One Week Earlier

Dean's heart rate began to quicken. Something had woken him. What was it? As he came more fully awake he became aware of the sound of regular movement accompanied by soft grunts and exhalations. After a moment he began to relax as he realized it was just Sam doing his morning calisthenics. Dean opened his eyes and watched for a few minutes with a kind of rapt fascination as Sam performed his routine with the unrelenting rhythm of a metronome. The man was like a machine.

Except for that body. That was definitely flesh and blood and hard, rippling muscle. It made Dean feel almost effeminate by comparison. Not that Dean wasn't gaining some muscle of his own since he'd started to work out himself (when Sam wasn't around to judge his performance), but he had a long way to go before he could compete with Sam's Olympian level of fitness. How many sit ups had he done now, anyway? Was he even counting? Dean thought about Sam's obsession with order: the way he laid everything out in neat rows when he was packing or unpacking; the positively Vulcanic organization of the weapons cache . . . hell, even the toiletries in the bathroom were always arranged in the same precise line. Oh, yeah. Sam would be counting.

"Twenty-five . . ." Dean suggested, helpfully. "Seventy-eight . . . sixteen . . . a hundred and three . . . seven . . ."

Sam's rhythm ground to a halt with an exasperated sigh. "Dean!"

"Morning, Sammy!" Dean responded gaily, flashing him a broad grin, then as Sam returned to his routine Dean made a quick leap for the bathroom.

Much to Dean's surprise, Fido was up this morning and begging for attention. It had been so long since there'd been any activity in that quarter it was really a shame not to let him out to play, but now wasn't really the time, especially since Dean hadn't locked the bathroom door. Not that there was any danger that Sam was going to walk in without knocking; he was really precious about bathroom etiquette. God knows why. Not like Dean had anything different from what Sam had, did he? Still. After a sharp flick from the back of Dean's thumbnail Fido dropped so Dean could take a whiz. After washing his hands Dean paused to splash his face and rinse away the evidence of another poor night's sleep. He dried himself on the hand towel and dropped it into the sink when he'd finished.

Sometimes the hardest part of his life was finding a reason to get up in the morning. A reason to go on wasn't an issue; he had a long term goal (find the demon, rescue his father) and an interim plan (train, learn, get ready – saving people, hunting things); but the downtime, when there was no hunt to occupy his attention, that was when he needed something immediate to motivate him to get up and face the day. Most days that something was Sam. And finding as many different ways to annoy the man as he possibly could.

It was important to remember that he wasn't just doing it for the fun of it (although, obviously, it was fun). No. He was doing it for Sam's own good. Though his friend had many admirable qualities, it had to be acknowledged he had control issues. Seriously, he was wound. The dude considered it a personal failure of discipline if he cracked a smile. Dean had decided to shake the pot a little. He had concluded that what Sam really needed in his life was a judiciously applied dose of disorderliness, and Dean considered himself ideally qualified to provide it. What he was doing was . . . a community service. Before leaving the bathroom Dean reversed the order of Sam's deodorant and shaving foam.

Sam was sitting at the table going through a stack of dailies. Before joining him Dean paused to turn on the radio and the strains of one of his favorite Scissor Sisters numbers blared from the speakers.

You can show me the work that you've done, your fears have been disguising,
Is it just me or is everyone hiding . . .

Sam made no comment, but the familiar pruning of the lips bespoke his disapproval of both the song and its volume.

"Your half-caf, double vanilla latte is getting cold over here," he said, his tone implying value judgment.

We'll fight fire with fire, fire with fire, fire with fire
Through desire, desi- sire, desi-, through your desire

For a while after the death of Dean's mother Sam had been admirably (irritatingly) tolerant of Dean's idiosyncrasies, like Dean was made of glass or something, but now he was starting to come back with some 'tude now and then. Like his black coffee, extra strength, no sugar somehow had status over Dean's latte with syrup. Even more mystifying was the constant unspoken implication that his favored rabbit food was superior to Dean's burgers or bacon rolls or whatever. As Dean approached the table Sam picked up the coffee and a cardboard carton, proffering them at arm's length like they were something he'd scraped off the grass at the park, while at his own elbow sat some protein health shake crap that looked like it had been scraped off the grass.

