Summary – Set after 'Full Moon, Fast Cars' and before 'Cracks In The Glass'. Sam may know all about the supernatural, but he's hopelessly naïve when it comes to people. AU SamDean slash
Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.
You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars, you'll probably want to read that first or this won't make much sense :)
This is inspired by a request from the lovely Phx, who asked for a guy taking advantage of Sam, and pissed-off Dean to the rescue! Sorry it took so long! I actually had half of a completely different story written, involving drugs/rape/murder/other dark and bad things, before I realised that it was so not what I intended this to be, so I started all over… I'm not sure this meets the request exactly either, but Sam took over while I was writing and ran with it… This takes place roughly three months after the end of FMFC, and about three months before CitG.
Ignorance (Is Bliss)
Dean wasn't talking to him.
Sam could tell Dean wasn't talking to him, even though the other man hadn't said he wasn't talking to him, because Dean was currently in the middle of an animated discussion with the aging bartender about the benefits of malt-barley beer versus wheat beer. As far as Sam knew, Dean wasn't particularly interested in what his beer used to be before it reached his glass, but he was doing a pretty good job of convincing the rest of the world he was enthralled by the conversation.
It was stupid, really. Sam had known it as soon as he said it, but the words just kept coming out like his mouth was beyond his control. "It's just a goddamn scratch, Dean! It's not like I drove headfirst into a brick wall! Maybe if you let me drive more often I'd know what I was doing!"
And yeah, okay, so maybe he'd taken the Impala without Dean's permission, but considering Dean was passed out on over-the-counter pain medication at the time, Sam didn't really think it would be a problem. But he was still used to driving the Mustang, even three months after its demise. The Mustang had been smaller in the back, a two-door, and without thinking Sam had reversed into the parking space outside their motel room.
And kept on reversing.
The scratch was barely noticeable. A two-inch grey mark on the shiny silver metalwork. He'd stepped out of the car to inspect the damage, wincing and hoping he had time to run to the convenience store across town for some silver paint before Dean noticed.
Which had been when the man himself sprang out of the motel room door, comical in boxers and one sock, and clutching a hand to his chest like Sam had fatally wounded him.
The ten-inch gash in Dean's left thigh was ignored in favour of dropping to his knees and pressing both hands to the trunk of his car, as if he was hoping he could magically heal it with the power of his thoughts. Sam stood by silently, toeing the ground in front of him like a naughty child and biting back the urge to hustle Dean back inside and onto a bed where he should be resting.
After a long moment, Dean turned to face Sam. His face was dark as death itself, and he managed to unclench his jaw enough to order Sam into the room.
Which led to a yelling match, which led to Dean storming out to the nearest bar, Sam hot on his heels because he really shouldn't be drinking on painkillers and an empty stomach.
Which, unfortunately, led to the current situation of Dean not talking to him. Sam sighed and rubbed a rough hand through his hair.
A girl stepped up to the bar, way too close to Dean, considering she had the entire stretch of bar to choose from. She wore a short skirt and a strappy red top, bare skin stippled with goosebumps as she stuck a shoulder under Dean's nose. Sam glared at her from Dean's other side.
She ignored him in favour of chirping at Dean. "Hi! Buy me a drink?"
Dean turned to her with a blank look, like he hadn't even noticed she was there. Her smile wavered slightly.
"Dean, maybe we should…" Sam began. Dean cut him off with a glare. But he didn't turn back to the girl either, so Sam decided to count it as a dubious win. She stood beside him for a few more moments, smiling dumbly before finally giving up and slinking back to her friends, shooting dirty looks their way. Dean didn't seem to care, drinking and laughing with his new best friend the bartender. It made Sam shift in his seat though, red-faced like he'd been caught doing something bad.
The music overhead was insanely loud considering the place wasn't even half-full. It was dark though, which Sam was grateful for. Having an ID that said you were over twenty one was only useful as long as people believed it. With Sam's baby face, it was hit-and-miss most of the time. He stared at the polished wood grain of the bar, absently fingering the rings of alcohol left on the surface and wondering how long it would take Dean to not be mad at him anymore.
A bottle appeared on the bar in front of him. Sam frowned, looking over at Dean in question. But the older man was still immersed in the bartender's conversation, staring at the man like he was the second coming.
