on the other line said there was no one there by that name.
He spends the night walking around, awake and scared, fearing for the worst.
Sometime around nine the next morning Sam is dead on his feet at a grocery store when it finally hits him. Baltimore. They changed their meet up after fucking Baltimore.
Sam heads to the customer service desk and asks for a phone book. He flips to the Motels section and counts three up from the very last entry. It takes him almost ten minutes to remember what the last name of the guy from Nightstalker is but when he finally does the man on the other line connects him to room 415. Sam lets it ring three times, hangs up, redials, and lets it ring five more times.
When Sam arrives at the motel, the Rose Skye Motor Lodge, he goes straight to room 415. Shave and a haircut, plus three kicks, two quick and one short, get him an open door and a very relieved brother.
Sam steps in and before the door is even closed, Dean's hands are on him: face, neck, chest, shoulders, arms, and torso. When Dean is satisfied that he's okay, it's Sam's turn to make sure Dean is really here and alive.
He slips a hand into his brother's hair, pulls him in for a kiss, mouths sliding together. Dean's hands are pulling at his shirt, untucking it and sliding a hand down the back of Sam's pants in between the underwear and his skin.
Sam walks Dean backwards to the bed—a king for once, he notices—and only stops when the backs of Dean's knees hit the bed and he starts to wobble. "Hi."
"Hi? You stopped to say hi? Why the fuck are you speaking?"
That is a very fine question, and instead of answering it, Sam leans back into the kiss and eases them back on the bed. Well, he tries to ease them back onto the bed. Dean goes down like a bag of bricks and Sam follows right after him hard enough to knock the air right out of Dean's chest.
Dean barely has enough time to grab in another breath before Sam's mouth is on his again, frantic and wet, sloppy in its urgency. Their arms bump and tangle together as they desperately try to get each other's shirts off, and they would probably have a lot better luck if either one of them could manage to take their hands off of the other long enough to get the shirts higher than their underarms. They pull and tug uselessly another few times before they give up, give in and just start clawing at each other's skin. Dean's bitten-off nails dig into Sam's shoulder and ass as he grips and pulls Sam against him, thrusts up and breaks the kiss to bite at Sam's lip. "Fuck, Sam, come on, I can take it."
Sam maneuvers his way between Dean's legs, shoves them open and settles in tight against Dean, one arm wrapped around him, grinding his erection hard against Dean's until it almost hurts. He shifts up, one hand wrapped uncomfortably under Dean to pull him close and tight and the other on the bed to brace himself as he fucks against Dean. And that's the only way to describe it, fucking against Dean, hard and fast, desperate.
He has to break their kissing; he can't concentrate like that when he fucks, clothes or no clothes. He's never been able to. Sam buries his face in Dean's neck, pants and kisses, licks at the sweat and suck at it half-heartedly as Dean clutches at him and curses, "Fuck, Sam, harder, harder! Please, come on, please, I know you can do it, please."
Sam loves it when Dean begs.
Sam arches his back until his muscles nearly lock in place. He thrusts against his brother quicker, harder, and then he feels Dean's teeth in his neck as he shudders and bucks up hard. Two, three times and Dean is done for, collapsing boneless against the bed. That's all fine and dandy for Dean, but Sam's still hard and fucking air right now.
"Dean? Dean? Please don't be asleep. Dean?"
But Dean is dead to the world and Sam is still hard and aching. He doesn't get up or lean back or anything like that; he's too far gone and Dean is still Dean, whether he's awake or not. Sam takes advantage of Dean's unconscious state, grabbing one limp hand and threading their fingers together. He grinds against him, closes his eyes, and buries his face in the side of his brother's neck as he comes in his pants.
Sam is tired, so very tired, but he knows if he falls asleep in his briefs with them all wet like they are right now, he's going to be bitchy and uncomfortable whenever it is that he wakes back up. He strips off his jeans and his briefs, balls them up and throws them towards the bathroom, too tired to get off the bed. Sam works on Dean's jeans next and he has them halfway down the legs before he realizes Dean's belt is nowhere to be seen. He laughs so hard right then that he almost wakes Dean from his post-coital coma. Lucky for them both, Dean just scratches at his wet jockeys and tries to kick a leg out. Sam gets Dean's pants off and tosses them in the same directions as his a moment ago. Dean's underwear go the same route in a few moments, once Sam's done using them to clean the come off of them both.
He debates trying to get Dean up long enough to get the comforter off the bed but decides against it. The bolt on the door is locked and the chain is on. It's not that cold in the room and, most importantly, Sam is fucking tired. He crawls up over Dean and makes himself comfortable with an arm and leg over his brother and his head on Dean's chest.
