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bigmouthlass · 6 days

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Title: After Closing

Series: House Rules At The HQ, part 3

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Synopsis: The things you see when you linger after closing time. 'You' are a young woman who just started working at Rocky's, and when you linger over your sore feet you see something you weren't supposed to.

Tags: AU, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Pamela Barnes, Female Reader, Female You, Donna Hanscom, Anna Milton, Castiel, Meg Masters, Charlie Bradbury, Benny LaFitte, Team Free Will Polycue, Rocky's Bar, Wincest,

AN: Where it all started. I'm hoping to get as much Plot crammed into this segment as I can, leaving me free to porn my horny little brains out. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

Can’t say you weren’t warned, you think as you peel your foot out of your shoe. Be ready, the boss had told you, because Friday and Saturday nights are when we make up for all the cash we don’t make the other three days a week. The crowd? Massive. The drunks? Impatient. The band? Fucking loud. The fighting? Now you know why there’s a first aid kit everywhere you look.

We’re not a date spot for hipsters, we’re a dive bar for people who work for a living, Pamela had told you as she made ice packs for the boss and some friends of his who’d broken up a riot in progress. Advice? Take some Krav Maga classes and, she’d held up a fist smeared with blood from split knuckles, protect your hands.

“I dunno, I think she’s getting the hang of it,” you hear a voice say as he walks into the back room. You’re tucked into a corner, sitting on some upturned milk crates and waiting for the Advil to kick in before you head for home.

“Told ya,” you can hear the smile in the boss’s voice. “It’s in the eyes, Sammy.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” the other voice says. The boss’s brother Sam, you remember. You’d only said hi on your first day a few weeks ago. Sam had been flying out the door to hit the road for some work trip or something. “Did Pamela and the new girl leave already?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You hear a soft thump and rattle and a surprised oof! noise. Then something, a soft wet noise you can’t place.

“Jesus Christ Sammy,” the boss says, low and hoarse.

“Missed you,” Sam says, just as low and horse. “Don’t wanna wait until we get home. Do you?”

The boss snorts, “Look who you’re asking.” More of that wet noise that you just can’t--

No.

No way.

You peek around the corner and bite back a gasp when you see . . . oh my God. You feel your face burn red as you behold your unfairly handsome boss and his equally unfairly handsome brother kissing each other like they want to eat one another alive.

“How many times?” Sam asks harshly, one hand jerking at his brother Dean’s belt.

“How many times what?” his brother Dean asks back, catching his balance as he leans against the break area table.

“How many times have you fucked since I’ve been gone? Don’t lie either, I’ll just ask around.” Sam’s got his brother Dean’s pants open and you feel your eyes bug out of your head when his big hand disappears into the opening. You can’t tell but-- oh yes you can, the shape of knuckles poking against cotton as Sam fondles the organs beneath and makes them hard.

“Just once,” Dean confesses, his knees buckling as his brother Sam does something twisty. “Meg and Cas.”

“Did you get to come?”

“No,” Dean your boss and Sam’s brother says, all grouch.

“Good.”

Your mouth goes over your hand to catch a gasp as Sam squats at his brother Dean’s feet and jerks his pants and underwear down. You want to turn away, you really need to turn away-- fuck, what you need to do is rewind time and leave on your aching feet.

Too late now, and you cower in your shadowy little corner, unable to tear your horrified eyes from the sight of Sam blowing his brother Dean. And not in a porn star, theatrically groaning, constantly turning towards the camera kind of way. Sam’s shaggy brown hair sways as he bobs his head. Dean tosses his head back and moans, his deep voice sending shivers through you. Sam pauses and you can just make out obscene wet gulping noises as he holy fucking shit deepthroats.

Dean’s fingers clench at the edge of the table like he wants to snap off a piece. “Jesus Sammy,” he says, “you really did miss me didn’t’cha?”

Sam pulls off and you shudder head to foot at the sight of Dean’s . . . at the sight of your boss’s and Sam’s brother’s dick standing at attention. The grand total of dicks you’ve seen live is . . . one, attached to a boyfriend who dumped you after you dropped out of college. “What do you think, jerkwad?”

Dean yanks Sam back to his feet with a hand in his hair. “You want it bitch? Think you can take me?”

