Archive of Our Own

The first time Sam Wesson terrifies himself is one week, six days, and eight hours after he’s moved to Ohio. 

He’s at the corner bar with Ian and Paul—it’s more of an Irish Pub really, definitely not Sam’s usual style—but it’s the closest alcohol they can get within walking distance of Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc., so it’s become their typical Friday night spot. Ian is talking Sam’s ear off about the latest James Bond movie over an assortment of empty shot glasses and Paul is working through his fifth whiskey rocks of the night, when Sam’s mouth jumps the tracks and skids past the rails without waiting for the go-ahead from his brain. 

Ian says, “No, no! The driver, man. And the bowl-cut guy! It’s a Beretta, I swear to god.” His eyes had started to get noticeably glazed two Slippery Nipples ago, and he slaps the table with his palm. “I’ve played Modern Warfare three hundred times in the last week alone, I’m pretty sure I can recognize my go-to handgun, Paul.”

Paul just snorts into his drink in response, then says, “It’s a Toreador—wait, no.” He cracks up and his glasses slip down his nose, but he catches them before they can fall into his drink. “Whatcha call it? Taurus.” 

Ian wildly shakes his hands in front of his face, like he can’t even believe they’re arguing about this, and slaps Sam on the shoulder. “Oh my god, are you freaking kidding me? Sam.” He slides his hand around Sam’s upper back and fixes him with the most serious stare Sam’s ever seen from him, even if the effect is a little ruined by his uneven swaying over his barstool. “Oh my god. Oh my god, please tell him.”

Sam lets out a fond laugh at the antics of the man who is quickly becoming a fast friend and shakes his head. He intends to say something about having no idea, and having seen the movie over a year ago, and what did he care about guns anyway? But instead, his mouth blurts out, “It’s a Taurus. PT92. I mean, it does look like the 92F, but the safety’s on the frame. With a Beretta it’s on the slide, so that’s how you tell. Really, it makes sense that they’d use it for the flick, ‘cause the Taurus is an all-around better gun. The cocking serrations are wider, so it’s way easier to chamber a round, plus it’s got a better grip. Sure, the kick back is a little stronger, but that translates into more power, so it’s a cleaner kill with one shot. Especially if you’re farther away—” 

Sam lets out a strangled sound and finally manages to grab hold of his traitorous tongue, shove it back behind his teeth, and forcefully clamp his jaw shut…but it’s already too late.

Ian is staring at him. The smile’s still mostly clinging onto the lower half of his face—like his Sambuca-soaked brain is taking a little while to catch up—but his eyes are just the slightest bit confused. Paul is laughing, apparently stoked that he won the argument, and paying no attention to the way Sam suddenly feels like the entire world has just tilted four degrees to the left.

Ian quirks his lips up and lets out a small chuckle. “Wow, man. I guess you play even more than me, huh?” Sam just gapes at him, every single working brain cell shut down and offline except for one—and his only remaining neuron isn’t doing anything other than freaking out about what just came out of his mouth. Ian awkwardly laughs again to cover the noticeable silence. “Modern Warfare?”

Sam tries to throw on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He swallows a few times, then hesitantly asks, “Is that a movie?”

Now Ian and Paul are both staring at him. Paul leans in and makes a face. “Call of Duty, Sam. Y’know, the video game?”

Sam clears his throat and nods. “No, right. Right, yeah. I thought you said, uh—” He scoffs and puts on his best just kidding expression. “I just thought you said ‘modern war’,” he backpedals terribly. “Y’know, like you were talking about war movies or something…” He scoots his beer bottle a little closer to the edge of the table and picks at the label. “Call of Duty, yeah. I play it. Uh, a lot.”

His pathetic attempt at an explanation seems to pacify his co-workers and they go back to cheerfully arguing about the merits of online campers—which doesn’t even sound like a real thing, but how would Sam know? He discreetly slides his still half-full beer away and clamps his fingers around the underside of the table until his hands start to ache. His slipshod cover story had managed to appease Ian and Paul, but he’s way more freaked out about where all that information he’d unintentionally vomited up had actually come from. Sam has never played Call of Duty. He’s not even entirely sure what kind of game it is. He’s not too big on video games at all, actually. He’d played a little at college, he thinks, but for some reason it’s kind of hard to remember. (Brady had it and Sam had watched every once in a while, but it hit a little too close to home for him to really enjoy it.) Sam sucks in a sharp breath. What? Who the hell is Brady? And why would a shooting game hit too close to home? That doesn’t make any sense at all…

Sam exhales shakily and waits for the wave of terror to pass. It’s okay, it doesn’t mean anything. It must have been just one of those freak brain things. Weird shit like that happens to people all the time. It isn’t—can’t be—a reflection on anything other than the fact that Sam watches too many stupid, violent movies before bed. 

Because the one thing he knows with absolute certainty…is that he’s never held a gun in his life.

He excuses himself from the bar way too early, waves off the ribbing from his well-meaning companions, and decides to walk back to his shitty, Ikea-infested apartment instead of taking the bus. The air is about as brisk as Ohio gets for March, and Sam sends up a silent prayer that the exercise will help clear his head. 

It was the alcohol, it had to be the alcohol. He must have seen a TV show about guns or something and forgot about it, and then his subconscious had just dribbled out the knowledge later on. Sam frowns. That’s something the subconscious brain can do, right? (According to Freud, ‘preconscious’ refers to information that is available for cognitive processing but that currently lies outside conscious awareness. ‘Subconscious’ is an informal use of the term never actually used in Freud’s psychoanalytic writings.) Sam stutters to a stop, the heels of his work shoes scraping against the rough sidewalk. Where had…? Where the fuck does this stuff keep coming from? Sam doesn’t know shit like that. He didn’t get upscale Psychology courses as part of his dinky, two-year Associate’s Degree from the SF City College. He zips up his windbreaker—which he hates—over his stupid work polo—which he hates more—and walks a little faster. He’s probably just drunk. He’s sure that he’ll feel better in the morning.

That’s the first night that Sam dreams about ghosts.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The first time Dean Smith almost gets himself fired is when he verbally and physically assaults a key strategic partner over a conference room table.

To be fair, the guy is rather unsavory. But Dean didn’t get to where he is in the office food chain by attacking co-workers, no matter how insufferable. In fact, Dean’s largest claim to fame has always been his willingness to bend over backwards for even the most distasteful of clients. His pride has never been more important to him than the company’s bottom line, and Dean quickly made a name for himself at Sandover as the go-to guy for corporate boot-licking anytime one of the higher-ups needed an obsequious patsy to suck up to the money. Few in upper management are willing to go that specific extra mile, but Dean has never minded a little dirty work as long as his company is able to reap the benefits—and it’s paid off in spades. The newly-installed, automatic fireplace that now graces the living room of his loft was paid for, in full, by Dean’s extreme brown-nosing of the group of investors from Hong Kong. Honestly, dealing with pompous, uppity vulture capitalists is just another day at the office for Dean Smith. So when Dean’s brain suddenly flies past the guardrail with no warning, it surprises him just as much as it does the man across the table.

His entire Ohio division has been meeting with the boys from the Philadelphia office for weeks now, hoping to iron out any wrinkles before the big push for the Great Lakes merger, when one of the suits decides to throw a giant wrench into the works. Dean can’t remember his name—Johnson or Jones or something—but the guy’s been a pain in his ass ever since the meetings started and it looks like he’s planning on continuing his hot streak. He stands up just as the rest of them have finally finished the seamless integration of both networks, and then wrinkles his nose distastefully.

“Look,” he snivels. “I’m not saying that Smith hasn’t done a solid job here.” He fixes Dean with a patronizing pseudo-smile. “I’m not saying that he has done a solid job here either, but that’s neither here nor there.” Dean fumes inwardly, but doesn’t let a hint of emotion show, and Jones-from-Philly just straightens his flashy, purple tie and turns back to his own workers. “I’m just saying that I think we might be better served by going over his head on this one. No offense of course, Smith,” he tosses out as an afterthought. “You understand what I mean.”

Dean reins in his distaste and smoothes his features out into his most professional look of polite blandness. “Of course, Jones.”

“It’s Johnson,” the guy mutters indignantly, but Dean ignores him.

“I understand your concerns,” Dean continues effortlessly. “However—considering that we’ve handled almost the entire issue here by ourselves, I think your boys will agree that we seem to be doing just fine as is.” A few of the Philadelphia cronies nod in accord, but Johnson seems to have taken the slight personally and ramps up his attitude.

He narrows his eyes and glares at Dean. “Well, I’m sure your General Manager would just love to hear how you’ve personally blocked us from the quality of attention that we feel we deserve,” he sneers. Then he leans back with a smug chuckle. “I’m willing to bet you’d be kicked down to the mail room before lunch.”

And Dean really, really doesn’t need Mr. Adler to get involved with—or even hear about—any of this unpleasantness. Groveling is just a part of the job, and this is usually right about the time when his solicitous side kicks in and he ends up dropping to the floor to start kissing some ass. It’s a long-ingrained, knee-jerk response to office politics that’s solely responsible for Dean having gotten as far as he has in the world of business.

But instead, his entire vision flares red and he finds himself halfway across the table before he can blink, Johnson’s obnoxious tie fisted in his hand and the man’s face slowly turning an impressive shade of blue as he struggles for breath in Dean’s stranglehold. “And I’m sure your doctor would just love to hear how you managed to break three vertebrae on a Wednesday afternoon,” Dean snarls. “I’m willing to bet you’d be in the E.R. before lunch.” A few of his own Ohio boys just sit there, gaping and slack-jawed at the uncharacteristic display of violence, before the gravity of the situation jolts them upright and they manage to yank him away from Johnson’s throat and wrangle him out of the conference room. Johnson is still gulping in huge lungfuls of air, hopefully too intimidated by Dean’s sudden assault to press charges against his now-extremely culpable ass.

Dean shakes his co-workers’ grubby mitts off of his new Brooks Brothers jacket and slams himself into his office, head in his hands, as he lets Mr. Adler sweep in and handle the rest of the Philadelphia meeting. His boss steps in to admonish him a few hours later, but the slight twinkle of humor in his eyes is the only thing that lets Dean off the hook. Johnson must have rubbed Mr. Adler the wrong way too. (Fucking asshat. Got what was coming to him for acting like King of the Douches like that. He’s just lucky he didn’t get his idiot face smashed in.) Dean groans at his own thoughts and rubs his hands over his face. He hasn’t felt this violent since they canceled Queer Eye. Well, whatever the case may be, he needs to clamp a lid down on any more sudden outbursts before this new attitude of his causes any more problems for the company.

Dean cracks open his salad container for lunch at his desk, and shoves away the sudden and intense urge for a bacon cheeseburger.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The second time Sam Wesson terrifies himself is five days and four nights after that evening at the bar. Or ‘the evening’ as he’s taken to calling it.

He’s tossing and turning in the middle of a fitful sleep—all of his sleeps have been fitful since the nightmares started—when he suddenly surges awake, lunging forward with a choked gasp. Sam is tangled up in his sheets, sweat making them cling to his bare calves where his pajama bottoms have ridden up, and he’s gagging on the taste of blood in his mouth. On his tongue. Coating his teeth. Trickling down his throat and filling his stomach, his lungs, every centimeter of his insides until there isn’t a single part of him—inside or out—that isn’t splashed with red. 

Sam struggles out of his blankets, yanking at the sweat-soaked covers until the seams rip. He needs them off. He just needs to get them off. He needs out. Sam finally manages to get free, tumbling out of his ready-to-assemble box of a bed and dragging himself into his unimpressive excuse for a bathroom. He clicks the overhead light on and stares at his reflection in the mirror above the cracked, yellowed ceramic of his sink basin. Sam takes in the bloodless cast to his face under the harsh, fluorescent lighting. The cheap bulb makes him look pale. Haggard. Or maybe his earlier nightmare is to blame. Sam trails a hand over the clean skin of his jaw, then flicks his eyes away from his toothpaste-flecked reflection. At least all of that blood stuff was just part of his too-vivid dream.

He reaches for the faucet, intending to splash some water on his overheated face, but his hand spasms before he can reach the knob. Hard. Like someone just ran a current through his arm. Sam frowns in confusion, then slowly raises both palms to his face and watches as they shake again. What the hell is going on with him? His hands are twitching for no reason and, now that he thinks about it, he feels intensely jittery and keyed up for 3am. Strung out. Like a junkie or something. 

Sam lifts his eyes back up to their counterparts in the mirror and tries not to think about the lingering aftertaste of the imaginary blood. Most of his recent nightmares have been pretty strange—ghosts and witches and other lunatic flights of horrifying fancy—but this one was worse. Somehow, it was worse. 

Sam had been drinking it. Drinking blood. Like a fucking vampire from one of those stupid teen movies. He’d been curved over the slender arm of a petite, dark-haired woman who was straddling his legs. Or his hips. Or maybe it was his chest. Images blinking back and forth like the stutter-stop of an old film reel. Sam had thought it was Madison at first, some sort of stress dream in reaction to the break-up, but the dream woman had smirked and slowly turned to face him…and her eyes had been black. Not just dark, but black. Fully black. No iris or pupil at all. Pure filmy darkness, like the jet iridescence of a beetle’s wings. 

Sam lets out a shaky breath and presses a palm against the cool glass. That hadn’t been the worst of it. It wasn’t even close to the most unsettling thing of all. In the dream— Sam swallows down a hint of bile. In the dream…he had been enjoying it. He’d sucked at the wounds in the woman’s arm, or neck, or inner thigh—pulling in long draughts of blood like he was aching for it. He’d bled her like some kind of monster, and she’d grinned at him. Grinned with her beetle-black eyes.

Sam clamps his eyelids shut and ignores the wave of ice that creeps down his spine. Somehow, impossibly, he can still feel the craving, even now. Awake. His throat aches likes he’s been dehydrated for weeks and his mouth feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton. Somehow, Sam can still taste it, the hint of slick copper from the shadows of his nightmares. And he wants it. Sam’s awake and he still wants.

He chokes down the horrifying desire and lurches back out into the crappy main room of his studio apartment. He stumbles into the dark kitchenette, hands outstretched blindly, and his fingers scrabble over empty counter space for a few moments before he manages to find the outline of his cell phone. Sam yanks the cheap plastic up to his face and punches in the numbers on autopilot, years of familiarity more important than the recent awkwardness after their split. He doesn’t feel like himself and he needs to talk to someone who knows him. He needs Madison.

The line rings twice before she picks up. “Ocean Avenue Animal Hospital,” a cheery, yet professional voice chirps out. “If this is in regards to an emergency, please press 1 now. How may we help you today?” Sam abruptly cuts off the call and squints at the pale glare of his screen. He must have dialed the wrong number by accident. Sam scrolls down his contacts list until Madison’s name is highlighted and tries one more time. “Ocean Avenue Anima—” He jams his thumb down, ending the call again. How did—? Sam scrubs the back of his hand across his forehead. How is that even possible? Maybe Madison changed her number? Yeah, that must be it. She was pretty pissed when he told her it was over. He huffs out a bitter laugh. Isn’t that the understatement of the century. More like, she’d looked like she wanted to claw his heart out with her bare hands. Maybe Madison had switched numbers or something, so she wouldn’t have to speak to him. People could do that, right?

Sam frowns and goes through a few more names. He does need to talk to somebody, the thick taste of blood is still clinging to his tongue and he can’t seem to think about anything else. He lifts his thumb when the screen lights up on a long-forgotten name. Andy Gallagher. Sam’s lips tug up at the corner. He hasn’t spoken to Andy since high school. They’d been close for a while. Sam hadn’t ever completely fit in with Andy’s dedication to the stoner lifestyle, but he’d been a sweet enough kid to get along with. Until…something had happened. Something with Andy’s brother, but Sam can’t quite remember. (A girl, dressed only in satin. Crying. Standing, teetering on the edge of a ravine. And Andy’s brother, smiling as he turns, as he peers back into the woods. “I see you,” he taunts, looking back to find someone’s hiding place. Someone important. Someone Sam loves more than anything. “Bye-bye,” he says quietly. And then the glint of moonlight off a gun as the barrel is pressed against a man’s jaw. No!)

Sam shakes his head to erase the aftershocks from his nightmares—cleaning his brain like an etch-a-sketch. He selects the number, and this time the line only rings once. “Sandra’s Psychic Hotline. We make your wildest fantasies a reality.” Sam crushes his thumb against the ‘end call’ button and slams his phone back down onto the counter. What the fuck is going on?

There’s a long moment of ominous silence, and then Sam takes a deep breath. “My name is Sam Wesson,” he whispers into the dark, voice shaking. “I live in Ohio. I’m a Tech Support Associate. I grew up in Kansas, my mother’s name was Mary, and my favorite band is Led Zeppelin.” The statements are cold hard facts, meant to ground him back in reality, but the words feel no more solid on his tongue than the phantoms of his earlier dreams did. Empty and comfortless.

