Today I saw all of Oxford Street and Hyde Park and 221B Baker Street (Holmes/Watson forever!) and Regents Park and got lost and walked about seven miles and was very very tired. Then I came back and bathed for a million years and wrote balefully and lazy_daze this fluffy piece of fluffy smut because I got them lost and almost killed them and things.

In Oasis Plains, Oklahoma, it’s not exactly the first time Dean’s slapped Sam’s ass. Hell, it’s not even the second. Dean thinks the first time mighta been on Sam’s first day of high school; anyway, Sam wasn’t able to get a date until they moved halfway through Sam’s junior year.







People Livin' In Competition
Written at behest of balefully, because she's given me her bed to sleep in.
Beta-ed and aided and encouraged and whatnot by sevenfists





In Oasis Plains, Oklahoma, it’s not exactly the first time Dean’s slapped Sam’s ass. Hell, it’s not even the second. Dean thinks the first time mighta been on Sam’s first day of high school; anyway, Sam wasn’t able to get a date until they moved halfway through Sam’s junior year.

Pretty damn funny.

Anyway, Dean can smack Sam’s ass without thinking about it. It doesn’t mean anything. Some real estate chick thinks they’re boyfriends or whatever, give her a little show, why not? Chicks love the gay guys and if they want to try to convert him, that’s fine by Dean. They can convert him all night long.

Problem is, with Sammy, these things get out of control. Pranks, stupid games, ass-smacking—everything.

*

In Joplin, Missouri, some fourteen-year-old with a zit on her chin squints at them like she’s totally got their number; her mama’s warned her about guys like them and no way is she telling them a damn thing.

Dean looks over at Sam, thinking oh man, not this shit again, Jesus, just in time to see Sam’s face change. Whenever Sam’s about to pull something, his face changes that way: he looks proud of himself, pleased as hell, about five years old.

Sam puts his arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulls him close and gives his bicep a little squeeze. “Thanks for your time,” he says. “C’mon, baby, let’s get back to the car.”

“Dude, the hell was that?” Dean asks, slamming the car door shut behind him.

“Nothing,” Sam says.

As if butter wouldn’t melt. No way is Dean letting him get away with that shit.

*

In Woodburn, Oregon, the man at the gas station short-changes Sam, giving Dean a dark look as he comes up to the counter. Maybe it was the shit they were doing while trying to choose which Twizzlers to buy, regular or the ones that taste kinda like banana.

“There a problem here, darlin’?” Dean asks, running his thumb over the back of Sam’s hand, right there on the countertop.

Sam cracks up once they get out to the car—“Seriously, Dean, his face!”—while Dean settles back with his shades on to get some shut-eye, grinning from ear to ear.

*

In Ammon, Idaho, the motel they stop at for the night is run by a woman named Janie, who tries to give them a king instead of two queens. Before Dean can correct her, Sam’s got his hand in Dean’s back pocket, all smiles, all innocence.

“Thanks, Janie,” he says, and takes the key she offers them. “You serve continental breakfast here? Dean sure as hell likes his muffins in the morning.”

“I’ll put it on the card,” Janie says. She looks at them one last time and shakes her head before disappearing into the back.

“Likes his muffins in the morning?” Dean demands, and, “Jesus, Sammy, get your hand outta there.”

*

In Sturgis, South Dakota, the first motel they stop at won’t take them, even though there was a vacancy sign hung in the window when they pulled up.

Finding a place to stay the night sure was easier when Dean was with Dad, although it probably doesn’t help any that Dean was playing with Sam’s hair, too long and curling in the back, while asking for the room.

*

In Reserve, Louisiana, they’re looking into rumors of a haunted sugar refinery and their waitress the second night tells them their dessert’s on her.

“You’re real cute,” she says. Dean’s about to say thanks and what’re you doing tonight when she adds, “The both of you,” like it’s some kind of secret only the three of them share.

This might just end up a real pain in the ass, Dean thinks.

Sam grins, eating it right up. “I think so, too,” he says.

“That’s it?” Dean asks. “That’s how you’re stepping it up? Weak, dude. Real weak.”

“Just—just wait a second,” Sam says, watching the waitress slice them two enormous pieces of carrot cake. When she looks up she waves at them, and that’s when Sam leans in to kiss Dean’s neck, like actually nuzzling it.