“I’ve been ready for that all fucking day.”

Dean steps back. Sam presses the heel of his hand against the very clear bulge in his slacks. Very clear, very big bulge. “Drop ‘em.”

Your eyes just about fall out of your head as Sam unzips and shoves down his pants. Oh my God, he turns around and bends over the break room table, and you just about faint when you see a twinkle in between a couple of pale butt cheeks.

“Cute,” Dean drawls, but with a raw edge. You bite down on your finger as he steps in close. The angle’s wrong for you to see what exactly he’s doing. Doesn’t matter, Dean narrates. “All lubed up and ready for me. I’m touched. How long have you had this in?”

“Prepped as soon as I got off the plane,” Sam says.

A subtle wet noise makes you feel a little sick to your stomach. “Oh and it’s the little one,” Dean says, teasing.

“Wanna feel you,” Sam says, looking back over his shoulder. The angle has his eyeline almost even with yours and you freeze, praying God he doesn’t see you ogling like a pervert voyeur.

Because that’s what you are. You’re so wet you can feel your panties sticking.

“C’mon Dean. Just fuck me already.”

“What if I don’t wanna?” Dean says, so low and teasing you whimper. “What if I wanna just blow a load all over your ass and take you home with balls so blue they bruise?”

“You asshole,” Sam growls.

“March in here like you’re King Dom but here you are all bent over and begging. Giving me kinda mixed signals here Sammy.”

Sam rises, grabs, twists, and you gasp as Dean’s back hits the wall opposite the break room table. You hear a quiet, indistinct murmur and a soft cuss.

“Office?”

“Office.”

You duck like a mouse into a mouse hole as . . . as . . . as Dean your boss and Sam his brother cross the back area. Dean has Sam’s necktie wound around his fist and Sam has Dean’s dick gripped in his. They should look awkward but they don’t, moving in time with each other so they don’t stumble or trip as they hit the door into the lounge.

That’s your exit cue.

Yeah right. Your body’s struck still, held tight between a whole lot of shock.

What in the name of almighty fuck did you just watch?

The question circles your head on repeat, as you sit there with your one sock foot. From the other side of the wall you can hear voices, deep and indistinct. They fall quiet and you feel your heart stop imagining what must be causing the quiet--

Thud!

“That hurt, bitch!” you hear Dean your boss yell, and that breaks the lock. You jam your foot back into your shoe and run.

---

Two days.

Two days of nights you could only sleep after stuffing a rag in your mouth and playing with yourself. Two days of opening the text doc of your resume and closing it ten minutes later because you know full well the job market is shit for college dropouts with almost no job experience. Two days of wondering just how in the hell are you going to face Dean your boss when you’ve seen his dick in another man’s mouth. Specifically, Sam’s mouth. Sam his brother.

You’re not sure which part of that has your brains more scrambled.

You’d think finding our your boss is gay, and fucking his brother, would nip the incipient crush you’d had on him since the moment you met him in the bud but it hasn’t. The thought of looking him in those beautiful green eyes makes you want to vanish into the null zone. You’d thought that . . . but no, the boss looks at most women that way. Shit, isn’t he supposed to have a girlfriend? The way he and Pamela tease each other, you’d’ve figured if he’d be into anybody it’d be her. Certainly not you, at least ten years younger, not as pretty, far less worldy.

There’s no help for it. You can’t afford to be unemployed.

You punch in and get to work serving a light midweek crowd. The big screen TV’s tuned to the Stars/Oilers game and the patrons are content with beers. Pamela mans the bar and you run the drinks. The boss barely grunts a hi at you before disappearing into the manager’s office.

“Quarterly tax time,” Pamela says when she sees you looking at the door. “Dean and paperwork are not friends.”

“Hey.”

You jump in your shoes. The boss is leaning outside the office door. The game is over and you and Pamela are at work bussing tables. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

Oh God. You’re fired. You are so fired.

On numb legs you walk into the office. The boss takes a seat behind his desk, the chair creaking beneath him. “We need to have a meeting.”

