Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127699.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Character: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Madison (Supernatural), Charlie
Bradbury, Benny Lafitte, Lenore (Supernatural), Jody Mills, Gordon
Walker, Bela Talbot, Jo Harvelle, Jake Talley, Missouri Moseley,
Bobby Singer, Ellen Harvelle, Rufus Turner, Tamara (Supernatural),
Pamela Barnes, Kate (Supernatural: Bitten)
Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content
Collections: Supernatural and J2 Big Bang 2014
Stats: Published: 2014-08-13 Words: 54645

Luna De Miel
by theproblematique

Summary

Supernatural Agents Sam and Dean Winchester are sent to investigate a prominent law
firm with suspected werewolf activity. It's supposed to be an easy case since Sam's new to
the job, and Dean has been assured that they are just doing reconnaissance. The first
complication is the senior partner's assumption that they are married, not related. The
second is that they know jack squat about navigating office politics. The third is that
werewolves may not be the only supernatural creatures here. And the fourth... is the same
as the first; Dean just feels that it bears repeating.

Notes

Extras are in the LJ Masterpost, including the amazing art and a different PDF format if
anyone is interested.

____________________________________________________________

WARNINGS

Please be aware that this fic contains a reference to underage sex (between two consenting
sixteen year-olds), Dean's Guilt and subsequent destructive thoughts/self-hatred, sexist
slurs (as in the show; but used only by the boys in reference to themselves or each other), a
 couple of (brief) instances of alcohol abuse, and brief references to past Dean/canon
female characters, past Dean/OMC, past Sam/Jess and past Sam/OMC.

Having said all that, I would like to add that this was written as a self-indulgent
Fake!married Office AU With Werewolves, and therefore has All The Cliches, multiple
nods to Supernatural canon, UST, misuse of office spaces, too much banter, inappropriate
supply-closet action, and obvious signs of my shameless love of this well-worn trope.
There is angst, but overall the fic is intended to make people smile. I hope :)

Regarding the sexual situations, they involve: masturbation, (very) mild D/s undertones,
fingering, frottage, a mention of rimming, and for those of you who absolutely need to
know: when anal sex is mentioned it is suggested that Dean bottoms.

____________________________________________________________

Beta'ed by the invaluable alienass. Last-minute editing makes all remaining mistakes mine.

See the end of the work for more notes

"Hey, Dean? Turner wants you."

Dean looks up from his desk in time to catch Bela's disinterested nod towards the director's office.

"This about a hunt?"

She shrugs. "Maybe."

"A potential Katie?"

"I don't know, Dean."

"It's just that today's my baby brother's first day, and I was hoping--"

Bela lifts a hand to stop him. "Please. On the top ten list of ‘Things I don't care about’, whatever
you're going to say ranks numbers one through nine."

"Fine," Dean grumbles as he gets up. "I'm gonna take a wild guess that the coffeemaker is still on
the fritz?"

She rolls her eyes but doesn't deny it. In a truly stereotype-busting fashion Bela Talbot is an
English coffee-lover who only deigns to drink Italian espresso, and doesn't particularly enjoy tea.
She also becomes increasingly irritated at an inversely proportional rate to the amount of caffeine
in her blood.

"Thanks for the heads up."

He starts walking across the bullpen toward Rufus's domain, silently counting down from ten,
nine, eight...
"When's baby brother supposed to get here, anyway?" she calls.

Dean stifles a grin before turning around. She's going soft; when she first got here he used to get
to zero.

"Any minute now, actually. If you could keep an eye out it'd mean a lot--"

"Fine, fine. Am I looking for a younger version of Malibu Ken Doll, then?"

Before Dean can protest the moniker there's a loud (and pointed) snort. Annie Hawkins appears to
be returning from a break but she stops before heading towards her cubicle to shoot Bela an
incredulous look. "Please, I've never met the kid and I could pick him out of a lineup. How have
you escaped Dean's embarrassing wallet pictures?"

"There's only one," Dean corrects with a frown.

"She only transferred from the London office a couple of months ago, Annie," somebody says
from a few desks over. Ah, Tamara. "Give Dean a few more weeks and she'll be ready to list Sam
Winchester's favorite foods in order of preference."

"Funny."

"True," another voice butts in. "I've only been here a year and I know how Sam takes his coffee--
"

"Okay, okay, can the British transfers stop talking now? Last time I checked this was the
American SPN."

Isaac (the keeper of Sam's coffee preferences, apparently) merely shrugs before turning back to his
work. His desk is a mess of print-outs with flowery margins covered in pink hearts; Dean suspects
he's researching Cupids.

"Anyway, I've got a meeting to get to," he tells the room at large before walking decidedly away.

Unfortunately, he still hears Bela ask: "Is it really that bad?" and the start of Annie's reply.
"Worse; he's like a cat lady or a proud grandma--"

Rufus Turner is the director of the Supernatural Division of the FBI and that's about as high up in
the food chain as it gets within Dean's department. He's not even Dean's immediate boss; Bobby
Singer and Ellen Harvelle are Agent Handlers, and Turner is their boss. So technically Rufus is
Dean's boss' boss, and that means they only interact when the stakes are pretty high. Dean hopes
this is about a new case after all; for all that he loves the job he hates any part of it that doesn’t
involve the hunt itself. What he’d do for more freedom...

“And what part of ‘secret division of the government’ sounded like ‘tell-all bureau’ to you?”
Rufus is yelling into his phone. “Exactly!”

He looks up, makes an impatient motion for Dean to enter.

“I can come back at a better--”

"I don’t bite, Winchester." Then, into the receiver again. “But I’d definitely consider making an
exception for you, Garth!” And with that, he slams the phone down.
"Sit down, Dean."

Dean plops himself onto the uncomfortable guest chair. The Director’s office is not an ostentatious
space--Turner was a man of action before an injury in a hunt forcibly benched him, but the clutter
of commendations on the wall speaks for itself.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Little Sammy joins our ranks today, am I right?" Rufus asks instead. Dean didn't think he kept
such a detailed interest in the workings of such a large department. Sammy's still a long way away
from actual fieldwork and therefore shouldn't register on the Director's radar.

"Yeah. His first day."

"Seems like you Winchesters have made it the family business."

Dean hides a grimace. "Yes, sir." He wonders whether Rufus is aware of what it's taken to get
Sam here; certainly the man must remember what the job has cost their family.

There's a moment of silence and then Turner claps his hands.

"Dean, I'm gonna be honest with you," he says sharply. "You're a great Agent. You grew up in
the world and you have a natural affinity for the hunt. Your parents would be damn proud."

Dean nods tightly.

"That said... you're not the best. I have other people with more experience who I'd prefer handling
a job of this caliber."

Dean’s particular brand of experience is hard to match—Dad would take him and Sam on ‘road
trips’ that were really hunting jobs even as kids; he was eleven years old the first time he
inadvertently got to assist. That said, he can come up with five names off the top of his head of
people with over thirty years under their belt, so he’s not going to contend the Director's
assessment about seniority. He knows twenty-six is far from being a seasoned veteran, but he's
also well aware of his skill set. There's a reason he holds the highest success rate in the department
and one day he’s going to be Turner’s first choice every time, just like his parents were. All he
needs is more time.

"Why me, then?"

Again, Rufus ignores the question and asks: "What would you say if I told you this is about
werewolves?"

"Werewolves plural?"

"The first suspected pack we've managed to track down." Rufus nods. "I'm sending two hunters
undercover. Recon only, mind; we need more information before I decide whether we'll need a
Katie or not. I know there's been two deaths in the area that are werewolf-related but obviously
we can't pin them on this 'pack' without some evidence."

"You want me and a partner to infiltrate the group." So it is about a Katie. That's high-stakes all
right. "What's the cover story? They'll be able to tell we're human."

"Fanboys," Rufus says, dismissive. "You want the bite, you've researched them, you can't wait to
howl at the moon and all that jazz. I'm hoping y'all will get a trial-run before they actually agree to
let you join... but that's not what I called you in; Bobby and Ellen are gonna debrief you later."
"Right." Dean's train of thought circles back to Why me?,but he decides to keep his trap shut and
wait for Turner to volunteer the information.

"You're up to date on the latest lit, right Dean?"

"Uh." Technically he's fallen a bit behind on lit (the Brits call it 'lintel'; it stands for 'lore
intelligence' either way) but that's just because he's been on the road the past few months, no rest
period in between and certainly no time to hit the books. "You mean werewolf lit specifically,
or...?"

Turner does him the favor of pretending that was a 'yes'. "A werewolf pack shares some parallels
to a vampire coven, right? They value the bonds that go deep. Not the kind of bond two
coworkers usually share."

"Bonds, sir?"

"We're talking deep personal connection here, Dean. Some spiritual-level shit, you feel me? That's
why I'm not sending a hunter in there alone."

Dean doesn't want to feel him. Dean wants to pretend he doesn't understand what Turner seems to
be implying; the reason Turner would need him specifically for this case.

He's pretty sure Isaac and Tamara might be on their way to forming one of those bonds but they
still seem to be dancing around it (there's a betting pool on how long it'll take them, of course) and
that's not exactly something you want to hinge civilian lives on. This hunt requires two agents
who share a 'deep personal connection'.

"In order to make themselves attractive enough to the pack to be considered for membership,
Dean, my agents would have to be happily married, or very intimate friends or..."

"Family?"

Turner nods, ending the little pretense. At least he looks like he knows the enormity of what he's
asking even though he doesn't--can't. Because he doesn't know Sam and Dean's story. He only
knows the facts, the bare bones: brothers, orphaned young because their parents lived for the
business and eventually died for the business; something about junior having a brief detour into
college before tragedy struck and he came to his senses.

That’s all just words. The way ‘brothers’ is just a word.

(Just a word and nothing more, whispers a sick voice in the back of his head.)

"I'm sorry, son. But there's no faking something like that. I'm assigning the two of you on this one,
and it's not up for discussion."

Dean has the mad impulse to whip out his hunter badge and quit then and there. But of course that
won't stop Sam from finding out, and Sam would never forgive him. His baby brother is all about
the greater good, and in his current mental state something like this (high-stakes and a little bit
suicidal) is going to be right up his alley.

That doesn't mean Dean’s just going to roll over and take it, though.

“Sam’s never hunted before.”

Rufus gestures expansively. "I know that, you think I haven't considered that?” When he moves,
his earring glints in the morning light coming in through the windows. “He’ll be green as grass,
but he flew through training, and his prep scores were damn impressive. I have high hopes for him
in a few years, especially if he takes after your momma like you do."

Sam, take after Mary? No; the Campbells were always hunters and Mary was always going to
work in the Supernatural Division, but that's Dean's line. Sam never fell for the hunt, he's going to
come into it from the outside the same way dad did: dragged into the world because of someone
he loves. It’s not a perfect parallel (Jess’s death pushed Sam into it; for dad it was his soulmate that
drew him in) but it works.

"This is one hell of a first hunt for a green recruit, sir. My brother's only twenty-two and he's still
recovering from the loss of his fiancée." Not to mention the fact that werewolves are brutal,
unpredictable and the lit on them is riddled with inconsistencies. A werewolf hunt has no
protocols of action in place the way a haunting does, and as humanoid creatures they exist in a
morally gray area that's going to make the potential Katie a hard call either way. "I get that he
looks great on paper, and I agree that he's gonna be a damn good hunter once he's logged in a
few, but he was going to go to law school for fuh--fudge's sake. This is a lot to ask of him right
now."

Rufus eyes him fixedly, and Dean gets to watch the sympathy melt away to reveal an iron core
underneath.

There will be no getting out of this one.

"Like I said, Dean; it's only recon."

Dean makes his way back to the bullpen slowly, his body seemingly undecided on whether it'll
manifest the director's orders as a stomachache or an epic migraine. Probably both, he thinks
darkly, what with the way things tend to turn out in his life.

He'd known, objectively, that by joining the Supernatural Division Sam would be in danger. The
job is intrinsically dangerous and that’s that; it didn't stop him from wanting Sam here (wanting
Sam, the voice hisses; wanting wanting wanting). The whole thing had sounded like a blessing at
first. Hell, he'd been counting down the days. Together at last after four years; the chance to be
brothers again... but this is not what he wanted. Not even in his worst moments and especially not
now when it still feels like they have to relearn each other. It's too much too fast, and if anything
happens to Sammy because he hasn't had a chance to warm up to hunting yet--

"Dean never mentioned you being so tall."

"Aren't you a bit young to be an Agent?"

The voices are coming from the bullpen, an unusual hubbub of activity when normally each
hunter sticks to his or her cubicle, preferring to work alone and in silence. Dean rounds the corner
and is greeted with an incongruous sight.

The place is packed, not just with hunters but with what looks like everyone in the whole freaking
department. Bobby and Ellen are there, as are Pamela, Missouri, intern Kevin, Doctor Visyak
(who until now acted like she lived in the lab), Ash and Charlie from IT, half the MOL research
monkeys... damn, they even got agent Walker to leave his desk?

And then he gets it. ‘Cause at the center, standing well over a head taller than the average SPN
officer, is Sam.

"Sammy."
His brother looks exhausted and a little lost, but he's still got a polite smile for the others. He hasn't
heard Dean; he's leaning down to say something to intern Kevin. He’s wearing the suit-and-tie
nobody else around here bothers with, and it looks good on him (too good); adds professionalism
as well as a couple of years.

"And you were away in college for how long?"

"Uh, almost four years."

"Why pre-law?"

“I...”

"Is it true you only spent six months in the academy before they let you graduate?"

Bobby is talking to Bela and motioning at Sam with paternal pride in his eyes, and Isaac and
Tamara are quietly muttering amongst themselves a little way back, but most of the others are
lobbing questions at Dean's baby brother like it's open season on Sasquatch.

“Well, yeah, but—“

"Have you found a place in the city yet?"

Suddenly Dean is reminded of the last time they spoke. They haven't seen each other in person
since Sam flew up here to interview for the job a month ago, but there may or may not have been
a particularly embarrassing drunk-dial last week that concerned the very topic of Sam's living
arrangements. In fact Dean's pretty sure he made a complete ass of himself by asking Sam why he
insisted on getting his own place instead of moving in together. Yikes.

"Must be great getting to work with your brother, right?"

"So are you and Dean close?"

And that’s enough of that, Dean decides. He claps his hands once, loudly, and starts waving his
arms as if he were directing cattle instead of his coworkers.

"All right all right, you bunch of old ladies, give the kid some air!"

Sam's head jerks up.

"Dean."

Their eyes meet and it's like someone lovingly tasers him in the chest. Dean feels shaky and stupid
and he's grinning, possibly a little manic. His temporary embarrassment is forgotten. He and Sam
may not be on the best of terms lately but finally having his brother within arm’s reach is the best
thing that's happened to him all day.

The crowd (because it's not a group or a bunch, okay; there's like thirty people in there) parts to let
him through, and Dean can't even hide his eagerness to eat up the space left in their wake.

“Hey, Sammy."

"Hey." Sam's lips twitch into a little smile. "Good to, uh..." he trails off when his eyes land on
Dean's chest. Specifically, the amulet proudly displayed at the center by the same black cord it’s
been hanging from since Dean was ten. With a pang Dean realizes that Sam is surprised at the
sight of it, which goes to show how much they have to make up for.
It takes some effort but Dean does draw the line at throwing his arms around his brother. They are
literally at the epicenter of a departmental gathering. Everyone's gone quiet and is staring.

It's... actually really awkward to do this with an audience.

"I see you found your way to the SPN after all."

Sam nods with a glance at intern Kevin. "Yeah. Kevin was nice enough to show me around." He
pauses, then adds. "So how was your meeting?"

The expectant crowd is still hanging onto their every word. "I'll tell you later. How about you
show me what desk they've assigned you, huh? I’mma need to prepare myself if your ugly mug is
gonna be in my sight-line every day."

"Oh, yeah,” intern Kevin starts suddenly, as though he’s only just realized that’s his (unpaid,
‘cause the kid’s still in high-school) job. “This way, Sam. Samuel?”

“Sam,” both Sam and Dean say at the same time.

The other officers begin to disperse slowly now that the novelty is leaving. Gordon’s desk is five
feet away, but the MOL guys work in the bunker, and Charlie and Ash’s IT department is two
floors down.

“I expect the both of you in my office in ten, al’right boys?” Ellen says to Dean.

“Me, too?” Sam asks.

“Yup.”

“Dean’ll catch you up on what’s going on,” Bobby adds, starting to follow her. “We’ll take good
care of you, Sam.”

Sam looks the opposite of comforted by that statement, and Dean can’t blame him.

“Okay. Um, it was nice meeting you all,” he calls to the others. A random cacophony of “Bye,
Sam”s and “Nice meeting you too”s is directed back at him, with the notable exception of one:
“Lookin’ forward to seeing more of you, Sam,” courtesy of Pamela, who grins and winks at him
before strutting away.

Dean snorts, grinning himself. “What’s it been, man? Like, ten full minutes since you got here?”

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean’s appreciative nod in Pamela’s direction.

“What? You could do worse, and you’d have a hard time doin’ better. Pam’s a good one,
Sammy.”

“You date her, then.” Sam moves past him to follow Kevin and just by his tone Dean knows he’s
already managed to screw up. Jesus, he used to be so good at Sam (at? Sure. Never ‘for’, though);
young Sammy worshipped the ground he freaking walked on.

He follows Rocky and Bullwinkle to a cubicle near the windows.

“So this is you,” Kevin says, looking up at Sam with a nervous smile. Of course; Kevin’s an AP
genius and he must know all about Sam’s crazy test scores and aptitude records. Geek love at first
sight, no doubt. “I’ll get your keycard credentials by the end of the day, promise.”
“That’s great. Thanks, Kevin.”

“You’re welcome.” He scurries away with a nod at Dean, who considered himself Kevin’s
favorite in the Division up until five minutes ago and now feels utterly betrayed.

The cubicle is not in Dean’s line of sight after all, but it doesn’t matter if they’ll be on the road
within the next few days. He can already tell Sam’s chair is too high for those gigantor legs,
anyway.

"The computers are crap, FYI." He distinctly remembers his teenage brother's obsession with his
laptop (understandably assuming it was porn-related at first, but he'd never managed to find
Sammy's kinky search history and it turned out Sam was just a huge nerd). "But if you bring your
own Charlie'll hook you up to the good Wi-Fi. That's the cute redhead with the Spock T-shirt."

"Oh. Cool, thanks."

There's an awkward silence as they both stare down at the empty desk. There didn't use to be
awkward silences between them, before.

Finally Sam lets out a soft breath. “So you never asked me why I didn’t go into the MOL
department like Grandpa.”

Dean feels caught out by the unexpectedly blunt comment.

“I... uh, I figured...” he figured Sam wanted to see action after being powerless to save Jess’ life; a
way to outweigh the pain of her loss with a pseudo-karmic reaction formation.

He also figured that he wouldn’t even give that gift horse a second glance, if nothing else because
it got Sam where Dean wanted him: as close as he can get him. Dean's a selfish piece of shit like
that.

“... the lettermen are desk jockeys," he finishes lamely.

"Doesn't mean they aren't an important part of the operation. And I like doing research."

Dean remembers that too. Mom was careful about keeping them in the dark, but after she died
Dad started bringing the job home with him, and Sammy always volunteered to help with the
research (skinny arm thrust up in the air like they were in school) only to get caught up reading
and forget about everything else.

"So what are you saying? You wanna switch last-minute?"

"No. No, I'm saying that there's a reason Dad ended up a hunter instead of a man of letters when
he found out about the supernatural." Sam shoots him a glance from under his floppy fringe and
Dean isn't sure how he's supposed to interpret the weird direction this conversation's taken.

"Yeah. Mom." Henry hadn’t told his son about the existence of monsters, but when dad met Mary
everything changed for him.

"Right, so I'm saying... it's the same for me."

The look on his brother's face is intent, like he's waiting to see if Dean gets it. Dean does, of
course, because it's a confirmation of his thoughts from just a few minutes ago: Jess was to him
what Mary was to John. A recycled storyline; history repeating itself with only a few variations.

(Dean's not under any illusion that Sam's here for him, he's not stupid.)
"Sammy..." Dean's head hurts with how much he wishes she could be brought back. "She'd just
want you to be happy. You know that, right?"

"What?" Sam looks confused. "That's not--"

"I know what the hunter norm is supposed to be, okay? But that's not us, man. I'm the first one
who's glad you enlisted, but I don't think Jess'd want you to be here for any other reason than your
own choice."

Sam huffs out a disbelieving breath. "Fine. Forget it."

Okay. He got it wrong again. "What?"

"Forget it, Dean." He pushes the chair back and sits on it, testing the seat for a moment before
rolling it forward. Dean was right; it's not low enough and Sam's knees hit the wood under the
table.

He rubs the back of his neck tiredly. They're clearly more out of synch than ever but it'll get better,
it has to. One day it'll be like it was before Sam left for college, before the lashing out and the
fighting over bullshit; just the two of them in that tiny apartment and a world outside that didn’t
seem to matter.

Well, Ellen is expecting them in a couple of minutes.

"There's actually something I need to talk to you about."

Sam gets up off the chair again and Dean's still not used to adjusting his sightline this way; down
to up, up, up. "Your meeting?"

"Yeah. It was about a new hunt. Turner wants me back on the field as soon as possible."

"You're leaving? Already?" Something about him seems to deflate, hip slumping against the
cubicle partition. "I thought you only got back last week."

It's pretty pathetic but the disappointment in his brother's voice lifts Dean's spirits immediately. "I
did, but this is different. There's a potential Katie."

"A potential what?"

"A Katie. A KT?" He grins. "Thought you aced the academy, man. Didn't they teach you basic
code?"

"Code, yes. Not slang." Sam looks a little offended at this gap in his knowledge. "By KT I guess
you mean Kill Team?"

"Yup." Dean's been part of four so far but it's never a decision the SPN makes lightly. "Our part
of the hunt will be recon, gathering intel for the boss to decide whether he makes the call."

"Shit, that's... wait, 'our' part?" He steps forward. "Am I going with you?"

"Huh, did I forget to mention that?"

Sam punches him on the arm, smiling. "Jerk."

Dean's chest flutters in a way his brain refuses to acknowledge is even happening. It's the first time
Sam's called him 'jerk' in years, especially in that tone. They used to have a thing; it was their
thing.

"Bitch."

"Well boys, we've gone through this with Rufus several times and the profiles Missouri's drawn
up for you are solid. That said, this is gonna be a hell of a lot of work just for a recon mission."

Sam and Dean nod, sitting side-by-side in Ellen's office. Bobby and Missouri are standing behind
her, the latter with a stack of files in her hands.

"With werewolves the main problem you've got is scent. Unfortunately, lying is unavoidable
when you're undercover but you'll want to stick as close to the truth as possible, because the older
the were the better lie-detector."

Damn. “What about membership, then?”

“There’s a whole process... almost a ritual to it. Before accepting anyone into the pack they’ll
make damn sure they want you in it. What we’re hoping is that the alpha will give you a trial
period, because obviously we don’t want her turning you right away but we also don’t want her
refusing to consider you at all.”

“A balancing act,” Sam summarizes. “Where are we getting this lore intel from?”

“Europe," Missouri says. "France, mostly."

"They have more experience with this kind of thing," Bobby admits grudgingly. "And that's
another problem; we're not sure how pack dynamics will play into this. Until now the SPN's
werewolf hunts were rare cases, and always for isolated individuals, some of which didn't even
know they were killin' people. These folk are organized, and we have no clue whether they're
aware of our division's existence. Keep in mind that two bodies is actually a very low body count
given what we know about werewolves, so there has to be something we’re missing. Some way
for them to keep themselves in check."

Missouri clicks her tongue. "Yes. What we do know is that most of them work in the same
company, where the alpha is the senior partner."

"She went from being a secretary to a paralegal to the most powerful person in the company, all in
a little over a year. The previous senior partner died under mysterious circumstances." Ellen's tone
says what she thinks about the mystery of it. "Somehow got herself considered for the position
and landed the job; flew in over the board of directors."

Dean glances at Sam and they exchange a slightly alarmed look. This chick doesn’t sound like
she’s fooling around.

"So how many pack members are we talking here?"

"Again, we're not sure, and that’s gonna be on you to find out. The leader is young but she runs a
tight ship. Surveillance has got us almost nowhere, which is why we need you two. The local
Chief of Police, Jody Mills, has been contacted to make sure nothing gets in your way."

Missouri hands them each a thick folder. Dean flips through his and feels his eyebrows rise.

"We're keeping our real names?"

"We weren't kidding about sticking as close to the truth as possible. Your name is an intrinsic part
of your identity, and that's the kind of lie we want to avoid. Besides, I've heard you trying to
improv pick-up lines and boy, you need all the help you can get."

Dean rolls his eyes. Missouri is an old family friend just like Bobby, and they both used to babysit
for John and Mary. She's never really been a mothering figure but felt more comfortable with the
'cool aunt' position, as well as being the proudly self-appointed person in charge of ‘keeping his
pretty face grounded’.

He’d take a bullet for her and he knows Sam would too.

"You got us jobs in the company?" Sam says, eyes wide as he skims over his own file.

"Nu-huh, we got you interviews," Missouri corrects him. "Dean, you're going for security because
you're the more experienced hunter and we want you to have freedom to move around, keep an
eye on things..."

Dean nods, satisfied.

"And Sam, if you book this, you'll be an Executive Assitant."

No way. Sammy as a sexy secretary? Dean can almost taste the limitless potential for humor. He
turns to grace his brother with a shit-eating grin--

"To the senior partner herself," Ellen adds.

The words die in his throat.

"To the alpha? Are you serious?"

Missouri glares at him, clearly attuned to his train of thought. Maybe the 'cool aunt' should be a
little less frighteningly perceptive. "We were damn lucky to get you this chance."

"What if I don't get the job?" Sam asks. "There's going to be a ton of applicants--"

"What if she can tell he's lying and decides to have a hearty snack?" Dean says loudly. Ellen and
Bobby roll their eyes at the pun but Missouri continues to stare him down.

"It's decided, Deano." Oh that is a low blow-- "Now be quiet and start studying your profile."

"But what if the alpha--"

"Dean." Sam looks pissed. Great, this is just... fantastic. "Shut up. I'm doing this. I'm in it now."

Outnumbered and defeated, Dean slumps in his seat. It's not that he doesn't trust Sam, dammit, it's
the lie-detecting werewolf who turns into a bloodthirsty heart-eating monster every month that has
him on edge.

"Seriously though, what happens if I fail?"

"You won't, hun." Missouri softens her tone and her posture, smiling kindly at Sam. He was
always her favorite. "With your law background and your natural charm? You'll be fine."

Sam gives her a grateful look.

"Now, story-wise, you're brothers who recently moved into the city because you want the bite.
We can't afford to waste any time, so we’ve already made a couple of clumsy attempts at
contacting the pack in your name, give you some background credibility. Charlie's going to be in
charge of setting up your online profiles—and that reminds me; she'll be on location too in case
you need immediate assistance..."

They spend two long hours going over the minutiae of the case and establishing how they'll
communicate with their backup. Charlie will be the only other asset within the company; working
at IT of course, but she's not supposed to interact with any of the pack or assume an active role, as
she’s not cleared for field duty. Apparently Jake Talley is going to be playing nurse at the local
hospital to monitor any missing hearts, thanks to his background as an army medic. Jo Harvelle is
also cutting her teeth on her first hunt by bartending at the usual company haunt (Ellen looks
quietly proud but doesn't comment on her daughter's debut). Gordon Walker will prepare and
provide weapons when needed, and Bela Talbot will act as law-enforcement liaison.

It's a good team and Dean is glad for it. Jo's a great kid and her inexperience won't hinder them
one bit, that he's certain of. In fact, from an objective standpoint, the weakest link in the case is
Sam.

And Sam's made it pretty clear that he has no intention of doing anything but excel at the job.

"Want me to drive you to your place?"

They stand side-by-side in the large elevator; just the two of them again. The ground floor button
is lit up but so is the third sub-level one, and Dean is hopeful.

Sam takes a few moments to answer and, in the silence that ensues, the contents of last week's
phone call seem to weigh heavy between them. Dean's blurry memory provides flashes of his
clumsy attempts to get Sam to admit they were good together, and more than one emotionally
manipulative platitude about how they're family, and didn't Sam want the good old days back?

It's not exactly the first time he's gotten completely shitfaced and called his little brother, but he's
pretty sure this particular convo reached the record levels of embarrassing previously held by the
first month after Sam left for Stanford. He just couldn't understand why Sam didn't want to live
with him now that they were in the same city again. And... well, drunk-him had decided to take
those questions to the source.

(“I jus' don't get it, man; you know it'd be awesome if you moved in, you know I'd take care of
you an' I swear, I ssswear I'll never forget to put a sock'n the door again. You'd rather pay double
the rent than share a place with your big brother? D'you forget how fuckin' good it was--how
good we were before you left?”)

"I found an apartment that's walking distance, actually."

"Technically so's mine, but baby gets antsy if I don't take her out once in a while."

The doors ding open and the foyer comes into view. There’s a logo spanning ten feet over the
front desk that claims this building hosts the offices of the Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. Company.
It’s pretty busy at this time of day; hunters leaving for their lunch breaks, lettermen and –women
milling about, an assortment of disparagingly dressed people who apparently have nothing in
common.

Sam ducks his head and stays put, and Dean shoots him a broad smile that his brother doesn't see.

They exit into the huge lot in silence, but when the Impala finally comes into view Sam lets out a
little whistle of appreciation.
"She looks good."

He fixed up the paint-job recently and the ample space she occupies is flanked on either side by
Bobby's beat-up pickup and Bela's red Mini Cooper, the contrast only serving to enhance her
classic beauty.

"I know, right?"

Warmth pools in Dean's gut as his two favorite things in the whole world come together in the
same visual field. It's an embarrassment of riches; Sammy's hand gently trailing over her shiny
chassis like an apology for having been gone so long. The sickly green fluorescence coming from
the low ceiling doesn't take away from it; Dean doesn't think anything could.

"Think the passenger seat misses your ass imprint?" Dean ads, because if he doesn't make light of
this he's going to choke up and there are only so many chick-flick moments he can stomach in a
day.

Sam snorts. "I think we're about to find out." He circles the front with mechanized ease and Dean
opens the door on the driver's side. He may or may not time it so they get in at the exact same
time, doors shutting in synchrony to make his little brother smile.

"Hmm," Sam says, shifting side to side and then circling his hips (well, that backfired fast). "Feels
all right."

"I'm gonna take your word for it."

He turns the key in the ignition and Sam'd call him crazy for saying it aloud, but her starting growl
is louder in greeting. Like she's welcoming Sam home.

Sam is quickly absorbed into the Division's daily life. Dean doesn't give a shit about the lip he gets
for his allegedly embarrassing big brother attitude (even though he gets a lot of lip; from the Brits
especially and Bela in particular). He's just too damn happy to have Sam there. They may not live
together for another week but they see each other every single day. For hours. Some days they
even walk in the building at the same time and Dean gets to wave Sam over in the lobby and ride
up with him; tease him about his hoity-toity coffee preferences and harass him about which of his
coworkers he likes.

Sam looks much better than he did a few months ago, he really does. He manages smiling with
minimal effort, gives as good as he gets with the other Agents, and earns quick respect by being
unassumingly good at his job. If anyone was expecting a Dean Two-Point-Oh they are
disappointed (Sam is quieter, gentler, and way more politically correct—he likes to say he’s less of
an asshole but whatever) in the best way possible. Dean walks around practically bursting with
pride.

Kevin and the MOL department worship the younger Winchester as their new God and Pamela
continues her easy flirting much to Sam's rueful amusement, but Jake is the one who seems to
become a true friend. It’s totally cool with Dean, though, he doesn't mind Sam having friends; he
only has one brother after all.

The only hunter Sam doesn't quite mesh well with is Gordon, actually. Maybe it's the unfortunate
circumstances of their first meeting; with Agent Walker and Dean laughing over a departmental
in-joke you really had to be there to understand. Maybe it's just that their approach to hunting is a
little different. Either way they remain perfectly civil to each other and the only point of friction
happens when Dean overhears them talking on a vending-machine run.

"--hearts ripped out? What else could it be, if not werewolves?"

"I don't know. I'm just giving them the benefit of the doubt."

"Seriously? Monsters deserve the benefit of the doubt, now. C'mon, Sammy--"

"Please don't call me that."

"... I thought that was what Dean calls you all the time."

"Yeah, he does. Only Dean."

He interrupts at that point because he wouldn't want Sammy to antagonize their backup, who
incidentally has the highest KT participation rate in the SPN. Sadly, smoothing things over doesn't
work too well because Gordon sounds apologetic but looks mostly amused by the situation, and
Sam just gets more and more defensive until Dean unthinkingly references a hunt he and Gordon
went on a couple of years ago, which causes his little brother to mutter an excuse and walk off.

Dean figures Sam and Gordon may never get along but hey; you can't make friends with
everyone.

They don't have much packing to do, so all in all the prep time gets cut pretty short.

Despite his initial reservations Dean finds himself looking forward to getting started. They won't
have an overabundance of time to settle into their new identities because the job interviews are the
day after they arrive, but that's not so bad. He's seen the schematics for the apartment he and Sam
will share and it's a surprisingly close layout to their previous digs; a throwback to the good old
times he hadn't expected but that is sure to give them a chance to really fall back into the easy
dynamic he's missed so badly the past few years.

And Sam will finally see why Dean was totally right.

Plus, despite his best efforts, Sam hasn't hooked up with Pam (or Bela or Sarah or any of the
chicks Dean has introduced him to) and Dean's starting to think it's a purposeful avoidance of the
workplace-romance vibe, which admittedly can bring complications. Not for Dean, who's had
extremely satisfying and mutually established as 'causal' encounters with Cassie from HR, Lisa
from accounting, Annie from three desks over and oh yeah, Pam herself when he first started
working there... but Sammy's always been worse at separating sex and lovey-dovey stuff. So a
new city might give him a chance to get with someone and help in the process of moving on from
Jessica once and for all.

"You call me when you land, all right?"

There is, however, one thing Dean is definitely not looking forward to about the case. At all.

"Sure, yeah, no problem." It's just that his throat is dry. He should probably drink some water.

