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Vegas

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It started when Bobby sent them an email: Got a line on a used V-12, good shape. $20,000 cash. You got a week to get it if you can.

"We're not robbing a bank," Sam said, the second Dean read it over his shoulder.

"Dude, a V-12!" Dean said. "If it's good enough for a Ferrari, it's not too good for my baby."

"We're not robbing a bank, Dean!" Sam said.

"Nah, they'd put a trace on the serial numbers," Dean said. He was already running around the room and grabbing stuff and throwing it in their bags. "We're going to Vegas."

"We're not robbing a casino, either," Sam said.

Dean maxed out the cash advances on every card they had, one per stop along the road, and used the gold Amex they'd been saving for an emergency to book them a suite at the Bellagio that came with access to the medium-high-rollers' room.

"No, I don't want one too," Sam said, while a tailor adjusted the cuffs on Dean's new tuxedo. "Dean—"

"Shh!" Dean said, jerking his hand.

Sam clenched his jaw shut and waited until the tailor was out of the room. "Dude, are you trying to find us new levels of screwed?" he hissed. "It's bad enough the FBI has a hard-on for us without getting the mob on our backs too."

"I'm not going to lose!" Dean said. "I'm here to play poker, not the house, Sam."

"Yeah, you will, Dean!" Sam said. "Because you can't afford to lose, and everybody else here can."

Dean rolled his eyes. "That's why they're going to suck, Sammy. Bring him a goddamn tux," he called out front.

They didn't suck. Sam didn't know a lot about the game, but he could tell Dean was fighting for his life from the second he sat down. At the end of the night, he got up from the table with $1500 in the plus column and a smile, but it fell off his face the second they'd gotten back into the hotel room, and he yanked the bowtie off his neck and fired it across the room.

"Hey," Sam said, trying to be gentle. "These guys are pros, Dean. This is what they do. And I'm pretty sure none of 'em can hit two out of three with a shotgun."

"Whatever," Dean said, popping the top three studs out of his shirt. "I'm going to get a drink." He didn't ask for company.

Sam ordered room service and flipped through the five hundred channels twice, then he went to the VIP bar. Dean wasn't sitting at the counter, and Sam drifted cautiously through the place before he saw him at a back table with one of the guys from the poker game: a sleek fat-cat type in a cream-colored suit with hair implants and an emerald tie pin the size of a marble. Sam stared, and then the fat cat reached out and put his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean got this half-wistful look on his face like he was actually thinking about it, and Sam stormed over and hauled him up from the table so fast the drinks all rattled and splashed.

"Sorry," Sam said, insincerely, trying to drag Dean towards the door. "My brother gets kind of stupid when he's had a few too many."

"Get off me!" Dean hissed, shoving Sam back.

"Brother, huh?" The fat cat looked at Sam with a thoughtful expression and then he said to Dean, "Make it both of you, and you'll have it in a day."

"Seriously?" Dean said, brightening.

Sam swung him around and pinned him up against the far wall. "Are you kidding me—"

"Will you chill out?" Dean said, grabbing his arms and shoving them down. "He wants us to make a movie."


"I'm telling you, this is some kind of scam," Sam hissed. Dean ignored him and went right on into the lobby, so Sam had to roll his eyes and follow. The reception area was air-conditioned to hell and back, enough to make the sweat on his neck go cold and his nipples pebble up instantly. Dean was already leaning on the counter, smiling his best at the receptionist, who looked unimpressed but poked her intercom. "Dean, will you just listen to me!" He grabbed Dean's arm.

"Dude, it's not a scam," Dean hissed back at him. "Check the place out, look—"

The room looked professional enough—leather seats in the waiting area, bleached-wood furniture and hardwood floor, busy receptionist in a suit with BSO FILMS in big metal letters on the wall behind her. Sam just shook his head. "Dean, I don't care, this isn't how movies work. We haven't seen a script, we haven't seen a contract—"

"Yeah we have," Dean said. "I signed it this morning in the bar while you were busy making yourself pretty." He beamed.

Sam stared at Dean. "You just signed the contract just like that—"

"Relax!" Dean said. "It's not like I used my real name."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "Okay, and how long did they say this was going to take? Because we're sitting on a time bomb here—"

"Just a one-day shoot," Dean said.

"One day? Dean!" Sam said. "I don't believe you fell for this—what kind of a movie shoots in a day?"

The door to the back swung open. They both looked over. "Dave Master and, uh, Lyle Redwood?" asked the woman in the doorway. "We're ready for you."

Sam turned slowly back to look at Dean. Dean gave him a little gleeful shrug.

Sam said levelly, "I am going to kick your ass."


"Just give us a second," Dean said to the woman with the clipboard, and hauled Sam outside for a discussion that would've been a drag-out fight but mostly died out into scuffling and shoving in the hundred-degree heat.

"You watch more porn than I do, loser," Dean said, panting.

"That's not the same thing!" Sam said, and tugged loose. They both stood gulping air.

