Fic: Hatbox (Sam/Dean, NC-17) Part 1 of 3
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******
“Dude, what in all of tarnation is with the staring?” Dean asked, sliding his eyes to the side to take in Sam’s unblinking wide eyes.
Sam shifted in the passenger seat, vinyl creaking beneath him. “Just realizing, I like you in that hat.”
Dean felt the corners of his eyes crinkle up as he smiled wide and genuine at Sam’s words. “Why thank you kindly, sir,” he said, tipping the brim of his hat towards Sam like he’d seen the cowboys do in all the old movies.
Sam’s giggle made him grin even wider and he settled the hat a bit further back on his head. “Hey, you mind if we mosey on back home a little slower than usual?”
“Mosey?” Sam asked with a barely suppressed snort of surprise.
“I just mean to say, we should take a little time, there’s nothing lightin’ a fire under your britches to git on home, right?” Dean tipped the brim of the hat once again, loving the way Sam’s responses had now morphed into a full-body laugh.
“I think I’ll take it back about the hat,” Sam said with one of those bitch-faces Dean will never get tired of seeing. This one is the ‘I’m so done with your BS but I love you anyway’ and he can never ever see it enough plastered on Sam’s face.
“Why whatever made you change your mind, pardner?” Dean asked, getting a little concerned that Sam might not mean it.
“If it’s going to make you talk like an extra from Tombstone all the time, then forget it,” Sam said, slumping back in his seat and crossing his arms across his chest, getting into his normal front-seat sleeping position. “But take as long as you want to get home, it’s fine with me, pardner.”
Dean was about to say something back to the sarcastic use of the word pardner, but then he saw Sam’s head begin to nod and he didn’t want to interrupt the nap his brother obviously needed more than some extra banter. Tombstone extra though? More like a lead. He stopped at the next likely looking motel, unfortunately this one wasn’t western-themed like that awesome one they’d stayed in with Jack and Cas. He vaguely hoped that the kid wasn’t too messed up seeing what he’d walked in on through those swinging saloon doors…ahem.
“I’ll git us a room, you pony up our gear,” Dean said as he headed out of the car towards the lit-up motel office. That meant he didn’t get to see Sam’s wtf bitch face, although he could feel it hitting him right between the shoulder blades.
He tipped his hat up a bit so he could look the desk clerk in the eye, all the better to pass off a forged credit card. That honest eye-to-eye thing always sold it.
“Good evenin’ my fine sir,” Dean said, sliding across his credit card. “I’d like to engage one of your finest rooms in this here establishment for one night if you please."
The clerk didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows hit the ceiling. He ran the credit card without mentioning the great cowboy name on it, Tom Ketchum, aka Black Jack Ketchum.
“Why thank you kindly,” Dean said, signing his fake name with a flourish and pocketing the card keys.
Dean ambled back to the car, enjoying the way his bowlegs seemed to work a little better when he had the cowboy boots on. It certainly put a swing in his hips, which Sam was definitely noticing.
“Fancy meeting you here, darlin’, would you care to accompany me to my room?” Dean drawled at Sam, taking his duffel from his overburdened brother. Sam just rolled his eyes and followed him.
“Oh, I’ll surely be needin’ my hatbox,” Dean said, turning back to the Impala’s trunk. “Unless you’re expectin’ me to wear my hair case all night that is.” He leered at Sam, wiggling eyebrows and all which only received another dramatic eye roll from Sam.
“
Sorry, I didn’t know what that thing was, so I didn’t grab it,” Sam said.
“This, my darlin’ is a hatbox, wherein one stores one’s hair case while traveling so as to not get any untoward creases or damage to said hat.”
“I’ve never heard the term hair case for cowboy hat. The hatbox looks vintage to me though, where’d you get it?” Sam asked.
“I found it in one of the junk rooms back at the ol’ homestead. I lost my last one on that chupacabra hunt, out on the edge of the prairie where the desert rolls on like the sea.”
“Dean, can you cut it out please, it’s getting a little old,” Sam said.
“Cut what out, darlin?” Dean asked.
Dean received a third, and rather epic eye roll at that question.
Sam didn’t say anything more, just went about his nightly motel routine, kit bag in the bathroom, salt line at the door and window, sigils drawn in invisible sharpie. Dean watched the methodical way Sam covered the whole room, so efficient and precise. It was a real turn-on, well anything Sam did so competently was.