Bobby nods at him seriously and then, after a brief pause, pulls Dean in for a hug. The busy
airport terminal is full people doing the same, so it's not like Dean has a reason to back away
quickly. He knows Bobby worries every time a hunter goes out into the field; he can imagine that
it being two Agents whose diapers you've changed more than once would exacerbate the feelings
a fair amount.

"Take care of yourself, Dean."

Dean nods into the crook of Bobby's shoulder. The man always made it a point to use that
expression as opposed to his parents' automatic 'Take care of Sammy'.

Bobby pulls away and nods at the little brother in question. "Sam."

Sam nods back, like he thinks he'll get away without a hug of his own. He is then forced to bend
down and proven wrong as Bobby almost lifts himself to his tiptoes for the crushing embrace. The
handler mutters something to Sam, too, but Dean can't make it out. Sam just nods again in
response.

"All right, now go before you miss the damn plane. And call me when you land."

"You said that," Sam says with a smile.

"Charlie's already set up on location, so you're going to want to meet up with her tomorrow after
your job interviews."

"She's picking us up at the airport, actually. Bobby, we've been over this."

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Well sue me for makin' sure you two do as you're told. Last time I checked
neither of you little shits was much good at that."

Sam and Dean exchange a look and shrug simultaneously. "Fair enough," Dean says.

"Flight XO-195 to San Francisco is now boarding," the infuriatingly calm voice over the speakers
announces.

Dean feels a new wave of nausea roll over him.

"C'mon." Sam starts towards their gate and Dean manages to coax his legs into movement. He
does not feel good about this. Shit.

"Bye, Bobby," Sam calls.

"Be careful, dammit."

They pass the security checkpoint and Dean keeps it together until they get to the actual gate. He
can see the plane through the big glass windows, lit up against the dark of night.

"You okay?" Sam asks him. Dean realizes he's stopped walking and is standing frozen in the
middle of the corridor.

If this was any other scenario Dean might take a moment to revel in being the sole focus of Sam's
attention, but... it's not out of the realm of possibility that he may be hyperventilating. A little.

"M'fine," he manages to squeeze out of his closed-up throat. Well, that was as convincing as the
time he tried to tell Rhonda Hurley he didn't want to try on her panties (he did, okay, he really
really wanted to and eventually did).

Sam raises concerned eyebrows. "What is it? You feeling sick?"

"I'm just... I'm not a fan of flying. Planes. The whole..."

"What? Since when?" He sounds almost hurt. "How did I not know about this?"

"Well it's never really come up, has it? Dad drove us everywhere." Okay, it is now probable that
he is hyperventilating. A little. "I'm just--I--"

"Hey, whoa, hey." Sam steps toward him with wide worried eyes. "Relax."

"I'm--trying--"

"Okay, okay," he checks his watch and then looks around quickly. "Okay, here--"

He takes Dean by the wrist and steers him towards the bathrooms in front of the gate, carry-on bag
swinging wildly. There's no one else inside, thank fuck.

"You're okay. Breathe."

Sam maneuvers him until he's half sitting on the counter with the sinks. It's moist, which is
extremely gross, but then again Dean's having some anxiety issues right now so maybe that's the
least of his problems.

Large warm hands grip his shoulders and squeeze reassuringly, thumbs moving in soothing
circles. "It's okay. I'm right here. I won't leave your side the whole flight, okay?"

Dean hiccoughs and it's just a thing of timing that it happens right after Sam promises not to leave
him alone.

“Not even if I...” he draws in a rattling breath. “...have to piss? A man... has a right... to his
privacy—“

"Don’t try to talk. Breathe. Think of something else for now. It's a short trip, it'll be over before
you know it—think of... think of the free peanuts!"

Right, because Dean is actually twelve. He glares and Sam huffs out a little embarrassed laugh.

"Okay, okay, think of the air hostess who'll be giving you the peanuts."

That actually gets Dean to snicker, breathless. "You had the perfect opportunity... and you
squandered a 'peanuts' joke." He shakes his head, which helps clear it a bit, too. "I can't believe
we're related."

Sam shoves him on the shoulder, albeit gently. "You're fine."

"Yeah I am."

He will be.

They exit the bathroom a couple of minutes later to find passengers already lining up and
boarding, so Sam directs them towards the very back of the line. A mother waiting with twin kids
shoots them an exasperated look, clearly having gotten the wrong impression from Dean's sweaty
temples and Sam's careful tracking of his every move. It's funny because it wouldn't be the first
time some homophobic asshole has assumed something untrue (half-true, Dean, don't forget) but
her expression is more of a disbelieving 'Oh come on, guys, sex in the public bathroom? Really?'
than prejudiced disapproval.

He shoots Sam a brief glance to see whether he caught it and Sam's blushing, so that's a yes.

"Think she's wondering who put it in?"

Sam draws in a horrified breath and promptly chokes on his own spit, coughing into his fist until
his eyes start to water. It makes Dean feel a lot better about what just transpired.
his eyes start to water. It makes Dean feel a lot better about what just transpired.

"Breathe, Sammy."

"Fuck... you..."

"Nah man; pretty sure I'd be doing the fucking."

The coughing fit returns full force and Dean grins, taking a couple of steps forward as the line
moves along.

"You know..." Sam croaks from behind him, and then moves in close to hiss meanly in his ear.
"You're the one with a wet spot on your ass."

(Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck)

They don't exchange another word until they've actually boarded the plane.

It's actually not as terrible as he was expecting. Sam talks him through it, rambling about his
research, his brief stint at the academy, even offering up a few Stanford stories. Most of those
feature Jess, and he gets all soft-eyed and distractingly sweet when he talks about her; memories
polished through the lens of grief so that she sounds near-angelic in her perfection.

There's a seconds-brief turbulence during which Dean may or may not have to abort a hand-grab
move, but thankfully Sam doesn't notice.

He's really glad when they land.

Charlie is already waiting to drive them to their place (her shirt today reads 'QTπ', which Dean
thinks is accurate) and then she sticks around to help unpack. There’s not a whole lot of luggage
but it’s not like there’s a whole lot of apartment, either; small kitchenette with an island for a table,
cozy living room with a pullout couch and the bedroom-suite. The tiny balcony is nice, though, no
matter how windy they are warned it gets.

They end up inviting Charlie to stay for Chinese takeout and the three of them watch Charlie's
Angels II: Full Throttle on Sam’s laptop. About halfway through the movie Dean prompts an
increasingly heated discussion over which angel should end up with each of them, one that
Charlie arguably wins (they all start out wanting Lucy Liu but in the end Sam and Dean have to
acquiesce that she'd probably eat them for breakfast).

She leaves at about eleven p.m. with a triumphant grin and a "See you at work tomorrow,
bitches!"

"Well, I'm beat," Sam says the second the door shuts behind her. Dean had already opened his
mouth to suggest they watch another movie together but he closes it, disappointed. "You can take
the bed if you want."

"No way, man; I called the pull-out couch and it is now legally mine." Sam snorts and Dean holds
up his hands. "I don't make the rules, Sammy."

"Four years of pre-law says you're full of shit." But he's smiling and he caves a moment later,
which means the guy must have really been tired. "See you tomorrow, Dean."

"G'night, Sam."
He strips down to a T-shirt and boxers and settles in for a solo marathon of Friends reruns... only
to fall asleep ten minutes into the first episode.

The building is hard to miss; a towering thing of generic glass-and-chrome design no doubt
envisioned by an overcompensating architect. They have to produce IDs at the front desk (this is
the first case where Dean's used his real driver's license) before being let in and then the
receptionist gives them directions to the thirty-second floor.

According to the brief summary on their file, Caplan-Malone is a law firm with offices spanning
five floors. It was just 'Caplan Law' until the recently promoted Madison Malone was made senior
partner. She has kept it churning out an impressive amount of successful cases and, despite the
unusually high percentage of werewolf employees, the business has withstood the assault of media
scrutiny with a clean record. Of course what they'll need to figure out first thing is whether any of
the humans know that they are sharing workspace with creatures of the night and, if they do,
whether the secret is being well-kept (Kill Team or no, the SPN may have to send a containment
unit for damage control if the supernatural has become common knowledge around here).

Since they are being interviewed in different departments the dress code for each of them varies,
but Dean still thinks Sam overdid it with the faux-professional first impression. He’s wearing a
navy button-down, grey slacks and a tie, and he looks like a complete tool (or does he? A
patronizing chuckle echoes in the back of his head.)

“If your goal was ‘corporate douche’—“

“It wasn’t—“

“Well, you nailed it anyway. I mean really, Sam. A tie?”

Sam's mouth twitches like he can’t help it. “Since when do you have a thing against ties?"

“Where are the sexy glasses, man?” Dean laments, shaking his head. “The pencil skirt? The
marker you’re gonna have to bite in order to uphold the time-honored tradition of hot-ass
secretaries around the world?”

Somebody snorts behind them but Dean can’t tell who it was; the elevator is way too packed at
this hour.

“They are in the fictional world of porn, Dean, where you so clearly belong.” Sam pauses and
then makes a weirdly horrified face. “I mean, not that I think you--I-I just... I meant you’re
confusing reality with porn again.”

"I just tell it like it is, baby."

The doors open onto their floor and Dean motions for Sam to exit ahead of him, but he keeps his
gaze ahead and up, a fixed grin on his face. They step into a long hallway bathed in sunlight
coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Someone got off with them and is walking close behind; a chick judging by the click-y sound of
heels on tile. Dean’s about to turn to check her out when Sam flicks him on the arm, anticipating.
But then a soft voice calls; “Welcome to Caplan-Malone."

This time, both Winchesters turn simultaneously.

She's cute; short blonde hair and big doe eyes, pouty mouth. She barely looks college-age though,
and a voice in his head that sounds a whole lot like his brother's sternly reminds him that she might
be jailbait. Dean didn’t notice her get on the elevator but that might be because of the giant stack
of files in her arms that almost completely obscures her face--he thought that only happened in
movies.

“Can we help you with those?” he asks, gesturing. She shakes her head and Dean’s not one to
judge or anything, but he’s not sure it’s humanly possible to have such skinny arms and bear a
weight like that for any length of time. Seems like they’ve met a potential were already.

“You’re new here.” It’s not a question.

“You got us.” Dean grins. “And you are…?”

“Not new.” She keeps a straight face long enough for Dean’s grin to falter and then breaks into a
lovely smile. “My name’s Kate and I’m the receptionist. I just needed to get these copies off of
HR downstairs.”

Before Dean can reply Sam steps forward. “Hi Kate. I’m Sam, this is Dean.”

“Hey Sam. Hi Dean.”

She matches their pace and moves between them, barely as tall as Dean’s shoulder. The hallway
leads to a set of double doors that open to reveal a huge office space, easily larger than the parking
lot back at SPN headquarters but with a ceiling about as low. The layout is actually not unlike
their own bullpen, even though the individual cubicles here are ample and luxurious compared to
what Dean's used to. Paralegals at Caplan-Malone appear to be treated much better than hunters at
the SPN. Figures.

Kate walks around a large half-moon desk right next to the entrance and drops the files in front of
a state-of-the-art computer (Charlie must be in heaven working IT for this company).

“So how can I help you?” she asks, putting a black earpiece on.

Sam leans into the desk. “Well, I have an interview for the Executive Assistant position?"

"Oh." She sits down in her chair and pulls up to the computer, typing in a couple of quick
commands. "I knew your name sounded familiar. You're Sam Winchester, right?"

"Yeah."

"Great, well you're the last candidate Miss Malone is seeing today, so when she's done with your
competition you'll be the next one up."

"She's conducting the interviews herself?" Dean can't help but ask. It comes out a touch skeptical,
maybe, because Kate looks defensive.

"If you'd done your research you'd know that Miss Malone started out as an assistant herself
here." She eyes him up and down, and Dean can feel her revising her initial impression of him and
searching for flaws to catalogue. "Were you hoping to apply as well?"

Dean waves his hands in a negative. "No, no, my boy Sammy here's the smart one. I'm supposed
to meet with, uh... Benny, I think? From security."

"Oh. Okay, I'll call him up if you want."

"Thanks."
The plan is for them to meet the alpha together when they discuss their candidacy for the pack,
especially since their super special brotherly bond is supposed to be the draw. Of course, Sam
needs to book the job first.

Kate hangs up the phone and motions to the sofa in the entryway. "Benny says he'll be right up,
you can wait here. Miss Malone shouldn't be long now, Sam."

"Great. Thanks."

They sit on the ample leather cushions, shoulders brushing. "How do you fancy your chances,
Sammy?"

A shrug. "All right, I guess. I'm certainly qualified for it." Or so his résumé and fake references
claim. His 'previous employer' has Bobby's phone number.

They share an amused look at the private joke and only a moment later a hot dude walks up to the
reception.

"Those the last two candidates?"

His inky black eyes give first Sam and then Dean a rather thorough once-over, coming back to
settle on Sam for good.

"He is," Kate says, pointing. "Not him."

"Good. Well, Madison is ready for him, so if you'll come with me...?"

"Sam," Sam fills in helpfully. So helpful.

"This way, Sam."

They take off, Sam shooting Dean a parting nod with a little smile attached to it that soothes the
uncomfortable feeling in Dean's gut.

Turns out Dean's interview is a piece of cake. He's overly qualified for the job and knows it, as
does Benny the chief of security. Plus, something about the guy clicks with him immediately, and
they get along like they've known each other for ages.

He realizes he's got it locked down when Benny lets it slip that he's meeting some chick for a
coffee date and how it sucks that he may be late because of his shift at the monitor room. Dean
knows a cry for help when he hears one.

"I'll cover for you," he offers. Benny has the decency to smirk a little so that his failed subtlety,
while un-verbalized, doesn't go unacknowledged.

"You'd do that?"

"Sure, man."

"Dean, I really appreciate this. And trust me, it's lookin' real good." His voice is a low and smoky
drawl.

"Well, thanks. I will, of course, expect you to return the favor if we end up working together."
The dude laughs and pats him on the shoulder, familiar in a way Dean can't say he'd let just about
anyone get with him so soon.

The monitor room is small and cramped but since it’s a one-person job Dean gets to put his feet up
on the desk, so he’s not complaining. He does wonder what happens during bathroom breaks,
though (in a heist movie this would be a blind spot the main character would exploit, not that
Dean’s seen all the pretty-boy Clooney-Pitt Ocean’s Eleven flicks or anything). There’s a pair of
state-of-the-art headphones that cover his ears and what feels like half his face as well, but audio is
only available upon request.

It takes him about two minutes to realize one of the cameras is in the Senior Partner’s office, as in
Madison Malone’s quarters, as in Sam’s interview that is happening right now.

Dean scrambles upright and pulls up the feed, magnifying the picture as much as possible without
losing video quality. He’s got an almost bird’s eye view of a huge office with crystal everything
and the large mahogany desk at its center, where Sam and Madison sit on either side. Their faces
are mostly visible from a high-angled profile.

Also... Madison is hot. Model hot. Jesus. Even with the crap quality Dean can tell the chick is
rocking that pantsuit like nobody's business.

It takes him less than a minute to figure out how to get the audio off of that particular camera as
well.

"... not going to lie to you, Sam, cultivating interpersonal relationships is a big part of your job
description, so it's important to me that you fit in well here."

"Of course." Sam nods eagerly. Almost nervously? It can't have escaped his notice that he's being
interviewed by someone who could be on magazine covers. "I totally get it and I'm well aware of
how much social interaction a position like this one involves."

"Good."

She stands up from her chair and circles the desk to lean against it, looking down at Sam with her
arms crossed over her chest.

It's a move Dean's seen about a trillion times in porn and he can't help picturing the hot boss
ordering Sam to sink to his knees on the floor and earn his position in the company--telling him to
go down on her just as eagerly as he was answering her questions, tugging at his tie and issuing
strict commands even as she gets flushed and sweaty with Sam's huge shoulders spreading her
thighs wide open...

"Now that we've established your excellent qualifications for the assistant position, why don't we
start with the second part of the interview?"

"The second part?"

"Don't play dumb, Sam. Word gets back to me fast."

Sam goes very still and Dean swears under his breath. She can't mean--

"Word about what?"

She leans in closer, hair falling over her shoulders. Dean leans closer to the screen in turn--he
didn't expect her to confront them about this first thing; certainly didn't expect her to bring it up so
suddenly.
"People asking questions."

Sam looks caught out and Dean hates that he can't tell whether it's an act or not; his little brother is
staring up at the werewolf like he's been hypnotized.

"Neither of you were particularly subtle about it, and you were looking in the wrong places... but
you were asking the right kind of questions."

"Are you..." Dean can see Sam's tight grip on the chair's arm-rests. "You mean... it's true?"

Son of a bitch, so he is faking it. That's an Oscar-worthy performance right there.

"Of course it's true. But you knew that, I think."

"I... well, yes."

"We'll get to the how later. For now all I want is to make sure this stays between us and your
partner."

Sam nods immediately. "Of course. We haven't told anyone, I promise."

He's lying through his teeth but she doesn't seem to be able to tell. Dean wants to be impressed but
instead he feels a little sick. Sam's such a good kid, such a gentle soul; for him to manipulate a
powerful werewolf like this without even pinging her radar is... unsettling. Dean wouldn't have
thought him capable of it.

"Good. Because there would be serious consequences if that happened."

"It won't. But does this mean... you'd let us join--"

"I'd consider you," she interrupts. Her tone is kind and she seems to be smiling, but the grainy
picture doesn't provide enough detail for Dean to dissect the expression for honesty. "I'd consider
you once you demonstrate that you understand what it is you're getting yourselves into. But that's
still a long way away, isn't it? First both you and your husband need to spend some time with us,
let us get to know you. Interpersonal relationships, remember? That's important to me. To the
whole pack."

Damn, it's perfect. It's exactly what they wanted; some time to investigate without having to
subscribe to the monthly killing spree.

Sam is nodding slowly, but his voice sounds really weird when he opens his mouth to speak.
"That's... yeah, I get that. Like I said, that's important to us too. But..." he coughs, clears his
throat. What the hell is he doing? "Look, I'm sorry, did you say... husband?"

"Yeah. Dean, right?" her smile grows wider. "I'm a werewolf, Sam. The smell of a claimed mate
is one of the things you simply can't fake."

What the fuck.

"It's particularly ingrained in you, I must say. Have you known each other for a long time? I don't
think I've ever felt it so strongly before..."

Dean sees the headphones drop onto the desk out of the corner of his eye but the clatter they make
is muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. The spindly chair tips backwards onto the floor and he
doesn't even remember standing up. But then it doesn't matter anyway because he's walking, out
of the room and past the other guards and then he's running, sprinting towards the stairs because
he needs the motion and an elevator just won't cut it--he's pelting up the steps with his pulse
pounding and his heart thumping furiously in his chest.

The smell of a claimed mate is one of the things you simply can't fake.

"Back so soon?"

"I..."

He knows he must look insane; staring at Kate red faced and panting so hard it sounds closer to
dry heaving than breathing. He might throw up, actually.

(What have you done, Dean?)

"Are you okay?"

"I..."

The words don't come to him. So he keeps walking.

"Hey!"

The smell of a claimed mate...

(Is this on you, Dean? On your sick little secret?)

He's on semi-automatic so the vague memory of the general direction Sam took is the only
indicator he's got. Once he's passed the area of comfortable desks where the paralegals work he
sees a neat plaque directing visitors towards the partner's offices, and he doesn't even have a
chance to falter.

(Are you the reason Sam is about to be in serious trouble?)

He finds it easily. There's a small desk in front of the door and to the left, presumably where the
Executive Assistant manages Miss Malone's calls and schedule. It's empty right now.

(She'll sense his confusion, Dean. And then she'll tell him.)

Everything is transparent in this place so he actually sees them before he identifies the classy font
proclaiming the gigantic office to be that of a 'Madison Malone Esq.' He also recognizes it despite
the high-definition makeover that comes from seeing it in person instead of through a shitty
camera, and the light came from far off floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a spectacular view of
the city center’s skyscrapers.

Sam’s back is to the door so Dean can’t see his face; Miss Malone is talking to him with an
amiable smile and nothing seems amiss. From the outside it just looks like they’re making friendly
conversation; a casual workplace exchange between two upper-class civilians who don't know
about spirits, vampires, demons; the creatures that creep up from the sewers.

Clearly he did not think this plan through.

... Clearly he did not think, period.

What's his excuse for bursting in there, exactly? Bullshitting on the fly is one of the many skills
Dean was born with, but for the first time in a long time he’s drawing a complete blank. He’s got
nothing that will justify him interrupting this verbal minefield of a conversation, and if Sam blows
their cover this place is allegedly riddled with werewolves; it's going to be the diplomatic way out
their cover this place is allegedly riddled with werewolves; it's going to be the diplomatic way out
or going down with guns blazing.

The smell of a claimed mate...

Why does she look so calm?

Suddenly Sam is standing up (up, up, up; remember the first time you noticed that?) and shaking
Miss Malone’s hand. The white noise in the back of Dean's head intensifies sharply until he can’t
think, and it becomes all he can hear or feel.

(Has she told him already? Does he know?)

Sam starts to turn towards the door and, helpless, Dean's leg takes an automatic step back. His
thoughts are scrambled up in static; he’s a spectator to his own body.

Their gazes meet.

(Is your secret finally out, Dean?)

Dean somehow forgets how to breathe and starts slowly suffocating on air instead.

(What will you do if he knows?)

Sam isn’t moving, either. His expression is striving for calm but his wide eyes give him away; a
mixture of shock and alarm, of thinking only in exclamation points.

(What will you do if Sam finds out that the real monster was never under his bed but next to it,
Dean?)

Dean’d swear his heart is beating so erratically he could distinguish every thump of blood hitting
each separate chamber if he tried... and overlaying that, the noise in his head is an out-of-tune
radio that contains words he can’t quite hear—or maybe he just doesn’t want to. He can’t. It’s a
saturating cacophony that has him paralyzed and stupefied.

(Your brother, Dean. Your trusting, defenseless, beautiful baby brother. When are you finally
going to acknowledge what you--)

It’s Madison who breaks the tension by waving at Dean and then tapping Sam on the shoulder to
motion him back towards his seat.

Come in, she mouths at Dean.

It takes him a few moments to react appropriately--the recovery from his near-panic attack slower
than he’d want and apparently slower than Madison has time for as well, because she actually
walks to the door and opens it for him.

“You’re Dean, right? Come on in.” Her voice is low and encouraging. “It’s okay; Sam’s told me
everything.”

Everything? What does that mean?

Dean follows her on autopilot.

“Please, take a seat." There's an empty chair next to Sam. "You’re applying for a security job in
the building, correct? For our floors specifically?”

“Yeah.” His voice is a croak and he sounds like Batman (Superman can fly but Batman can't,
remember that? Scraped knees and blood on the handlebars of your bike--his blood, your blood).
“Yeah, Benny just saw me, actually.” And he left the post unmonitored. Right.

Madison circles her desk to sit back down and intertwines her fingers.

“Sounds like you two really thought this through.”

What does? “We did,” Dean says, because it seems like she expects a response. He has no clue
what he’s agreeing to, though.

“Madison is willing to give us a chance, Dean.”

Dean’s struggling attempts to keep up with this conversation are ruined by the cadence of his
brother’s voice; something intimate and vulnerable he hasn’t heard in four years. His head snaps to
the side of its own accord.

Sam smiles at him.

“We were right about this place. The pack... it's all true. And Madison has agreed to let us prove
ourselves." Sam reaches out to rest a hand on Dean's knee. Dean only barely manages not to leap
up from his chair. "We did it.”

Did what? He tries to search Sam’s face for clues as to what’s happening but his brother’s
deceptively open expression is actually the perfect mask of concealment.

“Dean, this is the real thing. Not like Philly."

It's like a wake-up call.

Dean's brain reboots at the word and he finally snaps out of his panicked floundering state. Philly.
It's their code for 'follow my lead' from the early days. Sam’s working the case, and Dean should
be too. He is not the amateur hunter in this room.

Clearly Madison’s assumption hasn’t been corrected, and it’s his job to play along until he and
Sam get out of here unscathed. How Sam is managing to lie to her face is a question for later, even
though Dean himself knows he won’t be able to pull off the deception with as much apparent
ease.

"You’re giving us a trial run?” he says, casually covering Sam’s hand with his own.

“Yes.” Madison is looking between them and she seems satisfied with what she finds. “I gather
you’ve done your research? I mean, you are aware of the particulars of what you’re asking here?”

“We are,” Sam says gravely. “And we want the bite.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment. “Why?”

Something about her tone makes it clear that this is an important question. That whatever they say
in response is going to define which one of two ways events will unfold.

Dean wants to intervene but if Sam’s figured out a way to tell blatant lies he’s going to have to be
the one to take point here, at least until he can teach Dean the trick. So he just squeezes Sam’s
hand lightly and trusts him.

Sam, the little overachiever, goes for the gold.

He lets out a little sigh and looks almost apologetically self-conscious, shoots Dean a rueful smile
He lets out a little sigh and looks almost apologetically self-conscious, shoots Dean a rueful smile
before saying: “Easy. For me and Dean... a lifetime together isn’t enough.”

Damn.

Madison makes a flowery gesture with her hand, like a mock-salute.

“Good answer.” Her eyes dart quickly between them once more. “Although I have to say, you
look a bit young to be married.”

"It was only six months ago,” Dean tries.

He’s thinking that six months ago was the first time he and Sam really talked again after Jessica,
practically their first real conversation since the entire Stanford debacle, in fact—it was after Sam’s
first month at the SPN Academy and they spent an hour on the phone (they both got drunk and
Dean let Sam ramble about Jess and cry himself hoarse). So there’s some truth in there.

“Next Friday is our anniversary, actually."

Also half true. Sort of.

“And you think what you have is powerful enough to interest me? Because that’s quite a
statement.”

“It’s true,” Dean says firmly. And if nothing else they’ve said to her has been, this is. If it's power
she wants she'll get it, because Sam’s the reason Dean gets up in the mornings. What they have is
Dean's whole life, whatever that's worth. "And we'll have no trouble proving it."

“Okay then. I look forward to it. I’ll be sure to put in a good word with Benny, Dean, and as for
you, Sam...” she smiles broadly, displaying a row of shiny white teeth. “You’re hired.”

“Sammy?”

At least they are alone in the elevator this time, although that can't last.

"What just happened in there, Sam?”

Sam's jaw is clenched and he hit the button for the thirty-fifth floor instead of the ground level
without an explanation.

“Hey, why aren't we going down?" he nudges him with an elbow, cheeks starting to ache with the
strain of keeping up the hesitant smile on his face. "You know that's damn impolite."

Sam's patented reaction to Dean's ability to joke at times a lesser being might consider
inappropriate is a look that somehow combines disgust and admiration in equal measure. "You..."
then he rolls his eyes hard enough to pull something. "We're going up because IT is on the thirty-
fifth floor."

"Charlie?"

"Yeah."

Okay. An emergency re-group to discuss the mission parameter change makes sense. Now he just
needs to figure out what the fuck Sam's thinking. Never an easy task.

(You can live with disgust, anger--that’s no less than you deserve. But what if he’s scared of you
now? Fear would mean Sam's never going to trust you again, forget him being willing to rebuild
what Stanford nearly broke. Fear would mean the slim chance you have of salvaging anything
from this nightmare is gone. Fear would be a bullet to the heart of what you and Sam share;
irreparable damage, certain death.)

He hesitates for a split second before punching the 'STOP' button and jamming the whole thing.

"Sam. What happened?"

(I’ll tell you what happened, Dean, the voice in his head says. What happened is that your dark
and twisty secret finally caught up with you.)

No. Dean can’t start listening to it now. Not now especially.

(Not only that, it landed smack in the middle of the battlefield and blew up in Sam’s unsuspecting
face.)

"Were you listening?" Sam asks without looking at him. "Did you bug the place already?"

"No. Good point but no; I have access to the security system now, remember?"

A self-berating nod. "Right, right. I... then you know. What she... uh. What she said."

(The smell of a claimed mate is one of the things you simply can't fake, is what Madison said.
Guess while you were busy publicly chasing after everything with a skirt your feelings were still
all about Sam.)

Stop it.

(And now he’s going to hate you for the rest of your miserable life.)

Not that. Please, anything but that.

“Dean... she said that when you weren’t even in the room.”

Sam finally looks down at him, and it takes all of Dean's considerable willpower not to look away.
Sam's eye color changes with the lighting and right now it's a warm hazel brown. Kid’s got that
look on his face again, like he’s conveying something important but is trying to get away with not
putting it into words.

The noise at the back of his head threatens to become louder and clearer but Dean can’t let it.
Madison’s inexplicable assumption is just that; inexplicable. It makes no sense. It’s not because
Dean’s... it’s not because of him.

"Not... exactly the kind of bond Rufus had us going for," he says finally.

“No. Not exactly.”

Dean doesn’t know what it is Sam is trying to say and he has no clue as to what he’s expected to
respond with. He keeps having to fight the impulse to crack another joke, maybe throw in a
Games of Thrones reference, but that's probably a terrible idea. This moment matters, and if he
breaks it he may not be able to put them back together.

He’s just totally lost as to how to proceed.

Sam appears to be chewing on the inside of his cheek, but continues to stare him down. "You’re
not mad?”
not mad?”

“Mad? No. Why would I be?”

“Dean.”

There it is again, that intense look Dean can’t figure out. He holds it best as he can, feeling a little
deer-in-the-headlights.

It lasts until they both realize at the same time that this is turning into a staring contest.

Dean flashes Sam a panicked grin like 'The shit we get ourselves into, huh Sammy?' and Sam
does the 'lips-pressed-together' smiley face, seeming to give up on his attempt at telepathic
communication. The tension in the elevator eases substantially.

"So she just assumed we were all gay for each other, so what? Why would I be mad at you?” he
scoffs. “Although I did tell you the tie was a bit much.”

Sam snorts without much humor. “I know I should've corrected her but there was no way to set
the record straight without arousing suspicion. I kind of froze--"

"You did great, Sam. Anyway she didn't exactly leave you much wiggle-room."

"Guess not."

"And I’m sure having the same last name didn't do us any favors. I mean this is San Francisco."

If Sam’s not going to bring up the reason Madison assumed they were together then Dean’s not
either. This whole 'mate' enchilada... the smell of 'claim' (and there's a word Dean doesn't like--too
proprietary) apparently left all over Sam without either of them knowing, steeped in enough sex
and desperation to override any purely platonic brotherly vibes... but that was her mistake, wasn’t
it?

(Was it?)

It was. No need to point a magnifying glass at everything—no need to analyze it. In fact, there’s
no need to think about it at all. Madison made an incorrect assumption, it’s their job to take it from
there. Nothing more.

"It wasn’t even a rookie mistake, Sam, it was you making the best out of a sticky situation. I’m
proud of you."

"I... thanks.” There’s a brief pause and then Sam mutters: “Nothing else you wanna say to me?”

He's doing the puppy-dog eyes thing that would let him get away with murder.

Dean's vote is a firm 'nay' on having any sort of in-depth discussion about what this means, but
then Sam’s always been the one that wanted to hold them up to civilian standards of healthy
communication.

"...Your hair looks stupid?”

Sam's shoulders sag with relief and he turns away to restart the elevator. "You're an idiot."

"Then it looks to me like you're married to an idiot, baby."

This isn't the first time they've been confused for something other than brothers. Sometimes it got
them in trouble (memorably; a redneck bar down in Texas where Dean had gotten involved in his
first, but nowhere near last, actual bar brawl). Other times it got them free shit, or information.
Some women seemed to feel more comfortable if given the impression that the two hulking guys
were involved. More than one civilian had offered the completely unsolicited opinion that they
looked hot together.

This is the big league, though. Compared to the comedic play-up of an understandable
misconception this is a long con they've never attempted before.

(All your fault. And if it goes south that's on you, too).

"Sammy I'm sorry."

The words stumble out without undergoing brain-to-mouth filter, and he’s not even sure what he’s
apologizing for. Something in him feels heavily weighed down by guilt, though. Something in his
chest.

Sam's frame goes rigid and he actually stops walking midway through the doors.

Time stills. The only sign Sam hasn't seen a basilisk out on the corridor is the small crease in the
fabric between his shoulder blades appearing and disappearing as he breathes in and out,
terrifyingly silent.

Finally, Dean hears a choked out: "Don't."

They text Charlie to meet them in a walk-in supply closet and spend the couple of minutes it takes
her to get there in silence, trying to fit themselves into the narrow space while allowing enough
room for a whole other person, petite as Charlie is compared to them. The neon bulb in the ceiling
bathes the multicolored post-it notes and miscellaneous office stock in blue-white light.

She opens the door swiftly, laptop in hand like Sam requested.

"What the frack, guys? Did we blow the case already?"

Sam and Dean exchange a glance. "Not... exactly."

Her eyes flit from one to the other. "You two doing okay? You look like you just got frenched by
a couple of Dementors."

Dean's pretty sure that's a Harry Potter reference but Sam's the one who cracks a smile at the
expression. Dean's more of a Wars and Trek guy, so.

"There's been a slight complication, Charlie. My... job interview didn't go exactly as planned."

"With that face, are you kidding?" her tone is soft with sympathy. "I'd have handed you the
company if you'd asked nicely enough."

Sam rolls his eyes with a smile. "You’re too smooth, Bradbury.”

"It's a gift." She shrugs. "So what happened?"

They tell her.

She doesn't react the way Dean would've expected a normal person to react.

"You..." she turns in the limited space to look up at Sam first, then Dean. Her eyes are big and she
mouths soundlessly for a bit. Then; "... Married? O.M.G. This is... wow." And then she grins,
huge and adorable and tucks her laptop under her arm to clap her hands together. "This is
amazeballs!"

Dean holds up a firm hand. "No. No way. You don't get to use words like 'amazeballs' in relation
to this mess."

Charlie turns to Sam, appealing, but Sam shakes his head. "What he said."

"You're no fun." But she perks up again instantly. "Right, now I get it." She shoves in between
them and props her laptop onto a shelf at her eye-level, door finally shutting behind her. Sam has
to practically bend in half to see and Dean can feel the oncoming crick in his neck already.

"Get what?"

