Dean did a lot of things Sam didn't like. It was his prerogative as the older brother to be a bit more reckless and, through his actions, indirectly annoy Sam, but sometimes Sam couldn't take it.
He was fine with Dean leaving trash around for him to clean up. He didn't mind dealing with sarcastic smartass remarks thrown his way. He was perfectly okay with Dean playing his music for hours straight in the car from job to job. Actually, Sam tolerated a lot that his brother did.
One thing that he couldn't stand, though, were nights like these. Nights when Sam had to sit outside the motel room pretending he was doing something important at the patio table and trying to ignore the brouhaha of moans and thuds coming from inside. He was all for Dean and Castiel being in a relationship, but Sam still existed while they were busy. And ghost hunting didn't give much room for friends, so Sam had very little to do with the down time he had before being able to walk into the motel without catching anything too scarring (He already made that mistake twice in his life, and he wasn't about to let a third time sneak in).
So Sam sat slumped in his chair, autumn air nipping at his skin, lazily looking through various features on his phone. He regretted not charging his iPod, not that it would've helped that much. Still, blasting his music at deafening volumes would have somewhat countered the cacophony leaking through the walls.
Why don't I take a walk? He wondered, browsing through the other apps on his phone, cringing at the sound of a "Fuck, Cass!" that came through the shut window loud and clear.
Sam used to take walks, but none of them seemed long enough. He couldn't wander far, or Dean would scold him for being out so late without informing him of his whereabouts ("Sorry, I would've said something, but you were a bit too busy having your 'not boyfriend' suck your cock," He thought of telling him so many times). Most of the time, sticking around until the deed was done—even if it generally took a few hours—was easier. Plus he usually had his laptop with him.
Only today he left it inside. He so stupidly left it inside and then left them alone. While Sam read over the weather report, he admonished himself for doing something so stupid.
Bored with the weather app after a good four read-throughs of the week's forecasts (...partly cloudy tomorrow, low 50s later tonight, 40% chance of showers on Saturday...), Sam browsed the rest of the possible mini-distractions. He stopped at "Contacts".
The family business didn't give him many social opportunities, but there had to be someone he could talk to. Someone.
Sam went alphabetically down the list, scanning over the list, scratching off each name as he scrolled down. The line of "A"s had little to behold, most people he knew vaguely through connections and no one he wanted to talk to. Half the names he didn't even remember adding, few even ringing a bell. But there was one in the "B" section that made him nearly drop his phone.
Balthazar.
He blinked, pulling a double take when he saw the highlighted name written in pixellated text. When did he get that number in his phone? Since when did Balthazar even have a phone? Castiel had a phone (not that he knew how to use it all that well) but Balthazar did too? Did all the angels have phones?
Sam's finger hovered over the name, torn between toggling past it and clicking. He wasn't the angel's best friend—they were nowhere near as close as Castiel and Dean were, that was obvious—but wasn't he entitled to actually contact him if he felt like it, right? Or would doing that imply that he needed something and in the end make Sam a bother to the angel? One or the other was bound to happen...
"SHIT! Just like the pizza man!"
Sam was willing to take the chance.
He pulled up the screen giving him several choices, including whether to call or send a text message. Deeming the area too noisy to hold a conversation over the phone (one Sam's end and probably Balthazar's as well), Sam chose the "Send a text" option.
Sam, being far more text savvy than Dean and Castiel combined, knew how to text, and text quickly. The problem that arose, however, was what to say.
'Hey Balthazar! I'm just bored and messing around on my phone while our brothers are screwing each other inside my motel room and I noticed your number was in my contacts. How did that happen? And are you free? Because listening to all of this is making me really uncomfortable and I'll get yelled at if I go anywhere alone because Dean thinks I'm a thirteen year old who needs constant supervision. :)'
Yes, that was obviously the best way to start off a conversation. That was exactly how to make new friends.
Sam, in his sarcastic brainstorming, did come up with something to say. Leaving out some of the things classifiable as "TMI" and skating over the hollow and humdrum "Hi! :)" texts, Sam cut straight to the point.
"Why is your number in my phone?"
Send.
He put down the phone and stared at the screen, awaiting a reply. He doubted he'd even get one, but he could at least kid himself for a few minutes. Without noticing, Sam started tapping his foot, gaze intensifying, hoping that the phone would light up and vibrate upon the arrival of a new message.
