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apocalypsosTitle: They’ll Never Catch On
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 3,700 words
Warnings: Sex (between brothers), drugs, and rock and roll, dude. ;)
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Winchesters. I rent with an option to fan girl.
Summary: AU, in which Dean ran off to be in a rock band and left Sam behind with John. (I have no idea where this came from, although I suppose listening to “Rock You Like a Hurricane” while brainstorming probably didn’t help.)
Author’s note: Hi! Guess what? I wrote fic! How about that?! *flails*
*****
They‘ll Never Catch On
*****
The band stops in Binghamton on the way to the city, one last stop on the tour before things really get fucking hectic. New York City means a bigger venue and promotional press junkets up the ass for the new album and a visit to the TRL set that all four of them have been cracking jokes about since Oklahoma.
Two hours before the concert’s about to start and Mike pokes at the spread laid out for them in the dressing room, offering a thousand bucks to anybody in the room who can name everything they’re being served. Tyler calls him an asshole and throws a handful of what Dean guesses is some sort of grilled salmon at his head. Ian’s too busy drawing mournful notes out of his Fender to notice.
Dean’s cell phone rings right about the time that Rickie (the big-chested blonde in charge of getting him into his wardrobe and getting him partly out of it in really uncomfortable places like the bathroom on a tour bus) waves a T-shirt in front of him and tells him it’s guaranteed to instigate a round of Tear-Off-And-Fuck with the sorority girls in the front row.
The T-shirt says Everything’s Bigger In Texas. Dean highly doubts that.
One look at the caller ID on the phone and the drumstick twirling between Dean’s fingers stops.
“You’ve got impeccable timing, Sammy,” he says when he answers.
He can just picture Sam on the other end, the face he’s making just then at Sammy. He pictures Sam leaning against the back of the Impala, trunk open as he loads one of the shotguns with rock salt shells, brow furrowed in concentration with his own phone tucked between his head and shoulder. Sam likes a good soundtrack in the background when he calls, the sound of guns being cleaned or knives being sharpened, the racket and din of a crowded diner. Things Dean’s supposed to miss, a less safe version of the nomad Dean’s become thanks to his full tour schedule.
“I couldn’t have caught you running on stage twice in a row,” Sam grumbles, but he’s wrong. It’s not the first time, not by a long shot. Sam calls at night because Dean answers at night and vice versa. That’s just where their lives intersect, sometime after normal business hours and sunset.
“Believe it, little brother.” The drumstick dances between Dean’s fingers again. “You run out of money again?”
“No, it’s just … how far away are you from Allentown?”
Dean does the math in his head. Something like three or four hours, give or take. He’s a little rusty on the time it takes to get places when he’s not riding on a bus with Ian writing a new song five feet away and Mike trying to steal his M&Ms away. “Close enough. Why, what’s up?”
“Werewolves,” Sam says. “A whole pack of them setting up camp in an amusement park down here.”
Dean sighs. “I’ve got a concert in two hours.”
“I know, but I wouldn’t have called if I couldn’t use the backup.”
“Sam --”
“It can hold until tomorrow night. I can wait.”
Dean doesn’t ask why. Sam wouldn’t tell him that if it weren’t true, if he thought one night spent banging away on a drum set and having groupies throw themselves at him in drunken horny stupors would end up getting anyone eaten by something.
“Are you coming?”
Outside the audience is growing loud enough to be heard backstage, getting rowdy, getting drunk or already there. Dean can already pick out the sound of girls screaming their names from the waiting area closest to the stage, yelling out to Ian that they love him, offering to give Tyler their phone numbers, calling out to Dean that they’ll suck his cock in the tour bus after the show.
“Dean?”
It happens at the same time, Sam saying his name over the phone and Rickie saying it right in front of him still waving that shirt at him. He feels like a cornered bull, anxious and distracted.
“Dean, are you coming or --”
“-- going, then don’t come back, you hear me?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and maybe his voice sounds a little choked off but that’s just the nervous energy of another performance a few short hours away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
*
If it had only been Mike and Tyler, Dean never would have joined the band in the first place. Tyler talked about Nirvana in a way that made Dean’s teeth hurt, about how he wore black to school the day after he found out Kurt blew his brains out and how it was “the end of an era, man.” Tyler worshipped at the altar of Cobain and the Violent Femmes and the Meat Puppets, not to mention a dozen other bands with names that Dean figured the members must have picked at random from the dictionary.
Mike, meanwhile, talked about starting a rock band and owned a Hootie and the Blowfish album. The two concepts were antithetical.
