Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind

Fandom: Supernatural/Roswell

Category/Rated: NC-17

Year/Length: 2007/~5,652 words

Pairing: Sam/Dean, Max/Michael

Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.

Summary: "Hey, wait up." Dean looked interested. "Does this mean that I can contribute to the delinquency of a minor? Hot damn!"

Author's Notes: This is a very late offering for eboniorchid who bought the story during Sweet Charity. I had things that stopped me writing during June and July, so it's horribly late, but I hope to goodness it's what she wanted. I did resist calling it "Heavenly Bodies," for which we should all be grateful.

Beta: by dossier and ailurophile6 who are totally the best.

The desert changes people. Timeless and ancient, it makes people feel eternity, believe in the infinite and know that they are but small, insignificant beings, dwarfed by the majesty of ancient rocks, the burning cobalt sky and the emptiness of a world scoured clean.

The desert was changing Dean Winchester, thought his brother, and not for the better. Dean's leather jacket was lying on the back seat, and his overshirt was a memory. He was down to his ratty looking Metallica T-shirt, and there were dark, damp patches under his arms. They were going to need to do laundry before this day was much older. Even Sam had discarded his hoodie as the sun rose higher, a single burning eye of God in the vast, hot sky.

"You had to pick August to find this one," growled Dean as Poison segued into Iron Maiden on the cassette, and there was a momentary lapse in the ear-battering wall of sound inside the car. "Coulda waited ‘til January. It's too hot to think, let alone hunt ghosts."

"Shapeshifter, dude. Mandroid, you know? We can't afford to leave it running around, you know that." Sam was doing his best to be dispassionate; there were so few days left for them, unless… He put the thought behind him. Time enough to think about that later, when Dean was at the end of his year. The days were flashing by, each one melting into the next with inexorable haste, and Sam knew that Dean was making the best of things - that when the time came, he would go without counting the cost so that he, Sam, could live. Sam had decided that, one way or another, he was going to save his brother. Maybe, just maybe, the demon would give him ten years with Dean as his prize.

Dean cast a sudden, shrewd glance over at Sam, correctly divining the tenor of his thoughts. "It'll be all right, Sammy," he said, voice gruff. "You'll see." He gave his head a shake as if to get rid of any treacherously girly thoughts he might still have and nodded at the road ahead. "Should be getting into Roswell soon. Another ten miles or so and we'll be hangin' out, waiting for that anal probe."

Things weren't running too smoothly in the kitchen of the Crashdown. As ever, when Michael was feeling uncertain, things were exploding, and try though he might to keep his powers under control, he was finding it really difficult to focus on keeping calm. Fortunately there were few people in the diner, and he wasn't being challenged to quite the degree that he might have been earlier in the afternoon.

Max stood beside him, leaning against the sink, looking worried. Michael was prone to moods, but this was something totally different from his usual emotional outbursts.

"I killed him." Michael ran his fingers through his hair, hugged himself and turned away, his body language screaming his distress. On a shelf above his head, a jar containing olives burst, showering the counter top with its contents. "I killed a man."

"You had to, Michael." Max, as ever, was calm, doing his best to reassure his friend. It didn't seem to be working.

He was about to say something else when the door to the diner opened, and, all of a sudden, Michael had work to do. A moment later, Courtney appeared at the hatch. "Okay, we got one Tommy Lee Jones Bacon Basket and a Green Eggs & Moonrock Hash with a side of Saturn Rings," she murmured, handing the slip to Michael with a smile that was altogether too wide. Max smirked.

"She likes you, huh?" he murmured as Michael went to work, slapping patties onto the griddle and heading to the fridge for bacon.

"Yeah, so?" Michael shrugged dismissively and began to prepare the hash.

"So…" Max thought for a moment. "You're still hooked on Maria, aren't you? Don't you think you should spread your wings a little, try to put her out of your mind?"

"Oh, like you aren't still mooning around after Liz." Michael's snort could be heard the length and breadth of the diner. "Physician, heal thyself!"