“You shore are good at all that, it’s a far piece better ’n I could do,” Dean said, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs in a sprawl.
Sam came to stand between his legs and reached down to undo his enormous brass belt buckle, it clanked and stuck fast. Sam tugged at it, frowning.
“Guess I plumb lost the key,” Dean said with a grin that he lost when the buckle wouldn’t open at his own attempt. That was weird, usually this belt was prone to coming undone on its own. It had travelled in the hatbox with his boots and hat to the case because of that very reason.
“Too bad for you then,” Sam said shrugging out of his flannel. He stepped away from Dean and shut himself in the bathroom.
Dean wasn’t sure what had just happened, he’d thought he was going to…that they were about to…his thoughts about the recalcitrant belt buckle disappeared. He got up and knocked on the bathroom door, “Sammy, what the heck happened?”
The only answer was a flush of the toilet and the shower turning on. With the door shut and locked between them, Dean got the message and slumped back towards the bed. He laid down on top of the coverlet, crossed his boot-clad feet and flannel covered arms and tipped his hat to cover his eyes-and promptly fell asleep. He dreamed of riding the range, roping cattle, sliding onto barstools in saloons, shooting targets blindfolded, all the good stuff. He didn’t wake up until a few hours later when Sam was moaning and thrashing in his sleep.
“You’re okay, little buddy, don’t you worry about the first lil’ thing, I got you safe and sound, right here,” Dean said, gathering Sam into his arms.
Sam struggled and tried to push him away. Dean wouldn’t let him though, just pulled him back into the circle of his arms and whistled one of the calm-the-herd tunes he always used.
“Dean, you need to cut that out, it’s too much in the middle of the night,” Sam mumbled into his neck. He fell back asleep before Dean could say anything, Sam’s sleepy-warm body lulled him back to his dreams of riding the range, seeing a beautiful sunset over the mesas every night with Sam always by his side.
“Time to rise and shine cowpoke,” Dean declared when he got back to their room with a takeout breakfast. He juggled the tray of coffees and breakfast burritos. “Got some grub for us from Cookie down the road apiece, wasn’t sure how peckish you’d be.”
Sam opened his eyes and sat up with a scowl marring his beautiful pillow-creased face. He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Well, a fine good mornin’ to you too, darlin’,” Dean said to the closed bathroom door.
“The western cowboy talk, or whatever you’re thinking it is, it’s getting annoying,” Sam said through the door. Dean could imagine the face Sam was making and was momentarily glad he didn’t actually have to see it.
Dean shrugged and ate his breakfast alone at the little table. Based on his short walk to get their food, it was going to be a fine day for a drive, he felt a vague wish for a set of horses instead of his baby. At least she had a good horse name and that suited him just fine.
The door to the bathroom finally opened and Sam emerged in a cloud of steam, clothed only in a towel around his waist.
“You slept in that whole get-up all night?” Sam asked around a mouthful of toothpaste.
Dean hadn’t wanted to take his boots or hat off, they felt too good. It hadn’t crossed his mind when he’d woken up in them this morning, still on top of the bedspread.
“A course I did, gotta be ready to ride hell for leather anytime,” Dean said, wondering why he had to state the obvious to Sam who should know the near-constant state of emergency they existed in by now.
“Dean, can you please just stop?” Sam asked, after he’d spat and rinsed and glared at him in the bathroom mirror.
“Thought you’d want to get our Brokeback on before we left, since we’re in such a fine establishment,” Dean said, cocking his hip out to one side. That pose usually worked on Sam, it showed off the goods pretty well. But it didn’t today for some reason.
“Let’s just go home, okay? All the cowboy talk, isn’t doing it for me,” Sam admitted, packing his kit bag into his duffel.
“Well, alrighty then, pardner, we’ll wait for another day to git yer corn ground,” Dean said with a leer. He had a very long list in his mind of all the cowboy phrases for sex and that had always been near the top to try out on Sam. Shame it didn’t work as well as he’d hoped.
Sam huffed at that and slammed his way out of the motel room. Dean gathered up his duffel bag and empty hatbox wondering why Sam wasn’t jumping his bones like usual. Especially after a fairly successful hunt like they’d just finished up. Maybe it was the whole issue with Jack freaking out over killing that guy. The scowl on Sam’s face that greeted him on the passenger side of the car answered him.
