A/N: Sorry, everyone, for another longish delay. This was a complex and challenging scene to write, and I fear the next scene will be also, but I hope you'll feel that it's worth it.
Well, Masters did have a college record. And it was pretty much what you'd expect, with inconsistent grades, incomplete assignments and sporadic attendance but he did, according to the file, attend classes – that is, before his final expulsion, which was also on record. None of this was conclusive, Sam recognized – systems could be hacked, records faked – but Sam was starting to doubt himself. Maybe this was all just paranoia, and maybe he was doing Dean a disservice by suggesting that he didn't know his friend. After all, Dean had good instincts, he was a good judge of character, he got people – and he'd known Masters a lot longer than Sam had. Was it possible that Sam just wanted to find some shadow to throw on Dean's old college buddy? And what did that say about him, if he needed to extinguish every last refuge of light in Dean's world . . . just so he wouldn't be left alone in the dark?
He closed the file and the page, left the site, and returned to his search of the local library and historical society catalogues. At this stage Sam was desperate for any obscure connection between Samuel Colt and the town. If he could find something, anything, that would give Dean the opportunity to say "I told you so" it might be a step toward bridging the gap between them. Right now the atmosphere in the room was as heavy as the smell of solvents that still hung in the air, though Dean had long moved on to sharpening knives and the rasp of metal on stone was beginning to fray Sam's nerves a little. It wouldn't usually. Weapons maintenance was the background noise of his life, he was inured to it. The regular rhythms of Dean working normally soothed him and he had hoped it would improve Dean's mood, as it often did, but today he heard a dissonant edge to the sounds, real or imagined. He didn't know how to reach Dean when he was like this. The explosive fits of anger he was used to. They flashed like gunpowder then were passed and forgotten. This was something deeper, heavy and brooding.
As the morning wore on Sam began to feel the demands of his body craving food. He watched Dean test the edge of a machete and sensed he was aware of the observation, but he was studiously resisting making eye contact with Sam.
Suppressing a sigh, Sam remarked that he was going to go across the road and eat. Dean's eyelashes flicked upward fleetingly but all he said was "uh huh" then returned his focus to his task. Sam frowned and decided to make the invitation more pointed. He nearly expressed it as 'you should eat something', but stopped himself just in time. "Are you hungry, yet?" he asked instead.
This time Dean actually raised his head slightly and regarded Sam through the tips of his eyelashes then he shrugged and wiped off the machete. "I could eat," he acknowledged. "You go ahead while I wash up."
.
Service was kind of slow. Sam studied the specials board while he waited for the two waitresses to finish discussing the shortcomings of the guys who'd taken them to the drive-in the previous evening, but everything on it was a heart attack waiting to happen. One of the girls was finally heading his way when Dean came through the door. She immediately changed direction and made toward Dean instead, cutting off her friend who also seemed eager to serve him.
"Well, hello again!" she exclaimed cheerily. Presumably she'd served Dean the coffee earlier that morning. "Can I get you a menu?"
Dean grinned easily at her and glanced up at the specials board. "That's O.K, sweetheart. I already know what I want." He added a wink for good measure. "I'll take the Full Montana, and can I get some coffee, black, please?"
"Sure thing, straight away," she assured him with, in Sam's opinion, an unnecessarily bright smile and she returned to the counter apparently having forgotten all about Sam.
Dean stripped off his jacket and took the seat opposite, and as he stretched himself out along the back of the booth Sam had to acknowledge that the rest of the room just naturally tended to go out of focus whenever Dean was present in it. He flashed Sam an exaggeratedly cheery grin and seemed to wait for a response, but when they couldn't think of anything to say to each other, he turned his attention to a copy of Coffee News that was lying on the table.
"Huh," he said presently, "Do you know what Neil Young, Burton Cummings and this paper all have in common?" he asked.
Sam nodded. "They all come from Canada . . . um . . . I read it already," he explained awkwardly when Dean looked put out.
