Work Text:
In all of his years owning La Rosa, Carlos had never seen a pair quite like Sam and Dean.
He'd never figured out what exactly they were to each other. Sometimes they came in fighting like bitter enemies, though in the silent way that brothers did – exchanging meaningful looks and almost-touches. Their glares made his heart run to hide in his belly, despite the fact that they were never aimed at him. They spoke for each other, usually in short phrases or simple words, though that didn't fool Carlos. Their stoicism, he suspected, veiled the sharp intelligence of un tiburón and the deadliness of a panther.
Even when they fought – which was often – they were magnetic. Not only to each other (though they moved like they had one mind, shifting in perfect synchronization) but to his other customers. Carlos could see they had the same effect on them as they did on him: awe, fascination, and a bit of fear.
If you somehow managed to ignore the two when they were simply sitting at the bar, it would impossible to tear your eyes off them once they started dancing.
Carlos's club kept a colorful assortment of Latin music, mostly salsa and tango and samba. It was sexy, smooth music that demanded sensuous movement and heated looks. Carlos had seen his fair share of professional dancers, talented upstarts, and spunky dance crews, but the Sam and Dean were something completely different.
The dance floor cleared when the two stepped forward, the unspoken respect rippling through the crowd. Usually it was Dean who led his brother onto the floor, face betraying nothing until the first note. A snap of hips and suddenly the two were one, limbs gliding over each like silk slipping off skin. Fingers followed hands followed arms followed bodies that rolled and swung in ways that made the room burn, hips carving the air and melting into the dance. It was impossible to tell where Dean ended and Sam began, or where Sam ended and Dean began.
From a purely technical point of view – and Carlos had had the privilege of watching the the two many times – their dances often seemed impossible to replicate. Feet stepped so close that they must've tripped each other, but they never did. Hands flew like hummingbirds, ever graceful, powerful, and subtly dangerous. Never was a dance repeated, every time the synthesis of their two bodies was different.
It was impossible to find two partners with the same energy between them. They moved with the assurance that the other would do as expected, though only Sam and Dean knew what to expect. There was a silent understanding, a mutual muteness that roared over the music, expressed in the smolder of gazes, the intensity in the set of their lips.
Their intimacy on the dance floor was part of the reason Carlos wasn't sure if they were lovers or brothers. More than once, he'd caught the two brush their lips together or letting their hands wander to sensitive areas. Once they broke apart, that intense heat simmered down, but not enough to make him doubt the possibility of a romantic relationship.
Tonight they didn't stop at the bar, and Carlos was immensely relieved. They stormed in with a tangible aura of anger and barely-controlled rage, hardly looking at each other. They went straight to the dance floor, which had cleared the moment they walked in. Anticipating the need for something a little faster-paced, Carlos gestured frantically to the DJ, who put on a song he recognized. It was sharp and quick, the instruments weaving through each other like snakes about to strike.
He watched, intent, pretending not to ogle just like the rest of the patrons were pretending not to ogle, as Sam and Dean circled each other like lions. A high guitar note and they were on each other so quickly that Carlos's eyes couldn't track the movement.
The dance started violently, and somehow, beautifully. It reminded Carlos of a style called capoeira, a Brazilian martial art disguised as a dance. He watched with wide eyes as Sam wrapped a hand around Dean's throat and guided – forced? – the shorter man as he bent backwards impossibly far, their hips always moving together, their expressions still angry, but now carrying a terrifying intensity.
In a hard pull, Dean was back against Sam's chest and Carlos almost missed the switch in dynamic. Dean had his hands sliding lower and lower down the his lover’s back, one pressing flat against the small of his back and the other suddenly grabbing a handful of his rear and hauling him closer. Sam's spine arched, head rolling back in time with the whine of a trumpet. Dean's mouth was on his exposed throat, and Carlos only remembered to breathe when he saw teeth grazing along Sam's skin.
They parted in a bitter push, stalking in a circle in perfect synchronization to the upbeat drum beat. They joined, hips grinding, then parted again, finger tips touching before they were spinning back together.
It dawned on Carlos that their dance was more than stress relief; it was expression. Dean held Sam at arm's length, their movements affection and yet wistful, passionate and apologetic. The dance got closer, hotter, until the air between them seemed to have been sucked out, and still they never missed a step. Dean swayed and Sam followed, Sam spun and Dean held tight, like he was afraid he'd lose his lover.
In a graceful flurry of sliding limbs and snapping hips, Dean fell to his knees with the crescendo of the song. The music got intimate and low, matching the slow drag of his hands over Sam's sides and the incessant motion of their bodies. Sam slid his hands over Dean's chest, into his hair, and gave what looked like a hard yank, but the other man held fast, his expression showing such deep remorse that Carlos felt the anguish reverberate in his bones.
Sam's cold scowl faded to an unreadable blank slate, still moving, still rocking as Dean slowly stood, his body a canvas of fluid rolls and dips. They paused for the barest of moments as the last sensual, mourning cry of a guitar died out, and Carlos was begging Sam to forgive Dean for whatever he'd done. Then they were bursting into motion when the instruments sang back to life, the air becoming simply a tool for them to bend and split. Sam spun his lover, pulling Dean's back to his chest and their feet were darting like excited beads of a maraca. They moved faster than ever, hands never leaving each other, tracing fire through the room, and it was easy to forget there was a world outside these two men.
Dean's head fell back with the provocative murmur of the guitar, Sam's lips ghosting over his neck and murmuring words Carlos would never hear. He knew this song didn't have a big finish, but the Winchesters did not disappoint. They slowly, slowly, slowly disentangled themselves from each other, hands locked together as the last hiss of strings faded, then strode in and threw their arms around each other.
The club was silent. Nobody cheered or clapped. There was a hot, intense taste in the air that no one seemed ready to disturb as Sam and Dean held each other tightly. Carlos chewed on his lip nervously, not sure if the dance had ended, even if the music had.
The two parted far enough that Carlos could see the broad grins on their faces and he couldn't help a relieved sigh. The rest of the club seemed to exhale and a cheer rose up as they shared a kiss.
Carlos slumped against the bar, exhausted by simply watching the performance and unable to stop from grinning giddily. It occurred to him that he didn't know their circumstances or their relationship or even their last names, but he was immensely happy to see the two chuckling and sharing quiet words.
Finally, they broke apart and left the club, both sending Carlos matching grins and he barely had time to wave back before they were gone.
That was the last Carlos saw of Sam and Dean, and he didn't think he'd ever recover from it. Never, in all his years of owning La Rosa, had he seen a pair like them.