Dean guessed it was going to be the silent treatment for some unknown reason all the way home. He tipped his hat back a bit so he could see a bit better out the windshield. The tape of Eagles, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Johnny Cash would have to fill the silence. That was the most country western type of music he had, and he didn’t examine too closely the reason for wanting to play it at that moment. It wasn’t to bug Sam, because Sam usually sang along to some of the songs on this one. It was something about the country western point of view he got from the lyrics. Dean wondered if there was some old-fashioned true country music, out ridin’ the range kind of stuff that would be good. He’d have to google it or something, maybe go as far as to get Sam to download him a playlist.
As the miles passed by and the tape had to be flipped for a third time he didn’t notice how much he had to keep rearranging the hat as he drove, it would slip a bit forward and all of a sudden the low brim would be dangerously cutting off a big part of his view. It was something to do, since they weren’t talking.
“Isn’t that thing getting uncomfortable to wear in the car?” Sam asked after one hundred fifty miles of silence.
“Naw, it’s just a bit pesky is all,” Dean said, glad that Sam was finally talking even if it was just some bitching about his awesome hat.
“Why are you still doing this?” Sam asked through gritted teeth. “You’re taking this western fetish thing a bit far, even for you.”
“P’shaw, Sammy, it’s just me is all,” Dean said with a grin that he felt quickly fade at the look on Sam’s face when he glanced away from the road. He looked back at the horizon and went silent.
“I’m not participating in this-whatever this is. You want to have your fun with it, fine, whatever. But we’ve got some things we’re still working on, and I’m going to concentrate on that.”
“Don’t gotta be a queer fish about it,” Dean grumbled.
“Did you just call me a queer fish?” Sam asked, sounding scandalized.
“I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” Dean said, glad to have gotten Sam’s attention back.
“You are really something, you never know when to stop. The joke has been played out, dude,” Sam said in a flat harsh tone that made Dean’s hair stand up on the back of his neck.
“No need to git ornery ‘bout it, Sammy,” Dean said.
“You’re the one still wearing the same clothes as you were in all day yesterday,” Sam said with a dramatic sigh. He banged his head against the passenger-side window, eyes shut tight and arms folded over his chest. Dean immediately realized he wasn’t going to get any more play out of him for the rest of the drive. He settled in to the driver’s seat and sped them on down the road.
***
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Part Two
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******
“Dude, what in all of tarnation is with the staring?” Dean asked, sliding his eyes to the side to take in Sam’s unblinking wide eyes.
Sam shifted in the passenger seat, vinyl creaking beneath him. “Just realizing, I like you in that hat.”
Dean felt the corners of his eyes crinkle up as he smiled wide and genuine at Sam’s words. “Why thank you kindly, sir,” he said, tipping the brim of his hat towards Sam like he’d seen the cowboys do in all the old movies.
Sam’s giggle made him grin even wider and he settled the hat a bit further back on his head. “Hey, you mind if we mosey on back home a little slower than usual?”
“Mosey?” Sam asked with a barely suppressed snort of surprise.
“I just mean to say, we should take a little time, there’s nothing lightin’ a fire under your britches to git on home, right?” Dean tipped the brim of the hat once again, loving the way Sam’s responses had now morphed into a full-body laugh.
“I think I’ll take it back about the hat,” Sam said with one of those bitch-faces Dean will never get tired of seeing. This one is the ‘I’m so done with your BS but I love you anyway’ and he can never ever see it enough plastered on Sam’s face.
“Why whatever made you change your mind, pardner?” Dean asked, getting a little concerned that Sam might not mean it.
“If it’s going to make you talk like an extra from Tombstone all the time, then forget it,” Sam said, slumping back in his seat and crossing his arms across his chest, getting into his normal front-seat sleeping position. “But take as long as you want to get home, it’s fine with me, pardner.”
Dean was about to say something back to the sarcastic use of the word pardner, but then he saw Sam’s head begin to nod and he didn’t want to interrupt the nap his brother obviously needed more than some extra banter. Tombstone extra though? More like a lead. He stopped at the next likely looking motel, unfortunately this one wasn’t western-themed like that awesome one they’d stayed in with Jack and Cas. He vaguely hoped that the kid wasn’t too messed up seeing what he’d walked in on through those swinging saloon doors…ahem.
“I’ll git us a room, you pony up our gear,” Dean said as he headed out of the car towards the lit-up motel office. That meant he didn’t get to see Sam’s wtf bitch face, although he could feel it hitting him right between the shoulder blades.
