Dean peruses the rack of candy in the gas station, irritated that there is only an empty cardboard box where the peanut M&M’s should live. One confusing and uncomfortably celibate month at Bobby’s after, no kidding, the strangest week of his so far profoundly fucked up life and he’s pissed off, in desperate need of chocolate, and ready to be somewhere, anywhere but on the road.
Home. That’s where he and Sammy are heading after one final hunt in Jersey. They are hanging it up for awhile by mutual agreement. No demons, ghosts, women in white, or poltergeists. No crabby-ass gossiping hunters, truck stop frozen burritos or waitresses with weird rashes. Just Sammy, mountains, water, and an actual, honest to goodness home.
Anticipation and a little dash of Dean-you-fuck-this-up-and-you’re-alone-for-real fear skulk behind his breast plate playing merry hob with the rat-a-tat-tat of his heart. The image of their new house skips across his consciousness like a slim piece of shale skimming the white-caps of a lake on a blustery day. Their new home is a gift from Bobby that came complete with a “don’t look a gift house in the shingles” speech and a real zip code. Granted, that zip code is in Northern Vermont amidst an ass-load of snow and ice, but still, it’s a zip code that wasn’t plucked at random from a phone book and slapped onto a fake driver’s license to keep up appearances.
Dean ponders a Snickers bar; it’s got peanuts and chocolate, two great tastes and all that. He looks up and sees Sam leaning against the Impala, slanting rays of copper from the afternoon sun burnishing the waves of his chestnut hair. Sam’s mouth is slack as he kicks at a stone and twirls a key ring around his slender index finger. Dean flushes remembering Sam’s hands that morning when they woke in the hotel. It was the first time they had a chance to make love since they arrived at Bobby’s via Air-Angel a month ago.
Sam’s fingers so warm and callous, stroking his bare hip, tracing the groove of muscle that trails down to his oh-please-Sammy-right-there. One hand splays across his chest, centered over his heart pressing Dean’s naked body back into his lover’s. Sam’s panting whine as Dean’s ass collides with his cock, Dean shifting a leg forward, reaches back to fist Sam’s hardness, guiding it into his body, tense and aching to be filled. He begs Sam to mark me-lick me-fuck me between the scratch and rustle of the cheap hotel sheets. All conscious intent giving way to instinct as the airy moans of the two men making love breaks the surface of the frigid winter dawn.
Dean shakes his head and shuffles his feet, aware of the other patrons in the store, self-conscious of the burning in his cheeks. His jeans have moved from being just tight enough to make his ass look exquisite to painful and constricting. Not that he gives a flying fuck about how his ass looks, that’s chic stuff. Except that he loves how it feels when Sam slides his hand in his back pocket and squeezes that firm muscle like he wants to possess every inch of Dean’s skin. The strength in Sam’s hands and the almost-but-not-quite-too-tight denim creating delicious pressure on his cock that sends currents of electricity streaming along his spine. Dean sighs; he’s always been a sexual man, loved fucking, immersing his body in another human being and loosing that sense of helplessness and solitude for a moment or two. He’s always fucked with his dick; ridden them hard, hung them up wet, split, and with a few shining exceptions, never let them slip past the Dean Winchester hard candy coating. Now Dean uses his entire body to make love; his fingers, his legs, his tongue, his breath. Every atom of his being is wrapped up in loving Sam Winchester and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sam looks up and spies Dean staring at the rack of candy bars inside the gas station and a smile blossoms across the sharp planes of his beautiful face. They told Bobby everything that first night. They couldn’t find a way around it and after much shuffling of feet and gruff choking Dean blurted, because that’s what Dean does when he’s uncomfortable. Feast or famine, either he’s not saying a word or he’s blurting it all out in one stream of consciousness rant that would have made Virginia Woolf weep.
“Well boys, I don’t know what all this mumbling is about but out with it. And please for the love of all things holy, tell me that neither one of you idgits has gone and sold his soul again, because I’m getting too old for this crap.”
Dean takes a deep breath and launches “I’ve been carving on myself like a goddamn turkey since the ghost sickness, Sam’s was drinking Ruby’s blood but that bitch is dead, we met some angel who is the voice of God. I got Cas drunk and oh yeah, the seals are restored and we’re in love. You can choke on my dust if you have a problem with that old man, I don’t care if you are like a father to both of us.”
