Fic: "Guys Do Make Passes (At Guys Who Wear Glasses)" (Sam/Dean, adult)
Title: "Guys Do Make Passes (At Guys Who Wear Glasses)"
Written by: thehighwaywoman
Rating: Quite adult
Warnings: Sam/Dean, general spoilers up to the end of S2 and AU afterwards
Word count: ~3700
For spn13's prompt #7: "Never"
Beta'd by: The fantastic insomnia_geek
Feedback: Would make my day
Summary: Futurefic in which Dean refuses to admit he needs glasses. Unashamedly schmoopy, fluffy, angst-free porn. Features glasses!kink, established LTR Sam/Dean, older!Sam/older!Dean. The first in a planned series. Enjoy!
This is how it begins:
Sunlight's pouring through the big open window in their bedroom, what looks like one of those glory days of summer gearing up outside. The sky is solid, saturated blue without a cloud to be seen. Their yard is green, Dean having ignored water restrictions all summer long to pamper his grass and keep his car spotless. Water the grass to make it grow, then spend hours roasting in the sun to trim it back down.
Sam once suggested that it'd be a lot easier to cover the yard in cement and Dean looked at him like he'd grown an extra head. Then he'd gone and pouted in a macho, manly fashion until Sam came to placate him with a BLT, a beer and a blow job, after which he apologized and promised he'd respect the sanctity of a man's lawn.
Whatever. Still, it's not worth complaining. He gets a great eyeful of Dean with his shirt off, muscles flexing, ripe and sweaty, every Saturday morning. Forty-mumble, going strong, and looking good, as he says, and Sam can't disagree.
"Should we make the bed?" Sam asks, fingering the tangle of pale azure sheets with goldenrod stripes. Sturdy cotton, made to last. Dean-approved for their masculinity. He still hasn't let Sam live down the time he came home after wandering around in a Bed, Bath & Beyond and found out that he'd bought a throw pillow.
Dean shrugs, paying more attention to the floor of their closet.
"If you build it, they will come."
"Shut up."
"Dean, the bed?"
"Don't sweat it. I made the bed yesterday. Have you seen my left boot?"
Leaving their bed ripe with the smell of sex and interestingly stained kind of makes Sam's fingers twitch. Still, he's learned to pick his battles. Finally. "Your boot's under the couch, I think. Hey, while you're out there, would you feed the fish?"
"What, you mean your demon-possessed JAWS spawn?"
They're betta fighting fish, and Dean thinks they're the shiznit or whatever the phrase is these days, so Sam ignores the snipe and keeps working, packing in preparation to hitting the road for a hunt. He's getting his things together quickly and neatly because he has what Dean scoffs at as an "anal-retentive" habit of putting boxers and socks and extra lube away exactly where they're supposed to go, and thus handily remembers where they are when they're needed.
Dean… not so much.
"Found it," he carols as he returns, brandishing his boot with a proud grin. Look what I did!
"Good for you, Dean."
Dean pops Sam lightly on the back of the head and starts to do the boot-lacing dance. He's still got the ass to make it appealing. Sam enjoys the show and steals a kiss when Dean's done.
"Now that's what I'm talkin' about." Dean's lips always puff up a little after a good, deep kiss, tempting Sam to go back for more. This is how most of their frantic X-rated encounters start.
Today, he's strong. "Later," he promises, trailing his thumb over Dean's bottom lip. The kind of dark, smoky sensuality even adult stores are afraid to carry burns in Dean's lazy grin. The sight still makes Sam catch his breath.
Yeah, he'd tap that. Often.
"I'll hold you to your word. Okay!" Dean's all business as he turns away. "What else do I need?"
Sam lets him do his thing, half-listening and half-fantasizing about "later". After a few minutes of muffled and not-so-muffled verbalized internal dialogue plus the introduction of bonus obscenities, he realizes that Dean's on an in-house hunt of his own. Sounds like he's rooting through the odds-and-ends junk drawer of their dresser in search of a chamois cloth and a tiny screwdriver. He's cursing the clutter sixty ways to Sunday and slowly, Sam can tell, going out of his mind.
Sam stole both the chamois and the minute screwdriver to clean and fix his glasses and he knows exactly where they are, namely in his jacket pocket, but he's not about to tell Dean. It's more fun to watch him boil over; besides, he still owes Dean one for his last round of pranks.
Sam holds out a thin strand of hope that one day Dean's mental age will catch up with his chronological age.
Maybe. He wonders if he'd really feel comfortable if Dean suddenly sobered up, settled down and started reading USA Today instead of the Enquirer. Sometimes inquiring minds don't want to know.
"Sam, I swear to God, if you've hidden the screwdriver somewhere I'll punch it through your eye."
"Nice, Dean." Sam sorts through a three-pack of undershirts in bright primary colors and chooses the red one. He'd go for pink just to tweak Dean's chain if the pack offered that option.