Behind you the door thunks shut. You jerk around and see the boss’s brother Sam standing beside the door, his hand splayed across the wood. Your heart hops up into your throat and starts hammering. If you yell for help, who’ll answer? Chuck the house drunk? Doubtful, he’s slouched over a notebook at his usual spot. Pamela? Would she bother? You’re alone in a room with a couple of very big, very violent deviants.

“Okay, have a seat,” the boss clasps his hands and leans his head onto them. You don’t so much sit on the other chair as collapse. You put your hand in your pocket, where you keep a can of mace.

“Take it easy Dean. She’s scared to death,” the other man says, making your head jerk around again. You’ve never liked having people in blind spots. Looking down at you from his great height, a blink of understanding crosses his face and he moves to stand next to his brother your boss. A Mafia don and his caporegime deciding the fate of an innocent bystander who saw too much, you think. The Mace can is in your hand but your fingers are too numb to work the snap on its little holster.

The boss sees the angle of your hand. “Stand down sweetheart. We’re not gonna hurt you.”

You’re too freaked out to form thoughts. All you can do is let events unfold. Like a coward.

“Okay, first of all,” the boss says, “we owe you an apology.”

“What for? I didn’t see anything.”

You don’t know how they do it seeing as how they’re not sharing an eyeline, but the brothers exchange a look. “Uh-huh,” the boss says. “Here’s the deal. Yes, Sam is my brother. Yes, we’re fucking. It’s a long, long, long . . . very very long and complicated story. Yes, we also fuck other people.”

“We’re both bi, and we’re both poly,” Sam adds, sitting a hip on the edge of the boss’s desk and leaning back just a little so he’s not looming. Both times you’d seen him before he’d been wearing a suit and tie; he’s dressed casually now, in a lumberjack plaid shirt and dark jeans. Your brain reminds you that you’ve seen this man ass-up and begging for his brother’s dick and you feel your face burn. “We both thought the place was empty. I’m sorry, we should’ve made sure before things . . . escalated.”

Silence. You’re not sure where to even begin digesting the lump you’ve just been fed.

“Look,” the boss says, his tone gentler, “if knowing that weirds you out so much you can’t work here, we understand. We’ll help you look for another job and give you a good reference. The café a friend of ours works at across town always needs waitresses and dishwashers. Hell you’ll probably make better money there too.”

“All we ask,” Sam says, “is that you be discreet. We like our life here, and we don’t want to have to pull up stakes, again, because the wrong people found out about us.”

A double-tap on the door. “Hey,” Pamela says, sticking her head in. “You two done with the full disclosure? We got a bachelor party looking for tables.”

“Shit!” Dean jumps out of his chair. “Sam--"

“Right,” Sam says, hitting the door running.

---

The party’s small, but they are rowdy. Sam’s job, near as you can tell, is to stand by the door and look mean. He’s surprisingly good at it, and you can see more than one fella take a look at him and decide discretion is the better part of valor.

So you’re thinking as you run pitchers back and forth from the bar. The party kills two bottles of tequila along with the beer. With an indulgent smile from the boss, pizzas are ordered. “Extra salty toppings,” he says to you in a low voice, a naughty twinkle in his eye.

You’re firmly in the groove, barely paying attention to things other than making sure you’re smiling and moving fast, when an arm wraps around your middle and you’re suddenly in somebody’s arms. “Hey there sugar, gimme little kiss,” a barely conscious voice blares in your ear and somebody’s mouth slaps off-center on yours. You gag at the taste of booze and cheese and imminent vomit.

You hear a shout and somebody else yanks on your arm hard enough to strain your shoulder, making you yelp. A hand slaps itself onto your ass and a tongue shoves into your mouth.

“Dean!” Pamela shouts.

Dean’s head jerks up from where he’s pouring a fresh pitcher. He barks his brother’s name as he vaults over the bar. The guy who has ahold of you yells as Dean grabs his arm and twists it up behind his back, slamming him face-first into one of the ceiling support columns.

“Apologize to the lady and walk away,” he says, low and threatening. Your knees wobble and Pamela guides you out of the way.

At the drunk guy’s nod, Dean yanks him to where you’re standing. The guy fixes eyes on you and says, “Yeah, shorry. Ne’er happen ‘gain.”

Dean nods. “Now I’m gonna call you and your friends some cabs. Bar’s closed.”

