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On their way out of the bank, Dean barely had time to breathe, let alone think. What should have been a simple shifter job had become an epic clusterfuck so fast his head was still spinning. They were officially considered bank robbers, were barely a step ahead of the FBI—the actual FBI—and needed to somehow get the hell out of dodge fast enough to outrun the four bodies in their wake, only one of which was the shifter. Three innocent deaths would be enough to call any job a failure but this one, this one sat poorly with Dean. Ronald hadn’t needed to die, the dumb fool had only been trying to help people, he’d just gotten in over his head too deep too fast and Dean couldn’t help blaming himself. If only they’d told him, if only they’d reassured him, somehow, that they were on the case. But they hadn’t had any idea that Ron was gonna do what he did, and Dean feels the mistake keenly, guilt simmering like acid beside the fear nestled deep in his gut.
They make it to the car by some miracle, hearts pounding and breath coming in jagged pants. Inside the car, Dean felt himself relax. Logical or not, he felt safe inside the confines of his Baby, her frame the walls of the only home he’s ever known. Behind her wheel, Dean felt like he could do anything.
For a long, long moment, the two brothers just sat there, hearts racing as if able to leap out of their chests, their ragged breathing loud in the silence. Finally, Dean spoke.
“We are so screwed”
At 21, Dean was only just starting to gain some independence from his Dad, only just starting to strike out on his own, having time to himself a little while at a time before falling back into line. He was meant to be Hunting of course—or, more accurately, doing the legwork so him and Dad could link up to finish the job—but that’s not all he was doing. Of course it wasn’t, he was a young adult only just starting to taste freedom for the first time, he was damn well hooking up with as many guys would have him.
That night found Dean in a random bar outside of nowheresville, Oklahoma, drinking away his hard hustled money and making eyes at pretty strangers. He wasn’t the only one looking.
Somehow, Dean ended up sharing a table with another man, around his age, maybe a year or so older, with brown hair cropped military standard and the warmest blue eyes Dean had ever seen, the both of them passing back and forth glances laden heavy with flirtatious intent.
“My name’s Dean, by the way”
“Eliot, nice t’ meetcha” the man drawled, voice husky and whiskey sweet, tinged with the rough burr of an authentic southern twang. Dean couldn’t resist a quick wink, tilting his head back just to see the man blush.
“You got a girl, soldier?” Dean asked, smiling like the sun, expression tinged with both a liquid heat and genuine sincerity.
“I do,” Eliot nodded, free and easy “but we ain’t made ‘ny promises to each other”
“My kind of guy,” Dean smirked, tilting his beer towards Eliot, and the man smirked back, nodding barely perceptibly as he touched his glass to Dean’s. Right, Dean noted with a grin, same page. Hell, Dean didn’t even know if this mystery girlfriend back home was even real or a DADT fiction, but both him and Eliot were having the same secret conversation beneath their audible conversation, and Dean could barely suppress a grin, forcing down an excited shiver at the thought of taking this beautiful man home.
The Impala tears out of the parking garage with gusto, bleeding into the downtown traffic seamlessly, as unremarkable as a lovingly maintained ‘67 Impala is ever able to be. Dean’s cautious as he drives—the absolute last thing they need right now is to be pulled over for speeding—resisting the urge to leadfoot it all the way across state lines and instead taking a restrained, meandering pace that nevertheless puts Milwaukee as far in the rearview as possible.
Sam’s quiet by his side, stunned, and Dean knows it’s up to him what happens next. What should he do, with his and his brother’s lives in the balance? Where could he go?
Dean wanted to go to Bobby, wanted desperately the sense of comfort, of safety he always got around the older man, like there was someone else he trusted to take care of him so he didn’t have to make the hard calls, but Dean didn’t want to put him in that position, didn’t want to drag the feds to his door even though he knew the man wouldn’t hesitate to take them in. Especially because he wouldn’t hesitate, not even for a second. Bobby deserved better than always cleaning up his and Sam’s messes.
He needed somewhere else, someone else, someone who could help him and Sam lay low and maybe pull a favour or two to get the feds to back off enough for them to have a little breathing room. The problem was, Dean didn’t want to have to open this door, not like this, not now, not with Sam, but he really wasn’t seeing another choice.
Miles passed like that, in silence, the both of them lost in their own thoughts and Dean internally at war with himself, trying to think of some way, any way, to avoid the inevitable. Eventually, Dean broke the silence, barely drawing his eyes away from the road no matter how badly he wanted to flick them across to Sam. God, was he really doing this? Yeah it made sense and everything, but Dean was closeted for a reason and hell, maybe Dad was gone now, but his ashes were barely cold in the wind and his shadow loomed over them both as large as ever. Dean didn’t want to have to face this part of himself, didn’t want Sam to see it, ever, especially with the way he’d taken to idolising their Dad in death the way he never had in life. That said though, it was rapidly looking like he didn’t have a choice, not with Henriksen riding their asses and the actual FBI thinking they were bank robbing, mass murdering serial killers.
“I think I know a guy, might be able to help get us out of this mess”
“Dean,” Sam rolled his eyes “I really don’t think-“ but if Dean was doing this he was doing this as painlessly as possible, and that meant cutting Sam off before he actually voiced his lack of faith in Dean.