As he waited, he thought more about Balthazar. Were the two friends? Well, sort of. Kind of. Not really. Leaning on no.
The angel didn't even seem to like them much, mostly doing things because his baby brother liked them (and slept with one of them). He still showed up and gave helpful titbits, though, offering a tip or two in a slew of censure and satirical jests.
Aside from his attitude, he did seem like an okay guy. Better than most of the angels he met (Castiel didn't count).
BVVVVB! BVVVVVB!
The cell vibrated on the table, a little cream envelope and an alert reading "NEW TXT: BALTHAZAR" appearing on the bright white screen.
Sam leaned over, raising a brow in surprise. Did it work?
He clicked the view button, and read the following:
"Because I trust you more than your brother though I expected you to be less brusque in starting conversations. Next time a 'Hello how are you?' wouldn't be so bad"
Sam heard the smooth Scotch (at least Sam was sure it was Scottish) accent in his mind as he read the response, something which rarely happened. Typically, Sam would just get a text and read it in his own voice, not that of the sender. He didn't get many texts though...
Sam shrugged that off, filing it as unimportant, and began typing up a reply.
"You couldve told me first"
Send.
Again, he waited, thoughts dwelling on Balthazar.
He actually trusted Sam? Well, Sam was more responsible than Dean, but he didn't expect Balthazar to really trust either of them. Especially since he was the one who went a good while without a soul.
BVVVVVB! BVVVVB!
Sam opened the message immediately, fervently.
"whats the fun in that? ;)"
A winking smile face? Those usually implied ulterior motives...
Sam shook his head, pretty sure that he was reading too far into that. Balthazar liked screwing around with people a little, anyway (not nearly as much as Gabriel, but still).
He began to type out another reply, when the phone vibrated again in his palms. A follow up from the last text.
"anyway what do you want?"
Sam sighed. Might as well be honest, right?
He bit his lip and punched out another message:
"Im bored"
Send.
Not the most intellectual response, but there was a good chance the angel would just tell him off and stop replying. Better to let it drag than let it die.
Before Sam could even put the phone down again, another message arrived.
"and what do you want me to do about it? go bother your idiot brother or castiel"
Sam shuddered, grimacing at the sound of something else falling inside (probably a lamp or something else carelessly left on the nightstand). His fingers tapped the buttons, divided between skating around why he couldn't talk to Dean or Castiel or just outright saying it.
"...theyre kinda busy"
Close enough.
Send.
Sam ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. At least he had someone to talk to now. That was good, right?
BVVVVVVVVVB!
"oh so theyre makin the beast with two backs now"
He snorted, rolling his eyes at the Shakespearean euphemism. Only Balthazar would say something like that, he thought.
"i dont want to picture what theyre doing"
Send.
Now, sitting next to the noisy motel room felt even more awkward. Sam thanked Balthazar for that lovely mental image. He stood up and strolled down to the parking lot, rubbing his thumb over the screen of the cell. By the time he reached the mouth of the lot (and wandered out of earshot), the phone vibrated.
"of course not all the nasty things they could be up to"
Sam read that sarcastically, the man's voice echoing in his mind.
"theyre loud"
Send.
He gazed out at the street, mostly deserted. The sky dimmed as the sun set behind the copse, clouds heavy overhead. The crisp, brisk wind picked up, blowing through Sam's hair.
BVVVVVB!
"leave then"
Are these replies getting faster? Sam thought distantly.
"nowhere to go"
Send.
Come to think of it, it was getting dark fairly quickly. Sam faced what went bump in the night and wasn't afraid, he was just concerned that he'd end up alone in the cold air doing virtually nothing for however long. What a fun night this would turn into...
BVVVVB!
"does sammy need a chaperone to take him out for a drink?"
Confusion crossed Sam's face, rereading the text several times. Did he just...?
"are you asking me out"
Send.
Going out for a drink wouldn't be half bad. In fact, it would single-handedly save Sam's night. But at the same time, the gesture could be taken in multiple ways. Knowing Balthazar, any or all of them were plausible.
"Just for a drink," Balthazar said, appearing at Sam's side. He stood completely still as the other flinched, stumbling back when he saw the scruffy blond angel. He then looked up at Sam, a droll glaze to his cyan eyes, "You're lucky you caught me on a slow night."