“What? We’re just getting started, asshole. Another round!”

“I said,” Dean says, and if he was threatening before he’s menacing now, “the bar is closed.”

The guy glares at you. “Fucking cocktease.”

The next thing you know the guy’s folded over a gutpunch. “Aw shit,” you hear Sam sigh, and the fight is on.

---

“There goes another zero-star review,” Pamela sighs as she hands Sam an icepack.

“Fuck ‘em. That’s business I don’t want,” Dean says flatly. He looks at you and says, “Four whiskeys.”

“Dean she’s underage,” Sam says.

“Her sister’s picking her up. Right?” At your nod, Dean repeats, “Whiskey, Pam. Now.”

“Yes Master,” she grumbles, filling four shot glasses one right after the other. Sam and Dean each pick one up, clink them together, and throw them back. Without a word, Pamela refills their glasses.

Hesitating, you pick yours up. “Here’s to your first month as a full-time employee.” Dean lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

“Um, okay,” you say. Dean smiles as you tap your glass to his and set it to your lips.

Jesus Christ it’s like taking a shot of pure ick that burns on the way down. Chuckling, Dean whacks you on the back as you cough. You cry out in pain as the impact jostles your arm.

“Shit!” Dean sets his empty glass on the bar. You jump at the touch of blunt fingertips over your black T-shirt. “Easy. I’m just trying to make sure that asshole didn’t sprain your shoulder. Can you--” he lifts his arm and rotates his shoulder.

Another hand splays across your back, fingertips pressing against where your shoulderblade slides over your ribs. You carefully lift your arm and circle your shoulder in a big shrug. “Nothing feels out of place,” Sam reports. “How does it feel?”

“Sore, but I can move it,” you report.

“Here,” Pamela says, sliding over a glass of water and a dish of spicy peanuts. She hands you a couple of pills. “Naproxen. Eat some of those first. Believe me you do not want to take those on an empty stomach.”

“We’ll put you on light duty tomorrow,” Dean says as you stuff a handful of peanuts in your mouth. A sudden look of chagrin crosses his face. “Um . . . I mean, if you still want to work here. I meant what I said-- you want to walk, no hard feelings. Just give me a call, or if you don’t feel okay talking to me call Pamela.”

Sam’s hand flexes against your lower back, rubbing gently. Dean’s hand presses above Sam’s. Between the two of them you feel yourself relaxing. You can remember the . . . horror . . . you’d felt, watching them touch each other. It feels irrelevant. You’re safe here, between them.

“Hey,” Sam says. “Did that guy hurt you? Or any of the others?”

“Just my arm,” you report.

“Go ahead and call your sister,” Dean says. He tics a head at the mess still to be cleaned up in the lounge. “We’ll handle this.”

Later, when you’re in your room checking in the mirror for bruising, you think things through. Could something as elemental as incest just get . . . swept under the big sheet called None Of My Business? Is it any of your business? Dean and Sam are clearly consenting adults and whatever awfulness brought them together, they’re clearly . . . well you don’t know them well enough to say whether or not they’re thriving.

How you feel about it is irrelevant, you decide as you lay in bed, the Naproxen working to keep the discomfort in your shoulder down to a dull roar. You need the job.

---

Eighteen months later

“And here, is to Rocky’s newest bartender!” Grinning wide, Dean raises his beer bottle high. “Fully licensed and legal.”

“Congratulations sweetie!” Also grinning wide, Donna kisses your cheek and gives you a great big hug around the shoulders. Meg whacks you on the bicep, which for her is like a deep loving kiss on the mouth.

You sense the love but don’t really feel it. A series of unfortunate events have had you living in a homeless shelter for over a year now, and your move-out deadline is looming. Every time you get enough cash scraped together for a security deposit and first and last months’ rent, something bad happens that wipes out your savings. You make too much to qualify for Section Eight and with no kids you don’t qualify for much else. Even with Dean as a reference, a lack of credit history’s made finding anywhere habitable difficult. Your options are down to rent-by-the-week motels and the roach traps south of the highway.