Sam glanced to the other side of the room. In one of the booths, a guy met his eye with a smirk that may or may not have contained a flash of tongue, raising his own bottle of beer. The same brand as the one currently in front of Sam.
A flush grew on his cheeks before he could tamp it down. Oh god, was he being hit on? He shuffled his stool closer to Dean's.
"Hey, Sam, mind where your elbows are, willya?" Dean snapped at him, holding his foaming mug of beer away from his body. Sam looked down at the wet stain growing on Dean's shirt.
"Sorry, sorry, I just…"
"It's fine, just watch it next time." Dean cut him off brusquely. Okay, not forgiven yet, Sam thought to himself huffily. He glanced back at the guy in the booth, recoiling when he noticed, oh god, the guy was standing up, pushing his chair back with his eyes firmly on Sam. A strobe light hit him full in the face, revealing his greasy bald patch and sagging jowls in all their glory.
It was ridiculous; give him a seven-foot werewolf and Sam knew exactly what to do and how to do it, but faced with a sweaty bald guy, all he wanted was to hide under Dean's shirt until the guy went away.
"Can I buy you a drink?" A deep voice purred in Sam's ear, sudden and unexpected enough for him to jerk toward Dean again.
It was quite funny seeing Dean with a face full of foam, wide-eyed and spluttering. Sam ducked away quickly, avoiding the dead arm Dean was seconds away from giving him, and coming face-to-face with a dark haired guy.
"I take it that was a no, then?" The guy said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Can I at least save you from Barry over there?" He thumbed toward bald-guy, who was sinking back into his seat with a glare in their direction.
"Please, yes." Sam said without thinking. Then he blushed as the guy laughed, throwing his head back.
"Barry's one of the regulars here. He hits on anything that looks like it might be underaged; you're not special, I'm sorry to say."
A hand clapped on Sam's shoulder, hard enough to make him stagger. He looked up to see Dean's face, a shark's smile showing all his teeth as he stared at the black-haired guy. "Care to introduce me to your new friend, Sammy?"
The guy coolly stared back, offering his hand. "Tristan. And you are?"
"Dean." Dean gripped his hand, squeezing hard enough that Sam could see the white pinched skin of his fingers, even in the bad light.
"Nice to meet you. And you, Sam." Tristan turned to Sam with a smooth smile, peeking up at him from under his eyelashes. "New in town?"
"Passing through." Dean said shortly. His fingers dug into Sam's shoulder painfully. "Well, I guess we'll be seeing you. Or not." He turned his back, pulling Sam around with him.
Sam wrenched free. "Dean!"
"What?" Dean blinked up at him, a half-assed attempt at innocence mixing with irritation showing in his eyes.
"What's wrong with you?" He hissed, glancing behind him. Tristan had moved away, watching Sam with a bemused expression as he casually leaned back against the far wall of the bar, a model pose that flashed white hipbones above the low cut of his skinny jeans. Sam felt kind of intimidated by the guy; he looked like one of the effortlessly cool kids he watched from a distance at every new school, the rebels who skipped classes to sneak into daytime movies and started bands in their parents' garages.
Dean rolled his eyes. "That guy was hitting on you, Sam! I was tryingto do you a favour! Even though you broke my car…"
"You're kidding me, right?"
Dean huffed, turning to face the bar. He waved an arm in Sam's direction. "Fine. Do what you want."
"Fine, I will!" He spun on his heel without waiting for a reply from Dean, irrationally pissed off.
Tristan watched Sam's passage across the room through half-lidded eyes, his hands in his pockets and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hair flopped forward like a raven's wing, covering one eye. Sam caught a flash of a tattoo under the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt – a black star covering his elbow. "Hey. You escape your big brother over there?"
Sam glanced back at Dean, catching him in the act of turning away and pretending he hadn't been looking. He stifled a grin.
"Sorry about him. He can get a little…overprotective."
Tristan smiled. "Hey, no problem. If I had a younger brother, I'd be worried about strange men in bars as well."
"What?" Sam frowned. "Oh, Dean's not-" He caught himself before he could finish the sentence. The only thing that could piss Dean off more tonight was Sam telling everyone they were gay. Together. In a relationship. Or whatever it was they were doing; Sam wasn't too sure how to classify 'them'.
"Dean's not what?" Tristan said, cocking his head.