But Ian … man, Ian.
Ian could talk a guy who was more gifted with a .45 than he was with a pair of drumsticks into joining a band simply on principle. Ian knew rock history better than his own family history, spouting off about the changing lineups of every iconic band with the same sort of reverence Dad carried in his voice when he talked about Mom. Ian had a record collection, a real one, shelves full of vinyl in order by band or title or release date depending on how Ian had decided to organize it the last time he‘d gotten bored.
Ian had long shaggy hair and intense eyes and talked about music like he’d just fallen in love and gave mind-blowing blowjobs that Dean felt for days afterwards.
Ian was the kind of guy who deserved his own band.
And when it turned out that Dean got better with a drum kit than he’d ever imagined he could … well, hell.
Suddenly hunting didn’t look as good as it had started out.
*
Sam calls him somewhere around the time the rental car crosses over into Pennsylvania, the heavy scent of cow manure wafting through the open windows of the car like the worst greeting in the world. The radio’s off and the highway’s deserted this early in the morning save for a few truckers here and there, but Dean still turns up the volume on the phone. His ears still ring a little from the concert. It’s nothing new.
“How was the concert?” Sam asks.
“I didn’t get laid afterwards, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Sam makes this sound at the other end of the phone that’s too ragged to be a sigh. “It wasn’t.”
Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightens a little, but he doesn’t say anything in response. He’s still got an overabundance of gel in his hair and a handful of leather bracelets on his wrists. If he checked himself in the rear view and slid the expensive tinted glasses away from his eyes, there’d still be smeared black eyeliner on his skin. He hadn’t even stopped after he left the stage to splash water onto his face, too busy heading for the car he’d had their manager get for him while he was on stage with the guys.
Marty had put up a stink, made sure that Dean knew to get his ass to New York in two days or he’d be wearing it as a hat, but Dean wasn’t half as unreliable as Mike or Tyler. He’d never vanished for a week when he was supposed to be standing up front on stages in Baton Rouge, Little Rock, and Tallahassee. He’d be there, and Marty knew it.
The guys hadn’t bothered to get pissed. After the concert, Mike and Tyler had waved him a cheerful goodbye and told him not to fuck any groupies sporting Adam’s apples over their tube tops. Ian had given him a look of concern at the “family emergency” cover story but told him to be back whenever. They’d come up with some bullshit story if they had to, he said, something about carpal tunnel if he wasn’t that late, something about hookers and coke and the questionable presence of a monkey in a diaper if he was.
“You never told me where you’re staying.”
“Ashford Inn, room twenty-three. Hope you’re not getting picky about sharing a crappy motel room, rock star.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says with a smile. Sam will keep this up until he stops showing up on the covers of magazines, Dean knows. He’ll be getting shit about photographers hiding in his shower and which Playboy model he’s got stuffed down his pants until he dies at this rate. Hell, Sam’s still harvesting the occasional verbal jab from that fucking Tiger Beat article. “So what’s up with this werewolf pack that you’ve got to call me in on it?”
“It’s six wolves strong, for one thing,” Sam says. This time, the phone call’s soundtrack is the low but steady click of Sam’s long fingers pounding away at the keys on his laptop. “I’d rather have the backup than go in alone on this one.”
Dean nods at that, sharp and understanding, even though Sam can’t even see it. He’ll know. That’s just the way Sam is these days.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
There’s this long silence on the other end of the line before he says, “Hurry.”
Dean’s pretty sure Sam doesn’t mean he wants him to get there faster for the sake of the wolves.
*
Dean doesn’t remember much about the fight, but if you ask him, he’ll give you the highlights.
He recalls saying something about being in a band, and being shocked when Dad laughed and said he already knew. He remembers rambling on about Tyler’s dad owning a club, how they only had to prove they could play before they had a cherry spot on the roster. He thinks at one point that he admitted he couldn’t sing his way out of a paper bag but it turned out he might actually be a better drummer than he thought.
He knows he said something about the record deal, though, the one that had caught them all by surprise. Some guy who knew Tyler’s dad, a friendly ex-bassist in an expensive suit who complimented Ian’s lyrics and Mike’s singing voice before waving a contract in their direction.
Dean knows he mentioned the record deal because that’s when things got loud.
Wherever the screaming may have started it ended with Dad shouting, “Who’s going to take care of Sammy if you leave?” and Dean shouting, “Isn’t that your job?” and Sam shouting, “Sammy can take care of himself,” before all three of them froze and stared at one another as if they’d suddenly been replaced by pod people.
What Dean wishes he could remember are the apologies.