Sam reaches down with a still-trembling hand and picks up his phone again, scrolls down to the one number he promised himself he’d never call. John Wesson. He can’t remember the last time he’d spoken to the man. It must have been before he’d left for college in San Francisco. (“Last chance, Sammy. You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.”) Sam swallows hard. Desperate times, and all that.

He dials the number and holds his breath. An automated voicemail picks up. “Turner’s Hunting Gear and Supplies. Sorry we’re not in to take your call right now. Our store hours are 8am—”

Sam ends the call and places his phone back on the counter without a word, chilled to the bone from something much stronger than just the night air. Sam turns away from the kitchenette and makes his way back to bed. Scared, cold, and alone.

He dreams of blood.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The second time Dean Smith almost gets himself fired is when he barely manages to stop himself from debauching a total stranger on company property. 

He’s been intently focused on trying to wrap up the Murphy accounts for the last two hours, but there’s only so much Dean can take of the interior walls of his office before he needs to get back to his own space. He thinks more clearly when he’s in his actual apartment, and that’s what smartphones were invented for anyway. He’s completely absorbed by the Blackberry in his hands, waist deep in unanswered emails, when he suddenly feels the creeping prickle of eyes on the back of his neck. Dean glances up at the sensation to see the elevator’s only other occupant staring at him. Intensely.

The guy’s wearing a banana-yellow polo—the standard uniform of the Tech Support drones—but Dean has to admit that it looks better stretched out across this kid’s formidable biceps than it usually does on any of the other Geek Squad worker bees. Dean would chalk the leering up to typical, anti-social nerd behavior, but the kid just keeps awkwardly staring at him, unblinking. And the moment goes on just a hair too long to be comfortable. 

“Do I know you?” the guy asks innocently enough, scrunching up his forehead until wavy lines stretch out across his brow.

Dean scoffs at the pathetic attempt at a come-on and rolls his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he says. Then he turns his attention back to the Murphy accounts, because he really needs to get the loose ends all tied up by Thursday if he wants Mr. Adler to trust him again. His boss had seemed pretty upbeat when he’d stopped by Dean’s office this morning, but Dean isn’t taking any chances. Not when his entire future is riding on him proving to Mr. Adler that he’s Senior VP material. And he definitely doesn’t have time for any sort of frivolous sex dalliance, no matter how impressive some dude’s arms might be.

The guy lets out an amused breath, and then he must realize that Dean isn’t paying much attention because he does it again. “I’m sorry, man. You just look really familiar.”

The stranger apparently isn’t taking ‘this isn’t the time or place’ for an answer, so Dean gives in and takes half a second to really look at his elevator mate, skimming down the wide breadth of his shoulders before eventually turning back to the phone in his own hands. The guy’s cute—shockingly cute, actually—with longish brown hair swept back over his ears, tip-tilted hazel eyes, and soft lips stretched generously across a jawline that looks like it’s been carved out of granite. He’s tall too. Crazy tall. Taller than Dean, which is a remarkable feat in and of itself. Hell, anywhere other than Sandover, he’d be hitting on the guy so fast his head would spin. Even in that ridiculous IT get-up. But Dean doesn’t dabble at the office, so he shoulders his bag and clears his throat, just the slightest bit rueful. “Save it for the health club, pal.”

He waits for the doors to open, then exits onto his floor, secretly hoping that the guy takes his advice. If Dean ever happened to run into Mr. Adonis at the Y, he’d have him bent over the nearest locker room bench faster than the guy could say, “Oh dear god, please take me now.” Or maybe pressed up against the tile of one of the shower stalls, water soaking his long hair and sluicing over the bunched muscles of his back. Or even all folded up in a supply closet, with one of his long legs shoved up to his chest—Nerdy Fabio looks like he might be pretty bendy. (“Dean,” he breathes, hair a little shorter and fanned out behind him as he throws his head back to expose the long line of his throat. “Dean,” he groans, shirtless and straddling Dean’s lap in the backseat of a muscle car. “Dean.” On his knees and fumbling with Dean’s fly in a trashy bathroom stall. “Dean.” Stretched out across a cheap motel bed, gorgeous and needy and desperate and perfect. It’s his name—always his name—falling from the stranger’s lips, and Dean thinks that the word has never sounded more beautiful than it does on this boy’s tongue.) Dean suddenly jolts back to himself and has to take a deep breath to calm down because he’s three seconds away from spinning back around, jabbing his elbow against the emergency stop, and blowing the guy right in the office elevator before he manages to force himself away from the closing doors.

Dean blinks at the metal barricade for a moment, then chuckles under his breath and heads down the few steps to the parking garage, letting his earlier fantasies drift away. It’s been years since someone’s had that kind of effect on him. Especially a complete stranger like that. Maybe he does need to hit the gym, it’s apparently been way too long since his latest hook-up. What had the last guy’s name been? Gordon, that’s right. Gordon Walker. He smiles at the memory. The dude had gone for Dean’s neck like he was trying to draw blood from it. He’d given him so many hickeys that Dean had thanked his lucky stars he tended to wear his collars buttoned all the way to the top. Nothing like showing up to one of Mr. Adler’s morning meetings looking like a shark attack victim. (He’d looked a damn sight better than Gordon, the last time they’d crossed paths. Blood and razor wire and the dull thud of a decapitated head thumping to the floor, glassy eyes staring up at him as Dean stumbled forward, hand stemming the flow of blood from his own neck as he tried to get across the warehouse, desperate to close the distance between them, desperate to touch, desperate to make sure that his brother was okay—) 

Dean flinches at the violent imagery and trips over his own heel, catching himself against a cement pillar. He grasps at the rough concrete in front of him and takes a few, calming breaths as he waits for his heart to stop pounding. What the heck is going on? Dean doesn’t have a brother. He has a sister. A little sister. And Jo is safe, back in Sioux Falls and following in Dad’s footsteps no matter how many times Mom begs her not to. Dean does not have a brother—Dean has never had a brother.

First there was that outburst in the conference room, and now this? If this crazy schizophrenia crap keeps up, Dean’s going to have to start messing with the dosage of his sleeping pills. Obviously, they’re having some sort of unforeseen side-effect. He tugs at the knot of his tie and makes a beeline for the silver glint of his Prius. Maybe it’s all that unsettling leering Sexy Elevator Dude had been doing. Yeah, that must be it. The guy was probably some kind of lunatic, gorgeous body notwithstanding. Dean makes a mental note to stay as far away from the Tech Support pool as he possibly can, and slides into the front seat of his car.

He clicks his seatbelt on, and then his hand hovers over the Classic Rock station on his satellite radio display for a full thirty-two seconds before he’s able to compel himself to tap on his usual NPR preset. Dean frowns. He always listens to talk radio on his way home—always—as steady and dependable as clockwork. He shakes the weirdness out of his head and presses the ignition on, then reverses out of his assigned space. Seriously. What is going on with him lately?

Dean gets almost all the way to his loft before he switches stations to catch the closing riff of ‘Black Dog’.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The third time Sam Wesson terrifies himself is exactly one day after he tells Ian about the dreams.

Sam’s world had stubbornly refused to make sense for a while now, ever since that first nightmare, and he’s decided to chalk it up to some sort of mental breakdown. That, or Ian had somehow gotten a hold of his phone and messed with his contacts list. But the guy won’t cop to it, no matter how much Sam asks, so he’s resigned himself to the much more likely scenario of black magic. Maybe voodoo. Or maybe, Sam’s just super fucking loopy because he hasn’t had a single night of peaceful sleep in days. Not only has he been having nightmares for the past three weeks straight, they’ve started creeping into his daytime hours too. Flashing behind his eyelids every time Sam nods off at his desk or over the copy machine on the third floor. And they’re getting more detailed with every passing night. More vivid.

There’s a man in them now. But Sam thinks that he might have always been there, just outside the corner of his eye or deep into the shadows at his right. Sam hadn’t ever been fighting the ghosts and the monsters by himself, he’d had a partner the whole time. He just hadn’t realized it until recently. And Sam Wesson is just as red-blooded and all-American a male as any, but even he has to admit that the monster-hunting sidekick his brain cooked up for him is easily the most beautiful human being that he’s ever seen. Asleep or awake.

Sam hangs his head and lets out a long sigh. This really isn’t a great time for him to be having some kind of giant, gay crisis. Not on top of everything else he’s dealing with right now.

“Sam,” Ian says cautiously. “You copacetic?”

Sam jolts out of his daydreaming, and realizes that he’s been standing in one place and stirring his now-cold coffee for the last fifteen minutes. “Sorry,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Guess I’ve been kinda out of it lately.” He shakes his head and glances back at Ian. “It’s just that I have been having some weird dreams, man.”

“Yeah? Clowns or midgets?”—a voice echoes from somewhere in his skull, and Sam has to shake off the strangely intense familiarity of the words. He narrows his eyes and squints at Ian suspiciously. “What did you just say?”

Ian blinks at him like he’s acting crazy. He probably is acting crazy. Sam remembers reading somewhere that sleep deprivation can do fucked-up things to your head. “I said, ‘Good weird or Jason-Alexander-in-a-banana-costume weird?’” Ian repeats slowly. Then he tilts his head curiously. “Man, Sam. What’s up with you? It seems like everywhere I turn, you’re conked out over a potted plant or something.” He lets out a meandering giggle and holds his palms up in defense. “Now, not that I’m against catching a few z’s on the company dime or anything, but you should at least hole up in the break room. Mimi said she found you propped up against the wall outside the men’s bathroom, totally unconscious.”

“I don’t know, dude,” Sam whines. “I’m telling you. It’s the dreams.” He slides back against the wall and moans pitifully, almost knocking his head on the edge of one of the irritating motivational posters that Management apparently thinks are inspirational. “I haven’t actually slept in weeks.”

Ian throws on a fake sympathetic voice and reaches up—way up—to ruffle Sam’s hair obnoxiously. “Aw. Don’t you worry, bucko. How’s about you sit on Uncle Ian’s lap and tell him all about it?”

“You’re an ass,” Sam snorts. But he’s actually kind of glad for the opportunity to unload. He bites at his lip for a reluctant moment and fiddles with the rim of his paper cup, then lets out a sigh. He might as well just come out with it. Ian’s the only one who will listen anyway. Sam squares his shoulders, clears his throat, and says, “I dreamt that I was fighting an evil clown that could also turn invisible.”

Ian says nothing. He just stares at Sam for a solid minute, wide-eyed and silent, and then lets out a high-pitched whine which instantly turns into him busting up laughing. “Are you serious?” he cackles. “Why is that shit in your brain, man? What kind of movies do you watch?” Sam groans and thumps his head back against the wall, immediately regretting his decision to say anything at all. But Ian flaps a hand at his face. “No. This is great. It’s so nice to know that the world is safe, now that we’ve got Buffy here to protect us.”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

“What else?” Ian asks, vibrating so enthusiastically that Sam’s afraid he’s going to lift off like a rocket. “Please tell me there’s more.”

Sam tries to keep the rest of it locked behind his teeth, but he eventually caves under his friend’s unwavering stare. “There was one where I fought Bloody Mary,” he admits haltingly.

“Bloody Mary?” Ian says. “Like, Bloody Mary? With the mirror and everything?”

Sam nods lethargically. “Yup. With the mirror and everything.”

“Oh wow,” Ian says excitedly. “Oh wow, this is the best thing I’ve ever heard.” Then he suddenly freezes, leaning in to scrutinize Sam’s face. “Wait. There’s more, isn’t there?” He narrows his eyes, like a bloodhound on a fresh scent. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“Nothing,” Sam lies. But Ian just stays there, staring. He comes off like the world’s geekiest gumshoe, and Sam can’t help but give in, even though he knows he’s going to regret every word. “It’s just that, sometimes—” he starts. “Well. Sometimes…there’s this guy in them.”

Ian chokes out an incredulous squawk and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, this is amazing,” he shouts, words barely muffled through the ridge of his fingers.

Sam scrunches up his face and makes an annoyed sound. “C’mon, that’s not what I meant. It’s not like that. Quit it.” Ian’s eyebrows don’t move from where they’ve jumped up to settle along his hairline. “Oh, shut up,” Sam snaps pointlessly. He shoves himself off the wall and stalks back to his desk, hackles raised in embarrassment. “God, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Ian trails at his heels, practically skipping. “Hey, Sam, it’s okay. There comes a time in every young lady’s life when a handsome buck sets her heart all a-flutter in the nighttime. We call these wet dreams.”

Sam hunches over his desk and slams his coffee cup onto the wood, then jams his headset back on. “I’m gonna kill you,” he mutters under his breath.

Ian remains completely unfazed, grinning ear to ear. “Hey, Sam,” he prods. “This imaginary guy of yours. Is he…dreamy?”

Sam throws a pencil in his friend’s general direction and resolves not to speak to him for the next two hours. He only manages to keep it up for about twenty minutes, but he thinks that Ian probably appreciates the effort anyway.

The rest of the day is almost entirely uneventful. Well, ‘uneventful’ relative to the horror show these last few weeks have become, anyway. Sam’s dreams step up their game to vampires and reapers that night, but it’s nothing that Sam can’t handle now that he’s accepted the mess of confusion that is his new life in Ohio. It isn’t until he’s heading down to the building's lobby, having just wrapped up another unending day of tedium, that the universe decides to throw him his next terrifying curveball.

The man from the other night steps inside the elevator—the gay one in the suspenders that had thought Sam was hitting on him—and Sam almost chokes on his tongue. Because it’s him. The man from his dream. He’s sure of it. Sam hadn’t recognized him last time, but the guy had been front and center in the latest nightmare he’d had over his desk, and Sam would know those eyes anywhere.

The guy’s dressed in a pale blue dress shirt with a contrasting collar, an immaculately-tailored suit, and a silver tie. It’s all clean lines and pastels and overly starched angles—leagues away from the perpetual leather jacket and grungy jeans look he’d been sporting in Sam’s dream—but it’s him. He’d bet his life on it. 

Sam waits for the other assorted occupants to filter out of the elevator before he tries to speak up again. Then the minute they’re alone, he awkwardly blurts out, “Can I ask you a question?”

Dream Guy looks pissed this time. Or maybe antsy is the better word. Earlier, Sam could have sworn that there was a flicker of interest in his strikingly green eyes, but Sam’s too-pointed query seems to have shoved all of that away. Or maybe it was all of his socially-awkward gawping from the night before. The guy glances around the interior of the elevator and hesitantly shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Man, I told you. I’m not into the, uh—”

“Oh, dude, c’mon,” he says. “I’m not either.” Unlike Mr. Suspenders, Sam is telling the truth—more to put the obviously nervous man at ease than out of a need to protect his own reputation—but the words somehow still sit like a lie on his tongue. Which should feel weirder than it actually does. Sam frowns as he rationalizes the emotion. It probably comes down to the fact that any dude would be slightly, momentarily gay if they happened to be trapped in an elevator with someone this unbelievably good-looking. Yeah, that makes sense. Sam hunches his shoulders in and tries to look as non-imposing as possible. “I just wanna ask you one question.” 

The guy gives him another wary glance, but eventually gives in. Probably out of politeness more than anything else. “Sure,” he says, but keeps as much distance from Sam as he possibly can in the tiny space. 

Sam swallows around the nervous lump in his throat as it starts to dawn on him how dumb this idea actually is. But he goes for it anyway. Because Sam has to know if it’s only him. Or if maybe this guy is caught up in whatever weirdness is going on too. “What do you think about…ghosts?” he asks haltingly.

“Ghosts?”

Sam raises his eyebrows and nods, trying to exude as much solemnity as possible. “Do you believe in them?” 

The guy laughs a little anxiously. More grudgingly amused than terrified. “Uh, tell you the truth, I’ve never given it much thought.” 

“Vampires?”

“What? Why?” Another confused laugh shades his last question.

Obviously the subtle approach isn’t working. Sam makes a face, and then decides to go for broke. Which really is a terrible idea. But fuck it, he’s doing it anyway. He takes a deep breath and answers the question. “’Cause I’ve been having some…weird dreams lately,” he says, trying to prod the guy into sharing. “Know what I mean?” 

“No,” the man says tersely. “Not really.” He looks decidedly uneasy now, all lightheartedness flung right out the window, and fear is starting to seep into the corners of his eyes. He refuses to meet Sam’s gaze at all, choosing to stare at the blank elevator wall instead.

And Sam knows he should let it go, as the dude is obviously uncomfortable, but something propels him into pushing the issue. A weird feeling of safety. A sense that he can share anything with this stranger, that Sam can trust him with every single part of himself. That somehow, this man can fix his problem. That he can make everything better. “So you’ve never had any…weird dreams?” Sam tries one last time.

“Alright. Look, man.” Elevator Guy shuffles his feet nervously. “Uh, I don’t know you, okay? But I’m gonna do a public service and uh,” he presses the elevator button for his floor repeatedly, “let you know that,” he stabs the button again, violently, “that you overshare.” The elevator dings, the doors open, and the—quite literal—man of Sam’s dreams books it faster than he could follow if he even attempted to try. 