He pauses to consider sneaking a package of pastel undershirts from the Ladies' section at Wal-Mart into Dean's suitcase.
"I could poke it through your eardrum if you'd rather."
"Thanks, but I think I'll turn the offer down."
"That'd be about the first time you've said no to me sticking anything in you for a long time. Slut."
Sam flips Dean off. "I didn't hear the word 'no' out of you last night when I had your cock in my mouth."
"Jesus, Sam." Sam glances up to see that Dean's blushing pale pink. He's so random and so unexpected with what embarrasses him that it's adorable.
"It's not like I'm complaining," Sam points out with a smile for his brother, his lover, the guy pretty much everyone they know calls his husband. That used to make him squirmy; it doesn't now. Fucked-up-ed-ness has always pretty much been their raison d'etre. Why quibble over semantics?
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Dean blows him a kiss.
Sam laughs as he turns to "catch" the kiss on his ass, and while he's facing the right way he gets back to work, only realizing he's humming when Dean joins in on the second chorus of "Stairway to Heaven".
That works fine for Sam. He's in a good mood, stubble burn warm and prickly on his inner thighs and a quarter-sized bruise on his throat where Dean just would not let go during a truly outstanding orgasm. He's well-fucked and kind of in the mood for a hunt.
Looks like it'll be a fun hunt, easygoing and laid-back as they go, just your basic haunting but a good excuse to stretch their legs. Dean's healed from the broken ankle he got chasing a rogue possessed sheep three months ago. When Sam mentioned Dean not being as young as he once was and referenced the healing abilities of older bones, Dean gave him a look and then proceeded to perform a sexual act Sam hadn't thought physically possible.
All the same, Sam's glad they're starting up again with something easy. Better still, the haunting is in one of the most amazing bookstores he's ever seen, The Tattered Cover in downtown Denver, Colorado. Payment, not usually even a small consideration, has been promised in the form of as many books as Sam can carry out of there, with a set limit of one hundred dollars in dirty magazines for Dean. It's a bibliophile's wet dream, lending Sam the kind of rosy glow he usually gets after a glass of single-malt Scotch and the roaring "yes!" that comes of finishing a whole bottle of Johnnie Walker Red before Dean's halfway down his portion in the Damn, We're Bored Drinking Challenges. His tolerance has, he's pleased to say, improved with age.
Pleasant mood, a promised king's ransom in books -- the manager who called them in has never met Sam and thus knows nothing about how much his long arms are capable of carrying -- and coalescing plans to tie Dean to the motel headboard with bandanas when they hit Denver.
Life is sweet.
So, with all the good that's going on, Sam's not expecting the fight.
To be fair, he honestly doesn't realize he's starting something when he calls over to Dean and asks, "Get me that Weekly World issue with the article on library hauntings, would you?"
Dean scowls, absorbed in sorting through a pile of crumpled laundry and applying the sniff test when in doubt about clean versus dirty. "Are you high? It's a store, not a library. See, they make you pay for books there. Big difference."
Sam throws a pair of his tidily rolled-up socks at Dean, who deflects them without looking. "Let's try this again."
"Or you'll what? Deny me sex? You'd never last a day."
True enough. Sam still doesn't concede the point. "Dean," he warns, indicating that he might just follow through with the implied threat for as long as he could hold out, and given his brother's undiminished-with-age libido, that's some serious tough love.
"You wouldn't." Dean stills. It gets him every time. "Seriously, Sam, would you?"
"Want to find out?"
Dean shudders. "Fine, fine. Weekly World article coming up." He turns to the battered bookcase propped on the wall near Sam's side of the bed. "Bookcase" is a generous euphemism. It holds books, sure, but it's cobbled out of some weathered planks hammered together. An inheritance from Bobby. Both Sam and Dean would happily slaughter anyone who turned up their nose.
The shelf within arm's reach of their bed boasts a stack of geometrically cut reports printed on below toilet-tissue grade paper; Dean grabs the whole sheaf and starts to hand them over. "Here you go, princess."
"I don't need the entire stack. Just pick out the relevant story. I think it's filed somewhere around the middle."
Dean makes a face. "Come on, Sam. You could find it faster than I can."
Sam shrugs. Guns or knives next? Or should he focus on the salt? For some reason, in recent years nothing works but sea salt. The supernatural world gets weirder and weirder. "Would you stop complaining and get me the stupid clipping? Seriously."
While Dean grumbles, Sam goes through a hand-selected assortment of light weaponry, moving mostly on autopilot, making mental notes as to which need sharpening and which need cleaning.
Halfway through, he realizes what he's doing and stops. Since when does Dean not take flawless care of his tools? A shoddy blade-edge sends warning chills through Sam.
He turns to Dean, brandishing the knife, which might or might not cut butter. He's all ready to rip his brother a new one for a) risking their lives with substandard weapons and b) not telling Sam that he's either going senile or freakin' dying. The rant dies on his lips as he takes in the sight of Dean scowling at the upside-down articles and he realizes even as he shapes the all-too-familiar words, crap, here we go again.
