Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/48978.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/OFC, Sam_Winchester/OFC,
      Sam_Winchester/OMC
  Additional Tags:
      five_things
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-10 Words: 5569
****** Crime Pays or There'd Be No Crime ******
by keysmash
Summary
     Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll, for values of drugs that include
     stealing, and values of rock'n'roll that include hunting.
Notes
     For
     [[info]]
concernedlily, for [[info]]spn_j2_xmas. Title from G. Gordon Liddy.
One.
Sam locked himself in a stall and wiped his hands on his pants. Fluorescent
lights buzzed overhead, and water dripped somewhere in the room. Sam breathed
quickly and tried to calm down for a minute before giving it up, flushing the
unused toilet, and going to wash his hands. His palms had sweated up again, and
his stomach kept clenching. Sam stood on tiptoe to look at his reflection in
the mirror. He could only really see his hair and his eyes, wider than usual.
He swallowed hard, dried his hands, and walked back out.
Dad stood in front of the Coke fountain, where he filled an enormous plastic
cup for each of them -- Dr Pepper for himself, Sprite and Sunkist for Dean, and
a little of everything for Sam. Sam wandered up and down the aisles while his
dad messed with the lids. Two went on easy, but Dad fumbled the third, and
dropped first the lid and then the cup on the floor. Soda splashed up and then
fizzed as it pooled on the tiles.
"Oh, jeez," Dad muttered. He pulled a handful of brown napkins from the
dispenser and started wiping the counter. Mostly he just spread the mess
around. The teenager behind the counter watched him for a few moments before
marking her spot in her book and putting it down behind the cash register.
"Here," she said, and pulled a roll of paper towels from behind the counter.
She carried it to the fountain, and she and Dad started to clean up the mess.
While they worked, Sam slid two candy bars up each of his long sleeves and
headed for the door, looking straight ahead.
The bell over the door jingled as he ducked outside. Dean leaned against the
Impala with his arms crossed and one ankle tossed over the other, and he
grinned widely as Sam headed over. "You do it?" Dean called.
Sam nodded, and smiled back. Dean pushed himself upright and they crawled into
the back seat. Sam glanced back at the store -- the cashier stood at her
station again, and John's wallet was in his hands as he paid for the food and
gas and mess -- and then laughed nervously. He pulled the loot from his
sleeves, and Dean's face lit up.
"All right Sammy!" he crowed. Sam handed Dean his yellow bag of M&M's, tossed
Dad's Hershey bar into the front seat, and unwrapped one of his two sticks of
Starburst. Dean shook the bag near his ear before ripping it open, while Sam
fumbled the red square of paper off his candy. They munched noisily and waited
for Dad. Sam watched the cashier load his purchases and elbowed Dean.
"How long'll he keep me doing candy?" he asked.
"Depends on how fast you learn. He started me on baseball cards, kept me there
for a few months." Dean shrugged, popped an M&M into his mouth. "I was watching
— that was good, for your first time."
Sam frowned at the candy in his lap, and then tilted his head back to look at
Dean. "Isn't it sorta — Dad used to say we were never supposed to steal."
"Well." Dean shrugged again. "We're not, really. Just, now we can, if we need
to for a job or something. If Dad says."
Sam thought for a moment, then shrugged as well and opened another Starburst.
Dean bumped their shoulders together as Sam chewed, and he pointed out the
window. Dad was pushing through the gas station's door, juggling an already
grease-stained paper bag and an unbalanced cardboard drink carrier. Sam leaned
over the seat to open the driver's side door for Dad when he was almost to the
Impala. He slid the food across the bench to sit in the empty passenger seat
and tucked his chocolate into his shirt pocket. "You did good, son," he said,
and reached back to ruffle Sam's hair.
 
1.
Dean was fifteen when he fucked a girl for the first time. The wallpaper in
their hallway had peeled away from the wall where it met the ceiling, and Sam
studied a tear in the pattern while he leaned against the closed bedroom door
and listened.
Angela lived in the other half of the duplex they rented that particular
winter, and she'd been over every day for weeks to help Dean with his homework.