“He’s not a Hunter. He’s in the know, kinda, but he’s good at laying low and might be able to get some of the heat off us”
“Dean,” Sam frowned “we can’t just trust some civilian to-“
“He’s not a civilian, Sam”
“And what makes you even think-“
“Sam, that's enough!” Dean said, words bitten out from behind clenched teeth, fingers white-knuckled around Baby’s wheel. To his credit, Sam fell silent, mind clearly racing but protestations unvoiced. Dean knew Sam was just worried, was lashing out more than actually doubting Dean’s suggestion, but still, he was already on edge enough with the whole idea of introducing Sam to Eliot, he didn’t have the patience for his brother’s sniping. Eventually, Sam couldn’t contain himself any longer, and Dean was just grateful the silence had lasted as long as it did.
“So this guy, he owes you a favour?”
“No,” Dean shook his head, and Sam’s eyebrows crept towards his hairline.
“You owe him a favour?”
“No Sam,” Dean snapped, testy “it’s not like that okay?”
“He a cop?”
“No Sam he’s not a cop, he’s- he’s a man with a very specific skill set”
“And that’s all I’m gonna get?”
“Yeah Sam, that’s all you’re gonna get” he huffed, because they’ve been at each other’s throats since Dad died and Eliot was- was something special, someone special, someone who meant something to Dean and he’d never thought he’d let Sammy see this part of himself. At least Sam trusts him enough not to protest further, merely turning to rest against the window, putting his back to Dean and feigning sleep long enough for it to take.
Dean doesn’t relax until they’re two states over, just inside the North Dakota border, eight and a half hours later. They’ve barely stopped, pulling over only to fill the tank and swap out who’s driving, keeping just below the limit the whole way and making the trip in spot on average time. Dean’s the one at the wheel when they make it to Fargo, exhausted and bleary-eyed, half staggering out of the car with cramped fingers frozen into a pugilistic curl, body aching down to his bones by the time they make it to what he hopes is still Eliot’s current residence. From the outside, the place is unremarkable, an ordinary looking plain two storey terrace surrounded by repurposed shops and the odd home still holding on. Inside, he’s guessing it’s a different story.
Dean’s stomach’s in knots as they head up the drive, physical aches warring with the anxiety in his gut, and Dean doesn’t know what his next move is if their gamble doesn’t work out. He doesn’t even know if Eliot’s here. They’d ditched their SIMs at the first opportunity and Dean hadn’t had a chance to warn him they were coming. There was a chance he wouldn’t even be there, was a chance he wouldn’t let them in even if he was. It’s not like Dean had given him a heads up the feds were on their tail, not like he’d given Eliot fair warning—the man may not be able to ride out that kind of heat right now. Dean could have blown their getaway and screwed over his friend in one fell swoop.
“Do we pick the lock?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised as Dean led the way up the front steps, towards the door and blacked out windows of the home that by all means looked completely uninhabited.
“Absolutely not,” Dean told him, all sincerity, and reached out for the buzzer.
For a moment the house seemed to hold its breath, waiting, and then the buzzer crackled to life with a hiss of static. Dean pressed the call button, hoping that Eliot really was on the other end of the line.
“Yo Ramsay, you in there? It’s Dutch”
“Really Dean, Predator?” Sam said, huffing a derisive laugh, but then a tinny voice came through the speaker and Dean couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Dean?”
“Yeah man,” he said, holding down the button again. “Me and my brother, need a place to lay low if you’re able.” There was a moment of stillness, of doubt, and Dean held his breath. They’ve never turned each other away before, but lately had seen a lot of firsts, and Dean wouldn’t be at all surprised if their run of bad luck held.
“Hell man,” Eliot said, at long last “you’d better come in”
The door in front of them clicked and swung open and there, bracketed by the door and a halo of messily secured hair, is Eliot. He looks good, healthy, strong and calm and confident, hands loose by his sides, body glowing with a light sheen of sweat. He’s wearing a loose singlet and shorts, hands wrapped, looking as if he’d been working out when they interrupted him, and Dean’s muscles itch with the sudden urge to spar. His hair’s long now, would probably curl about his clavicles if it were unbound, and Dean’s fingers twitch with wanting to reach out and touch, to tangle his hands in those tantalising curls. His lips twitched into a smile.
Eliot greets Dean with a hug, enthusiastic but with enough hand-grasping and back-slapping that it's up to code, and Sam with an assessing look and crisp handshake. Sam just studies him right back, gaze somewhere between surly and calculating as Eliot leads them further into the house.
Inside, the house is nice, on the higher end of comfortable, designed so somehow it gives the appearance of an open-air space without any overly large glass windows that too often exist just to beckon attackers. It’s nothing extravagant, nothing over the top, but Dean knows enough about kitchens to tell that Eliot’s—with a granite countertop and industrial range and sink setup, big-ass kitchen island on wheels and a wide wrap-around bench—is top of the line. He smiles, happy for his friend. The Eliot that had clung to Dean with such desperation the last time they’d met, freshly separated from whatever shady, dodgy as fuck asshole of a boss he’d had, hadn’t even been able to dream of something like this, and Dean felt joy tingling to the very tips of his fingers that Eliot had been able to have it anyway. Hell, he was proud of the man.
“So this is Sam,” Eliot said, not quite a question, passing the kitchen island to return to the mostly empty smoothie maker on the kitchen bench, pouring himself a glass without bothering to turn.