"Dean," he starts, adjusting the silver eyeglasses frames on his own nose. "You're having trouble reading, aren't you?"
Dean holds up a finger, knowing as well as Sam that they're heading down this all-too-familiar road. "No, I'm not, and we're not talking about this."
"Yeah, right, we're not. Dean, you need --"
"Don't say the word."
"Dean --"
"Leave it alone." Dean zips up an overstuffed duffel bag like everything is hunky-dory status quo and business as usual, exactly like it's been for the last twenty years.
Now, Sam likes to think of himself as a smart guy. He's not the kind who forgets where he put his glasses, and he's not too proud to wear them for reading, or who stands in a parking lot trying to remember where he left the car. Not that you could miss the Impala if you were in a coal mine at midnight; Dean's baby just has that much personality and yes, Sam's still jealous of the damn car.
Quick on the draw, fast like a bullet, that's what Dean calls him when he only wants to gently yank Sam's chain in bed. Of course, Sam knows Dean knows that'll only motivate Sam to play Marathon Man and fuck him until dawn.
Whatever.
The point Sam's made over and over again is that he knows how much depends on his brainpower during a hunt. Maybe even more than what Dean calls his ability to sweet-talk anything animal, vegetable and mineral. That, by the way, seems to have aged well, fluidly transitioning from wide-eyed kid to charming thirty-something and now a sort of kindly (young!) bachelor uncle whom you can confide in about absolutely anything. His hair is still long and still floppy, threaded lightly with gray; he has fine smile lines at the corners of his lips and his eyes. He wears silver-rimmed spectacles out of basic necessity but has seen for himself how they tend to lend a man a certain appeal. Men and woman of all ages do make passes at guys who wear glasses, and Sam's there to prove it.
Short story long, Dean counts on Sam for a lot, brains and compassion and more. And in turn, Sam counts on Dean's eyes during the dangerous part of a hunt, not to mention while driving, and his vanity is gonna get both of them killed.
So Sam gets his stubborn on. Again. "You know what? I'm just gonna say it. Dean, you need glasses."
Dean flinches. "I do not."
"You think they look hot on me."
"Yeah, well, that's you, and I'm a perv. What's your point?"
Sam crosses his arms, says nothing, and waits.
"For the last time, Sam, I do not need glasses." Dean lifts his chin; discussion over. "Where did I put the salt?"
Like Dean doesn't know exactly where everything is, down to the last vial of holy water. Even if he can't see well enough that he's bought lite salt instead of sea salt, apparently.
"You don't have trouble reading? Fine." Sam unzips Dean's duffel, ignoring his "Hey!" and digs out one of those big, worn Atlas maps. Opening it to a random page, he points. "Tell me what state this is."
Dean barely glances at the page. "Colorado. Coincidentally where we happen to be headed as soon as we're packed. Are you done yet?"
"Cheater. You recognized the shape of the state."
"Yeah. You know, that's not hard to do. I think they teach kids all about that in school. It's called, oh, I dunno, basic geography or something. Let's get a move on. That psycho spirit in 'The Tattered Cover' needs salting and burning." Dean claps his hands. "Chop, chop."
No way Sam's giving up now. He's got a point to prove here, dammit. He jabs at a red bulls-eye delineating a city. "Fine. Name this one."
Dean huffs impatiently. Sam, who's watching very closely, doesn't miss his brother's momentary squint as he looks at the map. "Aspen. Not where we're headed, by the way."
"Lucky guess."
"When are you going to give it a rest?" Dean changes tactics in mid-snipe with his uncanny fluidity of motion kicking in. A defensive pose shifts gears and become seductive, one hip thrust forward and the devil's gleam in his eye. His myopic eye, thank you.
Sex is the greatest of all Great Distracters, but Sam likes to think he can rise above the demands of his downstairs brain. At least for once in his life-in-love-with-Dean. Although to hear Dean rant about it, Sam's the undisputed champion of pissy-bitches who live to make hard-working guys sleep on lumpy couches.
"Admit it. You couldn't read the city name and you only got in the lucky guess about Aspen based on its location within the state."
Dean shrugs off his attempt at fucking the argument away. "I don't believe this. Sam, swear to God, you're like a piranha chowing down on a puppy."
Sam recoils. "Dean? You're sick."
Proud of himself, Dean leers.
Sam rises above it, very proud indeed of his fortitude. Leers like those, indicating mental stripping off of clothes and possibly sucking cocks, have reduced him to jelly in the past (week), but not today, no sir.
"Name this one." He taps a tiny blip on the map grid, barely larger than a pinprick with teeny print underneath. He himself would have trouble reading it even with his glasses unless he brought the map closer to his face. A lot closer.
