Another Day

Greasy spoon, Nebraska, USA. Dusk. Another Day.

Sam hunches over his lap top, while Dean sips at a cup of bitter coffee that he is sure was brewed before the Impala rolled off the line brand new. He resists the urge to brush the lock of chestnut hair that has fallen in Sam's eyes away because, lover or no, that level of PDA would surely get them both road-hauled in this Podunk town.

"Dude, staring." Sam chuckles, not even looking up from the screen.

Dean's eyes snap back to the speckled Formica table-top and he sighs, examining his knuckles, still scraped raw and bruised from his explosion three days ago in Indiana. Three days, to Dean it feels like a million years since he and Sammy first made love, confessed their sins and felt the dawn of a new life, like God had finally shifted his burdensome gaze away from the Winchesters. Dean is impatient to check into the hotel room, impatient to feel the warmth of Sam's skin beneath his hands.

"Boys, you finished up or do you want some desert? We have blackberry pie and peach cobbler." The waitress, a five foot-nothing shank of bone and dirty blonde hair, peels her lips back into what Sam interprets as an attempt at pleasantry. Despite the poverty-line dental work, the nicotine stains, and the worn sallow skin, her expression is genuine and she blushes like an ingénue when Dean unleashes the full measure of his brilliant smile in her direction.

"Perhaps a piece of that pie to go sweetheart; keep the change. Oh, can you point us in the direction of a hotel and a place we can grab a beer, maybe shoot some pool?" Dean winks and hands the waitress a twenty dollar bill for the check. Sam is reasonably sure the poor girl is going to faint dead on the spot. Dean Winchester charm, it's an immutable law of the universe, like gravity.

"The Goldenrod is just about three miles down and to the left. Manny's is right across the street, they have…uh…they have onion blossoms and a pool table." The waitress stutters, pocketing the bill and backing away as if by turning, she will lose sight of the first shaft of sunlight that has managed to break through the clouds and shine on this greasy donut hood of a town. Sam knows how she feels, it's hardly fair.

"Dean equals M-C squared." Sam mutters and shuts the lap top.

"What Sammy?" Dean asks, lips quirked into a half-cocked smile that causes a flare of heat to radiate from Sam's chest to his groin.

They gather their belongings and head out to the Impala. Dean slides behind the steering wheel and coaxes his baby to life. As soon as they are on the road, Sam's hand comes to rest on Dean's thigh, Dean reaches down and turns Sam's hand upwards, weaves their fingers together and strokes Sam's wrist with his thumb. They have driven over 1400 miles like this, and could drive 10,000 more knowing the other is no farther than an arm's length away.

When they get to the hotel, Sam registers as Dean parks and grabs their duffels from the trunk. Sam lopes across the parking lot toward Dean and Dean resists the urge to fall to his knees and thank whatever God is out there for this moment, for the privilege of watching his lover, his only family, walk toward him in the fading light, instead of walking away.

A half-hour later, salt lines laid, Dean paws through his bag looking for a clean shirt while Sam showers off the weariness of a three day drive. Dean is lost in the memory of the weight of Sam's head resting on his chest while he sleeps, when Sam's hands slide against his skin, one hand's fingers finding a nipple and rolling the soft nub under a thumb until it hardens, the other pushes Dean backwards, pressing him against Sam's naked hardness. Dean's skin crackles under Sam's hands like heat lightening flashing across the sky on a humid August night.

"Dean, I need you." Sam's voice is hoarse and he nips and licks at the soft spot beneath Dean's ear. Dean groans and spins in Sam's arms, devouring Sam's mouth. Sam answers by sucking Dean's tongue, aching for release.

"How much?" Dean growls and deftly maneuvers Sam onto the bed, the hotel comforter scratches against Sam's bare skin. He pulls Dean between his open legs and snakes his tongue around Dean's navel while his hands roam over the expanse of Dean's strong, supple back. Dean watches, awe-struck at the ripple of sinew under the flesh of Sam's sun-kissed skin. Dean backs up a step. Sam moans in protest.