You know, if there were any.
*
Ashford Inn’s just another cheap motel with a nicer name than most, a small bright spot in the middle of nowhere. The Impala sits gleaming in the parking lot in front of room twenty-three, fully restored and gorgeous. Dean can almost picture her smiling with pride, showing off her sleek lines, taunting him with the perfect paint job he‘d paid for. Hell, he’s got a lot of money to play with. Giving a pretty girl a makeover, even a girl of the automotive kind … well, that’s just being polite right there.
Sam having a room already is something Dean’s far too grateful for. The last motel he met Sam at meant a trip to the rental office, the loud energetic squeals of the female clerk at the sight of him and the photo spread from People’s Sexiest Bachelors list taped up on the wall behind the register.
Sam hadn’t stopped laughing at him for hours, but Dean had gotten his revenge. Oh, had he ever.
Chuckling to himself, Dean pulls in next to the Impala, gets out with a slam of the driver’s side door and drags his fingertips along the Impala’s surface. “Hey, baby,” he says. “You miss me?”
She doesn’t say anything, but he knows.
The door to room twenty-three opens then, and Sam grins from the doorway. “Are you about to make out with my car?”
Dean shoots him a cocky smirk back. “We’re not going to have this fight again, are we?”
Sam shakes his head, even though Dean can tell he’s tempted. Sam may drive her but Dean pours enough money into her upkeep. Ownership of the old girl is debatable at this point.
Sam looks a little scruffier around the edges than the last time Dean saw him, the circles around his eyes darker than normal. Granted, since Stanford and Jess and Dad’s death, since his reluctant return to the hunt two years ago, he’s always looked ragged, but not like this. Dean hasn’t seen him since before the European tour, when Sam collapsed in front of him in a musty motel room in Idaho, clutching his head and gasping about the demon.
Dean had done what he could, throwing money at the problem like a handful of salt at a troublesome spirit -- more weapons, a better laptop, stronger painkillers.
There’s not much more he can do these days. Too many people know his face, even for a lousy drummer in a band.
A band that routinely sells out stadiums across the country, but who’s counting, right?
“Took you long enough,” Sam says.
Dean shrugs as he grabs his bag from the passenger seat of the rental car. Most of his shit’s still on the tour bus, probably being thrown from the emergency exit onto the highway by Mike or doused in toothpaste and mouthwash by Tyler. Leaving it there was probably the worst idea he’s had all week, and that included wandering off with those overly eager twins in Michigan. “Yeah, well, some of us have obligations, dude.”
“Oh, yeah? What were their names?”
“Cleveland, Syracuse, and Binghamton,” Dean says with a scowl.
He follows Sam into the room and drops his bag on the floor as he kicks the door closed behind them, thinking about a shower and how good it’ll be to hold a gun again and how the hell he’s supposed to make interesting conversation with Matt fucking Lauer in twenty-four hours.
He stops thinking the second Sam’s hands are on him, pressing him back against the door, warm fingertips sliding up under his T-shirt and remembering the feel of his flesh. Sam’s long body swallows up the space between them before he leans forward to lick the taste from Dean’s open lips, and fuck, fuck, Dean had almost forgotten what this feels like. There’s the endless parade of groupies both male and female, there’s getting high with Ian in expensive hotel suites and talking about real music the way he can’t with Mike and Tyler and fucking Ian six ways to Sunday, and there’s this.
There’s this. Sam’s huge palms sliding over his skin, taking him over, claiming their territory. Sam’s leg pressing between his, pressing, and Jesus, he could keep fucking doing that forever. The faint scent of sweat that’s not Dean’s, of gun oil and dirt and those mingled herbs that Missouri Mosely taught Sam to mess around with.
Sam pulls away from the kiss so they can catch their breath and it’s a shock to Dean’s system. Sam’s forehead rests against Dean’s, and he’s breathing warm and fast against Dean’s cheek when he says, “What the hell is that shit on your face?”
Dean tries to think, tries to remember what the hell he’s getting at, but he’s got one hand on the back of Sam’s neck and one tugging at the button of Sam’s jeans and he doesn’t even know how they got there. “Eyeliner,” he chokes out. It’s the only thing he can think of. “It runs during concerts because of the sweat. I can’t --”
His hand brushes against Sam’s crotch as he’s talking, Sam’s hard cock right fucking there, and Dean’s train of thought completely derails.
‘Fuck,” he says, burying his face in the hollow of Sam’s neck.
He laves the skin there with his tongue, tastes that faint hint of sweat he’d smelled before, and Sam shudders.