Dean shrugged. He started idly folding the sheet and soon had it shaped into a complex airplane design. Sam widened his eyes at him when he looked like he was about to test its aerodynamic qualities so he just batted it to one side. When the waitress returned with his coffee he struck up a conversation with her instead: the usual BS about the road trip, and feigning interest in local attractions he had no intention of visiting. He was just making idle small-talk, but this girl looked to Sam like she was hoping it was a prelude to more: she was laughing too much, getting too close, toying with her hair and clothes. Dean didn't seem to pick up on any of that that, though.
When they'd covered the basics she turned and Sam just managed to catch her attention before she walked away.
"Excuse me, could I get a coffee, too?" he asked. "And I'd like to look at the menu, please."
She looked blank for a moment then apologized. "Oh! Sorry, yes, of course." Evidently Sam's existence had just slipped her mind. Kathy (Dean was addressing her by her name, now) returned promptly with more coffee, and she continued exchanging smiles and pleasantries with Dean while Sam looked over the menu. Normally it wouldn't have bothered him . . . much. It shouldn't have bothered him. Dean flirted with waitresses out of habit. It meant nothing, and it usually got him better service. It didn't mean that Dean was cruising to hook up. Probably.
And what business was it of Sam's, anyway?
He ordered the organic granola and an omelet and ignored the smirk his choice earned him from his companion.
Dean leaned back over his seat and started whistling through his teeth, and Sam was beginning to think this was a mistake: he should have left Dean back at the motel. Maybe what they really needed right now was some space from each other. At the point where Dean started making 'tock' noises with his tongue, Sam had had about as much as he could take.
"Dean," he objected, trying not to sound as aggravated as he felt.
"O.K," Dean leaned forward purposefully and Sam winced a little. "So, what were you planning to do this afternoon?" he asked. "Do you think it's worth carrying on with your police-sketch-artist thing with Jimmy?"
Sam hesitated. He didn't particularly want to spend any more time with Masters, especially when he wasn't convinced it would be productive. "His descriptions weren't really that specific – "
"Well, it was six months ago," Dean interrupted defensively.
"Oh, I know. I know." Sam explained hastily, "but I was thinking of checking out the museum and maybe the library again," he explained. "See if there was anything we missed about Colt in the town history."
"Uh huh," Dean nodded, a little incredulously. Understandably so after the skepticism Sam had expressed about the Colt legend thus far.
"I already checked the online catalogs," Sam persisted, "but they have older records on microfilm. There might be something there. It's worth a try."
An expression of horror briefly crossed Dean's face before he dutifully asked "need any help with that?" Microfiche was a dirty word to Dean; microfilm was an obscenity.
Sam smiled a little. "I think I can manage," he assured him. "If you want to spend some time with your friend, go ahead," he added, trying his best to look and sound as genuine as he could.
Dean studied him searchingly and nodded eventually. "Yeah, well, I was thinking, actually, that if Jim is holding back on anything, he's more likely to be forthcoming if it's just me."
For a moment Sam couldn't hide his surprise. Dean had seemed so closed on the issue before. "Well . . . good," he stammered awkwardly. "That's . . . that's good thinking."
Dean shrugged, and in the awkward silence that followed the exchange Sam couldn't help the anxieties that bubbled to the surface once more.
"Just . . . maybe keep away from the cocktails this time?" he suggested tentatively.
Dean's face clouded. "Yeah, got that, thanks," he growled impatiently.
"Just . . . if we're gonna be working separately, you need to stay sharp – "
"Sam, I'm not stupid!"
"Yeah, I know, Dean! I'm just . . . never mind." Sam fell silent, but he felt his concerns were justified; Masters was a proven bad influence on Dean. He just didn't want to argue any more.
When the meal arrived they ate in silence, and when it was over Kathy was back again . . . which, all right, Sam supposed that was her job, after all. But she wanted to know if there was anything else she could get Dean, and seemed very keen to press extra snacks or desserts on him, just to keep him around longer, Sam guessed. By this time even Dean couldn't miss her enthusiasm. He seemed mildly amused but, beyond enjoying the attention as usual, he wasn't actively encouraging her. He wasn't exactly discouraging her, either.
"Well, that all sounds very tempting, Kathy, but I'm kinda full at the moment," Dean was telling her. "So maybe we'll just take the check for now. O.K., sweetheart?" and he punctuated the request with a smile and a wink. He chuckled quietly to himself and shook his head as she walked away. "I still got it," he observed idly. Then he gave the table a slap. "O.K. I'm gonna hit the head before we go. You'll take care of that, right?" he added, with a slight toss of his head in Kathy's direction, and then he got up and headed out back. As he was going through the door to the restroom, Sam saw him reaching in his pocket for his cell phone.
