Hoodie Time, Comment Fic Meme: Simple as Pie

[jackfan2]

Written for the hoodie_time Dean h/c comfort meme

TITLE: Simple As Pie
AUTHOR: jackfan2
GENRE Gen
RATING: PG13
WORD COUNT: about 5,581 words
WARNINGS/SPOILERS: No spoilers but Sam finds himself in a compromising position with his brother, well, sort of his brother. It's more crack than fic.
SUMMARY: adrenalineshots PROMPT- Ghost of a male stripper... err... exotic dancer, is possessing men and dragging them back to his former club to give one last big show. The fact that all the victims so far have been thirty year old men with light hair and green eyes makes Sam wonder how wise it is for him and Dean to take the job. Dean assures him absolutely nothing will go wrong.

Dean is quickly proven wrong.



For my good friend adrenalineshots just happened to have a birthday when I finished this. No seriously, it wasn't premeditated. At all. Whatsoever. Not one bit.
Would this face lie to you?

Simple as Pie

"Sam, absolutely nothing's going to go wrong," Dean assured his brother through the phone. It was cold, rainy and wet, typical Fall in Chicago and he hiked his collar up around his neck. "We have a plan, let’s just stick to it."

"A sucky plan, you mean."

"Sam--"

"Dean, we're going in blind here and I don't like it," Sam argued on the other side of the phone.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Not completely. Look, we know Paul Taylor was cremated. He worked downtown--"

"He was an accountant for a plush accounting firm on the upper west side. Not... this part of town."

"Yeah, so," Dean conceded, looking around at the run down buildings, "maybe it's a little seedy." The phone was growing warm against his ear and this conversation we heating up even faster.

"A little?"

"We know enough," Dean stopped. "Taylor died in this area and every year, on the anniversary of his death, which is tonight, some poor, good looking guy, bites the dust and it always happens around here, so..."

"Dean, it's possessing men," Sam barked in a loud hoarse whisper, "before it kills them."

"So," Dean barked back. "Dude, it's just a ghost." He aimed his flashlight deeper into the dark alley. "Would you relax?" When he was sure his leg would still support his weight, he moved on, limping on the shiny, wet surface of the street running between the buildings. Damn rain.

"Dean you--" Sam cut off with a huff. Even with the pain in his leg, Dean couldn't help but grin. Sam hated being placated. "I will not relax. It's not just a ghost. It's more powerful that your typical spirit, and we have no clue why. Using you as bait? Dude, this is a seriously bad idea."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean stayed alert, even if his tone was light. "Heard you the first thirty times. Don't worry, we've snuffed a thousand ghosts. And besides, what else we gonna do, huh? Someone's gotta be bait and since it targets guys who look like me..." he offered a smug smile, even if it was only for himself, and shrugged. "Well, I'm 'what's for dinner'."

Sam was quiet a moment. "You can hardly walk."

Dean grimaced when his leg seemed to hear and echo that declaration. Knifing pains shot up and down his flesh. "I'm not walking..." he groaned. "I'm limping and it’s not like I'm going to be running from this thing. Once I've made contact--"

"I hate this."

"Once I've made made contact, he, or me, well, me and he--"

"Dean!"

"Fine, we lead you to wherever it's been killing its victims. We chill there, long enough for you to hone in on what's got this thing tied to this plane of existence. Once you smoke it, the spirit's sent packing and we're home free. Simple as pie."

"Dean, since when has any hunt we've ever been on been simple as pie?”

Dean opened his mouth to argue that, only to find he had no argument. "What's got you so spooked on this one, anyway?" He decided to change the topic.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"The fact that we don't have enough information, for one."

"We've worked with less."

"Okay, your leg for another."

"Jesus, Sam..." Dean sighed.

"No. That black dog nearly ripped your leg to the bone, Dean, you should have gone to the hospital and you definitely should not be on your feet. Hell, you shouldn't even be out of bed."

"Can't be helped, man. This thing kills like clock-work and the clock says it's gonna kill within the next three days. Once it possesses me, you follow and we do our jobs or it's going to kill someone else, you know that."

