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The moon was so bright that their shadows trailed them up the eerily lit path just like their pursuers did. When they finally stumbled into this old shack, Dean threw the door shut the second Mick was inside, nearly taking his foot off in the process. Pressing himself against the wall, Dean glanced through the dirt-crusted window and cursed under his breath.
That had been far too close.
"We okay?" he asked Mick after he had made sure that the vamps were nowhere to be seen.
"'Okay' is not the word I would be using," Mick said, his hand pressing into his side nursing a stitch while trying to catch his breath. He let himself fall against the wooden wall, head tilted back, eyes closed, pain carving visible lines into his forehead. After a few moments, when his breathing had calmed down a bit, he added, "But we are alive, which is rather better than I expected an hour ago." Mick met Dean's gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Dean answered with a short nod, taking the silent 'thanks' that was hanging in the air between them before looking away, scratching his neck.
"Yeah, well, welcome to our world," he said, his lips quirking up slightly as he drew the curtains closed and stepped away from the window. He was trying hard not to look at Mick while simultaneously attempting to order his thoughts that felt like the Ghost Clown had meddled with them.
He had never needed saving from a situation more than he needed it now. He was without weapons, without a contingency plan, and, worst of all, without food, but he was used to all of this, used to just winging it and coming out on top. The real problem was that he was in a small hut in who-knows-where, with nowhere to run, alone with his newest headache: Mick Davies.
For something to do and to stop his thoughts from going in dangerous directions, he looked around to check out the place. Unfortunately, there was not much to see. The room they were in had a sofa that was about three decades past its prime and seated maybe two people, if they squeezed together (Dean tried not to think about that too much), a sideboard that suggested it hosted a TV set at some point in time, and a small kitchenette with the tiniest fridge Dean had ever seen (and that was saying something). It looked like it could hold three, maybe four beers. Maybe. Without much hope, he opened the sorry excuse for a cooling device and did a double take.
"Jackpot," he murmured, his spirits visibly lifting.
Three beers. Three beautiful, semi-cold beers! With a cocky grin, he popped one open and eagerly took a large gulp.
A few minutes and a lot of gagging noises later, Dean emerged from what could be called a 'bathroom'.
"The 'best before' date is the reason we can't have nice things!" he grumbled, tossing the beer into the sink, then rinsing out his mouth.
Meanwhile, Mick had moved from the door to the sofa. He was lying on his back, one leg on the ground, the other one propped up against the backrest, obviously deep in his own thoughts, as it seemed he had completely ignored Dean's visit to the bathroom. Eyes still closed, he rubbed at them before pinching the bridge of his nose.
"This plan of yours … throwing all of our stuff over the mountain ledges … I had no idea what you could possibly be trying to achieve with this. It was the stupidest thing!"
Shaking his head, he propped himself up on his elbows to look at Dean who stared back, challenge in his eyes. "Stupid … and brilliant! It was to spread our scent, right? To keep them off our tails? I don't know if I'm supposed to be mad or impressed."
"In our world, both things can be true at the same time," and after a short pause he added, "Hell, they usually are!" Dean allowed himself to look at Mick with a goofy grin, leaning against the tiny counter of the kitchenette. Mick had thought it was stupid. He had had no idea what was going on and where Dean was going with his plan, but he had still followed it without question, trusting Dean's plan. Trusting Dean.
Mick shook his head slightly, sinking back onto the couch again, eyes closed and a small smile on his lips.
Dean tore his eyes away from him. God dammit! Back to business.
The only thing left to inspect was an old cabinet, which turned out to be a small closet that contained a few moth-eaten jackets and a single stiletto shoe. "That probably was a good story to tell," he muttered more to himself, but turning back to the room, he said, "Nothing in here we can use except the bottles to throw them. Or drink them and hope to die from THEM instead of vamps. Any takers?"
Mick still had his eyes closed, silently shaking his head, which suited Dean just fine; but with nothing to do but hope that their pursuers would lose interest eventually, he was stuck with Mick, his own unbidden thoughts, and no alcohol to shut them up.
