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It's a forgettable day, sun glancing off the hood of the Impala, misting the chrome with gold as it sits in the lot of the local library. Dean slouches through book after book in the dusty back room, his presence a continuous grumble that's growing steadily louder. Sam is quiet, more focused on words and the sweet smell of musty pages.
When Sam looks up, Dean – Dean's pen is pressed against his lower lip, denting the fleshy surface as Dean chews mindlessly. It's a habit, born of boredom, and Sam finds himself watching the spit-slicked plastic out of the corner of his eye.
Each time Dean's tongue flickers it's like a line of heat painted down the back of Sam's neck.
The shift and roll of Dean's shoulders when he stands up startles Sam, but he hides it, ignoring the soft string of curses as Dean stretches, cracking his back.
"Sam. Got anything?"
"No."
"Let's break, man. We got one more week before it hits again."
Sam sighs. It's not the right thing to do, but it is the easiest thing to do. And Sam is tired of trying not to shove Dean's pen out of the way by kissing him until he begs. "Just remember, Dean, it won't be my fault when it shish-kebabs you."
Dean smirks, "Yeah, that's what you think. Wait'll I save your ass, then you'll be singing my praises."
Sam laughs. He tries not to notice when Dean puts the pen in his pocket.
***
The grooves around Dean's mouth are mysterious; they make him look like he's frowning, even when he's not. Sam wants to trace them with his fingertips, smooth them back inside like Dean is made of clay and Sam can shape his moods.
***
The diner they stop at is typical small town America: one room, breakfast all day, a few regulars who look like they've grown onto their seats. Sam settles himself at the far end of the lunch counter, and Dean plops down a moment later, spinning back and forth on the stool lazily, before leaning his elbows on his tired-looking placemat. He's flipping through a newspaper, circling dates and names with his pen, and Sam can't stop staring.
"Whaddya think, Sam? Definite pattern here: single men, living alone, all between the ages of 25 and 30. Pent up sexual energy, maybe? Something that feeds on it? Not a succubus, though; succubi don't eat their prey once they're done with 'em."
Sam lets his eyes flicker back and forth from Dean's hand, curled protectively around his chicken-scratch handwriting, to Dean's face. Dean's brows are drawn down, pushed together in the middle in a deep wrinkle.
"That's why I was thinking vengeful zombie."
"Did you find any grave dirt?" Dean checks Sam's reaction quickly. "I didn't think so, and they usually leave a few pieces behind. I don't know about you, but I didn't spot any lonesome toes, Sammy."
Sam watches Dean press the pen into his mouth, not even aware he's doing it and completely captivating in his innocence. He's still talking around it, throwing out ideas and demons that Sam doesn't hear.
The next thing Sam sees is the swell of a hip in a tight jean skirt, and a long, tan leg. A shit-eating grin, one that says, "Hey, sugar, got a minute?" moseys across Dean's face as his eyes follow the drape of lace over a full breast.
"Howdy, boys, what can I getcha?" Her voice snaps of bubble gum, with a husky overtone that only comes from a sore throat or a lot of effort. Sam wonders which one of them is worth the energy, and then looks at Dean and figures it was a stupid question, anyway.
"Honey, I'll take whatever you have to offer," Dean flirts right back, changing the angle of his mouth just that little bit so it brings out his dimples. Sam feels his face go hot, and he focuses on the pen still in Dean's hand.
She lets out a low laugh and bites her lip, "Why don't we start with what's on the menu and go from there."
"Sounds perfect," Sam cuts in, unable to stand it any longer, "Hamburger, extra fries, hold the ketchup, and a water, please." Sam hands her his menu, looks expectantly at Dean. Dean is staring at him, a carefully blank expression shadowing his eyes.
"Well, all right," she says, thrown off her game by the change in attitude. Sam feels a trickle of vindictive pride, before he clamps down on it. She turns to Dean. "How 'bout you?"
"I'll have a cheeseburger, lots of ketchup, extra pickles, a coke, and maybe later I'll try for dessert," he winks at her, letting his eyes linger as she preens under his gaze. Sam is going to be sick.