Sam sighs dejectedly as the doors close directly on his face. Well, that’s the last time he’s ever gonna trust his instincts again. Sam groans. Asking about the man’s dreams was stupid. And now, Sam kind of feels like banging his head against the elevator wall until he’s physically unable to feel embarrassment anymore. He can’t believe he actually thought there might be a chance that the guy would jump up and be like, “What? You have weird dreams about me? I have weird dreams about you! Wow, we sure are two birds of a feather aren’t we? We should probably have super hot sex right now. Don’t you think? And then we should totally start picking out matching towels.” Sam does thump his head against the elevator then, annoyed at his own seriously messed up brain.

But really, though. What the hell is going on here? That guy was the one from Sam’s dreams, he’s positive. So why is he the only one having them? Or if not, then how is it possible that he dreamed a man into existence? Sam clunks his skull against the wall a few more times, then reluctantly decides to let it go. He must be delusional. It’s gotta be a weird by-product of the sleep deprivation. That’s all it is. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The elevator dings once it reaches his floor and Sam steps out into the lobby, leaving all notions of gorgeous dream men behind him. He isn’t gonna think about any of this ever again. Ever.

That night, Sam dreams of intense green eyes gleaming against blood-splattered cheekbones. And of a man who loves him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The third time Dean Smith almost gets himself fired is when he gets written up for three HR citations in one twenty-four hour period.

He’s been feeling antsy and irritable for the past couple nights, and nearly jumping out of his skin anytime anyone so much as coughs too loudly in his general vicinity. At first, he’d chalked it up to running into the hot-but-crazy IT Lunatic again. The kid had somehow come off as even more of a psycho the second time around, and Dean really wishes he could stop thinking about the guy every night while he’s laying awake in bed. It’s this exact kind of terrible taste in men that always backfires on him. He’ll get a stupid crush on some dangerous, biker-type and then he never sees it coming when the asshole leaves with whatever he can carry out of Dean’s apartment. And he’s always surprised too, every single time. It’s the leather—he thinks. It’s gotta be. He’s a total sucker for a good leather jacket.

Well, whatever the reasons may be, Dean is twitchier than a wet cat. He keeps feeling like someone is watching him, all the damn time. Like a flickering shadow hovering just outside his peripheral vision or a series of eerie cold spots popping up every time he’s alone. His instincts are pinging off the radar and his hackles are raised and he can’t, for the life of him, figure out what it is that’s got him so worked up.

And then… And then the microwave guy happens.

Some poor sap decides to add to Dean’s already miserable week by offing himself in the most disgustingly horrific fashion possible, right in the middle of the office kitchen. But, despite the gruesome scene, beneath the initial nausea-lurch of Dean’s stomach is a creeping feeling of curiosity. An insistent, needling desire to get to the bottom of the mystery—instead of the much saner reaction of excusing himself to toss his cookies in the executive washroom as fast as his feet can carry him.

He tries to bring it up to Cam, his only real casual acquaintance at the office, but the guy doesn’t seem to have any inkling what Dean’s going on about. And then his sexy elevator stalker starts staring at him again from across the tech pool and Dean just needs to get away from all the chaos before he does something rash, like stress-eating an entire pie or impulse-buying every single item from the online SkyMall catalogue.

Dean ducks out politely and barricades himself up in his office the first chance he gets. Something about this whole situation just isn’t sitting right with him, and for the first time that Dean can remember, he actually finds himself focusing on something more important than work. He boots up the company directory on his computer, double-checking that his door is firmly closed, and then types the victim’s name into the search box. PAUL DUNBAR. The cursor blinks at him expectantly as Dean works up the nerve to actually hit the enter key. He takes a sharp breath, and does.

Paul Dunbar’s personnel file pops up instantly, and Dean stares at the screen as he scans over the standard information. He can’t find anything irregular at first, but a tiny notification is flagged at the bottom of the page. Dean double-clicks to pull up the window, then frowns at the presented info. Because it doesn’t make any sense. The gray block of text very clearly states that Paul Dunbar’s Office Retirement Party was to be held on April 14^th. Of this year.

“Two weeks?” Dean asks his monitor. He squints at the screen. Why, in the name of all that is holy, would a man decide to kill himself only fourteen days from an ensured pension? He shakes his arms out and re-attacks his keyboard, unease stirring in the pit of his stomach. There must be some sort of explainable rationalization for what had happened. People on the cusp of retirement don’t just go around shoving their heads in kitchen appliances for no good reason.

Dean clicks through a few more pages and thins his lips once he comes face-to-face with the company’s secure server. It’s not like he’s some kind of elite hacker or anything, but Dean’s higher-clearance security codes may be able to get him into some of the more inaccessible corners of Sandover’s data storage. He nervously fiddles with his right cufflink as he mulls it over. Yes, skimming through Paul Dunbar’s email accounts might turn up the exact info that Dean needs to solve this little mystery, but on the other hand… Accessing an employee’s private files is, at most, probably illegal (Never stopped you before. C’mon, a ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign usually means it’ll be more fun. Where’s your damn sense of adventure?) and, more applicably, it’s completely unethical. At the very least, it’s a horrific breach of company policy, and Dean’s job is already hanging by a thread after that little stunt he pulled back in the conference room.

He sighs and rubs at his forehead with the back of his hand. He’s already come this far, no sense letting the moment of inspired lunacy go to waste. (Attaboy. Figuring out why Pizza Rolls bit the big one is way more important than some lame code of conduct. Why should you care about not stepping on any toes, anyway?) He clears his throat and forges ahead, losing himself in the steady grind for the next few hours.

After page upon page of 404 errors and ‘incorrect password’ pop-ups, Dean’s concentration is broken by the telltale sound of footsteps strolling up beside him. The sharp unevenness to the gait practically screams that the person is wearing heels. “I’ve got your lunch order,” a friendly, feminine voice rings out. “Special delivery.”

And normally, Dean would spin around to fix the chick with every trick in his book, but he’s already knee-deep into this case and, unfortunately, doesn’t have the time to flirt along his usual channels. He flicks a casual hand at the waitress over his shoulder, still completely absorbed by the computer screen in front of him. “Yeah, thanks, sugar,” he says on autopilot. “Why don’t you grab me a whiskey neat and keep ‘em coming? You can bring that sweet ass back here as soon as you’re on break though, if you’d like.” Then he re-centers his focus on the shitty excuse for a computer that refuses to cooperate.

“Excuse me?” a scandalized voice shrieks out.

Dean suddenly freezes solid, hands motionless above his keyboard, and slowly turns in horror to come face to face with Brenda. His secretary. She’s pushing seventy, and is the sweetest, most rosy-cheeked, gray-haired, grandma-type he’s ever had the pleasure of working with. She intentionally makes sure to bring Dean a specially baked, nonfat, sugar-free muffin every single Friday, and he’s just made terrifyingly inappropriate advances on the poor thing. Lose your job, Sexual Harassment Seminar kinds of advances. “Oh my god,” he stutters out. “Brenda, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean… I thought—” He cuts himself off and shoots up out of his chair, throwing a hand over his heart. “I have no idea what possibly could have possessed me to say that. Please, please forgive me.”

She wordlessly opens and closes her mouth a few times as his requested bottle of Master Cleanse dangles from her nerveless fingers.

“I’m not even—” Dean waves a hand wildly up and down his own body. “I’m—I would never.”

But Brenda just continues to gape at him, carefully depositing the plastic bottle on the edge of Dean’s desk and then practically scrambling out his door as fast as her cardigan-wrapped body will take her. Without a single word.

Dean groans pitifully and jams the heels of his palms over his eyes. What is happening to him? He yanks the bottle off his desk and takes a few swigs of his ‘lunch’, wincing at the sharp tang of the lemon juice, then drops himself back into his chair. Giving up on Dunbar’s files completely.

It’s only a few minutes before the expected rap of Mr. Adler’s knuckles breaks through Dean’s cloud of self-pity. “Hey there, Dean. You got a minute?” His boss pokes his head through the door with a smile, looking incongruously cheerful for someone who’s about to fire him. Mr. Adler steps all the way into Dean’s office, shutting the door behind him, and clasps his hands together over his suit. “So…Brenda just stopped by my office to have a little chat,” he says pleasantly. “Is there anything you might want to get off your chest?”

Dean clenches his hands under his desk and boldly faces his firing squad. “What—um, what exactly did Brenda say, sir?”

Mr. Adler exhales sternly. “Well, the poor dear claimed you were making some sort of inappropriate advances on her.” He raises an eyebrow. “Something about her having a ‘sweet ass’, if I’m not mistaken.” Dean drops his gaze and sighs pathetically, not even attempting to contest the accusation. “She may have also said something about you asking her to bring you booze at,” he checks his watch, “…one o’clock on a Thursday.” Mr. Adler steps over and leans a casual hip against Dean’s desk. “Now, I don’t know what kind of Mad Men kick you’re on, son. But Sandover is of the mind that employees should generally remain sober while on the company clock.”

“No—I mean of course, Mr. Adler,” Dean mumbles into his hands. “I don’t even drink whiskey. I swear. All the carbs, you see,” he says flimsily

“It’s alright, Dean,” Mr. Adler says reassuringly. “Everyone’s entitled to a little psychotic break here and there. You aren’t yourself, after all.”

Dean lifts his head and fixes his boss with a confused frown. “Excuse me?”

“I said, you weren’t yourself. Right?” Mr. Adler asks innocuously. “When you were saying those things to Brenda?”

“Oh.” Dean lets out a breath at the misunderstanding. “Right. Yeah, exactly.”

Mr. Adler shifts as if he’s about to leave, then freezes once he catches sight of Dean’s computer screen. “And what is this? Are you hacking into Paul Dunbar’s email accounts?”

“What? No.” Dean says automatically, a knee-jerk defense. Then he bolts upright, hands outstretched, and corrects himself. “I mean, yes, that’s what I was trying to do, but—”

“You do realize that this is an incredible violation of company policy, right?”

Dean swallows audibly, terrified. “Of course, sir. I never intended—”

Mr. Adler sighs and gives Dean a disappointed shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I’m going to have to set you up for a meeting with Human Resources. I can’t just let all three of these offenses slide by.” He stands up to his full height and levels Dean with a look. “After all, according to Brenda, you were acting like some kind of inappropriate cad.” His gray eyes flash with amusement before he continues. “Her exact words were, ‘roguish scofflaw’, if I remember correctly.”

Dean groans and runs a hand over his eyes. “Of course, sir. I understand completely. And I can promise you, Mr. Adler, nothing like this will ever happen again. I would never, uh, scoff at any law if I was in my right mind, sir. Believe me.” He sinks back down into his office chair and drops his head into his hands. “HR,” Dean repeats pitifully. “Where is that again?”

“Seventh floor,” Mr. Adler says, then steps around the desk to place a congenial hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Dean. Just make sure that it doesn’t happen again.” He pats Dean once on the back, then spins around to head out of his office. “Just remember,” he calls out over his shoulder. “I’m expecting big things from you, son. Big things. So don’t let me down.”

Dean waits until his boss’s footsteps have carried him back into his own office before he drags himself out of his seat and slinks through the door. He makes it to the elevator undisturbed and tiptoes into Human Resources, saying nothing to defend himself and taking every mandatory seminar and information packet they throw at him. But apparently, even HR’s sternest scoldings are completely useless because he’s not even halfway down the hallway when his brain starts wreaking havoc again. 

He passes by a woman coming back from the restroom and his gaze lasers in on her tastefully-supported cleavage before he can reel back any of his increasingly worrisome impulses. (Check out the rack on her. Damn. You couldn’t even motorboat those puppies, you’d need a luxury cruise ship or something to do those bad boys justice.) “Stop it,” Dean mutters to himself, thumping the heel of his hand against his skull. “Stop it, stop it, stop it.” The woman spins to give him a concerned glance, but he ignores her in favor of keeping his head down until he reaches the elevator. Who cares if his co-workers think he’s crazy? He’s already pretty convinced of it himself.

He barely makes it back to his office without making eye contact with anyone, and collapses at his desk. A woman? What the heck? Now he’s checking out random girls? Dean thunks his head against his desk until he feels less like lobotomizing himself and focuses back on what he’s actually supposed to be doing at work. Namely, working.

Dean checks his to-do list, then tugs his desk phone over and dials Tech Support. The desk of one Ian Myles. He lets the line ring, rubbing his fingers over his eyes until the guy picks up. “Yeah, hi,” he says tiredly. “This is Dean Smith, room 2208. I’m gonna need you to head up here to go over a few discrepancies with the last 445-T you filled out. Yeah. Soon as possible. Thanks.” Dean sighs and drops the phone back into its cradle. Yup, focusing on work. Just like he should be. That’s what’s gonna make everything all better. Dean flips through the invoices stacked on his desk and pulls out a blank form, shoving any thoughts of mysteries out of his head. This isn’t Scooby Doo, and Dean has no absolutely business acting like he’s some kind of junior detective. He pulls up the correct window on his monitor and tries to look on the bright side.

At least today couldn’t possibly get any worse.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The fourth time Sam Wesson terrifies himself is the same afternoon that his closest friend dies.

Because Ian died. He killed himself. He’d violently ripped out his own throat with a fucking pencil and he’s dead. He’s dead. 

And Sam…doesn’t care.

Ian was the best friend he’s had since Andy. Sam can’t remember getting along with anyone the way he did with Ian. (Anyone? Why is that? He must have had friends. Sam’s a personable guy. Why can’t he remember having any friends?) And now Ian is dead, and Sam doesn’t even fucking care. How is that possible? He just feels numb inside. A little upset, but mostly resigned. Like they ran out of his favorite sandwich at the cafeteria or something. Like this is something that happens to him all the time and he’s used to it. Which is insane. His best friend is dead, and Sam is more interested in the coincidence of this happening so soon after Paul than he is actually mourning over the loss. Of either of them.

Sam clenches his jaw and jerks his gaze away from the second body bag he’s had to deal in the last few hours, and ends up staring directly at him. Elevator Guy. The man holds the stare this time and Sam lifts his eyebrows in a wordless challenge, because this isn’t the first moment they’ve had today. Sam had caught his gaze earlier that morning as well, over Paul’s corpse, and how is it possible that their eyes have managed to meet across a crowded room twice in one day? 

It’s like they’re in one of those corny romance novels that Madison had loved so much. And god, those stories had been ridiculous. Always stuff like: The beautiful heroine gets herself captured and the dashing hero rides to her rescue. He strides into the enemy stronghold to save his beloved and then their eyes finally catch through the bars of her prison. He runs to meet her, both aching to fall into each other’s arms once again—

(“Sam?” a gruff voice calls out, and then he comes into view, running up to curl his fingers around the slats in Sam’s cage. “Are you hurt?” he asks desperately. And Sam laughs in one moment of pure joy as those green eyes finally fix on him. He’d found him. Somehow, he’d found him. He’d never doubted it for a minute. “No,” Sam says reassuringly, and the man slams his palm against the rusty metal of the enclosure in relief. “Damn, it’s good to see you,” he says. And Sam’s heart sings.) Sam jolts out of his daydream, blinking harshly, but Attractive Dream Guy has already turned back to the officer questioning him. 

Sam frowns, quirking his head to the side. That’s right, he’d been the last person to see Ian before the incident. And he’d shown up in that elevator right as Sam’s dreams had started to get specific. The little threads of each unrelated event are starting to weave themselves together and Sam can’t keep tossing everything into the ‘coincidence’ basket any longer. He turns on his heel and heads back to his cubicle. This calls for research. Sam’s mysterious green-eyed man might be at the center of this entire thing and he’ll take any chance he can get in order to learn more.

But, after a solid stretch of dead ends and more questions with no answers, Sam is finally forced to turn his attention back to actually answering the phones. Ian and Paul had apparently both received emails telling them to report to Human Resources in Room 1444, but Sam knows for a fact that HR’s offices aren’t on that floor. He’d had to stop by himself on his first day, not more than three weeks ago. Sam is dying to go snooping around to fill in more of the puzzle, but his supervisor has been deliberately lurking behind him with every new pass she makes of the floor, and he throws his headpiece back on before Mary Ann can find a reason to dock his pay. Or even worse, kick him out before he can solve the mystery of the chain suicides.

Sam bunkers down and forces himself through the drudgery of his job for a brain-numbing stretch of time, wave after wave of, “Have you tried forcing an unexpected reboot?” and, “No, the computer has to actually be turned on first in order to print,” until he’s about ready to just forget the whole thing and run up to 14 anyway. He tugs his headset off and starts to push away from his desk when another one of the lines trills and lights up on his phone display. Because god forbid he could ever have one second to himself. Sam sighs. Might as well deal with it now, then he can run off in the space before the next call comes in. He clicks the button and manually raises the phone to his ear. “Tech Support. This is Sam.”

“I need to see you in my office. Now.”

Sam’s eyes go wide at the smoky voice on the other end of his phone. He shoves down a wisp of arousal at the unintentionally suggestive phrasing. “Is this…?” He clears his throat and whispers into the receiver. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

He can practically hear the man roll his eyes over the line. “The guy you won’t stop hounding about your spooky dreams? Yeah, it’s me.” There’s the sound of papers being shuffled before he starts again. “Look, just get yourself up here, okay? Please? Room 2208.” And then the line goes dead as he hangs up.