"What if it gives me the slip while it has you, what then?"

"Not gonna happen," Dean fired back quickly. "I trust you with my life, Sam. You'll have my back the entire time."

Sam was quiet. "Right," he said after a half minute, his voice quiet. Condemning. "Like I did with that black dog?"

Dean was already shaking his head. "Man, that was not your fault. How many times do I gotta te--" he stumbled to a halt. The air sizzled. The fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. A chill traveled slowly up his spine.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't answer right away. Eyes large and searching, he followed the beam of his flashlight, sure now that something was wrong. Trying to listen. "Heads up Sammy," he whispered into the phone before snapping it shut. The sounds of Sam's voice as he'd yelled something back, still echoed in his mind but his ears were tuned to his surroundings.

"Well, aren't you the handsome one," a deep voice rumbled behind him.

Dean had no memory of turning. No idea just how far around he'd gotten before everything went completely black.

* * * *

It was the last door Sam had seen Dean -- or the ghost possessing Dean -- go into before they had disappeared and while Sam knew ghosts could do that disappearing thing, one inhabiting his brother's very corporeal body no longer had that option.

Sam pressed the door with one hand and it gave easily. A chain, that at one time had barred the entrance, clanged uselessly against the door where it was looped through the door handle. It echoed quietly into the empty space and Sam reached a hand down to silence it.

Once inside, Sam's heart hammered in his chest, and fear made his mouth dry. It scared him to think that the very thing he'd feared earlier, had come true; he'd lost Dean. He'd failed him again, just as he had failed him with that black dog in Indiana.

Flashlight in his left hand, he moved it slowly, carefully about the room.

The place was a dump. There were papers and garbage everywhere, littered about on every surface. There were numerous overturned bar-stools, tables and chairs, most if not all, broken and scattered in disarray. It smelled too. It was musty with disuse and there was just a slight odor of charred wood and burned plastic; no doubt there had been a fire in the old building within the last year.

If the old bar on his right was anything to go by, it looked like place had, at some time, been a bar, or perhaps a nightclub. There was a stage too, on Sam's left, at the front of the room. The platform stood three, maybe four feet higher than the floor and curved around to a set of steps on either side.

A loud pop and whine filled the room and Sam jumped in surprise. Then, a voice boomed over a loud speaker, the old speakers crackling, grating...

"Welcome gents, to the Man's Man Club," the announcer said- the voice way too familiar. Suddenly a flood of bright lights filled the stage and Sam squinted into the unexpected influx. The line of spotlights on a beam above the stage started to strobe and rove all over the platform.

Next, cheesy 80's disco music blared too loud for the cavernous room and Sam was covering his ears trying to mute the sound.

"A place for gentlemen and... not so gentle men," the voice continued. "A place where you get to meet the man of your dreams. Where your fantasy can become a reality."

The numerous lights suddenly blinked out, save for a lone spotlight. It sat at the back of the stage, pointed at the single figure on the platform. Back-lit, the familiar outline stood in silhouette and while Sam couldn't see details, he would recognize those bowed legs and wide shoulders anywhere.

"Dean," Sam hissed quietly. It went just as they had planned, or rather, as Dean had planned. Still, the questions far outnumbered the answers and left Sam with a deep pit of worry, gnawing at his gut.

The sounds of 'Disco Inferno' died down to a low murmur and the man on stage stood absolutely still. Then, another light, at the back of the room flickered on and the figure was awash in light from the front, as well as the back. It was definitely Dean.

However, the sight made Sam's brow arch in disbelief. If he hadn't been so worried, he would have laughed.

Dean, or the ghost possessing Dean, was wearing a pair of tight, straight-leg brown -- suede? -- pants and the legs were encased in form fitting chaps. Lining the side-seams that ran the length of his legs, were small, grommet anchored tassels. They lead the eye upward where Sam blinked in surprise. Dead center, beneath the buckle of the chaps, covering Dean--er--the ghosts' groin, was a larger, more pronounced, silver tassel and it swayed like it had a mind, and a muscle *cough* of its own.

