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By Drew Coastal Highway at 36th Street The main door of the bar banged shut leaving Dean alone in the salty winter air. He looked back at it with a very pointed annoyance. He'd only been hustling a little pool, nothing over a hundred bucks a game, but the guy he'd been whipping the pants off of called him on it. Dean was itching for a fight and thought he'd found it. It was just his luck that there were three tables of cops near the back of the bar, having some kind of party. Some nights you just couldn't win. Dean bounced on the balls of his feet and turned up the collar on his coat, trying to keep out the cold. In the outside near-silence, waves broke on the beach a few blocks away and echoed in the mostly empty city. The door opened again and out came Sam, his coat in one hand and his bag slung hastily over one shoulder. "Jesus, Dean, do you think you could refrain from getting us kicked out of every bar we've ever gone to?" Sam looked like Dean felt: annoyed, on edge. "What's the matter, Sammy? Little Mister Perfect afraid of getting a reputation?" Dean jingled the keys in his pocket, eager to be away from the site of his most recent failure. "Let's go. Maybe they've got an open liquor store in this goddamn town." "It's 'Sam,' dickwad." * * *
Fenwick Island State Park "I fucking love Delaware." Dean said as he lounged on his back on a sand dune, watching reflected moonlight on the water. "No sales tax, lots of booze..." He took a swig from a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels, feeling the burn of it warm him. "And," he announced with some finality, "state parks. Beach-y state parks. With beaches." "You're crazy, you know that? It's December, it's cold, and you want to get smashed and watch the waves come in. Screw this, Dean. I'm going back to the motel." Sam rose and brushed sand from his jeans. "Aww, Sammy, have some..." "It's 'Sam.'" Sam interrupted in a voice that could have frozen Dean to the sand he sat on. Paying no attention to him, Dean went on. "...of this and calm down. Sit and watch the waves and relax. It'll be good for you." Dean took another swallow. "How can you just sit there and drink? It's the middle of the night and we've still got no leads on the sirens we've been chasing for the last three days. You nearly got us into our fourth barfight this week and you don't even care!" Sam's voice gradually rose until the last three words, which he practically shouted into the still winter air. "Sammy, calm--" Dean started. "For the last goddamn time, it's 'Sam,' okay?" Sam plucked the bottle from Dean's hand, swung it around his head and pitched it into the tall grass that buffered the sand dunes. He was breathing heavily, exhaling short steamy puffs that made him look like a dragon, fire in its belly, ready to jet flame at the next person to so much as whisper. Angry at the loss of his bottle, Dean started to get to his feet, but Sam pushed him back down. "No. No more of this 'in control' Dean crap. You want to get drunk, you give me the keys." Sam held out his hand expectantly. "Jesus. What the hell do you think you're doing? Mister high-and-mighty all of a sudden, aren't you? Where's this coming from, Sammy?" Sam's right fist met Dean's left eye with a smack that seemed to echo along the deserted beach, and Dean fell back on the sand. Dean raised his hand to his eye. The shock of the punch wasn't yet painful, but Dean could already feel the heat of the oncoming swelling. He blinked up at Sam. "You hit me. You fucking hit me. What the fuck?" He scrambled to his feet and glared at Sam, who was massaging his knuckles. "What the fuck? Dean, you are so full of shit. You drag me all the way across the country hunting demons and spirits and any kind of otherworldly freak-show you can find, and suddenly you want to take a break with a bottle of Jack?" Sam's voice dripped with contempt. "'I deal with the pain by helping others' is such a fucking joke. You dragged me away from everything I was making for myself, my whole life, and now you're looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle. Fuck you, Dean." "You don't want this life? You want to be a coward, huh? Want to go run back to Stanford and forget all about the scary monsters that are out there, the evil shit that'll take people off to eat them, or flay twelve-year-olds, or turn kids into animals. Just go and pretend they don't exist. Pretend you've got some kind of fucking white picket fence thing going on and they won't come for you. Well guess what, Sammy. They did come for you. Twice. And they'll keep coming, but never for you; just the people you love. So go off and put some other girl at risk, all because you want to play like there's no such thing as the supernatural. I thought you wanted to help me find Dad; I thought you cared. Jesus, Sammy, just leave before we find him, okay?" Dean balled his hands into fists and spat out, "I don't want him to know what you think a hero is." This time when Sam lunged at him, Dean anticipated it and sent his fist right into his brother's stomach, doubling him over and sending him to the ground. Sam's arm snaked out and wrapped around Dean's knees, pulling him off-balance and neatly dropping him back onto the sand. Having reached the ground first, Sam had more time to maneuver, and managed to get himself on top of Dean, pinning his arms to his chest. Lying there, breathing heavily, Sam leaned down until he was inches away from Dean's face, and he kissed him, roughly, his tongue forcing its way into Dean's mouth. Dean froze. So did Sam. He pulled back, slowly. "Dean, I..." Dean didn't wait for him to finish. Adrenaline surged through him as he rolled them over and trapped Sam beneath him. Dean's hand cupped Sam's head as he pushed his tongue into Sam's mouth, their lips locking together. Sam, unable to process what was going on, responded, kissing his brother back hard. Sam tasted the Jack on Dean's breath and leaned into the kiss, pushing back against Dean's tongue with his own. He broke away and kissed his way to Dean's ear, tasting mostly sweat and sea air and sand, but always Dean, and then his tongue dove down Dean's jawline and back to Dean's waiting mouth. Dean thrust his thigh between Sam's own and Sam's cock leapt when Dean pressed their dicks together. The two layers of worn denim separating them was too much and too little. Sam thrust his hips up against Dean's gratified to hear Dean gasp. Untangling one of his hands from Dean's jacket, Sam slid it to Dean's crotch, cupping Dean's erection through his jeans. He squeezed slightly and felt the blood in his head rushing to his groin when Dean let out a moan that hitched in his throat. "Jesus, Sam." The raw need in Dean's voice egged Sam on, and he brazenly began to unbutton and unzip Dean's pants, his hand slipping inside the waistband of Dean's boxers earning a, "Holy shit, Sammy," as Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's dick. He pulled at it, stroking it, running his finger under the rim of the head. He touched Dean in a mirror image of how he jacked himself off. Seconds later, Dean's breath caught and Sam felt him tense up. It hit him that he's got his brother's dick in his hand, that his brother just came all over his wrist and forearm. Dean kissed him ferociously and it was suddenly too much for Sam. He bucked his hips up against Dean's thigh and he was gone too: come in his boxers and his back still covered in sand. * * *
US Route 50 Sam glanced over at Dean, who'd just slid into the driver's seat of the Impala. "Dude, you just had coffee like five minutes ago." "I'm a little tired, Sammy. I wonder why that is?" Dean didn't even look at his brother. "It's 'Sam.'" Sam only let a sliver of reproach enter his voice. "But, I, uh. About last night..." His cheeks burned and his eyes didn't leave the map he held. "No chick flick moments, remember?" Sam paused, incredulous. "You've gotta be... right. Fine. So, this siren. Last spotted in Ocean City, we now have a sighting in Annapolis..." "Let's go," Dean said, pulling forward out of the gas station. Sam wondered if that was the difference between them: he felt like he was always looking behind.
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