The last thing Sam notices as he falls asleep is one of Dean's hands on his ass, just lying there lazily as the chest under Sam's head rumbles.
When Sam wakes up later that afternoon, he's been stripped of his two outer shirts and jacket. He's also gained a pair of clean briefs and his blanket, the soft electric blue one Dean stole for him from The Comfort Eagle in North Carolina last year. Dean hates that blanket more than Bon Jovi, but he knows how much Sam loves it and Sam knows that that, along with the underwear and shirts, are Dean's way of apologizing for last night.
Dean is a very stupid man if he thinks that's all it will take to make them even.
Sam stretches, scratches himself, and gets out of bed. Dean's standing in front of the sink outside of the bathroom, fully-clothed and brushing his teeth. Sam can't help the small burst of pride that blooms in his chest when Dean catches sight of him in the mirror and immediately starts to choke on his toothpaste. Sam almost calls him a pervert—he did just lose brain function seeing Sam in a t-shirt and tighty-whities—but stops himself at the last minute. He's annoyed at Dean right now, but he's not a sadist. He knows where the line is.
Sam doesn't bother with a good morning. "Is that my toothbrush?"
Dean mumbles something around the toothbrush, takes it out, spits, and tries again. "Does it matter?" Sam just shrugs, because it really doesn't.
"You're a bad person, you know?"
Dean spits again and rinses his mouth out, cups his hands and drips water down the front of his shirt. He's not ignoring him, Sam knows, he's just anal as all get-out about his teeth.
"It's not like I got up and left or anything." Dean squeezes some more toothpaste on the brush and hands it to Sam. "I hadn't slept in two days because of your sorry ass."
Sam's got the toothbrush in his mouth now, so saying anything in response to that isn't an option. Nonetheless, Dean is fluent in Thermometer and that's the base language that Toothbrush comes from, so actual words are not needed by Sam, only a series of noises and eyebrow movements.
"I was not worried. I just... wanted to know if I could throw out your clothes yet." Sam jabs himself in the throat, scoffing around his toothbrush.
Dean is silent for the rest of the time Sam brushes his teeth; all he does is stare at Sam quietly. Sam finishes and leans back against the wall to the bathroom. Neither of them say anything for a long time; it's a staring contest and they both know it. First one to break is the weak one, the wuss, the girl.
Dean breaks first and it throws Sam. He shakes his head and bites his bottom lip for a moment. When he speaks his voice is hoarse and low, it has a desperate, pleading quality to it. "You have got to stop doing this to me, Sammy."
Sam looks down. He knows it's his fault this time; he was stupid and he wasn't paying attention.
"I didn't—I don't do it on purpose, Dean. It's not like I like," being away from you, "leaving you alone." Dean flinches. It's small but it's just enough for Sam to catch it. Sam wonders if there will ever be a time when he can say something like that without Stanford looming over their heads like a giant storm cloud. "Someone has to be here to show you how to hack in to all the porn sites. God knows you can't do it on your own." It's a lame attempt at humor, even by his standards, weak and half-hearted, but as much as he craves these talks, needs them, he knows how incredibly fucked up his big brother gets when he goes missing.
Sam knows Dean has been beating himself to Hell and back since the moment he realized that something had happened. He figures that Dean deserves a break now, after two and a half days of pure shit.
But just because Sam gives Dean an out this time, though, it doesn't mean he doesn't want to talk. It just means next time Dean will owe him and he'll know it.
"Please," Dean mocks. "You're the only person on the planet who can't find porn on the net by himself." He is at least a good two feet away from Sam, standing at the far edge of their personal bubble.
"Yeah, well, I don't usually need porn with you around."
Sam curls his fingers into Dean's pockets and pulls him closer, until they're almost nose-to-nose, chests barely touching.
Five days later, they're in another random "city" on the borders of Kentucky and Tennessee in a room with two single beds and a bird theme.
Fake peanut-buttered pinecones hang from the ceiling, and the "curtain" that separates the room from the door is, in reality, just a lot of hummingbird feeders strung together, bright red liquid painting the room a grotesquely bloody color every time the door is opened. There are robins on the pillows and swallows on the sheets—something Dean hasn't stopped laughing about the entire time in this room—and at least nine kinds of birds Dean can't identify lining the walls. The bathroom is just best not to be mentioned at all; there are birds hanging from the fucking ceiling that watch you while you take a dump. Dean hasn't been able to piss outside of the shower in two days.
It's somewhere around two in the morning and they're both tired from being chased out of a warehouse by a couple of overeager rent-a-pigs. Not that Dean will ever admit to being tired, of course.
