The Ghosts that sell Memories von abgemeldet (Supernatural / Queer as Folk (US) crossover) ================================================================================ Part 19: ...A silent, crimson red ‘thank you.’ ---------------------------------------------- A/N: First, I’m so sorry for the long gaps in-between the last few parts, or better said, getting them posted. Let’s just say RL was crazy and leave it at that. Second, well, on with the chapter and enjoy. *g* *** Just like they’d planned, midnight found them on a deserted cemetery on the quieter outskirts of Pittsburgh. Armed with shovels, two shotguns, a few candles, and half a dozen other things Miss Deborah had insisted on--plus Emily’s amulet. Better safe than sorry, she’d said, and Dean found himself agreeing. Under one of the bigger trees, isolated from the main paths and the more pompous graves, they had dug a small but deep hole, salted and burned the freaking thing while Sam read from a small book and carried out the last parts of the ceremony. Intensely staring into the flames, he hadn’t noticed the air going a little chilly more around them at first, merely the flicker of something out of the corner of his eyes, a blurred image, had alerted him to the fact that they were, in fact, no longer alone. Instead four ghosts had been standing across from them, on the other side of the hole and a little off to the side. Barely visible by the time he’d finally noticed. It still hurt to look at them, seeing the kids they once were in the distorted figures now, but they had finally looked at peace. For the first time since they’d crossed path, they hadn’t looked like murderous, blood thirsty, killing machines. He hadn’t bothered to reach for his shotgun. They had no longer been a threat, just victims like so many before. Staring at them, it had felt like hours until they--Sam--were finished citing the prayer and completing the ritual, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute. Barely a handful of seconds after that, and they vanished from existence altogether, the young girl mouthing a silent and crimson red ‘thank you’ that echoed through the breeze and crackled in the flames. Then the fire had died immediately, letting the darkness swallow them once more. They had buried what had been left of the amulet right there, filling the hole and trying to make it look like the ground had been disturbed by an animal, maybe a stray dog, not people. It is long past midnight when they leave the cemetery, quickly passing the last view graves on the way out, iron gate rattling behind them. Dean grimaces. Good thing the surroundings were particularly vacant--no houses for miles to come. Turning south, the faint lights flickered in the distance. Nah, the sound wouldn’t carry that far, no matter that it’s late at night. Yawning, he looks up at the sky. He’s fairly sure it can’t be late enough to feel so immensely tired, but then again, the day had been hell, and all he longs for, all his body longs for, aching, is a hot shower and a bed. Stretching, he winces as it pulls on his shoulder. He might be able to sleep for the next, oh, say, twenty-four hours straight. Pulling the glove from his hands, he fumbles the keys to his baby out of his pocket, catching a glimpse of Sam propping himself up against her side. Staring at him. That is never a good sign. Dean freezes. “What?” Sam’s reply is a shake of his head, a soft smile curling the corners of his lips up. “‘S nothing.” Uh-huh. Sure it isn’t. He isn’t freezing his damn fingers off, either. Something is up, that’s more than obvious. He doesn’t say anything. First, because he might be lucky tonight and this disaster--whatever it is and, come on, he’s sure it’s a disaster--will pass him by, and second, if he isn’t and it doesn’t, Sam might spit it out without too much preamble. He wants a bed, so wasting time isn’t high on his to-do list right now. Lifting the bag from his shoulder and dropping it into the trunk, Sam already turns his way, studying him closer. By the time he’s securing the shotgun at its usual place, said brother offhandedly tells him, “You know I was thinking.” Bingo. And those? Are the words every big brother slash parent slash someone dreads like whoa, aren’t they? If Sam notices him wincing, he graciously ignores it. “Maybe you should go out, and you know, take the chance to have some fun while we’re staying here,” securing a gun of his own. Never taking his eyes of the hands fulfilling their task. Dean straightens and stares. “‘While we’re staying here?’ Here as in Pittsburgh? Since when?” “Uh, I just thought you might like to, a day or two. You know.” No, he doesn’t. He’s about to tell Sammy just that, when his brother’s stare gets a bit more intense, piercing, like he should get something--or say something. Dean answers the look with a bewildered ‘what the fuck?!’ look of his own, because, sorry but he doesn’t get it. Come on, he can’t read minds, which, sometimes, frustrate him while dealing with a certain someone. It’s impossible to guess what Sammy’s up to. Not in the dark and not from how he’s holding himself. Just barely making sure that no fingers get taken off, he abruptly closes the trunk. Taking a step back, then another, he eyes his brother. “Whatcha mean?” “I don’t know, I just thought we’re done here, the case I mean, and you are itching to get out, do something other than hang out with your little brother for a night.” “Huh? Since when do you wanna get rid of me this desperately, dude?” “Since, I don’t know, always?” Sam deadpans. “Ha ha. You’re a really funny guy,” he grumbles. “But seriously, dude, what’s with the get-rid-of-my-big-brother-for-the-night attitude lately?” Dean wriggles his brows. “Something you wanna tell me, Sammy? Got a girl somewhere I don’t know about?” Sam shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Noo-ooo.” He manages to drag out that one syllable into at least two more. Wow. Could he sound more like a petulant toddler than this? Dean thinks not. “I just think you deserve a night off, and since the case is over, why not take advantage of being in the city?” “Dude. You’re the one always ribbing me for going out too much. And I know for a fact that we’re not low on funds. What gives?” “It’s... It’s nothing.” Sure it isn’t, he thinks, and how many times was that actually true when you told me just that in the past? He happens to remembers a dreadfully remarkable incident with a music tape from a decade or so ago, and it was not nothing, never just nothing. Despite what little Sammy says. Now, or back then. “Uh-huh. Sure. Tell that to someone actually believing that I-am-so-innocent look.” I know you better than that, is what he doesn’t say, but it echoes loud and clear between them. “Come on, Sammy, spill.” “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, sighing like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Brian and Justin. That’s what.” Dean forces his face to stay carefully blank, but his whole body flinches on the inside. “I’ve seen the looks they gave you, man, and you are...” He trails off, bashfully ducking his head. And what the hell? “‘And I am’ what, Sammy?” he asks, voice suddenly very calm and very quiet. Dangerous. It’s all an act, though, for his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest in a way that resembles the definition of ‘panic’ quite adequately. He isn't sure he really wants to know what prompted Sam to bring this up, though he has an inkling of why, and yet, he can’t help but ask anyway. People are stupid like that sometimes, aren’t they? “You are not... You don’t seem to be particularly put off by how they look at you, you know. That they look at you at all. It doesn’t come across as if it bothers you or... anything. And well. I thought. Maybe, maybe it doesn’t just not bother you, but rather that you... Like that.” Again, he is reduced to the act of silent staring. The brother of his, the one that he has known for almost all his life? He doesn’t recognize him. Not right now, not when he’s standing there, like this. It’s possible the darkness obscuring that well-known view of Sam, not recognizing what he sees, what he hears. The little boy that he helped raise, taught how to tie his shows, how to drive and to undo a bra one handed; the kid he looked out for during kindergarten and high school and still does today. There’s nothing there. Right now, it’s an absolute stranger standing by his beloved car asking a question Dean doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to hear. Doesn’t want to admit is valid. Or maybe that is what alienates him so, not the darkness, but the words falling from his lips and forming sentences as they travel through the air, reaching his ears. They work just fine in the dark, thank you very much. Then again, he’s grateful for the ever covering presence of the dark. Oh yeah, he’s sure Sam can identify the strain in Dean’s voice despite all of it, but it keeps him from reading him, too. From reading the expression on his face. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s... a strange one. One he wouldn’t like himself if he were to look into a mirror this second. Loathe himself for what it reveals. And then the picture of a stranger rights itself, clears. Sam shuffles his feet in the soggy dirt when Dean still stays quiet, too long hair falling into his face as he looks up at him no matter being a few inches taller--‘cause that? Is all Little-Brother-Sammy again. Damn him to hell if he doesn’t look like that somewhat annoying and pouting five-year-old he once was, instead of that somewhat annoying and pouting twenty-two-year-old he is now. Still meddling in Dean’s affairs like they are his own. It brings back the aura of confidence. Somewhat steady ground. And his voice. “What are you saying, Sam?” Dean hopes against hope that Sam won’t notice how his voice cracks on his brother’s name, a flash of fear shining through. He shivers in the chilly nighttime air, crossing his arms over his chest like a shield. All of a sudden the dark night is making the conversation a little too personal. A little too real. Honestly? He’s fairly sure it is fear curling around his chest tighter than a coil spring, freezing his lungs to the point of choking on iced breath. “Nothing. I... Listen, I don’t want to put you on the spot or anything --” yeah, right, “-- but I’m not blind, nor am I deaf. Just... Don’t you think it’s time to tell me?” “Tell you what?” Hates that he can’t keep his voice from cracking again, from it being a little too high, too wobbly, heart beating a little too hysterically. Lips and mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert. And oh yes, does he have an idea at what he’s trying to get at, Christ does he ever. Yet, all he wants to say is ‘no, no, no, don’t make me say it, shut up, go away’. He won’t. No way. He couldn’t move if he tried, but it doesn’t mean he’s got to make it easy on his brother. Not because Sam’s in one of his caring, sharing moods. If he wants to drag it all out in the open, fine. Let him. It’s not like he’s got to be of help. He’s so not fucking prepared to deal with this shit right now, not ever, not when he’s-- “Dean, calm down...” “I am calm, Sam!” “Okay. Okay, man. Look, why don’t you just tell me? I mean, I might have been young then, but Christ, I wasn’t stupid--” “I never thought you were,” he cuts in quickly, looking anywhere but his brother. Fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve jacket. Unfortunately, Sam isn’t distracted easily tonight. “-- and I know you didn’t want me to know, didn’t want to know anyone, probably still don’t, but I knew. I... always knew. Or I figured it out pretty quickly anyway. Guess what? It didn’t change who you were to me then, won’t now. So why not tell me?” Deans swallows the panic, almost choking on it as it gets stuck. “Y-you already think you know. What does it matter?” “It matters to me,” is the unfair counter, eyes going all soft as soon as he dares to meet them, and--damn it. He should have seen that coming. There’s no escape, no getting away from this. Sam’s like the dog with a bone, god damn it. Dean almost longs for a ghost, a shapeshifter, anything to show up and attack them just to have an excuse to end this, and how fucked up is that? “Look, I want to hear it from you. Guessing and knowing, you telling me, are two different things. I know it’s none of my business. But it’s not your dirty little secret either, Dean, it never was and it can't ever be. I don’t care if there’re not just girls there. I don’t care. Got that? You’re my brother. I care about you, you stupid fool, and there’s nothing that could change that. As long as you’re happy and okay, it doesn’t matter to me who you--uh, fuck.” Dean doesn’t wince at the word. He knows that if he wasn’t so busy forcing down a panic attack that would put everything that came before to shame and keeping emotions at bay, he’d be damn surprised at the use of the f-word by his usually soft-spoken little brother. All there is now, bubbling right under the panic, is hope and a droopy smile and his heart stumbling over itself in relief in his chest. Only for a completely different reason than fear, and fuck, does it hurt. In a good way, but damn, he almost forgot warmth and gratitude--love--could freaking hurt like this. Hurt like you can’t breathe and can't speak, so much that you can't stand it and worse than barbwire digging into flesh. It burns, deep down and all around. “So if you wanted to... you know, with them, tell me to back off and entertain myself for a few hours and I will. I won’t even tease you too much about it in the morning, if you’re lucky.” And he’s never going to admit it, not under the worst imaginable threat of torture, but this is the best thing and the worst thing Sam could have given him. Absolution. He doesn’t care how silly it sounds