Dean took a sip of coffee as he sat down at the table and booted his laptop. He noted that the carton contained his usual, and wrinkled his nose in mock disappointment.

"Actually, I was thinking of having an omelet and muesli this morning."

Sam looked up, surprised. "Seriously?"

"No." Dean took a bite of his roll and started to chew noisily. "But I might have wanted a change. You didn't ask, did you?"

Sam stared at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes and turned back to the newspapers. Dean continued eating his breakfast and focused on his computer. He brought up a couple of porn pages first. Then he began his routine searches for demon sign. When they yielded the usual fuck all he closed the laptop and checked his cell phone while he finished his breakfast. There were no messages. He wasn't expecting any, but he could always hope.

Sam likewise finished scouring the newspapers and from his expression it was clear he'd found nothing of interest. Absently he reached for the laptop, but then he hesitated and glanced at Dean.

"Do you mind . . . ?"

Dean smiled. "Sure. Go ahead."

Sam opened the lid and typed in the password to reactivate the screen. As the page came up his shoulders positively sagged with exasperation. "Have you finished with this, Dean? Can I close it?"

"Is that Busty Asian Beauties or Best Breasts?"

"It's both," Sam replied, tight jawed.

"Oh, yeah. You can close those." Dean smirked. Sam stared at him for a moment. His eyes narrowed, his lips pruned, and he clicked the mouse with an irritable flourish. Jeez. Sometimes he was just too easy.

Mind you, after breakfast was serious payback time for Sam, and Dean found himself reflecting that if he was smart he'd lay off his secret mission until after the morning run. Sam always ran just far enough ahead to let Dean believe that, if he tried just a little harder, he might catch up. And even though Dean knew it was a con, he still couldn't help trying. After the punishing run came the daily game of "how many times can Dean get dumped on his ass or rabbit punched in the gut?" or combat training as Sam called it. Still, if he wasn't very much mistaken, he was improving. Sure, Sam was still out running him, out maneuvering him and knocking him flat, but these days he was at least starting to break a sweat doing it. Of course, Dean always arrived back at the motel looking like he'd just come back from a steam bath but Sam usually let him shower first, which was good of him really considering he hated how long Dean spent in the bathroom.

Not that Sam said anything. Not like he had to. Sam had the ability to radiate disapproval without saying a word, and he disapproved of so many things that Dean did. Which only made Dean want to play up more.

"You go ahead," he told Dean this morning. "I'll get some laundry done," and he opened a cupboard and pulled out the trash bag their clothes were collecting in.

"You'd better take these as well, then." Dean peeled off his sweat sticky t-shirt and tossed it at Sam.

Sam caught the hot, damp garment and stared at it for a moment. It was hard to read the pinched expression on his face but Dean took it for distaste, especially when he hastily stuffed the shirt into the bag like he was afraid he might catch something from it. Dean was already sliding his joggers down his thighs, and as he stepped out of them Sam held the bag open so Dean could throw them in. Which was unfortunate because, with his hands occupied holding the bag, Sam failed to prevent the joggers landing in his face. He didn't make that mistake twice, though; he caught both of the sweaty socks and pretty much hurled them into the bag.

"Are you done?" he demanded, with a definite snap in his voice.

Dean was tempted to toss him his boxers as well but that would probably be going too far, especially since Fido seemed to be getting a bit frisky again after all the exercise, so Dean contented himself with tossing Sam a casual wink before making a quick exit into the bathroom.

As he started the shower and adjusted the taps Dean's head was still full of the morning's training. It was tough, and would probably leave him with a few bruises, but it was invigorating. While he waited for the temperature to stabilize he practiced a few of the new moves Sam had taught him. He'd gotten in a few good punches himself today, and on one occasion he'd actually drawn a surprised "ooff!" from Sam. Dean grinned as he remembered the moment with satisfaction.

They were at a semi-respectable motel for a change. The room had a half decent shower with hot water and reasonable pressure, and Dean spent a minute or so just enjoying the play of the water over his shoulders and back. By the end of that minute he had a full on boner. Apparently his libido was back from sabbatical. He half ignored it while he washed his hair, face and arms, though occasionally he tilted his hips to catch the stream of water over the sensitive dome and his breath caught a little at the pleasure it afforded him. It had been a while.