“Eyeliner,” Sam says, as if he has to say it out loud to believe it.
Dean nods, latching his teeth onto Sam’s collarbone. He yanks open Sam’s loose jeans and shoves his hand inside his boxers.
Sam’s breath hitches as he whines and curls into Dean’s body once again. “You’re really trying to fucking kill me, aren’t you?”
“Not before you fuck me,” Dean says.
Dean doesn’t say much after that.
*
Dean was passed out on a bed in the nicest hotel in Atlanta when he got the call, and the first thing he did when he read the caller ID was reach under the covers and grab onto his cock. It was a little early for this particular call, but he never claimed to be picky. Hey, at least the girl from the night before had had more pressing things to do with her time than fucking cuddle.
“Hey, Sammy,” he said when he answered, voice already rough with anticipation. “Still having trouble figuring out how to tell time?”
Turned out this wasn’t a social call. “Were you just joking around when you said you’d pay for college for me?”
Dean’s grip on his cock loosened when his little brother’s voice carried over the phone, sounding more desperate than anything else but not in the good way. He sat up in bed and propped himself up on the pillows. “Yeah, man, sure. Why, that application for clown college finally go through?”
“No, Stanford.”
Dean whistled. “Seriously?”
“I just got the acceptance packet today.”
“Hey, that’s great.”
“You mean it?”
He sounded a little too needy for a sec, like he hadn’t expected that reaction, and Dean clenched his teeth just trying to think about what Dad had been dumb enough to say this time around. Probably some bullshit about Sam having to hunt full-time because Dean gave it up to bang on a drum kit all the damn time. “Yeah, Sam, I do. And hey, at least you’re not asking for me to buy you a pony, right?”
Sam laughed at that, said something about next Christmas that made Dean wince, talked about buying books and maybe majoring in pre-law, and carefully avoided any mention of Dad’s reaction to this bit of news.
Hell, Dean thought back then, the way it sounded it’d take a miracle to get the kid back into hunting.
*
“So are there even werewolves?”
Sam chuckles at that, nuzzles at Dean’s hipbones until his cock gives a twitch in response. Fucking Sam, being fucked by Sam … Jesus, Dean’s come so hard and so many times in the past few hours he’s shocked he hasn’t sprained anything.
“Well, there are,” Sam says as if Dean doesn‘t know already, “but I doubt any of them would want to live in an amusement park.”
“Not even for the water slides?”
“Especially not for the water slides.”
Dean’s hand slides through Sam’s sweaty hair, the long thick locks sticking out all over the damn place. It’s a good thing Sam is so goddamn tall, Dean thinks, bigger than Dean, big enough to touch him from head to toe with as many inches of warm golden skin as possible. Sam slides up his body trailing hot wet kisses along the curves of Dean’s muscles, branding him. Dean watches his lips carefully dodge the marks left by others in the past few days, pretending they’re not there the same way the two of them pretend there’s nothing outside the motel room door to complicate this thing they have.
“When do you have to go?” Sam asks before his tongue rasps over Dean’s nipple, once, twice, throwing his concentration right the hell off.
Dean gets it back soon enough, though. “Too soon,” is all he says. Morning shows, interviews, Mike and Tyler’s inevitable embarrassing drunken public display for the paparazzi this weekend. Twelve hours at the most before he’s got to go.
They’re sticky and sweaty and what they could both use is a fucking shower and to dig up more lube. The place is a mess, and nerves before every concert mean Dean hasn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. He’s sore all over, that great kind of sore, and it’s a safe bet Sam is, too.
Yeah, too soon. Way too fucking soon.
“You’ll call me the next time you actually have a real hunt, right?” Dean asks. He’s got one hand high up on Sam’s bare thigh and his mind on the gun he was itching to hold again.
“Depends,” Sam says, his expression the picture of innocence. “Will you get me Paris Hilton’s autograph?”
Dean shoves at him, makes a face and says, “Oh, you’re going down for that, little brother.”
Sam grins. “You first.”
*
In the liner notes of their third album, in between Tyler thanking God for making his parents’ condom break and Mike thanking the makers of Jagermeister, there was a single sentence.
Dean would like to thank: Sammy, and if he has to ask why then I‘m sure as hell not going to tell him.
When Jess asked, Sam made up some story about it being some stupid in-joke between the two of them, just something dumb that was absolutely not giving Dean the best blowjob of his life in the backseat of the Impala after Sam got his acceptance letter to Stanford.
Some things, you just didn’t advertise.