Sam takes a deep breath and tries to calm down the flutter of nerves at the thought of actually getting to talk to the guy. Finally. He pulls Ian and Paul’s accounts back up on his monitor and shoots off a couple of copies to be printed. If Sam’s only got one chance at this, he’s not gonna blow it. He needs all the proof he can get to convince Dream Guy that something weird is going on around here. And then maybe…

Sam shakes his head, cutting off the unrealistic train of thought, and runs to pick up his copies. He’s out the elevator and down the correct hallway with more enthusiasm than he’s ever shown for anything work-related in his entire tenure at Sandover. But Sam pauses once he reaches Room 2208, nervous all of a sudden. He holds his breath and lightly runs his fingers over the raised letters across the open door. His mysterious stranger has a name now. Dean Smith. Sam mouths it out silently, testing the name on his tongue. Dean. Yeah, that seems perfect. It suits him somehow. Sam steels himself, and then knocks.

Smith is doing up his shirt as Sam steps inside, and the tantalizing hint of bare skin beneath the thin fabric sends an unexpected stab of want punching through his gut. Smith spins around and glances up to meet Sam’s gaze, and their eyes lock. And oh, those eyes. Sam has dreamed about those eyes. “Come on in,” he offers eventually, breaking the moment. Then adds, “Shut the door,” and waits for Sam to comply before leaning over his chair stiffly. He clenches and relaxes his fingers a few times, collecting his thoughts, and then after a couple awkward introductions…he starts asking about ghosts. 

And Sam’s heart sings.

He gets over excited, offering way too much information about himself and saying every single stupid thing that comes to his mind. That ridiculous feeling of safety floods through him again, even worse now that Smith has actually asked for his company, and Sam blathers on like an idiot without an off button. He even admits to breaking into Ian and Paul’s email accounts, proud of himself, like he half expects the guy to grin and pat him on the back for a job well done. But Sam stills at Smith’s actual reaction to the news, suddenly anxious, as he realizes what he’s just confessed to. Because in the real world outside of Sam’s stupid head, Smith’s probably gonna be pissed. In fact, of course he’s gonna be pissed. Sam just flat out told his boss that he’s done something incredibly illegal, and the guy’s gonna throw him out on his ass before Sam can even grab his messenger bag. He stays completely motionless, holding his breath, until Smith surprises him again by letting out a quiet word of approval.  

Sam’s lungs decide to start working again the instant the man across from him smiles, and his own lips tug up to match. And all of a sudden, it’s easy between them. Easy like they’ve known each other for years. Bantering and tossing ideas back and forth, and Smith actually volunteers to go on an actual ghost hunt with him and Sam can barely even get his words out he’s so excited.

Their eyes catch across Smith’s desk, sizing each other up for a long moment—Are we really going to do this?—and Sam lets their gazes burn. “I am dying to check this out right now,” he says confidently.

“Right?” Smith matches his barely-concealed excitement for a minute longer, then pushes himself away from his desk. “Okay,” he mutters, fumbling through his desk drawer. “Should we, like—I don’t know—arm ourselves?” He pulls his hand back out, triumphantly clutching a tiny letter opener, then lifts it up for Sam’s approval. “Is this good?”

Sam lets out an amused breath at the engraved toothpick. “I’m not sure that’s gonna send the thing running for the hills,” he teases. “Uh—no offense.”

Smith contemplates the dinky little knife in his fist, then shrugs. “Yeah, guess you’re right.” He tosses it back into the drawer and strolls over to peruse the large bookshelf talking up most of his office wall. “How do you even fight a ghost anyway?” he asks over his shoulder. “You’re the expert, right?”

“Proton Pack?” Sam jokes, and then waves a dismissive hand when Smith doesn’t catch the allusion. “Nothing, forget it. Seriously though, I have no idea. The dreams were more freaky nightmares than instruction manuals.”

Smith hums noncommittally and reaches out to pick up a heavy-looking paperweight. He twists back to Sam and raises an eyebrow. “What about this?”

Sam shrugs again. “Dude, I have no clue. What are you even gonna do? Throw it at the thing?”

“Yeah, good point,” Smith mutters, placing the thing back on the shelf. He twitches his shoulders a couple times and Sam jerks his eyes away from the man’s ass before he turns around to catch him at it. “I just don’t feel right about going into a potentially hostile situation without any way of defending ourselves, y’know? It’s not smart.”

“Okay, Mr. Fancy Diploma,” Sam snorts, leaning back in his chair. “What do you think’s gonna work then?”

Smith studies his face for a moment, then snaps his fingers and strides over to the far corner of the room. He yanks out a mid-sized golf bag from behind a file cabinet and unzips the head. “How’s this for a weapon, smart ass?” He pulls out a long golf club and grins, twirling it in his hand. “Pure titanium, baby. Swayze won’t know what hit him.”

The reference is adorably dumb and Sam hides a chuckle behind his hand. “Look, Mr. Smith. Aren’t ghosts see-through or whatever? Intangible, y’know? I doubt we’re gonna be able to bash its skull in with a putter.”

Smith gives him an unimpressed look. “It’s not a putter,” he mumbles. “It’s a 3-hybrid.” Then he sighs dramatically and drops the club back into its bag. “Fine. Let’s go charging after a homicidal ghost with our bare hands,” he says sarcastically. “If we get mauled to death, at least it’ll be an exciting way to go.” Smith tosses Sam a smile that blunts the sharp edge to his words, and Sam can’t help but beam back.

“Yeah, could be worse,” he says, flirting shamelessly. “I could die having to listen to you talk about bad movies some more.”

Smith makes an over-exaggerated noise of disapproval and throws a hand over his heart. “How dare you. Ghost is a classic romance.” He strolls back over to where Sam is sitting and leans a hip against his desk. Their knees are practically touching, and Sam can feel his body heat even through both of their dress pants. “Maybe you just don’t have any taste. You ever think of that?”

Sam flicks out his tongue to wet his suddenly-dry lips, and his mouth starts moving before he can stop himself. “Maybe I’ll have to show you what a real movie looks like sometime.” 

Smith blinks at his forwardness, and the impossibly long eyelashes don’t help detract from the whole doe-eyed thing he’s got going on. Sam slowly rises from his seat to stand at his full height, and Smith’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Yeah. Maybe you will,” he says distractedly, eyes fixed on Sam’s mouth.

The piercing shrill of a ringing phone cuts through the moment and Sam flinches at the unexpected interruption.

“Sorry—that’s,” Smith shakes his head. “It’s not important. Just Phil calling me back about the figures last quarter.”

“Do you need to get it?”

He stares intently at the ringing phone for a good twenty seconds, then scrubs a hand across his mouth. “No. My secretary can handle it,” he says, then laughs bitterly. “Well. If she’s still working for me, that is.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Let’s just—” He gestures toward the door. “Ghost hunting, right?”

“Uh…right.” Sam follows him to the door, then lightly nudges Smith’s shoulder with his own, trying to salvage just a shred of the earlier moment. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” he whispers furtively.

“Yeah, me neither,” Smith says quietly. Then smiles back, just as genuine. “Oh, and by the way,” he throws out. “You can totally call me Dean, you know. Mr. Smith is my father.” Smith cuts himself off and holds up a hand, rescinding his statement. “Actually, if you ever called my dad ‘Mr. Smith’, he’d probably chuck a bottle of cheap rotgut at you.”

Sam fights off another cheesy grin and tries not to desperately hope that he will get the chance to meet Smith’s family one day. “More of a blue collar type?”

“Yeah. You could say that,” Smith chuckles. “The apple rolled a ways from the tree, I guess.” 

He holds his office door open and extends a polite hand as Sam passes, fingers just barely brushing the loose material hanging from his waist. And Sam fights off the intense urge to press back into Smith’s warm palm.

“So,” Smith says, “14^th floor it is then.” He conspiratorially lifts his eyebrows at Sam one last time before shutting the door behind them.

And Sam thinks that as long as Dean Smith keeps looking at him like that, he might never have nightmares again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The fourth time Dean Smith almost gets himself fired is when he breaks into a storeroom on the 14^th floor so that he can go ghost hunting with a ludicrously attractive Tech Support Associate.

Good news is, it turns out that Wesson isn’t as crazy as he’d thought. Okay, well he’s obviously still a little crazy. But he was right about the ghost thing, so Dean’s willing to let the weird, ‘I have dreams about you’ stuff slide. Not to mention that the longer Wesson hangs around, Dean’s stupid, unfounded crush just seems to get worse and worse. Three seconds in the same room with the kid, and he was about ready to pull him down onto his desk so they could mack like teenagers. Plus, with the whole insanity thing out of the way, Dean’s finding it harder and harder to come up with reasons why he shouldn’t. It also doesn’t help that he’s just invited him to come hang out at his apartment for the night.

The biggest problem is that Wesson couldn’t be more Dean’s type if he tried. Tall and strong and sure, with a body that could kill you dead at twenty paces and smile to match. He’d kicked a storeroom door completely off its hinges, without a second thought, and Dean had spent the next minute alternately trying to avoid getting his face eaten off by a ghost and trying not to imagine Wesson manhandling him down onto one of the dusty chairs and riding his brains out. Dean keeps his eyes glued to the kid as he wanders around the foyer, apparently amused by Dean’s choice of décor as he keeps flicking his fingers over the standing reed stalks. The strange thing is that, despite the snarky attitude and the biceps that could choke out a python, Wesson still has a surprising softness to him. There’s a gentleness that tempers the strength of his hands, and it’s the most enticing thing that Dean’s ever seen. Yes, Wesson is handsome, but more than that, he’s irresistible. An all-American golden boy with kind eyes and a predilection for danger. And dimples. Dean doesn’t stand a chance.

“You hire Ty Pennington to pick all this out?” Wesson asks teasingly, finally finished with his inspection of Dean’s furniture. “Or is this all you?”

Dean scoffs, so helplessly smitten that he’s never coming back. “What, you got something against classic movies and good taste in furnishings?”

“Seriously?” Wesson lifts an eyebrow. “You chose everything here? The whole chrome and leather deal was your idea? Even the giant, fake fireplace?”

“It ain’t fake, pal.”

Wesson laughs and points a finger at Dean’s dining room table. “Those apples are fake.”

“Well, yeah, they are,” Dean says defensively. “It’s called feng shui. Look it up.”

Wesson grins and steps in closer, and apparently it’s infectious because Dean dopily smiles right back. They’d fought a ghost today. Like some sort of crusading Van Helsing team. Sexy ones. Like from that Hugh Jackman movie. They’d fought an actual ghost. The thought slams into him again and Dean suddenly has to back away to reach for his Cleanse bottle, just for something to settle his stomach, as the reality of the evening comes sweeping back over him. Jesus Christ. They’d almost died earlier—or been hypnotized into some freaky suicide trance—and Dean allows himself a second to process everything. But Wesson doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort, thumping down onto the back of his sofa and casually asking for a beer, more mildly taken aback than terrified. Dean marvels at the guy’s unflappable demeanor, apologizing for his less-than-satisfactory kitchen and offering up a water bottle instead. And then he suddenly can’t stop himself from dreamily gushing about how amazing Wesson’s door-kicking skills were, because apparently he has absolutely no control over his own stupid libido. Like some embarrassing schoolgirl blabbing about her first crush.

Wesson smiles at him in thanks, then says, “It’s like…we’ve done this before.”

And Dean starts paying attention to the actual conversation again. He narrows his eyes as the statement hits him. “What do you mean before? Like, Shirley MacClaine before?” It’s a weirdly attractive prospect. Like they’re soul mates or something. Going through life after life, reincarnated as different people every time, but always finding each other.

But Wesson scoffs at the ridiculous idea. “No, I—” He licks his lips and Dean shoves down the slight twinge of disappointment. “I just can’t shake this feeling like, like I don’t belong here. Know what I mean? Like I should do something more than sit in a cubicle.”

Dean can’t help but tease. Feels the tug like it’s his job to do so. “I think most people who work in a cubicle feel that same way.”

“No.” The gorgeous kid sitting on the back of his couch shifts a little as he thinks, and Dean tries to focus himself back on what Wesson’s actually saying instead of just ogling the poor guy. “Well, it’s more than that. Like—” He gets up and walks past Dean to the kitchen. “I don’t like my job, I don’t like this town, I don’t like my clothes.” He stops and spins around. “I don’t like my own last name.” 

Dean’s heart skips a beat and he wants to say something crazy. Offer his own instead. They should match, Dean thinks, it would suit him more. Mr. and Mr. Smith. But thankfully, Wesson continues on before Dean can get all the way down on one knee, and he turns the half aborted motion into simply sitting on the sofa. What is wrong with him? He’s known the guy for all of half an afternoon, so why the heck does he feel like picking out curtains all of a sudden?

Wesson runs a hand over his mouth, completely oblivious to Dean’s mini-crisis, and picks up his train of thought again. “I don’t know how else to explain it, except—” He sighs. “It feels like I should be doing something else. There’s just…something in my blood. Like I was destined for something different.” Wesson stares off at the wall for a moment, contemplative. It makes him look like some kind of perfect, Greek statue. Then he turns back to Dean and asks, “What about you? You ever feel that way?”

Dean jolts out of his lovesick reverie at Wesson’s voice, mortified at the thought of being caught staring, and actually takes a minute to think about the question. He pictures a future where Wesson goes off to fulfill his destiny and leaves Dean behind, never to return. Where they’re separated for years with only a phone line to connect them while Wesson makes something of his life. Where the calls get less and less frequent over time until they finally come to a stop altogether. 

It feels like a sucker punch to the gut. It feels unsettlingly and terrifyingly familiar, like a case of déjà vu on steroids. “I don’t believe in destiny,” he blurts out to scatter the dysphoria, and Wesson looks almost disappointed.  Dean’s heart lurches, like it can’t handle that face ever being upset, and he gives Wesson a warm look in apology. “I do believe in dealing with what’s right in front of us though,” he says, and that seems to make it better.

Dean pushes himself up from the couch and focuses them back on their ghost problem, and other than a hint of distaste at his attempted nickname for the kid, the unpleasant moment is quickly smoothed over to be replaced with that easy intimacy again. They throw themselves into their research of the paranormal, luck into an amazing website with actual ghost-hunting tutorials, and spend the next few hours splitting their time between each one of their laptops. Sandover history on Wesson’s, and the Ghostfacers videos on Dean’s. They work well together, like a well-oiled machine, and Dean can’t ever remember being this efficient just by himself, locked away in his office.

And as the night goes on, they end up inching closer and closer together with every passing minute. What starts out as a polite and respectable amount of distance between the two of them quickly turns into companionable closeness, which then turns into a familiar hand resting against the back of a chair, and then into a friendly tap here and there to point out a piece of information the other might have missed. Until they’re finally leaning over each other as they jockey for a better view of the screen, arms so close they’re practically connected from shoulder to elbow.

Dean’s the one in the hot seat this time, both of them back to the drawing board once they discovered that Sandover was cremated. He skips his cursor past the video titled GMA: An Introduction to Ghost Martial Arts and clicks on But Harry and Ed, How Do You Stop a Ghost With No Grave?

“Well, I’m glad you asked,” the bearded Ghostfacer announces to the screen. He turns to face his friend. “Hey, Harry. How do you stop a ghost with no grave?”

“Well, I’m also glad you asked, Ed,” the thinner one replies, and then launches into a tirade about some haunted theater.

Dean leans away from the instructional tutorial, needing a break from the unending squawk of the two lab coat-clad supernaturalists, and takes the opportunity to study the profile of the man leaning over his shoulder. Wesson’s adorably shaggy hair is hanging over his temples and shading his eyes from view, so Dean skims his gaze over the rest of his features. The first thing he notices, this close up, is that Wesson’s nose is ridiculously dumb and swoopy. Like an elf from one of those Rankin-Bass puppet cartoons. It’s a complete contradiction to the rest of his enormous body, and it’s surprisingly charming. Dean has to fight off a fond smile before returning to his perusal of the kid’s face. Wesson sniffs and moves closer to the computer, and Dean suddenly realizes that he’s also got the tiniest little mole, just below his left eye. And now that he’s seen it, he can’t stop staring at it. Wants to flick his tongue over Wesson’s cheekbone to taste it. To see if it will feel any different than the rest of his skin. Or his mouth. Dean’s eyes jerk down guiltily to trace the contours of the man’s lips, soft and pillowed and the lewdest shade of pink that he’s ever seen. They’re just slightly parted, supple and tempting, as Wesson stares intently at the tinny video on the screen, and Dean can feel himself gravitating closer without making the conscious decision. Pulled in by the warmth and the solidity of the body beside him. 

Wesson blinks and catches Dean’s gaze the instant his shoulder makes contact, just the slightest bit startled. He takes a shallow breath, as if to say something, but his eyes lock onto Dean’s and they’re suddenly both falling into that bottomless pool again. Just like back in Dean’s office. Drawn together by chance or fate or maybe just plain, old-fashioned chemistry. Wesson’s gaze flicks down to Dean’s lips and he makes the quietest little noise in the back of his throat, slowly leaning closer until Dean can feel the fan of his warm breath across his mouth and he closes his eyes and tilts his head up to catch Wesson’s lips with his own—

And then Dean’s laptop starts screaming.