Sam glanced between the phone and the angel, mouthing out the starts of sentences he couldn't even say. In the end, he just focused on Balthazar, brows raised, mutely demanding better explanation.
Balthazar rolled his eyes, "God, I'm not your surprise date to the prom, stop it. I'm being charitable and saving you from that," He pointed over his shoulder at the motel.
Sam remained silent, eyes locked in the blue. Then Balthazar looked over at where he was pointing, too conveniently checking where he was to avoid returning the green gaze.
"It sounds like Dean's being murdered in the most pleasant way possible," He muttered wryly, "Do you have to go through this on a regular basis?"
"Sort of..." Sam trailed off; trying to count how many times this happened.
"I'm taking that as a 'Yes'," Balthazar turned, patting Sam on the shoulder before walking towards the bar at the edge of the block, "Come on; you deserve a drink after that."
He just stood there, watching the sharply dressed angel take quick steps down the sidewalk. He got the company he wanted but everything just began to strike him as...
...Odd.
All of this was just very odd, and weird, and strange. Having Balthazar on his phone was only the tip of the iceberg, since the whole text conversation—terse and laconic as it was—a butterfly effect took all his emotions and made them...fuzzy. Sam felt a bit queasy from it, not the best feeling to have when headed out for drinks. But he couldn't kick it and he knew it had something—if not everything—to do with Balthazar.
Maybe he would be better off listening to the lovebirds sing. Maybe taking Balthazar's offer was a bad idea in the making...
The blond stopped, about-facing when he noticed that Sam wasn't following him. He wore an expression of irritation, a frown plastered on his face.
"Are you just going to stand there?" He scowled, "I went out of my way for you, here, the least you could do is buy me a damn drink."
Definitely a bad idea, he thought.
But, despite that, he trudged over to follow the angel, forcing a smile. It's better than sitting around, he told himself, trying to engrave that into his brain. His stomach churned looking into the displeased cyan eyes.
"Is that the best you can do?" He rolled his eyes, entire head moving as he did, "Honestly, you look like your pet frog just died."
"Can we just get to the damn bar?" Sam grumbled, smile flipping to a frown. He started off without Balthazar, taking long, heavy strides.
From the corner of his eye, Sam caught a glimpse of Balthazar smirking before he said, "It's about time."
The bar was dark, loud, and packed. Sunday night football attracted everyone in town; no room at the bar, leaving Balthazar and Sam to sit in a shoddy, shady booth. The drone of drunken fanatics and clatter of beer mugs drummed in Sam's ears, but he preferred it to the pants and moans of the star-crossed lovers. He sat across from Balthazar, hands folded on his lap. He stared at nothing in particular, eyes lazily wandering. He ignored Balthazar, only soaring brief glances at the man, each time feeling another typhoon crash in his stomach. As he sat, hand gripping his glass of untouched fizzy beer; he thought more about this feeling.
He knew it, he realised that when they entered the place. When Balthazar left momentarily to fetch drinks, he remembered this same feeling rising around a few other people.
Ruby...Madison...JESSICA...
That made things even more discomforting for him. A ghostly emotion associated with people Sam loved—Sam slept with—just popped up out of nowhere when Balthazar replied and now it just wouldn't leave. Great.
Maybe I'm just horny... Sam really hoped that overhearing loud, rambunctious sex brought this on, nothing else. He really hoped it would pass the moment he flopped down on his bed and drifted off to sleep. He really hoped he could blame Dean and Castiel in the end.
"I paid for that."
Sam snapped his head, looking at the angel across from him. Balthazar lounged in his seat, taking up most of the booth. He held his beer glass to his lips, but did not take a sip, white foam fizzling around his golden facial hair as the surface of the water rippled with every breath. The bright cerulean eyes fixated on Sam, truly intrigued.
"Excuse me?" Sam asked.
He brought the glass down to the table, "The least you could do is drink it," He gestured to the beer.
Sam looked at his glass, hands moist from the glass' sweat. Most of the bubbles popped already, leaving a fairly stagnant reservoir of cheap alcohol.
"Not thirsty," Sam shrugged.
"Too bad," Balthazar said, "I got it, you drink it. I didn't pay for it so you could stare at it all night."