Not that he was fully into it. So his body was back to normal – which, good – but his head was full of so much new crap at the moment it was hard to concentrate on anything else. It had been a steep learning curve these last few weeks, what with the work outs, the weapons training, and working his way through Sam's scary schizoid journal – but he had some time to himself now while Sam was away at the laundry, so he might as well take advantage of it. He worked up the best lather he could with the cheap motel soap and started sliding his hands over his chest and torso, circling his nipples with his fingers and tracing the backs of his fingernails over the tightening flesh. "Mmmmm," he grunted as he tweaked and twisted the buds into stiffened peaks and his dick twitched with heightened interest.

Sam had been showing him how to make his own ammunition, too. He'd shown Dean how to use the vice, and how to fill and pack the cartridges. And he'd really got on board with Dean's idea about the rock salt, really seemed quite pleased about it. Dean's hands moved down, spread out over his abdomen and started stroking lower with smooth, firm, revolving stokes. His tight shaft stood to attention and quivered with anticipation.

"Yeah, wait for it, sucker," Dean murmured as he began massaging his lower belly.

The shotgun they loaded with the stuff kicked like a son of a bitch, though! The first time Dean had fired it he'd ganked the top off a pine tree. He moved lower, sliding his fingers into the gap between his thighs and teasing the flesh beside and behind his balls, letting out a long breathy exhalation as nameless thrills sparked through his loins and skittered up his shaft. Dean had thought it was pretty funny. Sam had just rolled his eyes. God forbid he should admit to having a sense of humor. Dean lathered his hands again then slowly massaged his balls, gently working the flesh with his thumb and fingers. His eyelids fluttered closed as he enjoyed the sensation, and he sucked in his lip, running his teeth over it as his dick ached for attention.

Even on his second try when Sam had adjusted his stance and shown him how to brace the gun against his shoulder, the recoil had still taken him by surprise, shuddering through his whole body and knocking him back into Sam's arms.

"Oh, yeah! Oh fuck yeah!" he gasped as his hand finally slid up his waiting shaft and pleasure flared bright and sharp through his flesh. God, it felt good. Too good. It had been too long. This wasn't going to last. As his hand swept up and down the rigid length and his thumb caressed the weeping dome his thighs began to shudder and his knees buckled a little. Pausing, he placed his hands against the wall, blew out through pursed lips and tried to regain some composure.

He'd been a little embarrassed about it, but he wasn't about to admit that to Sam. He'd passed it off with a typical casual quip. "Was it good for you, too?" he'd asked. Sam hadn't thought that was funny either. Because weapons training was serious, so they had to be serious. Like Dean didn't know how important it was. Like he hadn't risked his neck a few times already. But Sam never relaxed. Hell, even when Dean had slammed back into him, even though he hadn't been expecting it, there'd been no give in that body. Dean had been flattened between the recoil and that unyielding pillar and, for a moment, it had driven the breath right out of him.

Oh, fuck it. Dean's hand found his dick once more, the other spread across his chest and he rolled the throbbing bud of his nipple between his thumb and forefinger while he stroked and massaged himself with quickening urgency. Muscles tightened in his thighs, fiery fingers glowed in the small of his back, he felt the taut expectancy low in his belly, his balls drew up, his shaft convulsed –

"Nnnnnnnnn – aa – aaaahahh!" Fuck it was good. Fuck! He grabbed one of the taps and clung to it, eyes screwed tight shut, pressing his forehead against the back of his hand and struggling to keep himself upright. "Gguuhhh!" God! Fuck. Damn! It had been too fucking long.

His rhythm slowed and he handled himself more gently as the pounding beat eased and he milked out the ebb of his pleasure for as long as he could. Then he turned his back to the wall and allowed himself to slide down it until he was sitting in the shower basin with his knees drawn up and his hands hanging loosely between them. He drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and lifted his head so the cooling water could run over his face. Then he dropped his chin onto his chest and grinned. Yeah, that was good.

Might have been even better if he could stop thinking about weapons training for five minutes.