"Why you needed me and my baby right away." She boots up the computer. "They'll be careful.
They can't have stayed under the SPN's radar this long without being super careful."

Dean gets it, too. "Background checks."

"Exactly." She starts to type but stops a second later and turns to look up at them, arms jammed by
her chest and hands drooping forward like a T-Rex. "I'm going to need some wiggle room for this,
guys. Time is of the essence!" The intonation of the last bit sounds like a quote, but before Dean
can try to place it Charlie elbows the brothers out of her way and in doing so pushes them together
near the door, where space is more limited. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have been a problem.

"S-sorry." Sam tries to make himself smaller, which is futile, and Dean tries to melt into the
shelves digging into his back, also useless. Their sides are pressing together and Dean's shoulders
dig into the meat of Sam's frankly alarming delts.

"Man, I love messing with Facebook timelines," Charlie mutters. Her fingers are flying over the
keyboard and if she notices the air behind her thickening with tension, she doesn't comment on it.

"You two need to tell me everything about this new cover. Your profiles need to be rock-solid so
the story had better hold up, okay? Oh, and I’ll need pictures! At least..." she cocks her head
thoughtfully. "Five couple-y pics in nondescript locations."

"This is a friggin’ nightmare," Dean mutters. Sam flinches.

“Okay, when did you two meet?”

Sam shuffles next to him but Dean doesn’t dare look over. He’s starting to sweat already, and the
close-quarters aren’t helping.

“I... Madison said... The confusion was partly because we’ve known each other for so long that
our scents are mixed. I told her we met as kids.”

“Childhood sweethearts, I love it!” She tucks a strand of bright red hair behind her ear. “And we
can work with the age difference, that’s fine.”

The computer screen is a mess of code that looks no different from the Matrix to Dean, but he
keeps his eyes fixed on it as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He can see Sam
doing the same out of his peripheral vision.

(Childhood sweethearts? the voice in his head hisses. That’s hilarious. Remember when Sammy
was sixteen and mid-growth spurt and you caught him making out with the star quarterback
behind the school-of-the-month? And you couldn’t stop replaying his muffled grunt of satisfaction
as Troy Simmons shoved a hand into your old jeans? The way he pinned Troy to that wall would
haunt you for years.

You never told Sam you saw—you barely let yourself think about it. But it kept you up at night;
your baby brother also liking boys and not telling you, an uncharted aspect of Sam you wanted to
pry open just because it had been deliberately hidden away when you thought you knew
everything.

A part of Sam cocky Troy and his flash of white teeth got to have... but you didn’t.)

"The six-month wedding anniversary is next week, by the way," Sam offers.

"Oh please, please can we do fake wedding pictures?"

"No," they say at the same time.

She pouts over her shoulder. "Next question," Dean says firmly.

"When was your first kiss?"

"Next question."

"Who proposed?"

"Next--"

She stomps her foot and turns around again, no longer looking quite so amused. "Okay, look;
creating a fake online presence is a big part of what I do for the Division, and it's important work.
In this case? Life or death work, because people have already died. So I appreciate this is hard for
you guys? But you need to let me do my job."

Dean regrets his childishness immediately. "Sorry. You're right, I apologize."

She nods, satisfied, and goes back to what she was doing. "Who proposed?"

Dean waits for Sam to volunteer something but the seconds tick by and his brother remains silent.

Well, if Sammy's not taking the reins on this one Dean's going to have to (he'd been ready to defer
on account of the whole fiasco being his fault, but that doesn't seem to be what Sam wants either).

"I did."

He doesn't look over at his brother.

"I took him to some classy joint with, like, vegan everything and asked him in the car on our way
home."

"In the car?" Sam says. His tone is weird. This whole conversation is so far into the realm of
weird it's pushed into 'officially fucked up'.

"Yeah in the car. You got a problem with that? She's a fucking gorgeous car and she's my baby.
She not good enough for you or what?" So he gets defensive about the car; it's the best damn car
there ever was, okay?

Sam raises his palms in surrender (almost hitting Dean's nose in the process because like he said,
no space). "No argument there."
"In the car it is," Charlie declares.

They keep quiet for a little longer and then Dean feels Sam shift his weight a little into his. He
looks up questioningly.

Sam clears his throat while Charlie works and leans down so that their faces are even closer. His
breath blows hot on Dean's neck, and the familiar smell of warm mouth fills Dean's nostrils.
"Dean, are we... we'll be okay, right?" he whispers.

He sounds so young; the 'little' in 'little brother' apparent for the first time in a very long time.

Dean angles his head to meet Sam's eyes and wants to climb mountains, slay dragons, charge into
battle for him. When Sam looks at him like that Dean knows he’d shoot down the damn moon if
the kid asked.

"I promise," he says firmly. "I promise we'll get through this, okay?"

"There was a... misunderstanding."

"No shit."

Dean winces. Bobby sounds fucked. This whole thing is fucked.

"Look, it's okay. We can still pull it off."

"You and Sam are gonna pull off being married?"

He doesn't mean to say it; the correction hardly matters at this point, but it slips out. "Newlyweds,
actually."

There's a long, expectant silence.

And then, because Dean's life sucks that much, Bobby bursts into laughter.

"Jesus Christ, Dean.”

Dean moves the phone away from his ear, sighing. “He’s pissing himself," he mutters.

“Five bucks for me,” Jo says smugly, holding out her hand across the eighty-year-old cirrhotic.

Oh, yeah; they somehow ended up agreeing to host team meetings in the Hospital morgue.

"Technically I'm the one who said he'd take it well."

"That's how you define 'taking it well'? Really, Jake?"

Sam has barely said two words since they updated the others on the new cover and the good
humor and friendly bets ring a little jarring to Dean's ears. He prefers this to condemnation, of
course, and so far no one has asked a single compromising question, but Charlie's reaction appears
not to have been an anomaly so much as an example. Everyone has found this development so
ridiculous it’s become more of a punch line.

They stand around the autopsy table where Jake is going to have to cut up the stiff in a few
minutes; neon-green disposable gowns, caps and shoe-covers for everyone--making the situation
doubly ridiculous in case accidental incest wasn't comedy enough.

"Somebody should give Ellen the phone."

"Wait, you mean he’s still laughing?”

Dean checks. “No. Bobby?”

“Tell him to put Missouri on,” Bela suggests.

No way, not Missouri. Her intuition is scarily good and she sees through Dean like nobody else
does; she’ll tear him apart in a heartbeat.

“I haven’t laughed like that since nineteen ninety-two—promise you’ll let me be the one to tell
Ellen.” There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, like Bobby’s actually wiping away tears.
“You’re in though, right? You’re gonna work the case?”

“Of course. We’ve already drafted the new back story with Charlie.”

“Good. Rufus wants that roster list of confirmed weres, boys. And the victim’s records are sealed
but see what you can dig up about them, too. Our profiles are minimal, we need more on who
they were, why they might have pissed off the pack or whether it was purely accidental.”

“Will do, Bobby.”

“All right. What’s your plan for the full moon, then?”

Dean shoots Gordon a questioning glance. “Remind me when the next—“

Sam’s the one who answers. "The full moon is next week." He looks pointedly at Dean. “Same
day as—“

"Don't say it--"

"Our anniversary."

Dean groans. "Seriously?"

“What is it?” Bobby’s tinny voice demands. "Put me on speaker!"

"Their fake wedding anniversary is on the full moon, Bobby. I can see now why you put these
two geniuses on such a high-profile case." Bela sounds less than amused. "You must've had the
date on your mind, Dean. I mean it's either that or your bad luck has reached 'lost rabbit's foot'
proportions."

"Wait, this doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Jo says. “What if you use it as an excuse to invite
people over? You can mention it to Madison, Sam, see who she suggests. Think about it; erratic
behavior will be heightened, and the ones who try to leave early will be our prime suspects."

Gordon nods. "I like it. I think it's an excellent idea."

Everyone else seems to be on board. Even Charlie, who has opted to stand ten feet back in order
to be as far from the corpse as possible.

"You want us to play the welcoming hosts?" Sam and Dean exchange an equally chagrined look.
"Sammy n’ me, we’re not really... the type.”
"Shocking as it is to hear the Winchester brothers aren't social butterflies,” Jake says, deadpan,
“it’s still the best next step.”

Dean tries to think of another argument to get them out of it, but can’t come up with anything
besides a reluctance to invite a bunch of monsters over to his apartment on the night when they are
most likely to be dangerous--which would be total bullshit anyway, because he's not known in the
Division as a hardass for nothing.

He looks over at Sam, who shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

“Okay. Then I guess we’re doing this thing.”

“I guess you are,” Gordon says. The permanently amused glint turns into an actual smile when he
looks over at Sam. “Cheer up, Sam! This should be fun.”

Sam glares. “Yeah. The anticipation’s killing me.”

“I like the idea,” Bobby offers. “Good thinking, Joanna Beth. Now, how are the local cops
behaving in all this, Bela?”

“Good. Surprisingly good, to be honest. Jody Mills had already had contact with the SPN before,
so she took the whole ‘werewolf’ thing in stride.” She pauses, then adds. “File’s classified but
from what she told me she lost her younger son and her husband a few years ago. She and her
elder daughter are the only civilians in the know, as far as the supernatural world is concerned. I
plan on keeping it that way.”

“Good. That’s... very convenient for us.”

Dean shoots Sam a look. That’s so convenient it’s almost suspicious. Civilians in the know about
the SPN Division and the scary monster world are incredibly rare and always monitored. For one
to police the neighborhood where a completely unrelated supernatural incident is happening
sounds like lottery-winning odds.

“Anyone else got anything to report?”

“Well, to be honest I’m a little bored, Bobby,” Gordon says, smiling. “But aside from that I think
we’re all good.”

“Good, good. I’m glad—“

There's a static-y crackle from the phone and then a distant female voice says something
unintelligible.

"Yeah, that's them." Bobby’s voice sounds far away too. "You'll get a kick out of what just
happened." And then he adds: "Ellen's here boys, an' I'm telling her."

“Great, then I’m hanging up,” Dean growls, and does so.

He feels a bony pat to the middle of his back and turns to find Charlie holding one of the plastic
skeletal arms from the dummy in the corner. “There, there,” she says consolingly.

“You’re a terrible person,” Dean tells her.

“Sure, but I get to be there for the party, right?"

*
"Well, it's been a weird day and I'm going to sleep now."

"Dean... wait."

He can't march into the room and shut the door in Sam's face because 1) rejecting Sam goes
against every bone in his body and 2) he gave Sam the room.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" He pulls out the puppy-dog eyes again. Twice in twenty-four
hours, and Dean is weak.

"Sure, Sammy."

Dean walks over to the messy couch he never actually pulled out and sits heavily. The living room
is tiny and he has no idea how they are going to have a company get-together in here.

He's a little surprised when Sam comes to sit beside him, at a wary distance but still close.

"There's some things I need to say," Sam starts. "And I'd like to just... just discuss them with you
before we start this thing."

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

"Dean, there's nothing..."

Long fingers twist in his lap as he searches for the words; figures even in a situation such as this
one Sammy would worry about his phrasing.

"This case, it's important. I don't wanna screw it up, and not just because it's my first. Two people
have died. Maybe more. And Madison... she may be responsible, or may know who is. We need
to figure it out."

"I'm with you."

Sam nods down at his hands. "Right, yeah, you've been at the job this whole time. What I mean
is... this misunderstanding, our cover... it matters. We can use it, and it's kind of... it's our duty to
use it for the greater good, right? But that doesn't..."

Dean is full-on staring at Sam now, unsure of where this is getting at.

"I'm trying to say that our duty is to make sure nobody else gets hurt. But at the end of the day
other people come second to--I care more about us than... any of that." He's digging his thumbnail
into the meat of his palm so hard Dean's afraid he'll pierce the skin. "So if you'd rather we bow out
of the hunt, I'd understand. I'd back you."

(Even now. Even here, even being faced with the horrifying evidence of what you feel for him,
Sam is thinking about you?)

"Fuckin' hell, Sam."

Sam's head snaps up, his whole body tense as if for a fight.

"You can't... we talked about this. It’s not your fault."

"It’s not yours either."

(Yes it is of course it is--)

“Well then, what’s there to discuss? This is about saving people, so we put on a bit of a show, so
what? I’m fine with it if you are.” Something flickers in Sam’s expression that has Dean second-
guessing himself for a moment. “If you’re not, though, that’d... that’s totally understandable too.”

“I’m... you’re...” Sam's jaw is clenching and unclenching, and his eyes are filmy. Whoa. “You’re
sure you’re okay with it.”

“Yeah, man. Not like it’s never happened before, huh?”

He almost brings up the ‘homeowners of every race, religion, color or sexual orientation’ hoopla
when they were apartment-hunting after Dad... but Sam looks so invested in his every word he’s
afraid he’ll fuck up somehow.

“I mean it though Sammy; if you’re uncomfortable we’ll call Rufus and let somebody else do the
dirty work, you hear me?"

He reaches out to still Sam's hands when it starts to look like he’s about to draw blood (he won't
let anyone hurt Sam, not even Sam). It doesn't count as actually holding them if it's just one palm
resting on top of his knuckles; it doesn't.

"Dean..." his voice cracks. Something in Dean's chest does too; a rib, maybe, or-- "You have no
idea... thank you. And I’m so sorry—“

“Not your fault,” Dean repeats firmly. He feels weirdly nauseous the more Sam apologizes (that’s
because you’re the sick freak and he’s either convinced this mess is his fault or he’s apologizing
for not feeling the same). “C’mon. I'm in if you are."

Sam appears to be searching his face for something, and he nods after about a minute. “Okay.
Okay yeah, I say we do this.”

Dean nods with him. “Then we do this.”

“Picture time!”

“Charlie...”

“Dean, I thought we agreed you’d let me do my job. Please, please just say yes and make this easy
on all of us?”

Dean’s power of will has taken a serious hit of late. He can’t say no to her when she looks like
that, and her smile when he caves is more than a little smug. So is the little fist-pump she does.

“Yes! Thank you.”

“We’ll make it quick and painful, okay? Band-Aid style.”

Her smile drops instantly. “What? But... montage.”

“No montage.”

She pouts.

“No montage, Charlie.”

*
 One.

“Uh, guys? We’re going for intimacy. Emotion. Not... seventh circle of hell.”

Charlie is sitting up on the little kitchen island with her phone camera out and her legs crossed
Indian style, and Dean can’t pinpoint why (not thinking about it not analyzing it not looking too
closely) but he feels supremely uncomfortable. And his skin feels weird. His freaking skin, what
the fuck? Every time Sam gets close he starts to tremble, and he feels clammy, like he’s got a
vengeful spirit breathing down his neck.

His jokes land flat and it’s getting harder to keep the faint smile on his face--he started out
uncertain but it must look borderline creepy at this point, what with how sore and strained the
muscles feel.

“All I need is for you to hold still for a second and not look like hugging your husband is actual
torture,” Charlie goes on. “That’s all I need! I’m not asking for the moon or Tatooine or a night
alone with Daenerys Stormborn, I just need two seconds of you together. Please.”

Sam’s height takes on a whole new meaning from this perspective. Dean finds himself feeling
strangely connected to Jessica Moore, despite the fact that they never got to meet. Jess can’t have
been taller than Dean and yet she and Sam were together, so she must have been in the same
position as Dean multiple times. In Sam’s arms. She must have felt it too, this weirdly off-kilter,
off-balanced sensation one gets when being held by someone who displaces your center of
gravity.

“Oh, for the love of Zod. Can you relax your shoulders a bit, Dean?”

“If I relax my shoulders I’m gonna fall over,” Dean grumbles, half-muffled by the fabric of Sam’s
hoodie. It’s true, too; he’s on his tiptoes because he refuses to look shorter than Sam in the picture.

Sam, who is apparently in a one-man contest for ‘Most monosyllabic’ against himself today,
merely grunts in response and adjusts his hold on Dean’s waist. His elbows are sticking out to the
sides in order to minimize contact, and this is not how they normally hug. Not that they normally
hug, of course. They haven’t hugged for real in ages. Dad died when Dean was eighteen, so...
there’s a good chance it’s been eight years since their last real hug.

And now everything is forced and staged and weirder than it should be.

Dean shuffles closer and almost tips sideways, and instead of catching him by putting an arm
around his shoulders Sam’s fingers dig into his ribs, painfully. “Ow!” Dean steps back, betrayed.
“What was that?”

“Why do you keep moving?” Sam demands, looking anywhere but at him.

“Guys, come on!” Charlie hops off her perch. “Dean, nobody cares that you’re shorter. And
Sam...” She draws a warning breath—and then doesn’t say anything. Her gaze stays fixed on
Sam’s face and she goes from looking annoyed to pensive, like she can see something there that
makes sense to her. Something Dean can’t see, or understand.

Dean hates feeling left out of a subtextual situation that involves Sam and somebody who isn’t
him, dammit. He looks at Sam too, tries to catch whatever it is Charlie saw, but it’s no use. Sam is
still a mystery to him sometimes.

Sam’s jaw is working and he’s doing that huffy breathing thing where his chest rises and falls and
threatens to explode his shirt, which is pretty rich because Dean’s the one who got clawed two
seconds ago. It makes no sense.

“What?”

Nobody answers him for an uncomfortably long time and then Charlie starts to say: “Maybe we
should—“

“Let’s just get it over with,” Sam interrupts, walking up to Dean again. Well geez, give him a
medal of valor or something.

“I feel so wanted right now, sweetness.”

“Shut up, Dean,” says... Charlie?

This is mutiny.

Sam draws level with him and holds his arms out like a man on a mission. “Come on.”

“I’m not standing on a box,” Dean warns them both.

“Fuck’s sake, Dean. Just stand like a normal person.”

“A normal person, huh? Mister Hugs-At-A-Distance?” He mimics what Sam was doing moments
ago, pulling a disgusted face and holding out his arms like he’s being forced to embrace a smelly
pile of garbage. Then he drops them and huffs, the pre-hug stances they’d adopted meaning he
ends up closer to Sam than he’d calculated and nearly exhales directly into his mouth. Oops.

He scowls up at his brother anyway.

“I showered this morning and everything, you know. You’re acting like I’m toxic.”

“I’m not... you’re the one who’s being childish. I outgrew you years ago.”

He’s talking about the height difference but the words sting anyway, sharp and ruthless. Charlie
doesn’t know that the morning Sam left he hurled a dangerously similar version of this same
sentence Dean’s way.

Something must show on Dean’s face because Sam immediately looks like he regrets saying it.
“Dean, I...”

But Dean’s done. He’s fucking done for the day. He raises his palms up in surrender and backs
away until his calves hit the couch. The rictus on his face is probably nowhere near a smile
anymore, but he’s run out of energy to care.

“S’fine, Sam. Let’s just do this some other time.”

“No.” Sam follows him, openly worried but fuck him for his magical powers of hindsight. “Let’s
do it now.”

“Yeah, well I don’t wanna.”

“Tough.”

“Sam...” Dean says warningly, leaning back to avoid—

Sam grabs him and pulls him close, for real this time.
They get crushed together and it knocks the air out of Dean (the voice in his head asks: the impact
or the fact?). He has to grip the back of his brother’s shirt to keep himself from toppling on his ass
and there’s a tilting second where he honestly fears it’ll happen anyway, and wouldn’t that make
for an undignified picture; him and Sam a mad tangle of limbs half-on and half-off the couch.

But Sam holds them up, arms wound tight around Dean as an apology.

Charlie takes the picture.

It ends up looking pretty realistic; Sam’s face is obscured by shadow, but what really sells it is the
way Dean’s eyes are closed—despite the fact that the real reasons are far from romantic, of course.
He’d just been braced against the fear of falling.

Oh, and he definitely looks shorter. Stupid camera angles.

Two.

“Barbados, baby!”

“What about Europe?”

Dean shakes his head. “Barbados, baby!”

Sam blows out a long-suffering breath that ruffles his fringe and types some stuff quickly into the
computer. “Whatever.”

“You realize they don’t need to look like real plane tickets, right Sammy? They’ll barely be able to
tell from the picture.”

“I still say the picture should be of the actual honeymoon,” Sam says.

“How the fuck do you build a fake Barbados beach set in San Francisco?”

“That’s why Europe—“

“If I were the marrying type,” Dean interrupts grandly, making it clear by his tone that he isn’t.
“The honeymoon would consist of marathon sex on the beach, with occasional breaks to drink
Sex on the Beach.” He smirks. “Where in that schedule would we find time to take pictures,
Sam?”

Sam makes a weirdly high-pitched noise and doesn't answer.

“That’s what I thought. Anyway, Europe is for sightseeing and shit. Be a shame to waste a ten-
hour flight just to christen the hotel bed.”

“Dean, I hate to break it to you but Barbados isn’t exactly next door...”

The second picture is them holding two fake plane tickets to Barbados, sunglasses on their heads
against the non-committal backdrop of a blue sky.

Three.

“So Dean proposed, but who asked who out?”

“I asked him,” Sam says quietly. “Otherwise it’s not balanced.”

They are having a late breakfast at a small diner that’s more or less midline between the hotel
Charlie’s staying at, the skyscraper that hosts Caplan-Malone’s offices, and their apartment. It’s
cozy and they managed to snag the one table by the bay window for people-gazing purposes. Sam
and Dean are sat in front of each other with Charlie between them in the best chair facing the
street.

Couples brunch is A Thing, apparently, and according to Charlie there must be at least one
photograph documenting the event. Dean figures she’d know better than them, even though he
finds the notion of him and Sam as people who eat ‘brunch’ hilarious. He’ll eat that shit for
breakfast and have a burger later on, thank you very much.

“Okay, and who took whose last name?”

Dean can’t even believe that’s in question. “He took mine. Obviously.”

“’Obviously’?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m the eldest, Sam. I’m in charge. The driver. The one on top of things, if you know
what I’m saying.”

Charlie snort-laughs in a very unladylike manner, and pushes her pink smoothie away from her
lest she spill it. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

Dean puffs out his chest defensively. “What? We all know it’s true.”

Sam has gone very pale. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he says hoarsely to no one in
particular.

“Just calling it like it is.”

Charlie actually hugs her chest as though that’ll keep her not-at-all cutesy giggly laughter in. “Oh
em ef gee.”

“What? You think it’s the other way around?” Dean demands, inadvertently butchering the crust
of his rhubarb pie with his spoon (they were out of apple). “Because it’s not.” He feels hot. Either
he’s coming down with something or this place needs to crank up the air-conditioning.

“Dean, it’s not any way,” Sam reminds him, still with that look of distant horror in his eyes.
“We’re not actually—“

“Well no, but hypothetically—“

“Listen young Skywalker,” Charlie cuts in. “There’s more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamt in your philosophy.”

She thinks it’d be the other way around. Yeah, right. Dean gets flushed and uncomfortable just
thinking about it. He’s not thinking about it, actually. At all.

“Did you just combine Star Wars and Shakespeare, Agent Bradbury?”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying that’s not how it works, Dean.”

“And you know how it works?”

“I know better than you.” She shoves at him playfully but Dean’s got like a hundred pounds on
her, so while her chair actually tilts to the side his doesn’t budge an inch.

“Last time I checked, you’re not a dude.” Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, Sam drops his head
into his hands.

“Last time I checked, you’re not into dudes.” Charlie takes a quick sip of her smoothie. “I could
be wrong, though.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam mutters, muffled.

Dean opens his mouth to immediately assure her she’s not wrong and then pauses. It’s just him,
Sam and Charlie here; two people he trusts, no one who’d use the information to hurt him later.
And he’s... well. There’ve been a couple of wild nights. Lots of booze. One chick dared him to
make out with her roommate (double dared him, actually, so how could he not?) and he did. And
then some. Then there was the trust-fund brat in Massachusetts who gave him a lift and casually
offered to blow him once they got there, no strings attached, “I jus’ think you’re really fucking
hot”, and it was during the Stanford years and Dean had said “y-yeah, okay”.

Dean Winchester’ll try anything once, and he won’t say no to twice if he likes it.

He... liked it.

So instead of his automatic display of overly butch attitude, he graces them with a cocky grin.
“What can I say, kids? I’m an adventurous guy. What you don’t know about me could fill a
book.” And then, because he reads, too; “Maybe I like having greatness thrust upon me now and
then.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, demeanor changing and perking up. “Really?”

“Of course not,” Sam answers, chuckling nervously and lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “C’mon,
this stuff is not a punch line, Dean.”

“What’s it to you?”

Sam goes noticeably quiet. So much so that the clink of the cup being carefully deposited back on
its saucer is almost pointed.

Dean, who had tossed the comment as an aside, turns back to examine his brother closely. Charlie
has shifted her focus too, and as they both stare at Sam he starts to... oh holy shit, is he blushing?
Is he actually going to admit...? Dean had never found out whether Sam had explored his curiosity
for the male gender after what Dean had witnessed by accident that one time, and anyway for
some reason he tries not to think about Sam with guys very often.

(Tries; fails. Tries; fails. Tries...)

“Sam?” Charlie asks gently.

Sam looks from one to the other, crosses his arms over his chest, crosses and uncrosses his legs,
hits the underside of the table in the process because he’s fifty miles long, and finally settles for:
“...College.”

It’s one word, an oversimplified cliché, and not at all an explanation. It sounds like a total cop-out.

“But my point was that you shouldn’t joke about it, Dean.”
“Dude, I wasn’t joking.”

“Sure you were.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“But you...” Sam trails off, all traces of laughter slowly leaving him. He’d picked up his coffee
again and his arm has frozen mid-air, handle angled dangerously and threatening to spill its
contents in his lap. “Wait, seriously?”

Dean is starting to regret his bravado, but he can’t back down now. “Uh. Yeah.”

The cup drops to the floor with a crash.

“Shit.”

The waiter quickly comes over to help clean up, waving away Sam’s repeated apologies.

“I am so sorry, I-I didn’t mean—“

“You’re fine, don’t worry. I’ll bring you another one.”

Charlie slurps her drink noisily the entire time, until the last dregs are completely gone. Her eyes
flicker from Sam to Dean and then back again, but she keeps quiet.

“Again, I really--”

“Dude, seriously,” the waiter says, dustpan in one hand and brush in the other. “It happens. Chill.”

Once things have settled again it feels awkward to revisit the topic, and anyway Charlie’s
whipping out her phone. Dean tucks his napkin in and stuffs his face with French toast (not a
hardship), pointing at Sam’s egg-white frittata like he’s making fun of its existence (not a lie).
Because the pointing is a last-second addition, the final result is Sam looking at him with fond
exasperation while Dean grins hugely, syrup dripping down the corner of his mouth if one
examines the picture up close.

The topic doesn’t come up again until much later.

Four.

"If you liked it where's my ring, bitch?"

"You realize we're already supposed to be married, right?" Sam says incredulously.

Dean grins. "I don't want no scrubs, man."

"Stop quoting Beyoncé."

"That was TLC, you ignorant swine. And seriously, we’re not doing wedding rings?”

“No, Dean, we’re not doing wedding rings. The SPN’s not footing the bill for my screw-up.”

Dean pretends to be affronted. “I didn’t marry you for your looks, you know. I would’ve thought
that was obvious.”
“Very funny.”

“You either pay up or no one’s putting out tonight, hubby o’mine.”

Sam pretends to gag, and Dean knows a lost cause when he sees one. His rings and his amulet are
in a leather string-purse that used to be a hex-bag, tucked into a side pocket of his duffel, but there
has to be some sort of symbol to mark their union. Charlie insisted.

It takes them an embarrassing total of twenty-four hours to realize they have freaking matching
tattoos.

So “Sam and Dean: the Swimsuit Edition” it is. Literally.

They pay for a day-pass at a local health club that has a pool. Dean actually gets all the way to the
dressing room door before realizing he doesn’t own a swimsuit, and they have to go out again to
actually buy one. It’s a little baggy but comfortable, which is good because there’s no point in
giving the ladies a heart attack, really--although when push comes to shove Dean might as well
admit he notices getting checked out by dudes as much as chicks on his way to the showers.

San Francisco, man.

Now, Dean’s got no issues with his body--on the contrary. He’s hot. He knows it. He owns it.
He’s... not one for working out during downtime, but the job keeps him fit and his money maker’s
the face, anyway.

Having said that, Sam is... unreal. As in, there’s a point where things just get ridiculous. Dean has
an abs outline because he will occasionally deign to do crunches; Sam has an actual rock-hard six-
pack that looks like it was carved with a scalpel. Who even looks like that? Who is this guy and
what has he done with Dean’s kid brother? Did he take steroids in college?

“For the last time, Dean, I did not take steroids in college!”

“I’m just saying, that’s not normal.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Charlie has work today so it’s just them, and therefore the task of asking someone to take a picture
of them on her phone falls to Dean. Or Sam, theoretically, but Dean feels strongly that the civilian
population needs to be protected from direct exposure to Sam’s hipbones up close.

“Hey, darlin’? Can I ask you a favor?”

The girl he’s approached raises a skeptical eyebrow, the murderous look on her face clearly a
warning for him to choose his next words very carefully.

“Can you?” she says. Her Southern accent is so strong Dean can distinguish it even in those two
syllables.

“Me n’my partner...” he starts, consciously emulating her cadence; classic interrogation technique.
“We were hoping you’d take our picture? If your hands are still dry? Would’ya mind?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen and she looks behind Dean to where Sam is sitting by the side of the pool,
one foot in and the other under him, all male-model brooding. It’s like brooding is his default
setting these days, the moment Dean turns his back. “Sure!”

“Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Lucia.”

“Thanks, Lucia.”

Dean goes over to sit beside Sam and after a moment’s pause puts an arm around Sam’s frankly
alarmingly large shoulders. It’s like they never end. (Having those above you’d block out the
ceiling. Or sky. Or world.)

Lucia takes two or three pictures for good measure, making sure that both tattoos are visible as
requested.

“Y’all are gorgeous,”she says breathily. “Congratulations on having found each other. I mean it.”

She plops the phone back in Dean’s hand and saunters away, generous golden curves making for
one hell of a view in her white bikini.

“Dean. She literally just took our picture. As a couple. Literally just now.”

“I know that.”

Sam exhales noisily and Dean hears him walk away, “Asshole,” muttered under his breath with
feeling.

Five.

“But you need to look like you’re in love!”

It’s Sunday afternoon and they both start working the next day. They only need one more picture,
according to Charlie, and she dragged them to a local park for some greenery that’s not traceable
to the same city. Only thing is, it’s getting late.

“Just take a picture of Dean looking at a slice of pie and photoshop my face in later,” Sam says,
completely deadpan.

Dean grins at him because yeah, that sounds about right to be honest. “It’s like you’ve known me
your whole life,” he says, mock-sighing in over-the-top romantic wonder.

Sam rolls his eyes but he can’t hide a little smile, and then there’s a light click in the background
and a flash.

They both turn to see Charlie checking her phone and crowing: “Gotcha! We did it!”

Even the sight of her fist-bumping herself isn’t sweet enough to completely dispel Dean’s sudden
rush of discomfort. That was... surprisingly fast, and disturbingly easy. He was just goofing
around, not actually trying to pass it off as something real—but his thoughts skid away from the
road that reflection would lead him down.

(Danger, Dean Winchester! That way lies the truth!)

Benny is totally chill about Dean having a husband.

"He workin' here too? That sounds convenient."

"Yeah." Dean smiles, because it is amazing to be working with Sam again. Near him again.
That’s never getting old. "Yeah, he's the boss' new Executive Assistant."

Benny raises an eyebrow. "So... secretary?"

"Pretty much. Although you'd think 'personal slave' was more accurate, man, the hours they have
him on."

"Well, at least you're gonna get to see him during rounds." Benny hands him a sheet of paper.
"That's your schedule and the checkpoints I need you on. Your contract come through okay?"

"Everything's good. Do I start now?"

"Yup."

The security company contracted by Caplan-Malone already had a couple of uniforms in stock
and thankfully one of them was about Dean's size. He changes in the tiny co-ed locker room and
okay, so the pants are scratchy and the shirt is very blue, but it's nowhere near the worst thing he's
had to wear for an undercover gig. To be honest, he happens to think the cap makes him look
pretty damn hot. Too bad he won’t be able to test out the men-in-uniform theory, what with him
being in fake monogamous bliss and all.

“See you in a couple of hours, bossman.”

He adjusts the duty belt around his waist and gives his supervisor a cool nod. Benny grins at him.
“Say hi to your boy for me. I’d like to meet him sometime.”

Well, there’s his chance. “Actually, Benny, Sam and I are having a small get-together Friday.”

“Friday?” Nothing about the man's tone gives away surprise, but his posture stiffens a little. Dean
keeps the smile on his face easy while his radar perks up.

“Yeah. If you wanted to come over. It’s our six-month anniversary and we don’t really know
anyone in the city yet, so... we’re inviting a few people from work.”

Benny nods, rubbing the scruff on his jaw thoughtfully.

“You don’t gotta give me an answer right away, man, I’m just saying the offer’s on the table if
you’re up for it.”

“Sounds good. I’ll check my schedule and get back to you, yeah?”

“Great.”

With a little tap at the door frame he’s out.

His rookie status means he gets the longer route but there’s no trouble to be found in this fancy-
schmancy building. The two deaths happened off the premises, and so far no one’s even brought
them up.

Stairways are clear, corridors are busy but that's to be expected and near everyone has easily
accessible ID on them with a legitimate reason for being where they are. Dean does identify a spot
near the only window that isn’t sealed which appears to be frequented by the smokers, but the
autumn chill means lingering is out so he doesn’t actually catch anyone at it.

“Hi, Dean.” Kate’s smile is friendly and she actually waves at him as he enters Caplan-Malone’s
main floor. Dean knows that smile. It’s the “you’re with Sam” smile, also known as the “I’ve
realized Sam is amazing so you can’t be so bad after all”, favored by the type of people who aren't
won over by Dean's charm first thing (though he maintains that those are few and far between).

“Hey.”

“Congrats on landing the job.”

He winks at her. “Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to know whether the apple of my eye is at his
post, would you?”

Kate grins. “I think he is, actually."

“Awesome. Appreciate it.”

He takes off in that direction, eager to see how Sam is settling into his task, whether there’s any
intel for them to report back already.