She was seventeen and thought Dean was, too, because they took advanced physics
together. Dean never told her he'd just turned fifteen, and Sam certainly
didn't. Everybody called her Angela except Dean, who renamed her Angie the
first time she brought over her notes and chewed her ballpoint pen. Dean called
her Angie now, locked with her in the room he shared with Sam. Sam rubbed
himself through his pants as he listened to the slick, slapping noise they made
together, and to Dean's low murmurs: An, Angie, god, fuck, Angie,oh—
 
Sam actually was seventeen when he lost his virginity, in the Impala at the
campsite where he and Dean stayed that summer. Dad and Bobby had their eyes on
a pack of werewolves, and went into the job expecting to spend several lunar
cycles flushing them out. Dad left enough for a security deposit on the two-
room rat trap he thought they were renting, and they spent it on beer and a
reservation at the national park instead. Less overhead, more profit. Sam
waited tables on the weekends and shelved books during the week; Dean worked
construction during the day and hustled his way through the area's bars one at
a time.
Lisa worked at the coffee shop across the street from Sam's day job, and he
took her on twelve dates before he brought her home. Dean made some excuse
after they, all three, shared take-out Chinese around the fire, but he didn't
go far into the woods. Sam felt his brother's eyes on his shoulders, where they
always fell, as he stretched Lisa out in the back seat, as she touched herself
while he fumbled with the condom, and he fought not to come on the upholstery.
 
Sam started messing around with guys that winter, in a rented house far on the
forest side of the separation between town and woods. Sam and Dean shared half
of the house, and their father and most of their supplies took the rooms on the
other side of the dog trot. Sound traveled easily — Sam could hear Dean, laid
up in their bed with a healing gash through his shoulder, clearly even in the
cramped kitchen, furthest from their room — but Sam brought boys home, anyway.
Marco was on the soccer team and in Sam's calculus class. Even though soccer
season was over, and even though Sam hadn't been on the team in the first
place, they kicked around at lunch. Sam checked Dean's bandage and his
breathing the first time Marco gave him a ride home, and then he turned up Dave
Matthews in the living room and locked their front door. Sam came twice before
they pulled their clothes back on and took out the graphing calculators. Dean
walked into the kitchen almost as soon as they started their homework, and the
gauze wound around his right shoulder was tinged red again. Sam made him sit on
the counter while he rewrapped it and bitched, what the hell were you doing
with this hand anyway, you're supposed to know better than this, and Dean
stared at Marco until he fake-coughed a few times and said he'd better get
home.
 
Dean was twenty-six the first time he had sex with a man, and Sam was there,
too. They were the only two people in the room.
 
Two.
Sam glanced once at his cards, nodded the way he had with every new hand, and
placed them face down on the table. The other guys playing smirked at each
other as Sam met every raise to stay in, and then laughed when the cards were
shown. The winner had two fours and a five to match the four and five in the
river. Sam sighed and shook his head when he slapped his four, seven, and ace
down, and the man next to him -- Adam, four beers and a shot in his belly,
favored the red-headed waitress wearing jeans instead of a miniskirt, sucked
the inside of his cheeks when he had a good hand -- clapped Sam on the
shoulder.
"Man, I dunno." Sam held his hands out, palms up. "Maybe this just isn't my
game."
"Naw, you'll catch on," Don said, still pulling the pot towards him. "Give it a
few more hands. Low-stakes like this is the best way to learn."
"I hope so." Sam waved to their waitress. "Another round?" he called. She
smiled and carried their beers over on a tray a little later. She raised an
eyebrow when she swapped Sam's mostly-full bottle out for a fresh one, but
didn't mention it when he tipped her thirty percent.
Sam took a few long pulls of his new beer to get the liquid below the label,
and he carefully didn't glance up when Dean came inside the bar. Sam dealt this
hand, double-checking the order in which to pass the cards around, and watched
Dean out of the corner of his eye -- brush the rain off his coat, settle in at
the bar with a beer and a grin for the bartender, check out the pool tables and
the bathrooms, the exits. Sam folded on an inside straight on the hand he
dealt, raised on a pair, and met the raise with nothing to say for his hand
other than every card was red before Dean worked his way to the table. He stood
a few feet back and finished his drink while they finished the hand -- Sam
folded after anteing --, then stepped up.