"Dude," Dean said, "it's still a movie." The idiot.

Sam folded his arms over his chest. "We're not doing this, Dean."

"Whatever," Dean said. "Go ahead and take off, it's fine with me."

"I'm not letting you do this either!" Sam said.

"Seriously, don't worry about it," Dean said, patting him on the arm, like the words coming out of his mouth made any rational sense at all. "He said he'll pay me a couple grand a scene even alone. I'll do one movie today and another one tomorrow—"

"You are not going to whore yourself for a car engine!" Sam yelled.

Dean let his head sag down a minute, in a kind of slow disappointed way, and then he stepped in close and gripped Sam by the shoulders. "Sammy, I'm sorry your balls got misplaced somewhere—"

"You want us both to die of heat exhaustion?" Sam said. "Because I'll go again right now, if you—"

Dean shook him a little to stop him and said earnestly, "Sam. They're gonna pay me to fuck a bunch of porn stars, and then I'm going to get a V-12 for my baby. Are you kidding me?"

Sam stared at Dean's ecstatic expression, and felt a low horrible sinking sensation in his stomach.

"Okay!" Dean said, clapping his hands, as they came into the room. "What've you got?" He beamed at a couple of women walking by in bathrobes, who looked back with raised eyebrows.

"Let's see the goods," one of the PAs said, bored.

"What, right here?" Dean said.

"You mind stripping down on set in front of people, we won't find out any sooner," he said.

"Don't mind if you don't." Dean shrugged and started shucking his clothes. Sam turned his back, cringing.

The other PA with the clipboard had gone into the office to talk to the owner after Sam had put in the veto. She came out again, looked Dean up and down, told him, "Okay, you're on for shoots six through eleven," and walked away.

"Ouch," someone said quietly, by Sam; he looked over. Somebody from the crew, a guy drinking coffee. "Eleven's double pegging," he said, seeing Sam's look.

"Serves him right," Sam muttered, pretending he wasn't wincing.

"And the girl in eight just came in from a movie in Brazil, they have the AIDS scare going down there," the guy added, blandly.

And that was how Sam ended up standing naked on a set with twenty hot lights all on him and maybe a dozen crew around staring and talking, fighting the urge to put his hands over his groin, with Dean right next to him, grinning, in nothing but his amulet. "I hate you so much," Sam said, bitterly.

"You're gonna thank me for it when you hear that engine growl," Dean said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Don't touch me, I'm naked," Sam said.

"Dude, in a second we're gonna be on that bed together with the same chick."

"I don't want to think about it!" Sam said.

A PA came out of the dressing rooms corridor—girls only, apparently. "Guys, Mandy's having some makeup issues, so we're going to start with some pickup and filler shots of just the two of you."

"Um," Sam said.

"Don't get your prude on now, Sammy," Dean said. The set was mostly just one big round bed, in fire-engine-red satin and heaped with pillows, and it sloshed as Dean threw himself on. "Awesome, waterbed."

"Hey, Lyle," the director said, scare quotes all over the place. "You too."

Sam crawled onto the bed, trying hard not to get anywhere near Dean. It was hard: the bed wobbled and shuddered under him, and Dean was sprawled out over most of it. "Come on, Sammy, water's fine," Dean said, and pushed Sam's arm out from under him, so he fell and ended up toppling over onto Dean, the bed rolling both of them around.

"Okay, that's good, just like that," the director said, and yelled, "Action!"

Sam blocked the rest of the next fifteen minutes out of his mind completely.

"Cut!" the director yelled, and Sam rolled off and lay back staring at the ceiling, horrified speechless.

"See, what's the big deal?" Dean said, lying next to him, although for the first time he sounded a little uncertain. He was breathing kind of hard.

"Here you go." A woman from makeup was leaning over and holding out a bottle to Dean.

"What's this for?" Dean said.

"Baby oil," she said. "You put it on each other for the next scene."

"Uh," Dean said. Sam turned his head and stared at the bottle in Dean's hand.

"Action!" yelled the director.

Dean swallowed and popped the lid on the bottle and squeezed it out into his hand.

There wasn't any way of blocking this part out. Noises started to slip out of him, helplessly, just little grunts and occasionally a whimper when Dean's slippery hands hit someplace they really needed not to be.

"It's okay," Dean muttered desperately. "It's okay, Sammy."

"Shut up, I'm going to kill you," Sam said. Then he moaned again, because Dean's thumbs had just skidded down the sides of his neck.

"Turn over," the director said. Sam rolled over onto his back and looked up at Dean, who was aiming his eyes really carefully. "Come on, guys, this isn't softcore. Get it on him, Lyle."

Dean was opening his mouth to say "You don't have to," to call the whole thing off. Sam sat up and grabbed the bottle out of his hand and spilled nearly all of it into his palm.