They jump apart as the piercing yell comes blaring out of the speakers. One of the Ghostfacers—the dark-haired one, sans glasses—is waving his arms around and shouting out something about cremation as his partner nods sagely, and…the moment is officially dead. Again.

Dean clears his throat and flinches away awkwardly. “Okay, so, uh… Genetic material, I guess. We should, uh…yeah.”

Wesson reluctantly drags his eyes away from Dean’s mouth and stands back up. “Right,” he says haltingly, disappointment shading his tone. “Sandover probably left something behind in the building somewhere. A hair, maybe.” He clears his throat. “Or could even be a skin cell or something.”

“Sure, yeah.” Dean shifts a little in his seat. “That sounds feasible.” He shuts his laptop closed and drums his fingers across the top, stalling. He really should be one hundred percent focused on the homicidal ghost that they’re about to go after, but all Dean can think about is yanking Wesson back down and planting one on him—just to get it over with. Or just to see where it would lead… (Oh, buddy boy, you know exactly where it would lead. Sam’s hips bucking up against yours, whimpering and flushed like it’s the first time all over again. Then he’d drop down to his knees, slide his big hands down along your thighs and—) No. No time for that. Dean needs to focus on the hunt or he’s gonna get his brain scrambled. Well, more than it already is, anyway. 

Dean chuckles a little as he pushes away from his chair. Wesson had come waltzing into his life only a couple days ago, and now he’s spending his evenings chasing down Halloween store rejects. And to think, his life had been so normal back home in South Dakota— Or was it Nebraska…? Dean’s brain skips over the needle for a moment before he can get his thoughts back in order. No. He’d grown up in South Dakota. Of course he had. Mom had helped Dad out with the stupid salvage yard that Dean had always disliked, and he’d spent most of his time holed up in his bedroom. He’d hated living with the useless, junked skeletons of old cars all over their backyard. Dangerous, rusted-out hunks of metal just littering the place, a perfect excuse for Hepatitis or Tetanus if you weren’t careful enough. Jo had liked them, but Dean never had any interest in spending time and money fixing up gas-guzzlers that should never have been on the road to begin with.

He mentally chuckles at his earlier ridiculousness. Why had his brain said Nebraska? What’s even in Nebraska anyway? (The Roadhouse.) Dean’s brain stutters again. What the heck is a road house? (Roadhouse. Capital R.) He shakes off the now-familiar feeling of uncertainty. Well, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Maybe Dean saw it on TV or something. Some unimportant flick he’d caught on Encore while half asleep, maybe one of those stupid action movies with too much violence and some meathead with a bad haircut.

“Dude, are you okay?”

He glances up to realize that Wesson’s been staring at him for the past few minutes. Dean’s halfway out of his computer chair and has apparently been completely frozen this whole time, hovering over his desk. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Sorry. Just…ghost stuff, y’know?”

Wesson gives him an uncertain smile. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” He bites at his lip for a moment, then says, “So, uh, are you gonna be okay to go handle this thing?” It isn’t meant as an insult, just a simple concern for Dean’s safety, but the thought of Wesson not having complete faith in his abilities spears something deep within Dean’s chest.

He almost spits out something about “being able to take care of himself”, but realizes that Wesson probably is the best fighter here, as far as ghost hunting goes. Even if his dreams are the only experience he’s got. So Dean swallows back his nerves and quietly asks, “Well, you’ll have my back, right?” Wesson’s face instantly splits into a grin at the question and he nods assuredly. Dean takes a moment to imagine bringing Wesson back here once they’ve won, high on adrenaline and want. They’d be clumsy with need, tripping all over each other and greedily claiming stretches of skin with lips and hands, free and easy with nothing to hold them back any longer. He smiles. “Then I’ll be fine.”

Dean follows Wesson out of his own apartment, gesturing for the other man to take point, and shoves down the brief flicker of wrongness at not being the first one through the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They destroy the ghost. Burn him up good like an overcooked roast.

It’s the highest point of Dean’s life. He practically skips through the hallways back to his office, throwing an arm over Wesson’s broad shoulders and catching his hip against his own every time they take a step. He feels like he’s on top of the world, like nothing could bring him down now that he’s taken on an actual, honest to god ghost. Like some kind of Ghostfacer or something. He grins up at Wesson and Wesson grins back at him and he thinks they might actually have something here. Now that they’ve made Sandover safe for the masses. Dean pictures nights where they paint the town red. Workdays where they sneak off to the supply closet every few hours. Weekends where they curl up on Dean’s leather sofa together as he catches up with the stock market until Wesson makes him change it to baseball or something. He’s on the fast track to Senior VP, he’s got a gorgeous loft with plenty of room for athletic lovemaking, and now he’s got Wesson to make it all perfect. Dean’s future has never looked brighter.

Sam has never had a dream where he’s flying. He knows it’s common enough, and other people have told him about theirs, but he’s never experienced it for himself. Some weird quirk of his subconscious. But if someone were to ask him right now, he’d guess that it probably feels something like this. Smith is tucked up against his side, fussing over the knick on his head and mumbling something about a first aid kit, and Sam doesn’t have a single thought in his head past the feel of Smith’s body against his own. They fought a ghost today, just like in his dreams, and Sam can’t stop himself from smiling no matter how hard he tries because this is going to be their life now. It’s gonna be like this every day. He’s going to tell Smith about everything, convince him to come on the road with him, and then everything will be perfect forever. Sam’s life finally has a purpose.

Because they destroyed a ghost…

But then everything else gets wrecked too. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The fifth time Dean Smith almost gets himself fired is when he comes three seconds from taking a golf club to every single breakable knick-knack and paperweight in his office.

He had been stupidly, overly harsh for no good reason and Wesson had walked out, tail between his legs and the broken pieces of his heart trailing behind him like breadcrumbs across Dean’s sensible office rug. Dean prods at the sore area on his forehead the spook had left behind—his head seems to ache even more without Wesson’s hideous, yellow shirt to improve the view—and then he lashes his hand out to grab at the little American flag on his desk, throwing it as hard as he can across the room. It’s cheap and lightweight and only gets about half a foot before fluttering to the ground, and it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough destruction to reflect the fact that, in one fell swoop, Dean has managed to sabotage the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Dean had somehow tripped over the love of his life, like the guy had stepped through the silver screen of one of those cheesy rom-coms Dean loves so much, and he’d ruined it. And okay, yeah, there may have been a bit more murder than your typical meet-cute, but who cares? Richard Gere had basically shown up in the white limo and Dean had kicked him to the curb like some kind of moron.

His own words echo cruelly through his skull, “Know me? You don’t know me, pal.” Followed by a quiet, bitter, “You should go.” God, he’s such an idiot. He might as well have said, “Get the hell out ‘cause I never want to see your perfect face ever again.” And yeah—Wesson’s little break from reality had freaked him out. And yeah—there’s no way Dean was gonna quit his job and uproot his entire life to elope with some handsome stranger, but he could have at least kissed the guy instead of lashing out at the first real hint of intimacy from another human being. Dean is moments away from grabbing the 9-iron from his bag and just going to town on his desk, when the heavy, unmistakable stomp of Wesson’s footsteps come barreling around the corner and back into his office.

They stare at each other for an awkward, charged moment, both frozen in place, before Wesson clears his throat and sets his shoulders. 

“Okay, look,” he states determinedly. “I’ve got one of these stupid bobble-head things on my desk, right? A vampire. It’s a dumb little plastic vampire toy that I picked up god knows where.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at the sudden, random confession. “Um, okay,” he says slowly, “…and what does that have to do with anyth—?”

“Its name is Elkins,” Wesson interrupts loudly. “I named him Elkins because I thought it would be funny. In like a dumb, ironic way, y’know?”

Dean’s lips tug up at the corner and he snorts a little at the joke. “Yeah, okay,” he says indulgently. “So what?”

Wesson’s eyebrows jump up his forehead. “You laughed,” he says.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says dryly. “Like you said, it’s funny.”

Wesson stares at him very intently and slowly spreads his palms out. “Why?” he asks simply.

“Why what?”

“Why is it funny?”

Dean gives him a look. “Because Elkins isn’t a vampire.”

“Exactly!” Wesson’s eyes widen and he violently jabs a finger at Dean. “That’s why I named it that! But my point is,” he nervously wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and Dean tamps down the desire to chase it with his own. “Who the hell is Elkins?”

“What?”

“Who the hell is Elkins?” Wesson repeats slowly. And Dean’s brain fritzes as the kid steamrollers on, finishing his rant. “Because I don’t know any Elkins. I never have. So why the fuck would I name my vampire that? And why is it that you’re the only one who gets the joke?”

“…It’s from a TV show or something,” Dean says weakly, grasping at straws. “It’s gotta be.”

“Okay.” Wesson nods patronizingly. “Fine. What show?”

“I don’t—” Dean swallows hard, but can’t think of anything in response.

Wesson stares at him for a long, silent moment, then takes a fervent step forward. “That’s what I’m talking about, Dean! It’s stuff like that. All the time. Just a bunch of freaky, nonsensical weirdness running through my head.” His shoulders heave as he hyperventilates a little. “And I feel like I’m losing my mind, but you’re the only other person who seems to get it—or at least some of it—and that has to mean something.” Wesson reaches out a hand to gesture back and forth between them. “And this. Us. It’s— C’mon, it has to mean something. Please,” he begs, eyes desperate and wet. “Please tell me you feel it too. You have to feel it too.”

Dean closes the remaining sliver of distance between them, determined not to waste the opportunity now that he’s miraculously been given a second chance. He slowly raises his hands to cradle Wesson’s face, a palm flat on either cheek, and he steadily pulls him closer. Wesson takes a shaky breath, but complies easily, and the poor guy’s heart is beating so hard that Dean can practically hear it pounding away against the inside of his perfectly sculpted chest. Dean shifts up on his toes to compensate for the height difference and keeps his eyes fixed soundly on Wesson’s. “You said we were like brothers,” he whispers softly. “In your dream.”

“Yeah,” Wesson croaks, his warm breath tickling over Dean’s lips. “Or something.” He swallows. “I just meant, more than friends, y’know? More than just teammates or co-workers or strangers…” He trails off, pupils bleeding out and gaze going hooded as he stares reverently at Dean’s mouth. “I know you,” he says quietly. Desperately. “Dean, I swear. I know you.”

So Dean kisses him.

And it doesn’t feel like fireworks. It doesn’t feel like sparks flying or butterflies in his stomach or any other hackneyed cliché the movies like to throw around. It feels like home. It feels like Dean has never ever been whole before and he just didn’t know it until this exact second. It feels impossibly familiar and heartbreakingly perfect all at once, and somehow he knows that if he tilts his head just so and sweeps his tongue over Wesson’s bottom lip, the kid’s knees will buckle a little and he’ll dig his fingers into Dean’s sides. So he does it, and Wesson lets out a beautifully broken moan as he clutches harder at Dean’s waist.

Then Wesson tightens his hold and slams their mouths together, pulling the rug out from under them both, and he’s suddenly pushing buttons that Dean didn’t even know he had. A wild, strangled sound claws its way out of Dean’s throat and Wesson lunges forward, freaking lifting him onto his desk and caging him in between his arms. He wrenches himself away from Dean’s mouth to brutally attack the skin under his jaw, biting and tonguing at anything he can reach above Dean’s starched collar—and then he goes after the fabric itself, fumbling and pulling with lust-clumsy fingers until the button pops and he can get at the slice of newly-revealed throat. Dean’s body lights up like a switchboard under the onslaught and he grabs a handful of long hair in return, pulling it tight. Wesson stumbles as his legs go out, keening at the sensation, and then they’re suddenly both pulling back and just staring at each other, chests heaving as they seem to come to the realization of how insane this all is at the exact same time.

“You… You came back,” Dean eventually pants, at a loss for anything else to say. Having no idea what he could possibly even begin to say to capture the magnitude of this moment.

“Yeah,” Wesson replies with a tremulous smile. “Yeah, I came back.” And then he presses back in, jamming his mouth hard against Dean’s and yanking at the buttons of his shirt until they pop.

“No, no, no. Hey!” Dean complains. “Careful. That cost me three hundred and twenty-five dollars. Easy, tiger.”

Wesson pulls back to gape at him. “What, seriously? For a shirt?”

Dean rolls his eyes and tweaks at the kid’s adorable swoopy nose. “Hey, just because you’re a godless heathen doesn’t mean that I have to be.”

Wesson scoffs under his breath and makes a face, but he leans back and lets Dean take care of the rest of his own buttons like a civilized human being. He grabs the material at his own waist and pulls, yanking the blood-spattered polo over his head in one easy move, and Dean’s heart freezes solid in his chest. Because Wesson’s got a tattoo brazenly branded over the impressive muscle of his left pec. Usually, Dean’s mouth would instantly start to water at any hint of sexy ink…except for the fact that he’s seen that tattoo before. In fact, he’s seen it a lot. Because it’s identical to the one that Dean’s got smack dab over his own heart. 

It was a stupid, crazy, impulsive mistake he’d made a few years ago while under the influence. (Under the influence? Ha! Don’t you mean sauced? Blottoed. Three sheets, smashed, tanked, FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all—) Dean has to yank himself out of his own head. He always tries his best not to use that type of distasteful language, as it’s not appropriate in the workplace and Dean’s spent way too many years clawing up the company ladder to let one misplaced outburst knock him back down a few rungs. Dean huffs out a laugh. Now that he thinks about it, ever since Wesson showed up, his internal monologue has become disturbingly crude. He wonders what Dr. Ellicott would say about that. Probably some sort of inherent emotional distress that Dean’s been repressing. He should ask during his next session. 

Point is, he’d been in a rotten mood after mishandling some international deal and a friend had gotten him way too intoxicated for a work night. His friend (What was his name? Why can’t Dean remember his name?) had suggested a tattoo and Dean had been too far gone to realize a reckless idea when he heard one. It was a dumb mistake that Dean did his best not to think about. But…how is it even remotely possible that Wesson has the exact same one?

Dean shakes himself out of his thoughts to realize that Wesson has been standing there, just staring at him for the past couple minutes. Again. He looks amused, but caught between saying something or remaining politely silent, uncertain if he’s allowed to tease. Which is ludicrous. Of course Sam can tease him.

(—“Jerk. Just saying, getting rusty there, kiddo. You mind doing a little thinking with your upstairs brain, Dean? If you and the car want to get a room, just tell me. Dean, always with the scissors. You are kind of butch, they probably think you’re overcompensating. Aww, he’s adorable. Dude, you’re confusing reality with porn again.”—)

What the—? That’s completely inappropriate. Dean is Sam’s—Wesson’s—supervisor and he really shouldn’t be fostering an environment of disrespect (bad enough that they’re about to screw over his desk in a blatant disregard of company protocol) and more to the point—where had all of that come from? 

Wesson is still staring at him, concerned now, as Dean has been sitting there, silent for an uncomfortably long time. “Dean,” he prods tentatively, “are you okay?”

“What? Yeah.” Dean clears his throat and reins in his worry. “Sorry. It’s just—” He finishes undoing the last few buttons on his dress shirt and tugs the tails out of his pants, letting the edges drape down over his bare chest. Then he brings a hand up to tap at the now-visible ink under his own collarbone. “We match,” he says. “Small world, huh?”

Wesson’s brows draw down sharply as he gets full view of their identical marks. He stares at Dean’s chest for a long moment, then says, “It’s a band, right?” Slow and uncertain. “Some kind of…band logo? I think I only got it because it looked cool.”

Dean glances down at his own tattoo. "Uh, yeah,” he mumbles offhand. “Must be.” He swallows and brings his gaze back up to catch Wesson’s. “I’ve gotta admit, I may have been just the slightest bit inebriated the night I decided to acquire some permanent body art.” He chuckles under his breath. “I probably just randomly picked something from the wall.”

Wesson smiles as well, concerns fading under Dean’s calm logic. “Guess you’re lucky that you didn’t end up with one of those barbed wire jobs.” He grins brightly and oh dear god, there go the dimples again. “Or a neck tat.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, that would’ve gone over well at the office.”

“I don’t know,” Wesson murmurs sinfully, moving back in to slip the shirt from Dean’s shoulders. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice is breathier than he’d intended for it to be.

“Yeah.” Wesson surges back down to kiss him, apparently done with the flirty banter, and sweeps an arm out to knock all the crap off of Dean’s desk. His perpetual motion doo-dad clatters to the floor, probably broken, but Dean’s finding it hard to care with the way Wesson is wrenching his hands down his sides. He shoves himself in between Dean’s spread thighs and Dean makes a pathetic mewling noise at the press of Wesson’s hard cock against his own. There’s still the faintest smudge of blood along each of his cheekbones and it makes him look savage and wild, eyes flashing in the low light as he grinds down into Dean’s lap. Dean groans and gives himself over to the sensation. At least the kid decided to leave his computer intact. There’s just barely enough room for him to sit with Wesson curved over him like this, but it’ll have to do, because he is not replacing the brand new LCD monitor this early on in his employment—no matter how deliciously energetic his partner-in-crime is turning out to be. Wesson does something clever with his tongue and another tight clench of his arms, and all thoughts of anything other than the man in front of him go flying right out of Dean’s head.