Dean finally looks uncomfortable. "Sammy, please."
The "Sammy" melts him as it always has, right along with the unhappy note in Dean's voice. He's had a weakness for kissing Dean's miseries away over the past two decades.
Nevertheless, Sam assumes his best stony face. It's a little eerie how naturally it still comes to him, patterned purely on Dad's impenetratable stoicism. Whether that's down to nurture versus nature, he doesn't know.
"Read the map and tell me the name of this one-stoplight burg. If you get it right, I give up the round and we head for Colorado, praying that on the way that you don't drive us right into a five-car-pileup."
"You better not be implying that I'd put my baby at risk." Dean sounds mortally offended.
"I'll take it all back if you do this one little thing for me." Sam shoves the map in Dean's face, grinding the dot he wants identified against Dean's nose.
In retrospect, he really should have known that was a mistake, because as soon as he did that, it was on.
Dean's roar gives Sam a point-nil second to realize how deeply buried he is in shit. Not enough time to run, although he manages a decent pivot and is just about to when Dean's full weight crashes into him and they both go tumbling down.
"Damnit, Dean, get off," Sam yells, pushing and kicking at the various limbs pinning him to their bedroom floor.
"Oh no, uh-uh." Dean slams Sam's shoulders flat. "You said I couldn't take care of my baby right. Them's fightin' words, Sam."
"Get off of me, dude, I'm not kidding."
"And what if I don't want to?" Dean rises easily to his knees, straddling Sam's chest and pinning him fast. "You have to say you're sorry first."
Sam huffs, blowing stray strands of hair off his forehead. "I'll apologize when you listen to reason."
"I'm not getting glasses, Sammy, so give up now or I'll do something drastic."
"Like what?" Sam scoffs, trying to buck Dean off his chest. The guy's heavy to have on you when they're not in the middle of sex. "You're gonna give me a collapsed lung."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Dean catches Sam's wrists effortlessly when Sam wriggles his arms free and punches at him. One wrist in each hand, one knee on each bicep, and his ass on Sam's ribs.
Which would put his cock somewhere around…
Oh.
"Now you're gettin' the idea." Dean's eyelids are hooded now, his lips curved in a carelessly dominant smirk. He rides Sam's startled inhalation like it's a freakin' tidal wave, hamming up an exaggerated rush of excitement. "Ooh, do that again."
Sam wants to object. He wants to stand true to his principles.
On the other hand, there's an erect dick not a foot away from his watering mouth and while it's true that sex doesn't solve anything, it's… what was he saying? Never mind.
"We're not done here," Sam warns his brother, long fingers busily working open Dean's distorted fly. He breathes out long and slow and strokes what he finds inside for his own pleasure and the thrill of hearing Dean moan like a ten-dollar hooker.
"Yeah, sure." Dean wiggles closer to Sam, close enough to nudge the head of his cock on Sam's open lips. "Whatever. Later."
Sam mentally throws in the towel and physically sucks Dean's erection in, plying it with all Dean's favorite tricks and a few of his own. Nibbling his balls and nipping the head. Working the jeans down until he can slide his fingers in the crease of Dean's ass, all the better to torment him. He slides a thick finger in, and then his head fills with red heat and his senses with the smell and taste and sight of Dean's orgasm, otherwise known as howling loudly enough to frighten the neighbors and choking Sam with his dick.
Potato, po-tat-oh.
He's still catching his breath when Dean, who's collapsed atop him, mumbles, "Would it make you happy if I said I'll think about it?"
That's great, but Sam's got other things on his mind just then. "You're not going to leave me hanging here, are you?"
"Hell, nah. Just give me a minute. And about the other thing, remember I said I'd think about it and that's all. I didn't promise anything."
For all his bravado, Dean's touch when he straightens Sam's crazy-tilted glasses on his nose is almost tender. He presses a light kiss to Sam's lips and rests his head on Sam's neck, shamelessly playing on Sam's snuggling jones to secure his free pass out of the argument for now.
"Fair enough." Sam doesn't want to argue. And after Dean returns the favor and sucks him off, tormenting him until he's arched off the floor, toes curling, tendons straining, splattering his stomach when he comes, he doesn't want to move for maybe a week or two.
Dean resumes his bitching while he's still licking Sam's cum off his gorgeously swollen lips, popping up from between Sam's sprawled legs to rant. "The glasses are one issue. Don't start askin' me about other gettin'-old crap. Like Viagra. Don't you ever mention that in my presence."
"Dean," Sam says sincerely, "trust me when I say that's not going to be an issue."
Dean grunts, satisfied. "So… wanna go kill a bookstore ghost?" The grin he flashes at Sam makes him look as young as the day Sam first threw him against a wall and tongue-fucked him until he creamed his jeans.
"Yeah, sure. Let's." Sam drags himself to his feet, helps Dean up, and as soon as they've dusted themselves off, they're gone.
Pausing first for Dean to find the Impala keys, of course.