Max made a little gesture to acknowledge the hit. He really was still mooning around as Michael had put it. Maybe it was time to stop. He eyed Michael, speculation in the gleam in his eye. What the two of them needed was to do something together and forget about girls and angst and apparently unrequited love. What they needed was to go off somewhere together and drink huge quantities of beer. There was nothing like a hangover for taking one's mind off a love affair gone wrong.

Max cleared his throat. "What say we take a couple days off from the love-lives? Why don't we go somewhere – I don't know – out into the desert, maybe camp out and forget ‘em both?"

Michael didn't answer for a moment, intent on mixing eggs and salsa before tossing them into the pan that held the sizzling potatoes. Once they were cooking, he turned to look at Max.

"You may be on to something there, Maxwell," he said, nodding, lush lower lip caught between his teeth as he mused. "I get tomorrow and Friday off anyway, so we could go out, take some beers and… and chill, I guess." He shot Max a half smile and turned to assemble the burger he'd been preparing. "Better tell the sheriff I'm not actually leaving the country though, or he'll likely start complicating things."

"Why don't I go talk to him now? Start getting things ready to go. What time do you get off shift?" Max was already pushing away from the counter he'd been leaning on. He paused at the doorway, head tilted as he waited for Michael's answer.

"When the big alien is pointing straight up, and the little alien points to the nine," murmured his friend, checking the clock above the hatch. "Another hour to go yet."

"Smartass!" With that, Max turned to go back through the diner and out to find Sheriff Valenti.

The meal was going down well, despite the dumb names on the menu. Dean ate with his customary gusto, burger and extra onion rings soon followed by a totally delicious slice of pie that despite the grandiose intergalactic name, tasted completely heavenly.

Sam watched him, following each move with his eyes as if storing away all of his brother's mannerisms against the day when he'd be alone with just his memories.

"Loves me some pie," murmured Dean, forlornly studying the pattern on the dish he'd just scraped clean.

"Glutton," said Sam, fondly, his eyes on the tip of the pink tongue that emerged to clear away the last crumb from Dean's lush lips.

"Dude, is that one of those fancy long words you learned in school?" smirked Dean, and ducked, laughing, as Sam aimed a swipe at him.

Courtney put an end to their squabbling as she came to clear the table and hand them their bill, and Sam smiled up at her. "Hi," he said. "I guess you get a lot of people passing through here, looking for weird alien phenomena?" he said, grinning his most disarming grin.

"One or two," she said, returning his smile as Dean fumbled through his wallet, looking for the money. "Don't tell me you're alien hunting. You don't either of you have glasses or pocket protectors, and there's a union that lays down the rules for that kind of thing."

"Not exactly." Dean counted out the money for their meal and aimed his crinkliest smile at her. "We're kinda studying the desert environment." He fished out a further five dollars for a tip and pursed his lips. "Post grad students at University of New Mexico. We heard that there was some sort of gigantic salamander or something up here – read an article about some really large critter that sheds its skin and came to see if we could document it."

The expression on Courtney's face was somewhat hard to fathom. Sam thought he'd seen recognition in her eyes, rapidly chased by fear, and finally amusement had appeared, pulled up over her face like a mask to disguise her true feelings. "I wouldn't be surprised," she said. "Although I reckon that kind of animal went off in a flying saucer with a couple of the grays last week and hasn't been seen since." She turned to take the money back to the till, and Sam was about to get up, when the door opened, and a tall, dark, harried looking young man entered, and crossed the room to speak to Courtney.

"Max! How're you doing?" she said, beaming a hundred watt smile in his direction.

He raised his hand to Courtney in a wave and shot a smile at the brothers. "Pretty good, thanks. Is Michael in back?" She murmured assent as she made change and took it back to Sam, and the man she'd called Max nodded to them "Hey guys. How are you doing?"

"Doing good. Highly recommend the pie," murmured Dean, stuffing his wallet back into his hip pocket.

"My buddy Michael's one talent," said Max, nodding towards the kitchen. "Hey, Michael! You've got fans. Get your ass out here and say hi."