"Uh, overprotective. He's not usually overprotective. I just…annoyed him tonight. Scratched his car."
"Ah. Well I can get where he's coming from now." Tristan nodded sombrely. "If my hypothetical younger brother scratched my hypothetical car, I'd be annoyed too. Fortunately, I have neither."
"Well, that's…good." Sam said lamely, scratching his nails through the short hairs at the back of his neck.
The song over the sound system changed, a hyped-up dance version of Madonna's 'Like A Virgin' to a hyped-up dance version of Eric Carmen's 'Hungry Eyes'. Beside Sam, the group of girls Dean snubbed began dancing spastically, throwing their arms around and twitching like reanimated corpses. The strobe lights caught their movements, painting their over made-up faces in bright green and yellow. He ducked out of the way of a flailing arm, stumbling sideways into the wall. Tristan reached out and caught his shoulder before he could collide.
"Hey, careful there."
Sam felt his face heat up. God, he was such an anti-social loser.
"Can I get you that drink now? Or will your brother kill me?" Tristan said, biting his lip to hold back a grin.
"Uh, yeah sure. A beer would be good."
Sam caught Dean watching him from the corner of his eye, conversation with the bartender forgotten. His hand was gripping his glass of beer so tightly foam splashed over the side.
Sam scowled in the direction of the wall. Right, now Dean cared what he was doing. Now there was a possibility of someone else actually wanting to talk to him, actually being interested in what he had to say.
Most of the time Dean was the perfect guy; funny, happy, laughably annoying with his insistence on blaring cock rock eye-wateringly loud outside churches on Sunday mornings – "Hey, if you believe what God says, we're going to hell anyway, Sammy. We might as well have a little fun with it." But Sam had discovered that pissing Dean off led to being treated like a five-year old. Worse, being treated like a five-year old girl. It's not like he didn't know Dean was older than him, that he was only a kid. But it was one thing knowing it, another altogether when Dean actively went out of his way to patronise him.
"Hey. Here." Tristan appeared beside him, holding two bottles of Budweiser in either hand. Dean would call him a pussy for drinking Bud. Sam snatched the bottle and took a long swig. Tristan blinked at him. "Hey, easy there kiddo. The beer's not gonna run away."
"My name's Sam." He snapped without thinking.
"Sorry." Tristan held a hand up, looking like he wished he hadn't bothered coming back.
Sam closed his eyes, the music seeming to grow louder as he did it. "No, I'm sorry. Really. Just...annoyed with my brother."
Tristan nodded, looking slightly less wary. "Fair enough. D'you want to sit down?" He waved at an empty booth. Sam hesitated, looking over at Dean. But it seemed Dean's anger at the wounding of his car had overridden his pettiness at who Sam was talking to, and he laughed loudly at something the bartender was saying.
Sam turned back to Tristan. "Okay."
Dean didn't do jealous. Ever. It had taken most of his 'girlfriends' a while to catch on to this. One memorable incident in college involved his roommate, his current fuck-buddy, a dildo and an ingeniously staged scenario to which Dean had been expected to react with anger, violence, and finally a declaration of undying-yet-possessive love. Instead Dean had laughed himself sick. The dildo had been used to smack him around the face, leaving a bright red mark that didn't fade for three days.
So he couldn't quite work out why he wanted to leap up and throttle Tristan,the too-cool emo-punk with his tattoos and his perfectly gelled hair.
Because Sam wasn't even trying to make him jealous. It wouldn't even occur to the kid; he wasn't manipulative like that. But still. Dean could see the guy out of the corner of his eye, leaning into Sam, nudging him with an elbow, laughing like Sam was hilariously funny and deeply interesting, all at the same time. Sam had his soulful trust-me research face on, as if Tristan was someone he was interviewing for a case. The kid didn't even realise.
Dean snorted into his beer, tuning back into the bartender's thrilling recounting of his last tax write-off. Normally Dean would go and save Sam from himself. Sam didn't know how adorable his flushed face was, how his lips did this little pout when he was considering something, how his hair fell across his eyes just so, just enough to be mysterious. But Dean wasn't feeling particularly charitable today; his leg was aching from a stitched up claw wound that had come a hair's-breath from cutting into muscle, his car was missing two inches of metal and his shirt smelt like he'd been rolling around in the puddles outside a brewery.
