dragonspell: (western)
dragonspell ([personal profile] dragonspell) wrote2011-06-16 09:12 pm

Welcome to Sunrise Acres | Sam/Dean | NC-17 | 37093 words



Part 1 | Master Post | Part 3


Sam shook out hand. He could still feel a bit of phantom warmth from Dean’s touch, even an hour later. Sam had quickly dropped Dean’s hand as soon as Ron and Paul were out the door—much to Dean’s amusement. “Gee, Sammy, I promise I don’t have cooties,” he’d whispered and Sam had growled for Dean to grow up while stalking out to the car.

A quick sweep of a scanner (Sam would never make fun of Dean’s busted-out walkmans again because it was one of the very few pieces of equipment that he’d actually felt safe bringing inside) had revealed no less than ten more bugs. “Well, fuck,” Dean had muttered and they’d left most of the equipment locked in the trunk of the car, only bringing in their duffle bags and the handguns that they could conceal (there was not wanting to risk their cover being blown and then there was going totally naked—one was acceptable, the other was not).

Since that was the only amount of preparations that they were going to be able to get done—the salt lines and runes were definitely out what with cameras watching their every move—Sam and Dean has been left with the choice of what to do with the rest of the day. They could stay in the house and pretend to be a couple or they could go out in public and pretend to be a couple. One of those options included less possible sticky situations for Sam and so it had been no choice at all.

Since they’d already gotten a head start on interviewing the neighbors, Sam figured that they might as well keep on at it. Being new to the neighborhood, they had the perfect excuse to ask questions.

Much to Dean’s disappointment, however, their neighbor with the Firebird was currently out, so they’d ended up walking in the other direction, trying to canvass the neighborhood. They’d met Eli Kilwin who lived in number 312. He’d been polite and friendly, but less than informative. “I don’t get out much,” he’d said and he had no opinion on Steven J. Coldwater—he’d moved in four months ago—nor did he care about mummies. He did, however, invite them in for coffee and talked extensively about how his garden was coming along.

The next two houses didn’t have anyone home—one a Phoenix police officer, Kilwin claimed—so Sam and Dean headed for the house at 318. 318, however, had a problem. It had a bad problem. As they neared it, Sam’s nose started to wrinkle and Dean stopped dead. A distinct odor hung in the air like a thick blanket, covering the near vicinity. Before covering his nose and continuing on, Dean mumbled something about it smelling like a “three day rock concert” and Sam had to agree. The stench was out of place in the idyllic neighborhood, like a dead patch in a flower garden. Sam sucked in a quick breath and tried not to gag as he and Dean jogged up the three steps of the porch and rang the doorbell.

Joshua Mayberry, the man who answered, was a Phoenix city councilman who, like Kilwin, didn’t particularly care about mummies or missing persons. He was too busy glaring at his lawn. Unlike the green grass of the rest of the neighborhood, Mayberry’s lawn was a wet, muddy brown and reeked like an open sewer. “I paid a lot for this house, was personally invited by Steven, and looks what happens!” he snapped, waving his hand at the mess. “Alan assures me that it’s just a ruptured pipe and that it will be fixed soon but this is just unacceptable.” A mud bubble burst at the surface. “Making a good impression is all about having a good lawn and would you look at that? How can a man have a sense of pride about where he lives when his lawn looks like that? I can’t even host a dinner for my donators because of this mess.”

The sewage stopped before Mayberry’s property line but, unfortunately, the smell was still shared by the surrounding houses. Mayberry had wanted to discuss the situation more but Sam vacated the premises, barely stopping until they reached the other side of 320’s yard where he bent over to dry heave behind a bush. Dean didn’t even make fun of him for it because he looked like only pride was keeping him from joining Sam. Luckily for the rest of Sunrise Acres, no one else seemed to be having the same problem as Mayberry.

Actually, aside from the ‘coyote problem’ that many residents wanted to comment on—“The neighborhood’s just not safe with that prowling around,” “Tipped over my trash last night,” “How can we hope to be seen as a good place to live when we have to constantly deal with pests? Property values could fall”—all of the people that Sam and Dean talked to were convinced that Sunrise Acres was the best place in the world to live. Very few seemed to have even heard about the bodies that had been found less than a mile from their community.

Everyone seemed to like living in their nice little house with their perfect lawn. After about three hours of hearing about how great Sunrise Acres was, Dean was scowling at every house, his hands in his pockets. “Law of averages, Sammy. At least one of these people has to be out of their gourd crazy but we haven’t even caught a whiff? Something’s not right about that.” He glared back at the house that they had just left—number 311—as they had since crossed the street and started on their way back down the road. “And these people are entirely too happy.”

Normally, Sam would want to chalk a remark like that up to paranoia but, in this case, he had to agree because it seemed strange that no one cared about the mummies—and the only ones that mentioned it at all were the ones who were apparently attributing it to a ‘bad element’ that had been ‘briefly’ stopping at their door. Like Ali and Cally Jones.

Ali and Cally had, like the Foxtails, married elsewhere despite Arizona state law, and were quite content with their lives. “Miguel,” on the other hand, Ali had said while Cally poured everyone coffee, “was always flighty. I’m not surprised that he just up and disappeared. He probably went to go join his coyotes.”

Dean had liked the Jones but that probably had more to do with Cally’s bust size than anything. He’d practically spent the entire time that they were talking staring at her chest until Sam had elbowed him in the gut. Dean had nodded towards the two women with raised eyebrows and a grin but Sam had been unimpressed. Gay, he had mouthed. As in that was what Dean was supposed to be—not trying to live out the stereotypical straight male fantasy. Dean had rolled his eyes while Cally talked about a creature creeping through their lawn the night before. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. “I’m sure it was just the coyote.”

Ali frowned disapprovingly. “It’s not right to just leave it here. It could get hurt. I kept telling Alan that he needs to have it caught and then released in a wildlife preserve but he never listens. Everyone else just wants to shoot it.”

Cally patted her on the knee. “I’m sure that they’ll do something soon. They have to.”

“I think they’re all Stepford wives,” Dean jokingly theorized, two houses after the Jones’. “Every last one of them has gotten a lobotomy somewhere.” They had made a complete circuit of Oak Street and were on their way back to ‘their’ house. Sam had a hard time wrapping his head around that one. ‘Their’ house. As in his and Dean’s. They might have been just only temporarily borrowing it in reality, but that was still their names down on the deed. Partially.

Henry Fillmore, a retiree who they’d met before, waved at them from his riding lawn mower and Sam waved back. Dean, though, didn’t bother because he was already crossing the street, heading for the one house on Oak Street that they hadn’t been to yet.