in his own head, or how needy, he’s not planning on repeating that out loud. He doesn’t care what people think of him. Not usually, doesn’t care of what they say behind his back or right to his face, for it doesn’t matter. They don’t matter, has always told himself that, to move on. Except as many times as he had told himself he doesn’t give a damn about what Sam would say to this as well, his heart never bought into it. Regardless of the number of times he tried. It still does, in fact. It matters a hell of a lot. He can't even pretend that it wouldn’t trouble him if Sam wouldn’t understand, that it wouldn’t freakin’ hurt. A different pain like now. Because he’s family. Because he’s Sammy, for Christ’s sake. His little brother, the one person that matters above everyone else. The gigantic lump stuck in his throat is choking him with tears he won’t cry, words he won’t say. He knows it, and Sam knows it, too. Sam knows, because Sam knows him. Because this? Yes, okay. Shit. He probably is caught in the middle of the biggest ‘chick flick moment’ known to mankind–-or, you know, him. And he is not going to start blubbering like a little girl! He’s not a chick and he’s not Sammy and--fuck. What the fuck is it with this touchy-feely crap anyway? Coughing awkwardly into a tight fist, clearing his throat–-half a dozen times, but it’s not like he’s counting-–he nods, lowering his head, subtly sweeping his hand over his eyes. If they are a little damp, it’s the cold wind coiling around them, exhaustion, and the lack of proper sleep, he’s sure. Forcing a dry chuckle from even dryer lips, he looks up again. If Sam notices, he doesn’t let on. “You’re right,” he croaks, with as much dignity as he can drag up. “All of it.” “Good. Good,” Sam says again, nodding. “I, uh, well, I think I get why you don’t let anyone else know, but it’s not a secret you have to keep from me. You were never good at that when we were kids anyway, so.” It’s true. He wasn’t. Or maybe it was more the fact that Sam could look right through him, pierce through his defenses like no one else whenever he bothered putting them up around that awkward little boy and then not so little and even less awkward. “Yeah. And it’s not like you don’t have your own secrets you don’t tell people, right?” Sam’s gentle smile turns amused and somewhat sheepish, catching on his desperate attempt to change the topic. Bless his big, soft heart for playing along. “Like, when I was four and ran away when you didn’t want to play hide and seek with me, and then hid in that giant dumpster behind the motel, anyway, and it took you and dad almost three hours to find me? By sheer, dumb luck, I might add.” Evil, oh yeah. “Things like that, you mean?” Dean barks out a strangled laugh, grateful that Sam lets him off the hook. In fact, he could hug the kid for it. “I remember that.” His backside does too. “Christ, the bathroom stank for days after that. Dad got me got for that little stunt.” A snort, and Dean knows what’s coming. It’s been said and discussed between them back and forth and a million times over and that, the familiarity of it, finally gets him back on familiar, unshakable ground and away from the edge of a trembling cliff. From falling, drowning. Breaking. “He should have punished me, not you,” Sam states like he always does, only not as bitter as the words usually are. The words, the tone of voice, it lacks a lot of the typical anger and bite. “I was hiding because you didn’t want to play, it’s not like you were an ass who didn’t want to come looking just to mock me.” “You know how he is Sammy, and it seems that it worked out just fine, didn’t it? You never did that again.” Sam juts his chin out, crossing long arms over his chest. Trying to look disgruntled. The smile ruins the masquerade. “Nor did you play hide and seek with me for the longest time.” The pout, he notices, is as prominent as it had been back then. They stay like that for the longest time. Just standing there, looking at each other through the darkness, eyes now adjusted to it as best as can be, the stupid smiles turning into grins pretty soon. Grinning at the edge of a graveyard in the middle of the night like two lunatics on crack. Huh, now that kinda fits them, doesn’t it? Dean huffs a laugh. “Uh, right. Okay. I... want to get a night’s sleep and then some for once. Come on,” Sam says, jolting them both out of their silent, stupid face-off, laughing and getting in the car. Dean stands there, rooted to the spot for a few more, impossible long seconds, staring at the back of his car. He feels restless now, like he’s on edge, adrenaline racing in his blood--and