"On no Sammy," He clucks his tongue, leaning against the press-board and laminate hotel dresser, "No Sammy, you need to show me how much." A broad smile breaks across Dean's face, his eyes dark with passion.

"What more do you want?" Sam whines, like a child being denied his favorite toy.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." And Sam does, with his body, with his life, and with his love.

"Lay down and do what I ask, I want to watch you Sammy, I want to you to follow my voice over the edge, and then I will fill you, make love to you and remind you that you are and always will be mine."

"Dean…" Sam doesn't know which is more arousing, more commanding, the gravel and whiskey tenor of Dean's voice or the strange language dripping from his lover's tongue.

"Christo" Sam whispers and Dean raises an eyebrow and grins.

"Nope, not possessed, just in love. Now lie down." Comforted and secure Sam lies down and Dean strolls over to the side of the bed and lies next to Sam, running his fingers through Sam's hair.

"Shut your eyes." Sam shuts his eyes, reluctant to relinquish his visual connection with Dean. Dean's hand covers his own and guides it across his chest, traveling a lazy, meandering path toward the straining heat growing between his thighs.

Dean, careful not to brush Sam's body with his own hands, folds Sam's fingers around the source of Sam's own passion, steel wrapped in silken skin, ruddy with lust.

"Dean, Oh God, Dean please touch me."

Dean leans his face into the crook of Sam's neck and whispers against Sam's flushed, feverish skin, "No. Show me what you need Sam, it's so new, show me how you like to be touched. Do you like me to hold you gently, twisting and pulling when I reach for you? Can you imagine my tongue brushing against that heat between your fingers, licking your body, my teeth grazing the insides of your thigh, taking the length of you into my mouth, second, by slow, delicious second?"

Dean bites and licks along Sam's collar bone as Sam strokes himself to the sound of Dean's voice, Dean whispering every intimate thought he's had in the past few days, sharing every moment he wishes to live with Sam. The power of this new honesty, to no longer need to hide, lie, protect is dizzying and Dean experiences a sense of vertigo watching Sam pleasure himself. After several excruciating minutes, Sam back arches off the bed.

Dean pulls Sam's hand away leaving Sam's body in stasis. "No, baby, not yet, it's not time."

Dean watches his lover buck and moan at the sudden absence of sensation and feels his own need building. Dean wonders how much longer he will be able to keep up this game, Sam has given himself over so completely to their lovemaking, to this playfulness that Dean doesn't want it to end.

Dean holds Sam's hand to his lips and sucks at Sam's fingers. Sam feels Dean's tongue and almost looses control. Sam opens his eyes and watches Dean's bee-stung lips, entranced. Dean guides Sam's wet fingers to his quivering opening, and guides one of Sam's fingers inside. Sam pants at his own tightness.

"Dean, I need you inside me." Sam pleads.

"Almost," Dean glides a second finger of Sam's hand, then a third, inside Sam's own body. The sweet sensation of fullness coupled with the heady experience of releasing control is almost too much for Sam to bear.

"Are you ready? Because I don't want to hurt you Sammy, I want you ready for me, I want you to remember how I make you feel, so that even when I'm not with you, you'll be able to feel me against you, inside you."

Sam's desire is a flash burn that travels the length of his spine and erupts from his mouth, "Please Dean, please, need you, inside me, want you, love you." The words tumble into the air and slip into Dean's ear and Dean finally relents to the sweet urgency in his lover's voice.

Dean shifts on the bed, slipping his jeans and boxers off and kneels between Sam's thighs. He gently pulls Sam's hand away and licks a circle around his puckered rose. Sam is past any coherent attempt at language and pushes toward the wetness and pressure of Dean's tongue. Dean uses his own hand to ensure that he is slick enough and crosses the threshold of Sam's body marveling at the expression of need on Sam's face.

"Too much?" Dean is bordering incoherent himself, but pulls back from the edge to make sure that Sam is not in pain.

