Part 24: "...Morning finds him messing with the coffee maker."
He wakes again to nearly complete darkness, the loft wrapped in the dark of night like a blanket around his naked form.
Patches of light flicker across the wall where they face huge windows, the city with its bright lights looking in. There are shadowy stripes on the shiny, wooden floor, uniform lines due to the half-closed blinds facing the entertainment area. Dean stares at them for a while, stupidly and way too fascinated, as his eyes lazily trace one line down to where they vanish in darker shadows, and the next line back again. He does it until his gaze ends up at the platform as it comes into his line of sight.
Dean feels himself frown, eyebrows drawing together in a confused, rippled line. The confusion drips down to his eyes where heavy eyelids start to blink slowly. There’s a hand down there, too, loosely curled into a not-quite fist and the back of its fingers resting floppily on the cold surface. The shadow lines paint it in a sharp contrast of light and shadow, and Dean thinks, huh, and that’s probably mine.
Probably turns into surely as he and his sleepy and not yet all awake brain realize the cold seeping from his arm into the rest of him. Like chilly fingertips dancing across naked skin and a creeping cold he can feel down to his toes. Moving his head is harder than it should be, cheek brushing the soft, warm sheets where it rest dangerously close to the edge of the bed and moving closer to take a look.
Yup, that’s his hand lying down there. The ring half hidden in shadows, half gleaming is a dead giveaway. Moving that hand is even harder than his head. It’s stiff and cold and Jesus fuck, protesting in earnest as he curls fingers into a tight fist. The arm isn’t much better, worse even, for it feels like a solid chunk of ice rather than a limb that shall bend and move. He ponders moving that arm further for longer than he’s willing to admit, but in the end the want for warmth wins out, and he turns his face into the mattress to muffle a brief grunt of pain.
No wonder he woke up. Geez! He bends his arm a few times, twists and turns it until the whole thing doesn’t feel like there are a dozen knives sticking out of it. The light weight covering the rest of him shifts a little with every move, penetrating the warm, cozy bubble of air surrounding him under the blanket. Shivering, Dean hurries to pull the edge of it back down as soon as his wayward arm finds a place at his side, freezing hand twisted into the warm fabric. Sighing in relief, he closes his eyes and waits to falls back asleep.
And waits.
After a long minute, a very damn long minute, thank you very much, he finds that that isn’t likely going to happen. Not anytime soon. Dean snorts quietly. Sleep isn’t going to happen, not like this, not when every part of his body feels like a taunt rubber band ready to snap at any second.
The ticking of his watch is loud in the quiet of the night, and Dean’s lips press mute curses into the sheets. Fuck. Moving as little as humanly possible, he pulls the comforter tighter around him, marveling at the warmth. He listens to the seconds tick by, but the wonderful, welcomed heat does nothing to relax his coil spring of a body, nothing to release the tension of muscles everywhere. Okay. Great, so there’s no way in hell he’s gonna go back to sleep like this.
Groaning inwardly, there’s only a single damn logic conclusion: shower.
A long, hot shower, a shower that he has to get up to get under. Get out of his homely bubble of warmth and the bed.
The wave of pain is more like a tsunami than a splash as he pushes himself up on his arms, biting the inside of his cheeks to the point of drawing blood. “Sleeping like this,” he whispers to the silent night, “was a bad idea.” The night doesn’t answer him, only the harsh sounds of his own breathing, lungs feeling like they had the air knocked out of them. He gives his racing heart a moment to calm down before he proceeds, getting on hands and knees, or rather elbows and knees as the blanket slides down his back and ass to pool on the mattress and Dean’s calves.
As much as getting up pains him--literally and figuratively--it's obvious that the hot shower is his best and only options right now if he doesn’t want to walk around like an arthritis-riddled, eighty-year-old-grandpa. Eyes having adjusted to the semi dark long minutes ago, he’s no problem finding his way around the bed without falling flat on his ass or face and into the bathroom. Turning to close the door, Justin and Brian are asleep, dead to the world under another heavy blanket.