relaxed all the same. These are the times he wished he was smoking or heavily drinking. Only he doesn’t, not really, so he kicks a pile of small rocks, pebbles, out of the way and swallows it all down. It’s all fine now, and even if it’s not okay, it’s better. Taking a deep breath, Dean gets into the car, door falling shut next to him. And despite feeling jittery and jumpy, sleep still sounds like a damn good idea and very tempting. *--*--* Walking into Babylon a few nights later feels a little like déjà-vu. The guys, the music, the lights--it’s still loud and packed and colorful. Alive. Only walking in this time, he has a goal. A plan. And he doesn’t mind the looks he gets passing through the mass of half naked bodies, doesn’t mind the casual and not so casual pats on the back and strokes and touches. He doesn’t say no to the drink the bartender puts in front of him, or the other three that follow. He’s never said no to guys--and sometimes girls--buying him drinks, since usually it’s him doing the buying. Here, it’s somewhat even, at last. There’s no sign of either Brian or Justin. That doesn’t bother him, not really. He knows they’re here, already topic number one around the club again. There’s little doubt in his mind that there are times they ain’t. One way or another. Smirking, he nurses his current drink, something blue and strong and burning his insides, saying no, thank you, to another white or pink or blue pill. It’s not his world. He doesn’t worry about the number of eyes on him. He’s fresh meat, like the night he was here with Sam, and if a few of the guys remembered, well, good for them. Especially since Sammy’s not around tonight, and some are bold enough to approach him. He looks very good, he knows. Sam had teased him about ‘playing dress up for his sweetheart.’ The dress up part was true, evidently, not so much the sweetheart part. What can he say? He does look good in leather. The guys are charming and interesting enough, and he’s sure any other day he wouldn’t think twice about going home with one of them. Although he’s got to admit, the guy with the pink feather boa matching his bright pink leather pants swaying to the music over on the metal stairs is a bit distracting. It takes a lot of guts, though, and Dean can respect that. Tonight, though, tonight is different. Within the club, among the mass of wriggling, dancing bodies, are only two people that have his full attention. Only two that will take him home tonight. He’s not the hunter tonight, oh no, more like a blend of seducer and prey. Not that the two he has in mind are going to have to work very hard, mind you. It’s been a while since he played the game. That’s not to mean he lost much of his edge. Dean smirks to himself. Far from it. Tossing back the last drops of the blue liquid, melting ice cubs clattering in the empty glass, he puts it down on the bar. The dance floor is packed. A sweating, moving, pounding cluster of human flesh in the stroboscope light. Every supernatural being with sensitive eyes--or ears, if one thinks about it--is going to run like hell, never choosing a club like this as their hunting ground. Comforting, yes, but nothing more. There are enough creatures out there lacking one of the two or both. Banishing those thoughts from his mind, he orders another blue drink, not bothering to find out the name. He isn’t going to come back here, not anytime soon. If at all. He nods to the barkeeper as he hands over the glass. Bringing it to his lops, he sips a little slower, more careful, doesn’t want to be too drunk for this. Drunken sex isn’t pleasant, not if you can't undo shoe laces and pants and hold your own dick anymore. Or anyone else’s for the matter. Hence, it’s a mess, strongly resembling most first-time sex of sixteen-year-olds. Risking another glance toward the dance floor, the first half of the duo that got his attention and thoughts tonight is moving into view. Blond and pale, but glowing and happy and wonderfully alive. Like it should be, not the shadow of the lively young man he’d last seen after the Emily disaster at the loft. He’s dancing and making his way through the crowd at the same time, smiling at several of the men, some of them nodding, touching his shoulder, others purely smiling back. He’s got a glass in his left hand, arms stretched out over his head. Dean keeps his eyes on Justin as he moves further through the crowd, stopping a few times to talk to someone or another, before finally making his way up to the bar. There’s this second, right when Justin sees him, where his eyes go wide, like he can't believe what he is seeing, before flushing