Sam looked away from the swinging silver tinsel to look at the rest of his brother's 'attire'. Which wasn't much.

Save for the simple, matching leather-looking vest covering his torso, Dean was shirtless. One side of the vest had two little tassels, matching those on either side of the chaps. On each wrist was a set of dirty white cuffs, and they were attached to nothing but pale skin, each, of course, with a tassel. And completing the outfit, was a cowboy hat. It sat at a jaunty angle on Dean's--the ghost’s-- head, clearly too small, but matching no less.

Under the harsh, white light, the bruises and scratches were a stark reminder of Dean's escape of the black dog's attack only a few days ago, and that reminded Sam as his gaze traveled down to Dean's leg. Those pants, they were too tight, no way those should have fit over the thick bandage Sam had put on the deep cuts.

There was no bulk at all in the place Sam knew those bandages should be. Which meant, there were no bandages at all. Crap.

"Howdy Sam. Name's Wade Leatherleaf and I'll be your entertainment for the night." The ghost watched Sam, eyes unflinching and sparkling in the spotlights.

Sam's brow furrowed. "Wade... Leatherleaf?" he repeated. That name wasn't right. It was Paul Wade Tay-- A thought occurred to him. "A stage name." Oh. Shit. This was bad. This was very bad.

"Of course," Wade snarled back. "You think my wife would have ever understood any of this? That sham of a marriage I was in?"

Sam stared in disbelief. There wasn't even the slightest semblance of Dean gazing back at him. The eyes were clear and yet they darkened with a quiet, mocking condescension, and sadness, and anger too. The way he stood there, the posture of one accustomed to the stage, nothing about that was right. Clearly, Dean was not in control. This was all Wade. And Paul Wade Taylor had a secret life. Great.

"Of course...," Sam echoed quietly. Those repressed emotions. Leading a life he didn't believe in. Working here, moonlighting as a release for the person he truly felt he was.

"Have a seat, Sam," Wade said, his tone suggesting it was more of an order and less of a request, "and enjoy the show."

"Hold on," Sam interjected but didn't otherwise move. "How'd you know my name?"

"Oh, he...," Wade tapped his head, "he is very verbal, your friend."

Friend? Dean was somehow communicating with the ghost, moreover, keeping Sam's relation to him a secret. Why?

"Please, you gotta stop this," Sam both demanded and implored. "My friend, he doesn't deserve this. Wouldn't want any of this."

"Well, tough. He doesn't get a say in this, any moree than I did years ago when my wife's brother found out what I was doing every weekend."

"You-- did he kill you?"

"Only him and about five of is beefy friends. On my way to the club." Wade looked down at his feet. "I was going to quit, you know. Tell my wife. Leave her."

Sam sighed quietly. "Then quit now."

Wade snapped his head back up and smiled, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "No can do, Sam. It's my show and Dean," Wade spread his arms out to the side, "is my show piece. And you are my captiveaudience. Now," his eyes suddenly grew cold, "sit," he commanded.

With nothing more than a nod from Wade, Sam was knocked backward until he collided with the nearest chair. Upon landing, the combined weight and impact, left the wood reverberating under Sam's ass, and Sam with the realization that he couldn't move.

Located in the center of the room, the chair was three, maybe four yards from the stage and Sam, powerless to do more than sit at the moment, watched in frustration as Wade looked about the stage. His mind raced to come up with a plan.

"Now, where was I...?" Wade turned the stopped. "Ah," he intoned and moved quickly over toward a stool at the back.

"This won't work, you know," Sam said anxiously. The fact that the ghost could communicate with Dean and Dean with it, meant it wasn't just possessing Dean; higher thinking meant the thing was sentient. "I'm not gay. I won't be turned on by--"

"Doesn't matter, Sam," Wade said palming a small plastic box in one hand. "What you do or don't feel makes no difference to me. While I'd consider it a bonus, it is no longer the point."

"Then what is?" he asked.

"The point is this," he gazed longingly around the room, a sad smile playing gently across his face. "I never got to take a final curtain call. Dance my last dance. Hear the roar of the crowd." His gaze landed on Sam. "Woo my last conquest." He toyed with the large tassel at his crotch. "Just me and Silver here and our last audience before I died."