He still claims Sam hid them somewhere just to be an ass, but that's another story.
Written by: thehighwaywoman
Rating: Quite adult
Warnings: Sam/Dean, general spoilers up to the end of S2 and AU afterwards
Word count: ~3700
For spn13's prompt #7: "Never"
Beta'd by: The fantastic insomnia_geek
Feedback: Would make my day
Summary: Futurefic in which Dean refuses to admit he needs glasses. Unashamedly schmoopy, fluffy, angst-free porn. Features glasses!kink, established LTR Sam/Dean, older!Sam/older!Dean. The first in a planned series. Enjoy!
This is how it begins:
Sunlight's pouring through the big open window in their bedroom, what looks like one of those glory days of summer gearing up outside. The sky is solid, saturated blue without a cloud to be seen. Their yard is green, Dean having ignored water restrictions all summer long to pamper his grass and keep his car spotless. Water the grass to make it grow, then spend hours roasting in the sun to trim it back down.
Sam once suggested that it'd be a lot easier to cover the yard in cement and Dean looked at him like he'd grown an extra head. Then he'd gone and pouted in a macho, manly fashion until Sam came to placate him with a BLT, a beer and a blow job, after which he apologized and promised he'd respect the sanctity of a man's lawn.
Whatever. Still, it's not worth complaining. He gets a great eyeful of Dean with his shirt off, muscles flexing, ripe and sweaty, every Saturday morning. Forty-mumble, going strong, and looking good, as he says, and Sam can't disagree.
"Should we make the bed?" Sam asks, fingering the tangle of pale azure sheets with goldenrod stripes. Sturdy cotton, made to last. Dean-approved for their masculinity. He still hasn't let Sam live down the time he came home after wandering around in a Bed, Bath & Beyond and found out that he'd bought a throw pillow.
Dean shrugs, paying more attention to the floor of their closet.
"If you build it, they will come."
"Shut up."
"Dean, the bed?"
"Don't sweat it. I made the bed yesterday. Have you seen my left boot?"
Leaving their bed ripe with the smell of sex and interestingly stained kind of makes Sam's fingers twitch. Still, he's learned to pick his battles. Finally. "Your boot's under the couch, I think. Hey, while you're out there, would you feed the fish?"
"What, you mean your demon-possessed JAWS spawn?"
They're betta fighting fish, and Dean thinks they're the shiznit or whatever the phrase is these days, so Sam ignores the snipe and keeps working, packing in preparation to hitting the road for a hunt. He's getting his things together quickly and neatly because he has what Dean scoffs at as an "anal-retentive" habit of putting boxers and socks and extra lube away exactly where they're supposed to go, and thus handily remembers where they are when they're needed.
Dean… not so much.
"Found it," he carols as he returns, brandishing his boot with a proud grin. Look what I did!
"Good for you, Dean."
Dean pops Sam lightly on the back of the head and starts to do the boot-lacing dance. He's still got the ass to make it appealing. Sam enjoys the show and steals a kiss when Dean's done.
"Now that's what I'm talkin' about." Dean's lips always puff up a little after a good, deep kiss, tempting Sam to go back for more. This is how most of their frantic X-rated encounters start.
Today, he's strong. "Later," he promises, trailing his thumb over Dean's bottom lip. The kind of dark, smoky sensuality even adult stores are afraid to carry burns in Dean's lazy grin. The sight still makes Sam catch his breath.
Yeah, he'd tap that. Often.
"I'll hold you to your word. Okay!" Dean's all business as he turns away. "What else do I need?"
Sam lets him do his thing, half-listening and half-fantasizing about "later". After a few minutes of muffled and not-so-muffled verbalized internal dialogue plus the introduction of bonus obscenities, he realizes that Dean's on an in-house hunt of his own. Sounds like he's rooting through the odds-and-ends junk drawer of their dresser in search of a chamois cloth and a tiny screwdriver. He's cursing the clutter sixty ways to Sunday and slowly, Sam can tell, going out of his mind.
Sam stole both the chamois and the minute screwdriver to clean and fix his glasses and he knows exactly where they are, namely in his jacket pocket, but he's not about to tell Dean. It's more fun to watch him boil over; besides, he still owes Dean one for his last round of pranks.
Sam holds out a thin strand of hope that one day Dean's mental age will catch up with his chronological age.
Maybe. He wonders if he'd really feel comfortable if Dean suddenly sobered up, settled down and started reading USA Today instead of the Enquirer. Sometimes inquiring minds don't want to know.
"Sam, I swear to God, if you've hidden the screwdriver somewhere I'll punch it through your eye."
"Nice, Dean." Sam sorts through a three-pack of undershirts in bright primary colors and chooses the red one. He'd go for pink just to tweak Dean's chain if the pack offered that option.
He pauses to consider sneaking a package of pastel undershirts from the Ladies' section at Wal-Mart into Dean's suitcase.