"I didn't ask for it, you just bought it," Sam pointed out, glowering at him from under his lashes.
"I'm being a gentlemen," He sneered, pausing to take another gulp.
"Well thanks, but I don't need your chiva—"
"Ugh, this tastes like piss," Balthazar wrinkled his nose.
"You ordered it," Sam deadpanned.
"I didn't expect it to be this horrible," He replied, "Now you have to drink it."
"Why?"
"Because I bought it and if I'm drinking this shitty beer you most certainly are too."
"That doesn't sound fair."
"It does to me, now drink."
Sam didn't want to drink, not because he genuinely didn't want to—Balthazar was right when he said he could use one—but because he didn't want to drink around Balthazar.
But the tone Balthazar took—that commending, demanding, royally assertive tone—told Sam that if he didn't start sipping, Balthazar would force the stuff down his throat. He couldn't exactly refuse it, and much to his dismay, he raised the glass to his lips and took a sip.
Balthazar leaned over the table as Sam drank, observing him like a scientist noting a test gerbil. All angels possessed the piercing stare, it seemed, his eyes so vivid, so concentrated. He was definitely a friend of Castiel.
Sam gingerly lowered the glass, a well of beer swishing in his closed mouth. The last fizzles bubbled against his tongue, a somewhat metallic tang teasing his taste-buds. It was weird tasting beer alright, but a life on the road accustomed him to crappy alcohol. It wasn't anything special.
When he swallowed, Balthazar's eyes widened, expecting a report.
"...It's not bad," Sam murmured, gaze dropping to his drink.
"Good, then stop acting like I'm keeping you prisoner," Balthazar took another drink, grimacing as he did, "Blech... You're acting like a prissy girl."
"I was thinking that stupid teen vampire book, actually," Sam joked, remembering one scene from the book somewhat like this. Teenage girls just had the wrong idea about vampires thanks to horribly written trash like that.
"If you compare me to that glittery pansy I'll zap you back to the motel," He dryly threatened, "In the middle of an angel-idiot sandwich."
"I thought you wanted to take me out so I'd forget about that," Sam cocked a brow, taking another small sip of beer.
"I said I'd take you out for a drink, I never said that discussing other people's boisterous sex lives was off limits," In turn, he took another slurp himself, "Though there are far more pleasant topics that won't cause me to shudder at the thought."
"Well then what do you want to talk about?" Sam's voice was vapid yet...interested. His eyes flashed back to the angel, a curious glint to the green. The sickening feeling calmed a bit, soothed by the alcohol, giving Sam a little less to feel horrible about. Why, the night could end...pleasantly.
"You're the one who called me in the first place," Balthazar shrugged, "Well, texted, but that's just a technical thing."
"So I have to lead the conversation even though going out together was your idea?"
"You're making this sound like a bad first date."
"You're treating this like a bad first date."
"I'm sorry; did you want to go out to the movies?" His tongue flickered, "Or are you the type who likes fancy restaurants and corsages?"
"Again, you didn't have to come, I didn't ask. For any of this."
"I know you didn't, and you haven't thanked me for saving you from listening to bad pornography."
"You've been complaining half the date."
"Oh so this is a date now?" Balthazar craned his head.
Sam's mouth opened but nothing came out. How did that slip?
"Well," The blond continued, leaning back, "Now that we've got that over with, I'd like to remind you that I funded with little venture and at least deserve a thank you of some sort."
"Consider it a thank you if I don't tell Dean about this."
"Oh, right, because I'm so scared of Cassie's howler monkey."
He just laughed, one quiet chuckle escaping before Sam drank the remainder of his glass. Out already...?
Balthazar's eyes flickered to his glass, glancing at the shallow pool of golden brown before guzzling it down, slamming his glass on the table when he was done, "How about another round?"
Sam paused. He already drank one more beer with Balthazar than he planned, but he had to admit it helped a few things. His stress levels lowered, he relaxed, the stupid funny feeling settled under a wash of alcohol, and he was actually having a nice time out socially. And without Dean or Castiel hanging around too. He tasted a little freedom—maybe that was what the metallic tang was—and he liked it. Plus, Balthazar's company wasn't that bad (he acted a lot better without Dean, even if he did have his own sardonic spin to things).
"Sure."
