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The pool floor is littered with trash. What doesn’t crunch or shatter under the sole of his boots has a weird, half-soggy consistency, and sometimes his feet sink so deep it’s hard to pull them free again.
Sam is about to reach the anti-Vaults graffiti when a rat crosses his path. It’s a mutant, a big ugly thing that stops in the beam of his flashlight to stare up at him. Its two tails snap once against the tiles - they hit the screaming face at the bottom of the graffiti - and then the rat disappears under a piece of tarp. A nest must be nearby, he thinks, maybe inside the mattress he stepped on a couple of minutes ago. The state of the swimming pool is not a priority for anyone these days, and the whole building pretty much acts as as a dumpster. Rats and cockroaches have free rein over it.
He adjusts his backpack and walks on, toward the left corner of the pool. It’s far from ideal and neither Sam nor Gabriel likes it, but it’s one of the few safe places left in New Vegas. Other than the warrant of about a fuckton Nuka caps, all Gabriel’s got are the clothes on his back and a scrambled up head. If he were to set foot outside, the first bounty hunter with two brain cells to rub together would catch him in five minutes, load him full of bullets, and then probably go retire someplace nice. Sam would lie if he said that the idea of turning Gabriel over himself never crossed his mind. His mind or Dean’s.
“I heard that, bucko.”
Gabriel. Trust him to tune in at the worst possible moment.
Sam sighs. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. But try and keep your telepathic mojo to yourself, okay?” he says, flicking the flashlight up.
Gabriel’s there, sitting on an ancient folding chair with booze in his hand and his eyes closed, his face tipped up. Sam knows him enough to notice the details. The lazy sprawl, the bottle that’s only half full, the way he’s thrown his leg over the armrest, they all tell Sam Gabriel is in a good mood.
Well, awesome.
“If I were a hunter, you’d already be starring in this exciting game called brain splatters on tiles,” Sam says. “You’re supposed to be careful, not—” he gestures around, the flashlight beam swinging back and forth, “—not this.”
“You’re so articulate, I like it.” Gabriel gets to his feet, stretches. Yawns. “Piss off, will you? I was having such a great dream, me and Miss Mojave in a big ass bed and she was sucking me off. I was this close—” he raises a hand, his thumb and forefinger almost touching, “—this close, Sam, almost there, and then, hey, broadcast intrusion, please stand by, Miss M’s gone and all I get is bitching and moaning.” He grins and shakes his head. “It couldn’t have been anyone else, really. You’re the only cockblocker I know.”
The flaw in Gabriel’s logic is so big Sam doesn’t bother to reply. They’re both aware that Gabriel’s powers are not reliable. He can pick up thoughts sometimes, he can mind-whammy people sometimes, he can recognize mindvibes or whatever they are sometimes. The telepathic implant Gabriel has works only when it wants to, and he can’t control it. Failed experiment, he told Sam a few days after they met, one night they were huddled under a blanket, all lazy and mellow in the afterglow. The Vault docs were even less impressed than I was.
Sam’s not impressed either, but it’s because Gabriel pairs up his defective implant with zero common sense. It explains the warrant, all right. It doesn’t explain how he’s managed to stay alive for so long.
Sam steps aside and dumps his backpack in the area of the pool they cleared out, where Gabriel sleeps, eats, and apparently has wet dreams. There’s a camping lantern there, its light flickering, casting shadows on the tiles.
“We have a deal,” Sam says. “And—”
“—And I’m holding up my end.”
“Are you?”
Silence falls, thick and tense. If Sam wasn’t sure Gabriel needed him to bring in food, he’d never turn around, he’d never give Gabriel his back. The relationship between them is complicated at best, and even if there have been displays of loyalty from both sides, they’re far from really trusting each other. Sam kneels and starts rummaging through his backpack, making a show of ignoring everything else. He can feel the weight of Gabriel’s glare on him, assessing.
“Instamash and coyote steaks, both irradiated,” he says after a few moments. “It’s not great, but it’ll do.”
“Aw, Sammy. Nothing says I love you like a bit of radiation poisoning for dinner,” is what Gabriel answers and well, that’s bullshit. Their filtering implants might be outdated, but Sam knows for a fact that they work. He doesn’t get to call Gabriel out on it though, because something bounces against the top of his head and falls right in his lap.
It’s a chip. A passport chip, and—
Oh.
Sam picks it up, brings it close to his face to inspect it. “Is this—?”
“Yeah. I finished it in the afternoon.” Gabriel kneels next to him. “What do you think?”
It’s almost perfect. How Gabriel managed to make it in there, under crappy lights and without proper tools, will forever remain a mystery, but it doesn’t matter. That fake passport is the answer to their problems - the most pressing ones at least, like buying themselves new identities, respectable and clean. Like leaving behind his and Dean’s records, Gabriel’s warrant. Jesus Christ.
“It’s good. It’s really good,” Sam says, his voice pitched low. “You’re holding up your end, all right.”