In the gathering twilight, the remains of a huge barbecue cookout litter two big picnic tables. Dean’s still wearing his KISS THE COOK apron, smeared with grease and sauce. Their dog Miracle’s circling the table begging for scraps and Sam’s feeding wilted greens and half-eaten fruit salad to Jellot the pygmy goat.

Meg squirms on Castiel’s lap and feeds him another strawberry, chasing it with a kiss. “You’re too sweet for your own good Clarence,” she tells him. It’s funny. “Hi, I’m Meg, I’m a demon,” were literally the first words she ever said to you but around Castiel she’s positively cuddly . . . in a thorny and scary way.

A sharp whistle brings everybody’s attention and Benny emerges from the house carrying a cake crowned with a single candle. You feel your smile tremble when you see your name spelled out in frosting, lettered like it’s pouring from a shaker to a martini glass. Since your sister kicked you out, it’s felt like around your boss and his “friends” is the only time you feel cared about. A hungry part of your spirit drinks of it like a thirsty plant drinking water.

“Congratulations cherie,” Benny says as he sets the cake on the table. You clap with everyone else and blink back the tears standing in your eyes. After cake somebody -- probably Donna -- will drive you back to your room at the “transitional housing” center, with the shared bathroom and the shared kitchen and the shared lounge and the shared “counseling” sessions that’re basically a snotty bitch who’s never known hunger condescending to give you life advice--

“Make a wish baby,” Donna says, and you blow out the candle. Benny gives you a kiss on the cheek as he bends to slicing and plating.

Dean checks his watch. “Where the hell is Anna?”

“Chill dude, she’s on a beer run,” Sam says.

Dean’s reply is lost when you take a bite of the cake and register the rum burn. You’ve come a long way since Pamela poured you that first shot of whiskey; the rum makes the chocolate and cherry flavors dance on your palette. Benny grins when you moan. “My gran always said the road to a woman’s heart is paved with chocolate,” he says, his Cajun accent making the words all soft and liquid. He glances up when a set of headlights sweep up the driveway. “And there’s the beer angel.”

He's right. Anna climbs the step to the terrace a moment later with a case in each hand. “Reinforcements,” she says, hefting them onto the table and accepting her slice of cake with a smile. She gives you a kiss on the cheek as she slides into a seat.

“All right, now that everybody’s present and accounted for,” Dean says, standing. The table goes quiet. Both of them have that trick, you’ve noticed. When a Winchester calls for quiet, the room shuts up. “This meeting of Team Free Will will come to order.”

You roll your eyes as you stand. Dean and his nicknames.

“Woah there cher, where’re you runnin off to?” Benny asks, intercepting you as you head for the house. Big hands on your shoulders and a dancerlike turn and you’re walking back to the table.

“Family meetings are closed, right?” you ask. You’ve been asked to wait in the kitchen during one a few times.

“Actually that’s what we want to talk to you about,” Donna says. She pats the seat next to her. “Sit down hon.” Donna comes off as sugar-sweet and corny charm, the kind of person that reminds you way too much of your cousins who’re fascists for Jesus. But underneath the fake swear words and overwhelming cheeriness beats a heart of pure iron-- she’s the one who taught you how to handle a gun and throw a punch. Among other things.

Donna’s arm goes around you as you sit. Benny comes up behind you and rests his hand on your other shoulder. “Easy darlin. Nobody’s biting you.”

“Not until you ask me to, and you better ask nice,” Meg grins.

“Meg,” Castiel chides her.

“Sorry. Serious now,” she says.

Dean waits a pause to let the table be quiet. Looking at you, he says, “So you know Charlie moved out a few months ago.”

“Yeah.” It had come as a surprise. You hadn’t thought there was any issue with Charlie living in the oddball polycue that is Team Free Will. Until, that is, Charlie had come into Rocky’s one afternoon with her eyes red. At Dean’s hug and gentle, “You okay kiddo?” she’d wailed.

“I love you guys,” she’d sobbed, “but I can’t do this any more!”

Turns out she wasn’t as flexible as she’d thought she was when it came to her orientation, and she’d been so mortified by her discontent she hadn’t told anybody. She’d left town with her secret girlfriend Dorothy.

“So we went down our contact lists, looking for new residents,” Sam says. “If we want to keep the renovations on schedule we need another income.”