"You...," Sam staunchly avoided Wade's hand idly playing with the silver strings over his groin. "You died before-- you're a stripper?" he asked in confusion.

Paul Wade Taylor, quiet accountant for a large CPA firm, husband and father, had apparently been a stripper. This just got more bizarre by the moment.

Wade nodded. "Yup. Shame too, I was good. I made even straight men drool. Made them want me. I must say though," he added staring down at Dean's chest, running his palms up and down his skin. "This body, it has potential. Best one I've found yet."

Sam felt his anger pique. While he knew that was Dean up on stage, knew it was Dean running his own palms over his own chest, he also knew it wasn't Dean either. The eyes, the way he moved and maneuvered Dean's body around, that wasn't Dean. It was all Wade. And now, it was Wade, violating Dean, body and soul. It made Sam's blood boil with rage.

"Stop it," Sam shouted angrily, powerlessly glued to the seat.

Wade looked up, eyes cold and clear.

A thought suddenly occurred to Sam. Much as Dean would kill him for this later, he needed this thing distracted so he could break free of the energy that kept him bound to the chair. So, instead of arguing, Sam smiled.

"So," he said casually, or at least he hoped it sounded casual, "wh-where's the show, huh?"

Wade grinned wolfishly. "Knew you'd come around," he said.

In one hand was a small plastic box, the thing he'd grabbed off the stool. Gripped in one hand, Wade thumbed a button and all but one stage light remained on. After another flick of his wrist, music blared, filling the room with heavy base and over-modulated treble.

The Village People's 'Macho Man' thumped almost deafeningly into the room, making Sam wince at the pressure on his eardrums.

In a movement far more theatrical and dance-like than Sam knew Dean could manage, Wade spun, his back now to Sam. Wade then bounced lightly on his toes to the beat, waiting for some sort of musical cue. Any other time, Sam would have laughed, but not now. Especially when Wade began to slowly lower the top half of the vest, inching it downward until just the tops of his shoulders were visible.

The intent was clear. The message clearer. Sam was running out of time. So was Dean.

"Shit..." Sam swallowed. With the ghosts' attention elsewhere, Sam pushed at the energy holding him. In seconds he was free and dropped slowly to the floor, careful not to draw the attention of the spirit who was now moving Dean's body gracefully around the stage.

Sam managed to crawl three feet before a thunk echoed to his right. Angling his head, he saw the vest in a pile to his right. He risked a glance at the stage. Wade was none the wiser and continued to dance, moving Dean's body suggestively around the stage.

Sam breathed a quick sigh of relief and continued toward the back of the room.

Papers, broken chairs and tables were piled up near the back. Probably a work crew had come in at some point, intent on cleaning the place up. Sam's hand closed on one of the crumpled papers and he opened it

It was an old playbill, the name in bold across the top, "Wade Leatherleaf" on the cover. Inside the double folded page was a picture of the stripper, the main attraction and Sam had to admit, the guy did look a little like Dean. Then Sam did a strong double take, and locked his gaze on Wade. The guy, wearing Dean's body, was strutting and gyrating around the stage like a giant cat.

Wade was gyrating his hips, the motion sending the silver tassel at his groin spinning in perfect time with the music. Slamming his eyes down, Sam studied the picture closely; the outfit was mostly similar though not an exact match. Except for one thing. The tassel. None of the smaller tassels matched except the one over Dean--er--Wade's groin.

Then, Sam recalled the way Wade had stroked the silvery strands. Hell, he'd even named the damn thing.

"Oh crap," Sam all by physically face-palmed at the realization. It had been right in front of his eyes the whole time. The tassel. Only the biggest, most ornate tassel Wade wore. Of. Course.

Now, Sam just had to figure out how the hell he was going to get his hands on that tassel without the guy completely disrobing? Dean's dignity not withstanding, the bigger issue here was the fact that once the show ended, so did Dean's life.