It's the sharp kick under the table after she leaves that brings Sam back, and he rubs his bruised shin angrily.
"Dean, what the hell!"
"I should be asking you that! I can't believe it."
"Dude, whatever. It's not my fault I don't want to sit here and watch you and some bimbo get into each other's pants."
Dean opens his mouth again, a choked sound coming out, before he shuts it with a snap and settles for an arctic-caliber icy glare. Sam doesn't care, he figures he's immune to those by now and Dean's just in denial.
When they pay the check, Dean leaves the pen on the table, forgetting it when he stuffs the rolled up paper in his back pocket and slides off the plastic stool. He gives their waitress a last wink and a lady-killer flash of teeth that's been tested at a thousand diners, a million seedy bars. Sam doesn't so much as nod in her direction, and he hides the pen in the front pocket of his jeans.
***
The police catch who they're looking for, and Sam lets out a sheepish laugh when he sees it on the news, blurry through cigarette smoke and the smell of stale peanuts. The pattern, the eating of body parts to hide evidence, even the age range, all belong to a schizophrenic's mind. His pupils are wide and accusatory through the window of the squad car, hair wild as he rocks in the back seat.
"Dean! Look, our hunt, it's a human."
Dean turns, and the TV colors his face pale and watery. "The sick fuck," he murmurs, and then shakes his head, grins, and says, "Can't win 'em all," before turning back to his game of pool.
Sam relaxes again on his barstool, beer piss-warm in front of him, and wonders when not finding an angry ghost became losing.
***
Every time Sam shifts in the passenger seat, he feels the pen poke at the crease of hip and thigh.
He knows it's blue and that the cap has the grooves of countless hours bitten around its edges. He knows that the marks are Dean's, same as his fingerprints, and that each one is like a record of their cases: this dent is for the wendigo, this frayed piece for the drowned boy, this scratch is for the shapeshifter.
Sam wonders how many scuffs he's caused.
When they pass a three-pump gas station, Dean punches in the tape that's already seated in the deck and starts humming along to Iron Maiden. Sam doesn't think about it when he takes the pen out and begins to taste.
The next time either of them speaks is dusk.
"That one?"
"Yeah, all right."
The motel has eight rooms, four parking spaces, and a field of grain behind it that looks like the ocean and makes Sam feel small and genuinely frightened for the first time in a long time.
He closes the curtains and doesn't tell Dean why.
Dean doesn't ask, but he chains the door and Sam feels safe sleeping without his back to the wall.
***
Sam wakes up from a nightmare, sweating and swallowing down his screams, and he almost pokes Dean in the eye with the pen when he lashes out wildly. Dean grabs his arm, pries the pen out of cramped fingers, and runs his hands along it in the dark.
"Is this… is this a pen?"
Sam's breath catches for a moment, and then it evens out again.
"Why the fuck are you snoozing with a pen? Look, I know you're really into the whole research gig man, but you're sleeping, and writing down dreams is so passé."
Sam still doesn't reply, but he twists onto his side facing Dean, the sheets sweaty under his hip. When he closes his hand around Dean's fist, a languid jolt of arousal rolls over his body.
"Stay. Help me sleep." Sam whispers, thinking of the other thing, always, but knowing that the truth, the bottom line, is already here.
Sam can almost hear Dean open his mouth, but then his brother shakes his head and swings legs up onto the bed, easing a shoulder under Sam's cheek as he calms. Before Sam drifts away again, he feels Dean sneak the pen back into the loose circle of Sam's fingers.
"Right here, bro. Right here for you." So quiet he almost doesn't hear it.
The rough soft press of Dean's lips to his forehead is a silent apology, and Sam smiles as Dean strokes the hair back from his face, again and again. Later, Sam might make his move, might swirl his tongue across Dean's throat and taste the sin and the restraint unfurling, feel his brother's darkest secret. Later, he might return the pen, bear the teasing, steal it again.
But not now. Now is silence, night, and the oceanic swells of grass outside their window, undulating stalks and brotherly bonds deeper than the water could ever be.