The night rolled in in an unmemorable fashion, but then again that should have set off the alarms right at the get-go. Winchesters don’t get unmemorable. And as it turned out, tonight would be anything but forgettable.

Congested gray skies holding the promise of winter rain stretched wide over Kimball, Nebraska, a nothing town in a nothing state that had nothing to offer the world unless you really enjoyed livestock and cornstalks—it didn’t even have the God damn haunting they had gotten word off and traveled six hours to check out. The grass in front of the motel was bright yellow and crunchy, there was a hick and a hooker bumping uglies in the next room to the tune of a cat being skinned alive, there actually was a skinned animal decomposing fifty feet from the motel’s dumpster, and the free internet the motel boasted on the obnoxious neon green sign out front left much (everything) to be desired.

Dean laid stretched out on his motel bed, stripped down to his white flamingo shorts and the worn-soft Led Zepplin t-shirt with the holes in the armpits that he refused to get rid of, flipping through the channels of the ancient TV even though he knew there was nothing on. His thumb popped audibly every time he hit the button, broken one too many times and finally sticking up for itself, but Dean ignored it.

Sam, on the other hand, couldn’t pay attention to anything but the insistent popping. It’s taking ages to load the Google main page, the weapons had already been cleaned, and the heater died half an hour ago. Sam could ignore it, but it was either listen to Dean’s fucking thumb or that hick fucking that hooker, and even with Sam’s slight voyeurism kink, that was not something he wanted to pay any more attention to than he absolutely had to. Dean’s thumb, though, isn’t much better, and coupled with the way the room, dark except for the light of the TV, the faint glow of the streetlight coming in through the window, and Sam’s laptop, kept flickering bright and then dark like the room was blinking, Sam was at his wit’s end.

"Dean," Sam said quietly, watching the different television programs flashing across the screen. ProActiv infomercial, shitty Disney channel kids’ show, Paula Deen. His brother wriggled down into the mattress, fluffed his flatter than Nebraska pillow and continued clicking. "Dean," he repeated, raising his voice.

"What." It wasn’t even a question, more like the word tacked itself on to the end of Dean’s noncommittal sigh. Dean’s eyes never leave the TV.

Sam pinched at the bridge of his nose and willed some God, any God, to give him the strength to deny the urge to choke the shit out of his brother. “Don’t you wanna stop that?” he asked. He brought his hand down and propped his chin up on the table, focus entirely on Dean.

"Why? There’s nothing else to do. Too early to sleep. The only bar in town sucks ass. Can’t look up porn—do you know what buffering does to a hard-on? Might as well channel surf myself silly." Idly, Dean scratched at his belly. His shirt stayed rucked up above his navel. The golden hairs trailing their way down from his belly button and past the band of his shorts caught the light of the TV and momentarily distracted Sam.

"But couldn’t you decide on one shitty channel instead of going through all the shitty channels?” The chair Sam was sitting in was hard and uncomfortable, his ass way passed numb, but it felt better to do this from his current location. If he got up and laid down on the bed, even the other bed, Dean would find a way to weasel his way into Sam’s flannel sleep pants, and weasel Sam’s complaints completely out of his thoughts. Which wasn’t that bad of an idea, now that Sam thought about it, but that wasn’t the point of this.

Dean snorted unattractively and finally turned to look at Sam. “But couldn’t you shove that passive aggressive B.S. up your ass?”

"Dean—"

"I could give you something else to shove up your ass." The light of some commercial on Animal Planet makes his green eyes startlingly bright as they rove over Sam’s body. The corner of Dean’s mouth jumped once, twice before it committed to a predatory leer. Dean’s hand crept down his abdomen.

Sam swallowed heavily and listened as an African man commentated on an antelope being mauled by a lion, eyes never leaving Dean’s. The programming was strangely fitting. “You really know how to charm ‘em, Dean,” he deadpanned, though his dick was on board if the blood rushing south was any indicator.

"Fine. Make yourself useful and run down to the one podunk store and get some beer then, would you? I’ll just watch this lion eat shit." And like that, Dean’s attention was back on the TV. He doesn’t change the channel again, but he occasionally raised and lowered the volume just to get a rise out of Sam.

With a huff, Sam closed his laptop and climbed to his feet, the muscles in his ass screaming at him for having sat in that God forsaken chair for so long. He slipped on his boots without bothering to tie them and shrugged on his coat. The store was a few blocks down from the motel and it wasn’t like he needed to impress anyone in this shitty little town. “I’m going to get you warm beer. Light beer. And a box of Wheat Thins.”

As Sam closed the motel door, key in his jacket pocket, he heard a pillow whump against the door. 

The walk to the store was quiet and peaceful, and Sam told himself that he needed to start walking for the fun of it again. The cold air was nice and burned pleasantly in his lungs.

In the parking lot of the store sat a beaten up station wagon, rust eating at it from all sides. Sam mused that it was a metaphor for Kimball as he approached the double doors of the nameless general store. The store itself was just as unmemorable as Kimball, but the beer was cheap and the girl at the cash register nearly choked on her gum when she saw him, tripping over her own tongue trying to get words out as her eyeballs gave an equally valiant attempt to get out of her skull.

Sam smirked down six of the seven blocks between the store and the motel, ego sufficiently stroked.

That smirk fell when he reached the corner of the parking lot. The air smelled heavily of gun powder, burned rubber and the sticky sweetness of blood. All of the motel room door’s were wide open.

The six pack of beer slipped from his hand as Sam ran for his motel room, screaming for Dean the entire way. The room was empty and the bed was still warm. A lion cleaned its cub on the TV. It didn’t look like anything had happened, like Dean had simply gotten up to get his own beer because maybe he thought Sam had taken too long. Sam, panicky and dread coiling tight in his stomach, searched the motel room again and again before he found the nail marks in the door frame. Those weren’t there before.

Sam grabbed a gun, called Dean’s name and searched all the other rooms of the motel. The hick and his hooker next door were dead, shot multiple times from the doorway. The hick was slumped forward on the hooker, probably still tucked inside of her cunt. If he hadn’t been so worried about Dean being missing, Sam would’ve felt bad about thanking God for finally shutting them up.

None of the other rooms were inhabited, by the living nor the dead, and the manager was nowhere to be found. Sam called for his brother again, cupping large hands around his mouth.

If Sam could’ve heard over the roar of the blood in his ears and his cries for his brother, he probably could have heard his attacker. But Sam didn’t, and the man behind him had a good arm. Something connected hard with the back of Sam’s skull and he staggered, jolting Sam. Pain flashed brightly across his skull. He somehow managed to stay upright and turn around before the object connected again, this time with his jaw. He crumbled to the ground, blinking sluggishly and attempting to swallow around the blood in his mouth.

A man climbed on top of him and grinned, gray eyes cold and wild, black hair sticking up at all angles. His lip was busted and his tongue flicked out to lap at the wound. He brought up both hands and pressed a damp rag to Sam’s mouth with such force there would be bruises later. Chloroform burned at Sam’s nostrils and lips, making him dizzy and nauseated. He thrashed weakly.

The last thing Sam heard before unconsciousness claimed him was, “Sure hope you’re as fun as your brother, Sammy.”

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