Sam chewed on his lower lip, thinking. Dean had somehow kept their relationship a secret from the spirit and he was beginning to see why.

The ghosts' sad smile, the years of repressed sexual emotions in his past. This thing wanted to be wanted. Wanted to be accepted. If Sam could make it think it had succeeded, Sam could get close. He could then grab the tassel and run, hopefully before the ghost made minced meat of him. Before it killed Dean.

On the upside, at least it was just the tassel and not the entire outfit...

Sam sighed and looked at his brother's face and ONLY his face. Dean was in there somewhere and he was about to see what Sam was about to do. Sam sincerely hoped his brother would forgive him for this. In truth, Sam wasn't sure just how well he could pull this off, but Dean's life was at stake here. He had to try.

Determined to do his best, after a quick look around, Sam found the sound-system and killed the music. Boldly getting to his feet, he turned to watch as Wade came to a stop, bare chest heaving, glistening with sweat from the heat of the lights because there was no way it was anything else...

He was still wearing pants, thank God for small miracles.

"What the hell..." Wade grumbled. Sight inhibited by the bright lights, he squinted at the place he'd left Sam.

"I give up..." Sam shouted confidently as he strode toward the stage.

"You stopped my show, my music, my--"

"You know what? You're right," Sam said, arms out at his side in surrender as he stood within a few feet of the stage. "I can't hide it any longer. I," he swallowed; he had to sell this. "I've always wanted him. And now, I can have him even if it's you giving him to me. I'll take it."

The lie made Sam's stomach churn uncomfortably, and the spirit saw it. Suspicion lurked heavily in his eyes, and in his stance as he moved back from the edge of the stage where Sam approached.

Sam decided now might be the perfect chance to test his theory. "It was that tassel," he flitted his eyes down, but forced himself to keep them there. To prove his point. "It's... mesmerizing."

"Of course," Wade husked, an air of pride in his eyes. "No one's immune to its powers. Had it a long, long time."

Bingo, Sam celebrated mentally. Then he felt the blood drain from his face as he drew closer and saw the floor of the stage. Blood. Small puddles, everywhere.

It coated Dean's right foot and ankle. It was easy to guess where it was coming from. It was the same leg Sam had spent hours packing with gauze to stem the bleeding after the black dog. The same leg Sam had spent an hour sewing in nearly twenty stitches.

Then Sam looked at the source. Beneath the hem, the blood didn't just drip, it flowed, it ran down, leaving small trails and puddles beneath Dean's bare feet. Like a macabre map, it outlined nearly ever step or place he'd moved, probably since he first stepped on the stage.

If he didn't end this soon, Dean would bleed out and there wouldn't be anything left of him to save. Sam felt his resolve strengthen. "I want you," he said looking up at Wade eyes full of as much earnest truth as he could manage.

It made things a little easier, he realized, thinking of the guy on stage only as Wade. Wasn't too difficult considering how Wade moved in Dean's body. The expressions on his face like those of the shape shifter in St. Louis; so cold and flat. It definitely wasn't Dean talking to Sam, no matter how much it may look like Dean.

Sam could do this. Would do this. Had to do this. It meant Dean's life and he could pretend he was talking to Wade and sell this.

Sam straightened. "I want you," he said decisively. "I've always wanted my friend, I just never had the nerve, until now."

Wade offered a suspicious grin but he still looked perturbed. "But my music..."

Sam jumped up on the stage. "I want to hear the sounds you make when I...," he fought to keep his voice even, "...ravish you."

Wade stepped toward Sam, and Sam took a step toward Wade. Barely a few feet separated them and Wade's eyes searched Sam's, looking for truth. Eyes dark, full of -- Sam swallowed but he held the gaze -- lust.

Before he could say more, Wade suddenly rocked back and grabbed his head. "Man," he chuckled and Sam noticed for the first time, blood leaking from Dean's ears. "You should hear the things he's saying," he rubbed his temples and grinned.

"I don't care," Sam pushed on. This couldn't be good. Dean had been so quiet, perhaps he was losing the fight to keep the spirit out of his thoughts and if that happened, this would fall apart too fast. "You're in control now. Now, I get what I've always wanted. You get what you want."