“This is Sam,” Dean agreed, nodding, settling himself easily on the other side of the bench, perching happily on a stool, content for Eliot to finish up with what he was doing. Sam’s eyebrows rise, at that, Dean knows they do even without looking, knows his pain in the ass observant as fuck little brother is noting how deeply comfortable Dean is with this routine, and hopes against hope that Sam doesn’t say anything. If Sam doesn’t say anything then maybe Dean doesn’t have to confess what he and Eliot are to each other, doesn’t have to explain, to face his brother’s condemnation, but he also knows it’ll be a goddamn miracle if they get out of this with his secrets intact.
Eliot finishes his smoothie and starts loading up the blender by rote, leaving off the protein he’d loaded into his own post-workout mix, blitzing an assortment of winter fruit as Sam grew increasingly irritated by the delay. Dean winced as Eliot took the time to pour two more glasses, sensing the growing thunderclouds of Sam’s frown. Sam was already irate enough to be trusting a non-Hunter stranger just on Dean’s say so, to see Eliot so unflappable, not even asking why the two needed to hide out, would only peeve Dean’s brother off. Still, Dean didn’t hesitate to take the proffered glass from Eliot’s hand, eyes crinkling with the ghost of a smile as their fingers brushed, taking a long draught straight away as Eliot turned, sitting Sam’s glass on the bench in front of him. Sam’s glower deepened.
“It’s good,” Dean told their host, as Eliot turned back towards him, one eyebrow raised at Sam’s flat and implicit rejection of his hospitality. “Have a sip, Sam, Eliot’s big on that southern hospitality thing”
Slowly, Sam reached for his glass, Eliot taking up a position leaning against the cabinets where the bench curved, arms folded across his chest as he faced Dean and Sam. Dean was just glad that Sammy was behind him, so he couldn’t see the way Dean’s eyes widened, cheeks flushing the gentlest pink in response to the action. Clearly being his own man suited Eliot—the man looked good, hale and healthy and built like a brick shithouse. Dean very suddenly wishes that Sammy were anywhere else, that he was here alone and in entirely different circumstances.
“So what brings y’u two t’ my door?” Eliot asked, head quirked inquisitively, and Dean pushed aside his fantasies.
“Uh,” Dean flushed, suddenly realising how this could sound. “So there was this shifter, right? In Milwaukee, and, well, the long and the short of it is we got press-ganged into joining an in progress bank robbery and now the FBI’s on our asses”
“Huh,” Eliot said, eyebrows raised, leaning back further against the counter, and Dean knew then that he’d look after them. Sam, however, didn’t have Dean’s experience reading Eliot’s body and understanding the man’s silent language—thank fuck and ugh, that was a line of thought Dean never needed—taking offence to Eliot’s almost complete non-reaction. Dean supposed it made sense, were the shoe on the other foot he probably would have read the man’s equanimity as disregard, too, but Eliot wasn’t like that and, almost more importantly, he was important to Dean, and Sam was missing some pretty relevant context. Instead of accepting Eliot’s implicit offer of help, Sam scoffed, pushing back from the counter.
“Dean-” he began but Dean couldn’t let him finish, couldn’t let him insult Eliot, insult Dean, not in front of Eliot, because Eliot wouldn’t take that lying down and Dean didn’t know where Sam’s head was at these days. His brother had been unlike himself ever since their Dad had died and Dean never quite knew what would set him off, what would send him one way or the other. He’d finally become the man their father’d wanted him to be, finally idolised Dad as if his death absolved him for everything he’d done in life, all while Dean was only just beginning to accept that maybe their Dad hadn’t done his best, that he could have—should have—done more, treated them—treated Dean—different, and that maybe Dean didn’t have to live up to his expectations anymore. A worse combination Dean couldn’t think of, and add Eliot to the mix, Dean’s potential coming out… no, Dean very much wouldn’t allow this to go any further, because neither man made a habit of backing down and Dean was done playing peacekeeper.
“Eliot’ll help us, Sam” Dean said, in a voice that brooked no disagreement, and Eliot nodded.
“O’ course, Dean knows I’d ne’r turn ‘im away”
“I thought you said neither of you owes the other” Sam said slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“We don’t” Dean and Eliot said at the same time, heads tilting in unison to meet the other’s gaze, the both of them smiling, familiar enough that Sam scoffed again.
“Yeah whatever, you’re prepared to harbour two fugitives in your pokey terrace just because it’s my brother asking?”
Dean frowned, at that. Because it was true, of course he would, because it was Dean, but he didn’t like the way it was framed—as if he’s not harbouring Dean but two strangers on his say so—or worded, because terrace or no this house was anything but pokey and Eliot had worked hard for this, had earned back something Dean never had, and Sammy was just going to throw that in his face? In the face of someone who was helping them, no questions asked? Dean had raised his brother better than that, he knew he had.
“Sam,” he said, voice taut, because Sam wasn’t just insulting their host, he was insulting Eliot “don’t be ungrateful.” He glared, strong enough it seemed to get through to Sam, who scoffed but subsided.
“Right,” Eliot said slowly, eyes flicking consideringly between the brothers. “I got a couple spare rooms in th’ back, if y’ want ‘em”
“We do,” Dean agreed, but Eliot just looked at him, pointedly turning his gaze to Sam. “Sam?”