"I could poke it through your eardrum if you'd rather."
"Thanks, but I think I'll turn the offer down."
"That'd be about the first time you've said no to me sticking anything in you for a long time. Slut."
Sam flips Dean off. "I didn't hear the word 'no' out of you last night when I had your cock in my mouth."
"Jesus, Sam." Sam glances up to see that Dean's blushing pale pink. He's so random and so unexpected with what embarrasses him that it's adorable.
"It's not like I'm complaining," Sam points out with a smile for his brother, his lover, the guy pretty much everyone they know calls his husband. That used to make him squirmy; it doesn't now. Fucked-up-ed-ness has always pretty much been their raison d'etre. Why quibble over semantics?
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Dean blows him a kiss.
Sam laughs as he turns to "catch" the kiss on his ass, and while he's facing the right way he gets back to work, only realizing he's humming when Dean joins in on the second chorus of "Stairway to Heaven".
That works fine for Sam. He's in a good mood, stubble burn warm and prickly on his inner thighs and a quarter-sized bruise on his throat where Dean just would not let go during a truly outstanding orgasm. He's well-fucked and kind of in the mood for a hunt.
Looks like it'll be a fun hunt, easygoing and laid-back as they go, just your basic haunting but a good excuse to stretch their legs. Dean's healed from the broken ankle he got chasing a rogue possessed sheep three months ago. When Sam mentioned Dean not being as young as he once was and referenced the healing abilities of older bones, Dean gave him a look and then proceeded to perform a sexual act Sam hadn't thought physically possible.
All the same, Sam's glad they're starting up again with something easy. Better still, the haunting is in one of the most amazing bookstores he's ever seen, The Tattered Cover in downtown Denver, Colorado. Payment, not usually even a small consideration, has been promised in the form of as many books as Sam can carry out of there, with a set limit of one hundred dollars in dirty magazines for Dean. It's a bibliophile's wet dream, lending Sam the kind of rosy glow he usually gets after a glass of single-malt Scotch and the roaring "yes!" that comes of finishing a whole bottle of Johnnie Walker Red before Dean's halfway down his portion in the Damn, We're Bored Drinking Challenges. His tolerance has, he's pleased to say, improved with age.
Pleasant mood, a promised king's ransom in books -- the manager who called them in has never met Sam and thus knows nothing about how much his long arms are capable of carrying -- and coalescing plans to tie Dean to the motel headboard with bandanas when they hit Denver.
Life is sweet.
So, with all the good that's going on, Sam's not expecting the fight.
To be fair, he honestly doesn't realize he's starting something when he calls over to Dean and asks, "Get me that Weekly World issue with the article on library hauntings, would you?"
Dean scowls, absorbed in sorting through a pile of crumpled laundry and applying the sniff test when in doubt about clean versus dirty. "Are you high? It's a store, not a library. See, they make you pay for books there. Big difference."
Sam throws a pair of his tidily rolled-up socks at Dean, who deflects them without looking. "Let's try this again."
"Or you'll what? Deny me sex? You'd never last a day."
True enough. Sam still doesn't concede the point. "Dean," he warns, indicating that he might just follow through with the implied threat for as long as he could hold out, and given his brother's undiminished-with-age libido, that's some serious tough love.
"You wouldn't." Dean stills. It gets him every time. "Seriously, Sam, would you?"
"Want to find out?"
Dean shudders. "Fine, fine. Weekly World article coming up." He turns to the battered bookcase propped on the wall near Sam's side of the bed. "Bookcase" is a generous euphemism. It holds books, sure, but it's cobbled out of some weathered planks hammered together. An inheritance from Bobby. Both Sam and Dean would happily slaughter anyone who turned up their nose.
The shelf within arm's reach of their bed boasts a stack of geometrically cut reports printed on below toilet-tissue grade paper; Dean grabs the whole sheaf and starts to hand them over. "Here you go, princess."
"I don't need the entire stack. Just pick out the relevant story. I think it's filed somewhere around the middle."
Dean makes a face. "Come on, Sam. You could find it faster than I can."
Sam shrugs. Guns or knives next? Or should he focus on the salt? For some reason, in recent years nothing works but sea salt. The supernatural world gets weirder and weirder. "Would you stop complaining and get me the stupid clipping? Seriously."
While Dean grumbles, Sam goes through a hand-selected assortment of light weaponry, moving mostly on autopilot, making mental notes as to which need sharpening and which need cleaning.
Halfway through, he realizes what he's doing and stops. Since when does Dean not take flawless care of his tools? A shoddy blade-edge sends warning chills through Sam.
He turns to Dean, brandishing the knife, which might or might not cut butter. He's all ready to rip his brother a new one for a) risking their lives with substandard weapons and b) not telling Sam that he's either going senile or freakin' dying. The rant dies on his lips as he takes in the sight of Dean scowling at the upside-down articles and he realizes even as he shapes the all-too-familiar words, crap, here we go again.