***
There may be more playing in this universe in the future. Hell, at the very least there should be Sam-jerking-off-to-MTV-videos smut. *nods solemnly*
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 3,700 words
Warnings: Sex (between brothers), drugs, and rock and roll, dude. ;)
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Winchesters. I rent with an option to fan girl.
Summary: AU, in which Dean ran off to be in a rock band and left Sam behind with John. (I have no idea where this came from, although I suppose listening to “Rock You Like a Hurricane” while brainstorming probably didn’t help.)
Author’s note: Hi! Guess what? I wrote fic! How about that?! *flails*
They‘ll Never Catch On
*****
The band stops in Binghamton on the way to the city, one last stop on the tour before things really get fucking hectic. New York City means a bigger venue and promotional press junkets up the ass for the new album and a visit to the TRL set that all four of them have been cracking jokes about since Oklahoma.
Two hours before the concert’s about to start and Mike pokes at the spread laid out for them in the dressing room, offering a thousand bucks to anybody in the room who can name everything they’re being served. Tyler calls him an asshole and throws a handful of what Dean guesses is some sort of grilled salmon at his head. Ian’s too busy drawing mournful notes out of his Fender to notice.
Dean’s cell phone rings right about the time that Rickie (the big-chested blonde in charge of getting him into his wardrobe and getting him partly out of it in really uncomfortable places like the bathroom on a tour bus) waves a T-shirt in front of him and tells him it’s guaranteed to instigate a round of Tear-Off-And-Fuck with the sorority girls in the front row.
The T-shirt says Everything’s Bigger In Texas. Dean highly doubts that.
One look at the caller ID on the phone and the drumstick twirling between Dean’s fingers stops.
“You’ve got impeccable timing, Sammy,” he says when he answers.
He can just picture Sam on the other end, the face he’s making just then at Sammy. He pictures Sam leaning against the back of the Impala, trunk open as he loads one of the shotguns with rock salt shells, brow furrowed in concentration with his own phone tucked between his head and shoulder. Sam likes a good soundtrack in the background when he calls, the sound of guns being cleaned or knives being sharpened, the racket and din of a crowded diner. Things Dean’s supposed to miss, a less safe version of the nomad Dean’s become thanks to his full tour schedule.
“I couldn’t have caught you running on stage twice in a row,” Sam grumbles, but he’s wrong. It’s not the first time, not by a long shot. Sam calls at night because Dean answers at night and vice versa. That’s just where their lives intersect, sometime after normal business hours and sunset.
“Believe it, little brother.” The drumstick dances between Dean’s fingers again. “You run out of money again?”
“No, it’s just … how far away are you from Allentown?”
Dean does the math in his head. Something like three or four hours, give or take. He’s a little rusty on the time it takes to get places when he’s not riding on a bus with Ian writing a new song five feet away and Mike trying to steal his M&Ms away. “Close enough. Why, what’s up?”
“Werewolves,” Sam says. “A whole pack of them setting up camp in an amusement park down here.”
Dean sighs. “I’ve got a concert in two hours.”
“I know, but I wouldn’t have called if I couldn’t use the backup.”
“Sam --”
“It can hold until tomorrow night. I can wait.”
Dean doesn’t ask why. Sam wouldn’t tell him that if it weren’t true, if he thought one night spent banging away on a drum set and having groupies throw themselves at him in drunken horny stupors would end up getting anyone eaten by something.
“Are you coming?”
Outside the audience is growing loud enough to be heard backstage, getting rowdy, getting drunk or already there. Dean can already pick out the sound of girls screaming their names from the waiting area closest to the stage, yelling out to Ian that they love him, offering to give Tyler their phone numbers, calling out to Dean that they’ll suck his cock in the tour bus after the show.
“Dean?”
It happens at the same time, Sam saying his name over the phone and Rickie saying it right in front of him still waving that shirt at him. He feels like a cornered bull, anxious and distracted.
“Dean, are you coming or --”
“-- going, then don’t come back, you hear me?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and maybe his voice sounds a little choked off but that’s just the nervous energy of another performance a few short hours away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
If it had only been Mike and Tyler, Dean never would have joined the band in the first place. Tyler talked about Nirvana in a way that made Dean’s teeth hurt, about how he wore black to school the day after he found out Kurt blew his brains out and how it was “the end of an era, man.” Tyler worshipped at the altar of Cobain and the Violent Femmes and the Meat Puppets, not to mention a dozen other bands with names that Dean figured the members must have picked at random from the dictionary.
Mike, meanwhile, talked about starting a rock band and owned a Hootie and the Blowfish album. The two concepts were antithetical.
But Ian … man, Ian.
