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For Almost Two Hours

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"Dean!"

Normally, that would have been percussive, deep, loud.

Normally he'd have stomped Dean's foot.

Normally he'd have harrumphed and walked. away.

Oh, but this wasn't normal, was it? No. This was him, and Dean, in a closet that would be spacious if not for the designer mall of clothes hanging in it.

For almost two hours.

So when Dean's hands slipped into the front of his pants and started rooting around - for the hundred and fourth time - all he could do was a weak whisper-hiss and some useless flapping of fingers and really useless grinding of hips.

Okay, yeah - grinding of hips not useless and so, so a bad idea.

He gritted his teeth and straightened forward and clawed at the closet door.

Get in the house. Find the cursed object. Get out again. If it were a normal day.

Instead, it was today. They'd tracked down the object- a freaking grandfather clock- shipped across the ocean then passed down the generations but recently sold at an estate auction. Where it was sold was easy enough to work out, not much harder to find.

A check of the house - insipid modern architecture all angles and multi-tiered rooflines too huge crammed onto a small lot of manicured green grass stuffed between, across and behind houses exactly like it - break in, reset the alarm, begin the quick sweep.

Grandfather clock found, readily enough. Then, the lady of the house had gotten home early. Because the man of the house was sick. Asleep. In their sprawling master bedroom. Where he and Dean were currently stashed. After ducking in there thinking to hideaway before she cleared out again - not realizing Mr was asleep and fevery on the bed. Cursed killer grandfather clock still safe and un-burninated down the hall.

They hadn't even heard the dude. Sam supposed the bright side in all this was he hadn't heard them, either.

Shit.

Now. Now they waited, here in business suits and business casual and evening wear in rustling dry cleaning bags. For puttering Mrs St James to stop with the thoughtful mugs of honey and lemon thick tea, the homemade chicken stock from the freezer - lucky she had some made up! - hot and drinkable in oversized hand-thrown ceramic bowls, the temperature checks and the magazine runs and the mere I'm just making sure you're okay honeybun.

Dean's hands stilled, hot over his skin palm-pressed to his tummy, and Sam fought groaning in request that they ease lower.

Their breathing was thick and muffled and they'd warmed this bitch closet considerably from being in here so long.

Sam was frustrated and Dean was horny and the Mrs was humming You Are My Sunshine while she dosed the Mr up for the night, and Sam flat-out refused to acknowledge that all he currently wanted from life was to bust out of the closet and screw his - brother's brains out, white bread upper-class status quo be damned.

He liked irony, but there were limits to his taste for cruelty.

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"We have to fucking finish this."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Duh."

Dean's fingers clenched - hard - and he huffed then pushed his forehead into the sweaty v between Sam's shoulder blades and whined. "Dude - if ever there was a better time for your creep-ass mind to be doing something creepy-ass, this would be it!" He sounded almost cute, all angry and demanding and tiny-voice falsetto whisper.

Sam patted Dean's hands with his. If only Dean knew how hard he'd been trying.

According to his last count of the clock's chimes, they had fifteen minutes til four. That, was bad. He and Dean had found the clear pattern that every death had occurred at four. Something about that hour caused the spirit to strike, but they weren't sure what.

He laughed. Strike. Literally.

Sam mushed his nose and cheek into the walnut-inlay closet door and cried.

"Dammit, why can't things go chimey-chime and have the revengeangryblahblah bam do its thing and just kill Ozzie and Harriet here? Then we can torch the place and be done with it."

Hard kisses at his nape. One hand up, one hand down. So hot in here and dizzy from too much shared breath and too little fresh air. Dean's scent permeating everything, muskier with sweat and arousal. Hard cock at the crease of his ass, needy body a vibrating line pressed to his.

For once, Sam heartily agreed with the churn 'em and burn 'em approach.

My Sunshine stopped and Sam strained to hear. He clamped down on Dean's wrists so hard Dean hissed and his fingers shook.

"I think she's gone."

"So?"

"So Mr St James is looped on drugs, it's winter and almost four so it's dark out and if we don't move now someone's gonna die and I don't mean Mrs St James!"

Great. Now Sam was doing the pinch-voiced falsetto thing too.

Sam let go and Dean rubbed his wrists.

"You jerk - um, ow."

Sam made an abortive attempt to turn around. "You're the stupid jerk. Stuck in here - on a hunt - and you've been feeling me up for past two hours and humping into me like a rat terrier gone mental."

Dean snickered and pinched his ass. "Yeah, well. You shoulda let me stand in front like I wanted." The pinch turned to a knead to full-palm gropage. "Can't help myself around you Sammy, you know that."

"Gee I'm so flattered," he snarled. Snarling mostly because it made him crazy when Dean said shit like that.

Crazy as in drop right here right now spread 'em goddammit get inside and fuck me already.

"Like crotch-deep in your ass woulda been any better."

Dean wheezed and grabbed at him; he caught the wayward hands, put it out of his head the swoon of desire to kiss and thrust and come in his jeans against Dean's leg, sucked in a breath and was glad for well maintained and oiled hinges as the closet door swung silently open.

"Oh sweet Jesus thank you," Dean sighed, long pulls of cool air and a final cop of Sam's ass, then they looked at each other and ran.

They didn't even pass a weak gesture at the formality of what breaking and entering and trespassing called for. Instead, they careened down the main hall from the master suite to the vaulted stairway perch where the grandfather clock held court. Dean picked up a museum quality reproduction obelisk from a low lacquered table in the hall, and Sam chose a carved stone- something- to heft.

Dean shoved the obelisk into the face mechanism and Sam threw the stone thingy through the glass to knock into the pendulum. Not the greatest solution - clock too stupidly huge to slip into a pocket and hello people at home can't just set fire to it - so this would have to do for now and hopefully the chime at four would mean no death at four.

The Mrs shrieked from somewhere in the house - probably the kitchen while whipping up hot toddies for two - and they took the stairs three at a time. They thumped then piled into each other against the front door. Sam found the handle, jiggled, and they spilled outside.

Graceless would be an apt description of their manic, tangled run to the car.

Dean had parked two blocks away, on a quieter side street of side yards. They scrabbled in together from the passenger side, sat and panted and watched their breath cloud white and hang in heavy crystalline clusters.

Sam let his head fall back against the seat and Dean groaned, slid over and started the car - the St James' had a security system and were definitely the type to request that yes, the cops would be required, thank you.

Dean pushed the heater full blast and the Impala rumbled a slow, dignified getaway while they fought their heartbeats and lungs for composure.

"I am not going back in there. Either they toss the damn thing and we blacken it right on the curb, or we bust whatever repair place they ship it off to."

Sam scrubbed at his eyes and stretched his legs. "And how," he confirmed with a groan.

"Yeah. We'll check on it tomorrow morning - they won't be able to get anything going before that." Dean clicked on the radio and tapped the steering wheel, drumbeat tats. He shifted and leather creaked, then breathed a musing noise. "Until then?"

Sam lolled along the seatback, blinked his eyes open and smiled. "Until then we lock ourselves in our now huge-seeming room with its even huger-seeming king bed and fuck like bunnies juiced on succubi dust."

They rounded the last organically planned curve out of acre-windswept-pine-villas-whatever and Dean grinned, gunned the engine and the tires squealed as they sped towards their edge of town, so not nice neighborhood motel. He met Sam's grin with an exaggerated nod, growled the Impala faster, whole face a hot-happy leer.

"And how."