“Dean!” Dean kept walking, waving over his shoulder at Sam. “Dean!” Sam called again, but Dean, Sam saw, was making a beeline for the newly arrived Firebird and the guy currently bent over its open hood. Sam rolled his eyes and jogged across the road.

By the time Sam reached the sidewalk, Dean was already chatting with the man who’d been working on the car. The man straightened, pushing some of his dark brown hair out of his eyes and wiped his hands on a brown, grease-stained rag. “Oh, yeah. I heard that you were coming,” he said. He winced at his hands and tried to wipe them on his pants. “Rag’s not too clean…” he muttered. “Name’s Nick Lestrato. I’d shake your hand but…”

Dean waved him off. “Nice car you got here. ’78 was a great year.”

Nick’s face lit up with a wide smile. “I bought her just a few months ago. Been fixing her up.” He rolled his eyes and added, “‘Course, around here, the first thing that they wanted me to do was give her a paint job. Called her an ‘eyesore’ until I did.”

Barking a laugh, Dean leaned over the open hood. “I wouldn’t doubt that a bit. You mind?” He pointed inside the car and Nick shook his head.

“Not at all,” he replied but his eyes weren’t on the car. They were on Dean’s happily waving ass. Of course they were. Because of all the neighbors that they’d met, there had to be at least one for Dean to flirt with and make Sam’s life miserable in the meantime. At least the lesbians hadn’t been flirting back. Sam plastered a fake smile on and joined Dean.

“We met Alan earlier,” he said. He placed himself directly next to Dean, his hand resting lightly on Dean’s bent back. As far as claims went, it was completely unsubtle but Sam figured that he was right in line with keeping up their cover. Dean was warm beneath his fingers and it only cost Sam one odd, considering look from Dean before Dean started ignoring him again. It made Nick wince and straighten a bit more as he dropped his eyes to the concrete driveway.

“Yeah, him,” Nick muttered. Somehow, Sam had known that Alan—a man who looked like he repelled dirt—wouldn’t rate too high on Nick’s list. Nick, with his grease-stained T-shirt, was the Alan antithesis. Nick cleared his throat. “He, uh, he led the crusade for the paint job. Nice guy but…you know.”

“Little stuck on himself?” Dean supplied, turning to look at Nick but still bent over the car.

“Yeah. A little stuck on himself.” And that would also make Nick the first person that they’d met who didn’t have a completely glowing review of Alan Peachtree, Community Manager extraordinaire.

“He probably didn’t like your dog, either,” Sam said, bringing up the dog that he’d seen in Nick’s yard when he and Dean had first arrived. It was a fair bet that a man who didn’t like a rundown classic car in a driveway wouldn’t like a dog running around either.

“Dog?” Nick asked, looking confused. He glanced over at the car, as if thinking that Sam had been referring to it before looking at Sam again. “What dog?”

Sam blinked. “There was a dog in your yard when we first arrived.”

Nick shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t have a dog, though. Alan would have a fit.” He smiled at the thought. “That’d be a whole lot worse than having a classic car with peeling paint sitting in your yard.”

“We heard about some stray dogs,” Dean said, standing up. Sam let his hand slip away. “Well, coyotes. Must have been one of them.”

“Must have,” Nick agreed, nodding slowly. He jabbed a thumb back at his house. “Listen, I got some beers in the fridge if you guys want some.” He glanced between them before settling in on Dean and smiling almost shyly. “Not many of the guys here are big on cars.”

Dean grinned. “I’d love a beer. Sam would too wouldn’t you?” He elbowed Sam in the ribs and Sam nodded.

“Yeah.” Sam rubbed at his side and resisted the urge to hit Dean back. “That’d be great.”

“I’ll go get them,” Nick said, his smile widening as he turned around and headed into the garage. Once he was out of sight, Sam finally gave in and shoved Dean. Jerk.

Dean caught himself on the car and wheeled around to snag Sam’s hands. Sam, expecting a push, was thrown off-balance when, instead, Dean pulled. He stumbled against Dean’s body as Dean held their joined hands out to the side, grinning at Sam. “You jealous, Sammy?” he asked, low and smooth and Sam was stuck, staring at his mouth. He knew that Dean was playing around with him, baiting him, but the response that Sam was tempted to give was not at all what Dean would be expecting. Dean was expecting Sam to throw back a biting insult or struggle at the very least—he wouldn’t be expecting Sam to kiss him again, to see if that electric tingle that Sam had felt had been just a fluke.

When Sam took too long to respond—too busy staring at Dean and thinking of the what ifs—Dean’s grin started to fall. “Sam?”

Sam jerked away, pulling himself free of Dean’s hold and fighting down a flush. “He didn’t seem upset about the coyote,” he said, changing the subject. It was a bad attempt—crippled from the start—but, for some reason, Dean let him get away with it.

“Yeah, well,” Dean answered slowly, “he also didn’t seem to want to crawl up Alan’s ass and live there, either. Maybe he’s just got different standards.” His face plainly said that Sam wasn’t fooling anybody but Sam willing to take Dean’s words as a successful dodge.

They needed to find out what was happening in Sunrise Acres and wrap it up before Sam managed to give away every damn secret that he had.

Dean opened his mouth to say something else but Nick came bounding out the front door, taking the three steps of the front porch in a single jump. “I’ve just got the cheap stuff, but beer is beer, right?” he asked, handing them off to Sam and Dean.

“Damn straight,” Dean replied, tipping his beer respectfully at Nick before taking a swig. Sam frowned down at the bottle of Miller High-Life in his hand. At least it wasn’t in a can. “Sam here, he likes the froofy stuff but I don’t hold that against him.”

Nick laughed. “Then I won’t either,” he said, giving Dean a wink and taking a pull off his own bottle before setting it next to the Firebird’s front tire. “You wouldn’t believe what she looked like when I first got her,” he said proudly. “I’ve spent a small fortune getting her fixed up, but it’s worth it.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked. “So you bought her after you moved in?”

“Oh, no,” Nick said, leaning over the open hood again. “She came with me. I just moved in back in March.”

“So you never met that environmentalist that disappeared?” Sam asked, still holding his beer as he moved closer. Dean was already leaning against the car next to Nick and it made Sam feel just a little out of the loop. He knew next to nothing about cars—only what Dean had taught him growing up—well, the parts that Sam had cared to listen to anyway—but he had grown up a Winchester. He could fake a little car knowledge if he had to. He leaned casually against the car, deliberately placing himself against Dean and staring down Nick.

