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What's Not To Like

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"This place is-"

"Warm, safe, free." Dean snuggled Sam into him closer. "Our own little couch, our own room upstairs where no one else goes, lots of cats, lots of sunshine and being left the hell alone, homemade banana bread. What's not to like?"

Sam scrunched his nose and fiddled with Dean's fingers, long and lean and hooked over his hip. He shook his head, didn't have the words. This wasn't their kind of place. It was--nice. Homey and quiet on a small town street, with doilies on the end tables and cinnamon on the air. It was the kind of place a grandmother would have, but they didn't have a grandma, didn't live that life, and instead of feeling good to Sam it just felt weird.

"She thinks I'm cute. And that it's cute you take care of me, cuddle me like this." Sam burned with that, embarrassment and wicked pride at what Dean was, that he was Dean's. He was, completely, but still. "She has no idea."

Dean laughed, kissed behind Sam's ear and scooted his hand forward to palm Sam's cock. Enough to add heat, convey more than affection, not enough to start anything with Ms Turnbill visibly bustling in quick peeks through a connecting door, humming in the kitchen making cookies. "She's just relieved we saved her cat colony from being cat-eating-monster chow. Besides." He shrugged, then tickled Sam's earlobe with his tongue. "No idea is kind of the point. Plus- you are cute."

Sam realized something, suddenly, and he laughed, low and deprecating without sounding bitter. "We're the weirdos."

It wasn't the grandma or this quaint as spit town, it wasn't her happily watching the boys for a few weeks in eager trade for having helped her or merry yellow gingham curtains frilling in the breeze. He and Dean were the strangers, so far estranged from normal that Sam lay here in his too-tight skin feeling suffocated by this glimpse of apple pie slice, wishing they were just in a dank motel in their usual Dad's-gone pattern, take out food and ignoring the world, kissing furiously and rutting against one another and dozing before waking to start all over again, then again.

One of the cats became interested in Dean's hand, nothing but a ripple of irresistible movement beneath the careworn comfort of a homemade quilt. It wriggled, pounced, then flopped to land sideways. Dean whuffed against Sam's neck and Sam smiled, pried a hand free and caught the cat's reaching paw. The cat managed to look pleased and like it'd meant to do this all along, curled up into the bend of Sam's front and purred towards sleep. He rubbed his finger along its smile, rubbed circles on its chin, pressed his thumb to its neck as it rumbled to purr louder.

Another cat took its place on the couch back. Others strutted around, lay in heaps, tracked Ms Turnbill in the endless hope for treats and dropped tidbits. Sam didn't mind all the cats; more than that, he actually liked them, their astute whiskered faces and slanted green eyes he'd teased made Dean more a tabby than a hunky tough hunter. The cats liked them a lot, too. Not skittish at all and took to them right quick, unusual that she'd said, during the dinner they'd shared after a full day of being left behind for awhile was done.

It was still weird being here, because he and Dean were still weirdos.

"Don't think about it so hard, Sammy." Dean tapped Sam's chin and they craned around, lifted, risked a quick kiss. Dean tapped Sam's forehead after. "Besides, hurt your head."

Sam grumbled, righted back around, fiddled with the cat's silky ears, frip-frip-frip between his fingers. It leaned into his hand, heavy with satisfaction. Dean caught his wrist.

"We'll be back to normal when this is done. Dad has to be gone longer than he asked we could stay here--didn't want to push our luck--so it'll just be you and me again soon. Until then, dude, quit worrying and enjoy the largess."

"Largess?" Sam laughed, happily this time, tilted so he was on his back, kept the cat from tumbling off the couch with the scoop of his hand. It resettled stretched across his middle. Dean scritched the M on its brow.

Dean just stared. "What?" he asked, before cracking a wide grin.

They were having chicken pot pie for dinner--always announced in the morning over waffles or pancakes or french toast--then they'd do yard work or run a walk-to errand or just hang out and give Ms Turnbill company. She liked to play gin rummy and destroyed them every game. There was always cozy time, as she called it, naps and piles of cats and Sam being distracted from trying to read because of how much of Dean touched so much of him, innocuous and potent. Today was as the same, and they lay there soaking it in, the warm and sun and safe, the weirdness that was a visit to grandma's normality.

Sam was lifted from his light doze when Ms Turnbill called from the kitchen, "Ten minutes boys! Wash yourselves up then come set the table."

Sam huffed and protested almost as much as the cat as he rolled from the couch. Dean caught him, held his shoulders, and he nodded as they made for the cramped downstairs bathroom. But not bad, Sam decided, Dean able to stay so close and nothing evil lurking in the shadows, a room of their own and long afternoons, tasty food and no one barking orders and lots to read. Definitely not bad. Sam twitched, decided he had to pee, and they watched each other, switched places, then a soft kiss and they vied over the sink and soap, jostled their stand.

"Hungry?" Dean asked over rushing water and sweet-smelling almond cherry foam.

"Duh." Sam pulled a face and laid a daub of suds on the tip of Dean's nose, ran from the bathroom drying his hands on his jeans, skidded into the kitchen Dean hot on his heels.