Dean is the absolute picture of contentment as he lies on his bed. His hands are folded under his head, his legs are crossed at the ankle, his eyes are closed and a relaxed smirk graces his face as he yells for Sam to, "Hurry the fuck up! Some of us actually want to use the shower for more than just to jerk off, dude." Dean is positive that he isn't actually all that tired but he must have drifted off because the next thing he knows, the shower is off and Sam is a heavy weight on his stomach. He's fully dressed—minus three out of four of his shirts—and if not for the wet hair plastered to his forehead, Dean wouldn't know Sam had just taken a shower.
Sam's head is bowed low, hiding his face as he pushes Dean's shirt, rucks it up above his chest and lets his fingers glide over the skin as he slides himself lower. They've always had their own language completely separate from their father and everyone else; they've always been able to speak with nods and looks and little waves and little or no words at all. This is no different. They've been doing this for long enough that everything is automatic; Sam might as well be an extension of Dean—a taller, geekier extension with horrible taste in music—but an extension nonetheless. So, when Sam starts to slide down, Dean knows to bend his knees before Sam even leans back.
Dean's got his hands high on Sam's thighs, pushing them wide and thumbing at the inseam while Sam focuses his gaze on his own hands moving over Dean's chest and stomach. He feels Sam's fingers dig into the soft flesh of his belly as Sam readjusts himself and fits himself right up against Dean, riding the erection already tenting his jeans. Knowing his cue, Dean starts on the fly of Sam's jeans. He barely gets the button undone before Sam goes completely off script and smacks his hands away. Actually smacks them, like Dean used to do when Sam would try and touch the stove when he was little.
"What the hell, man?"
Sam bats his hands away a second time, grabs them and pins them up by his head. He's leaning over Dean now and he can feel the teasing itch of the design on Sam's shirt hovering over the skin of his chest. Sam kisses him—one of those girly little closed-mouthed ones he loves so much—and the glint in his eye when he pulls back almost scares Dean for a second. Almost. "No touching."
"What do you mean, no touching?" Dean is incredulous, but doesn't try to touch Sam again. He is particularly proud of his restraint when Sam pushes himself back up, leans back against Dean's knees and unzips himself. Sam wraps a hand around his dick and starts to stroke, mouth falling open slightly as he pants. His eyes slide from Sam's fist gliding up and down his cock to his wrist and the veins standing out on his forearm. Dean's mind flashes fifteen minutes ahead to the inevitable outcome of this scene; Sam spread wide underneath him, moaning like a cheerleader and taking him deep while he sucks big bruises onto the thin skin of his arm. Sam's fingers digging in Dean's shoulder as he jacks Sam off, slow and gentle and then fast and rough; just like Sam likes it.
Dean's so-called self-restraint fails him as he grabs onto Sam's thighs again, splayed wide over his own waist, and uses them for leverage to rock up. Sam falters; his hand squeezes particularly hard and he clenches his jaw tight, obviously trying to resist Dean's magnificent charms. He digs a thumb into Dean's lower abdomen, near his groin muscle, and Dean bucks his hips in a decidedly un-sexual way.
"What part of it do you not understand? The 'no' part or the 'touching' part?"
"I guess that would be the part where you expect to get off."
"Oh, I think we both already know I can get off with no help from you whatsoever."
"That's what this is about? Come on, it's—Jesus, Sammy." Dean's brain stutters to a halt as Sam rolls his hips, rubbing against Dean, and starts stroking himself again. He's hunched forward with a hand on Dean's chest, bracing himself as he fucks his fist. Sam's forearms flex and the veins shift as he licks his lips. His hips thrust forward into his hand and backwards against Dean, riding him through the denim. Every muscle in Dean's body is drawn tight as a bow as he tries desperately not to give in, not to touch Sam or thrust against him or react at all. Sam, the dirty bastard, lets go of his dick long enough to suck the precome off his fingers and thumb in quick but obscenely loud slurps. He licks his palm—damn near slobbers all over it—and moans like a freaking porn star when he gets back to business. It's not long at all, only another minute or two, before Sam comes, moaning and breathless and twitching, all over Dean's skin.
Sam shifts himself around, moving slowly and still obviously riding the high of his orgasm. Dean chokes slightly and maybe even almost comes close to screaming like a little girl a tiny bit when he catches sight of those damn birds in the bathroom again—but in his defense that yellow and black one totally just turned it's head to stare at them. Stupid-ass birds. Fucking Alfred Hitchcock. Sam leans all his weight onto his hands on Dean's ribs as he pants and shakes through the aftershocks. With his legs twitching and squeezing Dean, rocking him lightly, Sam bites at his own lips. Dean knows Sam said not to touch, but he's so hard and Sam looks so thoroughly fucked that he's sure he's going to blow a fuse in his brain if he sits still any longer.