“That native guy? Nah,” Nick said, grabbing a wrench and twisting at a bolt. “I moved in a day or two after Jules left. He…” He paused, staring downward. “Well, you know.”

Dean nodded and took another drink. His hip was touching Sam’s but he was pretending like it wasn’t. “So, you ever meet the guy that owns this place?”

“Steven?” Nick asked, smiling over at Dean and starting to work the wrench again. “Nah. I’ve gone to his parties a few times but I’ve never seen him. Other people have met him, though. They say that he rarely leaves the mansion. Just sends Alan. I hear he’s got cameras set up all over this place so he knows everything that happens.”

“Whoa!” Dean said, widening his eyes for effect and playing it up like he’d never even heard of a camera before. “That’s creepy.”

“Oh, yeah,” Nick agreed. “But, it’s his place, I guess. As long as he doesn’t have any set up in my shower, I’m okay with it. Providing security’s one thing, but I don’t do free shows.” He winked at Dean again. “Not unless I want to.”

Dean smiled back, his eyes running down over the short sleeves of Nick’s gray, grease-stained shirt and onto the tan skin of his arm. Sam grit his teeth. Dean was well aware of what kind of signals he was sending—he was sending them deliberately, damn it. And Nick—Nick was eating it up with a spoon. He’d already forgotten that Sam even existed. A surge of jealousy flared up in Sam and he set his hand on Dean’s shoulder again. “You haven’t found any, have you?” Sam asked, his voice tense, pretending like it was the cameras that he was worried about. “Inside?”

Nick immediately shook his head and moved away to grab a new wrench from his toolbox, putting some space between him and Sam. “No. Never really looked, either.”

Dean was grinning slyly at Sam and Sam felt a small kernel of apprehension bloom inside of him. He was giving too much away again; he hoped that Dean would chalk it up to either keeping the cover or maybe a bit of latent sibling jealousy on Sam’s part—that kind that can develop between normal siblings who just have a very close relationship and not, say, the result of one of them wanting in the other’s pants. “Sam’s a little paranoid,” Dean said, turning so that he was leaning against Sam’s chest. Sam sucked in a quick breath.

Nick shrugged—a quick roll of his shoulder. “I would be, too.” He glanced over at the two of them and then bent back over the hood again, this time farther away. He kept his eyes trained on the engine.

“Well, if we find any cameras in our house, we’ll let you know,” Dean said.

Nick laughed, a little bit of the tension draining out of his shoulders. “I’d appreciate it.”

“It’s been great meeting you, Nick.” Dean tilted up his bottle and drained it dry before setting it next to Nick’s beside the Firebird’s tire.

“Thanks for the beer,” Sam added wryly, placing his on the ground too, despite the fact that it was still mostly full.

“Anytime,” Nick replied. “And anytime you want to come over at talk again, too.” He looked at Dean again before sliding his eyes over to address the next part to Sam. “Like I said, not too many of the guys here are all that big on cars.”

“Oh, you bet your ass I’ll be over,” Dean assured him. “Especially if I can wrangle out a test drive.”

Nick nodded and tried to wipe his hands on the rag again before realizing it would be just as useless as the last time. He laughed to himself and waved instead. “See ya.”




It was hard to talk about a case without actually talking about it. Sam just felt himself growing frustrated. When they were growing up, he and Dean had worked out a series of code words to use for when they weren’t free to talk (alright, so Dean had worked out most of them and Sam had just accepted them) but, he had to admit, they had a limited usage. They’d already established that there were cameras in the house but, at the moment, they didn’t need “I’ve got a gun on me” or “Pretend everything’s fine” or “Get to the car and stay there” or any of their variations so that weeded out quite a few.

In the end, though, they both knew that they were just biding their time until Friday as it would give them an all access pass to Coldwater’s private mansion and, hopefully, Coldwater himself. There wasn’t much to discuss past that. They’d met the neighbors and with few exceptions—Joshua Mayberry’s yard and Nick Lestrato’s interest in Dean aside—they all had much of the same story. Most had been former coworkers of Coldwater’s but no one had seen much of him in the past year and only a handful claimed to actually know him outside of work.

Dinner had been the leftover sandwiches from the last truck stop they’d passed on the highway. Like the rest of the house, the fridge had come fully stocked—complete with beer much to Dean’s amusement—but neither one of them had felt like doing much besides pulling off a wrapper. At least the food had only been half a day old.

Sam had grabbed the laptop while Dean had turned on the news, flipping it to the local station with the perky blonde news anchor as he sprawled on the couch. Sam tried not to wonder if Dean’s knee touching his was a deliberate move and just generally tried to pretend that this was a normal evening. That they were a normal couple, enjoying a normal evening in their nice, new, normal house.

Sam wished that he had a better idea of what was “normal.” He jumped when Dean’s hand settled on his thigh and Dean grinned. “I scare ya, Sammy?” he asked. “’S all that caffeine.” He nodded at the half-drunk cup of coffee sitting on the little table in front of them.

“Better than beer,” Sam shot back. Dean was casually rubbing circles on Sam’s thigh—like he did this all the time and it was nothing out of the ordinary. Damn Dean and his games, Sam thought. Dean probably just thought that he’d found another one of Sam’s buttons to push—something about Sam being jumpy while pretending to be a couple. No doubt Dean was thinking that it was awkwardness over the fact he was pretending that his brother was his lover—and he’d be half right. Sam was feeling awkward but it was from more than just pretending that his brother was his lover—it was from wanting him to be as well. Sam felt like some kind of bizarre double agent from a spy novel, sitting on the couch pretending to be his brother’s lover while really being his brother’s brother but yet really wanting to be his brother’s lover. It made Sam’s head hurt just to think about it. Worse yet, it made his chest go tight and certain thoughts to sneak past Sam’s tightly held mental borders.

Sam forced himself to ignore Dean’s distracting hand—and not to push it away either. He focused on his laptop where he was spending a bit more time looking into the life of Miguel Foxtail and hoping that the cameras in the room wouldn’t be able to get a good enough look at his screen to read it.

Miguel Foxtail, born to a Hispanic mother and a Native American father, had been in the news on and off for the past few years—at a protest rally here or a court hearing there. He’d been most active in the environmental circles, fighting for wildlife preservation or nature conservation—issues like the coyotes just like Sam had already heard. It was his last appearance, though, which caught Sam’s eye. Miguel Foxtail had been protesting the dumping of waste in an open section of desert by Weatherbold Incorporated, claiming that it was irreparably damaging the area. It was just like any of the other causes that Miguel Foxtail had taken up but, unlike Sam, he’d probably had no idea that Weatherbold was, ultimately, owned by one Steven J. Coldwater—one of his subsidiaries. Sam elbowed Dean.