Ian could talk a guy who was more gifted with a .45 than he was with a pair of drumsticks into joining a band simply on principle. Ian knew rock history better than his own family history, spouting off about the changing lineups of every iconic band with the same sort of reverence Dad carried in his voice when he talked about Mom. Ian had a record collection, a real one, shelves full of vinyl in order by band or title or release date depending on how Ian had decided to organize it the last time he‘d gotten bored.
Ian had long shaggy hair and intense eyes and talked about music like he’d just fallen in love and gave mind-blowing blowjobs that Dean felt for days afterwards.
Ian was the kind of guy who deserved his own band.
And when it turned out that Dean got better with a drum kit than he’d ever imagined he could … well, hell.
Suddenly hunting didn’t look as good as it had started out.
Sam calls him somewhere around the time the rental car crosses over into Pennsylvania, the heavy scent of cow manure wafting through the open windows of the car like the worst greeting in the world. The radio’s off and the highway’s deserted this early in the morning save for a few truckers here and there, but Dean still turns up the volume on the phone. His ears still ring a little from the concert. It’s nothing new.
“How was the concert?” Sam asks.
“I didn’t get laid afterwards, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Sam makes this sound at the other end of the phone that’s too ragged to be a sigh. “It wasn’t.”
Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightens a little, but he doesn’t say anything in response. He’s still got an overabundance of gel in his hair and a handful of leather bracelets on his wrists. If he checked himself in the rear view and slid the expensive tinted glasses away from his eyes, there’d still be smeared black eyeliner on his skin. He hadn’t even stopped after he left the stage to splash water onto his face, too busy heading for the car he’d had their manager get for him while he was on stage with the guys.
Marty had put up a stink, made sure that Dean knew to get his ass to New York in two days or he’d be wearing it as a hat, but Dean wasn’t half as unreliable as Mike or Tyler. He’d never vanished for a week when he was supposed to be standing up front on stages in Baton Rouge, Little Rock, and Tallahassee. He’d be there, and Marty knew it.
The guys hadn’t bothered to get pissed. After the concert, Mike and Tyler had waved him a cheerful goodbye and told him not to fuck any groupies sporting Adam’s apples over their tube tops. Ian had given him a look of concern at the “family emergency” cover story but told him to be back whenever. They’d come up with some bullshit story if they had to, he said, something about carpal tunnel if he wasn’t that late, something about hookers and coke and the questionable presence of a monkey in a diaper if he was.
“You never told me where you’re staying.”
“Ashford Inn, room twenty-three. Hope you’re not getting picky about sharing a crappy motel room, rock star.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says with a smile. Sam will keep this up until he stops showing up on the covers of magazines, Dean knows. He’ll be getting shit about photographers hiding in his shower and which Playboy model he’s got stuffed down his pants until he dies at this rate. Hell, Sam’s still harvesting the occasional verbal jab from that fucking Tiger Beat article. “So what’s up with this werewolf pack that you’ve got to call me in on it?”
“It’s six wolves strong, for one thing,” Sam says. This time, the phone call’s soundtrack is the low but steady click of Sam’s long fingers pounding away at the keys on his laptop. “I’d rather have the backup than go in alone on this one.”
Dean nods at that, sharp and understanding, even though Sam can’t even see it. He’ll know. That’s just the way Sam is these days.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
There’s this long silence on the other end of the line before he says, “Hurry.”
Dean’s pretty sure Sam doesn’t mean he wants him to get there faster for the sake of the wolves.
Dean doesn’t remember much about the fight, but if you ask him, he’ll give you the highlights.
He recalls saying something about being in a band, and being shocked when Dad laughed and said he already knew. He remembers rambling on about Tyler’s dad owning a club, how they only had to prove they could play before they had a cherry spot on the roster. He thinks at one point that he admitted he couldn’t sing his way out of a paper bag but it turned out he might actually be a better drummer than he thought.
He knows he said something about the record deal, though, the one that had caught them all by surprise. Some guy who knew Tyler’s dad, a friendly ex-bassist in an expensive suit who complimented Ian’s lyrics and Mike’s singing voice before waving a contract in their direction.
Dean knows he mentioned the record deal because that’s when things got loud.
Wherever the screaming may have started it ended with Dad shouting, “Who’s going to take care of Sammy if you leave?” and Dean shouting, “Isn’t that your job?” and Sam shouting, “Sammy can take care of himself,” before all three of them froze and stared at one another as if they’d suddenly been replaced by pod people.
What Dean wishes he could remember are the apologies.
You know, if there were any.
