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Gateway To Nowhere

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Sam kicks a rock, watches it skip ahead, kicks it again after catching up to where it'd rolled to a stop. His hands are in his pockets, shoved deep, and he shivers because the air is cold even with the sun warm overhead. He squints at the ground and kicks the rock, watches it bounce and tumble curving away from him, and he lets it go.

There was hardly any noise here--traffic, people, life--because this side of town was steeped in decay and silence. It's the side that had the haunted old hotel, haunted old train yard, haunted old church, all with crumbling walls and intricate hardwood inlay floors and vaulted ceilings, and none actually haunted. It's the side that they lived on, forgotten over here with everything else, literal ghost town the rotten center hollowing out the community that surrounded it and kept its distance.

They were here to take care of a desert solace worm infestation no one seemed to know about. Even if a town could reasonably have no clue desert solace worms were a real thing, you'd think someone would notice the harm done that piled up over the decades and start to wonder.

Sure, teenagers who lived across the tracks among the false, water-fed green grass lawns dared themselves to hang in the hotel or train yard or church, lit candles and hit weed and ended up dragging home Saturday mid-mornings, after sleeping half the night being left perfectly alone. Sure, the town thought they all knew, had an insight to what's beyond the veil that other places simply wouldn't understand. Sure, lone truckers or bikers or groups of unlucky hikers got picked off by the dozens out in the desert, every month of the year, but no one quite put anything together about why that might be happening when nothing ever did in town.

It all reeked with the superiority of something no one understands, and everybody was complicit in ignoring as the only places worth saving in this town died, because that's all they had to make them better than someone else. That and the promise of ghosts brought tourists, even if only for the day as they drove through.

Sam didn't hate it here. He thought everyone was dumb for wanting the only thing he wanted to get away from, but he didn't hate it. He liked exploring the abandoned buildings and trying to read wind-scrubbed headstones, liked that each day began with a few hours of predawn hunting when the worms would be glutted and slow, then he and Dean were left to their own devices. They'd leave their trailer at different times, acting as if they couldn't get away from each other, and meet in a sun-bleached hollow between buildings or rocks or time. They whiled the hours picking through fossils and leavings, or sit and read, or sit and make out. He was on his way to find Dean, anticipation low in his belly, and they they'd find somewhere new to go for the day.

A sudden burst of laughter has him angling north towards main street, instead of south where he'd expected Dean to be. He doesn't care, just wants to see. There's a cluster of kids in front of the dime store, and of the few hang-outs here it's the only 'cool' one, because it's easy to lift candy and single-packet condoms if you're really daring; there are cans of soda and ice cream sandwiches in a cooler case, comics and glossy magazines, and two picnic tables outside.

Dean's there--Sam immediately recognizes those shoulders, their tilt, that black-and-tan leather--and a girl is sitting nearby on one of the concrete window ledges. She's looking at Dean. Gazing. She's got her hands propping her up so she can tip-lift her chest while she swings her legs, and Dean stands a step apart from the group. His head goes back like when he cracks a joke, sometimes vertebrae, and with it there the girl snags her hair in two fingers, swept away for her to push out leaned close and cover Dean's lips with hers.

Sam huffs and wheels around, hard turn left and he puts his chin in his chest and he's so stupid sometimes. For not just going to where Dean said for today. For the painful clench in his gut and hot tears pricking that make his eyelids flutter. For not being older and slinky, a girl with tits and pretty violet eyes, someone completely other than he was.

He walks so fast he feels even stupider, mile-a-minute and getting no place, vhipp-vhipp of his cords inane and cheery under the breeze and eerie quiet of the empty lots and buildings he's desperate to disappear back into.


Sam lifts his shoulder and keeps going, scrapes his jacket against his face and shakes his head. "Whatever," he mumbles, gets two more steps underneath his feet then Dean's hand grips strong and unsure at his elbow.

"Sammy, dude, what?"

He wants to pull from Dean's touch and flip the bird then break into a run, can't, sags and bites his lips and stares at the horizon. Beyond town that way is a plateau, and hidden in its bitter roots is an abandoned graveyard where the worms feast when there's no fresh meat. He shivers and ducks sideways and clenches his jaw, burns with shame and anger, pink on his cheeks deeper and a more delicate vulnerability than the red from chapping, cold wind.