"There room for another?" he asked.
Don glanced around the table, and when no one objected, shrugged and nodded to
an empty chair at a table next to theirs. "Help yourself," he said. "Deuces
low, five to get in."
"Sounds good." Dean pulled up the chair and settled in between Don and Jesse,
across from Sam.
"What's your name?" Sam asked.
"Michael," Dean answered. He shook hands around the table as Jesse dealt the
cards. His fingers tickled over Sam's palm as they pulled away from each other.
He twitched his eyebrow just slightly at Sam, then turned to his hand. Sam bit
down on his grin and nodded at his cards again -- king and jack of clubs, three
of hearts.
 
2.
"Dean," Sam said, and wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock. "Dean,
now, soon, Dean, c'mon, are you --"
Dean gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on Sam's hips, thrust in harder.
"I'd be sooner if you weren't fucking talking about it, man."
Sam dropped his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. He kept his
hand around himself, letting the pressure build in his balls, high and tight,
but not letting it out. Let it get better; let it get worse. He tried to clench
his ass in time with Dean's thrusts, but he couldn't go that fast, and so he
just clamped down, tightened his legs around Dean's waist. Dean gasped and fell
further onto Sam. His belly rubbed against Sam's dick, hot and smooth, and Sam
moaned. Dean's sweat slicked over Sam's head with every slam into his body, and
Sam bit the inside of his mouth.
"Dean, c'mon, c'mon, I'm so close," he said. Dean hitched Sam's hips higher up
on his body, thrust harder, and Sam let himself babble. "C'mon, you can do it,
come for me, it's gonna be so good, I wanna feel you come inside me, c'mon,
Dean, man, you make me wanna come so bad, I --"
"Sam," Dean panted, and pushed as far inside as he could. "Now, Sam, now, now -
-"
And Sam stripped his dick hard and fast, ground his hips up towards Dean's, and
came, arching, clenching hard. His come spurted between their bellies, and Dean
let go once Sam tightened around him. He came into Sam, thrusting desperately
and mindlessly into the clenching heat. Sam kept his legs tight around Dean as
he came down, and ran his fingers into Dean's hair until they both calmed.
 
Three.
"Who're you gonna be this time?" Sam asked.
Dean ticked names off his fingers. "X. L. Rose, I. Z. Stradlin, Stephen Attler,
S. Lash, and Duff Kagan."
Sam shook his head. "I'd've thought you'd gone through those by now."
"Different spellings. What about you?"
Sam flipped through his stack of applications. "Uh, Mathias Vic, Colton
Dietfried, Robert Jalen, Chase Nathaniel, Nicholas Hewie."
"The hell are they?"
Sam shrugged. "No one. I found a name generator online."
Dean threw a balled-up napkin across the table at Sam's head. "Why do you hate
fun?"
"Since when is this supposed to be fun?"
"Since I said so." Dean pulled Sam's stack to him and frowned at the names.
"Okay, the fried diet guy is acceptable just for weirdness, but the others?" He
shook his head. "I'm making an executive decision. From now on, I'm coming up
with the names, and you can do all the grunt work."
"Coming up with the addresses, you mean?" Sam asked. When Dean nodded, Sam
rolled his eyes. "How is that any different?"
"You rather run around signing for things as X. L. Rose, or as —" He flipped
through the applications again. "Chase Nathaniel?"
"Okay, but Chase Nathaniel is way less likely to be remembered than X. L.
Rose," Sam pointed out. "Dude, there are too many GNR fans around to pull that
off, seriously." He tried to grab Dean's stack, but Dean yanked it back.
"Ah ah," he said. "Most of the shit we sign is on those electronic card readers
anyway, so there's no cashier to get curious. Besides," and he smirked, "I've
gone full out a-x-l Rose before and got away with it. It'll be fine."