Let Sam figure it out by himself.
It'd be funny, too. He could picture Sam's expression when he caught on to the fact that Tristan was flirting with him. Dean could use it as ammunition for the next month.
The girl he'd rejected earlier pushed past him to get to the bar, flaunting her cleavage for the middle-aged bartender and shooting Dean looks through squinted eyes. Dean turned away to watch Sam and his new friend. Yeah, he could still appreciate a good pair of tits when they were thrust in his face, but when it was accompanied by a face painted up to imitate a Barbie doll…
Across the bar, Tristan was practically felating his beer bottle – Budweiser, the pussy. Sam was biting on a hangnail, his forehead creased in a fixed scowl as the stubborn piece of skin proved reluctant to being chewed off. Dean snorted again and settled back to watch the show.
"So, where are you from?"
Sam glanced up at Tristan, his finger stinging as a drop of beer caught in the cut. "Huh?"
"Where're you from? Your brother said you were just passing through." Tristan said, licking the neck of his beer bottle with a pink flash of tongue.
"Oh. Uh, we're from…Kansas." Sam made up on the spot. It was half-true; Dean was from Kansas, at least. Sam, well he wasn't too sure where he was from. It had never seemed important enough to risk a fight with his dad, just to find out which state he'd been born in. He could probably look it up somewhere, but what would be the point? He didn't remember anything about it, it would never be home to him.
"Midwest, huh? A country boy." Tristan said with a smile.
"Actually, I think Kansas is more central America."
The guy blinked. "Oh. I…didn't know that." He took a deep breath, glancing around the room before his eyes came back to rest on Sam " Uh, I hear they have good barbeque there?"
Sam internally shrugged, nodding when it became clear the guy was waiting for a response. They probably did. Not that Sam had ever tasted Kansas barbeque. Was it supposed to be different from other types of barbeque? How many kinds of charred meat could there be? He'd have to ask Dean. If it involved dead animals being cooked over an open fire, Dean would have the answer.
"So, d'you live around here?" He asked. The question put a sharp grin on Tristan's face.
"Yeah, actually. About five minutes down the street. My roommate's out for the night, he won't be back 'til tomorrow afternoon."
"That's cool. It's nice to get some space to yourself sometimes." Sam said, glancing over at Dean.
"Sure is." Tristan took another long drink, his eyes flashing with the changing strobe light. When he started speaking, his voice was so low Sam had to lean in to catch it. "I was thinking of maybe getting out of here after this beer."
"Oh. Well, that's okay, I'll go…hang with my brother over there." Sam said, biting down on the pout. He'd hoped to avoid Dean for a bit longer, give him a while to cool off before they left. Sleeping in the same bed as a pissed-off Dean was never fun. Not that either of them would consider separate beds; Sam slept better with Dean's arm thrown over his belly. He wasn't completely sure of Dean's reasoning for sharing a single. Probably he was worried Sam might feel rejected if he didn't. He'd tell the older man it was okay if he wanted space to stretch out, but he was strangely reluctant to put what they did at night into words, like to speak it out loud might break it.
Tristan didn't look happy for some reason, his lips pursing and his arms crossing over his chest. Maybe he'd meant he didn't want to talk to Sam at all? Maybe Sam should go away and leave him alone? He was indecisive, shuffling his feet and trying to stamp down on the stubborn blush threatening. He cursed his fucked-up childhood yet again in his head; he could never be part of the cool crowd. He didn't understand how to be someone other people wanted to get to know. Was it something he could learn? Or had he already passed the stage where it could be figured out?
Either way, it looked like it was gonna be him and Dean, alone together. Which was enough, more than enough, but at times like these, when Dean was so mad at him he couldn't even speak…
"Uh, I'm just gonna…go to the bathroom. I'll see you in a minute, if you haven't finished your drink." He turned tail without waiting for an answer, practically running through the crowd. God, he was such a loser. Dean would laugh.
Oddly, the thought comforted him.
Dean grinned around his drink as Sam scarpered off to the toilets, Tristan tracking him with a look that was pure exasperation. Apparently Sammy wasn't playing along like the guy'd hoped. Good. Dean was half tempted to go and laugh in his face, throw an arm around Sam's shoulders and kiss the hell out of the kid right in front of Tristan-the-loser. Show the guy exactly what he was missing and would never, ever get to have, because Sam? Was Dean's, at least for as long as he wanted to be.