“Right,” Sam said at last, still staring Eliot down. If the situation were different Dean would have laughed, good luck to anyone trying to stare down Eliot Spencer over anything. “Yeah, thanks”
“Y’ur welcome,” Eliot said, pointedly, turning to Dean. “Gotta get y’ur car off th’ street man, y’ can park her in th’ garage”
“She is pretty distinctive, isn’t she” Dean laughed, delighted as Eliot hung his head, grinning. Without thinking, Dean’s hand twitched towards his pocket, towards his keys, and he only had a second to physically abort the motion, hooking his thumb into the seam as if to disguise the sudden movement, the instinct. Eliot’s eyebrows crept towards his hairline, eyes flicking between Dean and Sam, who tilted his head, confused. “Yeah man, I’ll get right on that” Dean agreed, hastily turning and making for the exit, Eliot following before breaking off to open the garage door. Dean swallowed roughly, pushing the balls of his palms into his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe through the panic. He’d been about to toss Eliot his keys, he was going to give Eliot his keys, let the other man drive his Baby into the garage. He hadn’t even thought about it. It had just been instinct, to let Eliot behind the wheel again, to trust Eliot with his car, and Dean had no problem with it, he didn’t—Eliot himself was a car man, had a beautiful cherry red Challenger that Dean couldn’t help but respect and always drove Baby with the proper amount of care, seeming to understand that she was more than just a car to Dean, she was his home—but he hadn’t even thought about it, had forgotten that Sam was right there, and that was a recipe for disaster if ever he’d seen one. How was he meant to survive however long they’d be staying with Eliot? It was a hell of a dilemma, and one Dean didn’t have an answer to.
The Eliot that met Dean next was almost a different man. Gone was the flirty confidence, the self-assurance and visible oneness with his body, instead this Eliot was hunched into himself, had a cap pulled low over his brow, shadowing his face, and was curved into the lee of Dean’s motel door, as if trying to hide himself away. Dean stepped back instantly, watching as Eliot ambled slowly into the room, hesitant, almost. Dean frowned, studying his friend. His hair wasn’t quite military approved anymore but it was still neat, almost robotically trimmed down to the millimeter, and Dean knew something was wrong. No one who just got out didn’t do something crazy with their hair, not unless they were going straight into something similar. And the last time Dean had seen Eliot he’d seemed excited about getting out, about some future opportunity or whatever that had reached out to him, and Dean suddenly knew that whatever it was definitely wasn’t going as expected. Finally, Eliot spoke, twisting his own fingers nervously, turning to face Dean.
“Dean I can’, I can’t do this again” and oh crap, there were bruises all along the side of Eliot’s jaw, his cheek swollen and one side of his face scratched up like he’d been scraped raw along cement.
“Jeez man, are you okay?” Dean asked, stepping into Eliot’s space on instinct, knocking the hat from his head and freezing up as Eliot flinched. Slowly, deliberately, Dean stepped out of Eliot’s space, glowering like thunder.
“‘M serious Dean, ‘s not safe”
“For me or you?”
“Both. Either” Eliot admitted, unable to meet Dean’s gaze, eyes shiftily flicking around the motel room as if nervous, anxious in a way he’d never been. “I- I’m workin’ for someone now, someone not very nice. He- he wouldn’t like me meetin’ w’ you, if he knew”
“El, c’mon man, really? Y’ complete your service period and jump straight into anoth-“
“Don’t-“ Eliot said hurriedly, cutting Dean off as if he was honestly worried about the Hunter insulting his employer. As if he were scared. And that, more than anything, pissed Dean off—Eliot didn’t deserve this, he didn’t, who the hell was the man’s new boss and how quickly could Dean and his shiny new engraved Colt go pay the man a visit?—but Dean had never seen Eliot scared before, and that meant this fucker must be seriously bad news.
“What’re you doing anyway?”
“Security,” Eliot mumbled, unable to meet Dean’s eyes, and Dean thought bullshit, or mostly bullshit anyway, suddenly certain that Eliot did a lot more than simple security and equally as certain that he doubted he wanted to know the extent of what Eliot was actually doing, not if it could put that haunted look in the eyes of a man who’d formerly been special forces.
“Who is this a-”
“Don’t!” Eliot said sharply, suddenly, jerking physically and Dean saw raw, naked fear in his eyes. It was enough to make him want to turn that little chat into something a lot more permanent. “Please Dean, don’- don’ ask any more questions. Pl- for me,” Eliot asked—pleaded—and Dean forcibly bit his own tongue, holding Eliot’s gaze for a long moment before nodding jerkily.
“For you,” he conceded, hating himself for it, for the way losing Sammy to school and Dad to his rage had turned Dean meek and desperate, willing to concede anything even if he knew it would end up getting Eliot hurt just so he could keep his- whatever he had with the other man.
“Thank you,” Eliot breathed, word coming out as one exhalation, whole body sagging with it, and then he was stepping forward deliberately, tentatively but decisively, until he was hugging Dean. It was an uncertain embrace and Dean didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Eliot—lightly, at first, holding tighter as Eliot’s body shuddered and then perceptibly relaxed into it. “Can’- can’ do anything more,” Eliot told him, speaking into the side of Dean’s jacket, leaving unspoken an implied ‘he’d know’ that had Dean’s hackles raising further “if- if that’s what y’ wanted t’ see me for.” It was but Dean abruptly didn’t care about that. He shook his head, not at all oblivious to the way Eliot sagged in relief. Dean held him tighter, wishing he could protect him from this. “I can’- can’ see you again Dean, I mean it. Had t’ tell ya. He- I don’ want t’ know what he’d do t-”
“Yeah well,” Dean grumbled, gruff and still holding tight to Eliot, letting the man shelter in his embrace for at least this moment. “We’ll see.”