“What?” Dean asked, innocently, removing his hand. It had been creeping up Sam’s thigh as Dean had realized that Sam was trying to ignore him. Sam shook his head and slid the computer over. Raising an eyebrow, Dean set down the beer that he’d been drinking and pulled the computer into his lap. He frowned as he scrolled downward and Sam waited. When Dean reached the end, he went back up and highlighted a line that Sam had missed when he’d been skimming. Most likely because he hadn’t expected to find it.

Weatherbold Incorporated, represented by attorney Melvin Pruss of Sawin and Sons, denies any wrong doing.

Melvin Pruss, their other missing person. Sam looked at Dean who stared back, his eyebrows raised. So there was a connection between Melvin Pruss and Miguel Foxtail, tentative as it was. Sam just didn’t know if it meant anything. It wouldn’t make much sense for Coldwater to get rid of his lawyer except that maybe the lawyer had found something he shouldn’t have—same as Miguel—and Coldwater was trying to cover it up. Just one more check for Coldwater having something to do with the happenings in Sunrise Acres. Friday couldn’t come soon enough.




Just a little after midnight, Dean finally shut off the TV and stretched. His empty beer bottles were lined up on the coffee table, forming a small fence. “’Bout time to go to bed, Sam,” he said and an uneasiness filled Sam’s stomach. They both knew that there was a camera over the bed. If there was someone watching, then they were most likely expecting…

Sam shut the laptop down. “Right.” He followed Dean upstairs and tried not to feel as if he was marching to his own doom. It was just a bed. He and Dean had slept together before. It was no big deal.

Except for the fact that it was. He’d kissed his brother before, had even done it earlier—the tongue thing, though, that was new—and had posed as a couple with Dean before. What Sam hadn’t done was lay in a bed with Dean and try to convince some billionaire peeping tom that they were really a couple.

The camera, of course, didn’t bother Dean one damn bit—because Dean was an exhibitionist at heart. He stripped down to his boxers without a second thought, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it in the corner then dropping his jeans right where he stood, while Sam stood there agonizing and trying not to stare for a few minutes. On one hand, there was going to be hours and hours of him almost naked for some voyeur’s sick pleasure but, on the other hand, Dean was crawling into bed nearly naked and daring him to follow suit. “Come on already,” Dean grumbled, slipping in between the sheets and holding them up for Sam to join him. “I’m getting cold.”

Deciding that, for once, he wasn’t going to complicate matters, Sam quickly tugged his shirt over his head. Dean watched him, a grin stretching his mouth, as his eyes moved casually up and down Sam’s body. Sam flushed and turned away. “Fucker,” he swore, trying to blank his mind as he undid his belt. Trust Dean to make a big deal out of something after Sam had already chosen not to.

“You’re the one putting on a free show,” Dean replied, amused. “I’m just enjoying it.” Sam let his jeans drop to the floor and then scooped them up to toss in the corner next to Dean’s shirt before darting underneath the covers that Dean was still holding up. When he was safely in the bed, he tugged the sheets out of Dean’s hand and tucked them around himself while Dean laughed. “And there’s a whole lot of you to enjoy there, Sam.”

Sam rolled to face Dean who had his head propped up on an elbow. “Really?” Sam asked, deadpan. “That’s what you’re going with?”

Dean half-shrugged. “It’s as good as any. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s stupid for one,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He flipped onto his back and shifted to make himself more comfortable on the bed as he stared up at the blank ceiling. Somehow, he just knew that sleep was going to be a long time in coming—long as in an eternity long. Long as in he’d probably have better luck trying to sleep in the Impala.

When Dean’s hand touched his chest and all Sam could focus on was the warm press of his fingertips, Sam realized that his predictions of his chances of getting any sleep had been too optimistic. Sam couldn’t even think beyond the fact that Dean was touching him—that Dean was half-naked in a bed and touching him and that Sam’s boxers were entirely too thin. He could feel his dick already starting to push at them. Damn it. “Dean…” He brushed Dean’s hand away, ready to plead a headache and deal with Dean’s teasing for the rest of the, oh, year, but Dean caught his wrist. Sam sucked in a harsh breath as Dean’s thumb traced a small circle on Sam’s skin.

And Sam was angry. Fucking Dean and his fucking games. Seeing the glower forming on Sam’s face—Sam wasn’t even trying to hide it—Dean pressed a finger against Sam’s mouth and shook his head. The usual teasing grin was nowhere in sight and that, more than anything, stopped Sam cold. Dean was right, Sam thought, letting the more rational side of him take over. They had to do something—they had to pretend.

Dean pushed himself up and leaned over Sam, his eyes trained on Sam’s. Dean’s amulet thumped softly against Sam’s chest, connecting them, and Sam couldn’t look away if he tried. He was well and truly caught, just waiting for Dean to come closer as surely as a deer stuck in the headlights, waiting for its demise. The deer would probably have a better chance of making it out alive. “Just go with it,” Dean breathed before his lips touched Sam’s.

It was just a tentative touch, more a brush than an actual kiss—even softer than the one that they’d shared in the kitchen earlier—but it stole Sam’s breath and froze his lungs anyway. Just go with it, Dean had said. The words echoed over and over in Sam’s head as Dean’s hand slid around Sam’s jaw, holding him, and he deepened the kiss, pressing harder. He grabbed Dean’s necklace, winding his fingers around the cord and using it as a lifeline as he felt his world being swept away. Just go with it.

Sam’s hand shot upward to grip Dean’s head but he didn’t know if it was to push Dean away or to pull him closer—not until Dean’s tongue licked against Sam’s bottom lip. Sam groaned and opened his mouth as he pulled Dean off-balance, making him catch himself on the mattress beside Sam. Just go with it. Sam went with it. He sucked on Dean’s tongue and kissed him back, his lips moving against Dean’s and his head turning to get a better angle.

Sam had always known that Dean was a good kisser. It was one of those things that was up there with the sky being blue and Dad being a hard-ass. It just was. There was a reason why girls had always followed Dean around like little lost puppies, never minding that he didn’t make any promises to stay. Sam, though, had just had a chance to fully appreciate why Dean was a good kisser. Dean’s lips were soft and full and Sam would be lying if he claimed that he’d didn’t fantasize about them on about a daily basis but it was all in how Dean used them. Dean kissed as if he was starving for it—as if he’d die if he didn’t get a taste—but with a restraint that said that a taste was all he wanted. He didn’t want to devour, he didn’t want to ravish—he didn’t threaten. Dean kissed like a promise—like the ones that he had made countless times, the ones that assured the best night of your life but nothing more than what you were willing to take. He played, he teased, he didn’t make any demands. Each swipe of his tongue and each nip of his teeth was gentle, easy.