But then he recalled the concrete pillar and the chunk missing out of his car, and his smile faded.
He wouldn't mind the damage so much if Sam had just apologised. But no, the kid had to get all snarky and in his face. Dean sighed, swallowing more beer and shifting uncomfortably on his bar stool. The position his body was bent into pulled at the stitches in his leg. He hoped he could get back to the motel room without them ripping. They'd been a bitch to sew in the first place; he wasn't looking forward to getting them redone.
He should probably let Sam drive more often though. Or at all, his mind helpfully added. It wasn't Sam's fault he was unused to handling the bigger car. It would totally suck if he got hurt and Sam had to drive him to the hospital, but at least he'd be able to relax knowing Sam wasn't going to be leaving pieces of the Impala littered in the street behind them as they went.
He chewed his lip, staring at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Yeah, maybe he'd been slightly unreasonable. Only slightly, though.
He sighed, pushing himself off the stool. He'd find Sam, magnanimously forgive him for the damage done to his baby, and then they could get the hell out of here. Give Tristan something to really pout about. A grin grew across his lips at the thought.
Except when he looked over to the table Tristan had been sitting at, the other man had disappeared.
Sam splashed water on his face, looking up at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Behind him he could see the line of toilet stalls standing open and empty, dirty marks scarring the walls. There was a vague smell of vomit wafting out of the end stall; his stomach rolled and he stood up straight, shaking his hair out of his eyes.
He should go and find Dean, apologise to him.
His head ached, pounding in time to the heavy bass beat vibrating through the door. He wasn't exactly a big drinker - three beers was about his limit. Dean made fun of him for being a lightweight, gentle teasing with a soft smile on his face so Sam would know he wasn't being serious. He'd never been drunk. He had seen that look on his father far too many times in his life and long ago decided that it wasn't ever going to be for him.
The door leading to the bar opened, letting a burst of dance music in. Sam glanced up in the mirror, seeing Tristan appear. The guy smiled when their eyes met.
"Hey. I finished my beer."
"Uh, hey." Sam said hesitantly. He wondered if it had become normal to chat in men's rooms now; last he checked, most guys were in and out without making eye contact, pretending they were the only person in the room.
"So I was thinking, if you didn't want your brother to know…"
Tristan sidled up next to him. Sam took a step back, hitting the sink sharply. His eyes widened, because hey, perhaps it was okay to chat in the men's room, but he was certain pressing crotches together in the men's room was against the rules.
"That you were, y'know. Gay." Tristan said, peeking up at Sam from under his eyelashes. Oh god, was Tristan coming onto him? His fingers were making themselves at home in the belt loops of Sam's jeans, tugging him forward, and yeah that was definitely a hard-on Sam was wedged up against.
"Huh?" It came out a squeak.
"Yeah. He seems like he might be the homophobic type. It's okay, I don't mind." Tristan leaned in close, seemingly unaware of Sam's shock. "We don't have to go back to mine if you want. We could have some fun right here. Dean will never know."
"Um…" Sam wriggled, trying to break free. Apparently Tristan took it as a sign that he should press closer, leaning in for a kiss. "Wait! Wait a-"
"Hey, it's okay." Tristan whispered, leaning forward again. Sam threw his head backward, nearly braining himself on the mirror.
"No, wait, I-I wasn't-"
"Wasn't what?" Tristan started kissing his neck, moaning. His hips were moving against Sam, humping him into the hard edge of the sink.
"Hey!" The sudden yell made Tristan freeze, darting a look over his shoulder. Sam peeked behind the guy in time to see Dean's fist flying through the air. It landed hard on Tristan's jaw with a meaty smack. Tristan fell to the floor like a dead weight, yelping and clutching at his face.
Dean stood over him, his hands fisted tight at his sides and his face taut with anger. "I think he asked you to stop!"
"What the fuck-" Tristan started.
"I also think you better shut the hell up, unless you wanna end up in the hospital!" Dean said, taking a giant step forward. It seemed as though he had grown five feet, too tall for the room. Tristan scooted back on his hands and knees, eyes wide with fear.