When he gets to Madison’s office, however, he finds Sam is already being chatted up by
someone. A curvy someone with shoulder-length dark hair and a soft voice.

“—schedule is just crazy, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. I have no idea how she does it, honestly.”

“So you understand why I worry.”

“Yeah, I mean, totally... oh. Hey, Dean.”

Sam stands up from his chair and the woman who’d been leaning on the counter turns to look at
Dean too. She’s definitely a babe despite the fact that upon closer inspection she looks a little
anemic; that or she's sleep-deprived. Or both.

“Lenore, this is my husband, Dean.”

Lenore smiles sweetly. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ll let you say hi to Sam; I was leaving anyway.”

Sam waves goodbye and his eyes don’t leave her until she’s turned a corner and out of sight.

Dean has no real reason to be angry, but there it is. “You realize this case requires twenty-four
seven acting, right?”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t they teach you at the academy? You do understand how going undercover works.”

Sam starts to walk around his desk, brows creased and nose scrunched in confusion. “What the
hell are you—“

“If we’re selling this newlywed shit you can’t just go ‘round flirting with the first piece of ass that
pays your post a visit. What was wrong with all the awesome ladies I tried to get you with before,
when it wouldn't have blown our cover? ”

“I...” Sam mouths wordlessly for a moment. Dean would’ve thought that was Fake Marriage 101;
no trying to get into a hot chick’s pants on your first day at the job.

“What?”
“I don’t... Dean, Lenore is Madison’s girlfriend.”

“Ah.”

“I can’t believe you thought... Jesus. You’re such an asshole sometimes.”

Dean pretends to be affronted by the insult even though it may be well deserved. "Excuse me for
wanting you to keep it in your pants, damn."

"Maybe tone down the 'method' a notch?"

He sighs dramatically. “It's supposed to be our honeymoon period and we're already fighting, this
does not bode well for us, Sammy."

A small smile stubbornly draws Sam's lips up and Dean knows he's forgiven.

"Jerk."

"You love it."

“Do not.”

“Do too—“

Sam’s phone rings and he quickly puts a finger to the Bluetooth in his ear, going off about some
meeting that’s happening in a month. They may not even be here then.

As soon as he’s done Dean asks: “How’s her schedule looking? She have ‘howling at the moon’
penciled in for nine p.m.?”

“It all checks out so far." Sam sighs. "What are you doing here, Dean?”

“Checkin’ up on my better, taller half, what else?” he pats the kid gamely on the shoulder.

"Dude, I'm serious." He doesn't look angry but there is a stressed tightness around his eyes. "I
have so much work to do already; this job is so undervalued..."

"I was--I really did just want an update, man."

"Really? Well I've got two likely candidates in the legal department and a paralegal I'm undecided
on. Might get an 'accidental' paper cut later." His right hand comes up briefly to mime the
quotation mark. "So I'll get back to you on him. Oh, and Lenore agreed for her and Madison to
come to our anniversary."

"Nice. I asked Benny and his answer was definitely tentative, so there's another potential
werewolf. You got anything on the two vics?"

"Not yet. I wish we knew more about their abilities, though. Limits, weaknesses... the range of
their hearing."

"S'part of the job, man. For all the lore and all the intel, sometimes you fly in blind and hope the
thing dies before you run out of bullets."

Sam sighs. "They're just people, Dean. We can't even tell them apart."

"I know." Maybe Sam's husband would stroke a comforting path down his arm, down down until
he reached Sam's hand and gave it a squeeze. Sam's brother who is a federal agent pretending to
be married to him in order to gain information from a pack of werewolves... just shoves his
shoulder a little. "Chin up, Sammy, we've got a party to plan."

That gets him a breathy chuckle. "Right, that reminds me; we need to discuss this over lunch later-
-"

Dean's heart drops. "I can't. I told the guys I'd eat with them."

"Oh." Sam nods. "Yeah, no, good thinking."

"Pick you up at five, though?"

"Sure."

Sam glances around them surreptitiously, then turns toward Madison's office. She's at her desk,
phone sandwiched between her shoulder and her ear while she types on her computer; obviously
paying them no mind. The main bullpen provides steady background working noise but lies out of
sight around the corner, so in other words: there are no witnesses to the least romantic goodbye in
newlywed history.

"We should talk about this," Sam mutters.

"Talk about what?"

"The... you know." He starts to do a hilarious hand-gesture that fizzles out midway. "The PDA."

"No way." Dean takes a preventative step back and shakes his head with a rueful grimace.

"Isn’t it gonna look weird if we don't... you know."

"We are not discussing this."

"We're going to have to. It's unavoidable."

Dean takes another step back. "We’ll come to it when we come to it."

"We could come to it tomorrow."

"Then tomorrow it is!"

Sam runs a hand through his hair, leaving it a hilarious mess. "You're impossible."

"And here I was trying to give people the impression that I'm easy." Dean winks at him before
walking away, but can’t resist throwing a parting shot over his shoulder. “See you later honey-
buns!”

“I’m embarrassed by you on a daily basis!” Sam calls back. It’s loud enough for the paralegals in
the bullpen to hear, which is obviously why he did it. For their cover.

So Dean should wipe the stupid grin off his face.

‘Lunch with the guys’ actually includes two women and Chelsea, who has close-cropped hair and
a great rack and patiently asked to be referred to only with ‘single they’ pronouns. The security
company owns a small little mess on the thirty-fifth floor (same as Charlie's IT department) with a
cozy round table, a mini-fridge, and a microwave for their breaks.

"So I gotta ask; have you noticed anything weird about some of the suits?”

“Weird how?”

“I dunno... my husband works for the big boss and he says it’s like a bunch of them are part of a
super-secret boyband.”

There’s a general rustle of amusement. “Picked up on that, has he?” Chelsea mutters.

Dean looks from them to Tracey, a huge dude rocking awesome dreads down to his shoulders. He
uses his Sammy-excited-about-geeky-stuff voice to play up his ignorance for information. “Picked
up on what?”

“There’s a cool kid’s table in this place, and you are not invited.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah," Dillon says through a mouthful of ramen. "They hang ou' outside f'work all th'time.”

Chelsea flicks him on the shoulder. "Remember our discussion about chewing like you have a
secret?"

"I looked that up," he responds immediately, and points an accusing finger before swallowing.
"It's from the movie where Amanda Bynes is an awesome cross-dressing football player!"

"It's called She's the Man and it was based on Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream,
actually," Tracey puts in.

"You're joking."

"Nope."

Dean can feel the conversation getting away from him. "Does this group have anything particular
in common? Same yoga class or something?"

"No idea. But the Halloween party's coming up so you'll get a chance to see for yourself."

This is an important source of information and Dean is focused on the job, but he does file away a
mental note to convince Sam to wear that pencil skirt if they haven't caught the pack by
Halloween. It's less than a month away, after all.

"So this club... who's in it, just the suits?”

"Nope. Benny's part of it and so's Kate, the receptionist. The boss' girlfriend as well, for sure. A
bunch of others." Dillon pauses, then adds. “Bellamy used to be in it. He was a paralegal, great
guy... he’s not with us anymore.”

Bellamy Blake, victim number two. Dean tries to emulate a sympathetic and caring disposition,
again something Sammy is naturally better at.

"Yikes. I’m sorry to hear that. You think it's drugs?"

Chelsea snorts. "Have you met Madison? It's not drugs. Anyway, I'd say She’s the man is more
'inspired by' Shakespeare than 'based on', Trace."
"Wait, that’s the one Channing Tatum is in, isn’t it?" A stocky guy called Dave asks... and they're
off again.

"So like... this whole scent thing we know jack squat about. What's up with that?"

Charlie has taken to following him around on his rounds during her coffee break. They've always
gotten along but Dean doesn’t get to see her much back at HQ and they'd never worked a case
together before. She's awesome; the little sister he never knew he wanted.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... can they smell particular emotions or is it less specific? Does it figure into them being
able to tell when a person is lying? How accurate is it if she couldn't even tell you two are
related?"

"Might wanna keep your voice down?" Dean suggests. "We don't know how good their hearing
is, either."

They walk by Kate but she's busy working and seems to pay them no mind.

"The MOL have very little on werewolves, Charlie."

She nods and takes a thoughtful sip of her cup. "Dean... can I ask you something?"

Before Dean can reply there's a commotion at the other end of the bullpen and suddenly a rustle of
energy seems to sweep over the room; everyone‘s moving with extra purpose and looking doubly
busy. Predictably, Madison appears around the corner being trailed by a group of people that
include some of her top lawyers and two--no, three assistants including Sam.

"...and if Becky doesn't have the accounting numbers yet I'd like someone to give her a quick call,
just to remind her."

"I'll get it done before lunch, ma'am."

The boss and her lackeys are drawing closer so Dean and Charlie quickly stand aside to get out of
their way; Madison's purposeful stride seems to demand a clear path.

"Thanks, Riley. Sam?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like you to remind Riley about the whole 'ma'am' issue, please?"

There's a general chuckle among the group except for the one dude who flushes. "Right, sorry."

Now level with them, Madison shoots Dean and Charlie a quick smile before moving on. Sam
smiles at them too, but his is bright and affectionate, and he keeps his gaze on Dean even as he
walks on--actually turning his head so as not to break eye-contact until the guy behind him
stumbles and Sam has to apologize, blushing furiously. Because Dean is particularly dumb this
morning, he actually forgets that the whole incident is an act until Sam's out of sight, and the
realization wipes the big grin right off his face.

Sam hasn't shown his affection so overtly since he was a teenager, before Stanford.

Charlie's looking up at him.

Charlie's looking up at him.

Dean quirks an eyebrow at her. "You wanted to ask me something?"

"Nah." She takes another sip of coffee. "Forget it."

Sam and Dean's calling card ends up pretty booked by the time the full moon starts to loom closer.

They've also coasted on through without having to deal with the whole PDA issue for almost a
week, and it's mostly been out of pure dumb luck--not something the Winchesters have ever been
accused of having before.

Of course, the universe sees fit to remedy that real quick by Thursday, the day before the party.

"Wait, wait a minute. You’re saying we need to sleep together for the case?"

"Just sleep!"

"Yeah, I figured just sleep, Sam! It's still the same bed!"

They shared a bed as kids, for a while. After mom died, but before dad did. It was a comfort thing;
they were kids. This is... this would be the opposite of that.

Tomorrow this tiny apartment is going to be full of people who may or may not be werewolves
with heightened senses and what Sam's saying makes perfect sense. They won't be able to keep
anyone out of the bedroom. The couch Dean's been using as a bed will be moved against the wall
but if Madison could smell him on Sam she'll probably be able to smell him on the pillows he's
been sleeping in for a week. She has every reason to be suspicious of them and she already
warned them that the screening process was thorough; they can't leave anything up to chance.

And yet.

Dean’s been accused of overcompensating machismo more than once but he’s pretty sure any
reasonable guy would agree that sleeping together is a bit much. Even Sam, normally.

"They might be able to tell if we don't,” Sam points out. “And it'd only be tonight. We don't know
the extent of their abilities, Dean.”

Sam does this thing sometimes where he becomes a caricature of himself, this reasonable,
perfectly politically correct shell with all the real emotions hidden behind a barricade Dean is not
allowed to breach. It started right before he left for Stanford; during the weeks of secret
applications, fake appointments to visit the SPN Academy, fake smiles for Dean's benefit. It hurts
like a demon dagger to the back because it creates a distance that seems to grow bigger the more
Dean tries to shorten it (demon daggers are serrated and hurt twice as much).

It’s more noticeable now than ever. Sam can’t be comfortable with this, no way.

"And you're okay with this."

Sam's reaction is to shrug. "It's not a question of what I'm--"

"Wrong," Dean snaps. "That's exactly the question I'm askin' you and I want a real answer."

"Dean. We agreed to work the case." Sam sounds vaguely indignant and still Dean knows it's a
cover up. "This is me trying to work the case. If you're not comfortable with it we don't have to,
but I just feel like we're taking a huge risk by not keeping our bases covered."

Then look at me, Dean thinks furiously, feeling a headache coming on. Really look at me. Tell me
how you really feel about sleeping in the same bed as the reason a werewolf thought you'd been
'claimed'.

Instead of saying any of that he forces a grin. "Fine. But for the record, if anyone asks I am always
the big spoon."

Sam snorts. "We don't have to cuddle, Dean, just... you know."

"Have hardcore sex."

"Oh my god, no!" But the clear alarm is more Sam than his logical reasoning was a minute ago,
which is what Dean was going for.

"You saying we'll just lie there side by side and watch a movie or somethin'? 'Cause that's what
old people do."

"Old people have sex too, Dean."

"I knew it! You're trying to get into my pants!"

"Man, shut up."

Agreeing to it is one thing; actually going through with the plan is another.

The room is small, the bed looks tiny, and Sam is very, very large.

There’s a single window to their right, under which lies a yellowing AC system Dean has no
intention of using because it’s getting colder by the day. Sam’s bedside table has four generic
novels on it that he bought at the airport (no Dan Brown at least; that dude’s a hack) and his laptop
charger. Dean’s side has a small lamp.

The suitcase didn’t fit in the closet so it’s propped up against the far wall, still half-full.

The bathroom door is ajar because it won’t shut properly and Dean can see the cup with both their
toothbrushes in it. The connotations of that simple domestic image are harder to ignore now, in
this new setting. With him sleeping next to Sam.

“D’you still take the right side?” He starts to regret the question mid-sentence. It sounds like he’s
familiar with aspects of his brother he really shouldn’t be.

Sam just shrugs. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

“S’fine.”

Dean shucks his shoes and his jeans nice and easy, then his plaid shirt, leaving just a muscle-shirt
and underwear. Sam appears to take his cue from there and does the same. His boxer briefs are
blue. His thighs, on the other hand, are ridiculous.

“Fair warning, those tacos we had for dinner better not make a comeback during the night, dude. I
haven’t forgotten Gas Gate back in ’02.”

Sam’s mouth drops open. “You... it wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh it was bad. It was absolutely that bad, Sam.” He pulls back the covers and gets in, the smell
of Sam rich and thick in the blankets.

“Jerk.”

When they lived together it got to a point where he didn’t notice Sam’s particular odor, the way he
didn’t notice his own or the smell of home. Dean supposes the kid did have a point about the
werewolf scent stuff, and Charlie had a point about the as-of-yet unknown limits to it, too. He’s
trying not to think about what happens if Madison doesn’t smell sex in here. Newlywed couples
are supposed to go at it like rabbits, right? At any rate Sam must have jerked off in here at some
point. (So, logistically speaking, you would’ve had to fuck the guy into the mattress and come in
his—)

Sam’s looking at him expectantly. It takes Dean a moment to realize. “Bitch.”

His brother gets in on the other side and Dean turns away to switch the nightlight off—but a large
hand on his arm stills the motion.

“One last thing.”

“What?”

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek for a bit before continuing.

“What, Sam?”

“We...” he huffs out an awkward laugh. “Dean, we’re probably going to have to kiss at least
once.”

Dean stares at him.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was, but this is a very real possibility—“

“And you want to have this conversation now?”

“If not now, when?” Sam snaps impatiently. “Every time I bring up a perfectly legitimate concern
about our cover you turn into a freaking five-year-old, you know that? What, d’you think holding
hands is all Madison will expect to see?”

“I think this is the kind of thing we’ll just have to, you know... improvise.”

“No way. There’s improvisation and there’s getting caught with your finger up your ass in an
easily avoidable situation, and if we don’t plan this right we’re going to get caught.”

“They won’t be paying attention to the way we—“

“Yes they will, that’s my point.” His words sound clipped with anger. “That’s exactly my freaking
point, Dean. They’ll be paying attention to everything we do, every tiny detail has to hold up. You
honestly think Madison hasn’t considered the possibility that we’re faking it? She’s investigating
us back, Dean; this hunt goes both ways and you’re just too stubborn to see it.”

He’s not. He gets it, he’s kept it in mind ever since he met her. A woman who’s got her shit
together as well as Madison does doesn’t believe in blind spots. If he was unsure about the pack
knowing about hunters before they came here, the notion vanished soon after arrival, and even if
she didn’t suspect them of being spies the value of the bond is what’s supposed to get Sam and
Dean into the pack, so they’d be looking into it anyway.

There’s no reason for him to be acting so difficult about this shit. Sam’s right.

“If you’re really okay with my—with everything, this kind of stuff shouldn’t be so hard for you to
talk about.”

Sam’s propped himself up onto his elbows and is glaring at him, and tomorrow they’re gonna
have to be married all day.

“I just think...” Dean sighs. “Dude, doesn’t this freak you out? How are you so chill?”

What he really wants to say is: “Stop acting so chill. Just stop acting. Be yourself around me,
man. It’s me. Tell me what you really think.”

“I’m...” something flickers behind his eyes, something real. Dean’s pulse jumps even as Sam
looks down at the mattress to avoid his gaze. “Dean, we... I’m trying to be professional here.”

“Sammy... it’s just us here. I’m your partner on the job but we’re brothers first, right? We’re
always brothers first.”

Sam makes a pained face. Dean’s stomach churns with guilt and self-loathing, his two closest
companions. Maybe he should stop reminding Sam of that these days.

(Maybe you should focus on figuring out why that reminder does nothing to quieten the dreams,
Dean.)

He ignores the stupid thoughts. He can't afford to get caught up in them now. Not here, in this safe
space he’s trying to create.

(I'm sorry, when is it convenient for you to think of Sammy like that, then? When you're jerking off
in the shower and the scalding water starts to hurt the nape of your neck? In random flashes
when Rhonda the pizza delivery girl asks if you're into pegging?)

“I just want to get through this,” Sam whispers finally. And it's finally him this time, not rational
Robot Sam. Robo-Sam. Heh. “Just... work with me, okay? I promise I've got it under control, and
it meant a lot that you said... you know. You don't hate me or anything." Dean barely refrains
from scoffing; as if there's anything on this earth that could make him hate his baby brother. "But
the fact remains that I fucked up in my interview, and you said you wanted to help me make up
for that. What I need is for you not to fight me every step of the way, Dean. Not unless you really
mean it, because I can't... tell if this is you being seriously uncomfortable or just... y'know." He
actually smiles a little. "You being you."

"Okay." Dean nods. "You're right."

"Thank you."

"So here's what we're gonna do." He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, then sits up like he's
bracing for a hit. "Lay one on me."

Sam blinks at him.

"You... what?"

Dean smirks, confidence returning now that the natural order has been restored and he has the
upper hand once more. "What? I thought we just agreed you were right like two seconds ago?"

"I... I said talk about it. Not practice." Sam is looking at him like he's suggested they murder a
baby.

"You chicken?"

"Am I...? Dean, you realize you're asking me to kiss you, right?"

"Look, I figure we get this out of the way now, it's less awkward when we do it in public,
everybody wins."

"Everybody but you."

He shrugs. "And you. But since when have we been all about self-gratification?"

Sam makes a low grunt. "I suppose 'The Greater Good' should have been our middle name." At
least he looks like he's considering it.

"Big damn heroes, we are," Dean agrees. "Now c'mon, let's get this over with."

“Wait, wait. So...” Sam shifts his weight. “We do it movie-style, right? No tongue.”

“Jesus. Yeah, Sam, we do it movie style. You wanna discuss angles? Spit quota?”

“I’m trying to minimize the damage this is going to do to your brain, asshole.”

Dean really wishes Sam would cut it out with the selfless shtick. Is it even realistic for someone to
act like a bottomless well of moral goodness? “You’re a fucking prince.”

“Does that make you the frog or the princess?" The little shit is smirking a little.

"Fuck you."

"No thanks." But he leans in closer.

(This is real.)

The faint shield of smug confidence Dean had managed to draw up abandons him the second his
brain processes what’s about to happen--he's about to kiss Sam. Kiss. Sam.

The two concepts elude each other in his mind, oil on water, slippery and hard to hold together for
long because he can't think about--not about how--

(You've wanted to do this for years and now it's about to happen.)

It's no big deal though. Not really. Kissing Sam is... he's patched up Sam's wounds, washed his
hair, held him over the toilet seat while he puked his guts out. This is tame compared to any of
those. They kissed as kids; forehead kisses and sloppy wet smooches on their cheeks. This is
nothing.

(Right. Nothing. The moment you'd relegated to dreamland forever, suddenly within reach, is
nothing.)

The static sound is back, messy and deafening and there’s something jumbled up in it, an obvious
concept he’s refused to listen to for a very long time.
And he brought this on himself... why?

(Wanted it the same way you've wanted everything when it comes to Sam; too stupidly full of love
to distinguish the ways in which you're allowed to love him.)

He has to do it. The noise has obliterated everything else but this, he knows.

They are so close he can taste Sam’s breath.

(Come on, Dean!)

It’s so loud. He can almost make out the words.

(You’re dying to do it!)

He has to.

(Do it now!)

He has to...

Kiss him.

And suddenly it’s not noise anymore. Suddenly he understands.

The touch of Sam’s lips suffuses him with abrupt, sharp clarity. This is it. This is what he's wanted
for ever. Sam’s body as well as Sam’s mind, Sam’s hands as well as his attention, his lips as well
as his smile, his skin as well as his smarts—Sammy as a whole not as separate pieces, Sam in his
entirety, everything about him, everything, the parts that are right and the ones that are wrong.

Sam's mouth is soft and warm, the tip of his nose smashed slightly against the side of Dean's, and
this is overwhelmingly like being drowned after having gotten used to living in a permanent state
of dehydration. It's chokingly excessive, gut-wrenchingly terrifying. The mere realization that he
can't hide from wanting it anymore makes him shake apart.

They are both so scared to go too far that at first it's just kind of... them breathing on each other
and not moving. Finally the sheer panicky awkwardness of it makes Dean blow warm air through
his nose, and Sam's response is to make a pained little noise and press closer before pulling away.

He's flushed red and hot as hell. So it's probably a good thing that Dean's been paralyzed by his
own thoughts.

"Uh..."

"Not so bad, was it?" Dean hears himself croak. "Out of the way."

"Yeah."

"So it won't be awkward next time."

"Right. Not at all."

I want you I want you I want you I want you--

He needs to not be here. He needs to go right now.

Dean rips off the covers and staggers to his feet. "Gotta piss," he tosses over his shoulder, and
slams the bathroom door behind him.

His heart is pounding and his blood is on fire, his lungs feel shrunken to the size of fists. Sammy.
He’s wanted to kiss Sam for so long, he’s wanted to hold and take and keep him closecloserinside
—wanted it for as long as he can remember and that day, that day with Troy when Sammy shoved
the kid against a wall was the day Dean had to build a wall of his own, to shut out that type of
want, to filter out the impurities from his roar of desire for Sam in every single way.

Wall's gone now.

Shit.

He clutches the sink and dry-heaves for a bit, avoiding his reflection in the smudgy mirror. The
veins in his arms stand out weirdly against his skin, which looks paler in the bathroom light. The
freckles are more unflattering than ever, and he can’t believe he’s managed to screw it all up so
bad.

‘Take care of Sammy,’ Mom and Dad used to say. Christ. What is he supposed to do now? How
is he supposed to...?

What is he supposed to do?

"Dean?"

There's a weird hot-cold feeling sweeping over his body; once a chick pressed an ice-cube to the
back of his head until he got all shivery and erratic and then she rode him into submission--this
feels weirdly comparable.

“Dean.”

Sam's standing right outside.

His brother Sam who Dean’s been in love with for as long as he can remember.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"I'm fine, Sammy," he calls out.

"I'm sorry I fucked everything up."

I fucked everything up first, Dean thinks fiercely. I was the thing that was fucked up and
consequently passed that on to every other thing in my vicinity. You. The job. Our relationship.

"Not your fault."

There's a soft thump against the door, like Sam's forehead--no, the rustle that comes after means it
was the back of Sam's head and he's actually doing the overly dramatic sliding-down-the-door
schtick.

Dean wants him so bad.

And the worst thing is that Sam knows. Madison all but spelled it out to him. Sam knows and
forgives Dean and is apologizing and is sticking with him through this case anyway.

"Are we gonna be okay?" Sam's muffled voice asks thickly. "Dean?"

"We're gonna be fine, Sammy."

"I can't tell if you mean that anymore."

It's the catch in his voice that wrenches Dean off his iron grip of the stained porcelain and turns
him around to open the door. Sam's sitting on the floor with his back to him and his huge
shoulders go up in reflex, like he expects a hit. Hunter instinct, Dean hopes, not an actual fear of...
please, no.

"Sammy."

His brother shuffles upright and looks him dead in the eye. He's not crying or anything, but his
jaw is doing the ticking thing.

Call me out, put it into words, Dean thinks loudly at his brother. Spit it in my face. Punch me. Get
angry, man. You've been reacting way too evenly to this whole thing.

He manages not to brace himself on the doorway. His fingers itch to grab and hold on in a
tangible physical way, but that's not going to happen.

"All I wanted was for us to be together again," he says helplessly. He never realistically
considered that working together could lead to something like this, Sam has to believe that, right?

His brother just keeps staring at him.

"I never meant for this to... Sammy, I told you that if you felt uncomfortable we’d bow out and I
meant that. I'm--"

"Stop saying sorry," Sam cuts in.

"I will if you do." Because if Sam tries to apologize for not feeling the same way Dean’s going to
lose it for real.

There's a long beat of silence.

“We still up for this, then?”

“I told you Sammy, I am if you are. Things’ll go back to normal, I swear—“

"It's not going to be like before, Dean," Sam interrupts. Dean winces, although the blow is well
deserved. "You know I’d do anything for you, but things will never be the way they were before.
And that... doesn't have to be a bad thing. Not if we don't let it."

He feels himself nod, unsure he understands.

"You can't cling to the past. I'm not a kid anymore."

A reactive, helpless smile tugs at Dean’s mouth. "You'll always be my kid brother, Sammy--"

"No. That's not what I want. If we're partners in this we're equal, all right?"

Sam thrusts out his hand like they're about to shake on it. Dean's instincts scream at him that this is
the type of moment that requires one of them to go for a hug, but he doesn't think he's going to be
trusting his instincts around Sam much anymore. He aches everywhere, like the emotional blows
landed with real physical consequences.

"Does 'equal' mean I can't call you Samantha anymore?"

"Only if I can call you Deana."

"Dude. That's our dead grandmother you just referenced."

They both make a face.

"We should probably get some sleep."

"... Yeah."

Before this case began Dean had expected things to be so different. Him pushing, Sam pulling,
Stanford and Jess like a wall in between that had to be brought down. Instead they are lying in bed
together as far apart as the mattress will allow, and if that's not the perfect illustration of this
claustrophobic box they've gotten themselves locked in Dean doesn't know what is.

It probably says a lot about how fucked he is that he thinks he might not want it any other way.

In all honesty, Dean had been expecting to stay awake most of the night and maybe, if he was
lucky, catch a total hour of fitful rest in five-minute increments. What actually happens is that he
rides the spiral of guilt and self-loathing all the way into unconsciousness, sinking into darkness
without the benefit of oblivion--straight into his familiar nightmares.

There’s a recurring one where he’s hacking his way through the woods chasing a monster, but he
can’t remember what he’s hunting. And slowly it dawns on him... he’s not hunting anything, he’s
actually running away. He’s the one being hunted.

He’s the monster.

“Dean!”

He jolts awake, panting, and has the vague impression of a warm pressure leaving his shoulder--
and then Sam’s there. Right next to him, right up close.

“You okay?”

“I’m...” he gulps. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Bad dream?”

“No.”

Sam is quiet for a moment, then he shifts sideways in the mattress, backing off in every sense of
the word. “Okay. ‘Night.”

Dean was maybe a bit harsh, but he sees his chance to make up for that as Sam takes most of the
blanket with him when he turns away. “Hey, hey, where do you think you’re going?”

Sam freezes, and looks at him over his shoulder. Even in the darkness his eyes glint with worry.
“What?”

“You hoggin’ the blankets, man! Didn’t I teach you to share?”

Sam heaves a sigh of relief. What did he think Dean was gonna ask him to...?

His train of thought cuts off when Sam throws the body-warm sheets over him, arm coming
around him and momentarily engulfing Dean’s torso. Then it’s gone, and Dean shivers. But he’s
going to grit his teeth and get through this. He’s going to lie back and take it, literally for tonight
and figuratively for what’s left of the case. He’s not going to hurt Sam. He stands by his principle
of not letting anything hurt Sam and now that he’s realized he’s also on the list, he’s going to hold
himself to the same standards as any other threat.

“Sorry.”

“Eh, you’ll make it up to me with pie for breakfast tomorrow.”

“...If you say so.”

“Damn right I do. G’night, Sammy.”

“Good night.”

The rest of the night is actually... very uncomfortable, but for the most mundane and hilarious of
reasons. It wasn’t a panicked exaggeration when Dean estimated that the bed was tiny; he and
Sam really are too large for that space. Two bulky guys with broad shoulders and long, thick
limbs simply don’t fit in a queen-sized bed, and it shows. The blanket is an issue that gets tugged
and shuffled around constantly; they keep bumping into each other whenever one rolls over or
hell, does anything other than lie on his side... and it’s fucking annoying.

Dean’s so relieved he doesn’t give a shit that he’ll wake up with a crick in his neck and
uncomfortable back pain.

After a particularly hard kick to the meat of Dean’s thigh that catalyzes a reactive elbow-jaw to
Sam’s ribs, he mutters; “You know, if we really were married we’d need to buy a bigger bed, for
sure.”

Sam takes so long to answer that Dean thinks, a little groggy himself, that he must have fallen
asleep again. But he’s almost out again when he’s pretty sure he hears Sam grunt a belated:
“...Yeah.”

The party is a success, no thanks to Dean or Sam, who apparently spent his four years at college
studying, the giant nerd. Bela and Charlie team up to help decorating and strike a balance between
sophisticated elegance and enthusiastic geekery. Also apparently Jake can cook, which is great
and all--Dean doesn't see why he can't do it without Sam's assistance in the kitchen but hey,
whatever; that leaves Dean in charge of refreshments, and booze is something he knows he can
do.

They pushed the couch against the wall to clear some space and covered it--ostensibly to avoid
spillage, but really to mask Dean's scent as much as possible in case that's something a suspicious
werewolf might notice. The place is still tiny but they manage to squeeze in quite a few people,
plastic champagne cups serving as glasses and napkins for plates all around.

Everyone is being unhelpfully human and it's already 10pm. Sam and Dean are entertaining a little
group by the corner that includes Madison, Lenore, Benny and a big-haired dude called Boris, and
Dean's total inability to carry office small-talk is making its existence known. He hates this shit
with a burning passion.

"You went to school together? That's so cute, where was this?"

Madison's vetting process is thorough--they've been fielding seemingly friendly questions left and
right.

"Truman High School, Indiana," Dean says. "But I've got four years on the kid so back then he
was more like a little brother to me."

Sam shoots him an unimpressed look. Dean's awesome jokes are wasted on him. "Not to me. I
already had the biggest crush on him." There's a chorus of 'aw's. "But I was only a freshman
mathlete, and Dean was known as quite the school bicycle back then."

That gets a scatter of pleasant laughter.

"Living up to the stereotype, huh, Dean?" Madison says, smile warm and teasing. When Dean’s
expression falters a little (what stereotype is she talking about?) she quickly adds: "No offense
meant." Still, Dean doesn't get why he should be offended at all... until he does. She thinks he’s
bisexual, like she is. Huh. He hasn't really thought about—although given the latest
developments... yeah, maybe?

As the evening goes on it starts to become apparent that no one is actually going to ask them to
kiss, so unless Sam and Dean volunteer the night is going to come to a chaste end (a first for
Dean, for sure).

Things have gotten a little out of hand with the casual touching though, because Dean was the first
to try to guide Sam through the crowd by grabbing his wrist but then Sam started doing it too, like
he was determined to prove the whole 'equals' thing applied here as well. And now it's basically
degenerated into them trying to one-up each other by acting increasingly over-the-top. Dean
doesn't care what it says about his level of maturity, he's not letting Sam win this one. He's the
eldest, he should be the one in charge.

And to be clear, that has nothing to do with him being disappointed about the whole kissing thing.

"Has anyone proposed a toast yet?"

Charlie's question comes at just the right time during a lull in conversation for her voice to carry
perfectly. Madison looks amused and raises her glass. "A toast to the new members of our
company."

Dean hopes her phrasing is a sign that their plan is working.

"To the happy couple," Benny adds, and is echoed by the crowd with a scatter of applause.

Dean smiles and says “Aw,” as they all drink to his and Sam’s health. He tries to reach up to put
an arm around Sam’s shoulders but Sam catches him and puts it around his waist instead, smile
fixed on his face as he tucks Dean into his side. The little shit.

“Thank you, thanks guys,” Dean says grandly, standing as tall as possible and attempting to
dislodge Sam’s arm as inconspicuously as he can (considering they are the center of attention). He
probably looks like he’s having back-pain, but that’s better than looking like he’s Sam’s husband.
Sam is his husband. It’s totally different.

“Stop that,” Sam says through clenched teeth, nodding around them.

“You stop it,” Dean grits out of the corner of his mouth. He pinches Sam hard on the side but Sam
barely even flinches, instead his arm just pulls Dean harder against him.

“It’s like a movie or something,” Dean overhears Kate tell Madison.

“Or something.”

It’s settled as a tie when things get to a point where they can’t pass off their little scuffle as play-
fighting anymore, and Dean finally steps away. He pretends to give Sam a loving smile, jaw
clenched and trying to spell ‘murder’ with his eyes alone.

“My soulmate, ladies and gents,” he announces.

Sam’s lips pull up in a tight line.

A few minutes of mind-numbing small-talk later Lenore drops a casual reference to her strained
relationship with her parents, and something about the look on either Sam or Dean's faces must
give them away (or she just smelled it) because she pauses.

"Know what I'm talking about?"

Dean just shakes his head casually, not trusting himself to conceal his real feelings if he tries to lie
right now. Mom and Dad have always been a touchy subject and Missouri had said big lies, things
tied to their identity.

"My folks didn't care about the gender of the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with,
but... there were other issues." Sam smiles faintly. "I was never too keen on the family business
but they wanted me to go into it anyway. Especially my Dad."

That makes Dean go cold. The memory of the night... the day Sam left for Stanford will never not
feel like someone stabbed him in the belly. Dad had been gone for three years but both him and
Mom came up in the ensuing shouting match about Sam’s “choices” and “responsibilities”.