"Whatever." Sam rolled his eyes and took his own papers back. "You got the
envelopes?"
"Here," Dean said. Sam double-checked each application before folding it and
handing it to Dean, who stuffed them away.
 
3.
Dean laughed, tinny through the phone. "Samuel Winchester, does Bobby know what
you're up to in his living room?"
Sam rolled his eyes, snorted, kept rubbing the palm of his hand slow and easy
over his jeans. "Yeah, I asked if it was okay before I started. C'mon, what do
you think?"
Some of the road noise disappeared from the line. Sam pictured his brother
rolling up his window, turning down the music.
"I think you coulda handled this on your own," Dean grumbled, but he didn't
laugh. He didn't hang up.
Sam tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, and unzipped his jeans. He
cupped his balls with one and rubbed the head of his cock with the other,
smeared his precome around, and groaned.
"So," Dean said. He cleared his throat. "You already know what I'm wearing,
man, same as this morning. But, uh —" His voice faltered for a moment before he
cleared his throat again. Sam closed his eyes and slid his wet fingers down to
the base of his dick. "If you'd given me a little warning, I'd've worn the lacy
panties or something," Dean continued.
Sam laughed a little, breathless, and started thrusting into his hand. "You
don't have to talk me through it or anything, I have a decent enough idea what
I'm doing here."
"So what the hell am I on the line for?"
"Just — mmm," Sam said, and sped his hand slightly. His dick slipped back and
forth through his fingers easily enough, and he squeezed his balls with his
other hand. "Just listen?"
Dean sighed — his mouth must have been too close to the phone, because the
noise was exaggeratedly loud in Sam's ear. "Waste of minutes here."
"S'not like we pay for the phones with our own money," Sam said. He squeezed
his eyes tighter shut and listened for Dean's breath, coming unexpectedly fast
and loud. Sam's phone, pressed against his cheek, was starting to get hot.
"Dude, you suck at this," Dean said, low and breathy, and oh, Sam recognized
that tone of voice.
"Dean." He started thrusting harder into his fist before he even had the
question out. "Dean, are you —"
Dean exhaled shakily. "Yeah. Pulled over as soon as you, uh, told me you were."
"Fuck, fuck, Dean." Sam's eyes fluttered open, unfocused. "Where are you — tell
me where you are."
"Side of the highway, just passed, shit, Prattville or something, dunno." Sam
heard him gulp.
"S'it dark?"
"S'night, Sam, what do you think?"
Sam's hand slapped noisily against his skin as he sped his strokes, and if
Bobby was awake, he'd hear, but Sam couldn't stop, this close. He planted his
feet against the couch and pictured Dean hunched over in the front seat of the
Impala, touching himself in darkness shot through with passing headlights.
"I'm — are you going fast?" Sam swallowed and stared blindly up at the cracked
ceiling. "Dean, man, Dean, are you close?"
Dean panted into the phone for a while before he huffed out, "Yeah, yeah
Sammy." His breath sped into harsh, rhythmic puffs of air, loud in Sam's ear,
and Sam couldn't see him, but Dean's grunts always matched his strokes, and he
knew how close Dean was.
Sam tried to time his hand to Dean's breath in his ear, but he couldn't pull
back, couldn't slow down. Dean gasped, too loud, and Sam jumped and came,
pumping into his hand. He dimly heard Dean curse and cry out — he was too busy
biting his lip to try to keep quiet, too busy spurting up over what had been
his last clean shirt.
They panted into their phones for a while, then Dean cleared his throat. Sam
heard the engine turn over, and the music came back on.
"On that note," Dean said, but he didn't follow it up with anything.
Sam snorted and nodded. "Yeah." His shirt was a lost cause, so he wiped his
hand clean across his chest. "Uh, anyway, tell Jo hi for me."
"Yeah, whatever." Dean cleared his throat. "I'll call you when I meet up with
her. Lemme know if you and Bobby have any luck."
"Yeah, man." Sam wondered whether Dean would change before he got to the coast
or if Jo would smell spunk on his clothes.