“Aw, Jesus Christ,” Dean says.

“Hey,” Sam reasons. “Free food, right?”

“I hate carrot cake,” Dean says.

*

In Durant, Iowa, the only way Dean can actually one-up Sam’s freaked-out neck-nuzzle move is to kiss Sam right on the mouth.

Dean knows it.

Sam knows it.

Dean knows that Sam knows it, too, which is probably the worst part.

Since the sugar refinery job didn’t pan out, they’ve been waiting for it to happen, for someone else to make the assumption, both of them tense as all hell, Sam snapping at Dean when he eats a bag of potato chips one night for dinner and Dean snapping right back and the whole thing getting blown out of proportion like it can only get when Sammy’s involved.

In Durant, Iowa, right in the middle of Sam's seven-year sulk, this guy named Jim calls Sam a faggot in aisle five and Dean pushes his brother up against the toilet paper, kisses him right on the mouth.

Then, he kicks Jim’s ass.

*

In Roundup, Montana, Dean’s jaw still hurts and he still doesn’t want to talk about it.

*

In Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, Dean sees trouble no matter where they go, just waiting for someone to turn on them with the goddamn gay look and getting the feeling everyone’s staring at them that way, like they know he’s kissed his own freakin’ brother.

Dean flirts way too much with their waitress Tuesday afternoon.

Sam doesn’t talk to Dean all Tuesday night.

On Wednesday morning, it’s Sam who suggests that they go back to the same restaurant for lunch.

Dean shoulda known right then that something was up.

“Didn’t know he was your boyfriend,” their waitress says, letting the plate with Dean’s burgers go down hard on the table.

“It’s not nice to do that to someone, Dean,” Sam says. Dean looks over at him, sees the stubborn set to his jaw and the twist of his mouth, half mischief, half pure evil.

That’s when Sam slides his hand down into Dean’s lap, puts his hand on Dean’s dick through his jeans, just under the table where no one can see.

Shit, Dean thinks. He’s up to his eyeballs in it.

*

In Dooms, Virginia, Sam grabs Dean the second they get inside the hotel room, slams him against the wall, a little too hard for just getting Dean’s attention. Sam’s pissed. Dean can almost smell the anger on him.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says. “What the hell’s going on?”

“You’re asking me that?” Dean asks. “Are you outta your god-damn mind?”

“You can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen,” Sam says. His jaw goes tight and Dean can feel his uneven breath, still smelling a little like the Twix bar he had a few miles back.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “yeah, actually, I can. Dude. It was a—thing. You know how we get, you said it yourself, that prank shit always escalates and if it’s not you losin’ all your hair then it’s you puttin’ your hand on my—whatever. It’s over, OK? You win. That what you wanted to hear?”

“Shit,” Sam says. “Shit, Dean.” He clenches his fists around Dean’s t-shirt like he wants to tear a hole through Dean’s chest and then he lets go, abruptly, wheeling away and not looking back, already halfway across the room. “Fine. Right. I win. Awesome.”

He falls asleep that night curled up with his back to Dean.

Dean doesn’t fall asleep at all.

*

In Mullica Hill, New Jersey, Dean wakes up to see Sam over him, Sam’s hand on his chest, Sam’s knees between his legs. Dean arches against him before he can think, grinding against his thigh, and Sam pulls him close with a soft, needy sound. Sam kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth and then all of it, bites Dean’s lip like he’s chastising him.

Dean is hard like he hasn’t been since Sam jerked him off in Tennessee, hard like he didn’t want to be then, maybe even harder.

“This isn’t a joke, Dean,” Sam says. “Do I look like I’m fucking around?”

Dean looks up at him in time to see him lick his lips, mouth open, shoulders trembling. Sam’s hair is all messed around, falling into his eyes and curling at his sweaty neck. Dean feels a stupid, desperate reverence. His stomach is liquid-hot.

“No,” Dean says, pressing his hand against the back of Sam’s neck. Sam’s pulse thrums against his thumb and Dean swallows, pulls him down. “Guess not.”

*

In Hartford, Connecticut, when Sam follows Dean into the shower, Dean only protests a little bit.






And yet somehow my list of fics to write keeps getting longer. Once mistful gets here she will cure me. With a cap. In my ass.