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Dean slammed the door and leaned against it, gasping to catch his breath. There was a loud thud behind him, and the door shook on its hinges. For several moments neither he nor Sam said anything, waiting in the darkness.

"You think he'll give up?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean shrugged, wincing as pain flashed through his shoulder. "Even if he doesn't, he won't come inside. They're weird about that."

It was dark inside the cabin, dark and cold and quiet. Dean tilted his head to one side, listening to the crunch of footsteps on the porch outside and the heavy, rasping breaths. The creature was moving away from the door.

He couldn't read Sam's expression in the darkness, but Sam sounded skeptical when he replied, "If you say so. What now?"

"Now we wait until morning."

Sam looked at Dean sharply. "What? Here?"

Pushing away from the door, Dean switched on his flashlight and surveyed the little cabin appraisingly. "Roof over our heads, firewood in the fireplace -- what more can you ask for?"

"We can't just squat in somebody's cabin," Sam protested.

"Why not?" Dean swept his flashlight over the walls and into the dark corners. It wasn't much, just two rooms that looked like they'd been decorated by fugitive escapees from the Country Bears ride at Disneyland, but the sturdy log walls kept out the snow and wind, not to mention the angry cryptozoological primate currently prowling perimeter.

"The owners aren't here," Dean pointed out, dropping his duffel bag on the floor and shrugging out of his jacket. It was barely warmer inside the cabin than out, so he crouched on the bearskin run by the fireplace and began piling kindling and logs on the grate. "They'll never know. Would you rather take your chances out there with Bigfoot? I mean, I know he was making goo-goo eyes at you, but I didn't think the feelings were mutual."

"Bite me. We're trespassing."

"They won't mind."

"How the hell do you know that? You don't even know who they are."

Dean pointed his flashlight at a framed photograph on the table beside the sofa. A cheerful couple looked out from behind the glass, their arms around each other and their smiles wide enough to catch flies. "Sure I do," Dean said. "Meet Joe and Jane Smith: owners of this fine residence, Sunday school teachers, pillars of the community, and lifelong friends to Sasquatch hunters in need."


"Sam, we don't have a choice. We'll leave a note thanking them for their hospitality."

With a wry smile, Sam shook his head, but he set his shotgun on the table and unbuttoned his jacket. "Fine. But only if we leave everything exactly as we found it. We wouldn't want to upset Joe and Jane."

"Hey, you're the boss." Dean dug his lighter out of his pocket and flicked it on; the flame caught on the crumpled-up newspaper and a warm orange glow spilled out of the fireplace.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, right."

Sam started pacing the room nervously, flipping light switches and trying the faucet, the beam of his flashlight dancing wildly. There was no water and no electricity, and Dean wasn't surprised. This was a summer place, locked up for the winter and wrapped in a thick mantle of snow, but it would keep them warm and dry for the night.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, see if there are any blankets in the bedroom, would you?"

Sam disappeared through the dark doorway and returned a few moments later with a stack of thick blankets in his arms. He dropped them on the floor and collapsed beside them, leaning against the couch with a huge sigh.

"You should take your pants off."

Dean raised one eyebrow in amusement. "Yeah? Why should I do that, Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Because they're cold and wet, moron, and you'll be a whiny little bitch in the morning if they haven't dried by then."

"Whatever. There's only one whiny little bitch here, and it ain't me."

But Dean could feel the snow melting through his jeans and shirts, damp and uncomfortable on his skin, and he began to undress without further protest. Boots, socks, sodden jeans and flannel: he set all of it out to dry and did the same with the clothes that Sam handed to him.

Then he left the small circle of warmth around the fireplace and did a quick check of the cabin. He locked the door they had picked to get in -- Bigfoot wasn't much good with doorknobs, but you never knew -- and peered out through the windows on all sides of the house. The snow-filled forest was still and silent. The snow was coming down heavily, filling in their tracks and weighing down the trees, but he saw no sign of the creature that had been chasing them.

That didn't mean he wasn't out there, of course; if there was one thing Bigfoot was good at, it was staying hidden.

Dean shivered suddenly and let the curtain fall back into place, turned away from the window and returned to the fireside. Sam was still leaned against the sofa, his legs sprawled wide, his shoulders slumped and his eyes half-closed, the firelight glowing yellow and soft on his skin and slightly damp hair. Dean watched him for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. He just might have to make Sam go on several-mile hunts for elusive primates in snowy wildernesses more often; this kind of exhaustion looked good on him.

Sitting cross-legged on the bearskin rug, Dean tried and failed to hide the wince as he tugged the muscles in his back.

"How's the shoulder?" Sam asked. His voice was low but alert.

"Fine," Dean replied. He reached up to rub at it, scowling with annoyance.

It hadn't been the best way to start the day, putting himself in the running for a gold medal in the Hundred Meter Tumble Down A Rocky Snow-Covered Hill Like A Fucking Asshole, and ten hours of cold, damp hiking with a bag of weapons slung over his shoulder hadn't helped. But he wasn't seriously hurt, just a little sore. Hell, he'd been injured worse digging wayward socks out of hungry washing machines. This was nothing.

"No big deal," he added.

"C'mere." Sam pushed himself up straighter and waved Dean over with one hand.

Dean looked at him suspiciously. "What? Why?"

"Just come here, Dean." Dean hesitated, then scooted toward Sam hesitantly. Sam made a little twirling motion with his index finger. "No, turn around. Back toward me."

"Why?" Dean settled between Sam's legs, twisting around to see what Sam was doing. "What are you -- oh."