"I'll call you," Dean said, and then was gone. Sam clam-shelled his phone and
slid it back into his pocket, and lay on the couch until his heartbeat slowed
back to normal.
 
Four.
Sam ducked between two checkout counters on his way into the Wal-Mart and took
an energy drink from a small fridge, tucked under a rack of gum and tabloids.
He snapped it open and drank half of it at once, then tucked the can into his
shopping cart's child seat. The caffeine and whatever trendy, not-yet-banned
herbal stimulant it contained wouldn't kick in for a while, but the cold in
Sam's belly should keep him awake for a while. If nothing else, it chased the
ash and grave dust, the blood, out of his mouth.
Almost three dollars gone on the drink, which left Sam seven to spend, on at
least fifty bucks worth of need. He thought through his purchases as he pushed
his cart slowly to the grocery department: six-pack of chicken ramen at sixty-
nine cents, two bags of mixed frozen vegetables at a buck a pop, and they'd
have ice packs and then soup. A dozen donuts, a dollar because they were three
days old, and there was breakfast. Three bucks and change left, and Sam dreamed
about instant coffee, a bag of M&Ms, some apples, a loaf of bread, a pair of
PowerBars.
A wheel squeaked as he pushed the cart back to crafts, instead: package of
curved quilting needles, free once they're tucked under his watchband. Thick
nylon thread, three bucks and change. Sam emptied his pockets: change was
forty-seven cents. Watching the floor on the way to pharmacy, he found a dime
and two pennies, and at least the basics were paid for, now.
They both knew better than to let the first aid kit run so low, but apparently
recessions trickle all the way down to the scum at the bottom, running scams
and hustling drunks. The cards in their wallets were maxed out, the closest PO
box of refills was half a country away, and bars were empty around here. Sam
tried to decide which of Dean's injuries needed real supplies and which could
be bandaged with torn clothes. At least the emergency handle of rotgut was
still full in the trunk: they wouldn't need a disinfectant or a painkiller.
Sam found the cameras as he walked over — two aimed at the pharmacist's window,
one at the row of decongestants that could be stewed down into a different kind
of drug, one at the diabetic testing kits, and one sweeping the area. The
pharmacy itself was dark and closed, and two employees restocked the shampoo a
few aisles to his left, while another tidied cosmetics to his right. Sam worked
quickly, turning his body away from the surveillance and tucking gauze, medical
tape, and a bottle of liquid bandages into the pockets of his pants and hoodie.
He put a box of band-aids into the cart, to explain his presence in the
department, and then dumped it on his way to check out.
He guessed one of the white, employee-only doors next to customer service led
to loss prevention's office. Sam kept it within his peripheral vision as he
paid for the food and thread. He had no doubts about who'd come out on top if
he went up against one of the store's rentacops, and medical supplies were an
easy enough scam anyway, as beat up as Sam was. A town like this, large enough
to have a big box store but too small for a free clinic, probably saw lots of
theft like Sam's.
He nodded to the store's greeter on his way to the parking lot. The Impala
idled where he'd left it, in the closest possible spot to the door. He saw Dean
scoot out of the driver's seat and slump down, across the bench, and Sam
hurried his steps.
 
4.
They fumbled with the lock, trying to be quiet as they let themselves back into
the bed and breakfast. A floorboard squeaked underfoot as Sam walked down the
hallway to their room. He picked his foot up carefully and listened, but none
of the other guests stirred. Dean poked him in the back and Sam kept going.
Dean flopped onto his back on the bed once they unlocked their room. Sam toed
off his boots before going to the window and pulling the curtains aside.
"Check it out," he said. "You can see the fire from here."
He budged over to make room for Dean, and they stared across a small field to
the town's cemetery. Flames licked up above the grass in the middle of the
plots, and smoke blew across the gravestones.
"That is a thing of fucking beauty," Dean said. He clapped Sam on the shoulder,
rubbed his thumb over his neck, and then pulled away. He kicked off his boots
and pulled off his shirt on the way to the bathroom. "Aw, shit, you can see it
from the window in here!" he called back. The pipes groaned for a moment, then
the shower sprayed loudly on.