There was a flurry of activity from the direction of the kitchen, and Michael's voice called, "Be out in a minute."

The boy that finally appeared made Sam's eyes widen. He was big – tall and raw-boned, and Sam thought that he'd never seen a mouth to rival Dean's until this moment, but this newcomer certainly had been well endowed in the mouth department. Sam grinned at the sulky looking young man and waved a hand towards his brother. "Dean here loved your apple pie."

"Yeah?" Michael studied Dean for a moment. "It's my secret recipe." He smirked. "I put apples in it," he said in a stage whisper. "Makes all the difference." Turning back to Max, he raised his eyebrows. "Maxwell, did you get beer?"

Dean had been weighing up the newcomer, eyes wide as he listened to him. At the mention of beer, he laughed out loud. "Dude, you bake pie, and you drink beer. Works for me."

"You think that he deserves beer?" asked Max, smirking.

"Too right I deserve beer," said Michael, looking noble. "I have slaved away over a hot stove, and you promised me escape."

"I couldn't find Isabel, Michael." Max's confession was softly voiced. "They won't sell beer to me. They know how old I am."

"Hey, wait up." Dean looked interested. "Does this mean that I can contribute to the delinquency of a minor? Hot damn!"

"Dean…?" Sam frowned, and his brother elbowed him.

"Shut up, bitch! It's one of the things on my list," murmured Dean, giving Sam the kind of look that proved he had been taking notice of his brother's ability to turn on a frosty face.

"Wait a minute. You mean you'd go buy us some beer?" Michael cut through the bickering. "That's mighty white of you." He looked at Dean with a little more interest as he considered the man as a source of beer. "We're gonna go sleep out in the desert tonight – get away from the kitchen sink." He smiled, and the previously sulky boy suddenly became an engaging young man.

"Yeah, I can get you guys some beer. Let's go." Dean was grinning now, responding to Michael's cautious overture of friendship with his own, while Sam and Max gaped, watching the two of them bond.

"That's not like Dean," confided his brother, nodding towards where the two men were discussing the proposed campout.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Michael doesn't exactly put himself out there either," replied Max, shrugging. "Why do I always feel like the grown-up?"

"Join the club!" Sam was chuckling now. "But hey, looks like we've got beer in our future."

If the desert during the daytime speaks of eternity, the desert after dark is eternity itself. Ten miles out from Roswell, with the lights of the city hidden behind a huge outcrop of rock, there was nothing between Dean and the universe.

Lying back against a rock, Dean sat beside his brother with his beer in his hand, watching the limitless, glittering panoply of stars that crusted the vast emptiness above him. He was comfortable. They'd eaten steak and salad, brought by Max and cooked by Michael, and pie, brought by Dean who'd insisted on it, and they were on their third beer each now.

The mood had altered as the evening had progressed, and now the four of them were content to lie back, digest their food and look at the stars.

The fire had died down a little, but none of them felt cold. Sam and Dean lay side by side. Dean, normally never still, for once seemed content to lie, his side pressed up against his brother, with a half-finished Corona held loosely between his fingers.

Max and Michael had started out facing each other, lounging back, Max on his bedroll and Michael against a rock, but after the first beer, Michael had crept over, without saying anything, to lay his head on Max's belly, and now Max had found himself silently threading the fingers of his left hand through the tousled hair over and over again. Michael hadn't complained, so Max kept doing it, knowing just how fragile his friend was in the aftermath of Agent Pierce's demise.

"Sometimes I feel like I have to hold on, or I'll fall up into that." murmured Dean, his voice low and contented.

"Buddy, you have no idea," said Michael, nestling further into Max's touch and closing his eyes for a moment.

"Did you ever wonder if there might be other civilizations out there? Maybe kids camping out in their version of the desert, watching the sky?" Dean sounded relaxed, and Sam hoped that he was at least temporarily at peace for once. He reached for his brother's hand and squeezed it, acutely aware of what a girl thing it was to do, but needing to do it anyway.

