There's ash in Dean's hair, dirt under his fingernails. He can still smell lighter fluid and burning bones. Exhaust, too. Sam has the keys, revs the Impala to hurry Dean up.

"I should—" he begins.

"Yeah," Jim says.

The ghost of some long-dead resident almost destroyed Jim's house, came close to killing all three of them before they figured out which grave they had to dig up.

Dean doesn't want to leave.

Jim's tall. Not as tall as Sam, but taller than Dean. A few years younger. He's got this hipster thing going on, tidy beard, plaid that isn't flannel, dark skinny jeans that draw Dean's eyes.

Took 'the talk' in his stride. He'd been dodging flying cutlery when the Winchesters arrived. Dean was still impressed.

It was the "must be lonely" when Dean talked about the life, when Sam was hacking into city records for a list of previous owners, that really cut into Dean's heart and elicited an "uh, yeah," from him. Usually he shrugs it off.

Now, he leans in and cuts off the heartfelt "thank you" with a kiss.

Meant for it to be goodbye, but goodbye isn't enough. Twists his hands into the plaid-but-not-flannel shirt, sinks into the passion of the returned kiss.

Pulls back, breathless. "Don't wanna go."

"Don't."

Dean glances back at the Impala.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he smirks as he climbs out of the car with a creak of the door, drags Dean's duffle out of the back seat and drops it. "I'll find a motel," he says, as he folds himself back into the drivers seat. "See you in the morning."

The Impala roars as he pulls out onto the road.

Dean unties his fingers from crisp cotton long enough to drag his duffle onto the porch, then he reaches out again.

---

Broken glass litters the entrance. Dean leaves his boots on, Jim his sneakers. Jim shoves Dean against the door as it slams shut. Kisses that Dean thinks he might drown in, comes up for air when he can't breathe because Jim's hands are tugging at his belt, long, strong, masculine fingers, large hands, the rasp of hair and thick knuckles against his belly as the buttons of his jeans slip all at once.

Shudders as cold air hits the damp knit of his shorts, cock leaking not for the first time tonight. A warm hand wraps him up.

"Fuck," he says, arches into it, hips want to jerk, thrust. Finds the button, the zipper of Jim's jeans. Hot, slick, hard flesh in his hand, twitching like his own.

Pulls Jim in, swallows his moan, encourages him to pound Dean into the door they tried to jimmy open just a few hours earlier and the latch is broken, the door bangs with every grind of Jim's hips.

Dean's gonna come right here, against the broken door, like he's twenty again. It's urgent like it only ever is with another dude. His radar never worked and he needs it spelled out to him every single time so it's that much sweeter when it happens.

"Yeah," he grunts, as he climbs higher, jerks his head back, hits the door. "Fuck, yeah."

Jim growls, a note of triumph in it as he mouths at Dean's throat. Bites down like he's gonna tear a chunk of flesh away in his teeth, stiffens and shudders and a wet heat pulses up Dean's forearm.

Soaks into his sleeve.

Dean releases a shudder of his own, a ton of pent up shit that he can't articulate, never could, left arm slung around Jim's shoulders, hanging on like his life depends on it. Comes with a sigh and his knees threaten to give way.

---

Soiled clothes litter Jim's bedroom floor, dirt from the hunt and a flannel sleeve that'll be crusty in the morning and Dean'll shove it deep into the depths of his duffle and smile at the memory on laundry day.

Now, he's pressed up against bare skin, kisses lazy with exhaustion. Clean sheets and wool blankets and a warm body beside him and he could get used to this.

Drifts into sleep thinking about why they took this job, because it was only a couple hours drive from home, and how easy it would be to come back.

---

In the morning they don't speak. They're sweaty, overheated. Hot breath against each other's mouths, the rasp of Jim's beard against Dean's chin, their bodies slick, sliding as they grind together.

The roughness of body hair, Jim's chest against Dean's own, the muscle formed in a gym rather than on the hunt, Jim's strong hands gripping Dean's wrists, holding him, pressing him down into the mattress.

Dean comes, gasping for air, heavy and sickly-sweet in the too-warm room.

---

"I'm guessing 'damage caused by ghost' doesn't really fly on an insurance claim," Jim says, as he holds the remains of a laptop, screen hanging by wires.

Dean bolts hot coffee, listens for the rumble of the Impala's engine. "Probably not."

There's a lot of damage. There's not a pane of glass left intact on the first floor, the TV is smashed, debris litters the hardwood. "Sorry about the mess," Dean says. "We could hang around, help you clean up--" Wants an excuse to stay.

"You've done enough." Jim smiles, somehow grateful and conspiratorial all at once. "You saved my life." He bites his lip as his mouth twitches. "We're good."

Dean doesn't want it to mean 'we're done'. Takes a chance. "I should leave you my number." Stares into his empty coffee cup like it's interesting. "Never know when you might need it. Or. You know. Want it."

Jim smirks as he hands Dean his phone.

"That's my ride," Dean says as the Impala pulls up outside.

Jim nods. He reaches out. Pulls himself close, presses himself against Dean's body. Kisses him, slow, deep.

"I'll text you," he whispers.

Dean walks out the door. It fails to latch when he closes it behind him.

fin