"I'm sorry to hear it," Lenore offers.

"That's okay, it's not like I was ever a saint. I had a bit of a rebellious period, actually. That was
hard on my family."

He'd somehow stopped noticing Sam's hand on his waist, but Dean could swear Sam gives him a
light squeeze at the word 'family'. It doesn’t do much to quell the sinking feeling in his chest; as
though the aforementioned knife wound has been letting his guts spill out.

"Please tell me you dyed your hair blue and wore a ton of leather," Madison says.

“I wish,” Sam chuckles darkly. “Nah, I moved away from home and left my brother all alone. It
was... a tough time. I—“

But Dean's had enough of this.

"Actually guys, would you excuse us for a moment?" he interrupts, grabbing Sam's arm. "We
oughtta check on those eats. Right, cupcake?"

Sam turns his look of confusion into a fake smile. "Right."

Dean drags him away and instead of heading for the kitchen island they go for the tiny balcony.
Navigating through the tightly-packed crowd of people whose faces are still mostly familiar in that
'I recognise you but don't ask me your name'-way is easy enough when the consensus appears to
be that the newlyweds need a little moment. Dean's hoping the wind outside will snatch their
words away before any supernatural creature can overhear how non-romantic the conversation is
going to be.
"Dean, what the--"

"You need to tell me how the hell you're able to lie to them so easily," he hisses, sliding the door
shut.

Sam’s features look sharp-angled in the bright silver light of the full moon, more adult somehow.
The night air whips his hair around his face; the shirt that hung a little loose around his waist
flapping about. He looks good. Dean wants to kiss him and that's not right. "I'm not. It's not really
lies."

"Technically no, but... I mean..." Thinking back on it, Sam's got a point. Tonight's mostly been
slightly twisted truths. "Fine, whatever, but you were able to lie about us."

Sam goes pale.

Dean hadn't meant to bring that up now--but it's been bugging him ever since it happened. So.
Maybe he had. He shouldn't have let Benny refill his glass so many times but there's all this
misplaced energy thrumming through him that was intended as nerves for their allegedly inevitable
kiss-that-never-was.

"I... Dean, that was barely..." he sounds kind of mortified. "Dude, come on."

"Missouri said a deep lie," Dean insists, because he's in it now and he just needs to get it out.
"Intrinsic, she said. And you lied your ass off, so... share with the class."

"But I didn't."

Either Dean is drunker than he thought of this conversation is making no sense. "What? Of course
you did."

"You're the one who lied that day, Dean."

"What are you talking about?"

They stare at each other for an eternity, the wind picking up speed and making Dean's eyes sting.
He has a feeling the dumb look on Sam's face is mirrored on his own.

"What are you talking about, Dean?" Sam asks finally, voice barely audible.

"I'm..." shit, he doesn't think he can actually say it out loud. But something about Sam is
demanding that he does. "Y'know. You lied about us being together."

"So did you."

"Yeah but..." Here goes. "...I wasn't really lying, was I?"

It's out there. He said it out loud.

"What."

Dean takes a breath and braces himself. "About wanting to."

Sam just looks at him. This goes on for an uncomfortably long time.

Dean's used to wearing multiple layers of clothing and he's starting to get a little chilled out here in
just a thin navy shirt. "Hello? 'You can't fake the smell of a claimed mate', the whole reason we're
in this goddamn mess? Ring any bells?"
Sam's mouth has dropped open and he's gone from slightly pale-looking before to chalk-white. As
in ghostly, sickly white.

"What?" Dean demands, needing an actual reaction. He searches Sam's face for something,
anything, to indicate what's going on.

"Dean..."

Someone taps the glass.

Dean turns to look immediately and is confused for a second before he realizes Charlie has
plastered her back to the sliding door and is holding a napkin pressed up behind her.

U GOT AN AUDIENCE!!!

"Shit."

A moment's uncertainty is all they've got because people are sneaking glances, Dean sees that
now out of the corner of his eye.

"What do we--" he cuts himself off when he catches the look Sam's giving him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sam nods. "If you agree, yeah."

"Do it, but this is not over."

Sam grabs his face and sells it.

It's for show so Dean makes a very conscious choice to keep his tongue in his mouth when he
parts his lips, but he's trembling under Sam's giant hands. The cold air means it starts out dry but
that’s... not how it stays. Sam strokes a thumb under Dean's jaw to open him up further, dipping
his head to press in then away, and his towering stature has never been more apparent than in this
moment. The hug before? Small potatoes. He’s at risk of an actual neck crick here.

The kiss itself is weirdly breathy what with their open mouths and no tongue, but it's still more
intimate than Dean's ever been with anyone somehow.

It's Sam.

He's had years to perfect the art of distancing himself from the part of his brain that though of Sam
that way. He was so fucking good at it. And he'd thought, now that Sam was back, that it'd be just
as easy. That things would go back to the way they were. He hadn't counted on the hunt messing
him up so bad. He hadn't counted on this. And most of all, he hadn't counted on ever having to
face his impossible dreams in such stark, in-your-face terms.

He arches his lower back in an attempt to level their height difference some more and bring his
chest flush against Sam’s. His hands have climbed up to clutch at the collar of Sam’s stupid white
shirt and tug--and that’s when someone raps on the glass, loudly.

They draw apart immediately to find Benny waving at them.

“I should...”

Dean practically runs out of the balcony, not sparing his brother a second glance.

Benny was actually coming to warn them that he’s taking off, and so are most of their guests.
They all give vague excuses of it ‘getting late’ even though it’s a Friday and most of them don’t
have work tomorrow. It’s suspicious but not conclusive, and if this whole enterprise was a bust
Dean might punch something.

Charlie waves goodbye but doesn’t make a point of talking to them with excess familiarity. Dean
half expects some form of disgust or revulsion in her expression, honestly, knowing what she
knows and having seen what she’s seen tonight—but she just looks encouraging.

Within a half-hour everyone has left with varying degrees of gratitude and welcome, as well as
congratulations for their anniversary. That is, with the notable exception of Madison and Lenore,
who stay behind a little longer to help clean up. Dean thinks that’s a little too nice of them, and it’s
probably going to be another little test but his brain is foggy with booze and the memory of Sam’s
mouth on his.

Once it’s just the four of them left, an unexpectedly pleasant silence descends upon the group as
they work.

“Lenore and I have discussed your request,” Madison comments after a couple of minutes, trash-
bag in hand.

Ah. So it’s real-talk time.

The mop Sam was holding clatters to the floor and he quickly picks it back up. “Really?”

Lenore nods. “We believe you’re mates. In fact, that was pretty clear to both of us since the first
time we saw you.”

Dean stops wiping the kitchen counter then. “Are you kidding?”

They exchange a look that’s hard to read. “Not at all. But you have to understand that we wanted
to get to know you as individuals.”

“Are you saying yes?” Sam asks.

“Not yet,” Madison says. “Because there’s something else you should know about werewolves.”

Both Winchesters stand a little straighter. “Oh?” Dean asks, moist rag forgotten in his hand.

“I asked you whether you knew what you were getting yourselves into on our first meeting. You
said ‘yes’, but I have a feeling there’s one specific thing you haven’t considered.”

“What’s that?”

There’s a split second when Dean could’ve sworn Madison’s pleasant brown eyes flicker pale
blue.

“Werewolves have no control during the full moon.”

Well... of course they did know that, but Dean gets why Madison would think they didn’t. No one
in their right mind would want to go on monthly heart-eating sprees.

“But...” Sam rubs his forehead. “But then how do you—“

“That’s a whole other discussion,” Lenore cuts in. “But the point here is that while we’ve found a
remedy to prevent a horrible loss of life, you don’t need to put yourselves in that situation in the
first place.”
“We’re asking you to reconsider your request,” Madison says flatly. “My response is not ‘no’
because the bond you share is very special, but I think you should take some time and factor in
this new information.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Finally Dean nods, only half-faking his pensive expression. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Lenore echoes softly.

“Yeah. Thanks for... we’ll...” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “We should talk.”

The two women nod and leave their respective tasks half-finished, shaking the boys’ hands and
seeing themselves out of the apartment.

Once they are completely alone, Sam quickly walks to the door and presses his ear to it,
presumably to listen for Madison and Lenore’s echoing footsteps. He holds up a hand when Dean
opens his mouth and they stand like that, Dean frozen in place between the kitchen and the short
entryway.

After about a minute Sam lowers his hand and quickly turns to him.

“Dean, about before—“

“Do we really have to—“

“Yes,” Sam interjects. He looks almost feverish. “Yes, because I need to understand something.
When you said... when you talked about lying, about us.”

Dean feels vaguely sick. He doesn’t have the stomach for this kind of verbal emotional dissection;
he’s a straightforward kind of guy in every other aspect of his life but there’s a reason why this
topic has always been locked behind figurative bars.

“Sammy, I’m tired.” He makes towards the living room, thinking to remove the plastic covering
on the couch and just crash in his nice shirt and pants, but Sam quickly gets in his way.

“No, no, wait. You said... you said you didn’t lie about wanting to.”

Why is he doing this now? “Yeah. Now can I just—“

“Because you want to? You want us?”

His heart just shatters. Like exhaustion. Like letting go.

“Look, Sam, this isn’t news to either of us,” Dean says warily. “Can we save this discussion for a
time when I’m either a lot more or a hell of a lot less sober? Please?”

“Dean, listen to me,” Sam says desperately. “All this time... you thought I knew about this?” His
cheeks are flushed a ruddy pink and his eyes are actually glistening. What is he doing?

“Sam, please—“

“Answer the question, Dean.”

“What question?”

“Did you think it was your fault, what Madison said? Did you think I thought so, too?”
Dean actually has to fight to close up his throat against a rising urge to revisit Jake’s mini-quiches.
He needs air.

“Dean—“

He shoves past Sam and stumbles to the balcony door, opening it quickly to take a gulp of the
piercing night breeze.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—“ Sam climbs in right after him, shoulders instantly hunched up against the
cold. “Would you just listen to me for a second?”

“Y’know, you keep going on about how I’m smothering you and yet the one fucking time I
wanna be alone, Sammy—“

“I love you.”

That shuts Dean down.

He stares up at Sam in total shock as the wind buffets their skin and tears at their clothes again,
while somewhere far away a police siren sounds the alarm.

“And I don’t wanna be alone again if I can be with you.”

Sam takes a step forward just as a particularly cold gust of air makes Dean close his stinging eyes.
The darkness doesn’t make him see things any clearer.

He’s in shock. Right? Watery reflex tears roll down his cheeks but it’s the wind, because he can’t
even process Sam’s words. He doesn’t understand—

Gentle fingers lift his chin and the urge to look is powerful, but not as strong as the fear or what
he’ll see if he does. Pity will break him right now. Except pity wouldn’t make sense given what
Sam just said. Nothing makes sense anymore given what Sam just...

Dean thinks, confused and blind and terrified: I love you too.

And that’s when Sam kisses him.

Dean’s eyes fly open but Sam’s hands have come up to hold his face and that’s... that’s a movie-
kiss in every way that matters. Jesus. His knees actually go weak, is how fucking amazing that
kiss is, and it needs to go on forever for all Dean cares about oxygen or breathing or anything
anymore, time passing with neither of them seeming able to slow it down.

The cruel icy air is nothing to Sam’s body giving off heat like a furnace, and Dean never wants to
leave this embrace for as long as he—that is... He’s tugging at the front of Sam’s shirt again and
this time it’s harder, near-frenzied, no witnesses but the moon and he doesn’t give a fuck because
he finally understands that he’s been surviving his whole life and this, this is being alive.

Sam is warmth and strength and home; the powerful arms clutching at him, his grip hard and
indelicate like he knows Dean’s solid and can take it, like he already knows how Dean likes to
take it, tongue thrusting into his mouth like he’s already—

Dean shoves away.

Sam’s panting, but he immediately wipes a hand over his mouth and says: “Dean, I’m sorry—“

“No,” Dean gasps. “No, you were right, it’s just that I’m... I...”
It’s funny; they’re not kissing anymore but Dean still feels like he’s drowning. His lungs burn and
his throat aches, his pulse is racing.

Kissing Sam was never something that should’ve been possible. How has the universe allowed
this to happen?

How...?

He’s not drowning, he’s suffocating.

“Dean. Breathe.” Sam sounds panicked himself. “I’m sorry, please, here...”

He directs Dean inside but touches him as little as possible, and Dean’s vision is swimming in and
out of focus, black spots appearing before his eyes. Sam said he loves him, and it sounded like
Sam said he was in—Sam wants him. Sam kissed him but what does that—how...?

“Breathe. It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

The crackly sound when he moves tells Dean he’s sitting on the plastic-covered couch, and Sam is
on his knees in front of him, sitting between his splayed legs.

“Just keep breathing for me, Dean.”

Sam’s voice is thready and Dean responds to that more than the instruction, his protective instinct
overriding the fear, the ingrained commandment to take care of Sam an automatic response.

“You... breathe with me... yeah, Sammy?”

Sam nods, eyes huge. The tip of his nose is red from the cold.

Dean puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck and brings them slowly together until their foreheads
touch. “We’re jus’... gonna breathe for a bit.”

“Okay.”

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity.

“You okay?” Sam asks him quietly.

Dean should’ve been the one to say that first. His inner Sammy voice protests that it’s not a
contest, Dean.

“I’ll be fine.”

Sam draws away from him and rests tentative palms on Dean’s knees. His look is raw and
imploring and the words, when they come, carry the weight of something Sam’s clearly been
meaning to say for a very, very long time.

“Please don’t hate me.”

Dean blinks at him.

“Never,” he croaks. He hasn’t got the strength to elaborate but that’s just going to have to convey
every variation of his answer. I could never hate you. There’s nothing you could do that would
make me hate you.
“Can you... when you can, d’you think maybe you could...” Sam swallows, but his voice sounds
equally tight when he continues. “You never actually said... was I wrong?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, Sammy. ‘Course not. I... I just didn’t think you felt...”

He still doesn’t think it. Or—he can think it, but he can’t believe it. It's a concept too vast to grasp.
Sam wanting him.

“I do,” Sam says quickly. “I always have.”

Dean feels dizzy.

It’s not possible.

“You can’t,” slips out before he can think it through.

Sam flinches like Dean struck him.

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Dean shakes his head. “But it’s not... you could have anyone.” Sam opens his mouth to protest but
Dean’s found a semi-comfortable track now. Sam’s happiness as the only thing that matters. It’s a
familiar direction. “Anyone else.”

“But I don’t want anyone else.”

“You...” Dean swallows. “You don’t mean that.”

Sam is starting to look like anger isn’t a far away possibility. “I really do. Don’t pull that ‘martyr’
shit on me now, Dean.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Sammy—“

“No.” Sam pushes back until he’s sitting on the floor, glaring up at Dean with what’s definitely
annoyance verging on anger. "This is about you being scared, Dean, not about me.”

My existence is about you, you fucking idiot, Dean thinks desperately.

"Sammy—“

"I want this, Dean. I've wanted it forever. God, do you have any idea... I've had years to be sure. I
tried to fight it and I tried to ignore it; nothing works, okay? I want... this," he says again, but the
telling pause gives away what he meant to say.

Dean is still drowning.

"Sammy..." the thought of giving in is more terrifying than seductive. It's too much. He can't
deserve that much. The memory of what just happened alone makes him want to shake.

"The night I walked in on you with Susie Heizer... Dean, I thought I was going to lose it."

She'd told him to fuck her from behind and her short dark locks had been hard to keep a hold of
because they kept slipping through his fingers like silk. It was the night before Stanford, not that
Dean knew at the time. He’d forgotten to put a sock on the door. He remembers his hips
stuttering in their slow tortuous rhythm, the sight of Sammy’s hugely wide eyes and brilliant red
flush like someone plugged his spine into an electric socket—
"S'one of the reasons why I left. I thought it’d be so obvious. I wanted you so bad it was driving
me crazy, and you were just... you. And I couldn’t... at the time I figured I’d lost the fight so many
times I might as well try flight. So I ran. And that was wrong, too, but it took me longer to figure
out. Even with Jess...” The hair on the back of Dean’s neck stands on end. He can’t be expected
to take all this in. No way. “Dean, you have to believe me."

He wants to.

He can’t.

Sam doesn’t look angry anymore, though. "It's okay if you don't want me back, but what's not
okay? Is you deciding what I want for me. I'll prove it to you if I have to. I don't care what it
takes."

“I can’t ask you to do that, Sammy,” Dean says, shaking his head.

“Don’t you get it yet?” Sam demands. His eyes are hazel in the soft lighting of the living room
lamp. “It’s not about what you’re making me do — it’s not even about what you’re letting me do,
Dean. It’s about what I want. And what I want is...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but it’s obvious as fuck.

A single syllable that, hell, rhymes and everything.

It’s everything Dean’s never let himself want in a silver platter. And maybe because he’s struggled
so hard not to let himself dream, he doesn’t know how to accept it now that it’s here. Now that
this is real.

“I can’t do this right now, man,” Dean hears himself say. He sounds hoarse. “I can’t... Sam, I’m
sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry.” Sam’s shoulders droop like his strings have
been cut. “It’s okay if you can’t be with me.”

“That’s not—“

“Then it’s okay if you’re not ready. That’s not what I was mad about, you get that right?”

Dean snorts wetly. “Makin’ me sound like a scared virgin.”

“Virginity is a social construct, don’t be stupid,” Sam mutters automatically, and then rubs the
back of his neck. “Dean... I’d wait for you if you wanted.”

If he wanted.

Dean barely knows what he wants.

“’Could be waiting a long time, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’ve been waiting my whole—“ The sentence cuts off, too corny or too
revealing to be spoken aloud. Sam purses his lips and looks at Dean from under his lashes. “I’ll
wait for you,” he says again.

“You understand I’m not making any promises, here.”

“Neither am I.” He’s lying (Dean doesn’t call him out on it, though).
It’s almost defiant, the way they look at each other. Like a challenge. Only the way Sam’s holding
himself has changed; he’s sitting up straighter and broader than Dean thinks he’s ever seen him.

And he’s not hiding anything anymore.

“We still on for this case?”

Dean nods. “We’re on.”

“Okay then. Should get some sleep, it’s been a long day.”

He stands smoothly, and for a moment Dean’s afraid Sam will ask him to share the bed again. But
all Sam does is offer to switch. “I’m perfectly fine with the couch.”

“This couch was built specifically for my exact measurements,” Dean returns. “And my assprint
has already begun to take shape. You wouldn’t fit and you’d waste my invested ass-molding
time.”

Sam snorts. “You’re an idiot.”

Dean manages to grin tiredly up at him. “Goodnight, Sammy.”

Sam goes into his room, but he leaves the door open for the first time.

The next morning Sam's gone by the time Dean wakes up. There's a post-it on the fridge that
reads: "Got called in early, knew you had a late shift" and that's fairly decent as far as excuses go,
Dean figures. He'll blame the booze for not having woken up the second Sam did, stealth-mode or
no. The couch isn’t that comfortable.

Benny greets him at work with a large coffee and a sympathetic look that doesn’t give away
whether he spent all of last night running around howling at the full moon or not. The quick
Google search Dean did before coming in didn’t pop up any red flags in their area, and they’ve
got Jake on alert at the hospital anyway.

“It’s your turn to take a trip to the basement today, brother,” Benny tells him regretfully. “Sorry.”

Chelsea, who is fiddling with a broken walkie with their feet up on the monitor desk, clicks their
tongue. “You can borrow my iPod if you want, Dean. Just have it back when your shift’s done,
yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No problem. Don’t mess with my On-The-Go playlists.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chelsea’s got a decent selection of tunes—not enough Mullet Rock to Dean’s liking, but then
again he’s never met anyone who does. At least he finds some quality stuff from the twenty-eth
century.

The basement isn’t actually a ‘basement’ per se, just what they call the HR floor. It’s got an empty
office that doubles as storeroom and has accumulated a fair amount of random junk. The second-
favorite smoker hot-spot, although the lack of decent ventilation is a dead giveaway. It’s boring,
and lonely, and kind of dark for a thirty-third level. Chelsea’s iPod is a lifesaver, really.
Dean’s just rounded the empty corner to that particular corridor when ‘Hot Blooded’ comes on.

The thing is that yesterday was emotionally draining, he’s really fucking tired, slightly hungover,
and resisting Foreigner at their best isn’t within his capabilities right now. So he starts by just
mouthing the lyrics, he really does. But the pull of the air-guitar is strong, and miming the cords on
one hand turns into mock-strumming... which turns into singing into his fake microphone, and he's
really getting into it--he's got a fever of a hundred-and-three! when suddenly the realization that
he's not alone makes him freeze in place.

He spins around to find Sam almost doubled-over laughing, leaning against the wall with his
hands held together in front of him as though he's about to clap.

The headphones come off immediately.

"This never happened."

"Oh this happened," Sam says, voice high with barely contained mirth. "This happened forever."

“How the hell did you find me?”

“Benny gave me directions.” Sadly, Sam’s face sobers fast. "Actually Dean, Jake called. There's
been a development."

That snaps the good mood right out of Dean. "What happened?"

"I don't know what exactly, he said it was better discussed face to face, but I'm stuck here all day
with meetings. D'you think Benny'll give you a break?"

Dean's already planning how he'll bribe the guy with Greek takeaway from the place with the
gorgeous cook he likes. "Think I might. Where am I going?"

"The usual place, in the morgue. It... sounded serious."

“Another victim?”

“Maybe? He didn’t say.”

"I'm there." He takes off immediately, slapping Sam's bicep when he passes him, and is about to
round the corner when he hears his brother's voice.

"Wait!"

He catches the edge and sticks his head out into the corridor again. "Yeah?"

Sam hesitates for a split second before obviously not saying what he’d intended to first. He just
nods, in a way that makes Dean notice how he’s standing up to his full height, shoulders back and
head high. "Be careful, all right?"

"Always am." He flashes Sammy a wink and breaks into a run.

It's just him, Jake, Gordon and Bela in the morgue, since Jo, Sam and Charlie are at work.

"What the hell happened?"

“We’ve got ourselves a body number three. Heart missing, same M.O.”
“Shit.”

“Oh, that’s just the tip of the iceberg my friend.” Jake deposits an old laptop onto a tray and turns
it on as he continues. "I overheard a discussion between two doctors this morning. A differential
diagnostic they couldn't agree on... regarding the postmortem of last night’s murder victim. You're
not gonna believe this shit."

Gordon and Dean exchange a glance. "What?"

"The person they were talking about was our newest werewolf chowder Pedro Sanchez, one of
the guests at your fake wedding anniversary, by the way, Dean.” The name is vaguely familiar.
Dean tries to bring up some of those new forgettable faces, wanting to match one to the name. He
can’t, which might be for the best after all.

“Apparently poor Pedro was doubly unlucky--not only was he brutally killed last night; he
suffered maxillary odontoma. Or multiple hamartomatous tumors, they couldn't reach an
agreement.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jake?” Gordon asks.

“Wait for it.” The computer has finished booting up. “Because Pedro had the same mysterious
disease as Bellamy Blake, victim number two.”

"What?” Dean’s officially lost the thread of this exposition.

“What does that mean?" Bela asks impatiently.

"It means I hacked into the victim's medical histories and found their cranial x-rays because
Doctor Sanguhan mentioned growths on Pedro’s upper jaw. The same growths he’d seen last
month on Bellamy. Two out of three victims with a weird finding during their autopsy." Jake pulls
up two files labeled 'FML1.jpg' and ‘FML2.jpg’. "First one is Pedro, second one is Bellamy.
Check these out."

Dean recognizes what he means immediately, even though he knows jack squat about x-rays.

"Bullshit," Bela breathes.

"It was a vamp?"

Gordon's the one to say it. Dean's inner Sammy-voice immediately sounds the alarm at the other
hunter's phrasing. It.

"We missed something from the start. This is... I don't know what's going on here but this isn't an
isolated pack killing people by accident anymore. I haven’t hacked into Stella’s history yet but
think it’s safe to assume all three victims were vampires."

"Turf war?" Dean suggests, thinking fast.

"Maybe. A pack and a coven in the same city is bound to create friction."

“That doesn’t explain the missing hearts, or the fact that these vamps didn’t die by decapitation,”
Bela counters.

“Enough Dead Man’s Blood in a vamp’s system could keep it looking dead until the autopsy,
especially with its heart missing. And the autopsy itself would take care of the decapitation,”
Gordon muses.
He’s exactly right, no matter how scarily fast he came up with that method of murder.

“A real werewolf would have no use for a vampire’s heart,” Bela points out. “And any human
with the supernatural know-how could have pulled your Dead Man’s Blood trick, Gordon. I think
this might not have necessarily been the work of Madison Malone’s pack.”

“You’re right,” Dean says, immediately latching on to her train of thought. “The setup seems to
put the blame on the weres, but there’s just no motive for them. And I don’t see vamps mutilating
one of their own just to accuse a rival species.”

Jake makes a face. “We’ve gotta keep in mind that the discovery of the victims’ real nature was
completely accidental, too. If I hadn’t overheard that conversation we’d never have known that
they were anything other than human.”

“So there’s a third party?” Gordon sounds vaguely disbelieving. “Someone who wanted the SPN
to find out about the werewolves and quietly wipe out a few vampires in the process?”

Jesus. The case had seemed complicated enough at the start.

“Have they considered a vigilante?” Sam says a couple of hours later. “Like... a civilian who
discovered the supernatural and started hunting on their own?”

The supply closet has never felt smaller but Dean is trying his damndest not to focus on that. The
case at hand requires enough of his energy.

“Why the missing hearts, then? Why blame the werewolves?”

“Revenge? A were killed someone they loved?”

“Sounds like a bit of a stretch, Sammy. And if it happened, no other missing heart victims have
been reported in San Francisco for over a decade.”

Sam shrugs. “We both know ‘not reported’ doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

He has a point.

“Bring it up tonight for the meeting,” Dean tells him. “We’re gonna call Bobby and Ellen to
discuss a plan of action. I think Rufus might even be brought in.”

“Dean, the three victims were part of the pack, right?”

“Looks like.”

Sam nods slowly. “Sounds like this pack is made up of more than just werewolves.”

“Sounds like this is an alliance between two of the most intelligent, self-aware supernatural
creatures we know of, Sam.” Dean turns to leave, grumbling: “Sounds like a hell of a lot of
trouble, if you ask me.”

Sam quickly grabs Dean’s uniform sleeve before he opens the door. “Wait.”

“What?”

“You look way too clean for someone who just got fucked in a supply closet,” Sam says, half-
apologetic and half-actual-little-shit.

Dean can feel his face heat. Fucking hell. “Good thing Charlie didn’t pick up when we called her
or this would qualify as an office party,” he mutters.

The humor fades from Sam’s expression. Okay, wrong time for a threesome joke.

“Kidding. Obviously.”

Sam takes a step closer, which means that what was already past the boundaries of personal space
becomes uncomfortably cramped territory. His breath tastes like coffee.

“What we have between us?” he says, low. “Not a joke, Dean. And I don’t care what you want to
call it—love, family, whatever it is... that’s it for me. If you can never do more than kiss me?
You’ll still be fucking it.” He sighs. “I just wish I could get that through your goddamn thick skull
—“

And maybe it’s the rock-solid certainty in his voice; maybe Dean’s actually starting to accept the
reality of what Sam’s been telling him... or it’s the fact that they are standing so close at this point
that not doing it would seem like the harder choice.

Dean tilts his head up and mashes their lips together, hot and warm and slick and yeah, that’s
Sam’s tongue, desperately licking into him, fuck. His hands sink into Sam’s hair and the complete
mindfuck of resting his weight on his toes instead of his heels registers in an unexpectedly
amazing way. Sam’s giant hands go around his waist, holding them together...

It doesn’t last. Dean loses his balance when Sam bites down on his bottom lip and they slam into a
shelf, full weight of two large men making it rain paperclips and post-it notes and the whole space
seems to rattle.

“Shit—“

Sam is off him immediately, breathing hard. “Sorry.”

“...No, that one was on me.”

They exchange a glance. Sam’s eyes are bright and his hair is a total mess. Worse than usual,
anyway.

What Dean wouldn’t give to pick up where they left off is... not a lot.

“I should finish my rounds.”

“My phone’s been ringing since I came in here.” Sam pulls an uncharacteristically sudden grin.
“Worth it.”

Dean rolls his eyes and snorts. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Worth it,” Sam says again, opening the door and stumbling out into the corridor.

Madison is right outside.

“Hey, boys.”

Sam’s laughter cuts right off and Dean feels the stupid smile slide off his face. Are they in trouble?

Kate is standing at Madison’s shoulder with a tablet in her arms, seemingly delighted. Madison, on
the other hand, stares them down for almost half a minute, making them sweat it out before
breaking into a grin.

“Relax, Winchesters, you’re fine.” They both exhale like they just ran a marathon. “I’m actually
glad I ran into you; a bunch of us are going to hang out after work today. As you know, Pedro’s
funeral was this morning and I need to bring morale back up, so... given that quarterlies are
coming in great and Cooper just closed the LeGrange suit, I figure drinks are in order. You wanna
join?”

“But... it’s Tuesday,” Sam says.

“We won’t be out late,” Kate assures them. “Just a couple of drinks at the bar across the street,
maybe a game of pool if we’re feeling really wild—“

“We’re in,” Dean replies immediately.

The team agrees to postpone the latest report until the next day for recon purposes. Until they’ve
figured out how to present the case to Bobby and Ellen, all that’s sent back to the SPN is that
there’s a new body with a missing heart. No comment on the species.

Unsurprisingly, the group of coworkers who ends up at the bar is made up almost entirely of the
list of suspects Sam and Dean have been carefully compiling for the past few days. It seems likely
they are out with most of the pack minus Lenore and the couple of others not working for Caplan-
Malone.

The place is pretty run-of-the-mill, but of course there’s Jo walking around in her cutesy mini-
apron and a glint in her eye that says she’s on alert and packing firepower somewhere on her
person. The floors are beer-stained without actually suctioning a person’s shoes and the fries leave
everyone with sticky fingers but there’s a choice of regular or sweet-potato, so it’s a fair
compromise between the kind of joint Dean’s used to and the classy places Sam likes.

It’s the kind of small-talk Dean’s better at, as well as a more familiar setting. Getting back into the
headspace of a happily married dude without a fuckton of baggage is like donning an ill-fitting
winter coat--at the end of the day it’s just a temporary measure but it’s warm and soft and it
protects him from the harsh cold of reality for a while.

“...but it was a chicken the entire time!”

There’s a loud burst of uproarious laughter at his punch line and yeah, Dean can work a crowd
like this. He’s put in the hours, thank you very much.

The only thing that really sucks about tonight is realizing that these guys are pretty cool to hang
out with; a bunch of smart, funny people. Some of who turn into feral monsters once a month and
others which crave human blood on a daily basis. Dean understands that the world is made in
shades of gray but his favorite hunts are the ones closer to black-and-white, where the monster is
evil and therefore must be eliminated.

These dorks are very... human.

“Hey, Dean, wanna do a shot with me?”

“Dean, a bunch of us are gonna play pool—“

“Shut up, Yin, he said he’d play darts with us first.”

Yup, he’s the belle of the freaking ball all right.

Only where’s Sam?

“So, Dean? Darts?”

“Yeah, sure.” He follows a couple of potential werewolves or vampires (at this point he really
doesn’t think he’ll be able to tell) to the dartboard, and is thinking about letting them win at least
one game before completely obliterating them when he finally catches sight of his brother.

“Hey, guys, start without me okay?”

He’s gone before they can answer, quickly grabbing a stool on his way and propping it on the
other side of the high table in front of Sam, Kate, and the small group gathered around them.
Everyone appears to be listening to the young receptionist but she’s directing her words at Sam
exclusively... and she’s also leaning a little closer than the background noise calls for, in Dean’s
totally impartial point of view. Looks like some like 'em tall dark and dorky.

“... environmental law, actually,” Kate’s saying seriously. “I know it sounds cliché but if I can’t do
the kind of law that actually helps people there are easier ways to make money. No offense to
those present.”

People around her laugh good-naturedly but Dean’s eyes are on Sam, who is smiling faintly at
her. Well, she is studying pre-law just like Sam did. And she’s pretty. And eco-conscious,
apparently. She’s got the whole ‘not being a family relation’ going for her too. Hell, in another life
it sounds like Sam and Kate should be freaking soulmates, forget his and Dean’s extra-special
bond.

“So you guys are gonna come to the Halloween party this Friday, right?” she looks up at Sam
imploringly. “Come on, it’s my favorite time of the year.” Her dainty hand comes to rest on his
forearm and the size-difference is quite something.

Dean is not a fan of what’s happening right now.

“Sorry guys, but I need to borrow Sammy here for a sec,” he hears himself saying, a big ol’ fake
smile firmly in place. “Bring him right back to ya.”

They are catcalled all the way until Dean shuts the bathroom door behind them.

“What is it?” Sam asks, face all scrunched up in ‘concerned puppy’ mode.

“You can’t sleep with Kate,” Dean blurts out.

His brother takes a couple of seconds to process this. Then he crosses his arms over his chest,
biceps bulging prominently under the white work shirt.

“Are you... actually being serious right now?”

“Oh come on, spare me the righteous attitude; I saw the way she was eyeing you up. I’m just...
this is, y’know, your friendly reminder.” He gestures a little wildly and hits his hand on the dirty
stall door. “Ow, I mean—‘cause you’ll blow our cover. So tone down the flirting a notch.”

“We share common interests,” Sam says slowly, like Dean’s five. “We were discussing them.
How is that even remotely close to flirting? She knows I’m married to you.”
“She was still looking at you like you were on the menu, baby,” Dean snaps. “You so hard up
you’re considering bestiali—“

“Don’t,” Sam says immediately. “That’s outta line, Dean, she’s not an animal.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” He really hopes the disabled stall is closed because of maintenance and
not because someone’s actually overhearing this conversation. “You’re right, I didn’t mean that.”

Sam glares at him. Dean feels like he’s been blindfolded and told to fight; randomly punching shit
and hitting friendlies.