"Interesting topic," muttered Max, his hand suddenly still as he waited to see where this conversation was going. "I'm sure that there are worlds out there with other life-forms, although none of them are gonna have beer. Wanna grab me another bottle?"

"I know; dumb, right?" Dean sounded a little sheepish, and Sam moved a little closer to him, held his hand a little harder as he watched his brother. "But somehow all that emptiness up there makes the stuff we're dealing with so damned small and meaningless."

"Maybe it really is meaningless, have you ever thought of that?" Michael's eyes were on the brothers, a frown marring his brow. "We're not really here for anything, are we?" He sat up straight, shaking off Max's arm, poked at the fire with a stick and glared ferociously into it as it flared momentarily. "I mean, what are we all about? It's not like the earth benefits from us. I bet if someone actually asked the earth, it'd say we were like lice, making it itchy."

"That's kind of philosophical for you, isn't it?" Max turned to stare at his friend, eyes wide and lustrous in the firelight, and Michael turned to look down at him, lips pursed curiously as though he were debating something internally.

"I know what he means, though." Dean's voice was soft, introspective, and he too sat up some, leaning into Sam a little more than before. "When it all comes down to it, no matter what happens to us, it doesn't even make a ripple in the pond. Who's gonna know or care about us in fifty years time? Twenty even?"

"I don't think it's that bad." Max struggled to sit up straight too, so that he could see the others. "Maybe some days are like that, but you know what? You have family that loves you. You have people that care, and you'll have kids who'll keep the dream alive, I guarantee it." He was looking at Michael as he spoke, although he seemed to be addressing Dean's last utterance.

Michael snorted, his mouth twisting bitterly. "Family, right," is all he said.

"I hear you, dude," said Dean, his own voice sounding flat and somehow defeated.

"We'll find a way, bro," murmured Sam, and put his arm around his brother's shoulders, causing a stricken look to cross Dean's features.

"Don't, Sammy. Don't want it all to be for nothing."

There was a long pause. Nobody seemed to want to break the silence for a while, but then Michael coughed importantly. "My friends, beer is the answer."

"Oh, yeah?" The curve of Dean's lips was a welcome sight to Sam, who'd been struggling to find something – anything – to say that would restore his brooding brother to good humor. "What's the question?"

"The question is why is my hand empty? Don't hoard the amber nectar, or I may be forced to rise to my feet and stumble over there. You wouldn't want to disturb me, would you, when I am so comfortable?" Michael waved an arm around as if to try and conjure beer from thin air, and Dean gave a sudden laugh.

"You win," he murmured, grinning. Reaching behind him for the cooler, he grabbed a bottle and tossed it over to Michael. "Good luck with that," he smirked as the young man caught it and twisted it open. He expected it to fizz over and wet Michael down, but whatever Michael did to it succeeded in damping down the froth and he merely placed the bottleneck to his lips and drank.

Thwarted of his fun, Dean turned to his brother, who was apparently lost somewhere in thoughts that did not make him smile. "Sam? Sammy? C'mon, bro, don't geek out on me now. We're supposed to be appreciating the majesty of nature out here in the raw."

"You're not exactly in the raw," murmured Max, tossing a pebble at Dean. Sam still hadn't moved from his pensive huddle, and Dean frowned, apparently deciding that enough was enough. He reached for another bottle for himself and snapped the cap off with a practiced flick of his thumb. "Here, dude," he murmured. "Have another beer."

With that, he held the bottle above Sam's head and began to pour.

Sam Winchester went from introspection to incandescent rage in five seconds flat. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Friggin' jerk!" He lashed out, made a grab for the bottle and somehow succeeded in knocking it from Dean's grasp so that it went skittering out over the dry ground to pour its contents onto the earth. The two men ended up with Dean lying flat on his back, laughing up at Sam who was lying above him, pressing him down, hands on his wrists.

"Goddamn idiot!" Sam's hair dripped droplets of beer onto Dean's face, and Dean, inspired by some hitherto unknown demon, snickered at him and then lifted his head to lick his brother's face.