Sam's touch was soft at first, his fingers warm and strong through the thin fabric of Dean's undershirt. He worked the sore muscles gently, rubbing his hands up and down Dean's shoulder and back, taking care to avoid the bruises. He leaned forward and whispered, "Relax," the word no more than a breath against Dean's neck.

Dean did as Sam said, letting his head fall forward and his shoulders fall down. "You trying to put the moves on me?" His voice sounded dark and slurred to his own ears.

He felt Sam shift slightly forward, pressing closer to Dean's back. One hand slipped under Dean's shirt, skating around his waist and over his belly, and when Sam answered his mouth was nuzzled against Dean's neck. "Oldest trick in the book, man, and you fell for it."

Dean thought about how to answer that, about telling Sam that he knew all the tricks -- hell, he was a fucking expert when it came to tricks -- it was just that nobody ever used them on him, not like this, not anybody who actually meant it, but the words caught in his throat when Sam snuck both arms around Dean's middle and pulled him close, pressing soft, urgent kisses to Dean's jaw.

Dean tried to turn awkwardly to meet the kisses, reaching up behind him to tangle one hand in Sam's hair, reveling in the feeling of Sam wrapped around him warm and solid behind him, the fire hot before him, and Sam's hands -- fuck, Sam's hands, they made holding a coffee mug look like an act of public indecency, and this they did better than anything, teasing down Dean's stomach, slipping under the waistband of his boxers -- christ, no hurry or anything, Sammy -- playing through the line of hair below his navel and wrapping around his dick. Dean tilted his head back against Sam's shoulder and closed his eyes.

Sam's heart was hammering in his chest, a rapid beat against Dean's back, his breath ragged as he kissed Dean's neck, lips and tongue and teeth -- that's gonna leave a mark -- scraping along the line of Dean's neck and shoulder blade. One hand was pumping Dean's cock sure and fast -- slow down, god, slow down -- and the other was on Dean's chest, five strong fingers digging into his skin right above his heart with so much force Dean knew he couldn't struggle away even if he wanted to.

He could feel Sam's cock trapped hot and hard between them, and he squirmed a little, bucked his hips and pressed back. Sam gasped and the motion of his hand became rough, unsteady, even more impatient. So Dean did it again, just a slight jerk of his hips, friction and pressure and god, that noise Sam made in his throat, growl and protest and breathless plea --fuck, Dean, don't, don't, fuck, stop -- it shot through Dean like lightning, and he arched his back against Sam and came.

A moment later, Sam shuddered behind him, and they collapsed back against the sofa, panting heavily. They lay in quietly for several minutes, sprawled boneless together, their breath falling into a steady, matched rhythm. Sam's hand was moving in slow, lazy circles under his shirt, his other arm now hooked around Dean's chest, holding him like he was afraid Dean would float away.

"You are so fucking easy," Sam mumbled in his ear, his voice low and rough, a little breathless. His chin was resting on Dean's shoulder, his hair tickling Dean's skin, and Dean could feel the words as much as hear them.

"You're one to talk. I didn't even touch you." Dean didn't open his eyes, didn't even move when Sam's chest rumbled with laughter behind him.

He thought about moving. He thought about putting another log on the fire before it got chilly, about getting out of the shorts before they got uncomfortable, about tugging both of their t-shirts off and lying down beside Sam underneath the fat down blankets, stretched long and sleepy beside each other, skin against skin and warm breath in a circle of firelight that belonged to them and no one else.

He thought about it. Then he decided he was just too damn comfortable to make the effort.

"You know," Sam said after a while, "I've always had this... thing."

Dean opened his eyes slowly but didn't move. "Yeah?"

"It's a... you know."

A log settled in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth. It was starting to feel a bit cold, even with the giant human heater of Sam wrapped around his back. It really was time to put another log on the fire and get those blankets spread out.

"No," Dean replied patiently, "I don't know."

"An idea. I mean... a thought."

"Sam, I have no fucking idea what you're--"

"Involving me on my hands and knees on a bearskin rug."

Dean closed his mouth in surprise. Opened it to respond. Closed it again.

He pushed himself upright and turned around to look at Sam. Maybe it was just the firelight, but it sure looked like there was a bit of a blush on Sammy's face.

Dean didn't even try to hide his smile. "Really?"

Sam nodded, perhaps a bit hopefully.

"On a bearskin rug." Another nod from Sam. Dean shook his head. "You are one kinky bastard, you know that?"

"Please." Sam rolled his eyes, then grabbed one of Dean's arms and pulled him close for a kiss, the slow and persuasive kind he was so fucking good at, like he'd spent his entire life practicing. "Don't try to tell me you don't like the idea."

Dean hardly thought it necessary to confirm that yes, he did very much like the idea: thick, coarse fur beneath them, Sam on his knees, his skin slick with sweat and glowing in the firelight, his hands tangled in the fur and his back arched, dirty mouth spilling all those desperate, insistent, bossy words he only used when Dean was pushing into him, holding his hips hard enough to bruise and -- fucking hell, Sam's been keeping this little "idea" secret all this time?

So he only said, as calm as he could manage, "It has possibilities." He moved around until he was straddling Sam's legs, leaned forward, braced his hands on the sofa, and whispered in Sam's ear, "Joe and Jane would be horrified if we defiled their bearskin rug like that."

"They never have to know," Sam returned, his voice just a little bit strained. He slid his hands under Dean's shirt and stretched up for another kiss, tugging at Dean's lower lip with his teeth as he pulled away. "Unless you write it in the thank you note."

"I'll totally do that."

"Right. Because they're Sunday school teachers and you want to shock them."

"Nah," Dean said dismissively. "They're only Sunday school teachers on Sunday. The other six days a week, they're porn stars."

Sam threw his head back and laughed until Dean leaned down to shut him up.