Balthazar smiled, not a cocky smirk but a genuine happy smile. A charming smile, a nice smile, showing pristine white teeth and an unexpected cheerier side to the satirical angel. The feeling rose again inside Sam, its beer burial short-lived, bubbling to the surface as fuzzy and obnoxious as before. But he didn't care.
Then, a man swaggered over to their table just as Balthazar was about to stand. He nearly collapsed on the table, groping for something to hold onto to keep steady. He smelt of heavy liquor, and was undoubtedly drunk.
He looked up, brown eyes glazed, and focused on Balthazar.
"Hey," The drunk said, loud and slurred, "It's Gordon Ramsaaaaaaaaaay guuuuuuuuuuuuuys!"
That good mood Balthazar had soured at the sound of the name, face twisting into a disgusted scowl. The look in his eyes tipped Sam off that, no, this wasn't the first time someone thought he was a celebrity chef. That didn't stop him from lashing out at whoever dared call him that.
"I'm not some two-bit cook," He hissed, "Now go away, bumbling imbecile."
"Hey can you cook me a steeeeeeeeak?" The man hiccupped, pushing himself off the table and swaying, surprisingly keeping his balance.
"You stupid little dim-wit," He stepped out of the booth, attracting the eyes of many anticipating a good fight.
Sam smelled trouble, a steaming heap of it. He didn't need to have a psychic vision to know that unless they got out of there, things would end badly.
"Okay," Sam quickly slipped out of the booth, "Let's just go."
"No!" Balthazar shouted, "He's an idiot!"
"Hey look! He's with Natalie Portman!"
"People are idiots," Sam reminded him flatly, grabbing his arm and practically dragging him out, "We're making a scene."
"I don't care if we're making a scene!" He wriggled in Sam's hold.
"I do," Sam frowned, pressing his back against the door to open it. With Balthazar squirming and shouting the whole way, Sam managed to get him out of there. He refused to let go until they were safely a hundred feet from the building, much to the blond's dismay.
Sam looked up at the sky, a bright lunar face beaming down at him. At this point, unless some unforeseen overtime occurred, Dean and Castiel were probably done and wondering where Sam was.
Oh what fun he'd have explaining.
"Well that was an interesting outing," Balthazar said, walking with Sam over to the motel room. He completely calmed down, cool as a cucumber and no longer a raging spitfire.
"Yeah, great first date," Sam replied lowly, half joking. This was supposed to be one right? Or maybe that was just a joke too...
"Do you want me to kiss you on the cheek?" The blond asked, tone slightly mocking.
"Yeah, I'm good," Sam mumbled, ignoring the voice that whispered 'You know you wouldn't mind' entirely.
"You still owe me a second round considering you hauled me out," Balthazar said.
The two stopped in front of the room—quiet now—and Sam shot the blond a quizzical look.
"You said you were up for more, you owe me that much," He rolled his eyes, "I'm sure next time there'll be a better bar with better beer and less moronic people."
"Maybe," Sam felt a smile curl on his lips, "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Balthazar said, overly animated, "And I expect to get a text from you about that second round."
"Knowing them," He jabbed his thumb at the door, "It'll be sooner than you think."
"Right," Balthazar gave the door a wary look, "Tell the howler monkey I said hello."
And before Sam could reply, he was gone, vanished, off to wherever he pleased. An emptiness sunk like a rock in Sam, but laced around the edges of the void were tingly feelings of contentment. All and all, the night went far better than expected.
With that, he swung open the door, not noticing the wide grin on his face as he stumbled in.
The room was well-lit, the lamps on either side of Sam's bed illuminating the room. The other one next to Dean's, however, lied on the ground, shade knocked off, half of it hidden under the skirt of the bed. Unlike Sam's perfect, untouched bed, Dean's sheets were crinkled and creased, pillows hurriedly put back into place, probably part of a quick attempt to cover their tracks (as if Sam was deaf and unaware of it all). Steam diffused from the bathroom, bright light escaping from the ajar door.