even a darker shade of pink high on his cheeks. Blue eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Dean!” he proclaims loudly, bouncing up the last few feet separating them, merely stopping to apologize for bumping into someone, before draping his agile body around and over Dean. Hugging and kissing him on the mouth like he’s a present the kid always wanted. Which isn’t all that wrong, Dean thinks mischievously to himself. It’s only then that the younger man seems to actually realize what he’s doing and with whom, for he jumps away, catapulting backward, and only Dean’s reflexes and the grip on his arm keeping him standing. Blue eyes take a nervous glance around. And Dean knows he’s looking for Sam. “He’s not here,” he tells, draping his arm around the blond’s narrow waist. “Who?” “Sammy.” “He’s not.” Dean laughs at his confuzzled expression on the pretty face, answering by pulling the body next to him in. “Nope,” he relents eventually, “and he’s not going to show up, either.” Justin still seems a bit lost, so Dean turns his head around, putting his lips directly to the kid’s ear, saying, “Sammy told me to go and have fun. Get it out of my system, so to speak. Have fun, fun, fun.” Another confused look, but Justin is a smart kid, and the light bulb comes on soon enough. “Oh,” he breathes, “Oh!” Now that it makes ‘click’, he’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary, eyes bright and twinkling with mischief in the jittering spot light. “That’s good. Right?” “Yeah, yeah it’s good. I’m good.” “That’s--good.” Justin then reaches for Dean’s drink, suddenly spinning around in his hold, curling two slender arms around Dean’s neck, basically hugging him more. “Really, really good. Perfect.” The words are mumbled into his shoulder, warm breath tickling his throat as he turns he face into the crease of neck. Either Justin is really drunk, on drugs, or really happy to see him. But Justin is an affectionate kid and it doesn’t have to mean anything. “Hmmm... you smell good.” Maybe not drunk, but tipsy. Definitely tipsy. At any rate, Dean’s willing to bet that the glass in his hand wasn’t his first tonight. “I do?” “…Hmm-mm…yummy…” “How’s your hand?” “…hmm, fine.” And the blond is freakin’ slurping Dean’s drink behind his back. “Are you stealing my drink right under my nose, Justin?” The answer is a set of wet lips pressing into the soft skin right under his ear. Leaning back a bit, he grins. “Possibly.” “I’d say it’s more than possible, Blondie,” he chides gently, wiping a spilled drop of liquid from the corner of pink lips. He doesn’t mean it, of course, but it’s cute to see the blond pout. The pout vanishes into a look of lust and want when he licks it from his finger. Oh yeah, he can play this game. Justin’s next words, though, leave him stunned. “Dance with me?” “What?” “Dance with me,” says again, all gentle smile and soft eyes, holding a hand out for Dean to take. “Please? Pretty please?” And he actually bats his lashes! Jesus! “I can't dance.” “Most of the time, neither can Brian...,” he’s told teasingly. Dean laughs. “All right. But if you mention this to Sammy...,” he warns. “I won’t! Cross my heart and all that!” “Fine. Lead the way.” Justin take his hand, puts the glass down, and pulls him along in one swift mothing, leading them right into the center of the dancing, moving crowd. It’s not, like, ballroom dancing or anything, but that nervous, fluttering feeling in his gut is there anyway. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol making itself known. Dean shrugs inwardly. It’s not more important than the pressure of the hand leading him out onto the dance floor. As soon as they’re there, Justin’s already moving to the passionate beat, hips swaying left and right, head bobbing in time with it. The kid loves music, that much is clear, and it’s just as obvious that the music loves him, too. Finding them a spot in the mass, he whirls around at once, throwing his arms around Dean’s neck--never missing a beat. And to his utter surprise, Dean feels himself following his lead. He’s danced before, of course, but he usually doesn’t bother to dance in a club like this. There are other ways to spend one’s time. The blond in his arms isn’t a girl. Uh-huh, very obvious. As petite and fragile as the lithe body feels moving against him, there’s no mistaking parts of that physique. The soft smile meeting his gaze, the soft tickle of hair against his chin when he leans closer, it all comes down to flesh triumphing over mind, as his brain is apparently taking a break. It just natural to encircle the slim waist with his arms, and going by the soft