Mick and Dean had worked the odd job in the past few months. It had been easy: Mick handled the research, pointed out where they needed to go and what needed killing. Dean handled the dirty work, boasting about his kill of the week, and gave Mick shit about his soft hands. Mick would call him the brawn to his brain. It was working out just fine. And Dean had worked with plenty of other hunters before. They were mostly grumpy bastards who all had their own ways of doing things and were fun to argue with, but they got the job done. So what's different with Mick? Maybe it was that that guy was supposed to be a paper pusher. Useful, but not exactly a hands-on kinda guy. None of the other hunters were as green as Mick was today, and still …
Dean went through the events of the evening in his head. Mick had found evidence of some vamps roaming the area and had joined Dean on this job out in the field. They were not supposed to actually see, let alone fight, anyone. They were just there to check out the nest, get some intel. Obviously, something went wrong. It always did. They should be used to it by now. What he didn't see coming was the way Mick had jumped into the fight without hesitation. No real field experience, every reason to stay out of it, hide, leave. Yet he'd stayed at Dean's side and even kicked some ass along the way. And then Dean had suggested the most unhinged plan in the middle of a fight that would lose them their weapons, ammo, sleeping bags, everything! And Mick had just gone along with it, with him, without so much as batting an eye. No questions asked, not a single objection or doubt that what Dean had proposed could, maybe, be a dumb idea.
Dean was saved from thinking further about this when he saw muted lights through the closed curtains from the corner of his eye.
Someone was coming.
Mick had dozed off on the couch, his arm hanging off it, seemingly totally at ease. Luckily, there was no time to think about that now, either.
"Mick, get up, buddy, wakey-wakey." Dean grabbed Mick by the arm and hoisted him up. "The closet, come on!"
It might not be much better than just staying here, but at least they were not out in the open, presenting themselves on a silver platter without any weapons.
Dean cursed. "I still don't have a single bar out here," he whispered, pushing his phone back into his pocket, which was a struggle given the size of the closet. He was constantly brushing against Mick. They were pressing their shoulders against the door to hold it closed even though they knew it was probably a futile attempt. If those bloodsuckers came in, they were most likely toast with a side of dead.
"I think I might be able to boost my signal," said Mick, his face illuminated by his own phone.
Dean, with nothing else to do and nowhere else to look (or to run), had time to let his gaze wander, to notice things. Like those bright eyes that were darting over the screen to make sense of things, that 5 o'clock stubble, that dark hair. And that smell. Fuck, he smelled good. How did he do that? The closet was so small he couldn't get away from it; they had been running from those vamps for hours and Mick fucking Davies still smelled like he'd just come out of the shower. Mint and popcorn? What a weirdo.
Mick's phone beeped, and he frowned at the screen. A second later he sighed and locked it.
"So, it seems headquarters have nothing yet. They know approximately where we are, but they say they won't be able to get into the vicinity before dawn, so we are on our own."
Dean's eyes stayed on Mick's lips for a few seconds and his mouth suddenly went dry. As Dean watched, Mick licked those lips looking directly at Dean.
"Good," Dean said. He had seen Mick's lips move, but it seemed to have taken a few seconds longer for his brain to actually hear which words they had formed.
Mick cocked an eyebrow. "Do we have a death wish?"
"I just mean, they would've gotten in the way." Dean's brain was in the driver's seat while he was, apparently, chilling in the back. He had no control over the words that were tumbling out of his mouth. Mhhh … popcorn.
"In the way of what?" Mick turned his whole body towards Dean, and he, mirroring his movement, didn't know what to answer. He hadn't realized, yet, what his body and brain were clearly trying to tell him. With Mick's phone back in his pocket, the only light came through the slits in the cupboard door, and it drew lines over Mick's face, illuminating his lips and nose while the rest stayed in shadow, but Dean felt Mick's eyes on him. Mick was looking at him properly for the first time since this whole thing started, and now, it seemed, it was his turn to let his gaze travel over Dean's face with an intensity that made Dean squirm.
Why the hell was it so warm in here all of a sudden?
"Well, you know," he had no idea what he was saying. Or doing. But he said and did it anyway. "Figure if we're gonna die, might as well stop wasting time." He wanted it to come out cocky, but it was more of a breathless question.