Sam drank it in, took it all, because unlike Dean, Sam didn’t just kiss like he was starving for it—he was starving. When Dean pulled back, Sam followed, his hand still tangled in the the cord around Dean’s neck, tugging until Dean came back down, his breath puffing against Sam’s skin. Sam wasn’t about to let him go—couldn’t even conceive of it. He slid a hand underneath Dean’s side and wrapped around him to splay against the muscles of Dean’s back, his fingers finding every line, every ridge, following Dean’s spine upwards because he didn’t dare go down. He gripped Dean’s shoulder, hanging on tightly.

Dean jerked away, breathing hard and pushed himself upward. Running on pure instinct, Sam chased him until they were both sitting, separated only by the hand that Dean placed against Sam’s chest. “That’s what I thought,” Dean whispered and Sam felt his blood run cold. What did that mean? Dean leaned in close again. “That’s what I thought,” he repeated and kissed Sam again.

He pushed Sam back down on the bed, his hands flattening against the sheets as he leisurely kissed Sam into submission again. Sam took a shuddering breath, exhaling his apprehension: Dean wasn’t going anywhere. And it was going to be a long, long time before Sam got to sleep.




The camera zoomed in on the couple on the bed as they writhed together under the sheets. It was almost sweet the way that the taller one was cradling the face of his partner, like he was afraid that the man might vanish at any second. Sam. His name was Sam. Sam clutched at Dean like a thief held a stolen necklace and it was a very peculiar way to hold an old lover.

They’d, of course, been made as soon as they’d stepped foot in Sunrise Acres. Like a great deal of hunters, they were masters of subterfuge but there were just some things that couldn’t be hidden—and you never played a player.

He had, however, liked them upon sight. There was a certain touch to their aura that was just…delicious. It was too bad, really, what he had to do.

He set the camera to record—no sense in wasting perfectly good footage—and stood up. It was time that he brought this game to its end. Time to wake up the town—a little color never hurt anyone. He’d always been partial to the red, himself.




Morning came like everything else in Sunrise Acres: entirely too cheery. Dean even thought that he could hear birds chirping, though what they’d be doing outside his window, he had no fucking clue. He rolled on the bed and tried to focus his eyes as he glared at the sunshine beaming in from the window.

Beside him, Sam was still fast asleep, his face finally relaxed from all the hard lines that liked to set in when he was awake. It made him look years younger and Dean took a second just to admire the unworried appearance. He gently brushed back Sam’s hair from his face, his fingers grazing Sam’s warm skin. He liked it when Sam smiled and Sam rarely did anymore.

Dean’s lips twisted downward into a moue and he rolled out of bed. There was no use for dwelling in the past when the present was right here and now. And Dean… Dean kind of liked this present. It wasn’t perfect by any means—a long way off—but after last night, he had to admit that it had its moments.

It wasn’t everyday that a guy woke up after a night of making out with one of the key people that had helped define his sexuality and who had been giving him blue balls for years. The fact that that person was also his little brother had caused Dean a lot of guilt in the past but things had changed since then. Sam was not just Dean’s little brother anymore—in many ways, he’d always still be Sammy, but he was also an adult and there was no denying the fact that as much as Dean had wanted last night, Sam had wanted it even more. Faced with that hard fact, Dean figured that any leftover guilt on his part was pretty much wasted. He and Sam were beyond fucked-up according to polite society but, then again, polite society could just go fuck itself. It had never done Sam and him any favors—only given them grief. Kicked them in the balls when they were down, after sucker punching them and trying for a few eye gouges. Dean didn’t put much stock in what society said that he should do.

It wasn’t as though he and Sam would ever have normal lives. At one point, Dean knew that Sam had really resented that fact. He wondered if Sam still did.

Because there wasn’t much normal in wanting to fuck your brother.

That had certainly thrown Dean for a loop—had really opened up his eyes. He’d always known that he’d been fucked up (when your number one jerk off fantasy and go-to instant orgasm scenario is your little brother happening to walk in on you, you know that you’re not exactly right in the head) but he hadn’t realized that Sam was standing right along with him.

Piecing together some clues, though, like Sam’s responses to the kiss, to Nick, to the whole situation, Dean had decided to take a chance—all but begging Sam to just give in and go with it. Dean had seen the wheels in Sam’s massive brain just grinding last night and, for once, he wanted Sam to just stop thinking.

It was all in the guise of keeping their cover, of course, but they both knew that it was more than that. Dean looked down at Sam one last time, hoping that Sam hadn’t just saved all his thinking for today and walked out of the room. Like the guilt, there was no use dwelling in the maybes. The reality of it would happen soon enough and Dean would find out then what cards he was going to have to work with.

He grabbed some clothes and made his way through the entirely too large house, walking down the hallway and down the stairs. The big clock on the wall—the one that spanned almost the entirety of one length of the room—told him that it was almost seven and Dean scratched at his head, wondering if it was worth it to make breakfast or if he should just grab another beer instead. The fridge did have bacon…

Through the frosted glass of the front door, Dean could see a package hanging off the handle and he frowned at it curiously. It was oblong and rounded and he didn’t have a clue what it was doing hanging there. Thinking that it was probably another one of Sunrise Acres’s little oddities, Dean dared to open the door, swinging it inward.

The plastic wrapped newspaper came with the door. “Huh,” Dean said. “Must be some kind of paper boy.” As he pulled the paper free, he wondered how long it took to hang each individual paper off the door instead of just tossing it from the curb on the way by. The Arizona Republic News was blazoned across the top of it as he released it from the plastic and unfurled it, checking out the headlines.

Something fluttered out of the paper with a slinky whisper and dropped to the ground. “Damn ads,” Dean grumbled, rolling the paper back up. He wished that if newspapers were going to insist on stuffing themselves full of half-page glossy ads, then at least they’d put them somewhere in the center of the paper so they wouldn’t slide free. When he bent down to pick up the ads, though, he realized that they weren’t ads at all.

His eyes widened. There on the floor in front of him was a scrap of red lace. Dean gingerly pinched a corner, picking it up and didn’t believe his eyes. “Must be some kind of newspaper…” he muttered as he stared at the pair of red, lacey, apparently complimentary panties. He swallowed.

Maybe he had gotten someone else’s paper by mistake? But who the fuck would be delivering lingerie in the newspaper? …And why did they look exactly like the pair he’d shoplifted out of a Victoria’s Secret back when he was younger and going through an experimental phase? The ones that he’d only ended up keeping for two months before throwing them out in a fit of panic, convinced that either his dad or Sam would find them.