Wade's eyes darkened and he moved to close the distance between them. Then his eyes flinched. Rubbed two fingers at his temple. It had to be Dean.

"Ignore him," Sam insisted as his hand trailed down Wade's abs, fingers trailing lightly, suggestively over sweaty flesh. "Told you we weren't into each other, but I lied. I just never told him..."

"Yeah," Wade said in acceptance as he reached for his belt buckle. "I had a feeling you were--" his grin faded, his eyes widened, "--his brother?"

Shit! Sam did the only thing he can think to do. "Sorry Dean," he whispered then slammed his right fist into Wade's face.

Earlier, Sam had considered trying to overpower Wade and just take the tassel. But considering how the spirit had so easily masked what should be agonizing pain from a wound that now included massive blood loss, he had discounted the idea. Not only would it piss the spirit off, but it meant inflicting more, needless pain on Dean.

Now, however, with the spirit's guard down, the effect was nothing if not perfect.

The punch was enough to surprise Wade. Enough to make him stumble back. Off balance enough that while his body jerked back, Sam reached his non-punching hand down and grabbed the tassel. The thing snapped off the front of the chaps with a resounding pop.

Sam didn't hesitate after that. Gripping the wad of threaded material tightly, he spun and vaulted off the stage. Much as he wanted to look back, to check to see if his brother was all right, there wasn't time. Wade will recover long before Dean.

Moving quickly, Sam shoved the old chairs and tables aside, desperate to put distance between himself and the stage for what he needed to do. He reached the bar at the back of the room in a few, stumbling strides and slid to a halt. There, he tossed the silver tassel down on the surface, the bottle of lighter fluid already out and open. He doused the shiny thread while he pulled the lighter from the other pocket.

"Wait!" Wade called from behind him. Sam ignored him.

The lighter flamed and ignited the threads. In a matter of seconds the tassel caught and smoke shot up. It was only after that Sam allowed himself to turn around and watch.

Blood flowed down the split lip Sam had given Dean, but other than that, Wade kept him upright and staring with an odd mixture of hurt and anger in his eyes. "I just wanted a last show..." he pouted.

"I think you've had plenty of last shows." Sam gazed down at the numerous puddles of blood on the stage. "And there's no way I'll let you kill my brother."

Wade's face, Dean's face became suddenly resolute. "Knew there was something... a bond between you..." Face pinched in pain, Dean's arms were flung out at his sides, and his body started to convulse.

"Let him go, it's over now," Sam tried. Then, Dean suddenly dropped to his knees on the stage, eyes rolling upward. Concerned, Sam moved toward him.

"Brothers... of-" a hard tremor rocked his chest. The ghosts' hold was weakening. "Of course... no one has ever been able to... he's strong, your bro-" The increased convulsions cut him off.

Sam halted, watching in concerned fascination. Watched as blood ran from Dean's ears as the spirit slowly materialized, rising out of Dean's body in a thick crackle of light. It hovered there a moment, then the energy increased, engulfing the room in a static charge strong enough to make the hairs on Sam's arms and neck stand on end. Then, with a loud pop and an explosion that left Sam covering his eyes, it was gone.

Sam slowly lowered his hands. Dean was still on his knees, wobbling, his hooded gaze locked on Sam. The younger Winchester couldn't help but grin. No more ghost; that look was all Dean.

"'Bout damn time..." Dean slurred. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled forward, face first into the stage.

* * * *

In the hospital, once Dean was coherent enough, the first words out of his mouth were, 'get this thing out of my dick. Get the AMA papers and get my clothes. We're outta here.' Pretty much in that order.

As it turned out, Paul Wade Taylor, aka Wade Leatherleaf, had done one hell of a number on Dean. Between ripping open his wound and nearly causing Dean to bleed out, he'd left the older Winchester with one hell of a headache. One that Dean was determined to inflict upon Sam.

While Dean had little to no memory of what had transpired at the old club, upon waking, he was almost instantly ready to hit the road.