That night Eliot treated them to dinner, Dean parking himself easily behind the bench and watching as Eliot assembles a caramelised onion and braised beef salad with mechanical precision. Dean has long since learnt—and come to terms with—the fact that he’s only in the way when Eliot cooks. It’s not that he doesn’t like cooking, not that he isn’t proud of the food he makes—of himself for making it—but Eliot’s on another level, a proper culinarily trained chef, all technical skill and cutting edge gustatory experimentation, not really able to align with the way Dean learned, bulk and cheap.
It’s an awkward dinner. The food is, of course, amazing, and Sam seems to take that as some sign of inherent guilt, glaring at Eliot over the table as if he has any hope of ruffling the man. Needing to make conversation, Dean talks—he tells Eliot all about their hunts, the funny—those Ghostfacers tools—and the serious—the demon virus, Meg and the other special children, those who aren’t Sam. He skirts over their Dad’s death, is hazy on the details and Eliot doesn’t press, doesn’t offer condolences, merely nods and asks about the yellow eyed demon. Sam notices, of course he notices, and sees it as confirmation that Eliot’s an asshole. He doesn’t realise that Dean is so glad for the complete non-reaction, that it means Eliot knows him, knows he’s conflicted, knows how his Dad treated him, how Dean could never bring himself to say a word against the man even though he really should have, that it means he doesn’t have to put on a facade. It’s a relief.
After dinner Sam sets himself up on the single lounge chair with a book on gnosticism while Dean and Eliot crash on the couch to watch whatever sport’s playing—baseball, at the moment—and Dean very forcibly flicks his eyes towards Sam to remind himself not to sexualise the players out loud. Eliot grins at him like he knows exactly what he was thinking. Dean tries valiantly not to blush.
Eventually, the evening wound to a close, Sammy starting to make noise about getting to sleep, and Dean concedes. He let Eliot show the both of them to his guest rooms—seperate thank fuck—and long after Sam closed his door Dean still couldn’t bring himself to sleep. He doesn’t want this, lying alone in a spare bedroom like some stranger, he wants Eliot, but Sam’s here, things are different—have to be different—and Dean can’t sleep. Instead, he paced, tempted. He didn’t want to, wanted things to be normal, but the normal of Sam and the normal of Eliot were different things and Dean couldn’t stand it. Eventually, the longing won out.
With silent feet, Dean padded down the hallway to Eliot’s room, not bothering to think of an excuse. He’d barely raised his fist to knock when the door slid open with an audible creak—Dean didn’t think it would be loud enough to wake Sam, didn’t care, with the way Eliot smiled.
“Dean,” he beamed, soft and pleased.
“Hey man,” Dean smiled. There, hair hanging loose and free over a worn pyjama shirt and thin cotton pants, was Eliot. Dean grinned and Eliot’s face echoed him, the man—built as fuck, Dean was once again delighted to note—standing aside and beconing Dean in with his head. Dean went. They ended up sprawled on Eliot’s bed, all thought of polite distance vanished as they half-curled half-collapsed together, sitting cross legged facing each other, folded knees half on top of one another. Eliot was still shorter than him, still stockier—better nourished, always had been—but with a glowing vitality of life that Dean could almost bring himself to envy. Eliot had a good life here, now, and Dean was glad for him.
“I’m sorry, about Sam” Dean said, after a long moment. Eliot just shook his head, perfect mane of hair swishing with the motion, face creased into a wry smile.
“Ain’t your fault, Dean. Y’ur brother’s his own person, y’ur not responsible for his actions” Dean made a face, at that, and Eliot laughed, companionably bumping Dean’s shoulder with his. “Yeah okay, I get it”
“Thanks,” Dean muttered, looking away. I missed you, Dean thought, but didn’t say, I’m glad you have all this. I’m so glad. “So how’s work?”
“Eh, it’s gettin’ there,” Eliot shrugged “since, you know” he trailed off.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed easily, because he did know. He may not know much about Eliot’s former employer, or the specifics of what he did for the man, but he remembered enough about the Eliot that had been half out of his mind with grief and paranoia after he’d gotten out to know that the man had been involved in some shady shit and that building himself back up from nothing in such an industry had to be a hard slog. “What’re you working now? Not security?”
“Nah,” Eliot confirmed, easily “retrieval”
“Getting people out?”
“People, objects, files. Whatever needs doing”
“Good,” Dean nodded, decisive “that’s good for you man, you’re not-“ he trailed off, not sure how much to say. He knew how much Eliot still worried about the things he’d done, how much it weighed on him, and Dean knew Eliot, he did, the man was good and kind and a protector down to his core, giving and nurturing, a kindred spirit even if few people ever saw it. Dean knew the man’s former employer had suckered him in, had taken all that good and twisted it into something wrong, made Eliot his plaything, and Eliot had suffered for it. “It’s good for you to be protecting things, saving things, you’re not the person Dickhead tried to make you”
As always, the nickname startled a laugh out of Eliot and, smiling, he leant forward to rest his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s heart leapt in his chest, ribs tingling with something like joy, and he reached out to curl his fingers along the line of the man’s skull. Eliot had let slip the man’s name one time—Damien—and immediately gone so white with terror that Dean had sworn to never breathe a word, even between them. Instead, he’d take to referring to the man as Dickhead, because the thought of Dickhead Damien had made Eliot’s face twist right through fear into startled laughter, and Dean had taken that as a win.
“Y’ really think so?” Eliot asked at long last.
