Hello! First off I wanna say I'm not new to FFN. I was once This Is Da Vinci Speaking, but I wanted to move on and get a new account since my interests have changed.

Now, this fic in particular is just an experiment as I get my bearings back in writing for such large fanbases (in my absence I'd gotten quite deep into Old Hollywood and was writing for that) so I'm fully aware it's terrible. Hopefully I'll have more quality stuff as I go along!

Prologue

"Need a neck rub? I'm pretty fantastic at giving neck rubs."

Dean grins to himself despite his exhaustion; he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and lets out a world-weary sigh before blinking blearily over at his boyfriend, who's standing in the doorway to the bathroom wearing nothing but a scratchy motel towel slung low on his hips. He's got two bottles of beer, one in each hand, and a seemingly innocent smirk on his face.

But if there's one thing the eldest Winchester brother knows, it's that Anthony DiNozzo never smirks innocently.

"A beer for me?" Dean muses. "Just tell me when, baby, and I'll put a nice ring on that finger."

Tony chews his cheek, employing his classic passive-aggressive expression before walking over to the table at which Dean sits, Sam's laptop open in front of him along with the Winchester journal and some scattered papers. Tony sets a sweating bottle in an empty patch of table beside the laptop and parks himself in the chair opposite Dean.

"So," he starts, this time actually sounding passive-aggressive as he brings the bottle up to his lips, "what brings your pretty little ass over to DC again?"

Dean hesitates. Tony knows what he does, but seeing as telling the truth practically put a catastrophic end to their very intense relationship, Dean's always been careful about bringing it up when he's in Tony's presence. "Ghost," he says carefully, stapling his eyes to the laptop screen.

"Is it the same one that was attacking my team?" Tony asks, almost genuinely concerned.

"No. Sam and I ganked that one for good."

Tony nods, clearly trying to hide his relief. "Whatever ganked means I'm guessing it's a good thing for us." He takes another swig of beer, then begins to watch Dean as he goes back to reading the amateur info page on the laptop. It's one of three things illuminating the room, the other two being the lone lamp on the wall above the double bed some feet away and the light from the bathroom across the room. In the dim light Tony can see just how tired Dean is; how he's still conscious is a mystery not even the criminal investigator can solve.

"How you doin', Dean?" he asks softly. He doesn't expect a positive answer.

There's a few beats before Dean peels his wide gaze from the screen and meets Tony's eyes. Something stirs in the older man's chest. "Honestly? I'm about to put a stake through my skull."

That's exactly what Tony wanted to hear. He sets his beer down on the table and reaches over, shutting the laptop gently. "Come on," he murmurs. "Sam will get the rest of the research done. Time to get you to bed."

Dean's got his arms wrapped tightly around Tony's chest from behind when he manages to fall halfway unconscious. Tony, however, is still wide awake, his right hand brushing absent patterns on Dean's wrist, brows furrowed in silent concentration. He can feel Dean's steady breath on the back on his neck, the little involuntary grunts he makes as he slips further and further into sleep…it's comforting. Five years ago he never would have imagined he would end up in a relationship with a man, but once he found himself thinking about Dean in more-than-friendly ways, it wasn't all that surprising. He was pretty much his type.

But the motels...

"Dean..."

Five full seconds pass before Dean replies. He shifts so his bare chest is pressed into Tony's equally bare back. "Mmm?"

"Next time you should stay at my apartment while you're in D.C. This...the motels, you're wasting money you don't have." He grimaces. "And I'm not even legally supposed to know about your...financial methods..."

"I couldn't do that to Sam."

Tony sighs and nods. "Can you blame me for trying?"

Wordlessly—and still somewhat groggily—Dean reaches up to turn Tony's head around, giving him room to shift onto his back before leaning up and pressing their lips together firmly.

"'Sokay," he murmurs, mile-long eyelashes resting on defined cheekbones as Dean tries and fails to open his eyes. "I'll talk..."

Tony searches his face, eyes adjusted to the dark. He presses his fingertips into the small of Dean's back, the dip beneath the waistband of his boxers. "You'll...talk to Sam?"

"Mmm," is all Dean manages before he's down for the count.

Tony plants an affectionate kiss to his forehead. "I doubt that, dude."

=o=o=o=o=

When Dean wakes up to uncomfortable sunlight attempting to peer in from behind the grungy motel curtains, he's alone in bed. A twinge of disappointment and guilt pokes him in the head upon sitting up and spotting a piece of stationery on the table. He knows that sign...it's one he's quite familiar with but not so much recently.

Just as he hauls himself out of bed and pops his neck a few times (earning a satisfied shudder and groan), a knock at the door breaks through his sluggishness.

"Dean, it's me. I got coffee for you guys."

Dean shuffles over to the door and opens it, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Sam's ever-innocent face towers over him, holding in one hand a cardboard coffee tray with three cups in holders and assorted sugar and cream packets stuffed in the empty one.

"Tony's not here," Dean replies, leaning against the door.

Sam frowns. "...Well where'd he go?"

"I dunno. Probably went to work. He left a note on the table, haven't read it yet."

Decades of hunting has taught Dean Winchester several important things, one of which being how to read a tense situation seconds before it happens. They're only seconds; then again seconds are the difference between life and death when you deal with ghosts and demons and monsters and death staring you in the face every day. That skill helps the brothers think quickly, helps them decide what to do in no time flat, and it comes in handy right about now as Sam's frown deepens and he turns his head towards the parking lot behind him.

"You might wanna read that note, Dean."

And of course, the sight of Tony's car sitting in the spot beside Dean's '67 Chevy Impala, right where it'd been the night before, is one of those times when Dean can't think of anything at all.