But yet here was an exact replica. In his morning newspaper. He looked suspiciously at the door but didn’t see anyone peeking through the glass at him and then it hit him. The cameras. Oh, that sick fuck, Dean thought. Maybe Steven Coldwater just sent all of his residents lacey lingerie in the hopes that they would try it on for him. Maybe Dean should consider himself lucky that he hadn’t been mailed a teddy.

Still. He rubbed his fingers over the lace. Coldwater had already seen him just about naked...and he remembered what the previous pair had felt like: soft along his cock with just enough tease that each step had been enough to make him want to come.

Dean smiled. Alright. No one even had to know.

There was one room in the house that they hadn’t found any bugs in whatsoever and Dean made a beeline directly for it. He strode down the hallway and around the corner, heading for the garage. His baby wouldn’t tell anyone. She’d kept worse secrets for him.

Dean stepped out onto the cold cement with his bare feet, feeling the chill shivering through him, before quickly stepping over to the car and sitting in the front seat. Anticipation and the little illicit thrill of it all was making his hands shake as he unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down, boxers and all. He leaned backward to rest against the vinyl of the Impala’s bench seat and lifted his hips to strip himself down, kicking his jeans off once they were past his knees. So close. When Dean had last tried on a pair, he’d been hunting with Dad still, and terrified that his dad was going to find out. Somehow, Dean just didn’t think that his father would have approved of this. That fact made his breath come quicker.

Sam was still asleep upstairs.

Feeling like he was trying to steal a car and seconds away from being caught, Dean held up the underwear, turning them this way and that as he tried to figure out just exactly how they were supposed to go on. There was so little to them that he could barely tell the difference between the front and the back or the leg hole and the waist. He wadded them up and stretched them out again, before deciding that he either had it right or that it wouldn’t matter—he wasn’t going to wait any longer. He pushed himself upright and hunched over, pulling them on one leg at a time. They slithered upward, feeling soft and delicate, and he threw himself back down on the seat as he pulled them up over his ass before tucking his dick down inside them. And shivered.

The little scrap of nothing felt good against him, holding his dick in place as it rubbed against his skin in interesting ways. The little bit of friction combined with the silky smoothness had Dean rolling his hips experimentally, just to get the panties to drag against him some more. “Oh, fuck yeah...” he muttered, looking down at how the red lace was holding his dick. He’d forgotten just how good that felt. The little piece of lace wasn’t enough to contain him completely anymore because he’d gotten hard, the head of his dick poking up over the top, but Dean could still see the shaft completely encased. He licked his lips and ran his hand along the smooth lace, just testing it out, and felt his eyes roll back inside his head. “So fucking good...” There was no fucking way he was taking these things off anytime soon.

And there was just something naughty about wearing them and having nobody the wiser. Dean remembered that before he’d thrown away his previous pair, he’d loved wearing them underneath his jeans when he was just walking around. Dad hadn’t had a fucking clue what Dean was wearing—neither did Sam—and that made it just that much better. Dean licked his lips again and grabbed his jeans. Sam still wasn’t going to have a clue.

He had the jeans halfway on when he realized that that wasn’t going to be an option this time. Some time when Dean had been enjoying the feel of lace around his dick, Sam must have entered the garage because he was standing beside the Impala, staring at Dean, his mouth gaping open. Dean froze, his hands still holding his jeans. “Sam...” Inane phrases like ‘this isn’t what it looks like’ sprang to Dean’s mind but who was he kidding? This was exactly what it looked like! There just wasn’t any other explanation for why he was getting off on wearing panties short of demonic possession and somehow, he didn’t think that Sam would spring for that one.

The flush started at Sam’s neck and slowly worked its way up until it suffused his entire face—but he didn’t look away. Sam keep his eyes focused directly on Dean’s crotch, where the bold red was still brazenly visible, tented with Dean’s dick—his dick, which wasn’t showing any signs of going limp. Not with Sam staring at it like that. It was a damn Catch-22. Sam couldn't stop staring at Dean's panties and Dean couldn't zip up until Sam stopped staring.

Dean stood up and yanked his jeans up, feeling an answering flush start to cover his face. So much for Sam not knowing. Sam swallowed. “Dean...”

“Uh...” Damn it, Sam was still staring at his crotch. Dean turned around. “This is... How...”

Sam cut him off. “How long have you been wearing those?” he asked quietly, his voice tense.

Dean frowned. What did that have to do with the price of tea in China? Why? would have been a better question—but one that Dean wouldn’t have been as readily able to answer. He closed his eyes and tried to tuck himself in as best he could. He’d feel a lot better about this whole thing if he just had his pants on. Hell, he’d feel a lot better about this if he was naked. Anything but wearing a pair of panties.

Fingers ghosted along Dean’s shoulder and when Dean turned, Sam was standing directly behind him, staring intently. “Just go with it,” Sam whispered and Dean had only a fraction of a second to frown in confusion before Sam was kissing him. Sam’s lips moved against Dean’s, his tongue licking inside Dean’s mouth and, stunned, Dean gave in. His back hit the Impala as Sam leaned against him and he clutched at Sam’s shoulders. Well, okay then, he thought.

Both of Sam’s hands reaching downward, his fingers threading through Dean’s belt loops and dragging Dean’s jeans downward. His thumbs skated across Dean’s stomach, rubbing along the newly bared line of the red lace. Dean moaned and spread his legs, giving better access. Apparently, Sam had gotten over whatever had been holding him back.

Dean approved. Right up until Sam suddenly pulled back, breathing hard. Dean shifted, moving forward and trying to catch Sam’s mouth again—that, Dean thought, was a good plan. He was on board with that plan. But Sam pulled away and dropped his head. “We need to talk,” Sam said.

Dean groaned and lolled his head back. ‘Talk.’ Awesome. Yeah, he’d let Sam ‘talk’ and Sam would not only talk the issue to death, he’d talk himself right out of doing what he should. “No,” he said. Sam’s greatest strength was his brain, sure, but sometimes, Dean really thought that Sam just needed to stop thinking.

“Dean, what happened last night...”

“Happened,” Dean said flatly. He was still holding onto Sam’s shoulders but he felt like Sam was slipping right through his fingers. “It just happened.”

Sam unwound his fingers from Dean’s belt loops even though he left the jeans at the same level. Dean didn’t bother tugging them up, figuring he needed every advantage he could get and, if the way that Sam’s eyes kept dropping down to the little flare of red was anything to go by, Dean had a freaking WMD down there. “We need to talk about it.”