“Makes sense,” you say. God knows you’ve heard Sam cussing over the household ledgers often enough. Then the penny drops and you look between the expectant faces focused on you. “Wait a minute.”

“Told ya,” Meg said. “You all owe me ten bucks.”

“You suffer from a low self-image girl,” Benny says, as he and everybody else pulls out wallets.

“What, you want me to move in here,” you say.

You wait for the snicker and the subsequent mocking laughter. It doesn’t happen.

Since that fateful day you’d walked into Rocky’s and basically begged for a job, you’d figured out a few things about yourself-- you’re not cut out for higher education, you’d found a home in hospitality work, and you’re a much more sexual person than you’d assumed as a teenager.

Plus, you like girls too.

“Look, it’s okay if you wanna take a few days and think about it,” Sam says. “We’ll totally understand if you don’t want to trade a communal situation for another communal situation.”

“And there’s the tiny detail of everybody fucking everybody else,” Meg says dryly.

“Not everyone thrives in a multiple partner situation,” Castiel notes in his subdued voice. “We’ve had several people leave since we’ve taken up residence.” ‘We’ being Sam, Dean, and Castiel. The dynamic there is complicated. You’re not sure of the full backstory, only that it’s probably a reason Castiel’s marriage failed and he wasn’t allowed joint custody of his hellion daughter Claire.

“And we never, ever, want to make you feel like you can’t feel safe or be comfortable in your own home,” Anna says.

“So here’s the deal,” Sam says. His messenger bag is never out of reach; he digs into it and pulls out a manilla folder. He opens it and slides it across the table to you. “It’s a thirty day lease agreement. You kick in for groceries, agree to pay a share of the gas, water, electric, house phone, Internet, yard care, pet bills, and taxes. The house ledger’s always open so you can see where the money’s going. Chores are done in turns and everybody chips in for the yardwork and repairs.” He pauses, letting you scan the official looking document. The second page is a list of blanks for signatures, everybody’s names printed under blue ink scrawls. The slot with your name is at the bottom. “Give us a month. After that if you don’t wanna stay, we’ll help you find a place.”

“If the idea of living in the house is unacceptable to you, you can stay in the loft until you can find an apartment,” Castiel says. “I’ll stay in the vacant room in the meantime.”

“One way or another you’re not going back there,” Meg says, surprising you. The freelance artist and bass guitar player’s on record with not giving a damn about anybody except maybe Castiel and she still gives him plenty of grief.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, feeling about to start bawling like a baby. “I mean, a-a-after Bela, and-and Zeke--"

“Geez,” Donna says. She touches your shoulder and lets you hide, quietly weeping against her shirt. You smell rum as Benny bends to kiss the top of your head.

“We were waiting for you to ask if you could crash on the couch,” Sam says.

“Yeah right,” Anna snorts. “I told you-- she was brought up so right she’d eat glass before asking for help.”

“Hey. Honey, here, look at me.” Sniffling, you look at Dean. He holds out his hand. “House rules. You don’t belong to me, or to Sam, or to Donna, or anybody else. You belong with us. All of us.”

“Darn tootin,” Donna agrees. “Stay with us sweetie.”

Stay. It’s that word that makes you reach across and place your hand in Dean’s palm. His fingers close around yours, big and hard and very gentle.

Sam lays his huge meat hook over your joined hands.

Benny lays his paw overtop the pile.

Anna and Meg and Castiel add their hands.

Donna slips her fingers into the knot.

And Dean lays his other hand to top the pile.

---

A month later, you cross out the date on the lease agreement, write a new one a year hence, initial the correction, and settle on the couch with your head on Dean’s leg. Sam files the paperwork in his bag and sets it aside, relaxing back into his favorite armchair. Out of deference to all day spent on his feet at the café, Benny’s reclined back with his huge sock feet elevated.

Dean slips his fingers through your hair as you all watch TV and eat--

“Oooh! Carmel corn!” Meg lifts your feet and plants herself at the other end of the couch, dropping your legs over her lap.

“Car-a-mel,” you correct.

“Repeat it all you want doesn’t make you right,” Meg singsongs.

“Shut up Meg,” Sam and Dean say together.

---

AN2: Okay, that's the setup out of the way. Bring on the smut!