Well, there was only one person Dean would be calling.
Kathy looked a little confused when she returned and he wasn't at the table.
"He's in the rest room," Sam supplied.
"Oh." After a moment's indecision she left the check on Dean's side of the table and walked away. Which struck Sam as odd, bordering on rude. He picked it up anyway and saw that she'd written her phone number on it.
Something dark and ferocious stirred inside him. His lips peeled back in an angry sham of a grin and he could feel the itch of hair bristling at the nape of his neck. It wasn't really about the waitress – on some level, Sam knew that – but it made no difference to the crouching beast in the depths, pawing at his bowels with claws extended . . .
.
Dean washed and dried his hands then he tried Jimmy's number again, but he wasn't really expecting an answer; Jim had never been a morning person. When it cut to voicemail Dean left a message letting Jim know he'd be dropping by the bar later if he wanted to meet up.
He checked himself in the mirror one more time and smoothed back the sides of his hair then he turned toward the door, but he hesitated before he unlocked it. He wasn't exactly eager to go back out into the steaming cloud of awkward that was hanging around him and Sam at the moment, but he didn't know how to get past it. Not like he could stay in the washroom forever, though. He drew back the bolt, but as soon as it cleared the latch the door opened from the outside. Shock drove him into defense mode and he nearly punched the intruder before he realized it was Sam.
"Sam? What the hell – ?!" and that was as much as he got out before the bolt was drawn across once more and he was pinned against the wall. The warm, solid mass of Sam was flattened against the length of his body, fingers sliced though his hair and tipped back his head and then Sam's lips were pressed against his. It was sudden and startling and it all kind of reminded him of a replay of that abortive first night back in Indiana, except Sam had logged some experience since then, and now he knew what he was doing. He took possession of Dean's mouth quickly, and thoroughly, tongue delving deep, snaking around Dean's, exploring, filling, massaging, while his free hand slid down Dean's side, over his hip and down his thigh, finger nails grazing back up the denim of his jeans, thumb pressing firm, insistent circles into the sensitive flesh near his hip bone.
Dean's first reaction was confusion – maybe even alarm – but, if actions speak louder than words, then his body was getting the message fast and hard. Even if he wasn't sure what that was exactly, seems it was something his body wanted to hear. He was catching his breath in muffled gasps and his heart thumped rapidly in his ears, each beat filling and swelling his cock until it was straining eagerly against his jeans. Still he found his hands on Sam's shoulders, pushing them apart enough to break the contact of their mouths and grab some air. He stared into Sam's eyes where the dark pupils were blown wide, pushing out the familiar gold and blue hues until all that was visible was dark brown and sharp, glittering green. Not real reassuring.
"Whoa! Sam!" he gasped. "What is this? What are we doing here?"
That seemed to check Sam. His grip on Dean's arms relaxed and the sense of rush abated a little, but as he leaned his head against Dean's his breath was still coming fast. Dean could feel it, hot and moist, as he trailed his lips over the shell of Dean's ear. "What do you want me to do, Dean?" His voice resonated low and deep, sending tingling shivers over Dean's shoulders and rolling down his back, then he dropped his head onto Dean's shoulder and started nuzzling against his neck. "Tell me what you want. Anything you want." Dean let out a sharp huff of breath then groaned out loud as Sam's warm hand slipped between them, hugged the swell of his cock through his jeans and squeezed. As the shock of pleasure burst through his flesh, Dean's knees buckled a little under him but Sam thrust against him. Pressed between Sam and the wall he was forced straight again, and now he could feel Sam's length, full and hard, rutting slowly against his hip. "What do you want, Dean?" Sam repeated, the low rumble of his voice making Dean's insides quiver. And then Sam bit him, teeth sinking into his neck, hard enough to hurt a little but coarse thrills of pleasure came with it, buzzing down his spine, the backs of his legs, and he was sliding down the wall again but Sam thrust him back upright. "Tell me, Dean." And he bit into him again, his shoulder, another nip to his neck, his jaw. More nuzzling, and licking, drawing flesh into his mouth and suckling. And Dean couldn't think straight. His body was all hot chills and aching desire and he was sweating from the heat of it, and he couldn't find words for what he wanted. Want was as far as he could get.