The lights come on as soon as he hits the switch, blinding him for a second and bringing pained tears to his eyes. It’s a reflex almost two decades of hunting that has his arms coming up to shield his eyes from the bright, biting light. It’s a bad fuckin’ idea. Agony shoots through him like a knife, like being ripped apart, muscle cramps almost bringing him to his knees. Falling into the wall, a wall like ice against his naked back, he waits and wills and wishes the pain away.
When he can breathe again, he goes for the first-aid kit, the scissors in it. His hands tremble when he sets them out to cut the bandage away from his arm. Another bad idea, and for so many different freakin’ reasons, the first and foremost being that he isn’t sure he can replace it himself, the second being, ow! The cold metal of the scissors dig into his palm as he unconsciously curls his hand into a fist. It makes it worse, of course it does, seeing as a dozen muscles in his arms tense. All he sees for a moment are bright spots dancing in front of his eyes.
Leave him gasping.
Leave him breaking out in a sweat.
Letting his hand drop, the scissors clatter in protest as they hit the stone counter top, and he leans heavily against the sink, smooth, cool edges digging hard into hip and flesh. It’s enough of a shock to let him forget the pain carved into back and shoulders. If there’d been been an ounce of strength left in him, he’d startle like a rabbit on a gunshot and curse himself and the intruder when the door opens. Harsh bathroom lights spill out into the bedroom as Brian steps through, hair in disarray and a yawn splitting his face.
His dark eyes are sharp and away, too awake for the time of night.
Not that he’s any idea exactly how late it is, but it’s still too late or too early to look this awake. His own reflection agrees wholeheartedly.
Taking one look at Dean, his clenched fist and trembling hands, Brian walks over to the shower and turns it on. The rushing water is a weird comfort in his ears, shoulders sagging an inch or two, in relief or anticipation, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He’s still cold, still grinding his teeth together to keep them from chattering. He watches Brian come up behind him, naked feet making no sound on the smooth, tiled floor, so close that he can feel his body, feel the heat of it right there along his back.
He meets Dean’s eyes in the mirror and Dean does jump this time. Jerks, short and sharp, and shivers. Swallowing hard, bracing him for the onslaught of pain, he reaches up to unwrap the bandage. Taking the scissors might not end well, so he’ll have to make do like this. Brian snorts softly in his ears, pressing dry, warm lips into his neck and brushing Dean’s hand away. Gentle fingertips brush the bandage, the tape that holds it all together.
Dean, sleepy soft around the edges and hurting, feels a strange, compassionate bond toward that off white bandage on his arm. Sometimes it’s like he’s solely held together by sticky take, too. Sticky tape that’s called ‘family’ and two names that can rip it off and slap it on so fast and sudden that it leaves him spinning and scrambling to keep all of the pieces that make him together.
Brian slips a finger under the end and slowly peels off the tape. It doesn’t hurt. The older man takes over then, and Dean lets him, just this once, and it’s only a stupid dressing, isn’t it? It comes away with every twist of Brian’s wrist, and when it’s gone, familiar dry lips brush the line of stitches crawling up his biceps and shoulder. Noses the vague hollow behind his ear, the fine hair on his nape.
It helps that Brian doesn’t say a thing, that he keeps silent, keeps his comments damn well to himself. That he just does.
Having discarded the thing, or Dean thinks he must have somewhere in between, for when two arms come around his waist, there’s nothing left of the ruined piece of fabric. Dean makes a protesting sound, just for the sake of it. He’s got a role to play after all, a reputation to uphold, but he’s too tired to do much more. Doesn’t resist when the older man stirs him toward the shower, rapidly filling with delicious warm steam, and with the shower stall, so does the room.
The mist rushes at them when Brian opens the door, enveloping him, them like a warm embrace, a pair of invisible arms that curl around you and keep you save. The last touch of cool air vanishes when the door closes behind them and Brian settles in behind him, chin parking on Dean’s shoulder as those two arms--the real ones--curl around him anew and hold tight.
What does it hurt that he leans into the solid warmth at his back? Not here, not right now, not in the dark of the night where there’s no one else. Sleep tugs on him like a toddler on his mother’s skirt. A gentle, unrelenting reminder of ‘I’m here,’ and ‘I’m not going away.’ Sighing deeply, he revels in the warmth that slowly settles over him, at the quiet, silently listening to the hushed tones of flowing water, the rhythmic pitter-patter of it hitting their naked bodies. The sound of their combined breathing.