Dean's not sure if he actually calls Sam's name out loud or if Sam just hears it in the way his breath leaves his chest under his brother's hands, but either way, it doesn't matter—if there is any question left in his mind when Sam pushes himself back on his haunches and on Dean, it's answered when Sam rolls his hips back quick and hard while staring right at Dean's eyes. He doesn't need to be told twice—except when he's being told no or stop or I swear to God, Dean, if you do that one more time—and grabs hold of Sam's hips, pulling Sam tight against him and using the little leverage he has to buck up and grind against Sam's ass.
Again, Sam's head drops low and he's making these quiet little grunts he probably doesn't think Dean can hear, and if Dean wasn't already right on the edge, that would have him there in a second. Sam straightens up slightly and starts to tug his shirt up and off. The marred and discolored skin fascinates Dean until Sam starts to sway. In an instant, Dean knows what all the millions of Japanese people in the Godzilla movies feel like as Sam seemingly falls forward and comes rushing at him with his full eight hundred pounds. Sam catches himself at the last minute on his huge, wily monkey arms and bends his head down to kiss him.
It's not a long kiss, but Dean doesn't mind and can't actually figure out how Sam managed to bend himself far enough in the first place; the wooly mammoth can barely get into the car without banging his head most days. And even Dean's willing to admit his girl is as big as a fucking tank. Sam lingers when he pulls back, drops another small kiss against his mouth and then another one before whispering, all soft and sweet like his damn coffee, "Made you flinch."
Dean laughs right into his mouth, pulls back and presses his face into his brother's neck and cracks up as he comes, fingers digging into Sam hard enough to feel him flinch. Sam says something after that, something about awesome brothers and showers and being considerate but Dean isn't sure what exactly. He feels good and mellow and welcomes the encroaching darkness with wide arms.
Centralia, Pennsylvania is home to one of the longest burning fires, an underground coal fire. In the last forty years since the fire has started, the town's population dropped down to eleven people. Some died, some moved, and most were relocated with the help of government aid.
Sam and Dean come through here every few months; have been doing it ever since they were eight and twelve, respectively. The hot temperatures, combined with the ever-present smoke, randomly forming sinkholes, and lack of people, make Centralia a magnet for some of the weaker demons: the ones cursed with bodies; the ones who haven't earned their ability to possess yet. Demons with gnarled and grotesque limbs, with scaly and discolored flesh who can wreak little havoc personally in the world due to their pungent odor and horrifying appearance.
Sometimes the lesser demons do more damage than their more powerful counterparts; they always have something to prove. They're eager to earn their lack of a body and will do anything and everything in their power to get what they want.
Centralia is like their unofficial meeting ground, and whenever Sam and Dean are on the East Coast, they make it a point to swing by and take out as many as they can before night starts to set in and it gets too freaky even for them.
They are on the way out of New Hampshire towards nowhere in particular when Dean suggests stopping by again. Sam thinks about it for a moment and says, "What the hell. Not like we've got somewhere we have to be."
Sam always forgets how much he hates this place until he's back here. The demons themselves aren't even the problem; they're probably the most mundane part of the each trip.
Something inside of Sam breaks every time he realizes that.
What Sam hates even more than the demons are all the things they have to do to go into that town safely: the face masks, air tanks and other things they stole off the firetruck in Missouri to protect them from the deadly fumes of the coal mine fires down below, chest waders for an extra few seconds of protection against the random and sudden-forming sinkholes in the ground, rosaries for the water, axes, shotguns and at least a half dozen other specific, and usually heavy, items for certain demons.
Sam lumbers through the thick smoke, flashlight in one hand, shotgun in the other. "It's like Silent Hill down here."
"What?" Sam can barely hear Dean through his mask, and he only knows what Dean's asking by the way his eyebrow climbs and his face shifts.
Sam raises his voice a little louder and tries again. "Silent Hill!"
"What about a siren?"
"Silent! Hill!" Sam shouts through his mask. His throat is already starting to get dry and his voice cracks in the middle of the second word. "It's like Silent Hill down here!"
"Oh." Dean nods. "What's that?"
Sam shrugs, clears his throat, and yells through his gas mask a little louder, "Some game my roommate used to play. Something about zombies. Or maybe monsters or something like that. I don't know; it just had a bunch of fog."
"Oh!" Dean nods again and Sam has no idea if he either didn't hear him or heard and isn't interested in the conversation.
"I hate this place."
