Word Count: 2400
Warnings: Some sex, some mild violence
Summary: Future!fic, Sam and Dean are terrorised by their neighbours-from-hell. Dean decides to take matters into his own hands.
This was my spnspringfling entry for 2013. Written for silverraven with the prompt "noisy neighbours". Originally posted here
This was inspired by old neighbours of mine who used to play the Grease Megamix at 7am on weekends.They also never opened the door when I went round there to tell them to turn the fucking music off. Luckily, I moved.
We Found Love in a Hopeless Place
“I think our douchebag neighbors are cooking crystal meth next door,” Dean says as he dumps the grocery bags onto the kitchen table.
Sam looks up from where he’s chopping vegetables by the stove. “You’re being dramatic again.”
“I’m not being dramatic, I have evidence.” Dean wrenches open the refrigerator door and jams the two six packs of beer inside. He hesitates, then shrugs and grabs a couple of beers from one of the packs, letting the door rattle closed behind him.
Sam raises his eyebrows at him. “Really? Evidence. Such as?”
“Well, since you asked, how about: one, the fact that the hall outside their apartment always smells like death? And I’m not talking about the kind of death you and I know, but this weird, chemical sort of death.” He pops the caps on the bottles and places one down by Sam’s elbow. “Two, you’ve seen them, man, tweaky, pale, squirrelly little fuckers, with the red eyes,” he gestures in front of his face, “look like they’re constantly tripping the light fantastic.” He pauses, takes a swig of beer. “Three – and this is the killer - the fucking music. How do you explain that shit, if it ain’t drug related?”
“Yeah, whatever, Dean, makes total sense,” Sam says. “Did you get the chicken?”
“Of course. Cost me three dollars more than the regular stuff. I had to buy the cheap beer to make up for it.” Dean reaches inside the grocery bag and removes the packet of organic, free range chicken. “The things I do for you.”
Sam leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek, murmurs, “And you know I appreciate it,” breath ghosting across Dean’s ear.
Dean represses a shiver and shoulders him away. “Fucking free range chicken.” He watches his brother unwrap the chicken and drop it onto the chopping board next to the sliced peppers and onions. “Seriously, I can’t believe you buy all that crap about it being better for you.”
“It’s not crap. Do you know what they feed those battery reared chickens?”
“No, and I don’t want to.” He drains the rest of his beer, backs out of the kitchen, and heads to the bathroom to get washed up.
He’s washing his face at the bathroom sink when the music starts, the hideously familiar opening bars of Rihanna’s We Found Love pounding through the thin wall. He groans and leans forward until his forehead clonks into the mirror. He bangs his head a couple of times, leaving a smeared, greasy patch on the glass. He places his palms on the wall, either side of the mirror; the wall is actually throbbing.
In the kitchen, Sam is standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, glaring balefully at the wall.
“How many times today?” he says.
“Sam. How many times?”
Sam shrugs, his shoulders wilting as the music rises, the electronic alarm bells revving up for the big chorus. “I don’t know, I lost count.”
“Did you go over there? Tell them to turn it down?”
“Of course I fucking did! But you know what they’re like. They don’t answer the door!”
“Motherfuckers,” Dean curses. He storms out of the kitchen, ignoring Sam calling after him. The hallway smells funky again, that lingering chemical-death scent clogging up his nostrils as he pounds on their neighbors’ door. The music is so loud the walls and floor seem to be reverberating around him, and Dean wouldn’t even mind so much if they’d just play something else for a change, something that wasn’t four years old and hadn’t already been played to death in every fucking place for the past four years.
“Dean!” He spins around to see Sam standing in the doorway to their apartment, still holding that damn spatula. “C’mon, man, leave it.”
“I’m gonna call the cops.”
“You know you can’t do that,” Sam says, and he sounds tired, and he looks tired, and seriously, it’s just as well those assholes aren’t opening the door, because if Dean did get his hands on their ratty, red-eyed faces then he couldn’t promise not the throttle the life from them for upsetting his brother like this. Sometimes he wonders just why he and Sam bothered to save the world so many damn times when sonsofbitches like them get to live and torture people with terrible music. “Just. C’mon. They’ll get bored of it soon. You know they always do.”