He tipped his hat up a bit so he could look the desk clerk in the eye, all the better to pass off a forged credit card. That honest eye-to-eye thing always sold it.
“Good evenin’ my fine sir,” Dean said, sliding across his credit card. “I’d like to engage one of your finest rooms in this here establishment for one night if you please."
The clerk didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows hit the ceiling. He ran the credit card without mentioning the great cowboy name on it, Tom Ketchum, aka Black Jack Ketchum.
“Why thank you kindly,” Dean said, signing his fake name with a flourish and pocketing the card keys.
Dean ambled back to the car, enjoying the way his bowlegs seemed to work a little better when he had the cowboy boots on. It certainly put a swing in his hips, which Sam was definitely noticing.
“Fancy meeting you here, darlin’, would you care to accompany me to my room?” Dean drawled at Sam, taking his duffel from his overburdened brother. Sam just rolled his eyes and followed him.
“Oh, I’ll surely be needin’ my hatbox,” Dean said, turning back to the Impala’s trunk. “Unless you’re expectin’ me to wear my hair case all night that is.” He leered at Sam, wiggling eyebrows and all which only received another dramatic eye roll from Sam.
“
Sorry, I didn’t know what that thing was, so I didn’t grab it,” Sam said.
“This, my darlin’ is a hatbox, wherein one stores one’s hair case while traveling so as to not get any untoward creases or damage to said hat.”
“I’ve never heard the term hair case for cowboy hat. The hatbox looks vintage to me though, where’d you get it?” Sam asked.
“I found it in one of the junk rooms back at the ol’ homestead. I lost my last one on that chupacabra hunt, out on the edge of the prairie where the desert rolls on like the sea.”
“Dean, can you cut it out please, it’s getting a little old,” Sam said.
“Cut what out, darlin?” Dean asked.
Dean received a third, and rather epic eye roll at that question.
Sam didn’t say anything more, just went about his nightly motel routine, kit bag in the bathroom, salt line at the door and window, sigils drawn in invisible sharpie. Dean watched the methodical way Sam covered the whole room, so efficient and precise. It was a real turn-on, well anything Sam did so competently was.
“You shore are good at all that, it’s a far piece better ’n I could do,” Dean said, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs in a sprawl.
Sam came to stand between his legs and reached down to undo his enormous brass belt buckle, it clanked and stuck fast. Sam tugged at it, frowning.
“Guess I plumb lost the key,” Dean said with a grin that he lost when the buckle wouldn’t open at his own attempt. That was weird, usually this belt was prone to coming undone on its own. It had travelled in the hatbox with his boots and hat to the case because of that very reason.
“Too bad for you then,” Sam said shrugging out of his flannel. He stepped away from Dean and shut himself in the bathroom.
Dean wasn’t sure what had just happened, he’d thought he was going to…that they were about to…his thoughts about the recalcitrant belt buckle disappeared. He got up and knocked on the bathroom door, “Sammy, what the heck happened?”
The only answer was a flush of the toilet and the shower turning on. With the door shut and locked between them, Dean got the message and slumped back towards the bed. He laid down on top of the coverlet, crossed his boot-clad feet and flannel covered arms and tipped his hat to cover his eyes-and promptly fell asleep. He dreamed of riding the range, roping cattle, sliding onto barstools in saloons, shooting targets blindfolded, all the good stuff. He didn’t wake up until a few hours later when Sam was moaning and thrashing in his sleep.
“You’re okay, little buddy, don’t you worry about the first lil’ thing, I got you safe and sound, right here,” Dean said, gathering Sam into his arms.
Sam struggled and tried to push him away. Dean wouldn’t let him though, just pulled him back into the circle of his arms and whistled one of the calm-the-herd tunes he always used.
“Dean, you need to cut that out, it’s too much in the middle of the night,” Sam mumbled into his neck. He fell back asleep before Dean could say anything, Sam’s sleepy-warm body lulled him back to his dreams of riding the range, seeing a beautiful sunset over the mesas every night with Sam always by his side.
“Time to rise and shine cowpoke,” Dean declared when he got back to their room with a takeout breakfast. He juggled the tray of coffees and breakfast burritos. “Got some grub for us from Cookie down the road apiece, wasn’t sure how peckish you’d be.”
Sam opened his eyes and sat up with a scowl marring his beautiful pillow-creased face. He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Well, a fine good mornin’ to you too, darlin’,” Dean said to the closed bathroom door.