“I swear,” Dean said, solemn, feeling Eliot nod against his shoulder, exhaling against Dean’s skin as Dean started lightly stroking the man’s hair. It felt nice, soft and silky under Dean’s rough palm, and he liked it. Eliot liked it too, judging by the way he relaxed into it, mostly trusting, and Dean knew better than to actually let his fingers hook in, knew how that would make Eliot react, suspected that was something Dickhead had done—though Eliot’s hair had been short, then, nearly cropped—that it had been used in the many ways the man had hurt him. “I promise,” Dean repeated again, because Eliot needed to hear it, unable to resist shifting to press a kiss to Eliot’s hairline, his forehead. He felt, more than saw, Eliot smile.
After a while, Dean dropped his other hand to Eliot’s shoulder, started touching with purpose, and Eliot sat up, not quite pulling away but putting himself out of Dean’s space.
“Y’ don’t have t’ do that with me, Dean” Eliot reminded him, frowning, and Dean stilled instantly, frozen, almost. Right. He’d forgotten. To be reminded that not only was there no expectation, here, but that Eliot typically avoided sex more than he had it, that he liked taking care of people intimately without that sort of gratification, was startling. Dean hadn’t understood it, at first—still didn’t, really—but upon seeing proof that there was an entire network of people who would otherwise be random strangers who routinely called Eliot for such exchanges, he at least believed it. He’d worried about them, at first, whether he was like that to Eliot, whether he was the ‘Hunter’ amongst a long list of other service professions, but they weren’t like that. They were something else, something more.
Sure Eliot had sex, was good at sex, but he didn’t seem to crave it, didn’t seem to go out of his way to find it, and Dean- Dean didn’t know what to do with that, every time he was reminded, didn’t know what it said about him, that most of the time he went looking or accepted someone’s offer was out of habit, the learnt expectation that this was how things were meant to be. Maybe he didn’t want to know. He certainly wasn’t about to ask Eliot to explain it to him, certainly wasn’t about to actually stop putting himself into uncomfortable situations but maybe, maybe he could cut back on it, a bit, with Dad dead and no one around to enforce that Dean act normal.
In truth he wasn’t used to touch that didn’t lead further, didn’t quite know what to do with human contact for its own sake, and- and Dean didn’t even really want sex, right now—or hell, most of the time—but it was instinct, habit, it was what he knew, the way he knew things to be and- and-
“Breathe, querido, there you go, easy” Eliot soothed, voice soft and gentle “easy, Dean”
Obedient to the last, Dean breathed, shaky at first, settling as Eliot kept up a steady count. In, out, 3, 4, 5. Breathe. 1, 2, 3. Breathe. 4, 5, 6, there you go Dean.
“Easy motek, easy. That’s it, there you go man, just like that Dean”
Eventually, Dean huffed out a shaky laugh.
“Still with the nicknames, man?” He asked, running a hand through his hair reflexively, unsteady under Eliot’s assessing gaze. They weren’t nicknames, he knew that, he knew Eliot knew he knew that—they were endearments, if anything, truths, almost. Even if he didn’t quite know everything Eliot had called him he understood darling and that last one had sounded familiar, maybe. Eliot had probably called him it before.
“For you? Always” Eliot teased, and Dean blushed. “You wanna stay in ‘ere tonight?”
Yes, said Dean’s heart, yes, said every fibre of his being, yes, said the part of him that longed to be loved, craved being held and nurtured.
“Sammy’s an early riser,” said his mouth, twisted into an unhappy frown.
“Bettin’ I’m earlier,” Eliot drawled, easily, leaning back against the headboard “wanna risk it?” Risk it? No, but gamble, Dean’s whole life was one gamble after the other.
“Honestly? Hell yeah,” he grinned.
“G’t comfortable then” Eliot told him, so he did, crawling under the covers and curling up in Eliot’s arms, his head on the man’s chest, the both of them holding each other, feeling cocooned and safe. Dean relaxed instantly, of course—to be held like this, safe and protected was all he’d ever wanted, and to have it with no expectation, no judgement? Dean could never get enough of it—but after a moment even Eliot felt his spine go lax, body loose and without tension, and he knew it was because this was Dean—wholly trustworthy, completely separate line of business, completely un-bribeable, and able to have Eliot’s back. If Eliot hadn’t already loved him, the ability to sleep comfortable and at ease would have been a pretty damning deciding factor.
“I think ‘m gon’ grow my hair out” Eliot mused, not quite looking at Dean, tense where his bare skin was touching Dean’s, the two of them splayed out beside each other in bed, clothed only in the overly-bleached motel sheets.
“Mm?” Dean hummed, casual and easy despite the way he wanted to wrap himself around Eliot’s body and hold him close. “It’d look good on you.”
“Thanks,” Eliot said softly, shyly—disbelieving, almost—and Dean wished again that he had that bastard’s name or any other lead to go off of. Eliot relaxed at Dean’s easy acceptance, tension physically draining out of him, and Dean let himself imagine Eliot’s recently ex-boss beaten to a bloody pulp. Very cathartic, that. They stayed silent for a moment, each absorbed with their own thoughts, until Eliot rolled over to look at Dean, the movement putting him deeper into Dean’s arms, almost enough to be called an embrace. Dean told himself that was enough—besides, Eliot needed him now, it wasn’t the time for Dean to dare put his own wants on the man, not with his mental state clearly so fragile. “What’re we hunting, anyway?”