Ashford Inn’s just another cheap motel with a nicer name than most, a small bright spot in the middle of nowhere. The Impala sits gleaming in the parking lot in front of room twenty-three, fully restored and gorgeous. Dean can almost picture her smiling with pride, showing off her sleek lines, taunting him with the perfect paint job he‘d paid for. Hell, he’s got a lot of money to play with. Giving a pretty girl a makeover, even a girl of the automotive kind … well, that’s just being polite right there.
Sam having a room already is something Dean’s far too grateful for. The last motel he met Sam at meant a trip to the rental office, the loud energetic squeals of the female clerk at the sight of him and the photo spread from People’s Sexiest Bachelors list taped up on the wall behind the register.
Sam hadn’t stopped laughing at him for hours, but Dean had gotten his revenge. Oh, had he ever.
Chuckling to himself, Dean pulls in next to the Impala, gets out with a slam of the driver’s side door and drags his fingertips along the Impala’s surface. “Hey, baby,” he says. “You miss me?”
She doesn’t say anything, but he knows.
The door to room twenty-three opens then, and Sam grins from the doorway. “Are you about to make out with my car?”
Dean shoots him a cocky smirk back. “We’re not going to have this fight again, are we?”
Sam shakes his head, even though Dean can tell he’s tempted. Sam may drive her but Dean pours enough money into her upkeep. Ownership of the old girl is debatable at this point.
Sam looks a little scruffier around the edges than the last time Dean saw him, the circles around his eyes darker than normal. Granted, since Stanford and Jess and Dad’s death, since his reluctant return to the hunt two years ago, he’s always looked ragged, but not like this. Dean hasn’t seen him since before the European tour, when Sam collapsed in front of him in a musty motel room in Idaho, clutching his head and gasping about the demon.
Dean had done what he could, throwing money at the problem like a handful of salt at a troublesome spirit -- more weapons, a better laptop, stronger painkillers.
There’s not much more he can do these days. Too many people know his face, even for a lousy drummer in a band.
A band that routinely sells out stadiums across the country, but who’s counting, right?
“Took you long enough,” Sam says.
Dean shrugs as he grabs his bag from the passenger seat of the rental car. Most of his shit’s still on the tour bus, probably being thrown from the emergency exit onto the highway by Mike or doused in toothpaste and mouthwash by Tyler. Leaving it there was probably the worst idea he’s had all week, and that included wandering off with those overly eager twins in Michigan. “Yeah, well, some of us have obligations, dude.”
“Oh, yeah? What were their names?”
“Cleveland, Syracuse, and Binghamton,” Dean says with a scowl.
He follows Sam into the room and drops his bag on the floor as he kicks the door closed behind them, thinking about a shower and how good it’ll be to hold a gun again and how the hell he’s supposed to make interesting conversation with Matt fucking Lauer in twenty-four hours.
He stops thinking the second Sam’s hands are on him, pressing him back against the door, warm fingertips sliding up under his T-shirt and remembering the feel of his flesh. Sam’s long body swallows up the space between them before he leans forward to lick the taste from Dean’s open lips, and fuck, fuck, Dean had almost forgotten what this feels like. There’s the endless parade of groupies both male and female, there’s getting high with Ian in expensive hotel suites and talking about real music the way he can’t with Mike and Tyler and fucking Ian six ways to Sunday, and there’s this.
There’s this. Sam’s huge palms sliding over his skin, taking him over, claiming their territory. Sam’s leg pressing between his, pressing, and Jesus, he could keep fucking doing that forever. The faint scent of sweat that’s not Dean’s, of gun oil and dirt and those mingled herbs that Missouri Mosely taught Sam to mess around with.
Sam pulls away from the kiss so they can catch their breath and it’s a shock to Dean’s system. Sam’s forehead rests against Dean’s, and he’s breathing warm and fast against Dean’s cheek when he says, “What the hell is that shit on your face?”
Dean tries to think, tries to remember what the hell he’s getting at, but he’s got one hand on the back of Sam’s neck and one tugging at the button of Sam’s jeans and he doesn’t even know how they got there. “Eyeliner,” he chokes out. It’s the only thing he can think of. “It runs during concerts because of the sweat. I can’t --”
His hand brushes against Sam’s crotch as he’s talking, Sam’s hard cock right fucking there, and Dean’s train of thought completely derails.
‘Fuck,” he says, burying his face in the hollow of Sam’s neck.
He laves the skin there with his tongue, tastes that faint hint of sweat he’d smelled before, and Sam shudders.
“Eyeliner,” Sam says, as if he has to say it out loud to believe it.