“I’m sorry, all right? It’s just—I mean, I know I’m the one who’s not putting out, but...” the
change that starts to go over Sam’s expression has him backtracking immediately. “But that’s not
what this is about; this is about the case, and about keeping our cover just a little longer—“

“Clearly.” Sam isn’t buying what Dean’s selling, apparently. “Jesus Dean, you’re so fucked up.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Dean mutters disgruntledly.

Instead of looking angry the way Dean expected him to (because that would've been too easy, if
his little brother just started doing everything Dean expected him to) Sam looks... soft. Almost
pitying, which, fuck him.

“Cut that out,” Dean snaps. “I’m not some wilting flower or what the fuck ever. I’m just telling it
like it is; you sleeping with Kate would compromise—“

“I’m not going to sleep with Kate,” Sam interrupts. “I’m pretty sure Kate doesn’t want to sleep
with me and I know I don’t want to sleep with Kate. Or anyone else. That’s what I’ve been trying
to tell you, asshole.”

It’s seriously counter-productive but Sam saying shit like that makes Dean really, really want to
kiss him again. He’s afraid this is going to be a recurring craving, kind of like Lisa’s hilarious
peanut-butter phase while she was pregnant only... without an end in sight.

“Dean? You... still with us?”

Dean bites his bottom lip and watches the way Sam’s eyes dart there, the way he swallows after.

It’s a pretty shitty move, teasing without actually offering up what he’s selling. But it’s also Sam’s
full and undivided attention whenever he wants it now. It’s the physical manifestation of the
repeated promises Sam’s made regarding what he wants. And Sam’s made it pretty clear that all
Dean has to do is say ‘yes’. If he wants to.

Dean thinks he might really, really want to, no matter how scary it is.

Scary is kind of his thing.

“... Dean?”

But he’s not going to say ‘yes’ in a dirty bathroom in some bar they’ve only visited for recon
during a case. Sam deserves the world and he’s settling for Dean; it’s Dean’s job to do the very
best he can.

He leans forward and kisses Sam. Things stay pretty chaste but he can’t resist a hint of tongue
right before pulling away, because it wouldn’t be Dean without things getting potentially dirty
were his partner so inclined.
were his partner so inclined.

“I’m sorry about what I said about Kate,” he says again.

“Hm?” Sam blinks. “Oh, right. Okay. Yeah, well, it’s her you should apologize to but that’s... a
talk for another time.”

“You wanna come lose at darts with me?” Dean asks gamely.

“With you or to you?”

Dean shrugs. “Both can be arranged, easy.”

“I’m awesome at darts.”

“Yeah, but I’m awesomer.”

Sam opens the door for him, saying: “Not a word, Dean.” And they go back out into the fray.

If Dean had been operating at a hundred percent he would’ve double-checked they were alone in
the bathroom before leaving.

And he would’ve found Benny eavesdropping from the disabled stall.

Kate had promised an early night, but by the time they get back to the apartment Dean’s
prospective night of sleep could be measured in hunter-hours instead of regular-Joe ones. Four,
maybe five if he’s very lucky and crashes soon.

There is one thing, however, that he hadn’t been counting on.

Sam is drunk.

Not smashed, but certainly... on his way.

“First kiss? When I was fourteen, remember? It was with Amy Pond and now that I think about it,
Dean, she looked just like you. Like if you were in girl form. Body. And fourteen. The blonde
hair, the green eyes... even the freckles, man.”

He stumbles a little and Dean catches him.

“And—and when I was sixteen I tried to tell myself I was in love with Troy Simmons... you
probably don’t remember but he was the quarterback in Sioux Falls High? Black guy, almost as
tall as me? Fuck, he had your personality down pat.” Sam chuckles darkly to himself. “Friggin’...
carbon copy. You understand?”

“Yeah, I hear ya.”

“So when I say this has been going on forever? I mean...” he suddenly flings his arms wide (and
nearly brains Dean in the process) as though the gesture will illustrate what ‘forever’ is. He’s not
far off, if one were to think in indulgently figurative terms. “That long. So you see why you gotta
believe me.”

Dean sighs, having finished locking the door behind them. “Told ya Sammy, it’s not that I don’t
believe you. Just that I want the best for you, s’all.”

“But you’re it,” Sam snaps, sharp frustration edging his voice. “You’re bossy, and short, and... too
reckless to be brave but that’s okay because I have your back now. S’fucking stupid that you can’t
see it.”

“You realize none of those were compliments, right?” But he’s smiling hugely, can’t fucking help
it.

Sam takes one look at his face and snorts. “You look five when you smile like that.” He drops his
shoulder-bag beside the couch in a clumsy gesture. “It’s really stupid. I love it.”

Dean has to kiss him for that one, he can’t not.

It’s a relatively chaste one, like before, until... it’s not. He’s not sure which of them is to blame but
has a sneaking suspicion it’s him. Sam moans softly, opening his mouth to Dean’s and letting him
put his hands on his chest—but when Dean starts to tug his tie open Sam pulls away.

“Wait, wait... are you sure about this? We can start slow, Dean.”

Dean can’t fucking believe this is his life.

“No.”

He doesn’t mean to sound that petulant but come on. He’s Dean freaking Winchester. He never
imagined the day would come when someone would genuinely ask him that question.

Least of all did he imagine it would be Sam, or that he’d be completely right in saying it.

“You don’t wanna start or you don’t want—“

Dean cuts him off by grabbing his stupid face and pulling Sam down to mesh their mouths
together once more. Sam catches on quickly, to his credit, tugging at Dean’s shirt to align their
bodies and giving a low grunt of—oh fuck that’s it, the noise that hunted Dean for years, the
satisfied possessive sound he’d never thought would be for him.

The sound Sammy made when he was sweet sweet sixteen and kissing Troy Simmons while
Dean perved on them at twenty fucking years old, shocked into arousal in a way he’d never been
before by watching his little brother—

It’s getting hard to breathe again.

“Hey, hey, is everything—what’s...?” Sam pulls away and takes a good look at Dean’s face. Dean
can’t hide it, it’s beyond him in that moment. The waters are closing in over his head. “Dean, are
you okay?”

“I’m... I...”

He wants to never not be touching Sam in some way; he wants to lock himself up somewhere to
keep Sammy safe. He’s disgusted with himself and yet his resolve is flaking. Protect Sammy
versus giving Sammy what he wants... and getting what Dean himself wants in the process?
Because it sounds like Sam is offering him something that will make him too happy but Dean
can’t fight the instinctive distrust his body is hardwired to respond with to that possibility.

It’s freaking... confusing, is what it is. He can’t believe this is real. How is this real?

... Is this real?

“Dean, look at me.”

He does, seeing Sam’s slightly glassy eyes looking back. They didn’t turn the lights on in the
living area and Sam’s eye-color is darker than normal.

He’s not used to seeing Sam’s face this close.

“I’m gonna go to bed now, okay? And I won’t... we won’t do shit like this anymore.”

“What?”

“Just... we keep it PG for now, ‘kay?”

“Sam—“

“No, no, s’fine. I prefer... I want it that way. We limit this stuff to the case. We do the minimum to
keep up the cover, period.”

“Sammy, I—“

“Period,” Sam says again. He doesn’t look angry but he doesn’t look like he’s about to yield on
the issue either. He rolls his shoulders back, the move serving to make him broader as well as even
taller, and that’s just fucking cheating. “When this is over... we’ll see. But for now, that’s all I’m
comfortable with.”

Dean nods, frustrated and horny and terrified and furious with himself.

“I’m sor—“

“Don’t you dare.” Sam raises a finger at him. “Don’t even think it. I can tell you’re still not ready
and it’s fine. We’re fine, okay?”

He starts to walk backwards and nearly trips, which draws a sudden chuckle from the both of
them.

“I’m drunk.”

“I noticed.” Dean gives him a mock-salute, already missing having him close. He’s a mess.
“G’night Sammy.”

Sam tosses him a wave over his shoulder and stumbles to his room.

Dean drops onto the couch ass-first, and just sits there for a moment with his head tipped back on
the cushion. He needs to clear his head but has no means to do so.

And then he hears it.

The bedroom door was left ajar and the telling noise that’s filtering through it puts him right back
to a minute ago, before his stupid feelings got in the way, when it was just physical. Just Sam
thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth and his huge hands on Dean’s body.

He honestly does give it a good ol’ college try, not to strain to listen in... but he fails. The soft
almost-moans Sam is making are timed to the unmistakable sound of the shifting mattress, and it’s
too easy to see it in his mind’s eye: Sam sloppily humping the bed, fingers curled into the sheets
and mouth hanging open as he just goes for it, just chasing release. Dean can’t help thrusting up
into the heel of his hand, too-tight jeans still on, pressure and heat and friction building until white
explodes behind his eyes.
Still twitching and panting hard, he lets out a rough groan of frustration that he could swear is
echoed from the other room.

He’s such a fucking mess.

The knock on the door to the cozy monitor room startles Dean, who may or may not have been
sending Sam dirty texts every couple of minutes and pulling up the video feed of the meeting
Sam’s in to try and see his reaction.

It’s Benny.

“Mornin’ Winchester.”

“Hey yourself.”

“So... we should talk.”

Dean quirks a brow up at him. “Shoot.”

"Dean... we know you’re agents. Hunters. SPN. I heard you and Sam in the bathroom yesterday."

Well, shit.

That phrasing says everything Dean feared. He doesn’t think he or Sam mentioned the fact that
they were brothers last night, but then again he can’t be a hundred percent certain. Benny’s
reaction will have to be his indicator.

His surprise at Benny’s blunt admitting of the truth passes quickly though, and outwardly Dean
doesn’t plan on showing any weakness. He snorts. "Then why the charade?"

"Had to be sure." Benny shrugs unapologetically. "But the bodies piling up are our people.”

This is it. His chance.

“Your people meaning...?”

“Meaning vampires. Pedro, Bellamy, Stella. We don’t know who’s doing it but it wasn’t us, and it
wasn’t the werewolves either. None of us has spilled a drop of blood man. I swear to ya."

So it has happened. Vampires and werewolves working together; co-existing somehow in a

dysfunctional group. Coven. Pack. Band. Team?

Jesus, and Dean had been so sure he’d seen enough weird not to be surprised anymore. Goes to
show the whole ‘experience’ thing isn’t exactly dispensable.

"The Division sent us here because they’re already onto your merry band of supernatural misfits,
Benny. The bodies were just the catalyst."

"We exist all right, and Madison's our leader. We've just never hurt no one, and I’m gonna need
you to put that in your report. If you'll let me explain--"

Dean holds up a hand. “I'm... inclined to listen. But I'm not making any promises."

"All right. That's fair." Benny nods slowly. "Just hear me out and you'll see for yourself. We
should get outta here, though.”
Benny calls Dillon the unironic Channing Tatum fan in to relieve Dean and walks out of the
building with him.

They end up back at the bar because Dean wants backup just in case, and Jo is someone Benny
wouldn't suspect. It works out perfectly. Jo gives him a subtle nod when Benny’s not looking and
manages to wrangle things so she’s their waitress (good on her feet, that one—and better at
improv than him or Sam, that’s for sure).

"Madison and Lenore... they are mates.” Benny wastes no time in explaining, his smooth low
voice made lower and smoother in an attempt to not be overheard by the midday drinking crowd.
“You understand about those types of bonds, you have one, too."

Dean takes a weary swig of his beer. "Yeah."

So they knew about them being Agents, they knew about them faking an interest in the pack...
and still the Winchester bond shone through strong enough that Madison honestly believed it was
real. What that says about him and Sam, Dean can’t think about too hard without getting a
headache.

At least it sounds like Benny chalked up their little lover’s quarrel yesterday as... well... that. Kind
of what it was. Yikes.

"Bonds are almost sacred to us, Dean. They can be forged over time but sometimes there’s an
element of instant connection, and Madison and Lenore were the type that just kinda... fit.” Benny
smiles faintly. “They only met last year, right after Madison was bitten, but I don’t think I’ve ever
seen two people so right for each other. I mean that.”

“Look, I appreciate the cross-species fairytale romance of it all, believe me, but how the hell did
they get a coven and a pack to start working together?“

“There was no pack until a year ago. It was just Lenore’s coven and the one rogue werewolf that
got under our radar and bit Madison. He died soon after, but Lenore found her... and couldn’t kill
her.” He shrugs. “She decided to help Madison instead; keep her in check during the full moon.”

Dean’s starting to see where this is going.

“Soon as she could, Madison decided to search for others. Figured this was a way to stop a lot of
people from getting hurt, on both sides. It’s an ongoing project, but she’s saved so many already,
man.” It’s clear from the tone of his voice that there’s something near reverent in Benny’s respect
for Madison’s mission. “She’s got big picture ideas and they work.”

“Are you telling me none of the weres Madison’s found have killed anyone because you guys—
the vamps in Lenore’s coven have been watching out for them when they turn?”

The catch being, of course, that before she found them might be a whole other story.

Dean’s job is fucking impossible sometimes.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Plus word’s gotten out now, and more are coming. It’s a big
coven and some of us aren’t permanent residents here, we’re always free to come and go, long as
no one was harmed in the in between.” Benny’s mouth pulls up fondly. “Lenore’s got the kind of
moral conviction that’d have us jumping off a bridge if she asked—“

“Refill, gentlemen?”
It’s Jo, smoothly interrupting with a fresh pitcher of beer.

“I’m good, thanks sweetheart,” Dean says just to be a dick.

The look she gives him after Benny refuses as well says he may just get punched in the dick later.
Ow.

As soon as she’s out of earshot Dean turns back to Benny. “Okay, but how does it work? This...
alliance, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Weres are almost exactly like normal humans during the rest of the month only with a couple of
extra boosts, right? Smell, reflexes... confidence, according to Madison. Anyway, they watch out
for us in case weakness strikes. And in return... we keep them in line when they need us.”

“Wow. Sounds like your very own sponsor system. Vampwolves Anonymous.”

Benny smirks like Dean’s not the first person to draw that parallel. “If the shoe fits.”

“And I’m supposed to believe Lenore’s whole coven lives on cow’s milk, is that it?”

“Cow’s blood mostly, actually,” Benny says flatly. “Blood bank runs are reserved for special
occasions. You have to back off, Dean, this is a good thing we’ve got going and SPN’s just gonna
hunt us down when there’s no reason to. Please.”

“I told you I can’t make promises, Benny.”

“Maybe not, but you can try. You have to try. We don’t kill people, I told ya.”

Which begs the question... who’s killing them?

“You’re shitting me.”

“It’s what he said.”

“And you believed a vampire?” Gordon’s practically laughing in his face, but Dean’s not about to
back down.

“I really think we should discuss this before calling up Bobby and Ellen and having Rufus order
an immediate Katie.”

“What’s there to discuss?” Gordon looks around the room (well, morgue) at large, his green cap
doing nothing to make the wired look on his face less terrifying. “They’re monsters. The bodies
are probably collateral damage from this ‘alliance’ or whatever... who cares? We’ve got to strike
and it’s gotta be now, before this Benny creature warns its brethren with the information Dean so
happily provided—“

“Wait a minute, Gordon,” Bela snaps. “We get it, you’re a trigger-happy moron, but there’s plenty
to discuss. Like how about revisiting the idea that there’s someone killing supernatural creatures
outside of SPN jurisdiction, as Sam suggested.”

Jake nods. “I agree. That sounds way more likely than them lying. I don’t see what they could
have to gain from telling us they don't know who the killer is versus admitting it was their own
damn fault. If anything the latter would get us off their backs.”

“We also need to know the specifics of how they protect the population, though,” Jo comments. “I
“We also need to know the specifics of how they protect the population, though,” Jo comments. “I
mean a sponsor system sounds great on paper but a werewolf on the full moon is kind of like an
armed warhead, right? So is there a rented out warehouse that looks like an S&M locker
somewhere? Because we found no suspicious records, and I know for a fact that was looked
into.”

“All good points.” Jake nods. “So we do some more recon before blowing the whistle, agreed?
Keep this shit between us.”

They all agree except Gordon, who scoffs. He doesn’t say ‘no’ though.

“What are Sam n’me supposed to do meanwhile?” Dean asks.

“You keep on keepin’ on, right?” Charlie says after a beat of hesitant silence. “I mean, I hope
Benny was telling the truth and it sounded like he was, but we don’t really know that a hundred
percent. I-I think we should make sure.”

“Even if he was telling the truth, and that’s the best case scenario, this area will need constant
monitoring from now on, knowing what we know,” Jake adds. “Better make sure.”

“Talk to Madison if you can,” Bela says. “A real, honest talk, no holds barred. I’m sure she and
Lenore put Benny up to this today but see what she has to say first-hand; if she can fill in the
bloodthirsty-monster-shaped gaps.”

“She’s not going to tell us where they lock up the vulnerable members of her pack when they get
out of hand,” Sam warns.

“All she has to tell you is that a place like that exists,” she assures them. “Because otherwise this
story still has a couple of inconsistencies.”

They nod, and then Jake kicks them out because the Pathologist is apparently on his way and Jake
is supposed to assist him with a necropsy.

Gordon’s the first one to out, walking ahead with long strides that quickly distance him from the
small group. Dean feels bad for him but he’s not about to change his stance on the Katie issue.
Bela and Jo start talking gun preferences amongst each other but Charlie has captured one of
Sam’s huge paws in both her hands, tugging like an excitable twelve-year-old.

“Have you picked out a costume yet?” Dean hears her ask.

“Not yet.”

“Would you let me pick one for you?”

“I don’t think I can pull off Spock ears, Charlie.”

She laughs. “Definitely not what I had in mind.”

“I think Kate mentioned a theme, right?” Dean puts in. “Inter-office politics, or something like
that? Everyone dressed as someone from another department?”

“But that’s so boring,” Charlie protests. “Come on, you guys!”

Sam smiles. “Sorry, Charlie. But Dean and I are still working the case, and if this party calls for
boring then we’ll be the most boring married couple there.”

She rolls her eyes. “I swear, you two are so cute I’m gonna start puking actual rainbows one of
these days.” And with that, she flits off to join Jo and Bela, interrupting them mid sentence with an
excitable question about crossbows.

Dean nearly stops walking mid-hospital corridor, kind of in shock, and he looks up at Sam to see
Sam having a similar reaction.

Charlie said it so flippantly.

The next morning in the elevator Dean’s keeping his mind on the case, he really is, he is totally,
totally thinking about the job, absolutely—except for how Sam is licking the whipped cream off
the top of his Extra-Froofy Venti Half-Caf Triple-Rainbow Lattechino or whatever the fuck that
sugary concoction of the devil is called, and looking completely obscene while he does it.

His pink tongue keeps darting out to lick bits of the sticky caramel-smothered tip that peeks out of
the plastic cone and he has to know what this is doing to Dean, there’s no way he doesn’t. His
eyes will randomly close as he savors the taste, come on. Lord have mercy on his soul, for fucking
real.

They stop and two more people get out, leaving them alone with another dude dressed in the
customer support yellows of the printer company ten floors down from Caplan-Malone. Charlie
mentioned going on a date with one of the manager chicks from there, Dean thinks.

The guy gets out soon after, and Dean can’t take this anymore. He’s only human.

He grabs the cup from Sam’s hands without an explanation, scoops some of the cream with a
finger and bends to quickly plunk it on the floor.

“Dean, what the—“

“Watch.” He opens his mouth in the full-lipped ‘o’ that’s gotten him in trouble a million times and
slowly, pornographically sucks himself clean.

Sam makes a low, pained noise of confusion.

“Wh—what...”

Dean finishes his deep-throat impression and pointedly smacks his lips thoughtfully. “Honestly? I
don’t see what all the fuss was about, Sammy.”

Then he grins, because now they are both turned on and frustrated.

Sam stares wordlessly at him for a few seconds before dropping his bag perilously close to the
coffee cup on the floor. Dean starts to back away but Sam advances on him mercilessly.

“Hey, you started it...”

He lets Sam crowd him against the opposite wall, trembling a little with anticipation. Yes. Yes,
this is what he wanted. The whole time, he wanted—

“What? What are you gonna do to me?”

Sam scoffs lightly, adjusting his stance. Dean stands straighter, making things easier, making
himself more accessible in case Sam wanted to... in case he’s about to—

The telltale ‘ding’ of the next level interrupts his thoughts. Sam puts an arm at either side of
The telltale ‘ding’ of the next level interrupts his thoughts. Sam puts an arm at either side of
Dean’s head, effectively caging him in, and somebody must have pressed the button but Dean’s
field of vision is limited to Sam. It must look damn provocative from the outside; two silhouettes
and an obvious position, not inviting for anyone to join them.

By the time the doors close again nobody has come in.

Do it, come on, Dean thinks desperately. But all Sam does is lean his head down so their lips
almost touch—almost, but not quite, and Dean’s shaking but when his stupid brother tilts his head
to the side it’s a teasing brush of warm air mixing with Dean’s breath.

“I told you, Dean,” Sam mutters. “When you’re ready.”

Dean opens his mouth indignantly—but someone clears their throat.

The doors have opened again, this time on their company level, and five wide-eyed Caplan-
Malone employees staring at them.

“Uh...”

Sam quickly steps away, giving them a rueful look, but Dean’s smug pride overrides his
embarrassment (which was always anecdotal at best). Whenever this has happened to him with a
chick in the past it’s been an automatic response to puff out his chest and grin like he ate the
canary and then some, and he figures as far as dudes go there’s no one hotter than Sam, so... why
react any differently?

He adjusts his uniform cap with total nonchalance and makes a point of tipping it to their
spectators as he struts out into the corridor.

“See you at lunch, honey.”

“I... See ya.”

It turns out that lunch break is still about an hour away when Dean’s cell rings, however, an S
displayed on the screen.

“Hey, Dean. You got a minute?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so get this; the Chief of Police Bela’s been talking to? Jody Mills? She only moved here a
year ago.”

Dean looks around and then dashes into the nearest bathroom, checking it properly for other
residents before speaking. It’s empty.

“A year ago as in right at the start of the formation of the covenpack?”

He totally came up with ‘covenpack’ on his own. Sam thinks it sounds stupid but it totally doesn’t,
it’s awesome.

“Exactly. I know you thought it was a little too coincidental for her to be in the know about
supernatural stuff, too.”

“Yeah, yeah, totally.”

Dean’s mind is racing. The missing element in Benny’s Vampwolves Anonymous story. The
control group, someone with the resources and position of power to make sure nothing gets out of
hand. Access to a secure facility of some sort during the changes.

“She’s in on it.”

“Do we still try to talk to Madison today, or...?”

“I think we need to talk to Jody Mills first. I’ll call Bela.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“You keep saying that like I’m not the most badass Agent on the force, you know.”

“I can’t believe the sexy uniform cap fits on your giant head.”

“Sexy cap?”

There’s a moment of silence and then Sam hangs up without another word. Dean feels a laugh
threatening to explode out of his chest.

Jody Mills is an attractive, amiable woman in her late thirties with a look in her eyes that reminds
Dean of his dad. It’s the kind of haunted weariness of army veterans, the weight of having seen
untold horrors in her life. The kind of look some hunters have, too.

“Please, have a seat.”

She motions to the single chair in front of her desk and after exchanging a glance Bela motions for
Dean to take it, choosing instead to stand behind the Chief of Police. It’s a bit disconcerting, and
has Dean feeling outnumbered instead of part of the majority.

“What do you know about vampires and werewolves, Chief?”

“Not much.”

Chief Mills’ smile is polite and kind, but also somehow conveys the notion that Dean is very low
on the list of things that impress her (so that’s why she and Bela look like best friends already).
Dean does get Bela’s reluctance when they spoke on the phone, though; Jody Mills is clearly not
the type of woman who can be bribed, coerced or even blackmailed into doing something she
doesn’t believe in.

Of course, there’s a fourth option that has to do with the crucial information Sam managed to
unearth last-minute...

“Having already known of the existence of the SPN, why didn’t you contact us when the two
bodies turned up?”

“I didn’t know,” she answers simply. “My experience with the supernatural is pretty limited to the
zombie section.” Her tone is hilariously casual when she says this.

“Two bodies on two consecutive full moons with their hearts ripped out of their chests didn’t ring
any alarm bells?”

“We chalked it up to a serial killer. A human one. And once the bureau claimed jurisdiction we
passed over our files to the FBI. I have no idea how it got from there to the SPN Division but the
passed over our files to the FBI. I have no idea how it got from there to the SPN Division but the
case was out of my hands at that point.” She crosses her arms over her chest, badge getting
smushed in the process. “This an interrogation, Agent?”

“Just making friendly conversation,” Dean assures her. Behind the Chief, Bela rolls her eyes.
“How’s your daughter?”

At that, Jody Mills leaps up from her chair.

“You leave Anne out of this,” she hisses furiously, and then she turns to Bela. “What the hell is
going on here, Agent Talbot?”

“Anne’s adopted, right?” Dean presses. “Just a little over a year ago, if I’m not mistaken. In fact,
records show the papers were finalized right before you guys moved to San Francisco.”

“Just say what you’re gonna say, Agent Winchester,” Mills snaps. Her eyes are terrified. Dean
didn’t mean to scare her so bad but he has to get her to tell them the truth or a bunch more people
are gonna die.

“What do you really know about vampires and werewolves, Chief?”

Mills looks at him for a long, considering time.

And, finally, she starts to talk.

The missing piece slots into the story as seamlessly as they’d thought, and finally, the triumvirate
of women in charge of keeping three different species safe makes perfect sense.

Chief Mills was still Sheriff Mills when she rescued a teenage girl from a vampire coven. After the
ordeal both she and Anne had found themselves alone and without a family. So they decided to
start their own.

It was in seeking out protection from the surviving members of the coven who’d held Anne
captive that Jody came across Lenore. The leader of a coven of vampires in San Francisco who
valued human safety. And all Lenore wanted in return was a small favor, something Jody sounded
glad to grant; Lenore needed help with the new werewolf who she hadn’t been able to kill. She
needed use of the overnight cells in the adjunct building of the district’s police station.

It went from there.

They got organized. Expanded the business. Perfected the system.

There hadn’t been a single human casualty since they’d partnered up, even as more and more
werewolves flocked to the city under Madison’s wing. The system worked for them, Jody
explained passionately, and it was secure.

“Even Anne... her relationship with vampires, the PTSD...” the Chief grimaces. “Meeting Lenore
has been so good for her. Helped her understand so many things about her imprisonment, why
those bastards who took her had no right to claim ownership—ownership, as if she was their pet?”
She glares up at Dean. “I won’t let you take this away from my girl.”

Dean’s not about to make promises he can’t keep, so instead he says: “What happened two
months ago, Jody?”

The familiarity was a conscious choice but Chief Mills ignores it.

“Stella died. The first. Good woman, far as I knew, hadn’t really interacted much with her
personally.” She sighs. “And a month later it was Bellamy. He also got an autopsy the same day
he was declared, I couldn’t stop it. I barely had time to investigate before you guys showed up, set
up shop in my department. The whole squad thinks Talbot’s FBI, by the way,” she adds.

Dean nods. “That’s usually our preferred cover. The SPN is tangentially related to the Bureau
after all.”

“You should have told us about this, Jody,” Bela says. “Another of your vegetarian vampires is
dead because of it.”

“I made a judgment call,” Mills replies. She sounds sad but determined, and Dean secretly thinks
that’s good on her. “I chose not to warn you.”

“You warned Madison instead.”

“...Yes.”

Dean clicks his tongue. “And you don’t know who it is either?”

“No. I’ve been trying but had no luck so far. And no resources, either.” She looks pointedly at
him. “You could, though. You know the lore. I thought vampires only died by decapitation? Why
would anyone take their hearts?”

“The missing hearts kill two birds with one stone,” Bela says tiredly. “It allows Dead Man’s
Blood to stay in a vampire’s system long enough for it to look dead in every way that matters to a
medical examiner.”

“What’s the second bird?”

“The autopsy. Takes care of decapitation, or a version of it anyway.”

Mills swallows. “Yikes. Who came up with that?”

Dean can feel Bela’s eyes on him when he opens his mouth to answer, and then shuts it again.
Gordon’s extreme views on vampires are no secret in the Division.

“Someone with serious vamp issues, let’s leave it at that.”

“You think it might be him, don’t you?”

“You do, too.”

They’ve wound up at the company bar after all, nursing a beer and a martini respectively, because
Bela will go to her deathbed a classy chick or so help her God. Jo’s covering another section, but
Dean arranged it that way on purpose. He wants to discuss this with Bela alone first.

“He has motive and means, Dean. And plenty of resources.”

“We can’t delay a report forever. Bobby and Ellen will start to suspect something’s up; they didn’t
get where they are by playing dumb.”

“We delay long enough for you to talk to Madison.” Bela’s large green eyes are unforgiving. “I
will not have the unjust killing of creatures striving for redemption on my conscience, thank you.”

“Madison’s at a convention until Friday, Talbot. And if it really is Gordon, he’s going to want a
Katie called.”

“Whether he’s responsible for the three deaths or not, Gordon’s going to want a Katie called,”
Bela corrects. “But today is Wednesday, Winchester. Friday is two days from now. We can push
a report back two days.”

Dean’s still hesitant and it’s clear she can see it. She flicks a silky lock impatiently from her face.

“Listen to me, Dean; I was a bounty hunter before I became an Agent of the Division. I did shady
things. Stole some stuff. Killed some people.” Dean goes rigid. What the fuck, he had no idea.
Bela waves a dainty hand dismissively. “I’m not proud of it, but a girl’s gotta eat and what’s done
is done. Now I look at what Madison’s doing and I think; that’s a good thing. She’s giving people
who deserve it a second chance; a chance to live without hurting people.”

“Bela...”

“So you see? I’m telling you a pseudo sob-story so that you’ll understand why I think second
chances are important. It’s about survival.”

Two days. Two more days with Sam before shit gets real, one way or the other.

“Dean? We got a deal?”

“Deal.” He smirks at her and lifts the bottle to his lips. “You gonna kiss me and seal it?”

“I’d rather watch you kiss your brother, to be honest.”

Dean chokes on his beer and the subsequent coughing fit is so extreme Jo actually runs up to them
and offers to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

Madison offers to take Sam away with her to the convention later that evening.

Dean thinks this is bullshit because it means almost two whole days without his brother but they
can’t exactly refuse. It is Sam’s job, after all. And Sam himself says he’s totally cool with it.
Which is great. Good for him. Him and Madison in the same hotel, and her liking guys too and
Sam liking girls and both of them being so hot and smart and into lawyer stuff. It’s just awesome.

“Dean, come on.”

“What?”

“You can’t think that. Not for a second.”

“I don’t think anything. But you’ve gotta admit she’s hot.”

“Yeah. But that’s irrelevant.”

“If you say so.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “She and Lenore are basically soulmates.”

“Just... keep our holy union in mind, is all I’m saying.”

“Yes, nothing holier than our marriage.” Sam mutters with a snort. “I’ll see you in two days,
Dean.”
Dean looks around the busy foyer and wishes he wasn’t mid-shift so he could walk with Sam to
their apartment and maybe try to... leave him with something to remember Dean by. Maybe he’s
not ready for the full Monty, but he can handle giving Sammy something for the road. He wants to
make his mark, a sign that he was there. A tattoo of bruises that tells the world: ‘you can look, I
see why you’d want to; but do not touch’.

The more he thinks about it the more the idea tugs at him, pulsing like liquid heat in his gut.

“Sam...”

“Hm?”

There are a lot of people around and he can’t recognize anyone from Caplan-Malone, so not only
does he not have the excuse of keeping up the newlywed charade but there are a ton of witnesses.
Still, he wants... he needs something. His pulse is racing and his palms are sweaty and if there’s a
slight tremor in his chest it’s because he’s still adjusting to the idea of Sam within reach but the
want is old, ingrained in him. It comes from his bones.

So maybe it’s not so much about giving Sam something as it is about him wanting to do it for
himself.

“You...”

Sam’s looking at him expectantly, waiting to leave because he still has to pack an overnight bag.
What to do?

“Dean, you know I’m kind of in a hurry, right?”

“Yeah, I just...”

“... What?”

Fuck it.

Dean’s response is to grab him by his tie and plant one on him, smack in the middle of the
afternoon crowd.

Sam ‘mmphs’ and then relaxes into it, hands quickly coming up to cup Dean’s jaw. Forget getting
a crick on his neck, he’s going to develop chronic back pain from this position--back arched and
on his toes to reach... wait a minute.

Without breaking the kiss, Dean winds his arms around Sam’s neck and slowly rests his weight
back on his heels, bringing Sam down with him and forcing him to bend. Sam nips his lower lip
and follows, docile as a doll, and there’s a heady rush of power. Being able to do these things to
Sam... one might easily develop megalomania.

It has to end, though.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Dean quips, a little hoarse because yeah, that just
happened, and people are staring, and Sam’s definitely not a chick and now a whole bunch more
civilians know that Dean is into the, uh...

“Right.” Sam adjusts the knot at his neck like he’s having difficulty swallowing. “I’ll... see you
soon.”

Dean nods, satisfied. He did that. He made Sam feel like that. Action; reaction. His kiss put that
look on Sam’s face.

Real. This is real.

The apartment is empty. Dean stands in the doorway for a few moments, thinking that if he stays
he’s going to get all maudlin and introspective and end up calling Sam just to hear his voice, like
the sad sap that he is.

So what he does instead is go right back out and walk to the nearest liquor store. If he’s going to
survive the night, he’s going to get drunk. Not smashed, not blind-drunk, but enough not to feel
any pain.

Because it hurts every time; missing Sam. Every. Damn. Time.

“An’ it feels like Stanford all over again and I don’t like it, so you need to come back. I want us to
be together again. Be us again, y’know? For real. I get it now, about not... about it not being like
before, because you were a kid and I was a kid and I was... I thought of you as a kid. And you’re
not a kid anymore, an’... I see that now. I think that’s what you wanted me to see, right? And if
you really want me like that, does that mean you won’t push me away anymore? Because that
would... I’d like that. I think you should come back t’me. Okay? I’ll be so good for you, you’ll see.
So good. I’ll do whatever you want. I wanna do whatever you wanna do. Fuck. Get hard just
thinkin’ about it... thinkin’ about you telling me what you want...”