Dean was unsure what there was to talk about. He’d liked it, Sam had liked it and the only thing wrong with it as far as Dean was concerned was the fact that their hands had stayed strictly above the belt. Talking about it would just complicate it. Their lives were complicated enough. “Need to go talk to the neighbors again,” Dean said, dropping his hands away from Sam’s shoulders. He buttoned his jeans and fixed his shirt because his boner was fading fast—Sammy Buzzkill, the Amazing Erection Killer.

“Sure,” Sam replied, his tone saying anything but. Despite the attitude, though, he still let Dean slip away.

Dean felt his chest constrict—he hated when Sam was pissed at him—but he ignored it as he came around the car and headed back into the house. “Someone gave us a free paper, too,” he said, throwing it over his shoulder.

Compared to the cement of the garage, the wood panels felt amazingly warm as Dean walked through the house. He could hear Sam coming after him, could feel him trying to burn holes in Dean’s back, but Dean didn’t acknowledge him. There was nothing to talk about. Talking about it would just ruin it and it was far too new for Dean to want to see ruined. He just wanted to bask in it for a little while before Sam popped that particular bubble in his own Sam way.

The paper was right where he’d left it, sitting on the floor in the main room, still partially rolled from when he’d dropped it after the panties had fallen out—the ones that he was currently wearing. Dean fought back a flush and picked up the paper. The very least that he could do was read the damn headlines. Someone had hand-delivered a free paper and, damn it, he might as well do something with it. Arizona District Court to Rule on Regulation Challenge.

“Dean.” Dean stepped to the side as Sam moved in front of him. Apparently, some junkies had been arrested a few nights ago, too. “Dean.

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean snarled. It took two to have a conversation and Dean was going to refuse to hold up his end if Sam kept this up.

Sam huffed, sounding like a cat hacking up a hairball, and grabbed the paper that Dean was attempting to read, turning it around to show Dean the back. “Look.

“Sam, what the hell—” Dean cut himself off as there, in the middle of the page was a paw print in red paint—at least Dean hoped that it was red paint—smeared all over what should have been an ad for a dress company. Dean cocked an eyebrow. “—Is that?”

Taking the paper from him, Sam turned it over and examined it like it might have the secret to the lost city of Atlantis or something instead of a red Blue’s Clue. Dean thought of the red underwear that he was now wearing and winced, wondering if the paw print and the panties were related. This better not come back to bite him in the ass later on...

“It’s a calling card,” Sam muttered. He handed the paper back.

“Calling card? “ Dean snorted, rolling the paper back up. “What, the paper boy’s really that coyote everybody’s been complaining about? Gee, yeah, he seems like a real menace to society, there.”

Sam shot him a dirty look as he moved toward the door. “Whatever it was, it wanted us to find it. How would the paw print end up on the inside, Dean?”

When he failed to come up with a good reply for that, Dean shrugged instead. It actually was a good question. Unless the coyote was in the habit of reading someone’s paper in the middle of the night, rolling it neatly back up and placing it in its little plastic sack in the morning, there was no way that that paw print should have been there. Someone was messing with them.

Sam was already stepping outside when Dean grabbed his boots, trailing after him. Sam paused in the doorway, letting the air conditioning escape into the dry desert heat and Dean grumbled. “In or out, Sam. Make a choice.” Sam stepped forward, still not shutting the door, and Dean sighed as he jerked on his boots. “You’re letting out all the...” Dean trailed off as he finally saw what Sam was staring at.

Screw the newspaper--apparently the entire town had been given a makeover sometime in the middle of the night. By a modern artist with an extreme dislike of the the color white. Vivid colors had been painted over nearly every available surface like a rainbow had exploded over Sunrise Acres. Reds, blues, yellows and every color in between were smeared across the houses, the sidewalks, the road—some with the distinctive paw print design that had been on the newspaper, others with just wide swatches like they’d been applied with an exceptionally large brush. ...And was that glitter? “Son of a bitch...” Dean muttered, stepping out onto the porch beside Sam. Sam grabbed for Dean’s hand, clutching it and giving it a squeeze before releasing it. Dean nodded, still staring around in a stupor at the town that now looked like it was sponsored by Crayola and renegade toddlers.

They weren’t alone in staring at the damage. Paul and Ron were standing on their own deck, Ron shaking his head angrily even as Paul was bouncing with excitement. Cally and Ali had wandered out into the road to examine the paint. Dean touched Sam’s shoulder and jerked his head at the two women and Sam headed out to meet them.

“These are...” Cally was saying, turning slowly to take it all in. “But that’s...”

“Paw prints,” Ali said, bending down to examine one purple spot. “They’re paw prints.”

“In acrylic,” Cally added. “They’re in acrylic. And oil—my paint.”

“Your paint?” Sam asked, hitting that note of concern that Sam was so good at. The one that said ‘I understand. Tell me your life story, you poor, brave, sensitive soul.’ Dean was still working on that one.

Cally turned to face Sam, her pretty blue eyes opened wide. “Someone broke into the house last night... Into the studio. These are mine.”

“Then maybe you should pay to clean it up!” Joshua Mayberry shouted, striding angrily down the sidewalk. “What a waste!”

“And maybe you should shut your mouth!” Ali said back. “Just because its her paint doesn’t mean that she did this!”

“No, that coyote did.” Mayberry stopped in the middle of the street, his hands on his hips, looking rumpled in his wrinkled shirt and dress slacks—like he’d slept in them. “That mangy pest that you don’t think that we should shoot. You think that we should shoot it now? Look what it did!”

“Killing it is not—”

“The studio was locked,” Cally interrupted, her hands balled into fists at her side. “Locked! There’s no way that a coyote could have gotten inside.”

Mayberry sneered. “So you think someone is framing the animal? Don’t be ridiculous. We can all see the proof with our own eyes. Perhaps you just forgot to lock up. I know how you artists are—flighty bunch.”

Cally, despite being nearly a foot shorter than Mayberry, looked ready to climb him like a tree and pull his head off with her bare hands, and Ali was right beside her. Dean stepped between the three of them, feeling a little like he was stepping into a shark tank. “Hey, hey, hey!” he said, holding up his hands. “No one’s blaming anyone here, right? Right?”

Mayberry turned his glare on Dean. “Speak for yourself. This community just hasn’t been the same since certain people came to town.” His eyes raked up and down Dean while his lip curled in distaste. “Bad as the hippies—Alan!” When Mayberry turned towards the community manager who was walking towards them, Dean sneered back, feeling like maybe he should go take a shower from the dirty look Mayberry had been giving him. “Alan, what do you have to say about this!”