Wesson jams himself even closer, circling his hips, and his intent seems to be to just rub off against Dean’s thigh. But dry humping kind of lost its allure somewhere around the tail end of high school, along with whip-its and do-it-yourself dye-jobs. Dean smiles and pushes Wesson back a bit, ignoring the affronted twinge of protest from his aching cock. “So, I was thinking we could maybe fast-forward to the main event here,” he says seductively. “If you know what I mean.”

“Oh.” Wesson’s eyes go wide. “You mean, uh…”

Dean chuckles and gestures down to where their legs are still interwoven. “Don’t get me wrong, this is—” he lets out a sharp breath, “this is great. But I gotta admit, I’m usually more of a top.” Dean catches sight of Wesson’s look of uncertainty and backpedals as fast as he can. “Or hey, man. Whatever. Just kidding. I’m flexible, anything you want.” He dips his head to catch Wesson’s gaze, then throws him a reassuring smile. “Versatility’s my middle name.”

Wesson blinks at him, then quirks his head to the side. Cute. Like a confused dog or something. “I don’t— What’s that mean?”

Dean frowns for a moment, until understanding washes over him. “Oh my god.” His eyes boggle out of his head as he stares at the other man. “Wait. Are you really— I mean, are you actually straight?”

“What? Yeah. I—” Wesson coughs a little awkwardly, then falters, dropping his gaze to his feet. “I mean…I don’t know,” he finishes, a little more subdued. “You’re the first, uh, y’know…” he says quietly.

Dean gapes like a fish for a few seconds longer. “Shoot, man. I’m sorry. I thought,” he shakes his head, “I thought that was just saving face or whatever, back in the elevator. I didn’t mean to—” Dean takes a deep breath and sets his jaw, trying not to hate himself for his own words. “Look, we don’t have to do this.”

“No!” Wesson snaps, snaking out a hand to latch onto Dean’s forearm. His grip is like steel, hazel eyes boring into Dean’s. “I want to,” he says firmly. “I really, really want to. Trust me. I just—” Then his cheeks burn red and he swallows audibly. “I’ve just never— I mean. I’m not sure what, y’know, exactly…” He trails off again and gnaws at his bottom lip.

Ah. Dean lets the realization sweep through him and tries not to let any judgment bleed into his expression. Because the thought of big, hulking Sam Wesson, nervous and trembling underneath his hands, sends a sordid thrill down his spine. That Dean could be the first one to— (What? Pop his ass cherry? Been there, done that. And it was so sweet the first time too. So nice, I think I’ll try it twice…)

“Hey,” Dean says softly. “There’s nothing to worry about, okay?” He captures the kid’s nervous hands in his own, then brings one up and presses a soft kiss to the back of his knuckles. “I’ll take care of you, Sammy.” He can feel Wesson shiver at his words before he realizes what he’s actually just said. “Oh. Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, really, it’s okay,” Wesson stammers out, cheeks flushed. “I…I don’t mind.”

A slow grin spreads its way across Dean’s face. “Yeah?”

Wesson lets out an amused huff, and then flicks his eyes back up to catch Dean’s gaze. “Yeah,” he says, adorably embarrassed.

“Alright then, Sammy,” Dean purrs. “The first step in the illustrious world of gay sex is to take your damn pants off.” He wraps his fingers around Wesson’s belt, unlatches the buckle, and pulls the cheap, peeling leather free. Then he snorts at the ugly band and presses another dry kiss to Wesson’s temple. “Second step is to buy you a better belt.”

Wesson chuckles a little under his breath and impressively holds his own, despite his noticeable flush. “So…like this then?” he asks sinfully, kicking off his shoes and then popping his button fly, dragging the tan material down his long legs as slowly as he possibly can.

“Yup,” Dean says, a little breathless. “Just like that.”

“So, step three,” Wesson hums, stalking closer, “would be taking off your pants. Am I getting this right?”

Dean bites back a moan as he wraps his hands around Wesson’s wrists. “Gold star,” he whispers.

Wesson pins him with a predatory look and curls his fingers around Dean’s belt, skillfully unhooking the catch and slipping it loose from the fabric. “Is this how you want it…Mr. Smith?”

Dean narrowly avoids swallowing his own tongue. “Y-yes,” he chokes out. “Exactly. Good work.”

Wesson slips a leisurely hand over the crotch of Dean’s slacks, not-so-accidentally skimming his palm across the head of Dean’s cock, before undoing the button and dragging down the zip. “And this?” he asks intimately. “Sir?”

“Perfect,” Dean groans. He swallows a couple times, then says, “Y’know, I should probably look into getting you some kind of promotion. With you putting in all this overtime.”

“I’m very dedicated to the company,” Wesson says smugly.

Dean laughs. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

Wesson steps back to yank Dean’s pants and loafers off, then smirks a little at the sight of his jewel-toned briefs. “Dude. Pink? Really?”

“Excuse you,” Dean pants. “They’re magenta. And they’re ridiculously expensive, so don’t rip them.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Wesson rests his giant hands on either side of Dean’s hips and flicks at the waistband with his thumb. “Step four?” he asks quietly.

Dean pauses at his hesitation, then covers one of Wesson’s hands with his own. “You okay?” he prods. “Y’know, we don’t have to— I could talk you through it, if you want this to go the other way.”

Wesson shakes his head. “No. I’m good,” he says quietly. “I trust you.” Then he laughs a little under his breath. “Y’know, it’s funny. I feel like I should be nervous or scared or something. But I’m not. It just feels…right.” Wesson lifts his eyes back up to meet Dean’s, searching. “This—all of it,” he flaps a hand around, “it feels right. Me and you. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispers roughly. “Yeah, it makes sense.” He swipes a thumb down the side of Wesson’s face, then grasps at his chin and pulls him into a deep kiss. Dean trails his tongue along the edge of Wesson’s own, sucking at his lips and drinking down each needy sigh. “Step four,” he says eventually, breaking away to breathe, “is kissing you senseless.”

He can feel Wesson’s lips quirk up against his own. “I think I like step four,” he says, a little dreamily.

Dean kisses him again, more than happy to oblige. “Me too,” he hums. Then he slips away from the desk and guides Wesson around, placing his hands flat on the wood. “I’m going to go get something from my bag,” he says, narrating as best he can. “Keep your hands like that, okay?” Wesson nods and does as Dean requests, a tense line forming between his brows as he focuses on following the commands. And Dean can’t help but smile at the kid’s earnestness. He rips through his briefcase until he finds the lube, then hurries back to Wesson’s side. “Perfect,” he says, placing the bottle at the edge of his desk. “You’re doing amazing, Sammy.” Dean lightly places his hands along Wesson’s waist and presses a kiss directly in between his shoulder blades. “Ready?” he asks into the warm skin.

Wesson nods again, letting out a small laugh. “You don’t start soon, I might take my business somewhere else.”

Dean laughs as well, curling his hands into Wesson’s boxers and slipping them down his legs. “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he says teasingly, nipping at the edge of a hip as he passes. Wesson kicks out his feet as soon as his shorts clear his ankles and Dean groans at the full sight of him, naked and beautiful and all for him. “Step five, okay?” Dean prompts, grabbing for the lube and popping the cap.

“About time,” Wesson grumbles playfully.

Dean grins against his back and coats his fingers. “Relax,” he whispers, then trails a hand over Wesson’s ass and circles the furled rim, slowly pushing inside. Wesson’s breath hitches at the unfamiliar sensation, and he shifts a little as Dean inches deeper. “This okay?”

“Oh god, yes,” Wesson moans. He presses his hips back against Dean’s hand and lets out a breathy whine. “Kind of regret never doing this before, actually.”

Dean teases his wet rim with another finger, just flirting with the idea of pushing in, and grins. “Stick with me, kid,” he quips. “I’ll show you a whole, new world.”

“That’s from Aladdin,” Wesson laughs. Then he moans again once Dean adds the second finger, tightening his grip along the edge of the desk until his knuckles turn white.

“Classic.” Dean scissors his fingers, savoring Wesson’s little gasp at the stretch. “Romance.” He presses his face against Wesson’s neck, breathing in the clean scent of his hair, then leans down until he can ghost his breath over the shell of his ear. “Y’know, we forgot to close the door.” 

“Oh dear god,” Wesson moans.

“Just think about what could happen,” Dean whispers lowly. “Anyone could come strolling on in here, see us like this.” He nips at Wesson’s lobe. “Security guard maybe.”

Wesson makes a choking sound and his shoulders tense. Not in a good way. “Um, yeah. I don’t think you’re gonna have to worry about that.”

His voice sounds strained and Dean frowns. Then he remembers the spray of blood across Wesson’s collar, and pushes the thought from his mind before it can kill his hard-on. “Okay,” he says a little squeamishly. “Pretty sure I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, good call.”

The mood wilts a little and Dean twists his wrist, curling his fingers to try and bring it back. Wesson chokes at the movement and reaches a hand back around to grip at Dean’s forearm. “You still okay?”

“Dean, please,” he begs, shoving his ass back to chase the thrust of Dean’s fingers. “Can we just—? I’m good. Main event, yeah?”

Dean bites off a moan at Wesson’s eagerness and slips his dry hand around the curve of his hip. “Are you sure?” he checks. “Really not trying to brag or anything, but I’m kinda big and…” Then he trails off as he gets a hand fully around Wesson’s erection. “And apparently so are you.” Dean’s eyes widen as he peers over the kid’s shoulder. “Fuck, that’s a gorgeous cock.”

“Um, thank you?”

“Jesus Christ.” He ogles Wesson’s impressive length until his mouth starts to water, running his left hand up and down the shaft a couple times. “Definitely gonna get my mouth around that next time,” he says, a little dazed. “Blow you into the next century. How does that sound?”

“Yeah,” Wesson squeaks. “That sounds, uh—that sounds good.”

Dean swallows and lets out a shaky breath against the nape of Wesson’s neck. “Can you reach my bag from here? There’s a rubber in the side zip.” Wesson nods and the muscles in his back ripple as he stretches over to grab at his attaché. Dean enjoys the view for a moment, then takes the opportunity to step out of his briefs, folding them neatly and placing them on his chair with a parting pat of his fingers.

Wesson reaches back over his shoulder to hand him the condom, fingertips brushing as their eyes lock. He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Ribbed for Her Pleasure?”

Dean grins. “You’re welcome.”

Wesson chuckles as he turns back to face the desk and Dean pulls away to rip open the foil packet in his hand. A fire truck drives by on the street below, red siren flashing weakly across the room for half a second, and his eyes catch on a distinctive scar just above the base of Wesson’s spine. The puckered mark is large, but barely raised—nearly invisible against the tan skin—and Dean almost didn’t notice it in the dim lighting.  He leans back in and lightly brushes a thumb over the spread of it, and tries to ignore the sudden feeling of unease that wells up in his gut. A combination of guilt and panic and inexplicable sorrow. Dean almost asks Wesson for the story behind a scar like that, but for some reason, he’s not sure he wants to know. Just looking at it makes his stomach curl into a tight ball of nerves, so Dean pulls his hand away and turns his attention to rolling on the condom, shifting up along Wesson’s back until he can’t make it out anymore. Plus, now they’re completely flush all the way from shoulders to hips, so win-win.

“Alright,” Dean whispers. “You’re gonna wanna bear down a little bit.” He lines himself up along Wesson’s rim and noses along the edge of his hairline. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Not happening ever.” Wesson pushes himself backwards—hard—and Dean scrambles to hold on as he gets taken along for the ride. Wesson opens for him easily, like it’s second nature, and Dean moans as his cock is fully sheathed in that tight, soft heat.

“Christ, Sammy.” Dean gets one hand around his hip, one up across his chest, and tries to catch up with the brutal pace that Wesson seems intent on setting. He bucks forward, giving him everything he’s got and then some, and for someone who’s never done this before, Wesson is a surprisingly quick study. He shoves back against each thrust, eager and insatiable. It’s less finesse and more sheer enthusiasm, but it’s surprisingly endearing and it tugs at something deep within Dean’s heart. Wesson reaches back to get his own huge hand around the cut of Dean’s hip and forces him deeper inside until they’re completely locked, chest to back. Dean would make a joke about pushy power bottoms, but Mr. Straight Boy wouldn’t get it, so he keeps his hilarious comments to himself and simply enjoys the view.

It’s just them here in the deserted building—just them in the entire universe—and the only noises that drift along the empty halls are the dull hum of the fluorescent lighting from the ceiling mounts and the wet, rhythmic sound of their hips slapping together. Dean lets himself be swept up by the way Wesson’s riding him hard and fast, by the searing vise around his aching cock, by the soft smack of his balls against Wesson’s ass. Wesson hangs his head down between his shoulders and starts babbling, little murmurs of, “I’m close, I’m close, I’m close,” and Dean smothers a whine against the broad sweep of his back as he reaches down to squeeze that enormous cock in his fist, pumping his hand in the exact same way that Wesson’s muscles are doing to him in turn. Wesson lets out a sharp breath and punches his hips back harder, holding their bodies together with just the strength of his hand on Dean’s hip. He grinds his ass back into Dean’s lap, wriggling and crushing them together until he finally comes with a shout, shooting over the edge of Dean’s hand and onto the desk below.

Dean keeps his hand wrapped tight around Wesson’s straining length, his other arm a strong band around his chest to hold him in place. His own cock is screaming for release, but he makes sure to wring Wesson completely out first, until he’s trembling and spent in his arms. He starts moving again the instant Wesson sags in his hold, pounding into him hard, the clench tighter now that every single muscle is contracting around him. Dean groans and closes his eyes, dropping his head to rest against the nape of Wesson’s neck. (He’s yours. He’s yours. Hold him tight. Don’t let him get away. If you let him go, he’ll go right back to that bitch. Not again, never again. Whatever you do, don’t let go. Don’t ever let go. Sam. Sammy.)

“—Sammy!” Dean jerks his hips forward and sobs into Wesson’s neck as he comes inside of him, cock pulsing with each wet spurt. Wesson twists his head around to catch Dean’s lips in a messy kiss and doesn’t pull away, both panting into each other’s mouths as Dean slowly comes down from his orgasm.

“I might be switching teams,” Wesson whispers eventually, throat raw and fucked-out.

Dean chokes out a laugh and presses an exhausted kiss to Wesson’s shoulder as he pulls out, slipping the condom off and tossing it into his office wastebasket. He turns back to be greeted with an extremely guilty wince, and Dean follows Wesson’s eye line down until he finds the source of the problem.

There’s a sizeable, cooling puddle of semen seeping out across the incredibly expensive surface of his brand new desk. And given Dean’s reaction to—well, just about everything these last couple days—he can’t blame Wesson for the nervous act. Dean takes a moment to worry about the potential stain on the dark wood. He supposes he could always just scribble over it with a Sharpie if it’s too obvious in the morning—and the fact that Dean is willing to do something as unforgivably tacky as touching up his Heritage Black wood stain with a permanent marker is the final straw that proves just how uncontrollably besotted he truly is. Hell, he’d be willing to patch over any suspicious blotches with duct tape as long as Wesson will hang around long enough to keep causing the messes in the first place. Dean lets out an unhinged laugh and decides to jump in headfirst, grabbing his overpriced dress shirt from where he’d neatly placed it to the side and using the imported silk to sop up the splash of come. Wesson looks shocked at the gesture, struck completely dumb by the uncharacteristic display, and Dean just tosses the kid a sappy grin. He’ll never be able to wear this shirt again—mandatory dry-clean only—but he doesn’t care at all, because now he can tug Wesson down to curl up with him on the newly clean surface. And that’s easily worth a few hundred measly dollars. Dean wraps a hand around Wesson’s wrist, yanks him in hard against his chest, and then leans back until they both collapse onto the sturdy wood, Wesson laughing into his neck as Dean tightens his hold around the beautiful man in his arms.  

And for the first time in almost four weeks, Dean doesn’t feel like he’d rather be anywhere other than exactly where he is, right now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The fifth time Sam Wesson terrifies himself is one nanosecond after he proposes to the complete stranger that he met in an elevator four days ago.

Sam can’t ever remember feeling as fucked-out and happy as he does right this minute. Not once. Sam’s ass is sore, and that’s something that would’ve sounded absolutely horrifying to him just one week ago, but now the sensation is wonderful and fulfilling in a way he’d never even dreamed of. Because it means that he’ll still feel it in the morning, concrete proof that what happened here tonight was real. Smith’s skin is warm and alive and firm underneath his, and Sam can feel his heartbeat thumping up through his ribcage and over into Sam’s own. Like they’ve got the two hearts between them, instead of just one each. He presses his lips to the matching pulse below Smith’s jaw and savors the pleased rumble that his lover—boyfriend?—makes at each lazy kiss. (Don’t ever let him hear you call him that. Seriously. Better keep that sappy, over-romantic mush to yourself, or you’re gonna regret it. Trust me. Nothing worse than when he’s pissed-off and defensive.) Sam gently grazes his teeth over the skin of Smith’s tattoo and chuckles at the coincidence. Or maybe it’s fate. Like some kind of Tenacious D thing, but way more romantic. Sam lets out another quiet laugh—probably not a movie that Smith would be fond of—and flicks his thumb over a nipple.