Sam, after nearly losing Dean twice in one week; between the black dog and now this, had other ideas and he expressed them resolutely to his brother. A week in the hospital. Following the doctor's orders.

"Oh hell no. We're leaving, Sam. That's final!"

The discussion got heated from there. More than once, in fact. But Sam had leverage. Sam had useful, embarrassing, and potentially long term cool-image ruining information.

In the privacy of their hospital room, Sam spelled it all out for his obstinate, dumb-ass brother.

Every detail, ever gyration of hips, every inch of exposed flesh in that ridiculous outfit, Sam threatened to share with Caleb, Bobby, and whatever other hunters he could find who would listen. It would be all over the hunting community about Dean's little striptease at the bar. Never mind that Dean had been possessed at the time, it would still make for one hell of a story. And tell it Sam would, especially the part about the ass-less chaps (totally false, but Dean seemed unsure about that detail, and God, the look on his face...) and the the dancing, and the Village People and especially, the placement of one, large, sparkly silver tassel--

Dean jaw slammed shut with an audible click. "You wouldn't."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. "Try me."

Of course, Sam would omit the fact that he himself had played a part in this. He'd had to come on to his own brother. He'd had to say those things to him and worst of all, in order to sell the attraction, he'd run his hand seductively over his-- Sam shook the thoughts out of his head. No. He'd just keep his own participation to himself.

Well. Himself and maybe a bottle of Jack Daniels. Or two.

So, for good or for bad, there was the deal. Dean's cooperation for Sam's silence. A fair trade, by Sam's estimation.

And apparently by Dean's as he maintained the posture of a model patient for the first two days. Never once giving anyone grief, never demanding his clothes, never snapping at doctors. Nothing.

Then the administrative office started asking odd questions of Sam about their insurance. Sam had been able to stall them but he came to the conclusion right there and then that maybe Dean deserved a little time off for good behavior. However, he wasn't about to explain that it was more or less leave or be brought up on insurance fraud. That too, he would keep to himself.

It worked out to three days in the hospital, and Dean kept his cool, knowing seventy-two hours was a hell of a lot better than the doctor's first mandate of a week long stay with two additional weeks bed-rest at 'home'. And when the third day arrived, Sam backed Dean's play to leave. Argued with him, not against, and got the AMA papers sorted out and handled.

Dean didn't bitch when the wheelchair showed up to take him to the car. Didn't bat an eye at the helping hand Sam insisted on while depositing him safely in the car. Didn't even grumble when, a few miles out of town, Sam handed him two pills from the bag of meds the hospital had sent with them and a bottle of water.

"Time for your meds," was all Sam said, and Dean took them, dutifully.

So, one pint of blood and three days later, the Winchesters were back on the road and headed west. away from Chicago.

In the car, Dean was, for all exterior appearances, the very model of good behavior. That is, until he asked where they were headed next and the words, 'Did you find us another job?' crossed his lips.

Out of that question was born yet another condition to Sam's purchased silence, and this seemed like the perfect time to make it known as Sam pulled the Impala out onto the road.

"We're headed to Bobby's where the only thing you'll be hunting for the next three weeks will be your next beer out of Bobby's fridge." Dean's jaw dropped, then Sam added, "Even that is only AFTER you're done taking all the meds."

At his limit, Dean had opened his mouth to argue when Sam headed him off. "Did I mention how you managed to move that tassel without moving your hips? That'll be a fun story to tell."

For the second time in less than a week, Dean's jaw snapped shut. Sam grinned.

Dean's anger was no match for the meds. Soon the older Winchester was soon snuggling down into his seat, head resting against the pillow Sam had brought. He brooded, rather than drifted off to sleep, muttering something about bitchy, bossy little brothers. And something else Sam didn't quite catch.

Sam smiled and decided he didn't want to know, because really, it didn't matter. Because sometimes, Sam was all right with being the bitch, especially if it meant keeping his jerk of a big brother alive.

~ * End * ~

AN: God, I can't believe I wrote this. Well, happy birthday adrenalineshots. Thank you mad_server for the quick look-see and now, if you'll all excuse me, I'll just hide... somewhere.