Lucky Sam was more articulate. "You wanna be in my mouth, Dean?" he whispered and his tongue slid across Dean's lips, as he drew them into his mouth, sucked and nibbled on them. Dean whimpered. His hands slid up Sam's back and his mouth hungrily chased Sam's lips and tongue. Sam found him, kissed him, lips rolling over his full and hard, tongue working slow suggestive patterns over his. But then he drew back. He shifted his hips and lifted his leg so it was tucked against Dean's crotch as he dropped his weight and rode smoothly up again, and Dean reflexively spread his thighs to accommodate him, crooning and leaning into the delicious friction.
"Or you want me to take you between my legs?" Sam breathed and trapped Dean's leg between his. "You wanna come between my thighs?"
Dean could feel Sam's muscles flexing and tightening around his leg as he spoke, and he exhaled in a breathy rush. "Yeah . . . yeah," he gasped. "That. Anything. . . . Fuck, Sam! . . . Do what you want just do something!"
He was getting with the program at last, finding Sam's mouth again, cradling his head and weaving fingers through his hair, mouth and tongue working with Sam's, hips starting to meet his thrusts. And Sam's hands were busy tugging Dean's shirt out of his pants, undoing the buttons. His warm palms spread over Dean's abs and slid up to his chest. Curled fingers tracked nails over Dean's nipples, then his mouth was there, tongue dragging across the flesh, teeth scraping over the nub, making Dean's body shudder and his toes curl. Fingers on his belt tugged at the leather; he heard the sound of it being pulled through the clasp, the clink of metal, the rasp of the zip being drawn down, felt the material of his pants loosen around his hips then the draught of cool air around his thighs as his jeans sank to his ankles.
Sam palmed his cock again, kneading and massaging the aching mound, and Dean forgot where he was for a moment, letting out a loud unguarded cry and cracking his head back against the wall. That was gonna hurt later but fuck it. Sam managed to get his own pants undone one handed and then he had Dean's shorts down with one unceremonious tug and he was reaching for the bottle of hand lotion that was sitting on the edge of the hand basin.
The cool wash of air around hot flesh then the even cooler shock of the lotion as Sam slopped it all over the shaft then the slippery slide of his hand and Jesus fuck! he'd sure learned how to use those fingers. Dean's eyes screwed tight shut and ow his head hit the brick again and his hands slapped back against the wall, one reaching for and gripping the basin for support as Sam's fingers curled firm and sure around his shaft, twisting, sweeping up and down, thumb circling the tight, tender flesh of the dome.
"Nnnnnnnnnnmmmmmm hmmmm hmm hmmmmmmm" he moaned, thighs shuddering with the effort of keeping his footing. Sam snaked an arm round his waist and hitched him up once more while the hand around his cock pushed down, pushed him down, and between, and then he was wrapped in the heat of Sam's thighs, pinned between them, feeling the tight grip of the muscles and the slick friction of smooth flesh as Sam jacked his hips, swift and firm, and with each thrust Dean's breath was driven from him as a stuttered groaning cry.
Sam was tugging his shirt back off his shoulders, baring his chest and his neck, running hands all over him, his chest, his hips, reaching behind and grabbing the flesh of his ass in handfuls, while his mouth worked over his throat and shoulders. Dean could feel the wet heat of it, the pull of his lips and tongue, the sting of his teeth. His nostrils were full of the scent of Sam: hot sweat, cheap soap and something else, something faint but sharp, like the smell of a flaring match, while Sam fucked him against the wall with ever more urgent thrusts, and he was dizzy with the feel of it, the glide of his cock between Sam's slick, rippling thighs.
"Dean!" Sam gasped, "Dean!" over and over like an intonation, between kisses, between nips and thrusts, and Dean's head was buzzing with the sound of his own name, the way Sam said it – the way only Sam ever said it – and now, more than ever it seemed to claim his attention, demanding the response that came instinctively from inside him. "Yes." Yes, I'm here, Sam. Always. "Yes, Sam . . . Sam!"