As Sam walked down the small hall leading to the living room and kitchenette (Who designs a motel with bedrooms in front and living in back?) the aroma of freshly brewed coffee floated in the air, a half a pot brewing on the kitchenette counter when he walked in. Seated at the sofa, feet on the coffee table, remote in one hand and cup in the other, was Dean. He slurped his evening coffee while flipping through the channels, exercising his thumb pressing the "Channel Higher" button. His burnt homey hair shimmered, droplets of water embedded in the locks. He just took a shower, Sam assumed, leaving him to lounge in some worn but comfy jeans and an old army green tank top. Sam spotted a few violet marks around his neck and collarbone, a few dotting his shoulders.
Hickeys.
Dean's olive eyes tore away from the TV spying his brother looking unusually happy.
"Sammy," He said, voice gruffer than usual. He tossed the remote aside; the Gilmore Girls playing on the screen as he conveniently rubbed and hid the marks on his neck, "Where the hell have you been?"
"Out," Sam answered simply, "And what the hell happened to you? Vampires?"
Dean's eyes narrowed, then he lowly continued, "You've been gone a while."
"I went to the bar down the street," He said, "Got a beer, then left."
"It's been an hour, Sam," Castiel said, his voice causing Sam to whirl around. He stood damp in the bathroom doorway, trench coat sloppily hanging over his shoulders and tie askew. Sam had a feeling Dean and Castiel tried 'conserving water' while he was out.
"It has?" Sam turned to Castiel, staring into his intense, vivid blue eyes. They weren't like Balthazar's, a different shade and with a different warmth to them. But those eyes could still read souls, or at least read faces and pick up hints.
"Balthazar?" He said, tilting his head.
"Oh god," Dean groaned, "What does that son of a bitch want now?"
"Nothing," Sam said, "We just went out for a dri—"
"You did what with him?" Dean barked, like a guard dog tensing up around an intruder.
"Dean," Castiel kept his usual even composure, and gave him a single look to calm him down. He then focused back on Sam, "Why were you with Balthazar?"
"I texted him while you two were..." Sam tried to remember their ever so discreet code phrase, "Performing angelic duties," Which is the most flowery term for sex I've ever heard... "And he just popped by."
"Sam, what are you doing?" Dean sounded more like a parent reprimanding a teenager than a brother yelling at his younger sibling, "You shouldn't be hanging out with that guy."
"Balthazar is not that bad, Dean," Castiel said, "However I am a little suspicious."
"About what?" Sam innocently enquired.
"For one, how he got a hold of your phone number," Castiel walked around Sam, stopping near the coffee table, right at Dean's feet. Now Sam could see the matching purple marks on Castiel's neck.
"He put it in my phone," Sam shrugged, "We just went out for some drinks. It was fun." That was something Sam never thought he'd say.
"It was fun?" Dean repeated bitterly.
"Balthazar has a...looser idea of fun..." Castiel added, mumbling.
"Both of you two, cut it out," Sam sighed, "I had nothing to do, you two were busy, I just went out for a drink with the guy. I'm fine. Nothing bad happened. I had a good time. He's not a bad guy and you know that."
"But Sam..." Dean grunted, only to be silenced by a soft touch on the foot.
"We trust you, Sam," Castiel said, bony fingers twisting around Dean's toes, "And Balthazar is a fairly good man. You might want to be a bit careful around him is all, though you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself."
Dean grumbled, then took another slurp of coffee, foot kicking under Castiel's hand.
"Alright," Sam stretched, popping a few bones, "I'm going to bed after a shower."
"But we just made coffee," Dean gestured to the pot.
"Don't want any," Sam waved his hand, turning his back to the other two and heading for the bathroom, "I don't have to worry about stepping in anything do I?"
Dean's eyes narrowed to slits while Castiel remained oblivious.
"Night, Sammy," Dean called, settling down in the lumpy cushions, motioning for Castiel to take the seat next to him (if Sam didn't know any better he'd say they were going to cuddle until Dean nodded off).
"Night," Sam said, stealing one last glimpse of the duo before closing the door behind him.
When alone again, he caught himself smiling in his reflection, because everything went pretty well that night.
A lot better than expected.
A/N: Well I wrote this for my English Muffin who really likes Sam/Balthazar (I just call it Salthazar...?) and so bam. This. After talking about their texting habits it all went from there...
Anyway, thanks for reading! I was a bit shaky about this one (since I'm always afraid I won't do these guys justice :/) but I tried. Yup. Oh, and leave a review too, that'd be nice. Maybe I'll write about these two again some time... ~CQO