They don’t say a word, the dream-like state a welcomed, wonderful contrast to the outside world that is Dean’s life. Dean moans softly, leaning more into the warm body at his back, giving himself over to the hand sliding along his water-slicked cock. He turns his face into the flowing water, moaning softly, when he comes.
*--*--*
Morning finds him messing with Brian’s coffee maker.
Thing must have cost a not-so-small fortune and apparently requires a degree in engineering as well. Dean doesn’t have that, but he can build an EMF meter out of a walkman, so he’ll be damned if the thing beats him into submission. Plus he’s not Dad. Dad, who can barely handle a toaster without burning down the room, let alone a computer. Dean glares at the coffee maker. The coffee maker glares back, unimpressed.
Dean sighs.
In the end, let’s say they’re about even. Fuck.
“Wanna shower with us?”
Startled, Dean looks up from where he’s pouring the second love of his life--freshly brewed and steaming hot--into a big mug, white steam curling up into the air. Comes face to face with Justin and Brian, undressing themselves and the other on their slow way to the bathroom. Tempting, yes, but--his gaze briefly flickers to the waiting pot of hot, dark liquid. Waiting for him, and just him. Nah, sex in the shower is, well, sure as fuck not overrated, but he needs the caffeine more. “Nah, I’m good,” he assures, raising the cup. “Have fun.”
Brian wriggles his brows, giving his swelling cock a stroke. “Wanna watch us shower? You can bring the fucking coffee with you, if you have to, I don’t mind a good foursome.”
I’m sure you’d like that. Laughing, he tells them to fuck off and get on with it already. “Go, live out your voyeur kink with yourself. I’m gonna molest your coffee maker some more,” he says, stroking it the same way Brian does his cock. Justin’s laughter follows them straight into the bathroom. Not long after the shower starts--and his phone rings. Looking at the display, he smirks. “Yes, Sammy?”
- “Uh, are you done?” -
Dean snorts. “What? Little Sammy afraid to walk in on his big brother?”
- “Dude, don’t joke about that. I still have nightmares about the last time. –
And, yeah, Dean remembers that, too. The little blond with long, long hair and longer legs curled under her tight ass giving head in the back of his car… oh yeah… Poor little Sammy almost choked on his cocoa when he opened that door following ‘strange noises.’ Yeah, well, getting your dick sucked kinda does that to a guy. “Hmm, yeah, I know what you mean…”
- “Shut up. Since you’re answering your phone, I’ll guess it’s okay.” –
Dean takes a sip of his coffee. Scalding hot. Perfect. And frowns. Then, “You’re downstairs, aren’t you Sammy?”
- “…not, exactly.” –
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? Either you are or not, dude.”
- “Uh…” -
“Sammy…,” he starts. And stops. Huh.
Putting the mug down, he walks around the corner. The door makes a rumbling noise when he rolls it aside, stepping out of the loft. Of course Sammy’s standing there, a landing down and his cell phone pressed to his ear. Of course. Only you, Sammy. “Huh,” he says, snapping his own phone shut. Rolling his eyes, he walks back in, listening to his brother’s footsteps on the stairs, the rumbling that announces the closing of the door.
It’s only when he turns to Sam, teeth-flashing, teasing grin on his lips, that he notices the book under his brother’s arm. “That from Miss Deborah?” he inquires, grin going wider at the annoyed shake of Sam’s head that sends his hair flying.
“Good morning to you, too. But yeah, she gave it to me. Gave me some names, too. In case we ever need help or something.”
Picking up his coffee, he takes a long sip. “Good. In case we’re crossing path with another insane witch that tries to kill us or some other people that…” He trails off when he notices that Sam’s not listening. At least not to Dean. “Yo Sammy? Anyone home?”
“Hmm? Yeah, sorry.”
“Something’s wrong?”
A confused glance his way, a frown to the bedroom and--oh. Oh. Talk about strange noises. Coming straight from the bathroom. That is, if you listen, really listen. And Sammy? Always does that. Thank god he ain’t that nine-year-old, too-curious-for-his-own-good kid anymore, so there’s no risk of him storming up there. Although… the image that thought brings to his inner eye has him snorting into his coffee.