Sam shook his head. He followed Dean into the bathroom and let the steam chase
the autumn night's chill from his skin. Sam was still set for the job — for
shovels and fire and running — and his fingers didn't want to work anything as
delicate as shirt buttons. He pulled the flannel over his head instead,
struggled to get his head out of the neck, and tugged his other layers off
behind it. Dean poked his head from behind the shower curtain and raised both
eyebrows.
"What's taking you?" Dean ducked back under the water while Sam flipped him the
bird with one hand and unzipped his jeans with the other. He shucked off his
boxers and socks and then looked around the room.
"You said there's a window in here?" he asked.
"In here." Dean knocked on glass, apparently built into the same wall as the
shower.
"Sweet." Sam flipped off the overhead lights and climbed into the shower. The
distant fire and the heavy, nearly full moon gave enough light for Sam to see
the white soap slipping down Dean's sides, to see the scratch on his cheek and
the wet spikes of his eyelashes. Dean stepped out of the water easily enough
when Sam shouldered him. He closed his eyes and tipped his face to the spray,
scrubbed his hands over his grimy neck.
"You still all…" Dean trailed off. Sam glanced over his shoulder and found his
brother with his arms folded on the tiled windowsill. The moonlight shone on
his face, and water dripped down the angles of his back.
"All?" Sam reached around Dean for the soap and poked him in the side. Dean
grabbed Sam's hand without looking back and tugged him forward, so their skin
slid together.
"Hyped up. Adrenalinish."
"I'm pretty sure that's not a word," Sam said, but he put the soap back on the
sill and leaned on Dean. His dick twitched against Dean's ass, and Dean tilted
his head back on Sam's shoulder. His pupils were blown wide.
"Doesn't mean you aren't."
Sam leaned down and bit the taut, exposed tendon on the far side of Dean's
throat. He glanced down Dean's body, saw his dick already hard, and grinned
into Dean's neck. "This is more fun than wasting the rush on driving," he said.
"Hey." Dean closed a hand around himself lightly, just holding. "My car is —"
"As good as this?" Sam wrapped his fingers over Dean's and pulled slow up, hard
down.
Dean huffed. "Plead the fifth." His eyes fell closed, and Sam pushed his own
dick against Dean's leg with the same rhythm he used on Dean's cock. The water
drummed on and on, over their backs.
 
Five.
She glanced up when Sam took the stool next to her, but turned quickly back to
her drink when she saw his greasy hair and the deep circles under his eyes. Sam
ignored her and flagged down the bartender.
"Double rum and coke, and then whatever beer you've got on tap."
The bartender pulled the rum out of the well and started mixing while Sam took
out his wallet and paid up-front. "Interesting combination," he said.
They traded money for drink. Sam sipped his coke first and shrugged. "Can't be
that unusual."
"Oh, there'll be weirder in the next thirty minutes." The bartender pulled
Sam's beer and slid it to him on a tiny napkin. "Usually get shots and beer
here, though, not mixed drinks and beer."
"Haven't been sleeping well." Sam finished his rum and coke and ran his thumb
through the condensate building on the beer glass. "Wanted something with
caffeine."
"Hell, a Red Bull and vodka'd be better for that." The bartender glanced over
as Dean sat down on the woman's other side, but Sam didn't.
"Maybe next time," Sam said, and looked down at his drink while the bartender
left.
Business was slow this early, and Sam could hear Dean order his double whisky
on the rocks. He rested his elbows on the counter, hunched his shoulders, and
watched in the mirror behind the bar as the woman between them eyed Dean
appreciatively. Cleanly shaven for once, with gel in his hair and a new green
button-down under his leather, Dean was the diamond to Sam's rough.
Dean rattled his ice around the glass when he finished his drink, and while the
bartender poured a fresh one, Dean turned to the woman.
"I'm Brenda." She beat him to the punch and extended her right hand. Dean's
smile started in the corner of his mouth, and he pressed her fingers in his
own. "I'm a Sagittarius, I do come here often, and you can buy me a chocolate
martini."