Somebody claps Dean on the shoulder and he wrenches their arm around, digging his thumb into
the wrist and stretching the joint to force them up against the wall.

“Ow, Dean--”

“Sammy!” He lets go immediately. “You’re back!”

“Yeah.” Sam rubs his wrist, wincing, but he should’ve really known better than to go at Dean
from behind. The hunter instinct is hard to shake off. He looks up at Dean through his bangs,
duffel bag still swinging from his shoulder. They must have just gotten in and Sam went straight to
the security desk to ask for him.

D’aw.

“So I, uh... got your voicemail.”

Dean winces, instantly on the defensive. He hates feeling self-conscious and avoids it whenever
possible. It’s... not possible here.

“Leading with that, are we?”

“I thought we were ‘rip off the Band-Aid’ types.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head at Sam. “That’s just when it comes to the job. Emotionally, we are
constipated fuck-ups with communication issues.”

They exchange a warm look. Sam kind of nods to himself and to Dean’s surprise, he doesn’t say
anything more about the intensely embarrassing message.

Dean woke up with a pretty bad hangover, a vague and horrific feeling of impending doom, and
the prospect of an early shift. It was... not fun, and he only got through it thanks to Benny and his
unexpectedly effective hangover cure; the Greek place across the street. He still can’t remember
his exact words but hopefully the answering machine cut off the worst bits towards the end, when
he started palming himself through his jeans and asking Sam about what it was like to fuck a guy,
get fucked by a guy, which ones Sam had done...

“So... did you have fun?”

Sam shrugs. “It was pretty boring, actually. Mostly for the benefit of people in positions of power,
like Madison. And she was so busy I couldn’t even try to talk about... you know. The other stuff. I
was there to help her out, keep her schedule; this one guy did try to get me to fetch him coffee,
which was kind of insulting—“

Dean interrupts him by flattening him against the wall and tucking his face into Sam’s neck.

“Kate’s coming this way...” he breathes. “And far as we know it’s Benny, Jody, Madison and
Lenore who know we’re Division agents.”

Sam taps him twice on the arm for ‘yes’, then opens his mouth on the patch of skin behind Dean’s
ear. “Good call.”

Then the asshole grips Dean by the elbows and flips them in a sudden move, so Dean’s the one
slamming his back against the wood panelling instead. There’s a distant clatter that Dean ignores
in favor of hissing: “Easy there, tiger!”

“You’re getting slow in your old age,” Sam whispers. “Also you dropped your walkie.”

“Fuck the walkie,” Dean snaps back. He’s not the one who dropped it, Sam and his unexpectedly
hot ability to pin Dean down are totally responsible--

“Fuck the walkie? That sounds like a complicated--”

“Shut up, Sam--”

“Happy Halloween, boys,” comes Kate’s retreating voice.

“Happy Halloween,” they both echo, drawing apart to glare daggers at each other.

Dean’s pretty sure he’s not the only one who’s totally turned on right now.

He adjusts his cap for something to do and Sam finally steps away from him. “Well... party’s
tonight, Sammy. We’d better go home and get dressed.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “Yeah. Clothes... putting clothes on is what I was thinking.”

Despite Dean’s best efforts Sam refuses to go to the party in drag, but Charlie winds up helping
them out by borrowing one of the yellow customer support shirts from ten floors down. It’s two
sizes too small but you won’t hear Dean complaining, and Sam looks very in character with the
fake headset and a pair of khakis.

Dean himself put together a pretty decent ‘Manager’s outfit by wearing a striped cornflower-blue
shirt, a tie, and red suspenders, as well as going way overboard with the hair-gel like a proper
uptight corporate douche.

Someone has decorated the main bullpen with fake plastic bats, spiders and sparkly skulls, and
fake glittery cobwebs that don’t resemble the real thing in the slightest. Blue, purple and red filters
cover the lamps to provide cool lighting effects, and the speaker set is pretty decent.

The playlist appears to be comprised entirely of an endless reel of terrible puns and in-jokes for the
supernatural crowd, starting with “Who let the dogs out” and getting worse from there. Dean’s
pretty sure Kate’s entirely responsible.

A large space has been cleared near reception by moving most of the fancy desks and chairs,
leaving only the occasional decorative plant covered in glitter. Hilariously, some people are
actually dancing. Trying to, anyway.

“Having fun?” Charlie says to him in passing, glass of bright pink (non-alcoholic, of course)
punch in hand and being trailed by two of her IT fanboys. She refused point blank to stick to the
theme and has come in what appears to be a medieval cosplay complete with lance.

“Time of my life,” Dean calls after her.

Sam’s been commandeered by the PA and secretarial staff again, Kate amongst them, but Dean is
trying to act like a grown up. He’s... he’s really trying.

“Hey, Dean.”

Madison is standing at his shoulder. Dean hadn’t noticed her sneaking up on him.

“Miss Malone.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Really?” She chuckles, eyes dancing as she surveys her employees. She’s
wearing a security guard uniform, funnily enough. “Miss Malone...” she echoes softly, a
disbelieving tilt to her smile. “I’m never getting used to that.”

“You’re the big boss of this entire operation, what do you expect?”

She hums noncommittally. “It’s funny, I’ve always been good at organizing things. Got an eye for
coordination, streamlining, optimizing... all those stupid words people use in corporate adds?
That’s me. The bite just... gave me the kick I needed to act on it. Contrary to popular belief, my
predecessor Caplan had chronic heart disease, and that’s what killed him. I had nothing to do with
it. I was never after power.”

Her assessing gaze is still on the crowd.

“I’m the senior partner in this law firm but I’m not the leader of the pack, Dean. There is no leader
in this pack. I just... organize things. It’s what I’m good at. Do you understand?”

Dean’s a “spade’s a spade” kind of guy but he figures yeah, he gets what she’s saying. Clearly the
connotations of superiority that come with a leadership position are very present in Madison’s
mind, and she doesn’t consider herself to be above her fellow werewolves (or vampires) at all.

It’s very noble of her, but not relevant to him beyond her position as spokesperson.

“Jody called me a couple of days ago, as I’m sure you anticipated.”She’s finally looking up at
him.
“Yeah. We had a nice long talk. She clarified some things for us.”

“I’m surprised the SPN isn’t storming the building as we speak.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “We haven’t filed a report yet, Madison. But for what it’s worth...
I believe you. Me and Sam, we...”

But he cuts off because someone has just said something that made Sam laugh, and Dean’s head
jerks in that direction instinctually. It’s such a rare sight, Sam laughing out loud.

His brother really does look stupidly good tonight. The sparkly cobwebs and assorted decorations
crystallize the foci of purple and blue lights that cut into the angles of his face; the high
cheekbones, the questing tip of his pointy nose. As with most situations the shadows save the
image from being too tacky, lending a kind of dark elegance to it instead. Horrid mustard yellow is
by turns orange, green and pink and in all colors clings to Sam’s muscles when he moves and
shifts.

Dean could watch the kid smiling and being happy his whole life. Not even as an active
participant in Sam’s good humor, just from the sidelines, basking in Sam’s joy, his contentment in
being surrounded by admiring peers.

“Why do you still look like you can’t have him?”

Dean startles.

He honest to God forgot Madison was standing next to him.

And then her words register and he’s instantly defensive. “Wh—what? What are you talking
about?”

“I’m not trying to be your therapist. But there’s this thing you do sometimes...” Madison’s eyes are
narrowed. “Random moments where you look at him like you’re still not sure he’s yours.”

Dean can’t speak. Answering with another denial would be setting himself up for disaster, he
knows that.

He looks back at Sam, the way his thick arm is bent for him to scratch the back of his neck, the
way his biceps bulge, the soft hair that curls slightly at the back of his neck. His fringe, the
dimples that dig into the side of his cheek when he smiles. He’s so kind, and he cares about people
in a way that comes as more of an afterthought to Dean. He’s selfless to the point where it’s
dangerous, because he gives pieces of his heart away and would keep on distributing them until
there was nothing left, if Dean weren’t there to protect him from himself. He’s exceptionally
smart, and a huge nerd. He’s a great hunter. He’s somehow very knowledgeable about healthy
emotional behavior and yet has become too adept at hiding his own feelings in favor of someone
else’s.

Nobody loves that kid as much as Dean.

Nobody loves anybody else as much as Dean loves that kid.

That’s why he’s still not sure. Why he may never be entirely sure, because he’s so full of loving
Sam already, so how can there be room for Sam to love him back?

“He is, you know. Yours,” Madison adds matter-of-factly. “It’s just as obvious as the fact that you
are his. Even without an animal instinct...” she taps her nose playfully. “I’d be able to tell. What
you two have is something special.”
“I-I... I’m not sure that that’s... it’s a complicated—“

“Dean. It’s okay, I’m not here to judge. But remember my office has glass walls. I’ve seen Sam
alone and I’ve seen him when you’re in a room, and whatever it is can’t be so complicated that it
gets in the way of that.”

Dean can’t think of a comeback for that one.

Madison is clearly aware of this, because she smiles gently. “Go dance with your partner, Dean.
We’ll talk later.”

Her eyes flash in the low light and she juts her chin out towards Sam, who is... now looking their
way.

He waves a little awkwardly at them both, and Dean and Madison wave back.

“Sam and me aren’t really the dancing type.”

“I suppose not. It’d still be a sight to see, though.” She winks at him. “Come find me and Lenore
after the party, all right? We can talk then.”

And she walks away, leaving Dean standing alone once more as Sam goes over to him.

“What did she want?”

“She wants to talk to us after the party. Really talk.” They exchange a significant glance, and then
for some reason Dean adds: “She also said we should dance.”

He doesn’t want to dance. He hates any kind of social display even tangentially related to that sort
of thing.

But he still says it. And the first few notes of the next song playing are from one he actually likes.
“I Put a Spell On You”, by the inimitable Nina Simone.

I put a spell on you because you’re mine, she sings.

It’s a slow beat, an inviting melody. Dean could fuck someone to this song, he thinks. Or get
fucked. The idea sends a thrill up his spine. Yeah, he could get fucked to this song.

He feels Sam’s hand slide into his, a warm grip. Their little area is relatively in the sidelines, not
secluded exactly but far enough from the social center that Dean’s comfortable. Sam doesn’t lead
him towards the makeshift dance floor—but then Dean never expected him to. No, instead Sam
uses his hold on Dean’s hand to turn him so they stand face to face, and for a long moment that’s
all they do. Maybe Dean nods his head a little to the music... maybe. And maybe Sam sways ever-
so-slightly as Nina Simone croons about loving someone and not caring if they don’t want you, I
love you anyhow... but that’s all they do. They are Winchesters. Winchesters don’t dance at office
parties. Winchesters hunt monsters and protect civilians.

Dean looks up at Sam from under his lashes as the song starts to come to an end.

Because you’re mine, he thinks.

“Wanna get outta here for a sec?”

Sam’s eyes are pitch black. Must be the shadows. “...Yeah.”

They walk out of the room together, of one mind even though they don’t discuss it; they don’t say
a single word to each other, in fact. It’s straight to the stairwell and then the supply closet that
doesn’t lock on the thirty-fifth floor.

“You wanna...?” Sam starts, shutting the door behind him and clearly still catching his breath.
“You wanna discuss the case, or--”

“I don’t wanna discuss the case,” Dean says, and he leans up to kiss Sam hard.

Sam groans, looping both hands in Dean’s stupid red suspenders to bring him fully forward. His
tongue licks Dean’s lips open, hot and wet and there’s a biting edge to his kisses, too eager to be
totally smooth, hints of teeth nipping at the tender flesh. Goddamn but Sam knows how to kiss.
Dean's the cheerfully self-appointed slut of the pair but Sam kisses like the world's about to end
and there's no time for finesse--and it works. His obvious, unabashed desperation means Dean has
less control than he would’ve imagined but it’s still good; hell, maybe that’s why it’s so good.
Turns out he’s not the one in charge, in the end. Not the one driving.

Not... the one on top?

The thought has him whimpering into Sam’s mouth, fingers clawing at Sam’s shoulders for more,
more of everything, anything.

“God, Dean—“ Sam mutters, shoving a knee between Dean’s legs and propping him up against
the door, manhandling him to his liking. Fuck. Dean’s always had a thing for letting his partner
take control but he’s never been with someone who’s stronger than him in such an obvious way.
Another area in which they work really well together, and who the hell is responsible for this,
Dean thinks crazily. Who created them so they’d be a complementary fit even in this?

“D’you... are you...” Sam pants, hips rolling into Dean’s in an uncoordinated grind. “Is this...?”

“Yes,” Dean hisses instantly. “Yeah, fuck yeah, Sammy—“

Sam’s head drops onto his shoulder at the nickname, forehead rolling like he’s saying ‘no’ or ‘too
much’—but his next thrust is fierce, rattling the shelves around them. Dean can feel him through
their clothes, rigid and pushing against his fly, fucking huge. He’s painfully hard himself, just from
some dirty dry humping in the most clichéd context they could have possibly come up with. Like
he gives a damn.

"Hard—harder,” he whispers right into Sam’s ear, tongue and teeth brushing the lobe and tone
tilted up like a question, the suggestion implicit that if Sam doesn’t want it harder Dean will take it
however.

“Fuck,” Sam swears, voice guttural with desire. Probably because he doesn’t swear normally, the
word sounds doubly obscene coming from him. “Fuck yeah, Dean, okay...”

He hitches Dean’s right leg around his waist and moves both hands to Dean’s ass, lifting him up
off floor and making Dean honest-to-God whine into his neck as he feels his foot slip and his
balance suddenly shift to depend on Sam completely.

Both of them too impatient to pause and unbuckle, they just go at it like that, rutting against each
other and finding a jerky rhythm that speeds up aggressively until Dean’s dick is engulfed in the
heat created through friction. The fact that the crotch and zipper of their pants are in the way
means the sensation starts out stifled and the build is agonizing, with release like a promise that’s
just out of reach.

“H-harder?” Dean mouths, no air in his lungs left. Sam groans and complies, and it’s almost... it’s
getting closer and closer as they move faster—almost... almost there, right fucking... there—

“Are you... Dean, you gonna...?”

One of the hands Sam’s got tucked under him slips when Dean next rocks up and down and
suddenly he feels the faint pressure of Sam’s fingers between his ass cheeks. Dean cries out, toes
curling in his dress-shoes and fingers curling in Sam’s shirt, head slamming back into the door as
he comes in his underwear. He can feel it making a mess, liquid heat shooting out and coating his
own spasming dick, trickling hotly to his balls, and he can’t help trying to rub his ass against
Sam’s fingers in an effort to sink them deeper despite the fact that it’s no use.

“Oh fuck oh fuck—“

“Dean, God—“

Sam stabs one digit into him, the fabric bulging to make a better point of pressure for Dean to rub
against and Dean wants to die, his body only human, can’t contain that much pleasure, can’t...

“That’s it, c’mon, that’s right,” Sam coaxes. The final aftershocks have Dean undulating his pelvis
to wring out every last thrill of his orgasm, eyes closed but mouth hanging open. Defeated.
Rendered senseless.

His insides feel so hot he should be puffing out steam.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he croaks.

Sam sets him down carefully, corner of his lips pulling into a satisfied smile.

Dean looks up at him. Sam’s hair is a wreck where Dean must have pulled it at some point and his
pupils look huge, like he’s overdosed on something. He’s huffing like a wild horse, nostrils flaring
with every breath, but something about his body suggests he’s trying to hold himself contained,
still.

“Sammy?”

Sam twitches, and Dean recalls the earlier reaction to the term of endearment. Well... he could
spiral away from this, blame himself again, sink into a hole of despair because of it. Or he could
ride out the post-orgasmic bliss and accept the fact that they are both pretty fucked. And it feels
amazing. Better than amazing; it feels wrong in a way that can only be right.

“You all right there, buddy?”

Sam nods slowly. “Fine,” he bites out.

Dean puts a hand on his hip, then rotates it clockwise so his palm is flat on Sam’s thigh. “Yeah?”

Sam swallows, still making obvious efforts not to move. But it’s deliberate now, he’s holding
Dean’s gaze and the baseline tremble of his muscles is anticipating.

Dean slides his hand to Sam’s crotch, where his painfully hard erection is tenting the material. He
squeezes gently—too gently, teasing, making Sam pant and shudder, making him sweat. God, he
feels huge in Dean’s hand. Huge and thick.

Dean had always acknowledged somewhere in his mind that little Sammy was gonna have to
grow all over if he was going to keep things proportional to his height, and he’d thought about it
more than once. It was past the age where they’d change in front of each other, Sam in particular
going to extra lengths to cover up and only giving Dean the briefest of glimpses at his junk. Dean
had considered feeling pissy and annoyed that, being so far from a slouch himself in that
department, he’d gone and landed the one brother who’d outsize him... but ultimately decided
against it. It was something else to be proud of Sammy for, right?

Now, rubbing tenderly and excruciatingly softly with the heel of his hand, Dean thinks... right.

Sam’s big cock must be aching but still he endures, sweaty temples and flushed complexion
notwithstanding, by slowly rocking himself forward into Dean’s palm and nothing else. No
demanding, no grabbing, just that churning move of his hips as he seeks out whatever pressure he
can. Pressure Dean isn’t going to make him wait for long.

He leans in to kiss Sam again, slow and gentle like he’d do for any girl; careful.

And then he whispers in Sam’s ear: “You want it?”

Sam nods immediately. “Yeah. Please.”

“Want what?”

“Anything. Hand. Or just... let me do myself. Just... just let me—“

Dean steps away and Sam immediately makes a noise of protest, but then Dean starts unbuckling
his belt. “Wanna finish yourself off for me, Sammy? Lemme see you do it. An’ I want you to
think of what would’ve happened if you’d fucked me up against the door.”

“Uh.” Sam’s hand flies to his zipper and he ends up shoving Dean’s hands away in his
impatience, making Dean grin. He watches Sam thrust a hand into his pants and his breathing cut
off, hips twitching and arm moving furiously as he tugs, hard, eyes pinched closed.

“Probably get me to come on your dick without a hand on me,” he knows what his voice sounds
like when it feels a little hoarse like right now, and uses it. “Probably make enough noise to draw
a crowd, huh? Slammin’ me into walls, the shelves, wherever the fuck you wanted.”

Sam collapses forward, the one arm he’s got up on the door behind Dean’s head the only thing
holding him up. Dean slides his hands up into his hair in what’s becoming a favorite new habit
and tugs, tugs until it’s got to be borderline painful—but the choked-off sigh it gets him says his
hunch was right. Sam’s moving like he’s close, frantic, teeth sunk into his lower lip so hard he’s
about to draw blood.

“You can bite me if you want, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes fly open and he looks like Dean punched him in the gut.

Dean uses his grip on the hair to tug Sam down to his neck, offering it up. “C’mon, think I’ve got
an idea of the type of—ah.”

Sam latches onto the underside of his jaw and shoves his hips once, twice—and then groans,
muffled into Dean’s skin as he comes.

“That’s my boy.”

“Oh, shit,” Sam hisses, hips twitching one last time. “Jesus.”

“What? No it’s me, Dean.”

Sam draws back to stare at him incomprehensibly for a moment... and then snorts.

“Oh my God you’re such an idiot.”

“You keep saying that.”

Sam shakes his head, grinning. “Because it’s true.”

“No it’s not. You love me.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” He doesn’t look at Dean as he says it, eyes roaming the shelves for
what Dean imagines is some sort of tissue paper... but that’s okay. Tissues are important.

They end up having to make do with the cardboard-y paper towel shit that doesn’t dry too well
and Dean’s worse off because his underwear is still pretty gross, but he hasn’t stopped smiling yet.

Which is, of course, when his phone starts to ring.

Dean would honestly let it go to voicemail if it weren't because he's wired to check all calls for
potential emergency situations, and... it's Pamela. Dean loves Pamela, but they don't really do
social calls.

"This better be--"

"Did you authorize an Emergency Katie?"

Dean goes cold.

"What?"

"Did you call it in?"

"An Emergency...? No!"

Sam's eyes widen and he immediately motions for Dean to put the phone on speaker.

"I fucking knew it," Pamela swears. "Dean, an EK was called in this morning by your team and
they are on their way right now, what's your status?"

"We... fuck, Pam there's no threat, our official recommendation was gonna be to not launch a
Katie at all!" He rubs a hand over his scalp, trying to think fast. "Team's not here yet so there's a
chance we can still call this off, right?"

"The report said you had confirmed lycanthropic and vampiric activity."

"It's an unusual situation," Sam says. "But there’s no grounds for the KT Pam, none at all. If
anything this stuff calls for monitoring and cooperation with the covenp—with the supernatural
creatures. We've gotta call them off."

She makes a frustrated noise and then there's the definitive suggestion of motion from her shift in
tone. "Fine. I'll get you Rufus, he's the only one authorized to cancel this op. I knew something
stank about the way this entire thing was handled, dammit." A huff. "Although I gotta admit,
cooperating with a bunch of deadly monsters seems a bit of a stretch for me boys, I gotta be
honest."

"We'll explain later, it's complicated."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say--hang on." A scrambled rush and then her muffled voice as
she talks to Rufus' secretary, presumably.

Dean looks up at Sam, noting the way his lips are very pink and a little swollen but filing it away
for another time. A more appropriate one.

"Gordon?" Sam whispers. Dean really hadn’t wanted to believe it. "Dean, if not him, who?"

"...Jo?"

"Jo would never call in an Emergency Katie on these guys and you know it. She's less likely to
side with caution than we are."

Sam's right. "Look, I agree with you, but I just find it hard to--"

"What the hell is going on?"

Ah. So Rufus has the phone.

"Sir, you have to rescind the Emergency Katie for the San Francisco case immediately. We never
called one in and it's completely unnecessary.”

“Rescind...? I’m sorry, since when do you give me orders, boy?”

“Sir, please,” Sam puts in. “This is a time-sensitive issue. We apologize, but there’s been a
mistake. The call was placed without a team consensus, and--”

“I got an official report from you, I don’t care about consensus. Dean took point on this hunt, and
in case you two knuckleheads have already forgotten your Academy training, when you’re
primary, you’re responsible for the other members of your team.”

“I didn’t authorize the emergent report,” Dean gets out through gritted teeth. Rufus isn’t lying, if
this really is Gordon then not being able to control him is on Dean a hundred-percent. “I didn’t
authorize any report sir, because I deemed the situation stable enough to hold off taking immediate
action.”

“So you’re telling me it’s not true that you have confirmed weres and vamps in the area? Verbal
confessions by the creatures themselves?”

Dean hesitates for a split second, but he can’t afford to lie to Director Turner.

“No, that’s... it’s true. But no member of either species has harmed a hair on a human’s head, as
far as we can tell, and there’s no risk of it happening.”

There’s a second’s silence. “When the hell were you going to tell your Handlers about this? I ask
because I know Bobby would’ve come to me if he knew the only reason we were holding off on
solving this case was that nobody’s been hurt ‘as far as you can tell’?”

Dean grimaces. “I apologize for my phrasing--we hadn’t gotten around to telling Bobby and Ellen
because it was a recent discovery. But you have to give us more time--the victims, they weren’t
human. It’s vampires that are being killed, vampires within this group of peaceful--”

“Whoa whoa whoa, say what now? The three vics are supernaturals? And you’ve known this how
long, exactly?”

“Sir, if you’ll call off the Kill Team and let us explain this will all become clear--”
“No.” Dean’s stomach drops. “No, uh-uh, I’ve had enough of this. You’ve got no evidence. Why
shouldn’t I believe you’re under the thrall right now? I’m sorry boys, but if you can’t back your
assessment with facts I’m letting the Katie go ahead and I’m giving primary to Gordon.”

Goddammit Gordon.

“Sir, the evidence is overwhelmingly in favor of their version of the story. There have been no
other deaths in the company aside from the three victims who were vampires--”

“That’s not evidence in their favor, that’s a lack of evidence against them. Welcome to the real
world, boys, where there is such a thing as smart killin’; homeless people, just to give one
example of the type of victim that registers as a zero body count--”

“Director Turner, please,” Sam starts.”We’ve gotten to know these people over time and--”

Dean makes a furious cut-it-out gesture but it’s too late, the worst part is already out.

If there’s one thing Rufus Turner hates...

“If there’s one thing I hate that’s insubstantial claims. Don’t give me that hand-holding rainbow-
skipping crap. Trust. No. One! That should be the SPN motto. Trust no one! I don’t even trust the
two of you! And you’re telling me the decision not to eliminate a potentially huge threat to the
civilian population is based on your feelings?”

“Sir--”

“No. The Emergency Katie is a go, I’ll deal with the paperwork shitstorm later. Either way this is
gonna be a nightmare, I’d rather sleep knowing I’ve erred on the side of caution this time.”

“Sir, you can’t--”

“Oh just you watch me, son.”

And with that, he hangs up.

Dean is momentarily speechless, but Sam isn’t. “This is my fault. We can’t let them die because of
me, Dean. They’re people.”

“I know. But...”

“I’m not sitting this one down.”

He wrenches the door open and starts to run towards the stairwell, back towards the party. Dean
follows immediately, even though his underwear feels gross (this kind of thing never happens to
heroes in movies; it’s like nobody mentions having to piss before the grand finale).

“Sam, wait!” Dean sprints to catch up to him. “Wait, you want a room full of angry and afraid
werewolves and vampires?”

“I don’t care. We have to fix this, we have to do something--”

“Right, yes, but how?”

They don’t slow down, still barging down the steps in the general direction of the others, and if
only there was a way to figure out what the Kill-Team’s position is right now they could get an
estimated ETA and--
“Wait!” Dean flings out an arm to stop Sam in his tracks. “Cameras. We need to access the
cameras.”

They stumble into the room and come to an abrupt halt. Of course the monitor station isn’t empty--
Chelsea is sitting with their feet up on the desk, munching on Thai takeout straight out of the box.

“Dude, you scared the shit outta me,” they says, not sounding all that rattled. “What the hell are
you--oh.” A pointed eyeroll is given at the sight of Sam. “Look, if you want use of the facilities
you either cover my shift for the night or you let me stay and watch, capische?”

Their wolfish grin is unapologetic.

Dean figures it’s faster to go with it than to actually try to explain what’s going on. “I’ll cover you
tonight and tomorrow, my friend.”

They sits up, hands raised palm up. “I’m just saying. Either way, I’d be okay with it.”

“You’re such a giver.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

And they happily struts away towards the party. The second they’re left alone Sam and Dean fling
themselves towards the monitors, two pairs of eyes scanning for a glimpse of their colleagues in
Kill-Team blacks.

“You see them?”

“No, but it could--wait. There!”

They are already at the eighteenth floor stairwell. A team of at least a dozen black shapes
(probably more) is creeping up towards the thirty-second level. Their protective gear is ceramic
black and reinforced, and they must be stocked up on silver bullets and guillotine wires too, Dead
Man’s Blood pellets on the tranq dart chambers...

Dean catches a metallic glint on the camera and swears under his breath.

“Was that a...?”

“That was Tamara’s machete. If she’s leading the team I don’t like our chances, Sammy. C’mon.”

He’s off again, running to the stairs, hoping against hope that he and Sam can somehow cut off
their own people before it’s too late, avoid getting caught in any crossfire, and save the
supernatural creatures.

This is not how he’d have ever imagined the hunt would end.

It does end tonight though, one way or another.

“How do we stop them? Can they be reasoned with?”

Dean’s feeling the exertion, countless flights of stairs at this point and he’s having trouble catching
his breath. “You know them, too, man. You tell me.”

“We have to get there before anybody--”

They burst out into the corridor of their floor, past the elevator and into the hallway made up of
windows on one side, the one that leads to the wide double-doors and into the main offices. Light
and music spill out at the end, while the corridor itself is only lit by the security minimum. The
glass walls give an almost vertiginous view of the city at night, black sky overhead.

There’s no moon.

Dean slows to a stop about midway. The party’s still going strong, and this is the way the Katie
will be coming through.

“We have to warn them,” says Sam beside him. “We can’t not.”

“We’re gonna cause a riot.”

“Dean, we have to.”

Dean hesitates... because he knows what they have to do; time-efficiency is their priority right
now and the covenpack needs to be alerted but they also need to keep a lookout for the imminent
arrival of the Kill-Team.

“We have to split up.”

Sam’s the one to say it. Dean hates, hates that he’s right. It goes against everything he is, but
Sam’s absolutely right.

“Come on, Dean. There’s not time; I’ll stay here and you--”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I know Tamara better than you do and Madison trusts you more
than me, it has to be the other way around. You go in there.” He motions towards the open doors.

Instead of leaving straight away Sam steps closer to him. “Don’t get yourself shot.” The puppy-
dog eyes are cranked up to eleven.

Dean grins. “Nah. Got a bucket list of kinky shit to do if we make it out of this, so... that’s
something to live for.”

Sam lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “I swear to God, if anything happens to you--”

“Death’s not gonna do us part just yet. Go.”

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“I’ll be fine, now go!”

Sam presses a quick kiss to his lips and breaks into a run. Dean watches him go for a couple of
seconds before turning back to face the innocent-looking door to the stairwell, far off at the other
end of the corridor. They must be right on the other side; the SPN’s finest and most lethal, with
shoot-to-kill orders.

And him in their way.

The music behind him cuts off abruptly, just in time for Dean to hear a noise that isn’t coming
from the party side of things.

Then the doors burst open.

“Hold your fire!” Dean thunders immediately, not giving anyone time to react.
He’d been right, Tamara is taking lead.

“... Dean?”

She stares at him, gun in one hand and machete by her hip. Behind her, two-dozen agents fan out
quietly and get into position. He knows most of them; some he trusts, others he hasn’t worked
with and so can’t speak for. But they all have one thing in common right now, and it’s the only
thing that matters; their job is to do as Tamara says. The lives of everyone in the covenpack are
hinging on that.

“What are you doing? We sent word ahead for you two and Agent Bradbury to clear the path.”
She appears to take him in properly after that, eyeing him up and down with a quizzical
expression. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”

Dean takes a couple of steps forward, hands raised.

“Funny story, actually; why don’t we all put our guns down and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Her eyes narrow. “Nevermind. Move your ass, we’ll talk later.”

He steps in front of her when she moves to walk past him. “Wait, wait. We need to talk now.”

“We’re the Katie, Winchester. You called for us. Get out of the way.”

“Look, there’s been a mistake,” Dean starts.

“A mistake?”

Tamara lowers her gun marginally and glances behind him to the purple-lit room beyond, where
it’s hard to see what’s going on but the distant murmur of altered voices can certainly be intuited.
If one’s ears were finely attuned to a particular male cadence they might also pick up on a man
trying to make himself heard above the background noise. Sam must be trying to get people to
remain calm and, ideally, to evacuate the premises.

“What the hell is this, Dean? Where’s Sam and Charlie?”

“The Katie’s been cancelled.”

Tamara blinks. “Excuse me?”

“The Katie. There’s been a change of plans, it’s off.”

“Nobody notified us. Rufus has to rescind the order personally, you know that.”

“Well, yeah, but...” if she calls Rufus they are all doomed. “But that’s why I’m here! He sent me!
The phone is so impersonal, huh? Technology these days,” he throws a hand up in the air. “So
anyway, you had better turn back. Nothing to see.”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Okay, she doesn’t look too impressed. “This is the wrong
moment for a prank, Agent Winchester. For all your attitude issues I always considered you a
professional.” She takes another step toward him, and Dean holds his ground even though her arm
continues to be outstretched, gun deviated only slightly from its firing position.

“We were told you had confirmation that a bunch of vampires and werewolves were working
together,” somebody calls from the back. Agent Wendell, Dean thinks.
“Well, it’s... more complicated than that.” Oh God, this is going to be an exact repeat of the
conversation he had with Rufus. And if so, it’s not going to end well. “Tamara, you have to trust
me, I can’t let you go in there and murder a bunch of people.”

“... People.” She cocks her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

How to explain? It took a few weeks to truly make him understand how the covenpack works,
and if he hadn’t spent time with Madison, Lenore, Benny, Kate... if he hadn’t seen the fire in
Chief Mills’ eyes first hand he would have found it much easier to just eliminate any potential
threat. Hell, if it weren’t for Sam’s firm moral compass he might still be having his doubts even
now.

“Guys. We have proof that none of the folk in there have killed anyone.”

“... So?” Tamara shakes her head. “Dean, I have my mission, and I can’t disobey a direct
command from above just because you had a last-minute change of heart, okay?”

“But you have to.”

“Excuse me?” She looks angry now. “I don’t have to do anything except my job. And it’s my job
to carry this out. Now, you either get Rufus to call and agree with you or you get the hell out of
my way.”

“I...” Man, Dean hopes Madison sends him a gift basket when he’s in Hell. “I can’t do that.”

There’s a rustle of movement from the people around them, impatience and incredulity and
mounting animosity.

“Dean. I’m not fucking around.” Tamara cocks the gun and points it right in his face. Dean
doesn’t flinch. “This is the Kill Team. We have our orders.”

And that’s when the fire alarm blares loudly, and the sprinkler system sprays everyone with tepid
water.

Even Dean must look shocked, because of course they should have thought of that earlier, Sam is
a fucking genius. He lets out a startled little laugh, soaked through and through in seconds and
completely delighted.

“What the...” Tamara instantly adopts a defensive stance, gun at the ready.

Like a chain-reaction, everyone behind her does too, gloved hands fingering razor wire or
whipping out guns of their own.

“That’s it, get ready to move, people!” Tamara shouts over the rush of water. “Dean, last chance.”

“No, wait!” Dean blinks the droplets out of his eyes impatiently, arms out. “If you’ll stop and
listen to me--”

“Join us or get out of my team’s way. Now!”

“Tamara, please--”

“Don’t make this personal.”

“You’re pointing a friggin’ gun at me!”

“You’re in my way,” she snaps. “Get out or I’ll drop you, Winchester!”
“You’re in my way,” she snaps. “Get out or I’ll drop you, Winchester!”

Dean isn’t going to step aside and she should have realized that by now. Sam’s in the room behind
him and here’s the person who wants to lead an armed company in that direction. He’ll protect
Sam with his body if that’s all he’s got; no gun tucked into his costume because he’s under-
fucking-cover and a useless blade in his left sock that he can’t get to in time anyway.

Tamara rolls her eyes and shoots, no hesitation.

