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The moon was so bright their shadows trailed them up the eerily lit path just like their pursuers. When they finally stumbled into this old shack, Dean threw the door shut the second Mick was inside, nearly taking his foot off in the process. Pressing himself against the wall, he glanced through the dirt-crusted window and cursed under his breath. That had been far too close.
"We okay?" he asked Mick after he had made sure that the vamps were nowhere close.
"'Okay' is not the word I would be using," Mick said, pressing his hands into his side, trying to catch his breath. He let himself fall against the wooden wall, head tilted back, eyes closed, pain carving visible lines into his forehead.
"But we are alive, which is rather better than I expected half an hour ago." Mick met his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Dean answered with a short nod, taking the silent 'thanks' before looking away, scratching his neck.
"Yeah, well, welcome to our party," he grinned, stepped away from the window, and turned around to take a closer look at the shack. His thoughts, meanwhile, felt like the Ghost Clown had meddled with them. Dean had never needed saving from a situation more than he needed it now. He was without weapons, without a contingency plan, and, worst of all, without food, but he was used to all of this. The real problem was that he was in a small hut, with nowhere to run, alone with his newest headache: Mick Davies.
Looking around for something to do to stop his thoughts from going in dangerous directions, he did try and check out the place. Unfortunately, there was not much to see. One room with a sofa that was about three decades past its prime and seated maybe two people, if they squeezed together (Dean tried not to think about that too much), a sideboard that suggested it hosted a TV set at some point in time, and a small kitchenette with the tiniest fridge Dean had ever seen (and that was saying something). It looked like it could hold four beers. Maybe. Without much hope, he opened the sorry excuse for a cooling device and did a double take.
"Jackpot," he murmured, his spirits visibly lifting.
Three beers. Three beautiful, semi-cold beers. With a cocky grin, he popped one open and eagerly took a large gulp. A few minutes and a lot of gagging noises later, Dean emerged from what could be called a 'bathroom'.
"The 'best before' date is the reason we can't have nice things!" he grumbled, throwing the beer into the sink.
Meanwhile, Mick had moved from the door onto the sofa. He was lying down on his back, one leg on the ground, the other one propped up against the backrest. Eyes still closed, he rubbed at them before pinching the bridge of his nose.
"This was the stupidest thing." Shaking his head, he popped himself on his elbows to look at Dean. "Stupid … and brilliant! I don't know if I'm supposed to be mad or impressed."
"In our world, both things can be true at the same time," and after a short pause he added, "Hell, they usually are!"
The only thing left to inspect was an old cabinet, which turned out to be a small closet that contained a few moth-eaten jackets and a single stiletto shoe. "That probably was a good story to tell," he muttered more to himself, but turning back to the room, he said, "Nothing in here we can use except the bottles to throw them or drink them and hope to die from THEM instead of vamps. Any takers?"
Mick still had his eyes closed, silently shaking his head, which suited Dean just fine; but with nothing to do but hope that their pursuers would lose interest eventually, he was stuck with Mick, his own unbidden thoughts, and no alcohol to shut them up.
Mick and Dean had worked the odd job in the past few months. It had been easy: Mick handled the research, pointed out where they needed to go and what needed killing. Dean handled the dirty work and gave Mick shit about his soft hands. That guy was supposed to be a paper pusher. Useful but not exactly a hands-on kinda guy. But today there was something different. Dean had worked with plenty of other hunters before. They were mostly grumpy bastards who all had their own ways of doing things and were fun to argue with, but they got the job done. So what's different?
Dean went through the events of the evening in his head. Mick had found evidence of some vamp's roaming the area and had joined Dean on this job out in the field. They were not supposed to actually see, let alone fight, anyone. They were just there to check out the nest, get some intel. Obviously, something went wrong. It always did. They should be used to it by now. What he didn't see coming was the way Mick had jumped into the fight without hesitation. No real field experience. Every reason to stay out of it, hide, leave. Yet he'd stayed at Dean's side and even kicked some ass along the way. And then Dean had suggested the most unhinged plan in the middle of a fight that would lose them their weapons, ammo, sleeping bags, everything! And Mick had just gone along with him without so much as batting an eye.
Dean was saved from thinking further about this when he saw lights through the window from the corner of his eye. They were coming closer by the second.
Mick had dozed off on the couch, his arm hanging off it, seemingly totally at ease.
"Mick, get up, buddy, wakey-wakey." Dean grabbed Mick by the arm and hoisted him up. "The closet, come on."