Mick leaned in slightly, as if subconscious. His eyes, now clearly visible in the moonlight, went wide with disbelief, but his lips quirked up into a tentative smile. They were pretty much nose to nose now. Dean felt Mick's breath on his face. Minty as well, bastard! Dean was sure that he himself probably didn't smell like rainbows and butterflies, but Mick didn't seem to mind, as they moved at the same time. At least Dean thought they must have, because he tasted mint on his tongue, eagerly chasing for more and somehow his hands had gotten into Mick's hair and one of Mick's hands was fisting into the back of Dean's jacket pulling at him while the other one was grabbing his ass. For a guy with soft hands, Mick sure as hell wasn't shy about using them.
Their bodies were pressing together so hard that they had stumbled against the side of the cupboard. Mick used Dean's desperate moan to break the kiss only to move his lips to Dean's throat. His stubble was scratching against Dean's neck - now this, this made him feel … things.
"Jesus," Dean hissed, his cheeks, already flushed, now burning hot.
Was this a thing? Why was this a thing? He probably looked like a pathetic idiot, but he rubbed himself against Mick, chasing that burn on his neck and then grabbed Mick by the hair, tilting his head so he could kiss him again. Mad. He was mad with sudden desire; red and hot in his stomach and crawling further and further down. He was hard as a rock and kissing wasn't doing it anymore, it wasn't enough.
Fuck it, Dean wanted it all. Last day on earth, he wasn't going to deny himself this. He shoved his knee between Mick's legs and his tongue into Mick's mouth, which got a strangled moan out of him. Dean's hand wandered southwards, rubbing Mick through his jeans, and he was turned ravenous when he found Mick equally ready. Damn, he was going feral!
"Fuck," Mick gasped between kisses, breathing heavily and pressing himself against Dean's hand and leg, desperately chasing more friction.
Just as Dean was pulling at Mick's belt, the front door sprang open, and they sprang apart, with panicked expressions. Feeling like they were coming to, realizing that the world had kept existing around them. They might have forgotten that this was, indeed, a life and death situation. But hell, Dean was sure that there were worse ways to die than with his pants down rubbing blissfully against Mick. At least he wouldn't be found hiding in a closet for nothing. And that thought pulled a filthy grin from his mouth, his fingers back at Mick's belt.
"DEAN!?" it was Sam.
"Mick!? "and Mary.
Oh. His hands on Mick's hips, Dean felt this weird regret, this loss, as if he was robbed of something. That's not right, is it? They were being saved after all. Was he actually preferring being torn apart by vamps? No, of course not, but he couldn't help thinking about what could have been if Sam and Mary hadn't found them for another half hour or so. How he wouldn't have minded being torn apart by Mick, instead.
Dean was the first to pull himself together again, while Mick still looked wistfully at Dean's mouth, his hands unwillingly letting go of Dean's neck.
"In here, give us a sec," Dean shouted, while staring longingly at Mick's messy hair, his half open belt and his swollen lips. He opened the latch and with a last woeful glance at Mick, stepped out of the closet.
"Nice of you to finally show up," Dean threw at them, hoping to keep the attention on his face while silently praying that the bulge in his jeans wasn't as visible as it felt. Sam took his brother's sarcasm in his stride.
"What happened to you? You look like a hot mess."
Well, he was. He still wasn't steady on his feet, his knees slightly wobbly, but he was nothing if not a brilliant actor.
"Well, Sammy, that happens when a whole nest of SuckyMcSuckSucks are after your asses."
Before Sam could roll his eyes too hard at that, he looked over Deans shoulder.
"You okay, Mick?"
Dean turned to Mick who had stepped out of the closet. He had closed his belt again and tried to flatten his hair, but still looked slightly windswept and a bit out of it. Dean relished the fact that this was entirely his doing; that he had ruffled that usually clean and proper Brit so much that he still seemed a bit dazed.
"Oh, he got hit pretty bad. First day out on a proper hunt and all." Dean smirked at Mick. "But he did very well! I think we should be working him in the field more often. He is good in a 'tight spot' ". Dean winked at him and a hot flush crept up Mick's face as he scratched the back of his head, looking sheepishly at Dean. Dean just grinned.
"Who's up for proper drinks now?"
And with that, he slung his arms around Sam and Mick, squeezing Mick's shoulder just a bit too much, wondering if he would ever be able to brush his teeth again, without getting a hard-on.