Dean doesn't believe in those "before I die" lists. He thinks they're stupid and he hates Sam for keeping one. Sam thinks he's so smart about hiding it; the little bastard thinks Dean doesn't see him writing in one of his endless supplies of notebooks as he scratches things off and adds more crap.
Dean thinks those lists are stupid. They're morbid too; even he thinks so. And dangerous. What happens when you cross everything off your list? Suddenly it's just okay to lay down and die?
Fuck that shit.
Yeah, sure there are things Dean wants to do. He wants to see the Grand Canyon and Yosemite, wants to swim in one of the oceans of his own free will—not because some deformed seahorse with delusions of grandeur has started killing people. But he's never going to do them. Because after all that shit is done what else is there to look forward to? What's to keep him from letting some dead fucker off him and leave Sammy for easy pickings?
Fucking Sam. Suicidal bastard. One of these days Dean swears he's gonna take those fucking lists and salt the bastards before using them to start a fucking forest-fire.
"You realize I'm going to kill you, right?"
Even with Sam's head in his hands, Dean has no problem hearing him. That's the good thing about jail cells—they have great acoustics.
"They didn't even print us; we'll be gone in no time."
"They caught us burning the body of a dead cop! You don't think we're gonna make every paper in the state?"
"I'm hoping for national once we break out."
"I'm not kidding, Dean! We're in real trouble here."
"Whatever, man, we've been worse off. What's your deal? You were never this whiny any of the other times we got arrested."
"Because it was." Sam lowers his voice and glares at Dean. "Because we were never wanted by the FBI before. Jesus Christ, we were burning the body of one of their heroes!"
"Dude's ghost was killing people left, right and center. He had to get torched and you know it."
Sam scoffs and rolls his eyes and Dean is tempted to punch him right in his condescending face. "I know it had to happen. We just shouldn't have gotten caught."
"Yeah, whatever, my fault, I suck. Now fall over and start seizing."
"You know the drill. We need out, you fake a seizure. Don't act like this is new."
"Why do I always have to fake the seizure?"
"You're bigger; it takes more of them to hold you down. Now come on, get to shaking."
"If I bite my tongue—"
"I'll kiss it better. Quit stalling."
"You know, it's kind of ironic."
"We spend like, two weeks on an Indian reservation and don't get so much as a parking ticket, but we're in an actual town for less than a day and we get caught desecrating a grave."
"That's not ironic, it's funny."
"It is to ironic! It's the epitome of irony."
"No it's not, ironic is..."
"Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife?"
The clock reads two-thirty when Sam wakes up and he has to think back to breakfast and lunch to realize it's the middle of the afternoon and not the wee hours of the morning. His head hurts and he's tired and he's cranky and it takes him nearly a full minute to realize that Dean is crouched over him and kissing his neck. Not the normal "get your clothes off quick before you mess them" kind of kisses, either. Small ones. Slow, lingering presses of lips down his neck and around the neckline of his shirt. It takes a substantial effort to bring his hands up to Dean's back, to even keep his eyes open. His arms are still heavy with sleep and he can feel the puffiness around his eyes.
"Dean?" It's less of a question and more of a slur. The "D" is completely silent and Sam is self-consciously aware of how much of a three-year-old he probably sounded like right there. Dean doesn't smile at him, and thank God for that; it would be too creepy, but he lifts his head and he leans forward to meet Sam in a kiss.
This kiss is different, too, not like their usual kissing; there's no thrumming chorus of hurry, hurry, hurry, no thick undercurrent of need or fear. The kiss isn't exactly slow but it's slower than it's been lately. It's lazy and comfortable and familiar. It's like back before Milwaukee, before Baltimore. Back when sex and kissing and anything that was them—that was SamandDean—became something to get over with as quick as possible, something to rush through before someone could possibly see. The kiss goes on long enough that Sam needs to yawn when they pull apart, has to stretch and crack his stiff neck. It's then, when he's rolling his head from side to side until he can feel that satisfying pop, that he realizes that Dean is naked. Not just naked but naked and not currently trying to fuck Sam or rub against him or slide down him or, come to think of it, do anything at all below their shoulders.
Sam doesn't let it show but a very sudden and gut-wrenching terror grips him for a moment. He's absolutely convinced that Dean has either done something stupid, like summon The Demon, or is planning on doing something stupid. Like turning himself in to The Feds. Dean gives Sam another sweet, slow kiss like he never, ever does and then starts kissing his way across Sam's jaw and towards his ear. Dean starts to nibble on his earlobe, tiny little licks and fucking gentle tugs and Sam is so scared he think he might actually cry or throw up or something—he can't do this without Dean, not anymore, not for a long time now.