And smacking Sam on the back of his head.
Sam starts, giving him a nasty look. “The hell, dude!”
“Don’t stare!” he says, poking his forefinger into his brother’s shoulder. “That’s rude. Unless you want to join in, which I’m sure Brian would fucking love so--mph”
There’s a hand over his mouth, and Sam, owner of said hand, looks a little green and a lot annoyed. “Dude. Just. Shut it, okay. Shut up.”
“What? I said I wasn’t fucking. I didn’t say anything about them.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder and to the bathroom. “Didn’t bother you last time…”
“It doesn’t bother me, man. It’s just… nothing. It’s nothing.”
Dean makes some kind of agreeing noise, “hmm-mm,” or maybe it’s, “mm-hmm,” filling a cup for his little brother. Shoves a cup at him. “I tell you what this is. You’re jealous.” Sam flushed embarrassment turns into a heated glare. Dean doesn’t back down. “No, listen. What I mean is, you need to get laid, dude. Take a page out of their book. ‘Cause honestly, come on, Sammy, you need to burn off that… energy somewhere, don’t you? And it shouldn’t be that hard to get a nice girl somewhere--”
“Dean. Stop.”
“All I’m saying is, you need to get it out of your system before you snap once and for all.”
“I appreciate your concern, Dean, but…”
“Who says anything about concern?” Dean rebuffs. He is concerned, but he’s not going to tell. “It’s just getting on my nerves that you’re so freaking pissy all the freaking time.”
Sam glowers. “Pissy?”
“Yes Sam. Pissy. Cranky. Annoying. Hovering. Whatever. One minute you’re hovering over me like a freaking mother hen, like I’m about to die, and the next you almost bite my head off. That needs to stop, Sam. Like now. I need you sharp, all right, but that is not it.”
“Dean…”
“I get that you’re freaked, Sam, what happened back there, and in Nebraska, I get it, dude. I really do. But this has to stop. Remember? I’m fine. I’m alive. It’s over and done with. Even your precious Miss Deborah said so. So go out, get yourself a beer and a pretty girl. You need it.”
“Fuck off Dean. I’m not you. Sex doesn’t work like that for me, and you know it.”
“Who says you have to take her to your bed? Just go out and have a good time. Unwind a little, ‘cause I got to tell ya, you’re wound tighter than a fucking coil. All this shit about worrying about me… you gotta let it go. I’m not dying anymore.”
Slamming the cup on the counter and using his newly free hands to cover his face, Sam sighs deeply. Leans heavy against the bar. “I know, I know. Shit. It’s just… you’re right. I’m gonna try to keep my hovering to an absolute minimum.”
Dean grins. “Dude, I’m always right.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah. Totally am.”
“Are not--wait,” he laughs. It’s good to see you laugh, Sammy. “I’m not gonna play this game. We’re not four, for Christ’s sake.”
“That’s because you always lost then, too.” He pokes Sam’s mug. “Now, stuff the touchy-feely crap and drink your girly coffee instead, bitch.”
“Jerk.”
And hey, it’s still not all right. Gonna bet that, even trying not to hover, Sam is a master at doing it anyway and without realizing, but at least it’s better than yesterday or a week ago. Taking a shower without stumbling into Sam afterwards as he comes out of their bathroom would be nice again. For starters, that’s okay. Nodding, he changes the subject.
“You got us a new job?” he prompts, eyeing the newspaper cutout sticking out of the book.
“Yeah. There’s a poltergeist in Cleveland. Or that’s what it sounds like anyway. Strange noises in the basement, doors and windows opening and closing on their own, flickering lights, the whole nine yards. And the family living in the house ends up dead one way or another within the first four month, so I think it’s a good bet to check it out until something else comes along.”
Dean’s eyebrow hits his hairline. “And someone still buys that freaking house?” He’s always amazed at how stupid or ignorant people can be. Then again, people buy a lot of crap if it’s cheap, and how cheap would a house be where several people had died over the years? Deadly cheap. Okay, okay, bad pun, but what the hell.
