AN: Happy Birthday Worm! Utah vs The Winchesters is the result of a few twitter conversations we had many, many years back. Good thing I saved them ;-)
Oh man, I'm having so much fun with the boys in Utah.
WARNING: Here be Wincest.
Also, the boys are not terribly respectful of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, so on the off-chance you're a member, you might want to step away now.
As this work is a gift for my usual beta, it has not been beta'd.
Timeline is season 6ish.
Part 1 - The Iron Rod
"Okay, but why do we have to go to that club? 'The Iron Rod,'" Dean rolled his eyes. "Could they be any more obvious?"
"Because that's where this…" Sam checked his notepad, "... Greg works. According to Bobby, he's the only one to talk to when it comes to Mormon urban legends, and he only sees hunters at the club. And dude, we have a shopping list of monsters to check off while we're in Utah. I don't know what's got them excited all of a sudden, but Utah is hopping, man. It's like monster-central out there."
"Monster Mormon central, you mean," Dean grumbled. "It's probably got something to do with that bitch Eve being back. Okay fine. But why do we have to wear these ?" Dean whined, drawing out that last word as he held up small, black leather pants.
Sam had finished tugging a tight pair of denim jeans over his long legs (Dean could swear the fabric had glitter all over it) and was just pulling a black mesh-fabric tank top over his head. As it settled over his torso, Dean could see every inch of Sam's tanned skin under it. It left nothing to the imagination, and yet somehow made the skin even more alluring that it usually was. Which was saying something.
Dean felt a little drool escape his slightly gaping mouth. Wiping his chin, he conceded, "Well, okay I can see why you're wearing that." He walked over to Sam and slipped his forefingers into the belt loops of the very tight jeans, pulling his brother right into his groin. "Mormons shmormons, let's just stay in tonight, huh?" He licked a wet stripe up Sam's neck before biting his earlobe.
"Yeah, no," Sam chuckled, pushing Dean away and walking toward the bathroom. "Just get into your leather, Dean," Sam called from where he was leaning over the basin, applying eyeliner to his lower eyelids. "We've got work to do."
Dean pouted. But he had to admit that Sam looked all kinds of hot. Maybe this night wouldn't be so bad, skeevy club or not.
When they walked into The Iron Rod, practically every head turned to gawp. Sam's height alone probably would've turned heads, but he looked sinful in the tight jeans and see-through tank top. The eyeliner seemed to highlight colors Dean normally only saw in Sam's eyes when they were nose-to-nose in bed together. Sam looked gorgeous and Dean could see that most everyone wanted to grab Sam by his hair and do wicked, wicked things to him. He also knew that he was for sure going to get to do that later.
Dean didn't think he looked half bad himself. The leather pants had been a bitch to pull on. Sam had ended up helping him, and what with pulling Dean off his feet every time he tugged on the waistband and the unsexy huffing they were both doing from the effort, they'd ended up giggling together and collapsing on the bed, where Dean had eventually managed to get the pants up and everything tucked away.
He was wearing a shimmery, silver t-shirt, that was a couple of sizes too small, and outlined every contour of his upper body. And as a little quid pro quo, he was wearing lip gloss. If Sam was going to make his eyes look like… like that , well. Dean knew Sam had a thing for his mouth, and he may as well have some fun tonight.
Trying to ignore the stares, they walked up to the bar. Sam ordered something—Dean didn't hear what—and then they both turned around to get a good look at the place. The Iron Rod was a bit of a dive, to be honest. It was small and dark and stuffy. There was an area for dancing off to one side, and a few tables spread over the opposite end of the open space. Most of the tables were empty though. People were standing near the bar, chatting—chatting up, more like—and clearly giving each other the once over. Who was going home with who? Or hell, who was going out into the alley with who? It was clear that this club was all about sex, a place for people with less vanilla tastes to find someone to lose themselves in for a few hours.
"Welp. We're here. How do we find Greg?" Dean asked, taking a sip from the glass Sam had handed to him. And almost spitting it out. "What the hell is this?!" Dean held up the glass to see, with horror, that it was filled with a bright green liquid.
"Sshhh," Sam hushed him. "It's called a 'Hammered Hulk.' It's a cocktail. We're trying to blend in, remember?"
Dean looked around and saw that most people had some brightly colored drink in their hands. There wasn't a beer can in sight. He sighed and pouted again.
"Sa-aaam," he whined.
"Shush," Sam hissed again, taking a swig of his own Hammered Hulk and licking his lips. Dean was distracted. That was very distracting.
Sam however, wasn't taking any notice of him. He leaned over the bar, gesturing to the barman, who made his way over. "Hey, can you tell us where Greg is?"
The barman looked Sam up and down—people had been doing that a lot, and it was starting to annoy Dean—and then said gruffly, "Greg's not here yet. He gets in later. Generally after the thumping starts."
Thumping… ? Dean thought warily. But Sam just shrugged and took another sip of his drink.