This time the music stops after the fourth replay. Sam gives him a strained smile and drops the fajita mix onto the table. “I told you they’d get bored of it.”
Dean grabs his arm and tugs him down, hand going up to cup the back of his neck. He kisses him hot and hard on the mouth, lets his lips linger there afterwards, says, “You shouldn’t have to put up with this shit. We can move.”
Sam sighs and straightens. He drops his hand to Dean’s shoulder, lets it linger there, brushing the nape of his neck with his fingers. “We can’t afford anywhere better.”
“Yeah, ‘cause we spend all our hard-earned cash on fucking organic chicken. Listen, man, if we—“
“No, no scams,” Sam interrupts. He pulls his hands away from Dean, shoulders tensing and lips pressing together tightly. He wraps his hands around the back of the opposite chair, fingers white-knuckled. “You promised. We’re trying to do this right, Dean. I want to do this right.”
Dean looks at him for what feels like a long moment then he nods, says, “Yeah, okay. Okay, Sammy.”
“Okay,” Sam repeats. He pulls out the chair and takes a seat. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
Dean drags his tongue over the crease of his brother’s thigh, nuzzles his face into his pubes, breathing in the hot, dark scent of Sam’s skin, the short wiry hairs tickling his lips.
“Dean,” Sam groans from above him. His hand drops onto Dean’s head, ruffles through his short hair.
“Hmm, what, Sammy?” Dean murmurs, lifting his head and blinking up at his brother’s shadowed face. Sam’s hand cups his jaw, his thumb brushes over Dean’s lips.
“Dean,” Sam says again, and Dean smiles, turning his head to drop a kiss to the heel of his brother’s palm. He bows his head again, slides his lips over the soft skin under Sam’s belly button. He tongues at the hairs of his treasure trail, burying his face into his brother’s crotch once more and breathing in deep. Sam’s dick slaps against the side of his cheek, smearing a thin watery trail of precome across his temple. Dean wipes it away with his fingers and sucks the taste off them, salty and strong.
“Dean, please,” Sam begs.
Dean shuffles down into the bed, ducking his face to nose at his brother’s balls. He sucks one into his mouth and Sam hisses, his hips arching off the bed and toes curling into the mattress. Dean slides his mouth off and glides his tongue across Sam’s perineum.
Yellow Diamonds in the light; And we're standing side by side...
Dean jerks upright. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”
He tosses aside the sheets, jumps out of bed. Behind him Sam sits up on his elbows.
“Dean, what are you--”
“Don’t, Sam! This needs to end. Now.”
Dean ignores him; he can feel his hard cock slap against his belly as he yanks on his boxers. He drops to his knees to fling open the closet door and heave out one of their old hunting duffels. He snatches up a sawed-off and a handful of cartridges.
“Dean, I don't think this is a good idea,” Sam says. He’s gotten out of bed and is standing watching Dean with an anxious look on his face, his cock still fat and gorgeous and spit shiny, and Dean would like nothing more than to be back in bed giving his brother the benefit of his very impressive blowjob skills, except he can’t because...
We found love in a hopeless place, we found love in a hopeless place...
That. Because of that.
He slots the cartridges into the shotgun.
We found love in a hopeless place...
He strides out of the bedroom.
“Dean, will you at least put on some pants!”
He glances down at his body, at the tight boxer briefs, his half-hard cock still obvious through the thin clingy material but wilting now, thanks to those assholes next door. Fuck it. Perhaps a nearly naked man wielding a shotgun will get through to them in a way that the notes they’ve left or the banging on the walls or the banging on their door or complaining to the landlord hasn’t.
He stomps out into the hall. The floor feels like it’s vibrating under his bare feet, and seriously, this has got to end. Now. He stops outside their neighbors’ door, raises the shotgun, and shoots at the lock. The reverb rings in his ears, only just audible over the pounding music, and the door swings open and crashes against the wall.
He steps inside. The room has no furniture except for one of those douchebaggy IPod docks attached to speakers the size of a small car, three beanbags holding three skinny, squirrelly looking dudes, and - ha! he fucking knew it! - a ton of chemical equipment set up in a way which resembles a crystal meth lab, or at least how a crystal meth lab looks on Breaking Bad.