As an answer, Sam presses his long arms against the head board and slams his body onto Dean's. Dean arches into the onslaught.

"Sammy, Sammy look at me." Sam's eyes flash open, a well of need, desire, and trust that sends Dean hurtling toward orgasm. Dean pulls almost all the way out and stops, "I love you Sammy, you're mine, you always will be, there will never be anyone but you." And he grinds himself into Sam again.

Sam screams his name as Dean brushes against that sweet luscious spot deep inside him. As Dean is thrusting into him, Sam grabs Dean's hand from his hips and wraps it around his erection, reveling in the calloused firmness and warmth of Dean's grip, until he finally bursts, bathing their hands in his passion.

The pressure from Sam's orgasm draws Dean over and his release is an explosion of creation, a release that sends his body into involuntary convulsions of pleasure, until he collapses forward onto Sam's chest, panting and covering Sam's face in tender kisses.

Dean eases himself from Sam and goes into the bathroom, returning with a towel to clean them both. They stare into the other's eyes, the power of their love-making beyond any words either can offer. Sam strokes Dean's face, his happiness so complete that tears well up in his eyes.

"Dean…"

"What Sammy?"

"I will never leave you. I love you."

"I know, and I love you." The crazy thing is that he does know, for the first time in his life, Dean is as certain of this as he is of the smell of gun oil and sweat on his own skin.

"Sammy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Didn't that waitress say that they served onion blossoms at that bar across the street?"

****

Ruby leans against a fence watching the Winchester's room from across the parking lot. She hears Sam's desperate, pleading cry and snickers to herself. This plan could not be going better, these two angst-ridden puppets will split apart like a rotten peach in her capable fist soon enough. Sam is already an addict that craves her blood as much as the disgusting warmth and comfort this meat suit offers. It took her days to track them to this town, and now she just needs to bide her time. From the sounds of it, they are at each other's throats and it won't be long until she can stoke the flames of their mutual distrust. All she needs to do is feed them this girl Anna, gain a measure of Dean's trust and give unwitting vengeful Alastair his opening. Once this part of the plan is set in motion, Sam will turn in her hand like a key in a lock.

Her mistress, Lilith will reward her with greatness; her name will be raised to the ears of her Lord. Lucifer will hear of a servant willing to offer everything. It is a plan that will free them and all of heaven will weep at its unfolding.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that." An English drawl, lazy vowels with an airy hint of sarcasm whispers in her ear. Before Ruby can gasp, a pale hand clasps her forehead and she feels the force of her hundreds of years of life being drawn into the void. Her last thought before the consciousness that is "Ruby" is burned to nothingness is that an eternity in the furnace of hell could not compare to the torture of the heavenly fire searing her veins for this one unending second.

Darkness. A parking lot in a tiny Nebraska town. There are only a few late model cars and one gleaming classic parked in front of a run down strip of rooms at the Goldenrod Motor Inn. Lonesome gusts of wind shake the bare branches of the surrounding trees like dry bones strung on a wire. A warm butter yellow light seeps out from behind the curtains of the Winchester's room and pools on the cracked sidewalk. Sam's and Dean's laughter floats across the pavement, reaching the two figures standing side by side watching their door from the far curb.

The one in the trench coat and tie speaks first, matter-of-fact, a rumpled soldier, a warrior, battle-worn from a fight that has raged for thousands of years. "You are here."

"Oh Castiel, you're so dramatic. Don't get your knickers in a twist; I'm not here to hurt anyone. We need to talk, and I figured you should be there to hear what God has to say about all this nonsense."

Castiel is curious; the being beside him is inconspicuous from a human's perspective. The "man" in the black jacket and hooded sweatshirt is unassuming in his ordinariness. Only Castiel sees beyond the swaggering affectation, he feels the holy radiance emanating from every pore in this creature's being.

"Well then," Castiel bows in deference, pointing to the Winchester's hotel room door, "After you Metatron."

To be continued…