Alan Peachtree was looking as flawless and plastic as ever, standing ramrod straight. “I assure you, Mr. Mayberry, that we are doing everything—”

“Obviously not because otherwise you would have shot that pest a long time ago. It’s unacceptable to have it roaming around the streets, spreading its filthy diseases and God knows what else—”

“I can think of something worse than the coyote,” Ali muttered darkly, narrowing her eyes at Mayberry. Cally nodded.

“The fact is,” Ron cut in, finally leaving the relative safety of his porch, “that it’s been making a mess out of this community for quite awhile and this bit of vandalism—”

“It’s an animal,” Ali snapped. “It doesn’t vandalize.

“—Needs to be dealt with,” Ron finished like she hadn’t even spoken.

“It will be dealt with, I assure you,” Alan said.

“It doesn’t need to be ‘dealt with,’ it needs to be respected.”

Cally winced. “You’ve got to admit, this is a little much,” she said quietly, looking around the neighborhood.

“Do you even know how much money its going to cost to clean this up?” Mayberry demanded. “Do you?”

“Do you know how much this paint cost in the first place?” Cally sniped. “Oils aren’t exactly cheap, you know!”

Dean rubbed at his forehead as the others continued to bicker. It was shaping up to be a just awesome day. Sam bumped him with an elbow. “Why paint?” he asked quietly. Dean shook his head. He didn’t have a fucking clue. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Graffiti ain’t exactly mummies,” Dean agreed. “Maybe the coyote just felt like ruining Mayberry’s day?”

“We both know that it wasn’t a coyote that did this.” Sam waved his hand at the town at large and Dean gave him the point. If it had been a coyote, then it had been a very determined and particularly vengeful one because he was pretty sure that the paint was on the rooftops as well. “So why?” Dean shrugged. Maybe it was some kid who resented being stuck in such a boring ass town.

“You are fucking kidding me...” a new voice growled and Dean turned to look behind himself. “You are fucking kidding me!” Nick yelled, throwing up his hands. Dean shifted his attention from Nick to the ‘78 Firebird and felt his heart skip a beat. The beautiful cherry red of the car was now a speckled purple and yellow courtesy of whatever had ransacked the town last night.

Dean breathed a quick, “Thank fuck,” that he’d decided to park the Impala inside last night and jogged over to where Nick was still cursing like a drunken sailor.

“Would you look at that?” Nick snarled as Dean neared, shaking his fist at the car. “Would you fucking look at that? What the fuck is that? Two fucking grand down the damn toilet!” He glared at the mottled Firebird. “I’m going to kill whoever did this.”

Dean felt sympathy curl inside of him, knotting into a tight ball. He understood Nick’s anger. If it had been the Impala, he would have been doing more than just yelling. He probably would have taken a tire iron to something—or somebody—long before now. Hell, the Firebird wasn’t the Impala, but Dean still felt like a friend had been defaced. It was a insult to cars everywhere to have such the Firebird vandalized. It was an insult to Jim Rockford. “Hey,” he said, reaching out to touch the car. He wanted to touch Nick’s shoulder but he didn’t dare. The paint stuck to his fingers, partially coming off. “Still tacky.” That was good.

“Of course it’s fucking tacky,” Nick snapped. “It’s purple and goddamned yellow.”

Dean shook his head and held up his hand, show his now purple splotched fingers. “No, I mean it’s not dry.” They still had a chance. “You got any rubbing alcohol?”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Maybe a bottle...”

“Go get it. We’ll save the paint job.” Nick nodded and took off, heading inside his house.

“Dean, the entire car is covered in paint,” Sam said.

“Yeah, little rubbing alcohol should take it off. Save the paint underneath...” Dean knelt by the rear wheel well and scrapped his nail against one yellow paw print. “We’re going to need some rags or something... Cotton balls. A whole shitload of cotton balls.

“Dean, that’s going to take all day.” Dean blinked at the car. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sam couldn’t possibly expect him to just leave the Firebird like this. You never left a soldier behind. He turned on a heel and stared up at Sam, squinting against the sun. “Dean...”

“Oh dear...” Cally tutted, coming up behind Sam. She grazed her hands over Sam’s hips as she gently moved him to the side. “That’s too bad...” She knelt beside Dean, tentatively touching the paint. She rubbed it between her fingers and sniffed it. “At least it’s acrylic. Some rubbing alcohol should help... I’ve got some back in the studio.”

Dean smiled at her even as Sam glared. “Got any cotton balls?”

Cally laughed softly. “You men and your balls... I’ll go get them.” She stood up again and Dean took a quick moment to appreciate the way her jeans fit the curve of her ass as she sashayed away. Damn great view. Especially once she reached Ali and wrapped an arm around her, the two walking side by side. Lesbians. God’s gift right there.

“Dean.” Sam stepped in front of Dean, his face set into hard lines. “We don’t have time for you to be playing Mr. Fix-it with the neighbors.”

Dean rolled his eyes and stood up. “Friday, Sam. We’ve got nothing but time right now.” It was Coldwater that they were after and they weren’t going to get a chance to get to him until Friday. They were just spinning their wheels until then. “And weren’t you the one who wanted to play house? That includes making nice with the neighbors, Sam.” Sam looked suspiciously at Nick’s house and Dean swore softly. This whole jealousy thing of Sam’s was cute back when he first started it. It had the potential, though, to get really old, really fast. He looked back at the speckled Firebird. “And it would be a shame to leave her like this.”

“It’s a car,” Sam said and Dean grimaced. Trust Sam to not understand something like this. For all his smarts, he could really miss the point sometimes.

Dean pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a couple of twenties. “Tell you what, Sammy. How about you go get Nick and me some more supplies and then you can search the internet for more dead ends?” They’d already spent days trying to dig deeper into Sunrise Acres and Dean had a feeling that they weren’t going to find anything until they got inside Coldwater’s mansion.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “While you give the car a sponge bath? Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean shot back. “While I give the car a sponge bath. Hell, I’m thinking maybe later Nick can even fuck me on it, what do you think?” The arrow hit home; Sam turned white and dropped his eyes away. Dean shoved away the little bit of guilt. Sam was being ridiculous.

“Don’t you think that you should change first?” Sam muttered and it took Dean a minute to realize what he meant. Then he smirked.

“Why? You don’t think that Nick will like them?” He dropped the smile and glared. “Store.” Sam turned away, pretending that he was somehow the better man, and Dean couldn’t help but rub it in. “Pick up some booze, too. We might get thirsty. Working up a sweat.” Sam didn’t answer him as he walked away.


Part 1 | Master Post | Part 3



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