Dean cries out in pain and falls to the floor.

The world goes black.

“Dean? Dean! Dean, no, no, please...”

His body responds to the call of Sam’s agonised voice, as always, rousing him from
unconsciousness.

“God, Dean...”

Sam’s crying, or it’s raining, but the former seems more likely. Sam’s crying on Dean’s face.

“Dude. M’not dead.”

Sam makes a choked, wet noise and the arms around Dean’s shoulders tighten. If Sam’s also
getting snot on him this is going to end badly.

Owlishly, tentatively, Dean opens his eyes. Immediately he flinches as water lands on them, and
his head gives a dull throb. He recognises that particular brand of foggy yet pulsating pain... he’s
gone and gotten himself a brand new concussion. Yay.

He’s also completely soaked, and oh, yeah. He remembers now. It’s mostly water after all; maybe
a few of Sam’s tears, and some blood.

The sprinklers are still going.

“You’re alive,” Sam croaks. His reddened features are inches from Dean’s own, wet bangs
plastered to the side of his head. His whole face is pinched in worry.

“Duh.”

“I-I took your p-pulse, it’s just that...” Sam pulls away, seeming to take in his surroundings for the
first time, hands roaming Dean’s chest and groping him to check for injuries. “Where’s the blood
coming from...?”

Dean winces, more embarrassed than in pain. Although it does hurt like a bitch.

“Tamara shot me in the leg,” he mutters, gingerly sitting up. And then he fell on it, fucking ow.
His left leg buckled and got bent under him; water mixing with the blood pooling around his
body, diluting it to make it look much more abundant than it is. She shot him on the outside of his
thigh, he realizes upon quick examination, right in the meat of it where there’s no risk of hitting
bone or a major blood-vessel.

She’s a good sport, deep down.

Sam shuffles over to take a look at Dean’s leg, shoes and pants squelching as he moves to Dean’s
other side, assets quite nicely outlined by the wet clothes. That view would revive any guy who’d
been shot, Dean thinks appreciatively. “She did this?”

“Yeah. Didn’t even hit the bone, the old softie.”

Sam puts pressure on the wound and Dean groans, although it’s not that bad. But maybe he can
garner some TLC out of this whole fuck-up.

“Lemme just make sure it was a through and through...” Sam mutters, and gently grabs the meat
of Dean’s thigh to assess it. “Yeah. Two holes. You’re fine.” He blinks a few times, chest still
heaving. “You’re fine.”

“Hey, hey...”

Dean puts a hand on top of his, both of them getting water and blood on their palms, and maybe a
few tears still. Sam sags as though he’d been strung up by his shoulders, frame almost collapsing
in half.

“You scared the shit out of me, Dean,” he hisses, barely audible over the sprinkler system. “I came
out here to find you on the floor, and I thought...” he quickly turns his head to wipe his nose on a
sleeve that’s soaked through and plastered to his shoulder. “Fuck. I didn’t think you’d knocked
yourself out when you fell, you dumbass.”

“Sorry about that.”

He feels bad for Sam and all, but there’s also a dawning horror coming over him as he realizes
Tamara and the others must have witnessed what essentially amounts to the most embarrassing
stunt Dean’s ever pulled in public. He’s never living this one down at the Division. That is, if
Rufus lets him get back to work after actively disobeying a direct—

Oh.

“Sam! What the hell happened?” He jerks and tries to stand up for exactly one second before the
pain saps his strength right out and a wave of nausea rolls over him. “Ow, fuck—the covenpack,
did they...?”

Sam presses his other palm to Dean’s shoulder, restraining and comforting in one. “It’s fine, I got
them out. Well, Madison did. It was close, but you stalled the KT long enough for them to escape.
The fire alarm alerts the local Fire Department, anyway, the SPN would have been compromised
if they’d acted.”

“So where the hell is everyone?”

“Madison called Chief Mills and they said they’d lie low tonight. I don’t think Rufus will order a
second KT, now that this one failed. The damage is done, anyway; fire alarm took care of the
humans and the covenpack knows what’s going on.”

“But what about the Katie? Where’s Tamara?”

Sam’s gaze sharpens. There’s also a fleeting moment where his eyes look blacker than the sky
outside, and Dean has to suppress a shudder. “I think the KT might be doing a thorough check of
the rest of the building. I... suggested that they not be around if I found a scratch on you.”

“Uh, and they listened to you?”

He’s either impressed, scared, or a little turned on. Or a combination of the three.
Sam’s jaw does its thing again. “Yes. They won’t be back here.”

“O-kay. Well, we’d better get outta here before the authorities...”

“Yeah, yeah, you need to go to a hospital.”

“What? No way, it’s a flesh wound, man.”

Sam had been in the process of putting an arm around Dean’s shoulders, but he pauses. “You’re
not getting out of this.”

“Sure I am. Give me a shot of Jack and some dental floss and I’ll stitch myself up.”

Sam scoffs. “No you won’t.”

“Will, too.”

Together, they manage to lift him up with minimal damage. The wound stings but honestly,
Dean’s had way worse. He has to give Sam kudos for helping him walk, though, since it involves
Sam not only shouldering Dean’s weight but dealing with the impediment of their wet clothes.

“If you’re not gonna go to the hospital we need to get Jake to do your sutures. You’re terrible at
sutures; I haven’t forgotten the Wendigo side-laceration in Michigan.”

“Chicks dig scars, Sam,” Dean says, in the weary tones of someone who’s had to repeat this many
times. “God, have I taught you nothing?”

Sam doesn’t dignify that with a response. They limp gingerly to the non-functioning elevator and
only then come to the conclusion that thirty-two flights of stairs are not going to happen without
external help.

“...Shit.”

“Oh, come on.” Dean groans. “We have to wait for the firemen?”

Sam props him up against the glass pane with a grunt and then collapses next to him, breathing
heavily (a double bonus for Dean, since it delineates his abs and pecs nicely in the now semi-
transparent shirt, and also confirms that for all his muscles Sam is human and will tire with effort).

“Look on the bright side,” he pants. “You love firemen.”

Dean snorts. “Now, why does that sound vaguely dirty?”

His brother doesn’t take the bait. “You wanted to be a fireman when we were little.” Sam turns his
head to look at him, and it’s still raining from the sprinklers and his eyelashes are all clumped
together and his hair is a flat mass and he’s so fucking beautiful, he just is.

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence, and neither of them voices the thought aloud, but the mutual
acknowledgement of their shared infancy is there. It’s been Sam and Dean forever. Sam and Dean
throughout their whole lives. Dean only realized it after Sam was born but he spent the first four
years of his life waiting; even as a kid with a minimal perception of the world he had this strange
sense of ‘now I’m complete, I have a purpose’.

Sam shifts a little, the wet fabric of the back of his shirt squeaking against the wet glass.
Dean is technically exsanguinating right in this moment, but he can’t blame the blood loss for the
way he suddenly feels light-headed (maybe the concussion can take some of the credit. But not
all). He shifts towards his brother, too.

Still without words, they draw close, closer, until their lips touch. It’s feather-light, and wet, and
careful. There’s a decent chance Dean might be trembling, and it’s pretty embarrassing that that
keeps happening whenever Sam kisses him, or is about to kiss him, or has just recently been
kissing him. He can’t help it. He hopes it’s something he can wean himself off of.

He hopes he gets the chance to do it so often he can actually get used to it.

“Reckon we got time for a quickie?” he murmurs, just to see how Sam will react.

Sam pulls an eight out of ten on the Epic Bitchface scale. “Sure. You’ve been shot, the building is
crawling with agents from our Division who all know we’re related, and we’re waiting for fire-
rescue to restart the elevators or come up and save us. But yeah. Let’s have sex, right now.”

Dean grins. “So glad you agree. Reckon we can ask a hot fireman to join?”

“I don’t see why not. There are firewomen too, you know.”

“The more the merrier, I always say.”

“And you’re never wrong.”

“I resent how obviously that was supposed to come across as ironic.”

They both snort half heartedly, and then simultaneously lean their heads back against the glass
pane. Dean has the passing thought that an inch of transparent material is the only thing keeping
them from plummeting backwards to the pavement far below.

And yeah, there’s a vertigo to it. But again, Dean can’t blame that on the potential thirty-two story
fall.

Gordon’s gone when the smoke clears.

The way Dean sees it, that’s enough of an admission of guilt for him. Really, if Jake hadn’t
overheard those two doctors and subsequently figured out that the victims were vampires, this
whole thing would have probably worked out okay for Agent Walker. He got his rocks off killing
the vamps one by one, setting up grounds for the Katie in the process, and everyone died in the
end. Hurray.

The rest of the team backs Sam and Dean’s judgment during the KT crisis and they also support
the idea for the creation of some sort of monitoring system to keep a close watch on the situation.
Rufus moans and groans about the paperwork but he does cancel the Kill order, and eventually
agrees with their proposal.

He is not, however, willing to share what the Division’s plan of action will be regarding a rogue
Agent who technically didn’t commit a crime. If this case has proven anything it’s that they are
going to have to revisit the hunter guidelines as well as the humanoid creature classification, but
that’s a discussion for another day.

“So... last day, huh?” a gruff voice asks.

Dean had been double-checking his utility belt was cinched tight but he looks up quickly. Benny
is standing at the doorway of the locker room, a faint smile on his face.

“I knew you were spying on us the whole time, but I think I’ll still miss ya.”

“And I knew there was a good chance you were a threat to the civilian population, but I still think
you’re all right,” Dean shoots back, equally glib. He knows Benny can take it.

Indeed, the vamp snorts a laugh. “See you in a couple of ours for your last sign out?”

“Guess so.”

He stops on his way to the corridor outside, wanting to somehow convey his appreciation for what
Benny’s done for him these past few weeks (included but not limited to not killing him as soon as
they were alone in a room).

“I can go out to Andrea’s and get you lunch, if you want. For old time’s sake?”

“And take away my excuse to go and see her for myself? No chance.” Benny grins. “But I’ll be
happy to share a last meal with ya, Winchester.”

Dean tips his cap to him. He’s going to miss wearing it, he can already tell.

“Likewise, Lafitte.”

He gets a chance to say goodbye to most of the gang, who lets him in on their latest theory
regarding the ‘secret office club’; a doozy that involves a mash-up of at least three season’s worth
of X-Files plotlines, so Dean thinks they’re probably good. For now.

Chelsea lends him their iPod for the last time. “Basement rounds suck without music,” they says
with a wink.

Dean scrolls straight to ‘Hot Blooded’ as soon as he steps out of the elevator. He’s going to give
himself three minutes to pump up in the abandoned office and then he’ll do the whole floor for the
last time.

(I’m hot blooded, check it and see...)

At least they keep it clean, so his awesome karaoke performance isn’t hindered by random fits of
coughing up dust. His audience consists of assorted clutter that includes old lamps, two couches
with rips in them and stuffing coming out, a wooden desk without any drawers, piles of books and
paper reams, a copy machine from the eighties, and multiple broken spindly chairs.

(I’ve got a fever of a hundred and three...)

Their flight back is tonight and he and Sam will have the whole evening to... well, pack, but
maybe once that’s done he can finally goad Sam into pinning him down on the bed. Or couch. Or
kitchen island--fuck if he cares where it happens. He’s ready. So ready. And Sam’s been using his
stupid gunshot wound as an excuse to keep things PG.

(C’mon baby, do you do more than dance?)

Dean sure does (after making absolutely sure there’s no one around this time), going all out as he
mimes the best friggin’ guitar solo the world will never have the fortune to see. Kicking his leg in
the air is a huge mistake as a stab of pain jolts up his thigh and he swears, staggering a little--but
no matter. No one saw, so it never happened.
(I’m hot blooded, I’m hot...)

His flashlight is the microphone and his actual microphone is a hundred percent off just in case.

(If it feels all right... maybe you can stay all night?)

He feels awesome. Like himself again; more like himself than he has in four years--maybe ever.
And it’s thanks to Sam, and the fact that they saved everybody, and--

A hand drops on his shoulder.

He whips around but his assailant is too fast--they anticipate his fist with a backhand, then block
his other fist and twist his arm.

(Now you move so fine--)

Two more hits, two more misses, and of course he recognizes the mop of flowy locks that belongs
to the only person in this building who is that freakishly tall. And able to fight Dean off for longer
than a minute.

(Let me lay it on the line...)

“Sam!” Dean yells, half-indignant and completely deaf even to his own voice. He can still read
Sam’s lips though, mouthing: “Easy, tiger,” as he effectively pins Dean in place.

(Just me and you...)

“Why you little--”

Sam grins wolfishly and kisses him, no explanation or anything. Dean can’t help but respond,
body all lit up as he’d been the moment he realized it was just Sam and some roughhousing rather
than anyone dangerous.

(I’ll show ya lovin’ like you never kn--)

Dean rips his headphones off, the soundtrack to this scene cutting off abruptly. And now he can
hear Sam’s gasping breaths as well as his own, the cacophony of clanks and clatters as they knock
over an assortment of office furniture in their path. He’s walking backward without any idea of
where he’s stepping and any second he could put his foot through a printer and break a toe but he
trusts that Sam’s leading him safely.

Suddenly his ass hits something solid and there’s a high-pitched grinding sound; the old desk
being shoved backwards a couple of inches. Dean puts a hand behind him to steady them, the
momentum they’d been carrying too powerful to come to an immediate stop.

Sam laughs into his mouth. “Sorry, sorry...”

Dean’s so turned on he’s practically decided he doesn’t care why Sam’s here. “Yeah, okay, I
forgive you,” he husks, sinking his hands into Sam’s hair and winding his fingers in it. It’s just as
soft as he always thought it would be.

“Madison sent me to find you,” Sam pants, as though he was reading Dean’s mind. “To tell you
she and Lenore are giving us a ride to the airport.”

“Could’ve texted me.”

“Wanted to see you in the uniform one last time.”

Dean uses his grip on Sam’s hair to pull him away. “For real?” he says, intrigued. He’d been
mostly joking when he’d teased Sam about that before.

Sam shrugs, unapologetic. “Yeah.”

And then he lifts Dean onto the desk.

Fucking. Lifts. Him. Fucking plops him down on it with a single heave, like one would move a
toddler. And that analogy is so wrong, but Dean’s not so much with the thinking right now. His
throat has closed up and his blood pressure is skyrocketing. He’s so hard he’s ready to pound
nails.

He stares up at Sam from his position, legs open in a wide V (or U depending on who you ask--he
knows he's a little bow-legged) and palms flat on the wood behind him... and then his mouth
moves without his authorization. “Fuck me.”

Sam’s jaw goes slack.

“I... what?”

“You heard me.” Dean hesitates for half a second before crossing his feet behind Sam’s back,
encasing him between his legs. “C’mon; we’re blowing through my bucket list at record speed,
Sammy, might as well--”

His words are muffled when Sam lunges forward and then things start to happen very fast.

Sam scrabbles with the utility belt and throws it to the side, then wrenches Dean’s fly open and
tugs impatiently until Dean lifts his ass and shucks them down to his ankles.

“Are you...?” Dean can’t help but whisper, because if he’s being honest with himself he hadn’t
really expected Sam to say yes, not with the way he’s been (mostly) careful to take things one step
at a time so far. “Are you really...?”

“I’m not going to bend you over and do you right now, Dean,” Sam growls. Dean shudders at the
thought alone. “But I sure as hell can give you something to pass the time, if that’s what you
want.”

He grabs Dean’s legs behind the knee to bring him forward, so he’s balanced at the very edge.
Splayed wide and vulnerable, Dean can’t catch his breath.

“What’re you gonna--”

Sam wraps one hand around his aching cock and slides the other under his balls, warm palm
caressing and a single finger sliding in between...

Dean screws his eyes shut like that’ll help him hold off. Oh God, he hasn’t been this close to
coming in two minutes since he was a teenager. “Sam, I...”

“You done this before?” Sam asks, the pad of his pointer brushing Dean’s hole without probing
any deeper, without going in which is what Dean wants.

“I’ve done plenty,” Dean replies, because it’s true. “Just not...” not with anyone who made me feel
like you, he won’t admit. “Not with another dude. But yeah, I--fuck!”
Sam’s finger is dry and there’s a dragging ache to it penetrating him without lube but Dean’ll take
it, take anything.

“Fuck, yeah--” he groans, hips twitching forwards to ease the way, help it go deeper, then out
again. “C’mon, please--”

“I’m going to fuck you in a bed,” Sam hisses in his ear, like that’s somehow dirtier than what’s
happening right now in this place where anyone could walk in. “Not just that, I’m going to make
it so good I’ll have the great sex-God Dean Winchester waxing poetic about ‘making love’, how
does that sound?”

“Sounds...” Dean gasps. “Sounds like you’re... pretty full of yourself, to tell you the... the... ah...”
but he can’t, he can’t finish the fucking sentence with Sam fingering him, who cares about words
when there’s a delicious burn to ride out?

He puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder and the other wound around his tie, and uses the two points for
purchase as he lifts himself up and down, forward and back to get it right, to get Sam to crook the
digit and rub it where Dean wants to be rubbed raw.

Sam chuckles darkly. “Not even gonna make me do any work, are you? Just get off all by
yourself?”

“Feel free to... contribute...” Dean grunts, chasing the dull ache that’s becoming less dull and more
imminent with every movement, if only Sam would tighten his hold on Dean’s cock instead of just
holding it as he rocks in place.

But Sam just watches him, bangs falling over his eyes, which are slated intensely and pitch black
(no mistaking it now, not in the light of day however filtered through the yellowing curtains). His
lips are parted and his tongue keeps coming out to moisten them, every time Dean moves in fact,
like he’s picturing... like he’s thinking of... like...

Jesus Christ oh fuck oh fucking hell--

Dean comes to the image of Sam using his mouth instead of his hand.

He sits there, stomach clenching and pulse still racing, for ten whole seconds before he slides off
the desk, quickly tugs his pants back up and makes Sam take his place.

Then he sinks to his knees and Sam whimpers.

“You don’t have to--”

“Shut up.”

He’s never done it before but he hopes his eagerness will make up for the inexperience, because
holy shit did he never imagine it could be this fucking hot to blow a guy. It starts out as something
just for Sam until he realizes he’s really, really into this. Just the action in and of itself, and Dean’s
always had a bit of an oral fixation (he’ll chew gum, moisten a toothpick... oh and he loves going
down on girls) but he hadn’t expected the gut-wrenching satisfaction he’s feeling.

And it’s the bonus of a century when Sam writhes and clutches the edge of the wood in white-
knuckled hands to stop himself from bucking forward and all the while keeps making those
noises, desperate and barely contained as Dean inadvertently scrapes his teeth under his thick
length, then does it again on purpose.

It barely takes him hollowing his cheeks to suction as hard as he can to have Sam trying to shove
him back, fingers unable to find purchase in Dean’s shorter hair. “Dean, I... I...”

Dean makes him hold it until the last second, until Sam’s nudging at him desperately and his legs
are thrashing, nails raking the surface at either side of his body.

“Dean! Please, please--”

He pulls back and it takes two tugs for Sam to come, hot white and... all over Dean’s fingers. Oh
well.

“Christ,” Sam groans, all fifty feet of him falling back against the desk. “That was...”

Dean tests his jaw gingerly and decides he’s sore. “You’re welcome.”

Sam snorts without actually getting up. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Dude. Way to ruin the moment.”

His legs still feel like jelly but he hops up on the desk beside Sam and lies down next to him.

They both look up at the nondescript ceiling, where one can intuit the long fluorescent tubes
behind the translucent panels, now off.

“I didn’t plan that,” Sam mutters after a beat.

“Neither did I.”

“... Glad it happened, though.”

“Oh hey, you won’t hear me complaining.”

A thought occurs to him then.

“Hey, did they tell us whether we get severance?”

Sam literally face-palms.

“So... will we be seeing you around?” Madison asks.

She and Lenore really did drive Sam, Dean and Charlie to the airport. So far, Dean’s been dealing
with his flight jitters by thinking up ways to convince Sam that the only way for him to get
through the ordeal is to join the mile-high club.

Charlie did her check-in online and is therefore in a different queue but Madison and Lenore have
chosen to accompany the brothers while they wait.

“Do you want to be seeing us around?” Dean counters. “We kind of ruined your gig.”

She shrugs. “Just shook it up a little. Not having to worry about the SPN on our backs is one less
thing to think about... now we know you’ll be there.”

Lenore nudges her side with a hand. “With Jody on our side, we’ll be fine.”

“Yes. I think we will be.”

Madison eyes them shrewdly, gaze landing first on one and then the other. Her impeccable pant-
suit and thick eyelashes lend an even more intimidating edge to it. Or maybe it’s just her natural
air. Or the fact that once a month she turns into a terrifying heart-eating creature that needs to be
locked up in order to keep people safe.

She’s not quite up to Missouri levels of emotional x-ray scan, but there is an undeniable sense that
little escapes her perception.

“Well. I suppose this is it, then. You two take care, now.”

“No hard feelings?” Sam asks. “You’re not about to ruin me and steal my casinos just to get back
at us, are you?” That makes her smile and makes Dean think it must be an in-joke. Obviously.

“No. My fake-marriage days are over.” Ha. Hilarious. Dean gulps. They’ve told them the
marriage was fake, but not what their real relation is.

“Maybe we’ll get a real marriage day soon,” Lenore comments lightly, and she’s not talking about
Sam and Dean. Dean remembers the way Benny talked about these two and knows he was
absolutely right. One just has to see the way they look at each other.

Madison gives Sam a long, tight hug, and Dean will learn later that she actually whispered: “I’m
going to miss you,” before she pulled away.

Lenore gives them both brief hugs too, and then the two women clasp their hands together and
leave, and it feels bittersweet to Dean somehow, this goodbye. Because he really is going to miss
them. He’s a hunter, but Caplan-Malone was like a fun vacation. Like a taste of a life he might
have wanted, never had.He wishes he could come back to it every once in a while, just socialize
with normal people and play the doting husband and host stupid office dinners and go to bland
Halloween parties, the whole she-bang. It’s worth something. Something good.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“I just thought of something.”

Dean opens his mouth to make the required ‘thinking’ joke but Sam anticipates him. “I’m serious.
It’s about Chief Mills.”

“What about her?” Dean frowns, quickly switching gears from quasi-nostalgic to actively worried.
“She was so happy her daughter would be fine, she--”

“No, I mean. She’s between the Division and the covenpack, right? She must have figured out...
I’m sure she’ll have heard both versions of the story.” He gives Dean a pointed look. “Our story.”

Dean’s stomach drops. “Uh. Shit.” And then he remembers Charlie, and the reservations he’s
been having regarding her unique perspective in all this mess. “Actually Sam, that may not be the
worse one.”

“What, who?”

“Hey, boys!”

They both turn as one to look at the cheery red-head (her shirt today has a purple eye on it and the
quote ‘Alligators, can they kill your children? Yes.’).
Sam’s look of dawning horror says all Dean needs to know.

“So you finally checked your bags, right? So we can go grab something to eat? Airport food is not
so bad, what we need are provisions for the flight itself!”

She leads the way towards the lounge, and Dean’s thinking: how does one broach this subject.
Does one broach this subject?

“You guys must be looking forward to getting home soon, huh? I know I am. I’d never done
fieldwork like this before; there was so much lying involved. I suck at lying.”

Without warning, she flips her hair over her shoulder and tosses them a sneaky little smile.

“And you do, too.”

And having dropped that truth-bomb like it was easy peasy, she walks ahead of them, humming
(to Dean’s horrified admiration) the Game of Thrones theme song. Of all fucking things.

Sam snorts and laughs, hands making a helpless gesture as he follows her.

Dean officially gives up on caring.

“Suspended.”

There is way too much relish in Rufus’ tone when he says it. Dean knows better than to take it
personally because Rufus is cool and he had great respect for the Campbell-Winchester union, but
there’s no need to sound so damn triumphant.

“Suspended?” Sam echoes. “For how long?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

The various bosses of the various departments they’ve gotten in trouble with are standing behind
Rufus’ office chair like a court of extremely disappointed parents. Seeing as how all of them
qualify as father- or mother-figure to the Winchester brothers in one way or another, that just
makes it worse.

“This case was a shitstorm from start to finish, and it was all your fault.”

“Agent Walker was the one who put in the order without consulting us--”

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Ellen says. “You ignored a verbal command from your superior.”

“You also failed to report vital developments to your Handlers in a timely fashion,” Rufus adds.
“Or at all!”

“You sabotaged a Kill-Team’s objective, boys,” Bobby puts in.

“Not to mention, provoked friendly fire,” Missouri comments.

“Okay, I strongly object to that last one,” Dean declares, holding a hand up. “Because she could
have just tasered me. She didn’t need to use a goddamn gun.”

“She could have punched you in the face, too,” Bobby suggests, like this is a damn open forum
and they are throwing out possible ways to knock Dean out.
“My point is, you two have forfeited your license to kill supernatural creatures for the near future.
And I want your badges, your sawed-offs, your rock salt stock, your charms, every scrap of
supernatural paraphernalia this Division has given you over the past few years.”

Dean scoffs. “You want our souls too, while you’re at it?”

“Don’t get cocky with me, boy, I’m not taking legal action against you because the SPN doesn’t
fit into the legal system! But remember, discipline is handed out according to what I feel the
offending Agent deserves. You want an indefinite suspension? ‘Cause I can do that, too. And I’ll
happily sic Tamara on you again, just you watch me.”

“Now now, Rufus, calm down.” Dean has always thought Missouri was awesome. Always. “I’ll
take the boys to debriefing and handle the paperwork from here on out.”

She motions for them to follow her and Sam and Dean get up out of their respective chairs. Sam
turns his back and makes for the door, but Dean pauses before following.

“We fucked up a lot,” Dean says to Rufus. “But we were right about the final call, sir.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

Dean nods, satisfied, and then gives Bobby and Ellen a wink because he can.

“See you when I see you, guys.”

“Oh, we’ll keep track of you two.”

Missouri takes them to sign-out the long way around, and Dean knows without her having to say
it that it’s so that they can say goodbye to their fellow Agents. A temporary goodbye, but still.

The bullpen is as busy as it was the day Sam got there for the first time. The MOL department
came up for air again; Charlie brought Ash and the IT people; Doctor Visyak left the lab; Pam is
there, and so are Intern Kevin, Jo, Bela, Isaac, Lisa, Cassie, Jake, and yes, Tamara too.

“How’s your leg?” she asks.

Dean shoots her a dirty look but it’s without feeling. “As you can see, I’m fully functional. Thanks
for your deep concern.”

“Please, it was barely a graze.” But when she catches sight of Sam her bravado falters just a little.
Just enough for Dean to wonder what the hell went down that day, because Tamara doesn’t scare
easy.

Hugs and shoulder-pats are exchanged all around, various jokes are made regarding their marital
status (to be expected; honestly Dean would have been disappointed if there weren’t any), and all
in all it’s a worthy farewell. It’s a good thing there hasn’t been any crossover regarding how true
their cover story turned out to be, given the circumstances, or this gathering would have probably
gone very differently.

Missouri steers them through the crowd, papers in hand waving and flapping.

“Time to go, boys.”

“I know, I know, you miss me already,” Dean says to the group in general. He yanks Sam by his
sleeve to free him from the circle of geeks he’s gathered as a spontaneous fanclub, pulling his
brother with him and in the direction Missouri is going. “Come on, Sammy.”
Sam goes, docile for once. “Don’t forget to email me,” he says over his shoulder.

“Definitely!” Kevin calls back.

“I... was talking to Jake. But you can too, Kevin.”

They go to HR and it’s stupid, and boring, and Dean just wants to get out of here but something
about Missouri’s mannerisms is keeping him on edge. He feels like there’s still something left to
happen.

He’s right.

“I’ll walk you to the elevators,” she says once everything’s done (badges handed in temporarily,
Sam’s with its hilariously recent serial number). “Come on.”

They go, and sure enough she rounds on them as soon as the button’s been pressed.

“I’m proud of what you did, boys.”

Dean’s chest feels like it expands three sizes. Breathing is easier, the air lighter. That was all he
wanted. That single sentence, that one acknowledgement of what they’ve done. Because they
saved people. That’s always been the point.

“Thanks,” Sam croaks, nodding.

“You’re welcome. Now, before y’all go and realize you have a ton of free time and not a lot to do,
I would like to ask you one question.”

Dean clears his throat before speaking. Not because he got choked up or anything, mind. The air-
conditioning in the building is a little dry, is all.

“Shoot.”

“You understand that everyone else seriously underestimated how the real mate bond works,
right?”

Oh for... he knew it. Talking to Missouri is like talking to a freaking psychic.

“What do you...?” Sam starts. “Uh. What?”

“Rufus. Bobby. Ellen. They don’t understand that it’s not just any two people with a close relation
who are going to have that type of bond. I trust you two will treat that gift with the respect and
care it deserves.”

There’s no judgment in her warm onyx eyes. Just her particular brand of quasi-stern
admonishment and a hint of amusement, like she knows a few details that add humor to the
situation; details Sam and Dean are not privy to.

“We.... uh.”

The elevator light flashes and its doors ding open.

“We w-will,” Sam stutters.

“Yeah. Definitely.”
She smiles. “Good. Now go. And I expect I won’t be seeing you for some time, but that’s quite all
right. Call me once in a while. Wherever you are, as long as you can get reception or Wi-Fi.”

“... Sure.” ‘Cause that made sense, Dean thinks. Where the hell would they be going that doesn’t
have Wi-Fi? Sam would freak.

Although as tends to happen with Missouri, he knows there’s a very good chance it will make
sense in the future.

The ride to the parking garage is silent. Dean’s still not sure about how he’s feeling, to be honest.
There’s certainly a part of him churning with guilt (when isn’t there one, really) at the loss of his
parent’s impeccable legacy, their spotless record, their now-tarnished name... but there’s another
part of him, a louder one, that’s thinking this might actually be okay. He’s got Sam. He’s got Sam,
in more ways than he could have imagined.

And he always hated the paperwork that came with having a part-time desk-job, anyway.

“Missed you, baby,” he croons as soon as she’s in sight.

“Just marry her already.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You for a polygamous union now?”

Sam’s head snaps up, eyes a little caught out. Like he’s taking the question seriously all of a
sudden. He tends to do that.

“... No.”

Dean can feel a flush come over his face. He hates that his freckles tend to give it away when his
cheeks redden.

“Oh.”

Oh. Oh, that’s all he’s got. Really, Winchester?

“So... what now?” Sam asks, resting his chin on the arms he’s got crossed over her top. “We just
got back from the apple-pie life. I wanted to keep hunting. Real hunts, not... whatever this was.”

Dean agrees and they open her doors, sliding in comfortably. He mulls it over as he twists the key
in the ignition, her welcoming roar ever-so-slightly tinny in protest at being locked up for so
long...

And then it comes to him. Just like that.

He thinks; she doesn’t really do well in the city. After being benched for this latest stint she’d
probably like to go on a road trip. A long one.

They’ve certainly got the time.

“You know, there’s a lot of rural areas where the SPN’s jurisdiction doesn’t reach.”

Sam shifts sideways in his seat to face Dean more fully, long legs somehow splayed open to fit.
“I’m listening.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I’m not saying we go rogue or, y’know, lose it like Gordon did. But if
we happen to run into a case the SPN hasn’t found yet... we handle it our way.”
“Freelancing,” Sam summarizes. “That actually sounds... good.”

“And if...” and here he has to look away because this is an ongoing process, something he’s
getting used to. “... if there happens to be a misunderstanding regarding the, uh... you know, the
nature of what...”

He hates that he can feel Sam’s amusement without looking.

“Oh, you know what I’m trying to say.”

“No, please, keep going. Your eloquence is really moving.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up. You wanna pretend we’re married in rural America?”

“No.” He huffs. “But if someone already thought... I mean, it’s happened before.”

“Yeah. Remember our first actual bar brawl? That was then.”

“Jesus, fine Sam, then we won’t do it.” He ignores the stab of hurt to his chest. “In fact, let’s just
forget the whole thing, yeah?”

Sam flicks him on the thigh. Not the injured thigh, but still. “Ow.”

“I don’t want to forget anything. And I... all I object to is the fact that you said ‘pretend’.”

Dean slants a sideways look at his brother.

“You asking for my hand or something?”

“I’m saying if we’re doing this, we’re doing this, Dean. I don’t care about a piece of paper but I
do care about what you think.” It’s a little terrifying, airing this shit out in the open. Very unlike
them. Very... new. “So if someone thinks we’re married, they’ll only be off by a small margin,
right? So it won’t be pretend. Not really.”

There are a lot of possible answers to that, Dean thinks. Of course it won’t really be pretend,
unless they do amp it up to the max and go over-the-top cheesy just for shits and giggles
(admittedly that sounds more like him than Sam but he’s sure Sammy would play along), and
technically it’s completely illegal for them to actually go through with any sort of official
ceremony and it’s not like either of them gives a shit about recognition from the government, let
alone the recognition of a church they need more for holy water supply than anything else, but if
Sam were open to the idea Dean would, perhaps, not say no to a little roleplay in a different
context and a more private setting--

“... Right, Dean?”

The fact that Dean’s had the engine running this entire time should be answer enough. He comes
to his senses and pulls her out of park, careful not to scratch her paint-job on the turn towards the
exit.

“Right.” He grins. “So seriously, where’s my ring?”

“I gave you that amulet,” Sam counters. “Where’s my magical supernatural trinket?”

*
 “Let me guess, you guys are here... antiquing?”

It sounds like a code-word, but it’s as good a cover as any. Dean smiles pleasantly. “How’d you
know?”

The receptionist smiles back. “You just... look the type.” She starts looking under her desk for a
room key and Dean and Sam exchange a complicit glance. She’s totally buying it. She doesn’t
suspect a thing. Their investigation will, for once, be unhindered by the fact that people assume
certain things. And if they happen to find the time to go antiquing for real, Dean’s thinking he
might get his whiny little brother a charm of some sort after all--maybe a wristband...

“So. King-sized bed?”

Oh, for the love of...

Every. Damn. Time.

FIN

_________________________________________________________

End Notes

Thank you for reading! As always, feedback is cherished as the treasure it as and revisited
countless times especially during finals week to sustain this author’s lifeblood--I mean
much appreciated :)

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