Dean whispers in his ear, "Say one fucking word and I swear I'll jizz in the pockets of every jacket you own the second you fall asleep," and the relief is so sudden he's a little lightheaded. Sam can't help the smile the spreads over his face as he grabs Dean and pulls him against him for another deep kiss. Sam gets it now; this isn't Dean apologizing for anything dumb like ruining their lives, it's Dean apologizing for being such a stupid, asshole loser-freak. Or something like that.
The kissing goes on for some time. Sam's hard but it's not an extremely pressing matter. It's been far too long since Dean has been willing to spend any free time just making out and Sam's missed it. It's not that he doesn't like the sex, because the sex is fucking amazing and one of Sam's favorite ways to pass the time. It's just that he likes kissing; he always has. And he's missed it. They haven't really had any really good make-out sessions in a while; when you're too scared and paranoid to even get fully naked for sex spending excess time kissing is pretty much out of the question.
Dean's hands move from Sam's waist up underneath his shirt and Sam knows his cue. It's a struggle to pull his shirt off while laying down but he manages it. He manages to elbow Dean in the face twice, but he gets his shirt off. Dean's hand finds Sam's not-quite-ticklish spot—the one high on his side, halfway between his chest and his back—and Sam arches into it, a weird half-laugh caught in his throat, and groans when Dean drags his palm down warm skin until he's squeezing Sam through his sleep shorts. Sam bucks up into Dean's hand again and digs his fingers into Dean's back while very narrowly avoiding biting Dean's tongue. His hands slide down towards Dean's ass and almost manage to make it there when someone knocks on the door.
He can feel Dean tense. Every muscle in his body seems to lock right in place when a loud and heavily accented voice calls out, "Housekeeping!"
Sam tries desperately to pull Dean back down, to kiss him and get him going again before it's too late. There's nothing to worry about, really. He put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door right when they walked in. It's always the first thing they do, sex or no sex. When the knocking starts once more and the maid yells louder this time, Sam can’t help but curse her in his head.
There's one more knock, and then Sam sees the door open. They've got the latch on, of course, so the door gets only about an inch open, but Sam grabs Dean's hips anyway. Dean isn't great about people finding them like this—it doesn't matter if they've introduced themselves as brothers or not—and since it was just starting to get good, Sam's not gonna let Dean jump off the bed like a scared cat or something. And, besides, Sam would rather some random maid not see the hard-on he's sporting right now.
Dean's hand slides back up Sam's chest, back to that spot on his side and scratches at it just right. The air rushes out of Sam’s lungs so fast that for a moment, he’s sure that they’ve collapsed. Dean leans down and kisses Sam's lips chastely before turning his head back towards the door and screaming, "Go away!"
That damn maid will not be deterred, though; she's peeking through the gap of the door, eyeing them in a way that makes Sam very uncomfortable. Before he can say anything Dean pitches himself sideways—almost off the bed—and makes a grab for something. Suddenly there's a shoe—one of Sam's, dammit—flying through the air towards the door and Dean is roaring, "Go—the fuck—away!"
The door is quickly shut amidst a loud string of foreign words. Sam doesn't speak much besides English and Latin, but he recognizes the angry tone enough to know it's cursing. Dean leans back down and resumes kissing like nothing happened at all. It takes Sam's brain a few seconds to come back online but when it does, he realizes Dean isn't scared. At all. That's so insanely hot that Sam can only barely keep himself in line. He tears his mouth from Dean's to bite at his neck. Spreading his legs wide, he bucks up once, twice, before panting roughly in Dean's ear, "Where's the lube?"
The response he gets is not exactly what he was expecting.
"Uh... I think it's in your bag?"
"What? You woke me up naked and you didn't even get out the lube?"
"Hey, I was planning on just giving you a blowjob!"
"I was kinda hoping you'd return the favor when you were done."
"I guess we could—" Sam flails his hand around, trying not to use the term. "You know."
"Sixty-nine? Fuck that, you almost bit my dick off last time!"
"You stuck your tongue in my ass."
"You loved it."
"Yeah, I loved it so much I bit your dick."
"What do you wanna do, then?"
"You're not fucking me dry."
"I don't wanna fuck you dry. Do you have any idea how much that hurts your dick?"
Sam's eyes are drawn towards the aforementioned dick and are instead caught on the shallow cut of Dean's hip. God, he's had full-fledged dreams about that dip. "Can I, can..." He can't even say it; he takes a deep breath and tries a different tactic. "You trust me?"
Dean protests jokingly even as he lets Sam roll him over. "Nothing good ever comes from those words."