moan, it wasn’t a bad move. For his hands to go on a journey after that, to get a little bolder with every stroke and glide, let himself go with the music, is just as natural. He feels Justin’s smile against his throat as he whispers, “that’s it.” And then, all of the sudden, they are kissing and it’s not fast or hard and quick at all. Not like the music. The flashing lights. The moving people. Slow and lazy and wet, and oh yeah, dirty. Sensual. This time there is nothing holding him back, nothing to keep him back. Justin seems to sense it, too, for one of his hands comes up, grabbing a handful of the collar of his jacket to hold him close and down and there. Right there. When they part, he lowers his mouth to the teen’s ear. “You do know that half of the people are watching us, right?” Justin’s smile is angelic as he looks up at him. Contrary to the wicked gleam in sparkling blue eyes. Oh, hell. “They’ll get something to see, then,” he teases, and Dean laughs. “All right,” he whispers, lowers his mouth to Justin’s once again. “I don’t mind if you don’t.” Justin shakes his head. No, of course he wouldn’t, and then he’s spinning and touching and kissing and nibbling--and dancing isn’t so strange anymore. Mostly because it isn’t dancing anymore. More like fucking, maybe, with clothes on. At the end of the song, Dean is getting a little too hot, and it’s not just because of the dancing. As close as they are pressed together, erection pressing against the zipper of his pants, there’s no way Justin hasn’t picked up on it yet. When the hunter pulls back to get some space between them, the blond moves with him, rubbing a clever hand on his thigh. Like an accident. It isn’t. Can’t be, if the faint twitching of lips is any indication. Resting his head against Justin’s, he sing-songs, “You’re doing this on purpose.” Squeezing Dean, a blond head moves from where it rests against his neck, a flushed pink and pretty face looking up at him. “Hmmm…maybe.” Okay then. They keep it up for another song--pun intended--before he can finally drag the laughing dancer away from the floor and steer them back to the bar, ordering another drink. He takes a huge swallow, another smaller one, before handing the glass over to Justin, who eagerly accepts. Grin in place, gaze never leaving Dean’s as the kid takes a sip, he crushes both of their mouths together, letting the cool, burning liquid trickle between their lips. Well. Talk about ‘sharing’ a drink. They keep handing the glass back and forth, laughing whenever they spill something and successively ignoring curious or envious or interested glances their way. They are so into what they doing, that a warm, deeps voice from behind them makes them jump, almost crashing the glass to the floor. Can’t be said often enough that quick reflexes are pretty damn useful. “It’s not nice to tease, Sunshine,” Brian drawls, letting his eyes wander. “I saw you two out there. You were hot.” While talking, the man put himself between the blond and the bar, one arm curling around the pale neck. His eyes take a full tour around the club before they-–at last--settle on Dean. “I take it that hot brother of yours isn't joining us tonight.” Dean smiles to himself at the sheer possessiveness of the rather innocent gesture, saying, “Nope. Told me I should get over myself and get the… real thing. Practically threw me out of our charming motel room.” And Sam really did. Almost. Brian’s gaze as he takes in Dean is blazing hot. Half lidded eyes travelling from his feet slowly up to his crotch, lingering there for a moment too long before they move onto his belly and chest to finally coming to rest on his lips and--eventually--his eyes. The trail they took prickles like champagne bubbles on bare skin. Justin laughs brightly at his lover’s act, doubly so when Brian glowers at him out of the corner of his eyes. That very moment, the barkeeper puts a drink in front of Brian. Half leaning on the bar, he takes it, sending his eyes on another tour of the clientele. “Anyone you like?” “Oh, yeah, I have my eyes on someone.” “Really?” “Ye-ah.” As if the guy doesn’t know why Dean is here tonight. Justin moves out of Brian’s grasp, turns to look at the dance floor. Apparently trying to decide where he’s been looking. “Who?” “As if you don’t know.” Justin frowns. “Uh, maybe you should ease on the drinks, kiddo.” The blond looks even more confused, saying, “What?” Brian snorts. “No, really, what?” “He’s just trying to be clever, Sunshine.” The brunette takes a swallow and raises the glass with the golden shining liquor at him. A wicked gleam in his eyes, and Dean feels himself react