"Hey, Sammy, your flavor's definitely improved by marinade. There's more body to it somehow." Dean was laughing now, and Sam released one of his hands so that he could draw back enough to punch his lights out. This was his first mistake. Instantly, Dean had flipped them over and held Sam pinioned, lying flat on the ground with a particularly sharp piece of rock jabbing into him just between the shoulder blades.

"Get off me, you total asswipe!" Sam was struggling now, trying to heave his stockier brother off his chest and failing miserably, because each time he gathered his muscles to push, the rock he was lying on jabbed into a pressure point and made him gasp.

"Are you kidding? Not while there's beer," smirked Dean, licking a trickle of the spilled liquid from one of Sam's cheekbones. A battle ensued, with Sam earnestly trying to avoid his grinning, idiot brother and his broad, wet tongue, while Dean made him as uncomfortable as he possibly could. Swipe after swipe of Dean's tongue made him writhe, head turning against it, until it somehow became less of a game, and Sam realized that he was hard. Not only was he hard, but Dean was too.

"Dude," he began, eyes skittering away from Dean's as he tried to work out how to broach the topic of Dean's erection digging into his belly.

"Sammy…?" Dean's eyes homed in on Sam's, and Sam felt a sudden tightness low down in his belly. He opened his mouth to say something – anything – that would break the sudden, breathless silence.

There was a pause. Sam was hot, then cold, and sweat was standing out on his brow as he froze, gazing now into Dean's wide, calculating eyes. Somewhere behind them, Michael gave a soft, nervous laugh and then fell silent.

"Sammy," said Dean again and slowly, deliberately, lowered his face to Sam's.

There was another muffled giggle from Michael as Dean's lips caught and held Sam's, almost lost in the growl of irritation from Sam – a sound that rapidly faded, lost in the infinite desert as the kiss took hold, caught fire and began to consume.

Michael had retrieved the half-spilled bottle of Corona and handed it off to Max, who was frowning as he surveyed the two brothers where they lay sprawled on the sere ground. "They're kissing," he murmured.

"Yeah? So?" Michael was watching them too, a look on his face that might have disturbed Max, if he'd taken his eyes off Sam and Dean long enough to notice.

"Just saying. They're guys. I didn't think…" Max finally lifted his eyes to Michael's face and fell silent, a little disturbed by the intent gaze with which he was being favored. "What? I got a tarantula on me or something?"

"You don't think guys should kiss?" Michael was already too close. There was no way that Max could avoid him as Michael moved in even closer, hand lifting to cup his chin and hold it steady for his mouth.

The sudden silence was almost shocking. A faint, cool breeze blew and Max wasn't sure if he was shivering because of it, or because of the insistent press of Michael's lips. The thumb against his jaw was a subtle control and he found himself opening – opening to Michael, who might as well be his brother, was his brother in so many ways, and the taste of him was heady against his tongue. The visions began, knowledge of times past, times alien, and, for a second, Michael froze, stunned.

"Michael…?" Max managed to pull himself away for just a moment, eyes wide, glinting in the reflection of the fire. He felt unsure, everything he'd believed about himself lost with just this one small caress. He'd experienced Antarian lovemaking. He remembered the way it had been with Tess, and he was suddenly hard, wanting, trembling.

"Shut up, Maxwell. It is what it is." There was a determined expression on Michael's face, and it was very clear that he was not going to back off unless Max fought him. Max had absolutely no desire to fight him, and in fact was trying to decide whether or not he would beg for more or simply wait for it to happen.

Michael moved in again, demanding, hand still on Max's face, turning it to a satisfactory angle as he kissed softly, catching the corner of Max's suddenly gasping mouth, moving around and kissing again, tiny kiss and move on, until he could seal their lips together, press Max back against the sleeping bag behind him and pull him chest to chest, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue.