Sam leans back up and shimmy-twists out of his shorts and underwear, drops them by his lone shoe and crawls back up his brother. He can't make himself look Dean in the eyes. He keeps his eyes on a shoulder instead as he arranges himself: moves and shifts until his cock is in the groove of Dean's hip, right where he wants it. He settles his weight on his forearms and Dean, presses his face into Dean's shoulder and rocks down. Dean's got one hand tangled in Sam's hair, fingers scratching lightly, and the other one gripping his arm, squeezing hard. Sam thrusts back and forth, rides the cut of muscle and tries to swallow the embarrassment that crawls up in the back of his throat. He doesn't even want to fuck Dean; that's not really appealing to him. He just wants to fuck that spot next to his brother's hip. It makes him feel like he's fourteen again and jerking off to thoughts he's too scared to admit to. The shame doesn't do much for his sex drive but Dean's making encouraging noises underneath him, murmuring, "C'mon, Sammy," and biting at his neck, sharp teeth and wet tongue. It's only another few hard thrusts before he's coming hard and shaking weakly.
Sam can look now; he lifts his head and spares a glance to Dean. Dean, who is completely unfazed and smirking like a little bastard. Sam huffs out a laugh despite himself and reaches down to finish Dean off.
And God, Dean is barely even hard and Sam feels like shit now. He hates getting off when Dean's soft. Hates it. It makes him feel like he's just taking from Dean and that makes him feel sick in the pit of his stomach. Dean's pushing at him, trying to get Sam off of him so he can get up and clean off probably. He looks... Sam wouldn't go so far as to say that he looks happy, but he doesn't look angry. He looks content and damn it, that's not what this is about. Sam would rather jerk himself off with Dean in one of his post-coital comas next to him than get off and leave Dean like that. Dean tries to shove him again and Sam shoves back. Well, okay, he doesn't really shove; he just uses his leverage and weight to keep Dean's shoulders down against the bed like they should be. He licks his palm in big, wet swipes of tongue right in front of Dean's face like he knows Dean likes and snakes his hand between them to grab Dean's cock, tugging at it hard and quick as he mouths at Dean's jaw, kisses and nibbles with light scrapes of teeth.
"Come on, Dean, please. Come on." The arm trapped between their shoulders is gripping Sam, thumb digging into his collarbone, not hard enough to hurt but definitely stinging. Sam doesn't let up because he still doesn't know if he's going to be shoved back if he does and he can't let that happen right now. Dean's free hand, the left one, wraps around his own and guides him; faster then slower, where to twist—like Sam doesn't have all Dean's spots memorized—and in no time at all Dean's coming. There's no warning, just a choking sound and then Dean's hips jerk once, twice and their hands are wet with his come.
Dean's chest rises and falls quickly as he drags in air, his mouth open. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips and his eyes are closed and Sam knows he'll be dead to the world in minutes. Sam gives another soft stroke to Dean's cock before he sits up and licks the come off of his brother's hand, sucks at the knuckles and tongues the webbing between the fingers. Dean lets out a weak, tired little moan and sighs cheerfully. Sam knows it's ridiculous and girly but he kisses the back of Dean's hand before he sets it back on the bed and gets up to go clean off and find something to sleep in.
He doesn't make it off the bed. He's got one foot on the floor and one knee still on the bed when Dean's hand wraps around his wrist.
"Go to sleep, man, I'm fine."
Dean doesn't let go, though. He just tugs at Sam's wrist again, harder this time.
"Dean—" The rest of the sentence dies as Dean tugs once, hard, and Sam falls ass-backwards onto the bed. Dean says nothing; still hasn't even opened his eyes. He just pulls at Sam until he's laying on the bed. Dean grabs at the blanket shoved down by the foot of the bed and pulls it up and over them. His hands slide over Sam's skin; they push and pull and guide, tucking Sam into him and securing him tight.
Sam can feel Dean's breath hot and clammy on the back of his neck when Dean presses a kiss there and then doesn't move back. Dean's got one arm up and under the pillows, parallel to Sam's, and the other is between Sam's own arm and his torso, fingers tucked in between the side of his chest and the bed, thumb rubbing idle circles where it rests. Dean's got a leg hitched up over Sam's hip and twined with Sam's; his ankle tucked into the back of his knee. Sam tucks the blanket high under his chin, under his and Dean's arms and legs, snuggles back against his brother and resists the sudden and random urge to say something incredibly sappy and stupid that they both already know.
Dean squeezes Sam tight and sighs. He mumbles something about, "Baby spoon," and then huffs out quiet snores on Sam's neck. The only reason Sam doesn't respond to that is because Dean's asleep already. And because he thinks whatever that was was kind of cute. Also because he's too tired to think of a good comeback. And, most importantly, because Sam is the baby spoon.