"It'd be a pleasure." Dean nodded to the bartender, who nodded back and turned
to his shelf of bottles. "I'm Andrew," he said, and let go of her hand. She
crossed her legs towards Dean and smiled.
"So, Andrew." She drew out the syllables in the name. "What brings you to
town?"
"You know," Dean drawled back. "Little business, little pleasure."
Brenda sipped her drink and leaned closer to Dean, and Sam went to work. The
spell she put on her amulet meant it needed to stay close to her body heat, but
it would meld to her skin if she touched it directly. Sam kept looking ahead as
he stretched out one hand and patted down her coat, slung over the back of her
barstool: nothing. He shook his head, then caught Dean's gaze in the mirror and
nodded. Dean nodded back.
Sam nursed his beer until the bartender ducked into the kitchen. Dean got
Brenda to lean across him so that he could ask her something about the art on
the far wall, and Sam wrapped his hand in a bandana and slid it into her purse.
He felt around the contents — slim wallet, various tubes in a pile at the
bottom, spike of keys — until he found a zippered pocket on the side of her
purse. Something inside pulsed with heat. Sam pinched the zipper clumsily
through the fabric over his fingers and reached inside. He took care not to
touch the amulet as he put it inside his own pocket.
Brenda settled back into her own chair around the same time the bartender
returned with a stack of cocktail napkins. Sam left a tip by his empties and
headed to the bathroom. He glanced over his shoulder before pushing open the
door and saw Brenda leaning towards Dean, who smiled his least sincere smile
and bought her another drink.
 
5.
Sam fished the amulet out of his pocket and dropped it into a plastic baggie in
a tiny bathroom stall. He pressed the excess air from the bag and folded it
back on itself, then duct taped it closed. He felt better as each gray strip
covered the wrinkled bandana inside, and didn't worry about the spell as he
tucked the packet into his breast pocket and zipped his coat closed.
Sam ducked down to glance in the mirror when he washed his hands, and winced at
his reflection. He wiped away some of the makeup under his eyes and kept his
hands out of his hair — he'd be glad to shower, now that he was finished
playing a dirty drunk.
Dean met his gaze and nodded over Brenda's shoulder when Sam came back into the
bar. He said his goodbyes too quickly, startling her off her stool to stand
with a hand on Dean's arm as he paid his tab. Sam smirked as he passed them,
and heard Dean's, "No, it was great talking to you, but I've gotta be heading
out," followed by her murmured protests.
Sam dawdled by the door and held it open for Dean. He grazed a hand over the
small of his brother's back when he followed, and glanced over his shoulder,
against his better judgment. Brenda held Dean's refilled glass, now empty, in
one hand, and watched them both with raised eyebrows. Sam smirked again as he
turned back to Dean.
"You got it?" Dean asked as he unlocked the Impala.
Sam patted his chest, then slid inside and buckled up. "Got it."
Dean gunned the engine and tossed a glance over his shoulder, backed them out.
"If she remembers us because you had to get all possessive at the door, it's
your fucking fault."
"Even if she does make the connection, so what?" Sam stretched his arm across
the back of the seat. "All she has to go on is a wrong first name. We'll be
outta the state before dawn, and she can't use the amulet once she doesn't have
it, so unless you gave her the license plate or something, she's got nothing."
Dean grinned, his teeth bright in the neon lights they passed. "You wanna go
all night, or stop once we've gone far enough?"
Sam snorted. "I'm just going to assume that was on purpose."
Dean frowned, probably thinking back through his words, then grinned wider.
"Sammy, you dog. We'll split the difference, how bout. Stop in a few hours and
get a room, then keep going in the morning."
Sam could smell her perfume on him, light and floral, juvenile. "I'll show you
split the difference," he said, and unbuckled to slide across the seat. He
pressed one hand to Dean's crotch and wrapped the other arm around his
shoulders. Sam put his mouth on Dean's neck and felt him swallow hard. The
perfume was sharp and acidic on Sam's tongue. He sucked Dean's skin clean as he
unbuttoned Dean's pants, and pushed his hand inside to claim his dick.
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