“Yup. An elderly couple bought it a few months ago. Moved in last week. It was left vacated for almost seven years before that, though.” So. Not all stupid. “That’s the reason it made the papers in the first place, made a real big deal out of it.”
Scanning the article, he nods. “And knowing how our fuckers love to take that change, I guess Cleveland it is, then.”
“What’s in Cleveland?”
They both turn at the voice, finding a naked, smiling--and utterly glowing--Justin on the bedroom stairs. He never heard the shower turn off. Or their moaning.
“…uh…”
Dean doesn’t bother to hide the smirk fighting his rational brain for control over his facial muscles at his brother’s sudden inability to speak properly. He takes pity on him, though, yet he can’t decide if it’s Justin or Sam he’s thinking about here. “Our new case.”
He watches how Justin’s face falls, smile dimming. “Oh.”
“Cleveland is fucking boring,” Brian doesn’t fail to point that out, unasked of course, as he walks up behind Justin, but it’s not like that ever stops the man. “Worse than the Pitts, and I never fucking thought I’d hear myself say that. Fuck.”
“Well, it’s good then that we aren’t going there to party, right Sammy?”
“Uh... yeah.” Poor kid’s a little busy not staring. Either out of curiosity or the feeling of a train crash you can’t look away from, absentminded stirring his coffee some more instead. Dean knows his brother well enough to guess that he’s probably not even aware that he’s doing it.
Raising a questioning eyebrow, Brian grins. “You know,” he says, devilish grin firmly in place, “I don’t know about you, but I could swear I once heard of a guy who stirred his coffee to death.”
Dean barely sustains his laughter as a confused frown crosses Sammy’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chuckling, Justin elbows Brian in the ribs, glaring at Dean when he can’t stifle his own laughter. He really doesn’t care. Smile still in place, Dean watches Justin drag his lover back into the bedroom, attacking the closet to find something to wear for them. “So, when did you want to leave?”
Dean turns to look at Sam. “After I finish my coffee,” he admits, grinning. “Real tasty coffee, Sammy. How often do we have that?”
“Uh…”
He wiggles a finger. “Exactly.”
And takes another sip, moaning at the lovely taste exploding on his tongue. Sam laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners and lighting up like a neon sign at any motel around the country--if it’s not kaput, that is--and Dean has no choice but laugh with him. At himself, which is why he gives him The Finger. Come on, he is the older brother. So what if his bro’s not that chubby ten-year-old anymore. He’s still Sammy. Okay, Sam, but who cares about details?
Justin is the first to emerge from the endless depth of the bedroom that ate his underwear. Almost. He’s dressed now in green cargo pants and a tee, walking straight up to the coffee pot. Dean grins. Can’t blame Blondie. It had been a long, long night, and pretty exhausting, too. Just remembering the feel of two pairs of hands on his skin… whoa. Better think of something else. Thanks to his daydreaming, he completely misses what Justin whispers to his brother.
It has to be something good, for the smile that the comment or whatever earns, is both sincere and content. “Thanks,” he overhears Sam saying.
He shrugs it off and hides a smile in his coffee as he starts to go over the prints that outline their next case. Looking at the pictures, the house looks more like a small castle than a house, and how anyone would want to live there is a question he doesn’t want to think about. A castle with its very own poltergeist. Great.
“So, what exactly caught your interest in Cleveland?”
“Poltergeist,” Dean offers, eyes briefly flickering up to meet wide, blue eyes watching him. “Probably.” There’s nothing more to say and he doesn’t. The panic attack is still vivid in his mind, and he doesn’t want a repeat. And given what he went through with that Emily chick the other day, well, he knows better than to open his mouth this time. Justin doesn’t need to know, and as mature as he appears and undoubtedly is in some ways, he’s still a nineteen-year-old teenager in others. Some very important ones.
Right then, Brian saunters down the stairs. Clad in a pair of jeans, a black, sleeveless shirt and no socks and… yum. He looks a lot like he stepped right out if one of those glossy fashion magazines looking back at him at every gas station. The guy doesn’t even have to try, and fuck him if Brian doesn’t know that, too. Plays it like, whoa. Smug, fucking asshole, he thinks, amused and smirking into the beloved, dark drink.
-- TBC