___
Dean cursed. "I still don't have a single bar out here," he said, pushing his phone back into his pocket, which was a struggle given the size of the closet. He was constantly brushing against Mick. They were pressing their shoulders against the door to hold it closed even though they knew it was probably a futile attempt. If those bloodsuckers came in, they were toast with a side of dead.
"I think I might be able to boost my signal," said Mick, his face illuminated by his own phone.
Dean, with nothing else to do and nowhere else to look (or to run), had time to let his gaze wander, to notice things. Like those bright eyes that were darting over the screen to make sense of things, that 5 o'clock stubble, that dark hair. And that smell. Fuck, he smelled good. How did he do that? The closet was so small he couldn't get away from it; they had been running from those vamps for hours and Mick fucking Davies still smelled like he'd just come out of the shower. Mint and popcorn? What a weirdo.
Mick's phone beeped, and he frowned at the screen. A second later he sighed and locked it.
"So, headquaters have nothing yet. They know approximately where we are, but they say they won't be able to get into the vicinity before dawn, so we are on our own."
Dean's eyes stayed on Mick's lips for a few seconds and his mouth suddenly went dry. As Dean was watching, Mick licked those lips and looked directly at Dean.
"Good," Dean said.
Mick cocked an eyebrow.
"I just mean, they would've just gotten in the way." Dean's brain was in the driver's seat while he was, apparently, chilling in the back. He had no control over the words that were tumbling out.
"In the way of what?" Mick turned his whole body towards Dean, and he, mirroring his movement, didn't know what to answer. He hadn't realized, yet, what his body and brain were clearly trying to tell him. With Mick's phone back in his pocket, the only light came through the slits in the cupboard door, but Dean felt Mick's eyes on him. Mick was looking at him properly for the first time since this whole thing started, and now it was his turn to let his gaze travel over Dean's face.
Why the hell was it so warm in here all of the sudden?
"Well, you know," he had no idea what he was saying. Or doing. "Figure if we're gonna die, might as well stop wasting time." He wanted it to come out cocky, but it was more of a breathless question. Mick's eyes went wide with disbelief, but his lips quirked up into a smile. He leaned in slightly as if subconscious. They were pretty much nose to nose now. Dean felt Mick's breath on his face. Minty as well, bastard! Dean was sure that he probably didn't smell like rainbows and butterflies but Mick didn't seem to mind.
They moved at the same time. At least Dean thought they must have, because Dean tasted mint on his tongue, eagerly chasing more and somehow his hands had gotten into Mick's hair and Mick's hand was fisting into the back of Deans jacket pulling at him the other one was grabbing his. For a guy with soft hands, Mick sure as hell wasn't shy about using them. Their bodies were pressing together so hard that they had stumbled against the side of the cupboard. Mick's stubble was scratching against his neck now.
"Jesus," Dean hissed. Was this a thing? Why was this a thing? He probably looked like an idiot, but he rubbed himself against Mick, chasing that burn on his neck. Dean grabbed Mick by the hair, tilting his head so he could kiss him again. Fuck it, Dean wanted it all. Last day on earth, he wasn't going to deny himself this. His hands wandered southwards rubbing Mick through his jeans.
"Fuck," Mick gasped between kisses, breathing heavily.
Just as Dean was pulling at Mick's belt, the front door sprang open, and they sprang apart, with a panicked expression on both their faces. They might have forgotten that this was, indeed, a life an death situation.
"Dean?" it was Sam, "Mick? "and Mary.
Dean was the first to pull himself together again.
"In here, give us a sec." Dean said while staring longingly at Mick's messy hair, his half open belt and his swollen lips. He opened the latch and with a last glance at Mick, stepped out of the closet.
"Nice of you to finally show up." Dean threw at them hoping the bulge in his Jeans wasn't as visible as it felt. Sam took his brother's sarcasm in his stride.
"What happened to you, you look like a hot mess."
"Well, Sammy, that happens when a whole nest of SuckyMcSucks are after your asses."
"Mick?"
Dean turned to Mick who had stepped out of the closet. He had closed his belt again and tried to flatten his hair, but still looked slightly windswept and a bit out of it. Dean relished in the fact that this was his doing and his cockyness returned.
"Oh he got hit pretty bad. First day out on a proper hunt and all." Dean smirked at Mick. "But he did very well! I think we should be working him in the field more often, he is good in a 'tight spot' ". Dean winked at him and a hot flush crept up Mick's face as he scratched the back of his head looking at the floor. Dean just grinned.
"Who's up for a proper drink now?" and with that he slung his arms around Sam and Mick, squeezing Mick's shoulder just a bit too much.