The images flickered between them, and pleasure rose up in heady waves. Max hadn't been able to resist Tess, no more could he resist this, now. Michael was his, and the love that was between them was old – older than either of them in their current bodies. Pictures of times gone by flickered into existence, rocking the two of them as each separate image revealed just what each of them had meant to the other.

Sam had given up fighting Dean. Dean's lips were soft and lush, and they were pressed against his, while Dean possessed his mouth, tongue sliding against his teeth, his palate, owning him. He squirmed sideways, finally managing to lose the rock that had been tormenting him, sending it rolling sideways towards the fire and Dean looked up, momentarily distracted.

"Well, will you look at that," he murmured against Sam's cheekbone. "My work here is done."

Looking up in the direction Dean had indicated, Sam could see Michael and Max locked together in a clinch as passionate as the one he was enjoying. Laughing softly, he slid his fingers into the soft brush of Dean's hair and clutched, pulling Dean's face back and around so that he could refresh his brother's memory as to what he should be doing.

Evidently Dean had no objection to being brought back to the task at hand. He slid his hand up under Sam's T-shirt as he reclaimed his brother's mouth, hand sliding over smooth skin until he found the hard little pebbled nub of a nipple and could stroke it with his thumb.

Faint moans shivered out and lost themselves in the night. Two pairs of young men had suddenly found that they needed each other, loved each other on a plane far different from the one they'd experienced up ‘til now.

It was strange how one couple mirrored the other. Neither pair spoke, far too intent on what they were doing, each young man wondering if this was a fresh, new bond or maybe the end of a friendship. It didn't stop them.

Michael, direct as ever, was the first to go beyond mere kissing to the unacceptable, sliding a hand over Max's washboard stomach and down with a muffled groan. The crafty flick of the button holding Max's jeans together and the soft clicking rasp of the zipper as he lowered it were loud enough in the quiet night to make Dean look over and give Michael a thumbs up.

Max's needy cry as Michael took hold of him and began to jack him made Sam lift his head too, and then Dean muttered, "Sammy," again and began to work his way down Sam's rangy body, baring it as he went, first pushing the T-shirt up and off, then working on Sam's jeans, yanking them open with a single tug that did the zipper no good at all, and elicited another growl out of Sam.

Further protests were lost, swallowed by Sam's moan when Dean went down on him, sucking on his dick as he pushed the offending jeans down far enough that Sam could kick them off. Sprawled naked in the dirt, Sam moaned again and cupped his brother's head with two large hands.

"You want me to do that?" Michael lowered his lashes, smirked at Max. "I will if you want." He moved in closer, kissing Max again. "Tell me," he repeated. "You have to tell me."

"Yes," whispered Max, letting his head fall back to expose his long, slender neck. Michael licked along it, plush lips grazing, white teeth dragging. His fingers tightened on Max's cock as Michael eased him back, then were gone, leaving Max to whimper softly as his jeans were pushed down over his hips. "Michael?"

"It's okay, Max. It'll be good; you'll see." Confident and cocky, Michael bent to gaze at Max, admiring washboard abs and finely cut muscles. Max's cock curved up against his stomach, the head of it slick and shiny as it protruded from its foreskin. "We don't need women for a good time. Guys know what guys like."

He took a deep breath, glanced over to where Dean was still sucking on Sam and nodded, then bent his head to kiss the tip of Max's cock. A shudder went through him as Max gave a low cry, and he seemed to gain confidence, opening his lips to suck, eyes drifting closed so that his lashes fanned out dark over cheeks that seemed red-gold in the light from the fire.

Max's cock was leaking, spurting saltily across Michael's tongue, and although the young alien had merely been copying Dean ‘til now, experimenting just because he could, he suddenly found himself gripped with a need that consumed him. It became easy to take Max in deep, tongue sliding over slick tissue, swirling around the sensitive ridge and eliciting more of the deliciously heady groans and whimpers.