“The western cowboy talk, or whatever you’re thinking it is, it’s getting annoying,” Sam said through the door. Dean could imagine the face Sam was making and was momentarily glad he didn’t actually have to see it.
Dean shrugged and ate his breakfast alone at the little table. Based on his short walk to get their food, it was going to be a fine day for a drive, he felt a vague wish for a set of horses instead of his baby. At least she had a good horse name and that suited him just fine.
The door to the bathroom finally opened and Sam emerged in a cloud of steam, clothed only in a towel around his waist.
“You slept in that whole get-up all night?” Sam asked around a mouthful of toothpaste.
Dean hadn’t wanted to take his boots or hat off, they felt too good. It hadn’t crossed his mind when he’d woken up in them this morning, still on top of the bedspread.
“A course I did, gotta be ready to ride hell for leather anytime,” Dean said, wondering why he had to state the obvious to Sam who should know the near-constant state of emergency they existed in by now.
“Dean, can you please just stop?” Sam asked, after he’d spat and rinsed and glared at him in the bathroom mirror.
“Thought you’d want to get our Brokeback on before we left, since we’re in such a fine establishment,” Dean said, cocking his hip out to one side. That pose usually worked on Sam, it showed off the goods pretty well. But it didn’t today for some reason.
“Let’s just go home, okay? All the cowboy talk, isn’t doing it for me,” Sam admitted, packing his kit bag into his duffel.
“Well, alrighty then, pardner, we’ll wait for another day to git yer corn ground,” Dean said with a leer. He had a very long list in his mind of all the cowboy phrases for sex and that had always been near the top to try out on Sam. Shame it didn’t work as well as he’d hoped.
Sam huffed at that and slammed his way out of the motel room. Dean gathered up his duffel bag and empty hatbox wondering why Sam wasn’t jumping his bones like usual. Especially after a fairly successful hunt like they’d just finished up. Maybe it was the whole issue with Jack freaking out over killing that guy. The scowl on Sam’s face that greeted him on the passenger side of the car answered him.
Dean guessed it was going to be the silent treatment for some unknown reason all the way home. He tipped his hat back a bit so he could see a bit better out the windshield. The tape of Eagles, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Johnny Cash would have to fill the silence. That was the most country western type of music he had, and he didn’t examine too closely the reason for wanting to play it at that moment. It wasn’t to bug Sam, because Sam usually sang along to some of the songs on this one. It was something about the country western point of view he got from the lyrics. Dean wondered if there was some old-fashioned true country music, out ridin’ the range kind of stuff that would be good. He’d have to google it or something, maybe go as far as to get Sam to download him a playlist.
As the miles passed by and the tape had to be flipped for a third time he didn’t notice how much he had to keep rearranging the hat as he drove, it would slip a bit forward and all of a sudden the low brim would be dangerously cutting off a big part of his view. It was something to do, since they weren’t talking.
“Isn’t that thing getting uncomfortable to wear in the car?” Sam asked after one hundred fifty miles of silence.
“Naw, it’s just a bit pesky is all,” Dean said, glad that Sam was finally talking even if it was just some bitching about his awesome hat.
“Why are you still doing this?” Sam asked through gritted teeth. “You’re taking this western fetish thing a bit far, even for you.”
“P’shaw, Sammy, it’s just me is all,” Dean said with a grin that he felt quickly fade at the look on Sam’s face when he glanced away from the road. He looked back at the horizon and went silent.
“I’m not participating in this-whatever this is. You want to have your fun with it, fine, whatever. But we’ve got some things we’re still working on, and I’m going to concentrate on that.”
“Don’t gotta be a queer fish about it,” Dean grumbled.
“Did you just call me a queer fish?” Sam asked, sounding scandalized.
“I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” Dean said, glad to have gotten Sam’s attention back.
“You are really something, you never know when to stop. The joke has been played out, dude,” Sam said in a flat harsh tone that made Dean’s hair stand up on the back of his neck.
“No need to git ornery ‘bout it, Sammy,” Dean said.
“You’re the one still wearing the same clothes as you were in all day yesterday,” Sam said with a dramatic sigh. He banged his head against the passenger-side window, eyes shut tight and arms folded over his chest. Dean immediately realized he wasn’t going to get any more play out of him for the rest of the drive. He settled in to the driver’s seat and sped them on down the road.
***
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Part Two