Bobby shrugs and wanders into the kitchen, returning with three beers. Sam knows they are laced with holy water and figures it’s all good since Bobby deserves a little time to digest Dean’s diatribe. When Dean doesn’t start choking and going all dark of eye after taking a swig Bobby smacks an open palm against the back of Dean’s head and pulls him into a fierce hug.
“Boy,” Bobby’s voice breaks and Sam’s eyes prick with tears at the sight of the grizzled hunter embracing his brother as their father always should have and rarely ever did, an embrace of ferocious love and unrestrained relief. Bobby steps back and grips Dean’s shoulders. “Are you telling me it’s over?”
“Yes.” Dean and Sam answer together.
“And you two are…”
“Yes.” Sam steps forward and weaves his hand into Dean’s.
“Well boys, can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve seen some strange things in my day and you two never really had anyone else but each other. You’re going to have to give this old dog some time to get used to the idea and don’t go all girly on me.” Bobby glares at their entwined hands. “Braiding each other’s hair and all, never could stomach that sop myself.”
Dean huffs out a relieved laugh.
“And no fucking in my house! I’m not getting any, I sure as hell don’t want to have to listen to you two, do I make myself clear?”
Sam let’s go of Dean’s hand and cuffs Bobby on the shoulder.
“Now Dean, come with me, I’ve got a Gran Torino that’s giving me a hell of a time. I'd like you to have a look at her.”
Dean kicks Sam’s boot and offers him a bottle of water. “You okay, Sammy?”
“It still amazes me. You amaze me.”
“You sure, you know, about the house and all?”
“Dean, I love you, I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”
Dean leans in and brushes the tips of his fingers against Sam’s hip. “I know Sammy, I love you too.”
“One more job, huh?”
“One more. Ought to be an easy one though, routine salt and burn for some doctor friend of Bobby’s. You find anything else out last night?”
“Nah, just a string of drunks getting loaded and disappearing. Bobby’s contact thinks it might be the spirit of this woman who died in a bus versus auto accident along the same stretch of road.”
“Bobby’s buddy in the life?”
“No, the guy’s a doctor, chief of surgery or something at the same hospital as the woman who died.” Dean cocks an eyebrow, curious about his surrogate father’s connections. “Bobby and he crossed paths when the kid was in seminary and they kept in touch. Bobby says he’s good people.”
“When are we supposed to meet him?” Dean heads around the Impala and slides into the seat, palming the steering wheel like he would his lover’s thigh, Sam blushes imagining Dean’s weight and the scratch of rough denim pressing against his naked body.
“Day after tomorrow in Princeton-Plainsboro, Bobby’s going to call tonight with the meet details. In the meantime maybe we could find a place to bed down for the night.” Sam leers and slips across the front seat to nibble at Dean’s earlobe as they pull out of the gas station.
“Driving here, Sammy, my girl needs all my attention right now.” Dean shivers. He hopes to hell there is a motel close and keeps talking to keep his mind off the swirling tongue lapping at the soft skin of his neck. “Umm, what’s the guy’s name?”
“Chase, Dr. Robert Chase.” Sam whispers against Dean’s skin and the next town, Dr. Robert Chase and Princeton-Plainsboro be damned. Dean pulls a screeching U-turn and heads back toward the hotel they left not an hour ago. “Dean, you’re going the wrong direction.”
“Am I Sammy? Because the closest hotel is the one we checked out of about half-an-hour ago and the next town is two hours away. You tell me baby,” Dean lowers his voice to accentuate the promise of whiskey and sin that saturates his baritone growl. “do you want to wait two hours for me strip your clothes off, lick and bite my way from your full, gorgeous mouth all the way to your hot, hard cock. You think you can manage for a few hours thinking about how tight and close it will be when I climb into your lap and ride you until you are screaming my name.”
“Ahhhh…” Sam’s throat is parched and he’s more than a little shell shocked by the litany of incredibly sexy filth dripping from Dean’s tongue.
“Because I can turn back around and we can wait.” Dean chuckles, his own hardness a searing ache that renders the threat as idle and empty as the winding ribbon of asphalt grinding under the wheels of the Impala, carrying the two lovers toward the home they have made in each other’s arms.