Dean nods, latching his teeth onto Sam’s collarbone. He yanks open Sam’s loose jeans and shoves his hand inside his boxers.
Sam’s breath hitches as he whines and curls into Dean’s body once again. “You’re really trying to fucking kill me, aren’t you?”
“Not before you fuck me,” Dean says.
Dean doesn’t say much after that.
Dean was passed out on a bed in the nicest hotel in Atlanta when he got the call, and the first thing he did when he read the caller ID was reach under the covers and grab onto his cock. It was a little early for this particular call, but he never claimed to be picky. Hey, at least the girl from the night before had had more pressing things to do with her time than fucking cuddle.
“Hey, Sammy,” he said when he answered, voice already rough with anticipation. “Still having trouble figuring out how to tell time?”
Turned out this wasn’t a social call. “Were you just joking around when you said you’d pay for college for me?”
Dean’s grip on his cock loosened when his little brother’s voice carried over the phone, sounding more desperate than anything else but not in the good way. He sat up in bed and propped himself up on the pillows. “Yeah, man, sure. Why, that application for clown college finally go through?”
“No, Stanford.”
Dean whistled. “Seriously?”
“I just got the acceptance packet today.”
“Hey, that’s great.”
“You mean it?”
He sounded a little too needy for a sec, like he hadn’t expected that reaction, and Dean clenched his teeth just trying to think about what Dad had been dumb enough to say this time around. Probably some bullshit about Sam having to hunt full-time because Dean gave it up to bang on a drum kit all the damn time. “Yeah, Sam, I do. And hey, at least you’re not asking for me to buy you a pony, right?”
Sam laughed at that, said something about next Christmas that made Dean wince, talked about buying books and maybe majoring in pre-law, and carefully avoided any mention of Dad’s reaction to this bit of news.
Hell, Dean thought back then, the way it sounded it’d take a miracle to get the kid back into hunting.
“So are there even werewolves?”
Sam chuckles at that, nuzzles at Dean’s hipbones until his cock gives a twitch in response. Fucking Sam, being fucked by Sam … Jesus, Dean’s come so hard and so many times in the past few hours he’s shocked he hasn’t sprained anything.
“Well, there are,” Sam says as if Dean doesn‘t know already, “but I doubt any of them would want to live in an amusement park.”
“Not even for the water slides?”
“Especially not for the water slides.”
Dean’s hand slides through Sam’s sweaty hair, the long thick locks sticking out all over the damn place. It’s a good thing Sam is so goddamn tall, Dean thinks, bigger than Dean, big enough to touch him from head to toe with as many inches of warm golden skin as possible. Sam slides up his body trailing hot wet kisses along the curves of Dean’s muscles, branding him. Dean watches his lips carefully dodge the marks left by others in the past few days, pretending they’re not there the same way the two of them pretend there’s nothing outside the motel room door to complicate this thing they have.
“When do you have to go?” Sam asks before his tongue rasps over Dean’s nipple, once, twice, throwing his concentration right the hell off.
Dean gets it back soon enough, though. “Too soon,” is all he says. Morning shows, interviews, Mike and Tyler’s inevitable embarrassing drunken public display for the paparazzi this weekend. Twelve hours at the most before he’s got to go.
They’re sticky and sweaty and what they could both use is a fucking shower and to dig up more lube. The place is a mess, and nerves before every concert mean Dean hasn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. He’s sore all over, that great kind of sore, and it’s a safe bet Sam is, too.
Yeah, too soon. Way too fucking soon.
“You’ll call me the next time you actually have a real hunt, right?” Dean asks. He’s got one hand high up on Sam’s bare thigh and his mind on the gun he was itching to hold again.
“Depends,” Sam says, his expression the picture of innocence. “Will you get me Paris Hilton’s autograph?”
Dean shoves at him, makes a face and says, “Oh, you’re going down for that, little brother.”
Sam grins. “You first.”
In the liner notes of their third album, in between Tyler thanking God for making his parents’ condom break and Mike thanking the makers of Jagermeister, there was a single sentence.
Dean would like to thank: Sammy, and if he has to ask why then I‘m sure as hell not going to tell him.
When Jess asked, Sam made up some story about it being some stupid in-joke between the two of them, just something dumb that was absolutely not giving Dean the best blowjob of his life in the backseat of the Impala after Sam got his acceptance letter to Stanford.
Some things, you just didn’t advertise.
***
There may be more playing in this universe in the future. Hell, at the very least there should be Sam-jerking-off-to-MTV-videos smut. *nods solemnly*