"Look, I get that he's your brother, man, but you can't stop him from-"
Dean started laughing, the sound throaty and cutting as one of Sam's knives. "Me, stop him? I think he was trying to stop you!"
Tristan shook his head, his lips twisting. "Hey, just 'cause you can't take the fact that he's gay…"
"Really? That what he told you?" Dean shot an unreadable look in Sam's direction. Sam shrugged, helpless. He thought he should probably to tell Dean to leave it, but part of him was just relieved the older man was pissed off at someone that wasn't him.
Tristan staggered to his feet, an arrogant expression twisting his lips in a sneer. His jaw was red and swelling. "He didn't need to. He's fucking scared of you, man. What, you abuse him as a kid or something?"
Sam flinched visibly, feeling like he'd been sucker-punched, sent reeling into space. Abuse and Dean in the same sentence tasted like the ultimate blasphemy. The part of him that felt sorry for Tristan vanished like it'd never been. He turned to Dean, watching as the other man's jaw clenched, his eyes widening. He took a heavy step into Tristan's personal space, his fist smashing into the same bruised spot like it was a target.
This time, Tristan went down and didn't get back up again.
Dean stood over the unconscious body, panting hard. His arms were trembling and it looked as if he was having trouble restraining himself from just beating the shit out of the guy, out cold or not.
"Dean?" Sam said, hating the quiver to his voice.
"Are you scared of me, Sam?" Dean said, his voice blank of emotion. He didn't turn to face Sam.
Sam took a step forward, his hand grabbing the older man's shirt. "No! God, no, Dean, I swear I never said anything like that! I'm not scared of you!"
When Dean turned, his face was pale and pleading. "Sam, you gotta tell me, you gotta say something if I ever- I mean, I know I was pissed at you, but it was never…it wasn't like that-"
"Dean!" Sam pressed into him, ignoring Tristan out cold on the floor. He lifted his hands to cup Dean's face, holding it like he was fragile and precious. "Dean, I will never be scared of you. You…" He blushed, looking at the floor. "You make me feel..." safe, he wanted to say, but the word wouldn't come, it was too much, it was too close for them. The older man seemed to understand though.
Dean used a gentle finger to tilt Sam's head back up. His eyes looked suspiciously damp. "Sam…"
Sam smiled up at him, chewing on the inside of his mouth. The moment lasted, unbroken, until the door to the bar swung open. A man stumbled in, red wine staining the front of his shirt like a nosebleed. He didn't even notice Tristan on the floor, or Dean's Rhett Butler act, but Dean quickly stepped back anyway, flushing and scratching at the back of his neck like he'd been caught with his pants down.
Sam smacked him gently on the shoulder, basking in the attention as Dean focused on him. Only him. "Plus, dude, you think I can't kick your ass?"
Dean didn't deign to answer, grabbing him in a headlock that turned to a hug halfway through. The brush of lips at Sam's temple, once, twice, told him that the older man had forgiven him. That there was nothing to forgive. Sam held on, smiling into the worn-soft cotton of Dean's shirt.
"Easy, easy off the clutch! No, you can't grind the gears, Sam, you gotta do it smooth! Careful!" Dean made an aborted attempt to snatch the stick shift from Sam. Sam slapped his hand away without taking his eyes off the road, letting out a theatrical huff.
"Christ, Dean, I know how to drive!"
Dean rolled his eyes, hiding a grin. It felt weird being in the passenger seat of the Impala, like he was a kid again, watching his dad drive, impatient to learn. But he could get used to it, he supposed. As long as he made absolutely sure that Sam knew how to take care of his baby.
"Yeah, well, until I see you driving to my satisfaction…"
Sam glanced over at him, his face bright and smiling. "Dean, no one in the world drives to your satisfaction."
He inclined his head regally. "True."
"But you're gonna let me drive anyway. 'Cause you like me." Sam said, flashing a grin that showed off all his teeth, white against the coffee-cream tan of his skin. He looked like a little boy behind the wheel, brilliant and joyful. It made Dean ache somewhere deep in his chest to see him smile.
"I'm gonna let you drive 'cause if I don't you'll do it when I'm not lookin' and total my car." Dean corrected, punching him in the arm. The gesture turned into a caress. His hand curled around Sam's neck, fingers idly playing in the soft hair. "Now keep your eyes on the road!"