"Dean," he starts, adjusting the silver eyeglasses frames on his own nose. "You're having trouble reading, aren't you?"
Dean holds up a finger, knowing as well as Sam that they're heading down this all-too-familiar road. "No, I'm not, and we're not talking about this."
"Yeah, right, we're not. Dean, you need --"
"Don't say the word."
"Dean --"
"Leave it alone." Dean zips up an overstuffed duffel bag like everything is hunky-dory status quo and business as usual, exactly like it's been for the last twenty years.
Now, Sam likes to think of himself as a smart guy. He's not the kind who forgets where he put his glasses, and he's not too proud to wear them for reading, or who stands in a parking lot trying to remember where he left the car. Not that you could miss the Impala if you were in a coal mine at midnight; Dean's baby just has that much personality and yes, Sam's still jealous of the damn car.
Quick on the draw, fast like a bullet, that's what Dean calls him when he only wants to gently yank Sam's chain in bed. Of course, Sam knows Dean knows that'll only motivate Sam to play Marathon Man and fuck him until dawn.
Whatever.
The point Sam's made over and over again is that he knows how much depends on his brainpower during a hunt. Maybe even more than what Dean calls his ability to sweet-talk anything animal, vegetable and mineral. That, by the way, seems to have aged well, fluidly transitioning from wide-eyed kid to charming thirty-something and now a sort of kindly (young!) bachelor uncle whom you can confide in about absolutely anything. His hair is still long and still floppy, threaded lightly with gray; he has fine smile lines at the corners of his lips and his eyes. He wears silver-rimmed spectacles out of basic necessity but has seen for himself how they tend to lend a man a certain appeal. Men and woman of all ages do make passes at guys who wear glasses, and Sam's there to prove it.
Short story long, Dean counts on Sam for a lot, brains and compassion and more. And in turn, Sam counts on Dean's eyes during the dangerous part of a hunt, not to mention while driving, and his vanity is gonna get both of them killed.
So Sam gets his stubborn on. Again. "You know what? I'm just gonna say it. Dean, you need glasses."
Dean flinches. "I do not."
"You think they look hot on me."
"Yeah, well, that's you, and I'm a perv. What's your point?"
Sam crosses his arms, says nothing, and waits.
"For the last time, Sam, I do not need glasses." Dean lifts his chin; discussion over. "Where did I put the salt?"
Like Dean doesn't know exactly where everything is, down to the last vial of holy water. Even if he can't see well enough that he's bought lite salt instead of sea salt, apparently.
"You don't have trouble reading? Fine." Sam unzips Dean's duffel, ignoring his "Hey!" and digs out one of those big, worn Atlas maps. Opening it to a random page, he points. "Tell me what state this is."
Dean barely glances at the page. "Colorado. Coincidentally where we happen to be headed as soon as we're packed. Are you done yet?"
"Cheater. You recognized the shape of the state."
"Yeah. You know, that's not hard to do. I think they teach kids all about that in school. It's called, oh, I dunno, basic geography or something. Let's get a move on. That psycho spirit in 'The Tattered Cover' needs salting and burning." Dean claps his hands. "Chop, chop."
No way Sam's giving up now. He's got a point to prove here, dammit. He jabs at a red bulls-eye delineating a city. "Fine. Name this one."
Dean huffs impatiently. Sam, who's watching very closely, doesn't miss his brother's momentary squint as he looks at the map. "Aspen. Not where we're headed, by the way."
"Lucky guess."
"When are you going to give it a rest?" Dean changes tactics in mid-snipe with his uncanny fluidity of motion kicking in. A defensive pose shifts gears and become seductive, one hip thrust forward and the devil's gleam in his eye. His myopic eye, thank you.
Sex is the greatest of all Great Distracters, but Sam likes to think he can rise above the demands of his downstairs brain. At least for once in his life-in-love-with-Dean. Although to hear Dean rant about it, Sam's the undisputed champion of pissy-bitches who live to make hard-working guys sleep on lumpy couches.
"Admit it. You couldn't read the city name and you only got in the lucky guess about Aspen based on its location within the state."
Dean shrugs off his attempt at fucking the argument away. "I don't believe this. Sam, swear to God, you're like a piranha chowing down on a puppy."
Sam recoils. "Dean? You're sick."
Proud of himself, Dean leers.
Sam rises above it, very proud indeed of his fortitude. Leers like those, indicating mental stripping off of clothes and possibly sucking cocks, have reduced him to jelly in the past (week), but not today, no sir.
"Name this one." He taps a tiny blip on the map grid, barely larger than a pinprick with teeny print underneath. He himself would have trouble reading it even with his glasses unless he brought the map closer to his face. A lot closer.
Dean finally looks uncomfortable. "Sammy, please."