It turned out that "thumping" was accurate. They'd been there a little over half-an-hour when they felt a vibration in the floor. A steady thud which ran from their feet through their bodies and into their brains. They actually felt the bassline a split second before they heard it. It was irresistible. Dean wasn't even sure there was a tune accompanying the heavy bass, but it clearly didn't matter. Within minutes everyone was on the dance floor, including Sam and Dean. They couldn't really remember walking over to the open space or making the decision to dance, but they found themselves moving to the thumping, only inches away from each other, rubbing against any piece of the other's body that they could. It didn't take long for Dean to get hard, and when Sam rubbed his ass into Dean's groin, he brought his hands around to Sam's front and was happy to discover that Sam was in the same situation. They didn't stop dancing though, and there were a fair few eyes watching them. Dean thought that if he looked half as hot as Sam did on that dancefloor, they were giving the locals quite a show.
The thumping was almost addictive and moving with Sam like that in a crowd of people was so seductive that Dean didn't want to stop, but eventually it was clear that both him and Sam needed to catch their breath. And get some water. Breathing hard, still holding on to each other, they kind of bump-and-grinded their way back to the bar and got a couple of bottles of water. Dean had emptied his in only a few seconds.
"My my," came a voice behind them. "That was certainly… something. You boys ever think of performing? Plenty of my customers would pay to see something like that on the regular."
They turned around—Dean wasn't blushing. He wasn't —to see a tall man, mid-thirties, with sandy blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a sardonic smirk on his face. He was dressed in tan slacks and a light blue golf-shirt. He looked more like an accountant type than a gay club owner type. He leaned towards then conspiratorially. "Normally I insist on seeing hunters here because I think those rednecks need some exposure to different, ahem, lifestyles. But it's obvious that's not necessary with you two." He winked. "Come into my parlor and let's talk monsters."
Sam hadn't been kidding when he said they had a shopping list of things to check out. There were numerous hauntings, a place called Skinwalker Ranch where sightings of everything from shapeshifters to aliens had been reported, there was a lake monster to be debunked, there was a trio of Mormon angels performing "miracles," and oh, there was Bigfoot. So yeah, Sam and Dean needed as much information as they could get about the monsters and legends of Utah, and Greg had the goods.
As they sat down in Greg's office—a neat but uninteresting room filled with filing cabinets—he asked, "so where do you want to start?"
Greg gave them a list of the most active hauntings as of the last few months. He poo-pooed Skinwalker Ranch and the lake monster ("Bear Lake isn't even that deep"), but seemed less eager to dismiss Bigfoot.
"But… BIGFOOT." The scepticism dripped off of Dean's tongue, but Greg just shrugged. "Hey, all I'm saying is, if I was a hunter, I'd check it out."
Greg was more certain of where things stood when it came to the miracle-making Mormon angels. "Those sons of bitches. They're using the legend and the people's religious beliefs to get what they want."
"So, not angels then?" Sam asked.
"Are you nuts?" Greg asked, giving Sam a disbelieving look. "You're telling me you believe in angels."
Dean snorted and Sam shrugged.
"No, they're not angels. From what I've managed to put together, it's a group of crossroads demons who teamed up years ago. They go around telling people they're the 'Three Nephites,'" Greg made very dramatic air quotes with his fingers to show just what he thought of that legend, "and that they 'perform miracles' (more air quotes), but of course then they slip in that the miracle is going to cost a little somethin' somethin'. Poor bastards out there are selling their souls, thinking they're receiving some sort of divine blessing when really it's the complete opposite."
"Demons we know," Dean said confidently. "We can start with them."
"One thing though," Greg added. "These guys have been doing their thing among Mormons since Daddy Joseph picked up his first followers. For all I know, they were the ones who gave Smith his first vision. They've become sort of… grafted on to the belief system of Mormons. And that sort of dependence goes both ways."
Dean was confused, but Sam said, "So you mean, the Mormon belief system now exerts an influence on the demons?"
Greg pointed at Sam and winked again. "Got it in one. You might need to update your demon fighting arsenal."
"Like, how?" Dean asked.
"Well, first off normal salt will be a nuisance to them, but won't really harm or deter them. You're going to need to get Salt Lake salt," Greg told them.
"And… where would we get that?" Sam asked.
"Not from a grocery store. Salt from Salt Lake isn't used as table salt. But you should be able to find Salt Lake road salt at almost any hardware store. Not the best time of year for it, but there should be a few bags available."
Sam was writing everything down, while Dean was getting bored. He kind of wanted to go back to dancing with Sam. And where had Sam pulled his notepad out from, anyway?
"And then there's the holy water." Greg said, a little smugly. "The normal stuff ain't going to cut it."
"Come on, man. Holy water's holy water." Dean was having a hard time believing Greg.
"Not for Mormon demons, apparently," Greg said shrugging. "Seems like you have to use water from a Mormon baptismal font."
"Wait, what?" Dean blurted at the same time as Sam said, "but non-Mormons aren't allowed in the temple. Nevermind near the font."
"It is a problem," Greg agreed. "But on the upside, tomorrow is Pie and Beer Day. People will be distracted, off work. There's parades and fireworks and shit. If I was going to break into a Mormon temple, I'd probably do it on Pie and Beer Day."
Dean's expression had become rather glazed at the first mention of the words 'Pie and Beer Day.'
A little dreamily, he said "Come again?"