Dean stares at him like he's gone crazy, is the mystery he senses himself to be down to his bones, like he's an idiot.

"Aw dammit, c'mere."

One of Sam's favorite things in this ruined town is an archway that vaults over dry ground and leads to nothing at all. Rest of the building it was attached to long gone, pillaged for its stone. He thinks of it as a monument, here stands the gateway to nowhere, marvels that it was once part of a whole and that this place once had meaning and vibrancy and purpose. It's where he and Dean meet almost every morning, where he was supposed to wait for Dean today. Dean pushes him into it now, hard enough for stone to dig past his layers into his shoulder blades and his breath to shove from his lungs.

Dean drops in front of him, rucks his jacket, hoodie and five assorted tees up with a hand, tugs at a belt loop with the other. Dean noses across his tummy, nibbles and teases his bellybutton and the points of his hips, kneads his cock trapped and starting to throb and ache in his pants.

Sam spreads his legs and his thighs shake. He wriggles his toes and hardens so quick and shameless for Dean's touch and hands, presses into the archway and is glad for the shadowed edifice that hides them, and the sun that peeks through to grace the lines of his face and dance in Dean's hair and eyelashes.

He twists and flattens his palms against the arch and Dean laps at the head of his cock, again and again, straining to poke from the waistband of his briefs. Dean's drawing patterns on his skin, stroking the soft swells and grooves of his body wherever can be reached, and he's started to shake all over. He's so close and needy already, so swarmed with want it's dizzying. Dean's murmuring and licking and making satisfied noises, lifts off to lightly suck and release, suck and release, and Sam comes when Dean's lower lip drags the slit followed by the sweet-sharp stab of tongue.

Sam gasps for breath, smiles and sinks, and Dean gruffs and rises, catches his legs and yanks at the back of Sam's cords as he winds them around, ends up Dean kinda in the vee with his feet up-angled and his knees wide-splayed. Dean bites his neck, moves down beneath his shirts to suck his collarbone, fucks the curve of his ass and the tight space between his thighs. Sam blinks, hazy and hot, blood still roaring in his ears and under his skin. He wriggles his hips and Dean's breath heaves, stutters, then Dean chases two last, frantic ruts and goes slack against him.

They stay like that for a few minutes, until the trembling subsides and it no longer feels sexy and urgent and more ridiculous instead to have his ass hanging out, his pants bunched awkwardly and Dean's come cooling on his back. Sam grunts and pushes Dean's shoulders and Dean levers away, grins, and it takes a few more minutes for them to fully untangle then get set right again.

"Yeah?" Dean asks when everything is undone, smoothed and cleaned, done up again. He cups Sam's cheek in a hand and looks. Gazes.

Sam drops forward heavily and burrows his face in Dean's open jacket, breathes deep and nods. Dean scratches his scalp and tugs his hair and it's all he can do not to purr. Dean chuckles and Sam knows he has, anyway.

"Got us some pop and snacks. You have your book?"

He thinks about the paperback probably bent to hell in the middle pocket of his hoodie. "Mmhm."

They sway together then Dean has his arms held tight and they're kissing, so Sam lets his eyes drift shut, savors the slick of their lips and the warmth of Dean's skin and tastes traces of himself.

"Okay. We could start at the hospital. Sit for awhile." Dean's almost short of breath, tilts his forehead onto Sam's.

"Don't wanna read," Sam whispers, offers, understands.

She'd kissed Dean, not the other way around, and Dean didn't care. Got to him so fast, probably immediately after one of those kids said something like, hey isn't that your dork brother- you really hafta go- man poor you, and Dean wouldn't care about that, either. He won't make Dean explain, doesn't need for Dean to.

"Hmmm yeah, I could do with a nap myself," Dean teases, smiles and whuffs along the tingly span behind Sam's ear.

Sam laughs and tugs Dean's hand into his, marches them towards the old hospital where there's nothing to bother them, top floor rooms with huge windows and comfortable if musty beds, forgets about everything else.