He raises the shotgun again and takes aim at the IPod dock. It shatters into plastic pieces of crap and electronics, and, thank fucking God, the music abruptly stops.
He turns the shotgun on the most awake of the squirrelly looking dudes. “You. What’s your name?”
The guy gapes at him, then slowly raises his hands into a half-assed surrender pose. “You - you shot my IPod.”
“Well, I did try telling you nicely to turn it down. Several times.”
He spins around, sees Sam edge into the room. He’s dressed in sweat pants and flip-flops and is carrying a baseball bat, and Dean feels all warm and gooey inside to know that despite Sam’s obvious misgivings about Dean’s style of intervention, Sam’s still got his back.
“Look.” Dean gestures at the crystal meth lab. “I was right.”
“Fuuuuck, is this really happening?” the most baked kid says, blinking blearily at them. “Is he naked? Man, I am so fuckin’ high.”
“Are they the old gay dudes from next door?” the third kid says. “
Old? Old? Dean is not fucking old. Thirty-six is not old.
“You gonna call the cops?” the first kid asks.
“No, not the cops,” Dean says. He walks towards the kid that just spoke and squats down in front of him. The kid blinks warily at him and then down at the gun, eyes travelling back up slowly to Dean’s face. Dean smirks at him and raises an eyebrow and slides the barrel of the gun between the kid’s knees. The kid jumps and tries to push his legs together but Dean’s too fast for him, the end of the gun already resting neatly against the kid’s junk.
“See, you might say that the cops are the least of your worries right now, Broke Bad. Me and him,” he jerks his head towards Sam still standing in the doorway, holding the baseball bat, “we ain’t exactly on best of terms with the cops. So, instead of involving them, how about we make ourselves a little deal?”
The kid gulps, nods, red-rimmed, barely focused eyes not leaving Dean’s face.
“Good,” Dean says. “It’s simple: we’re gonna give you twelve hours to pack up your shit—“ here he pauses for effect and looks around the room –“what’s left of your shit, and get the fuck out of here. If you ain’t gone after 12 hours, then you’ll be seeing me again. Only this time I won’t be so friendly.” He taps his finger against the trigger and smiles dangerously at the kid. “You catch my drift?”
The kid gulps again and nods shakily.
“Alrighty,” Dean says. He straightens up, turns to Sam. “Sammy, let’s go leave these gentlemen to their packing.”
“Just a minute,” Sam says, striding past Dean. He pauses over the chemical equipment, raises the bat above his head. “Dean, get out of here. I don’t want you stepping on any broken glass.” Dean rolls his eyes at him, but he obeys. After all, Sam has a point; he’s the idiot walking around on these skeevy-ass floors in bare feet.
He stands out in the hall and watches Sam systematically smash all the chemical equipment with the same kind of concentration he used to give to researching a case. When everything’s destroyed, Sam bends, picks up the broken IPod and hurls it viciously against the wall where it shatters into even more pieces.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” a voice says from behind Dean.
Dean whirls around. The old lady from the apartment at the other end of the hall is standing there, dressed in a robe, her hair in a net and a faint smile on her face.
“It’s about time someone stood up to them. Thank you, boys.” She gives them an approving nod and turns to hobble back down the hall towards her own apartment.
“Um, you’re welcome!” Dean calls after her. He turns to Sam, who’s smiling at him, a little fond, a little amused.
“What?” Dean asks. “C’mon, man, you can’t tell me all that didn’t feel good.”
Sam’s face splits into a grin, and Dean feels his stomach flip over at the sight. “Yeah, okay, that felt good,” Sam says.
The new neighbors move in a week later. Dean watches through the bedroom window as their pick-up pulls up outside the building.
“No. Just no freaking way,” he groans.
“What?” Sam says, looking up from his book, sprawled out on the bed.
“Surely our karma ain’t that bad.”
“What?” Sam says again. He slides off the bed and comes to join Dean by the window.
“Our new neighbors,” Dean says.
They both watch in silence as two guys unload a drum kit, keyboards and electric guitar from the back of the pick-up.
Sam sighs and looks at his brother. “Okay, you win. We got to move.”