“Rugaru,” Dean shrugged, trying not to focus on the way the motion felt with Eliot’s skin against his. “Mean sons of bitches.”
“And they… eat, people” Eliot said, hesitant. Dean nodded.
“Humanoid suckers, with dark eyes and funky skin. They change when they eat human flesh, it’s a craving they can’t resist, they live off it”
“Right,” Eliot said, not quite believing. Dean laughed.
“Yeah yeah, we’ll see how sceptical you are once you’ve got one of the bastards trying to take a bite out of ya”
“I ain’t sayin’ I don’ believe ya,” Eliot protested, half rising onto an elbow and turning to jab Dean in the ribs. Dean laughed again, squirming away from the poke but not retaliating, not with the two of them still unsure what would set Eliot off.
“You’ll see,” Dean said, certain. Eliot huffed out a soft laugh, sinking back down and resting his forehead against Dean’s chest.
“Yeah okay,” he agreed “I guess I will”
As days turned to weeks, Sam got more and more antsy, leaving Dean feeling strung out and anxious. There was only so long something this good could last, only so long he could get away with skirting the edge of propriety with Eliot during the day, sneaking into the man’s room at night and sleeping arm in arm. He’d started moving the car, at night, parking Baby on the next street over and letting Sam think he’d gone for a drive, that he needed a break from house arrest when really he was booking it back to Eliot. Because Sam couldn’t know. Wouldn’t understand, and Dean had enough to worry about with Dad’s final words hanging over his head—he didn’t need Sammy finding out and blowing a gasket or something. Because he would. He would.
The house wasn’t small, not really, but it was cramped after weeks of living in close quarters, Dean and Sam still wanted fugitives, and the tension was palpable. It would have been fine, maybe, if Sam wasn’t being such a dick about things, seemingly unable to accept that Dean had a trustworthy non-Hunter friend that he hadn’t known about. As if Sam knew his life, as if Sam had any idea how Dean had been living while he was at Stanford, as if they hadn’t only been back together for just over a year, as if he didn’t live in willful ignorance because he refused to see Dean’s queerness for what it was, refused to accept who his brother truly was. It had been getting on Dean’s nerves for a long time but now, rubbed in his face like this, it was really starting to piss him off. At least Eliot was taking it calmly, Dean didn’t know what he’d do if the man actually lashed out at Sam, and was glad a million times over for Eliot not putting him in that position. In fact, Eliot’s only concession to the increasingly uncomfortable and definitely escalating cold war between him and Sam was creating increasingly elaborate—and increasingly delicious—meals, all but forcing Sam to admit his culinary mastery. As payback went it was minor, more of a benefit than anything, for Dean, and he was so grateful.
Now, over yet another spectacular dinner—roast pork belly with stewed pears and a caramelised sherry sauce, Dean was in heaven—Sam was proving Dean exactly right, being the snarky ass he shouldn’t be, not to their friends.
“So Eliot,” Sam said, somehow managing to glare even with a mouthful of exquisite sherry infused pear. “Just how long are we going to be stuck here before you somehow come through on your promise to get the feds off our trail? If you’re telling the truth”
“He said he can do it, Sam” Dean snapped, glowering.
“And how is he going to do it, Dean? He’s just going to magically pull influence like that out of his ass?”
“He- I-” Dean blinked, trying very hard not to think of Eliot actually pulling anything out of his ass. Eliot laughed, as if he knew what Dean was thinking, and Sam’s glare intensified to biblical proportions.
“I c’n do it,” Eliot promised, taking a long draught of his beer. “I got a buddy that owes me a favour or t’o”
“A favour,” Sam repeated, voice dripping disdain.
“Yes, a favour”
“Stop being a bitch Sam,” Dean glowered “c’mon man, can’t you just go on faith for once?”
“Right, yeah okay. Faith, in Eliot, in a man I’ve never met and who you haven’t explained how you know. Yeah sure. But I think we both know which of us is being the little bitch here, Dean, and it’s not me. You’re so far up this guy’s ass that-”
“That’s enough,” Eliot growled, standing so swiftly that his chair scraped sharply across the floor. Sam stood too, anger almost palpable, so clear it was almost visceral, and Dean was still too stunned, too horrified, too frozen, to move.
“Oh you think so?” Sam said, getting in Eliot’s face. Don’t take the bait, don’t, please. Dean’s heart begged, thrumming almost painfully loud in his own ears, hammering against the inside of his ribs.
“That’s enough, Sam. Please” his voice was weedy and thin to his own ears, in his own imagination, maybe. He couldn’t tell if he’d spoken at all, not that it would have mattered if he had for all the effect it had. Neither Sam nor Eliot budged an inch.
It was Eliot who backed down first, and begrudgingly at that, shooting Dean a look that clearly said he was only doing this for him before turning on his heel and stalking back into the kitchen to wash up. Dean watched him go, almost overwhelmed with relief, still giddy with it as Sam shot him an affronted look and stormed off back to his room.
That night, Dean waited until he was sure Sam was asleep, way into the wee hours of the morning, and crept out of his room, boots held softly in one hand, socked feet making barely a sound on the wooden floor. Eliot met him in the lounge, already up and waiting for Dean, dressed comfortably in an undershirt and thick flannel, joggers waiting by the door. Dean grinned, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself and waving hello. Eliot tilted his head back, mouth thrown open in a silent laugh, and Dean beamed. Together, they crept out of the house, into Eliot’s waiting car and down the drive, car in neutral until they’d rolled far enough down the hill that Sam was unlikely to think the car was theirs, even if he heard it start. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this—the other night it had been Dean taking Eliot for a drive, the two of them making out in the Impala’s backseat like teenagers, as if Dean wasn’t sharing his most intimate heart with Eliot—but the hitter had pointed out that the Impala was technically a wanted vehicle, so Eliot’s Challenger it was from now on. Not that it was any less eye-catching.