“Told ya.” Gabriel grins at him. “I did it from scraps, but if you bring me the right materials, they’re gonna be just like the real stuff. No one will notice a thing.”
“Dean’ll get you whatever you need. Give it three, four days tops.”
“Sounds great,” Gabriel says before tapping his finger against the passport. “Oh, and to save time, I already stored in it the data of you both. ID numbers, vitals and stats, standard trackers, all the usual crap. Dean’s new name is Killjoy McBoredom, by the way. Congratulations.”
“Kill—” Sam can’t help it. He laughs, his bad mood already forgotten. “I’m sure he’ll love it. And mine is…?”
“Dick O’rgasm. No need to thank me.”
“Not gonna.”
Sam’s still chuckling when he pockets the passport. Silence falls again then, and this time its thickness has little to do with barely contained rage or weeks-long arguments. This time it’s all anticipation. Thrill.
(They can leave, they can drop back alleys and the damn swimming pool, they can stop scavenging the dumpsters and trading blow jobs for shitty food, they can, they can—)
It’s Gabriel who makes the first move, licking his lips and grabbing the front of Sam’s jacket, pulling him close until they’re flushed against each other. “Speaking of orgasms,” he says.
“Yeah,” Sam answers, and he’s already sliding his hands along Gabriel’s sides, then further down. Gabriel is a pain to deal with, has an useless implant, whatever, but he’s also got a great ass, and Sam is little fixated with it.
A little. Yeah, right.
That’s Gabriel’s voice. It resonates in Sam’s head, all smug tone and stretched vowels, and it means the telepathic mojo is in full swing tonight.
“Shut up and get outta my head, asshole,” Sam says. He should be pissed at him - he is, he is - but for some reason, the mind broadcast and having Gabriel’s mouth trail down his neck is a damn turn on. He grinds his hips against Gabriel’s once, twice, and chuckles at the hiss Gabriel breathes out. Sam gets it, the friction is not enough, not with clothes in the way and when they’re balancing on broken tiles, but while he doesn’t mind dragging things out, he knows it’s frustrating for Gabriel. The little shit is a fan of getting off hard and fast.
Well, given the minor passport miracle Gabriel’s just pulled off, Sam guesses that this time he might go for it too. He’s not going to have sex out there though, mere inches away from the trash.
“Tent,” he says while Gabriel unfastens their belt buckles, Sam’s first and then his own. “Don’t wanna get bitten in the ass by mutant roaches.”
“Later,” Gabriel says. He slips a hand in Sam’s pants and gives his dick a quick squeeze, and Sam can’t tell if his moan has to do with that or with the way Gabriel is pulling at his hair.
“Later, yes—” Gabriel is still talking, “—later I’ll fuck you nice and proper, big guy. You can even scream whichever name you want, I don’t care. But now—”
Sam gasps out loud when he feels Gabriel lined up against him. Sam’s thighs are bracketing Gabriel’s, and Gabriel has his fingers wrapped around both their dicks. His palm is slick, sort of (spit, Sam’s mind supplies), and it makes the first upstroke just this side of raw, that side of painful.
“—now—”
The word is spoken next to Sam’s ear, making him shudder and thrust with his hips. Gabriel is using his thumb to tease the slit and the thick vein on the underside of Sam’s dick, twisting his wrist with every other stroke. The pace varies too, but he’s picking up speed anyway. Sam’s own hands are cupping Gabriel’s ass, and he wantswantswants to fingerfuck him, to open him up - how was it? - nice and proper, lack of lube be damned. He tries to, even, but Gabriel shakes his head, says, “Forget it, bucko,” and increases the pressure around their dicks.
Things get a bit blurry after that. All Sam is able to focus on is the heat pooling in his groin, the rough-soft texture of Gabriel’s hand. He’s dragging his nails on the skin of Gabriel’s lower back, probably leaving welts that will get him bitched at later. It’s okay though. It’s okay because everything feels amped up and stretched thin, like he’s too big to fit inside his own body. It’s okay because Gabriel is whispering filth in the curve of his neck, it’s okay because nothing matters when they’ve got new lives ahead. It’s okay because he’s so close. So close.
Sam shudders and comes, his eyes shut tight and his fingers pressing hard into Gabriel’s hips. Gabriel follows suit half a minute later, splattering come on both their stomachs. Collapsing on top of each other would be a natural course of action then, but Sam holds on to Gabriel and stays where he is, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down.
“Fuck,” Sam says after a couple of moments.
“Yep, just give me a minute,” Gabriel says, getting on his feet. He doesn’t bother tucking himself in, but he holds out his clean hand and helps Sam up. “And a change of scenery. I want a real room with a real bed, you hear? And a shower. Start taking notes because that’s not negotiable.”
“What, you’re not into trash chic anymore?”
Predictably enough, Gabriel flips him off.
Sam’s knees ache a little now, and he stops to rub at them before getting inside the tent. It’s cramped as hell, but it’s one of the last times they’re going to be there. Things are about to look up.
(Inside Sam’s pocket, the passport surface flashes once. The tracking device activates and data begin to transfer.)