Can't anybody read a sign? "Fifteen Minute Unloading" is still fifteen minute unloading, no matter what time of night it is. Lola parks her cart—a fucking cart and isn't that just ridiculous this time of the year—and stands beside it for a moment to admire the beauty of the car in front of her.
She doesn't know much about cars, can't tell the years apart or the makes or models, but even she can see this one is well-loved and taken care of. Glossy black paint, minimal dirt and maybe even older than she is. She could live without the ridiculous flames on the side or bumper stickers and window clings but all in all it's a beautiful car. Well taken care of too; there isn't even a scratch or a dent on her and Lola has to take a moment to wonder what a car like that is doing parked in a neighborhood like this.
She gets her answer a moment later when she moves to take down the license plate—Hawaii? How'd you get here in a car?—and the car rocks lightly before settling back in place.
Shame, shame, shame. Lola puts on her game face and approaches the driver's side window, intent on giving the owner and whatever working girl he's picked up—only one reason for a nice car to be around here, should've known—a nice shock before sending them on their way.
The shock is on her, though, because as she comes up to the window she realizes that not only is there no girl in the car but there's no sex going on, either. The front seat is folded down and back into a makeshift bed and on it, and the backseat, are two boys—men, not boys, full-grown men—fully-clothed and sleeping. One of them, the one with short hair, is stretched out diagonally on his back, head pressed between the steering wheel and the door with a leg up and poking out the back rear passenger window—should've seen that, damn late hours—arms akimbo and snoring from what she can hear. The second one, with the longer hair, is in between the first one's legs, head on the first one's stomach with an arm covering his face like her little boy used to during thunderstorms.
Aw, now that's just sweet.
On second glance, Lola notices the food wrappers—AMPM, White Castle, Jack in the Box, Taco King, Nathan's Super Dog—and maps in the front window and the horrifyingly bright blue paisley blanket caught around one of the second boy's legs.
Oh. Lola's thoughts flash back to her big brother, Ricky, and his "friend" from high school, then to the bag Ricky took with him when Daddy tossed him out.
Lola taps her flashlight on the window and the first one wakes with a jolt, head bouncing off the steering wheel and blaring the horn. The look of shock on the boys' faces is almost comical, and if not for the sudden ache in her chest, Lola might've laughed.
"Ten minutes," she says, pointing to her watch. The first one levels a stare at her that almost makes her flinch back—boy must've been on the streets for a long time— and the second one grabs at the first one's arm as if to settle him. "I'm driving around the block. When I get back, your car won't be here, capisce?"
"Yes, ma'am," comes the almost coordinated response.
"Good boys." Lola smiles at them. "Stay safe out here."
With that, Lola gets back in her cart—at least it's not a bike—and drives on to the next block, idling there until the black car drives off.
It's been a month and a half since they've heard so much as a whisper about them. That is, of course, not counting the daily sightings all across the country and various "victims" popping up on various news programs. Henriksen is back in Milwaukee catching up on overdue paperwork when he gets the news.
No. No, no, no! He double and triple checks the packet of paper in front of him. Fuck! Fuck! Motherfucking son of a bitch! "Goddamnit!" he barks out, slamming his fist onto his desk.
"Paper cut?" Reed is standing next to Victor's desk, holding a cup of coffee in an outstretched hand. Victor takes the offered drink without a thanks. Reed doesn't need one; they've been partners for going on nine years now. Victor isn't even bothered that he didn't notice him approach.
"They were in Waynesboro. They were conning their way out of Waynesboro while we were sniffing their piss in State Line."
"So they were in Mississippi."
"Damn right they were in Mississippi; they were twenty miles north of us desecrating the grave of a decorated police commissioner while we were trying to sort out their fucking credit cards."
"How do we know this is them? It could be the dad; they inherited their M.O. from him, right?"
"We know it's them because they got caught! They were arrested in the middle of lighting the corpse on fire. They got booked and put in a fucking jail cell and we missed it!"
"And they got out? What happened, was it like Baltimore, Missouri, or Jersey?"
"Oh, that's the best part. Listen to this; they were in a cell together, alone. All of a sudden Dean starts screaming for help because Sam is apparently having a 'seizure.' Two of the local doughnut munchers go running into their cell and can you guess what happens next?"
"They wake up an unknown amount of time later handcuffed, in the Winchester's cell in their underwear with their uniforms and weapons nowhere to be found."
"Give the man a dollar."
Reed sits in his chair heavily, drops himself into it, really. The chair creaks and protests for only a minute before going quiet. The only sound that can be heard is the low and unconsciously synchronized breathing of the two men as they silently contemplate what they're going to do now.
They sit in silence.