Smith twitches, and reaches up from where he’s been leisurely grazing his fingers along Sam’s back to flick him across the ear in return. “Excuse you,” he grumbles affectionately. “You better quit that unless you plan on finishing what you started.” It’s the first thing he’s said since they curled up together and his voice is warm and gravelly with disuse.

Sam presses another kiss to his tattoo in apology and tucks his shoulders in as much as he can in order to fit against Smith’s chest. It’s kind of ridiculous now that he thinks about it, considering their relative sizes, but it feels better like this, somehow. Safer. Surrounded by the hazy smell of luxury cologne and printer ink. Sam nudges his face down into the crook of Smith’s neck and breathes it in, truly content for the first time he can remember in his entire life.

Smith goes back to his tactile exploration of Sam’s shoulders, swooping his hands in broad, soothing patterns from the nape of Sam’s neck all the way down to the swell of his ass. He brings his fingers up to brush against the ends of Sam’s hair, then runs a hand over his sideburns, Smith’s perfectly manicured fingernails lightly scritching down the sides of his face. “What’s the deal with these anyway?” he asks lazily. “Is it an Elvis thing? Or are you just a big fan of 70s porn?”

Sam smiles and lifts his face from Smith’s shoulder, then he shrugs. “My dad hated long hair when I was a kid. He used to be a marine and he’s really into the whole,” he waves a hand about vaguely, “military aesthetic, y’know? So I figured that this was the best way to piss him off.”

“Sticking it to the old man, huh?” Smith laughs, voice deep and peaceful and sated. He hums affectionately and twines his fingers through the probably sweaty and really gross strands. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” Sam grins, too stupidly elated to play coy. “Guess I’ll keep it then.”

“Yeah, you better,” Smith threatens teasingly. He tightens his fist and tugs Sam up to his face. “Might come in handy, y’know,” he says lowly, lips barely brushing over Sam’s. “Lets me put you wherever I want you.”

Sam swallows back a heated moan at the words and leans forward to close the distance between them instead. “Maybe,” he agrees easily, pulling back after a thorough ravishing of Smith’s lips. Then he narrows his gaze and pitches his tone low. “Or maybe, I’ll be the one putting you where I want you.”

Smith does groan at that one, hitching his hips up before falling back to lie against the dark wood of his desk. “You’re gonna kill me, Sammy.” He raises an eyebrow and grins. “I hope you know that.”

Sam lets out a self-satisfied hum and follows him down, sprawling back out over Smith’s chest until he’s comfortable. “Well, I hope I’ll at least get a few fucks out of you first.” 

Smith laughs under Sam’s weight, bare stomach twitching under his own, and it’s intimate in a way that Sam has never experienced before. True connection. Like he knows what Smith is gonna do before he even does it. Like they’ve known each other their whole lives. Smith brings his arms up to wrap around Sam’s shoulders and Sam shifts into place before he’s even finished the movement. They fit like they were made for each other, and he lets out a silent chuckle at the thought. It would make sense why none of the soft, slender girls that he’d been with before had ever felt right. Because who knew Sam’s perfect woman would end up being a dude? He snorts. Granted—Smith is easily the prissiest dude that Sam’s ever laid eyes on—but still, decidedly male where it counts.

“You having your big, gay freak-out down there?” Smith asks affectionately. And Sam feels another strong tug of emotion at the fact that he knows him this well already.

He tilts his head up until he can make out Smith’s face. “I’d say it’s a solid ‘three’ on the terror scale.”

Smith squints down at him. “What? Really?” He makes a contemplative noise and rests his head back against the wood, running his hand across the sweep of Sam’s shoulders. “I think I cried in my room for months when I figured it out, and I wasn’t even fourteen yet.”

“Well obviously, I’m just superior in every possible way.”

Smith scoffs and trails his fingers up Sam’s spine. “Sure,” he says, painfully sarcastic. “That, or the years of staring at a computer screen has left you functionally brain dead.”

Sam smiles against Smith’s neck. “Yeah, it could totally be that.”

They’ll have to get up soon. It’s getting late—hell, it’s already late—and they need to book it out of here before any early birds come in and discover half of a security guard in a blood-soaked elevator. He supposes it’ll be chalked up as yet another one of the tragic Sandover suicides, but better to not be found on the scene, just in case. The only issue is, Sam doesn’t want to move. Not yet, anyway. He kind of just wants to stay in this perfect little bubble forever, Smith’s arms around him and the edge of his desk digging permanent grooves into the meat of Sam’s thigh.

Although…packing up for the road might actually be kind of fun. Exciting even. Sam can go through Smith’s closet and sneakily toss out most of the douchey office wear. Because there’s only so many pairs of suspenders that one man should be allowed to own. He’ll probably let Smith keep one or two solely for bedroom use though. Sam’s still a little put out that he didn’t get a chance to play with the ones he’d been wearing earlier. Next time, for sure. And they’ll also definitely need a better car. Sam doesn’t own one, and Smith’s Prius could barely fit the both of them on the way to and from his apartment. Maybe something vintage. Sexy and sleek and black. Sam grins. They’ll have to make sure it has a decently-sized backseat too. Smith will probably make a fuss about the gas mileage though. He’ll have to do his best to convince him that the extra space will be worth a few more bills. Hell, Sam will do as much convincing as he needs to. Any and every chance he gets.

Sam smiles and reaches up to trail a hand over Smith’s jaw, smooth and clean shaven—and suddenly, it seems completely wrong. It’s hot in a weird way, like the suspenders, but it feels off for some reason. Sam gets a flash of leather in his mind’s eye, and lets himself sink back into his weirdo dreams or visions or whatever the hell they are. Imagines Smith, one eyebrow cocked rakishly behind the smoking barrel of a gun, and then has to grab onto the other man’s hips to keep himself from swooning into a big puddle on the floor. Smith chuckles at the action, but doesn’t do anything more than drop a kiss to the crown of his head. Sam glances up at Smith, looking deliciously debauched and surprisingly vulnerable without any of the obnoxious rich guy trappings. Maybe if he asks real nice, Sam can get him to throw on a pair of jeans every once in a while. And a leather jacket or two. It should be simple enough to convince Smith to pick up a few guns along with the rest of the ghost-hunting stuff they’re gonna need. And, god would he look irresistible with a pistol in his hands. Deadly and beautiful and perfect. Everything that Sam could ever want.

He breathes out against Smith’s chest as he tries to reel all of his emotions back in. How is any of this even possible? He’s never felt this way before. Ever. Not about Madison, not about anyone. It’s like every one of his nerve endings is plugged in and cranked up to eleven. Every single move that Smith makes seems more real than anything in Sam’s entire life ever has before. Which is just absolutely bonkers crazy.  

Sam jolts at the sudden realization that this is the man he wants to spend every second of the rest of his life with, and then he has to blink away the unexpected wetness in his eyes. He wants to say something crazy, like, “I think I’m in love with you.” He wants to say, “Let’s drive to Massachusetts and get married tonight.” But he can’t get either sentence past the lump of nerves suddenly lodged in his throat—which, considering how briefly they’ve known each other—is probably for the best. So instead, Sam just stares up at Smith from beneath his eyelashes, open and pleading, and quietly says, “Run away with me.”

And Smith’s expression, which had steadfastly situated itself somewhere around dopily infatuated all night long, takes less than a second to crumple completely. He fixes Sam with a desperate, broken look and lets out a heartsick sound. “Sammy…”

And nothing is worth more than this—than them—not even his pride. So Sam pushes himself up to his elbows and begs again, fingertips trailing over Smith’s bare sides and lips brushing along the edge of his sharp jaw. “Dean. Run away with me.” He presses kiss after burning kiss to Smith’s gorgeous lips and strokes a thumb along the sweep of his gel-hardened hairline. “Please,” he whispers. “I need you. It would be so good. We could be anything—everything—together. We could do something that matters. Dean…please.”

Smith lets out a tremulous breath and shuts his eyes. Then he says, “…I can’t.”

And every single one of Sam’s hopes and dreams comes crashing down around his shoulders. The sappy, naïve vision he’d had for their future evaporates and dries up before his eyes. Even his heart thumps sluggishly in his chest, cold and dying now that its reason to keep on beating has been ripped away. “Can’t, or won’t?” Sam asks dully.

Smith sighs unhappily. “Both.” Then he shifts up until he’s propped up on one elbow. “C’mon, Sammy—”

“It’s Sam.”

Smith pauses at the correction. “Sam,” he says, painfully polite. And it hurts. “It can be good here too,” he coaxes. Sam doesn’t say a word, so Smith lifts a playful eyebrow. “So you’re crazy. Who cares? I can do crazy.” He smiles and brushes a knuckle over one of Sam’s sideburns. “Look, I’m serious. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing, here.”

“Yeah, it kinda does,” Sam says. He pushes himself off of Smith’s desk and out of the man’s arms.

“Sammy. Sam. It’s like 4am. C’mon.”

Sam moves about silently as he pulls on the discarded pieces of his uniform, doing everything he can to violently ignore the remaining traces of the lubricant, sticky between his thighs. He makes a beeline for the door the instant he’s decent, fully planning on leaving forever, and knowing that he’ll be right back at the office tomorrow morning anyway. Sitting in his cubicle and just waiting for his boss to come toss him some meager table scraps of affection. Because he’s pathetic. His job is pathetic and his life is pathetic, and how could he ever think that he could actually make a difference in the world? Like he’s some kind of ridiculous superhero with a comic book destiny. Sam knows that no matter how much he needs—really, truly needs—to continue what he started here earlier tonight…he won’t. He can’t. Because he can’t survive on his own now that he knows that Smith—that Dean—exists. Sam can’t be away from him. Not ever again. Not for one moment. No matter how little his feelings are returned.

And Dean doesn’t say a single word to stop Sam from leaving. So he does. Walks right through the office door and out into the dark. Again. Only this time, he actually makes it all the way back to his shitty, empty apartment.

That night, alone in his bed, Sam dreams of strong, calloused palms pressing bruises into his inner thighs. And of a man that he wasn’t able to save.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first time Dean Winchester nearly shits his pants is three weeks, five days, and two hours after a winged, self-righteous dick drops him and his brother into an office in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio and steals all of their memories.

And apparently, it wasn’t enough to just watch them run around like chickens with their heads cut off. No, that wasn’t good enough for the God Squad. The angels weren’t completely satisfied until they’d made Dean flamingly gay. Chocked his head full of explicit memories of dudes and had him mincing and prancing around all over the place, panting after his brother like some kind of lovesick fool. Because he’s sure it was just hilarious. The entire Heavenly Host is probably laughing their asses off right now and he’s stuck listening to some holy suit blab at him until he feels like picking up one of Smith’s pens and jabbing it into his own brain. Dean digs his (fucking manicured) fingernails into his palms until the pain distracts him from his memories of the last month.

“So,” the angel—Zachariah—says, winding down from his self-important monologuing. “You with me? You wanna go steam yourself another latte?” Dean can’t hold back a bitter noise at the comment, but the angel doesn’t break eye contact. “Or are you ready to stand up and be who you really are?”

Dean pauses for a long moment.

Then he takes a deep breath, pastes a tight-lipped smile on his face, and says, “How about you cram it where the sun don’t shine?” Zachariah lets out an exasperated sigh at the insult and Dean tugs at his tie, loosening it until he can breathe and undoing the button digging into his throat. “I already told your buddy, Cas. I’m done.” He flicks out a dismissive hand. “Fight your own damn apocalypse.” Dean shifts around the desk to make for the door, but Zachariah just chuckles darkly.

“What,” he drawls, “you think we’re done here? You say ‘no thanks’ and that’s it?” He flicks a speck of dust off of his jacket, devastatingly casual, then fixes him with a threatening glare. “How’d you like to try again, Dean? ‘Cause I can do this over and over. The diet of rice milk and Bachelorette marathons not enough for you? What would you say to being a garbage man next time? Or a streetwalker?”

Dean clenches his rage between his teeth and throws on his most infuriating smirk. “Hey,” he snarks humorlessly. “You ass clowns already Queer as Folk-ed me. The rest doesn’t sound like anything I ain’t gonna be able to handle.”

Zachariah smiles wide at Dean’s bravado, fake and toothy like he’s running for office. “Okay,” he purrs, far too solicitous to be genuine. “Fair enough. In fact, that actually might be right up your alley, huh, kiddo?” He clears his throat and adjusts the pale tie around his neck a little. “After all, Janice Nash sure wasn’t complaining out behind that truck stop back in ’98. Oh, and don’t forget about the time that Sam needed those new soccer cleats for school and Mrs. Roberta Carlson was more than willing to let you earn a few bucks around her house.” Zachariah practically preens as he throws Dean a cruel grin. “And of course, we can’t leave out Priscilla Mills. She’s the one who paid for Sam’s 16^th birthday present, after all.” He lifts a placid eyebrow. “A signed copy of Ender’s Game, wasn’t it?” 

Dean flinches as the shameful moments are dredged up from his past, then growls. “How did you…?”

Zachariah plants his hands on Dean’s—Smith’s—desk and looms over him. “I’m an angel, Dean Winchester,” he threatens darkly. “So don’t test me.” Then he pops right back up, peppy as a camp counselor. “But hey, speaking of that precious little ragamuffin of yours,” he says offhand. “I’d love to know what your thoughts are on Sammy being the one turning tricks.” Zachariah pins Dean with a razor-edged stare and the Mr. Rogers shtick melts away like sugar. “That sound like fun to you, Dean? Drop baby brother into the roughest neighborhood I can find, give you boys the full Memento again, and see if you can figure out how to salt and burn Casper the Friendly John before Sam ends up having to put his new talents to use?”

Dean holds the glare, fists trembling with rage, but there’s nothing he can say in his defense. And he definitely can’t take a swing the way he so desperately wants to. Not when Sam is on the hook. So Dean doesn’t say a word, but he refuses to back down either, and Zachariah can read whatever he damn well wants to into the moment.

Apparently, he likes what he sees because the angel shifts back into pure geniality at his compliance, messing with one of the metal balls on Smith’s Newton’s Cradle. It clacks sharply against the rest when he finally releases it. “Y’know,” he says, all cheerful optimism again, “given how this little dress rehearsal turned out, you might end up being the one to actually reap those benefits. Huh, champ?” He shakes his head a little ruefully, like he’s chastising himself. “I mean, I handcraft you the prissiest, most uptight memory template I can get my hands on and you still somehow end up finding your way into your brother’s pants.” Zachariah chuckles lightly. “I gotta tell you, Dean. I have seen my share of human debauchery—believe you me—but even Lot’s daughters didn’t have squat on you two.” He reaches out and yanks at Dean’s tie, adjusting it until it’s just the wrong shade of too tight again. “So whaddya say, Dean Winchester? You gonna play ball?”

Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple grinding against the knot of the stupidly expensive silk. “Sure,” he chokes out, trying for sarcastic. “I mean, you just lied to me for a month straight, threatened my brother, and then called me a whore. But yeah, you guys seem on the up and up.”

Zachariah sighs and releases Dean’s tie, disappointed. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he chants. “Of course I wouldn’t want to cause you or your brother any undue harm if I didn’t have to. I’m just showing you how easy everything can be if you decide to fall in line. We’re on your side, Dean.” He spreads his arms. “After all, we are angels.”

Dean chokes back another acidic retort, and Sam chooses that exact moment to come bashing into the room, brandishing a slightly dented fireplace poker in front of him like a broadsword. He’s still wearing the stupid yellow polo, but one brief glimpse at his eyes, and Dean can see his brother behind them for the first time in weeks.

“Ah, Sam,” Zachariah croons happily. “Speak of the devil.” He tosses Dean another shallow grin and steps over to his brother. “So…final answer, Regis? You guys feel like taking another extended vacation?” Zachariah raises his hand, pointing a finger directly at Sam’s forehead, and Dean sends all of Smith’s paperwork flying as he wildly scrambles around the desk.

“Don’t!” he barks. Dean physically shoulders his way in between the two until Sam is safely at his back, and then he glares daggers at the angel.

“Hey,” Zachariah says calmly. “No need to shout. Just checking we’re on the same page.” He takes a few non-threatening steps back, generously giving them their space, and throws on his slimy politician face again. “We are on the same page,” he says smoothly. “Aren’t we, Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean grits out. “We’re on the same fucking page.”

“Fantastic.” Zachariah claps his hands together once, and then he’s gone.

Sam blinks at the empty space for a moment, then lets the tip of his impromptu weapon sag down to rest against the hard wood flooring. “Was that a—?”