There was no way Michael could take it all into his mouth, although it seemed from Michael's observations as if Dean probably would have been able to. Sam was close now, Michael could tell from the soft curses he could hear, and the way he was bucking up against Dean's mouth, his fine body flexing in the firelight. Max was making sounds too, hips twitching, pressing up into his mouth. He slipped his hand between them, gripping the base of Max's cock to stop him from drilling through the back of his throat, and when he squeezed it, Max gave a cry and came, thick white jism spurting into Michael's mouth.

There was a lot of it, and Michael thought that he should be disgusted. Max's come tasted salty, acrid, like bleach, and Michael wasn't sure that he was supposed to find it as much of a turn-on as he actually did. He drank it down, his hips undulating against Max's leg as he tried to get some pressure against his own desperately hard erection.

Max lay on his back gasping as he attempted to recover from Michael's exertions, and Michael, impatient, grabbed his hand and pressed it in against his engorged cock. Rolling over onto one elbow, Michael watched Max, pleading with his eyes, hoping his friend could tell that he was in dire straits. His eyes were all pupil, blown wide and desperate, and his beautiful mouth was reddened, kiss-bitten and slack.

"You want me to do it to you?" Max sounded tentative, even now not sure if he was overstepping the mark. Sam was coming; Michael could hear him cursing, see him arch up and clutch at his brother's head as it happened. Michael thought that he might just explode if Max didn't give him what he needed. He turned and brought his eyes to bear on Max.

"Please?" Michael whispered. "Please." He pressed his hand down over Max's, and the young alien leader nodded and bent to kiss those swollen lips.

Tentative at first, Max's fingers crept inside Michael's pants, pulling down the zipper and finding his cock while Michael whispered, "Fuck, yeah."

Slippery hand working him, eyes that he knew were velvety brown, but which gleamed dark as shadows in the flicker of the fire, gazed intently into his own, Michael gave himself over to Max, leavened trust and friendship with a sudden fierce knowledge that he loved Max.

As Max grew more confident, he began to experiment a little, mouth straying to bite and nibble over Michael's throat, down his chest, pausing to browse a little at that, finding a nipple and biting down to make Michael gasp.

"Good job you don't have a hairy chest, dude. That would just be weird." Michael jumped at Max's words, ran a hand up to card through dark hair and hold Max to him as his breathing grew harsh and thready.

Michael was sporting a huge sticky wet spot on the front of his jeans, and as Max pushed them down over his hips he helped, shrugging out of them as fast as he could without actually allowing Max to let go of his cock.

On the other side of the fire, Sam, lithe muscle and shadowed hollows in the firelight, had rolled Dean over onto his back and was busily laying him bare, exposing each limb, each patch of pale, freckled skin, bending to kiss each new inch as it was revealed.

Michael was entranced, his body tingling with the things that Max was doing, his eyes wide, watching the brothers as they fitted together, tumbling over and over in the hard packed dust. Sam kissed Dean gently, sensuously; deep, slow, hungry kisses, and Michael wanted to feel kisses like that. He tugged at Max's arm, pulled him up from where he'd been resting, quietly watching Sam and Dean, and pressed mouth against mouth with a moan.

Accepting Michael's urgency, Max allowed the contact, let his friend lead the kisses, letting his lips part under the onslaught and closing his eyes, as if to be better able to understand, to experience Michael's need.

His hand still worked, and Michael was close now, bucking desperately as he clung to Max. He bit back a cry and arched his back as he finally felt the release take him, shake him, send him spinning over the edge into gasping, shuddering bliss as his world collapsed to nothing more than his tingling, deliciously spurting cock

Michael lay flat on his back, panting as though he'd run a mile. Max leaned over him, seeming slightly astonished as he gazed down at his friend, and Michael's kiss-plumped lips curved in a smile that held nothing back. He lifted a hand to trace Max's mouth, and allowed a finger to dip inside for a moment before letting it fall and reaching to pull Max down against him.

Sam and Dean appeared to have reached their conclusion too, because all was quiet on the other side of the fire. Michael was dozing off, still pressed against Max's warmth, when Dean's voice drifted over to them. "Heed my words, young grasshopper, beer is always the answer. Always."

"Got it," murmured Michael.

And he had.

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