He shared out the oil between his hands and tipped it over Dean's shoulders. The oil went running in thick glossy rivulets down Dean's chest, down his biceps, dripping dark wet stains onto the red sheets. Sam ignored Dean staring at him. He smoothed his hands over Dean's skin and pretended he didn't feel Dean leaning into him, didn't see Dean's cock jerking as Sam's hands slid down over his sides, his thighs—

Sam pushed Dean backwards onto the bed. His hands looked big, spread out over Dean's hips. He watched Dean's face instead of watching what his hands were doing. Dean bit his lip and twisted his head away, red flush creeping up his neck and cheeks, gasps coming out of his wet swollen mouth.

The PA standing opposite was holding up a card and waving it, trying to catch his attention. It said, fingers. Sam put his hand between Dean's legs and felt Dean shiver and flinch. The camera was there, big glassy eye staring at them, twenty people around the room watching. This was really happening. He rubbed the pads of his fingers over Dean's hole. Dean was staring up at him, mouth open and panting.

"Dean," Sam said, and pushed a finger inside him. Dean gave a loud shocked gasping breath. Sam could feel the lights radiating against his back. The camera was right behind him.

"Talk more," the director said. Sam opened his mouth and said, "I'm going to fuck you," and Dean jerked on his fingers and said, "Sam," thick and desperate. Sam couldn't wait any longer, couldn't—he pushed Dean's legs up and slid out his fingers and started pushing in—

"Fuck," Dean said, "fuck, Sam, fuck," muffled; he had both his hands over his face, gripping into his hair.

"They're filming this," Sam said, panting, crazily. "They're in really close, they're getting everything, Dean, you letting me—"

Dean came all over himself, long messy white spatters against the oiled shine of his belly, beading up and running off.

"Beautiful, now turn him over," the director said. Sam slid out long enough to do it and go back in, slow and lovingly so the camera could have the whole thing. He grabbed Dean's hips and lifted him, got them up in the air partway so the camera could get under, watch him sliding in from every angle. Dean's arms were straining to keep him up, muscles bunched and shining with oil and sweat, his head hanging between his shoulders.

"Ask me," Sam said, "Dean, ask me, tell me—"

"Sam," Dean said.

"Do it," Sam said, "Dean—"

"Fuck me," Dean said, and stopped and choked as Sam gave it to him. "Oh, Christ, fuck me; come on Sam, fuck—"

And Sam was doing it, fucking him, desperate and shaking, and the camera had everything so they couldn't pretend this hadn't happened, they couldn't ever pretend—


The day went on a while after that—the porn star did eventually show up for a couple of extra threesome scenes that turned out to just be setup—and then finally Dean went into the office and came out with a thick envelope and they went out to the car and drove back to the hotel. They showered and packed up their bags and threw everything into the trunk. Dean wiped down the room, and Sam cut up all the credit cards and tossed the pieces into a rank-smelling dumpster five blocks away. Dean got them on the interstate, heading northeast towards Bobby's place. They didn't talk.

Bobby didn't ask where the money had come from, other than to raise an eyebrow and say, "These guys are good suppliers of mine," meaning, you didn't steal this, did you?

"Good to hear," Dean said, meaning, no, sir, we didn't. Sam kept his mouth shut and hoped like hell that Bobby's tastes in porn were vanilla.

It took Dean and Bobby six days to get the new engine hooked up and running the way they wanted. Sam holed up in Bobby's den, reading demonology books, mouthing the words to rituals without saying them, working on the laptop, looking at local maps. Occasionally a deep growly roar came in through the window. Sam made dinner, out of a can or the freezer, and they all ate together at Bobby's kitchen table, each of them taking turns trading hunting stories with Bobby, and then Dean crashed in the back room and Sam climbed the stairs to the attic.

On the seventh day, Dean shook Bobby's hand, and Sam clapped him on the shoulder, and they got in the car and drove away. The Impala purred, low and satisfied, and Dean clutched the wheel with both hands, looking dazed with happiness. Sam waited fifty miles, and then he said, "Take the next exit."

"Huh?" Dean said, vaguely. Sam pointed at the sign for Lake Herman State Park, coming up on their right. "A hunt there or something?"

Sam just shrugged and gave Dean directions that took them up to the parking lot near the skiing lodge, closed right now for the summer. The lot was empty, surrounded by forest.

"No, leave the engine running," Sam said, after Dean parked, and got out of the car.

Dean climbed out on his side. "Dude, why are we—" and stopped, somewhere around when he realized Sam was stripping his shirt off and tossing it into the car.

"Back seat or on the hood?" Sam said.

Dean swallowed. "Sam, are you—"

"I mean, which one first," Sam added.

Dean said, "Hood," and yanked his t-shirt off over his head and fired it into the car. "Lie down."

"Oh my fucking God," he added, drunkenly, while he fucked Sam on the hood. Sam had his arms spread wide and gripping the sides for traction, and he could feel his whole body shuddering with the low rumbling while Dean thrust in.

Sam shoved back against Dean. "Quit trying to time it with the engine."

"I'm not," Dean said, unconvincingly, but he picked up the pace, so that was okay.