It came suddenly, no warning, just the sudden kick, the shudder inside, too late to stop – "Sam . . . fuck I'm gonna – oh God Sam I can't – 'm coming Sam sorry I'm coming OH FUCK OH SAM . . . FUCK . . . SAAAMMM!" – the white behind his eyes and the throb of his cock between Sam's slippery and more wet and slippery thighs. He wrapped his arms round Sam's shoulders, clinging to the man just to keep his feet while Sam fucked him through it and his body crumpled with pleasure and lust. His mouth sought Sam's again and they shared a hungry and feverish kiss before Sam pushed him back against the wall, wild eyed and panting, and held him there with one hand while the other reached down, popped the button on his shorts and pulled out his own swollen cock, jacking quickly, urgently, until it jumped in his hand, his body shuddered and strained and forced leaping arcs of white through the air that streaked Dean's face and chest, burst after hot burst trickling into his mouth and down his body, the last thread still clinging to Sam, connecting their bodies like a fine, glistening lasso before it broke and trailed a cooling path down Dean's belly.
He wasn't sure how long he was staring into space with glazed eyes before, at last, he found the wherewithal to raise his head and look at Sam. "Fuck . . . Sam . . ." he murmured breathily. Sam didn't seem to respond. He was leaning against the wall, still trying to recover his own breath, gaze trained at the floor. "Fuck!" Dean repeated and he chuckled, a little nervously, still feeling kinda shell shocked. "Dude! What got into you?"
Now Sam looked up, but he met Dean's gaze only briefly before his focus dropped to his neck and then his chest, and then he got this really odd expression on his face and he seemed to be in a real hurry to get his pants up. Everything was tucked in and fastened up in seconds, and then he was through the door and gone, leaving Dean open-mouthed and stunned and
"What the hell . . . ? Sam . . . ?"
Several moments passed before Dean even thought to lock the door after him. He still felt confused and bewildered as he hitched up his own pants and turned back to the wash basin to clean up. Then he saw his reflection and he stared at it with a mixture of shock and . . . and he wasn't sure what else . . . just . . .
"Wow . . ."
From his jaw line, down his throat, all over his shoulders and chest his flesh was mapped with a string of red and mauve marks. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised what with all the biting going on, but he'd been a bit preoccupied at the time, and not like he'd never had a hickey in his life before but . . .
"Wow . . ."
He cleaned and tidied himself up the best he could but by the time he left the rest room he still felt like a loose bag of stuff that didn't really fit together and some of it he didn't feel ready to examine too closely. And when he stepped out it felt like there was a sea of faces staring at him, though it probably only amounted to a handful of people, but two of those were the waitress and her friend. Kathy turned away when she saw him glance at her, and the other girl tittered loudly and disappeared into the kitchen.
He fastened an extra button on his shirt, retrieved his jacket from the booth where they'd been sitting and turned up the collar. Then, to make matters worse, he realized the check was still sitting on the table.
Son of a . . . !
OK. Now he just felt pissed which, at least, was something concrete that he could get a grip on.
Thanks a million, Sam! Fucking jump me in the washroom then just leave me to deal with the fallout by myself! What the hell?!
Armed with his indignation, he snatched up the check, pulled out his wallet and turned toward the counter . . . and then a crazy thought hit him. Was that what this was all about? Oh . . . surely not. The fucking waitress? Seriously?
The other girl was obviously determined to make herself scarce, so Kathy reluctantly took his card and processed the charge. She was scarlet faced and wouldn't make eye contact, but her gaze self consciously flicked up to his neck a couple of times. And at first Dean was just embarrassed and humiliated, for her and for himself, but then he caught something in her face he didn't so much like: something very unattractive in the curl of her lips, and the wrinkle of distaste and scorn around her nostrils. As Dean studied her expression he found his emotions shifting and he picked one from the muddled grab bag to wear for her benefit. Turning his collar back down, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, and as she handed back his card he fixed her with a defiant smirk.
Yeah, that's right, sister. You saw him, didn't you? Tall handsome guy with all the pecs and the abs: I'm HIS.
You got a problem with that?
