Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by a bunch of heartless network suits.
Summary: Sam and Dean make out in the rain, unaware that Bobby is watching.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to miss_begonia this fic was betaed most amazingly--any mistakes are my own.
Notes: This story was written because miss_begonia wasn't feeling too hot, so I churned out a little snippet and then she ordered me to write it into a real fic or else. Well, actually no, I don't think she needs to threaten to get her point across.
They’d walked to the bar because it was only six blocks away from the motel and Sam had bitched about the environment and rising gas prices until he’d relented. Brilliant idea. Now they were paying for it with a surprise downpour, and the Nebraska prairie heat had inspired them to leave off their jackets. He ran through the rain, only steps ahead of Sam, leaping through puddles and trying not to slip on sidewalks made slick by a month’s residue of oil and dirt.
He looked back at Sam, whose hair was plastered to his face, and laughed. “This is all your fault, you know.”
Sam poked him. “Ah yes, I made it spontaneously rain after a month of near drought.”
“Could be a new layer to your psychic powers.” Dean said over his shoulder and then cursed as he stepped in a pothole brimming with water that had been made nearly invisible by the night.
“Oh, fuck off!” Sam replied in between laughs, stopping beside his brother to catch his breath. His shirt was plastered to his skin, delineating every muscle. He pulled it away from his chest with a sucking pop, but within seconds it was back to being painted on his skin. He looked up to find Dean staring at him.
“See somethin’ you like?” he asked as he wiped rain and hair out of his eyes.
Dean expression grew lascivious for a second, before turning merely mischievous. “Last one to the motel is the bottom!”
“Dean! You’re not allowed to pervert childhood games!”
But it was too late—Dean had already taken off running. Sam huffed out an exasperated breath and then sprinted after him, splashing straight through the puddles. Dean was fast—he hadn’t been a running back on the football team in high school for nothing—but Sam’s long legs ate up distance in a way that Dean’s never could. He caught up with his brother, grabbing his brother’s shoulder and yanking him around.
Sam pressed in close, the sodden clothes making an audible squelch as they met. Dean was laughing near hysterically, breathless and flushed. Sam smiled down at him and pressed his mouth to the water sliding down his brother’s neck in rivulets. Dean blew out a breath and ran his fingers through Sam’s wet and tangled hair. When Sam pulled away he kissed him for real, unselfconscious and sweet, beer and hard-candy on Sam’s lips.
Sam backed him into the trunk of a tree, drawing their bodies flush, and Dean threw his head back on a moan as Sam slipped a thigh between his legs. His sooty eyelashes gleamed with crystalline drops of water against the smooth arc of his cheek bones. The light of the streetlamp filtered through the branches along with the occasional water drop. Sam watched him, throat exposed to his ministrations, rose-petal lips parted.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, soft enough for Dean to dismiss it as incoherent ramblings. He ran the tip of his tongue along his brother’s jaw line, lips turning up at the corners as Dean arched into it.
Dean’s hands were working ineffectively to get his shirt off, soaked material resisting him. He pushed his hands under the hem, dragging the cotton upwards to force the buttons apart.
“Don’t, Dean,” Sam put a hand on tops of Dean’s stopping his motions. “Not in public.”
Dean laughed, grinding himself harder against Sam. “I’m already molesting my brother where everybody can see. Who cares if he has a shirt on or not?”
Dean had no idea as to who everybody who could see included, but he might have re-evaluated his actions if he had. Bobby had been sitting at the table next to the motel window, having told Sam and Dean to go off and enjoy themselves at the Irish Pub a few streets over. He’d been reading over a puzzling document and drinking a cup of sludge strong enough to stand a horse-shoe upright in when he’d seen Sam and Dean come running down the street to escape the near torrential downpour.
He laughed as he watched Sam chase his older brother across the public park in front of the motel, easily catching up with him. Those boys didn’t get much chance to behave like normal young people, let alone brothers. He was just taking a big sip of coffee, ready to turn back 17th century trial accounts, when he saw Sam pull Dean around and plant one on him.
Dean let him.
Suddenly he was jetting French roast all over the documents and staring open-mouthed and wide-eyed like a fish. Not much surprised Bobby. He watched with morbid fascination as Dean leaned into his brother, wrapping strong arms around the taller man and licking his way into Sam’s mouth.
He looked down at the now empty mug in his hand and then back up, where Sam and Dean continued to kiss in the rain without a care in the world.
“Huh,” he said and set the mug down on the window sill. He sank against his chair and thought back over the years.
He remembered when Sam was fourteen and Dean had a date with a local girl. Sam had let his brother go with a wide smile and a word of encouragement and then sat staring at the wall, pen poised over his biology homework for hours but never leaving a mark.
When Sam was sixteen, John had dropped them off for a hunt that he wanted to handle on his own. They were having the worst heat wave in forty years. It was too hot in the house, and the boys lazed about in the shade of the trees about a mile out from the junkyard. When they came back in the late evening for a dinner of barbecue chicken and corn on the cob, Dean’s skin had the perfect pale outlines of Sam’s hands on his chest and shoulders; everywhere else had burned dull red. Bobby had teased Sammy for being sloppy with the sunscreen and the other boy had coughed and sputtered while Dean sprinted to get a shirt.
He thought back further to the time that Bobby had gone along with John for a normal garden-variety haunting after Dean graduated from the 8th grade. The boys had gotten separated from them. When they found them again Dean was unconscious with Sam wrapped around his entire body, tears wet on his cheeks. There was a gash on the older boy’s temple and his skin was pale, John had scooped his boy up and ran back to the car, leaving Bobby with a distraught Sam. What happened, he asked the ten year old and Sam had looked at him with a sudden rage. The ghost, Sam had whispered, it was the ghost, and it’s all Dad’s fault.
Love. Real, honest to god, mountain-moving, life-spanning love. It was there, it had always been there. If that was how they found it, then he would let them have it. After all, you never forgot your first love.
Dean and Sam walked in moments later, cheeks red, clothes still soaking but unable to hide their smiles. He shook himself from his thoughts and took a look around the room. Time to hit the road, he decided, gathering his stuff together.
“Well boys, looks like you don’t need me anymore, I’ll just be heading back now.”
He walked to the door, fully intent on leaving them alone to do whatever it was that they did.
“Yeah, thanks, Bobby!” Dean called from the bathroom, his comment accompanied by the wet smack of his shirt hitting the tiled floor.
“Right, well, bye!” he replied, opening the door and preparing himself to make a run through the storm.
Sam lifted the corner of one soggy 300 year old piece of parchment and pushed his hair off his forehead.
“Bobby? Why is there coffee all over my documents?”