to that. “Ready to join us then?” “Oh. Yeah.” “Aww, and I thought you two had all played out,” a stranger’s voice cuts into the conversation. That is, if you want to call it a conversation. Personally, Dean would go with a fucked up version of foreplay. Turning his head to face the newcomer, he gets just a little bug-eyed, as the guy standing right there is no other than feather-boa-guy-in-pink-leather-pants. And, geez, it’s... really a lot of pink. “Hi sugar,” he says sweetly, passing Dean and putting a long arm around the blond’s shoulders. Brian merely rolls his eyes, drinking more obviously in the hope that, if he ignores him long enough, he’ll go away. Dean is enough of a people’s person to know that he won’t. “Imagine my surprise when I hear from a very reliable source that a certain infamous couple of Liberty--,” he gives Brian and Justin a pointed stare, “--arrived here with two guys in tow,” that would be Sam and he, “and, as my source tells me, an awfully hot couple.” Dean almost snorts his own drink out of his nose. Coughing and trying not to suffocate at once. Feather-boa-guy-in-pink-leather-pants’ bewildered gaze jumps his way for a second before returning to his usual audience. “And now, a few days later, you show up with this particularly fabulous exemplar of the gay variety,” he waves an impatient hand at Dean, “and I have to wonder. In fact, everyone wonders. So... be two darlings now and enlighten this poor old gossip queen with something juicy her source didn’t already milk for all it was worth.” “You’re not old, Emmett,” Justin exclaims, laughing and blinking up at the guy. “Aww, you’re too sweet honey,” feather-boa-guy-in-pink-leather-pants--er, Emmett drawls lightly. The distraction doesn’t last long, it never does. “So...? You wouldn’t leave me hanging, would you?” “...uh...” “Piss off, Honeycut.” “Don’t call me that!” “What? Honeybunny?” “Shut up Kinney.” Justin chuckles lightly. “Ignore him, Em, he’s just cranky that he stumbled over all the guys throwing themselves at his feet but only got his dick sucked twice tonight.” Giving Dean the eye, he adds, “Good to know we’re about to change that, right?” Dean snorts. We’ll see about that. That, of course, puts him at the real center of attention, guy turning with Justin to look him over like a piece of meat. A very tasty piece of meat, mind you. “Wow, you look even more tasty from up close, you know. I saw you coming in, I was standing over--” “There, yup, I know. I saw you, too.” “Hard to overlook, is he?” Brian mutters, sarcasm dripping in buckets. Well, no, he isn’t. “Yes, yes, the pink is rather bright, is it not? And the shirt? It glows in the dark, or okay, black light, but still. Same difference.” He chuckles just as bright as the shirt, and Dean can’t help but return the grin with one of his one. “So, say, mind telling me how you--” He stops when Brian removes his arm from around Justin, pulling the boy back at his side. “My, aren’t you--” “If you say ‘testy,’ I’m gonna make you suck your own balls, Emmett.” Emmett seems to consider the treat for a second, eventually holding up his hands in defeat. “Fine, be that way, Brian. But don’t come running to me if you need the latest rumors on--uh, on second thought, ah, no, forget it.” He laughs awkward. “But still, there’s this--” Brian talks right over the man. “Fuck, where did I put that damn fly swatter again? There’s this weird buzzing in my ear...” Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Emmet glowers at Brian. “Well. I know when my presence is no longer desired. Be that way. I’m gonna find me some more fun company. Bye, honey,” Emmett babbles, planting a noisy, wet kiss on Justin’s cheek. A werewolf has nothing on Brian Kinney in the nasty-looks department right about this moment, Dean thinks, hiding his grin in his drink. “Have fu-un, my pretties,” he sing-songs, winking at Dean and brushing up against him when he walks past. Dean laughs, waving until the sight of bright pink disappears into the crowd. “Let’s go.” Dean turns back to watch Brian peels himself off the bar. “What?” Justin looks as surprised as he feels. “Why?” “If he is here, everyone else can't be far behind. Now, question for you, Sunshine. Do you want to deal with them when we could be fucking like a triplet of bunnies back at the loft in five minutes instead?” There’s no question to what he’s referring to. In reply, Justin downs the rest of his--Brian’s--drink and snatches Dean’s wrist. The hunter shakes his head, chuckling, as he follows the giddy, young man toward the exit, Brian on their heels. -- TBC . Hosted by Animexx e.V. (http://www.animexx.de)