“Douchebag with wings?” Dean snarks. “Yeah. It was.” He steps away from his brother now that the threat has vanished, and drags himself back to the desk on the other side of the room.

“So that would explain all the…” Sam twirls a finger at his temple and Dean throws him a tight smile in return. “Right,” Sam breathes. “Makes as much sense as anything else, I guess.”

Dean yanks open each of Smith’s drawers in order, searching for anything that might be even the slightest bit useful. “Apparently Cas’s Little League team thought I needed some help bowing and scraping to their every demand.” He rolls his eyes bitterly. “Can’t imagine why.”

Sam frowns and strides up to the other side of the desk. “Shit, Dean. Are you okay though?” He leans across the wood and ducks his head to try and catch Dean’s gaze, oblivious to—or ignoring—the fact that Dean is refusing to meet him halfway. “Last I remember, you were in that hospital. And Alastair—” Sam swallows hard. “How do you feel?”

Dean slams the last drawer shut. “Peachy.” He turns his attention to the giant bookshelf along the wall and spits, “One angelic enema, just like the doctor ordered.” Sam doesn’t say a word, so Dean lets out an exhausted sigh and throws him a line. “How’d you get here so quick anyway? I figured you’d be halfway to the Whaley House after last ni—” He clears his throat and starts over. “After…what happened.”

Sam shuffles his feet a little and picks at the corner of Smith’s desk. “I was still in the building,” he says quietly. “Already on my way here, actually. I was gonna…” He trails off and refuses to finish the sentence.

Dean risks a quick glance. “Gonna…what?” he prompts.

“…I was gonna try and convince you to come with me again,” his brother sighs. Then he lets out a bitter laugh. “To hunt monsters.”

“Oh.” Dean shoves a miniature sculpture back into its spot on the shelf. “Well, congrats. Good job. Consider me all signed up.”

Sam’s lips twitch up into an almost-smile, a broken little curve across his face, and he makes a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood. “Your little spinny thing isn’t working,” he says, fiddling with the kinetic toy.

“Yeah, you broke it when— ” Dean cuts himself off and gives up on the bookshelf, making his way back around the desk. “It got broken,” he says dully.

“Dean,” Sam starts. And it’s that sincere voice of his. The earnest one that screams, ‘C’mon let’s talk about all of our feelings until you feel like gouging your own eyes out with a spoon.’ So Dean ignores him in favor of scoping through the file cabinets for Smith’s bank account information. He knows he’d put it somewhere a couple weeks ago, but can’t remember which cabinet it was exactly. “Dean,” Sam says again, adamant this time, and then he moves around the corner to try and cut Dean off at the pass. “Can we please just talk about this for one second?”

“No.” Dean avoids his brother’s gaze and slips around the other side of the desk, wishing it didn’t make him feel so much like a child throwing a tantrum.

Sam’s shoulders dip down in defeat and Dean resents the instant wave of guilt that washes over him at the motion. Every cell in his body is screaming at him to go comfort his brother, because they’re probably still all keyed-up from being Dean Smith for the whole last month. Dean takes half a step back toward Sam, then hardens his resolve and continues going through file folders. Their little Working Girl moment doesn’t change anything. The secrets and the lies and the distrust are all still there. The sneaking out at all hours and never talking about where he’s been and practicing his evil, demonic Hell-powers are all still there. Ruby is still there. Hanging in the air between them like she’s physically in the room. Leaning against the wall, one hip cocked out, as she glares at Dean with her sloe eyes. He can practically hear her smug, bitch voice echoing through his skull. 

“Sorry, Dean. Did you actually think he’d be yours again just ‘cause some angel with a bad suit and a petty grudge zapped the last six months away? I know you know it doesn’t work like that. Sam’s mine now, asshole. Has been for quite some time. And that’s not changing anytime soon. Not as long as Sam doesn’t want it to.” She’d be smirking at this point if she were really here. "I know it sucks to not be picked for the team, but what did you expect? I mean, really. You’re his brother.”

Dean finally finds the file he’d been looking for and slams the cabinet shut with way more force than necessary. The Ruby figment shimmers out of his brain until there’s nothing but thin air again and he pushes himself up from his knees. “I found the bank shit, Sam,” he says. “Might as well grab what we can before the angels realize they’ve left any loose ends.” He glances up at his brother, but Sam is staring at his computer screen, completely frozen. Dean waves his hand between them, but Sam doesn’t so much as flinch. “Sam. The fuck are you doing?”

“Dean,” Sam whispers numbly, shell-shocked. “This—” he slowly raises a finger to point at the monitor. “What is this?”

Dean casually flicks his eyes to his computer, and then his heart plummets into his stomach once he realizes what his brother must be looking at. He considers lying for a long moment, or running up and yanking the damn thing out of the wall, but the damage has already been done. So, the truth it is. “It’s nothing,” he says grimly. “Letter of Resignation. No big deal.”

“You were gonna…?” Sam wrenches his gaze away from the screen to meet Dean’s eyes. “You were gonna come with me? If that angel—”

“Zachariah.”

“If he hadn’t shown up…” Sam's eyes slide back to the word document. “You— He…” He shakes his head and corrects himself. “You, were gonna run away with me?”

“Yeah. Well.” Dean rounds the desk and punches the monitor off with his thumb. “Guess Smith was an idiot as well as a pussy. Let’s go, Sam.” He gives his brother his back as he stalks to the door and purposefully ignores the empty pit in his stomach—more from sorrow than from the lack of actual food for the last thirty days. All it took was one bad touch from an angel, and the weight of the entire world is instantly back on Dean’s shoulders. Although, at least the one good thing to come out of the immense heap of awfulness is the return of his experience and skills. Dean can now easily recognize the tentative nature of Sam’s ‘mopey’ gait from behind him, his brother dragging his feet as misery emanates from every pore of his body.

Dean Smith would never have been able to let that stand. He would have curled his fingers through the loops of Sam’s khakis and pulled them together until their hips locked. He would have drawn him down for a gentle kiss, affectionate and reassuring, intent on doing anything he could to make the kid feel better. Whatever it took. He’d have never stopped until Sam was grinning and blushing and resting his forehead against Smith’s own, love shining out from his eyes as he beamed down at him. If Dean Smith were still here, he would turn around right this second and gather Sam up into his arms. He’d instantly forgive him for everything he’s ever done, toss him into the back of his Prius, and take them cross-country to hunt ghosts. He would never let Sam out of his sight again for as long as they both lived.

But if Sam Wesson were still here, then there’d be nothing that he’d have to forgive in the first place.

Dean walks through the office door. He doesn’t look back once.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first time Sam Winchester almost quits his job is when he realizes that his brother will never forgive him.

They empty Dean Smith’s accounts. It’s the smart thing to do, and Dean had been so insistent on it that Sam hadn’t wanted to disagree. They leave the Prius in Sandover’s parking garage and hitch a ride all the way back to the Impala they left in Cheyenne because Dean refuses to drive the thing one more second if he absolutely doesn’t have to. He rips the pastel tie from his neck the first chance he gets too, and although Sam’s not a huge fan of his stupid, yellow shirt either, it feels like more of a nail in the coffin than it probably should.

They put Ohio behind them. Dean refuses to even think about considering the possibility of ever mentioning it, and Sam can’t seem to find a legitimate reason to bring it up. So he lets it go too. Shoves it down with all the rest of the stuff they don’t talk about anymore. Just one more straw to add to the ever-towering pile on their poor metaphorical camel.

Ruby meets him at a street corner, a few nights later, with a full flask of blood and a suggestive smile on her lips, but it doesn’t make him feel better the way he’d figured it would. Sam sends her away without the ever-more-frequent romp in the sheets (or romp against a brick wall in the alley) and waits until the taillights of her Mustang completely fade from view before he brings the flask up to his face, letting the cheap silver casing shine dully under the flickering streetlamps. He thumbs at the cap for a brief eternity, considers chucking the thing into one of the dumpsters lining the back alley behind him, but slips it into his jacket pocket all the same. The way he always does.

He goes back to the motel—to Dean—and they don’t talk about it. They watch crap TV and hustle pool and catch wind of a haunting in a comic book shop, and they don’t talk about it. They say everything and nothing, chat up and down the entire I-180, and they still don’t talk about it.

It isn’t until they come across the books that Sam finally gets the ammo that he’s been waiting for all this time.

He runs to his laptop the instant they find out about Supernatural and ‘Carver Edlund’ and all the freaky cult novels depicting every second of their lives. Dean plows right into one of the paperbacks, Sam pulls up his trusty search engine, and at first it isn’t about anything other than figuring out how any of this is possible. But then Sam finds the forums. And the blogs. And the fanfiction. He finds post after post describing the personal relationship he has with his brother. Way personal. Intimately personal. He finds stories written out about things they’ve done. About things they haven’t done but that Sam aches to try. About things he’s never even considered and—wow, do some of these fans have active (and slightly terrifying) imaginations.

At first, he thinks it’s just a reaction to the series. Fans regurgitating up bits of plots from the books and latching onto whatever relationship is laid out for them. But then, it isn’t in any of the books. Dean confirms that the only sex scenes this Carver Edlund guy ever wrote out were the ones they had with women. All of the incest is neatly swept under the rug, which Sam guesses makes sense considering that it might not be the most digestible plotline for a series of novels. 

So… Sam turns back to scrolling through the message boards. So that means that all of these stories were written by fans who saw something between them. Who didn’t even know it was real, but felt the strength of their stupid angst through the pages anyway. Who know that they’re brothers and don’t care. These fans have read their history and their mistakes and their shortcomings, and they still believe that they belong together. It’s the first shot of hope that Sam has felt in a long time, and it fills up his lungs like air.

Sam quickly throws together a shoddy, poorly thought-out plan and brings it together with a few keystrokes. Leaves a tab open on a chat room page that talks about the ‘slash’ stuff. Glues his eyes to the screen in front of him as he thinks of a way to get his brother to look at it.

But Dean ends up doing all the work for him. “This is freaking insane,” he calls out from his makeshift reading nook. “How’s this guy know all this stuff?”

“You got me.” Sam keeps his eyes on the screen, casual. He has to draw his brother in, let him think it’s his idea.

Dean starts complaining about the book he’s reading, something about a racist truck, so it must be the case they’d handled with Cassie back in Cape Girardeau. Then he stands up and walks over to Sam—yes, c’mon, just a little closer—and starts asking about the publisher. 

Sam answers his brother's questions, rattles off the dry facts about dates and bankruptcies…then spins the laptop toward Dean, easy as he can. “The last one, ‘No Rest for the Wicked’, ends with you going to Hell.” Please, please take the bait. You know you’re curious.

Dean glances at the title listing. “I reiterate. Freaking insane.” He trails his finger along the trackpad and Sam holds his breath as his brother finally clicks through to the next tab, the one that Sam had set up just for him. “Check it out,” Dean grins, not looking away from the page. "There’s actually fans…” He skims through a few of the postings, reads some aloud, and it’s taking every single shred of willpower Sam has not to shove Dean’s hands away and scroll down the page himself.

“Keep on reading,” he urges, crossing his arms to keep himself from digging his fingernails into his thighs. “It gets better.”

And Dean does. He finally does. Comes across the post Sam hoped he would, flattered at first that he has fans, and then— “What’s a ‘slash’ fan?”

Sam’s mouth goes dry and he glances up at the room beyond his brother’s head, too nervous for eye contact. “As in Sam-slash-Dean,” he says, a little too loudly for his attempt at laid back. Then he flicks his gaze back to his brother. “Together.”

Dean eyes reflexively jerk to meet his, caught out. He holds the gaze for a long time, both of them bluffing and dueling with nothing other than eye contact and telepathic screaming. “Like, together together?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. Exactly.

“They do know we’re brothers, right?”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.” Please, please. It doesn’t matter to them, it doesn’t have to matter. Let it not matter.

“Oh, come on. That…” Dean finally breaks the gaze, flicker of something in his eyes as he turns back to the screen. He sets his jaw. “That’s just sick.” Dean snaps the laptop closed and shoves it away. 

And Sam’s heart crumbles into dust.

“We’ve got to find this Carver Edlund,” Dean continues on, unnoticing or uncaring that Sam’s suddenly a lot less invested in the conversation.

“...Yeah,” he says dully, not lifting his gaze from the pale green table. “That might not be so easy.”

“Why not?”

Sam leans forward to rest his elbows on the plastic. “No tax records, no known address,” he lists by rote. “Looks like ‘Carver Edlund’ is a pen name.”

“Somebody’s gotta know who he is.” Dean slaps his hand against his leg and shoves away from the table, careless as the wind. He steps back over to his bed and starts rounding up the scattered books, closing all the half-read ones and smoothing the bent spines.

“Dean,” he starts, but his brother doesn’t let him finish.

“Alright, let’s head out,” Dean says too loudly, only the slightest flinch to give him away. “Time’s a-wasting.”

“Dean,” he tries again. “C’mon. We really need to talk about this.”

Dean’s shoulders go rigid as he slowly turns to face Sam, fixing him with the coldest stare he’s ever seen. “Talk about what?” he says warningly.

Sam holds his gaze and ignores the threat. “About us. About what happened back at Sandover.” Dean makes a sharp, angry noise and throws his hands up into the air, but Sam steamrollers over him. “We can’t just ignore everything and then hope it’ll go away. Life doesn’t work like that.” He raises his eyebrows and takes a moment to choose his words. “Obviously there are certain emotions still at play here,” he says carefully. “On both our ends. And—” Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I know things have been…tough between us ever since you got back—”

“Yeah, I wonder why that could be,” Dean mutters bitterly.

Sam clears his throat pointedly and chooses to ignore his brother’s interruption. “But,” he continues, “I don’t see why we have to keep pretending that this doesn’t exist.” He turns his gaze on his brother, pleading. “It’s not gonna just go away, Dean. And on my end, it’s never going to go away.” He doesn't blink. “Not ever.”

Dean stands there for a good couple of seconds, unmoving. He swallows, and Sam’s eyes unconsciously snap to the bob of his throat before flicking back to his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says coolly, then turns back to his bed. “We’ll head over to the publisher’s, they’re our best bet for tracking this Edlund guy down.”

“Dean, stop it. Why can’t we just talk about this?” Sam lunges forward, clamping a hand around his brother’s forearm so he can’t do something stupid, like physically run out the door to avoid the conversation. “Dean. Please.”

“Because brothers don’t do that, Sam!” Dean roars. He wrenches his arm out of Sam’s grasp, easy, now that Sam’s fingers have gone numb. “It’s disgusting and it’s wrong.” His eyes burn like fire. “So don’t ever bring it up again,” Deans says slowly, “and we’ll be just fine.” He grabs his jacket from where it’s heaped over the dresser and stomps across the room, pausing at the open entryway. “If you’re not with me in five, I’m leaving without you.” The door shuts behind him with a final click.

Sam wants to go back. He wants to go back to that night in the office when they didn’t know who they were and nothing hurt and Dean actually touched him the way that he used to. He wants to throw his life away and become Sam Wesson again. Fuck ghost hunting. He wants to work in a shitty, cramped cubicle. He wants to drag himself through boring phone calls all day long. He wants to go home to Dean and his douchey chrome apartment and spend every night curled up on that black leather sofa as Dean tortures him with terrible romantic comedies.

The flask is still sitting in his breast pocket—cruel and judgmental and oh, so heavy—even from halfway across the room. Dean doesn’t even know. It’s about five thousand times worse than any of the other stuff that his brother already hates him for, and Dean doesn’t even know about the worst thing of all. He’d never forgive Sam if he found out. Not in a hundred years on Earth and a thousand in Hell after that. If he knew, he’d pack his shit and leave. Wouldn’t even look at Sam for one more second than he had to, he’d just grab everything and go, drive across the horizon and never come back. If Sam slips up even once, he’ll never see his brother again for as long as he lives.

Sam thinks about tossing it one more time. Striding across the room and grabbing the cheap tin and flinging it out the open window. Deleting Ruby’s contact info from his phone and sprinting the other way every time he even thinks he sees a yellow sports car. He could throw the thing into the nearest trash can and tell Dean everything—everything except that, he can never tell him that. He could beg for forgiveness, slip to his knees and cry and promise that he’ll do whatever Dean asks of him for the rest of their lives.

And Lilith would break the seals. Lilith would walk free, uncontested. Lilith would end the world.

Sam walks across the room. He pulls the flask out of his jacket pocket and carries it into the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him.

By the time Sam meets Dean at the car, four minutes later, he feels calmer. He slips inside quietly and doesn’t bring up Sandover again. His hands and his face are clean. He’d washed them three times each, just to make sure that there was no trace of blood left behind. Dean glances at him once, then he turns the key in the ignition and they drive to the publisher’s office.

That night, Sam dreams about a man in suspenders and a tie. The whiff of expensive pomade and the click of starched leather shoes across an office floor. He dreams of smooth palms and soft hands, and of a Letter of Resignation stamped in black and white font across the fuzzy glow of a new computer monitor. 

Sam dreams of Dean Smith.

He dreams of a man who had loved him.