Once they were on the road, Dean relaxed. Away from Sam, away from the tension of that house and with Eliot by his side, Dean was able to be himself. Was able to relax into himself in a way he never could around Sam, free from his brother’s expectations and the memory of the Dean he had to be for his family. The night was quiet around them, soft almost, with nothing but distant cicadas and the purr of the Challenger’s engine around them for miles. Dean couldn’t remember a time he’d last felt this at peace.
“Thanks man,” he said into the silence, not quite looking at Eliot “just- thanks, for this” for everything.
“Y’r welcome, Dean” Eliot drawled, voice soft and gruff and warm with the knowledge of what Dean wasn’t saying, turning to look over his shoulder at him, uncaring that Dean didn’t turn to meet his gaze. Eventually, they made it out of town and onto the backroads, dim and tree-lined, Eliot guiding the car down a gravel sideroad a ways, until they found a clearing, hemmed in by thigh-high grass and the distant light of the moon. It was comfortable territory, familiar to the both of them in the way all roadside country pit-stops were. Dean followed easily when Eliot got out, turning to look at the cherry red ride with open appreciation even in the darkened night.
“He’s a beaut, isn’t he?” Dean whistled, able to give into the urge now they were away from the house and Sam’s ability to hear them. Eliot grinned, happy Dean had remembered, that he’d cared enough to be considerate about Eliot’s damn car.
“Hell yeah man, you wanna drive next?”
“And cheat on my Baby?” Dean scoffed, laughing “nah ‘e’s all yours”
“Soun’s like a plan” Eliot agreed, leaning back against the bonnet, resting against the warm metal as Dean came to join him, sitting beside him with their arms around each other’s shoulders. A moment, and then the near silent admission, barely distinguishable from a drawn out sigh.
“Damn, I really missed you man”
“Mn?” Eliot asked, turning to face Dean, watching with concern as the man ran his free hand through his own hair, scooching further back onto the hood, sitting properly on the metal because he knew Eliot babied his car a hell of a lot less than he did, leaning into Eliot until he could rest his forehead on the man’s shoulder, pressing his face into his neck. “You alright, Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean sighed, not moving even as Eliot’s spare hand came up to bracket him, settling gently against the base of his skull “just been a long year”
They stayed like that for a long while, neither speaking, merely basking in the moment. Long past the time Eliot’s car had cooled, the growing crick in his neck finally prompted him to speak.
“I think your brother’s wearing out his welcome, Dean” he admitted, drawl thick with the urge to yawn as he leaned back further, rolling his shoulders as Dean straightened up. The Hunter huffed, hanging his head, fingers twitching with the itch towards motion.
“I’m sorry”
“Ain’t you I’m talking about. You’re different people, Dean”
“I know, I-” but he trailed off, not sure what there was to say. Eliot just sighed.
“‘M sorry, it’s not- I know-”
“I know,” Dean agreed, rueful “guess this is the end to our little vacation, huh?”
“Dean,” Eliot said, abruptly serious, turning to look at the other man, reaching out to cup his hands with a grip so gentle it made Dean’s throat quiver, gaze pinning him in place with the sheer force of his sincerity. “You’ve always got a place here, wherever I am, with me. Whenever you want it, you’ve got an out”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed, voice thick “same to you man, you know that”
“I know it” Eliot echoed, drawn into Dean’s space so slowly it was like watching the tide shift. Their lips met, soft and gentle and heartbreakingly sweet, arms coming up to embrace one another, holding on so tight anyone else would have winced, neither wanting to be the one to let the other go.
By midday the next day, Eliot had made a few calls and gotten word back, had let Sam and Dean know with a haughtiness he couldn’t quite suppress, feeling more than a little vindictive at the competing riot of emotions twisting up Sam’s face. Despite knowing this was coming, Dean was still disappointed, still wistful, almost, for what could have been. Could have been, but not with his life. Never with his life. Instead, Dean bid goodbye to Eliot, hugging the man with a perfectly acceptable one-armed, hand-clasp embrace that hid the way he pressed his face tightly into the side of Eliot’s neck, obscured just as well the way Eliot’s fingers gripped Dean’s flannel, as if begging him to stay. When they pulled apart, it was with fake smiles and over the top good grace. Sammy didn’t see through it for a second.
“There,” Eliot grinned, expression so patently false Dean could have wept “now unless you boys go get yourselves thrown in prison that ought to take care of it”
“Thanks man,” Dean said, slapping Eliot on the back and turning, as if he wasn’t leaving part of his heart behind. Eliot doesn’t move, letting Dean head down the drive and away from him, Sam shooting a barely concealed smug look over his shoulder before the two brothers reach the car, opening their respective doors and slipping inside in unison, as if they’ve done it a thousand times. They probably have. Eliot doesn’t move, stays at the top of the drive, a single arm raised in farewell as the engine turns over and Dean eases his Baby down onto the road, flicking two fingers up off the wheel as a goodbye before the car’s taking off down the road, disappearing with a distinctive rumble Eliot will be hearing in his dreams for weeks to come.