The "Sammy" melts him as it always has, right along with the unhappy note in Dean's voice. He's had a weakness for kissing Dean's miseries away over the past two decades.
Nevertheless, Sam assumes his best stony face. It's a little eerie how naturally it still comes to him, patterned purely on Dad's impenetratable stoicism. Whether that's down to nurture versus nature, he doesn't know.
"Read the map and tell me the name of this one-stoplight burg. If you get it right, I give up the round and we head for Colorado, praying that on the way that you don't drive us right into a five-car-pileup."
"You better not be implying that I'd put my baby at risk." Dean sounds mortally offended.
"I'll take it all back if you do this one little thing for me." Sam shoves the map in Dean's face, grinding the dot he wants identified against Dean's nose.
In retrospect, he really should have known that was a mistake, because as soon as he did that, it was on.
Dean's roar gives Sam a point-nil second to realize how deeply buried he is in shit. Not enough time to run, although he manages a decent pivot and is just about to when Dean's full weight crashes into him and they both go tumbling down.
"Damnit, Dean, get off," Sam yells, pushing and kicking at the various limbs pinning him to their bedroom floor.
"Oh no, uh-uh." Dean slams Sam's shoulders flat. "You said I couldn't take care of my baby right. Them's fightin' words, Sam."
"Get off of me, dude, I'm not kidding."
"And what if I don't want to?" Dean rises easily to his knees, straddling Sam's chest and pinning him fast. "You have to say you're sorry first."
Sam huffs, blowing stray strands of hair off his forehead. "I'll apologize when you listen to reason."
"I'm not getting glasses, Sammy, so give up now or I'll do something drastic."
"Like what?" Sam scoffs, trying to buck Dean off his chest. The guy's heavy to have on you when they're not in the middle of sex. "You're gonna give me a collapsed lung."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Dean catches Sam's wrists effortlessly when Sam wriggles his arms free and punches at him. One wrist in each hand, one knee on each bicep, and his ass on Sam's ribs.
Which would put his cock somewhere around…
Oh.
"Now you're gettin' the idea." Dean's eyelids are hooded now, his lips curved in a carelessly dominant smirk. He rides Sam's startled inhalation like it's a freakin' tidal wave, hamming up an exaggerated rush of excitement. "Ooh, do that again."
Sam wants to object. He wants to stand true to his principles.
On the other hand, there's an erect dick not a foot away from his watering mouth and while it's true that sex doesn't solve anything, it's… what was he saying? Never mind.
"We're not done here," Sam warns his brother, long fingers busily working open Dean's distorted fly. He breathes out long and slow and strokes what he finds inside for his own pleasure and the thrill of hearing Dean moan like a ten-dollar hooker.
"Yeah, sure." Dean wiggles closer to Sam, close enough to nudge the head of his cock on Sam's open lips. "Whatever. Later."
Sam mentally throws in the towel and physically sucks Dean's erection in, plying it with all Dean's favorite tricks and a few of his own. Nibbling his balls and nipping the head. Working the jeans down until he can slide his fingers in the crease of Dean's ass, all the better to torment him. He slides a thick finger in, and then his head fills with red heat and his senses with the smell and taste and sight of Dean's orgasm, otherwise known as howling loudly enough to frighten the neighbors and choking Sam with his dick.
Potato, po-tat-oh.
He's still catching his breath when Dean, who's collapsed atop him, mumbles, "Would it make you happy if I said I'll think about it?"
That's great, but Sam's got other things on his mind just then. "You're not going to leave me hanging here, are you?"
"Hell, nah. Just give me a minute. And about the other thing, remember I said I'd think about it and that's all. I didn't promise anything."
For all his bravado, Dean's touch when he straightens Sam's crazy-tilted glasses on his nose is almost tender. He presses a light kiss to Sam's lips and rests his head on Sam's neck, shamelessly playing on Sam's snuggling jones to secure his free pass out of the argument for now.
"Fair enough." Sam doesn't want to argue. And after Dean returns the favor and sucks him off, tormenting him until he's arched off the floor, toes curling, tendons straining, splattering his stomach when he comes, he doesn't want to move for maybe a week or two.
Dean resumes his bitching while he's still licking Sam's cum off his gorgeously swollen lips, popping up from between Sam's sprawled legs to rant. "The glasses are one issue. Don't start askin' me about other gettin'-old crap. Like Viagra. Don't you ever mention that in my presence."
"Dean," Sam says sincerely, "trust me when I say that's not going to be an issue."
Dean grunts, satisfied. "So… wanna go kill a bookstore ghost?" The grin he flashes at Sam makes him look as young as the day Sam first threw him against a wall and tongue-fucked him until he creamed his jeans.
"Yeah, sure. Let's." Sam drags himself to his feet, helps Dean up, and as soon as they've dusted themselves off, they're gone.
Pausing first for Dean to find the Impala keys, of course.
He still claims Sam hid them somewhere just to be an ass, but that's another story.