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The piercing and resonant crack of a steel chair echoed in the ears of both of them, resonating long after the performance had ended.
Dean still had the faint, ghostly sting that remained between his shoulder blades, a memory of the event, though he was certain that Seth had barely touched him on purpose, just enough to make it appear realistic, but certainly not enough to actually injure him.
Even so, for all there was no wound, his back was tight and coiled, his body humming with residual adrenaline that coursed through his veins, and he could feel the sear in his belly that resulted from doubling up into a tight ball upon himself while he watched Roman take the second blow in the fight.
But now they were driving to the airport then, a lovely surprise Seth had meticulously planned in honour of their anniversary.
Dean's initial indication that something was amiss was when Seth's ringtone, sounded for the third time in the space of only twenty minutes.
"Tell me that's not the airline causing us problems again," Dean complained in a vexed voice from his passenger seat in the car, where he was lying stretched out in comfort with his boots nonchalantly thumped onto the dashboard. His sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, making him look even more relaxed. But he looked far too relaxed and casual for a man whose carefully made arrangements were clearly falling apart at every seam.
Seth groaned into his phone. "Yes, hello, I understand that, but we had reserved. It's our anniversary—" There was a pause. "No, I don't need a voucher, I need a flight."
Dean snorted. "I told you we should've driven. I prefer the road. Less annoyance, more gas stations with bizarre snacks."
Seth chose to disregard what he was being told and hung up with a frustrated sigh. "The flight's been cancelled. Again. There's a storm system over Chicago at the moment."
"Guess we're not going to Napa after all," Dean said, not even bothering to conceal any disappointment he might have felt.
Seth, though, was on a spiral of anxiety and frustration. "Okay, okay, this is still recoverable. We can make the dinner reservation in the city if we really scramble and hustle—"
Dean extended his arm and casually curled his hand around the steering wheel, tugging it slightly to change direction. "Baby, can you pull over?"
Seth blinked. "What?"
"Would you just pull over at the next exit? It's best that we stop pretending this trip is actually going as it was supposed to in the first place."
They found themselves at a small roadside motel two hours out of where they'd begun. The room had a faint scent of pine-scented cleaner, the wallpaper was curled, and the lamp flickered when Seth turned it on.
"I swear to you, the Airbnb definitely had a hot tub and even a wine delivery service," he said under his breath, squirming uncomfortably in the centre of the room. "I was going to surprise you with it. There was an entire plan."
Dean shrugged his jacket off unconcernedly, allowing it to slide down from his shoulders, and tossed it onto the bed without care. "And this is definitely better."
Seth blinked. "Better?"
"Yeah," Dean replied, as he took off his boots and dropped them onto the floor. "There's just us here. There aren't any tables waiting for us, no cameras monitoring us, and certainly no strangers hovering around, pouring overpriced wine while trying to determine whether we'll have a screaming fight or a love fest."
Seth snorted. "Can't we do both?"
Dean stepped ahead and scoffed. "Only if you play your cards right."
Seth smiled softly, a gentle look crossing his face, before he noticed a faint wince cross Dean's features. It happened just as Seth's hand settled onto Dean's shoulders, the touch intended to be one of comfort and reassurance.
"Does it still hurt?"
Dean averted his gaze from him completely. “I’m fine,” he said with a hint of finality.
"That is not what I asked."
He distinctly heard the soft swish of clothes as they moved, and soon after, he felt the gentle dip in the mattress behind him as someone sat. That was when Seth's hands made contact with his back, warm, rough, and impossibly gentle in their touch.
Dean winced. Then exhaled. "Just sore."
Seth bent forward, his voice low in Dean's ear. "Let me help."
They were granted an entire week off, a rare and unexpected act of mercy from the elusive scheduling gods, and in this precious time, they spent it all by themselves, hiding deep in nowhere.
The intricate betrayal plot had been intricately planned over the course of a month, negotiated in secret in hushed tones exchanged behind closed doors, where no ears but their own could listen to them speaking. Dean had put up some form of protest at first, not due to any doubts he had regarding Seth's capability to execute the plan, but because he was convinced that Seth would be able to do it. He was well aware that once the revelation was made, the internet would definitely go crazy with action and reaction. He was well aware that this plot twist would make many intensely dislike Seth.
That particular instant had been genuine, the way Dean had shoved him afterwards, steadfastly refusing eye contact, spoke volumes of tension. Roman had played it cool as well, although he went out of his way to drop by the group chat afterwards, but did so with a thumbs-up emoji and a GIF of a funeral procession, portraying a mix of humour and acknowledgment of the incident.
Still, now that it was done, Dean felt. heavy.
He sighed heavily as Seth's thumbs probed deep into the bunched tension of his shoulder blades. "You didn't need to go quite so far as to actually hit me."
"I am truly sorry." Seth gently kissed the back of his spine. "I did try to lessen the hit as much as possible."
"I know." His voice was gruff. "Doesn't mean it didn't suck."
Seth shifted a little, coaxing Dean in gently and welcoming him to settle comfortably between his knees. "You were absolutely amazing. Everyone completely believed it. I saw all the tweets that were posted."
Dean scoffed, relaxing in spite of himself. “You stalking Twitter again?”
"For a change, they care about you more than they do about me."
Dean inclined his head, so that he was looking at Seth from an upside-down perspective. "They always did," he replied.
Seth grinned, his hands continuing uninterrupted. "A bit jealous, huh?"
Dean squinted, looking intently at the moment in question. "Seriously, I feel I really ought to go ahead and hit you with a chair for real this time."
"That's fair."
Later, the bathwater steamed.
The tub, while hardly large enough for one, was still manageable for them, and they made do. Dean sat at the front, his back comfortably resting against the warmth of Seth's chest, while Seth's strong arms encircled his waist, providing support and closeness. Beyond the bubbles of their miniature oasis, the world outside was silent, with only the soft dripping of water from the faucet and the occasional, subtle shift of skin against the cool porcelain surface of the tub.
Seth kissed the damp spot just behind Dean's ear. "You were right, by the way."
'Course I was. About what?"
"Driving rather than flying. No press, no fans, no cancelled flights."
"Just us and a leaky bathtub."
Seth smiled against his neck. "Best anniversary ever."
Dean let out a sigh. "This again?"
"Well I did have a whole plan for you."
Dean rocked back in his chair a bit, his position open but reflective. "I'm fairly certain that it all went downhill the instant you had to betray me in front of a live studio audience," he said, after a gentle laugh.
"Dramatic."
"You hit me with a chair."
"You explicitly told me to commit to the bit," Seth joked with a tinge of amusement in his voice. "You said, and I quote, 'If you're going to do this, then you need to sell it properly.'"
Dean grumbled, but his hand found Seth's beneath the water. "Still want my vending machine dinner."
--
As the night wore on and gradually descended into still silence, save for the far-off hum of the outside world receding into quiet, the tacky motel lamp glowed with a warm, golden light that filled the room with a homey, inviting hue. Dean was seated cross-legged on the bed, his eyes fixed as he saw Seth pull out a marvellous surprise from within his bag.
It was not wine or flowers.
It was a small, slightly crooked scrapbook.
Dean's eyebrow went up. "What's that?
"I, uh—" Seth spoke, as he rubbed the nape of his neck in a slightly nervous manner. "I put this together. It has photos that I collated from the past three years. You know, the moments we had together. Us."
He opened it, glossing over pictures of late-night drives home, locker room selfies, a blurry photo of them on the Ferris wheel, Seth in eyeliner and Dean in a sweatshirt that read Fang Club.
On the back wall of the room, there was an old photograph that Dean did not recall ever having been made, it was of the two of them peacefully asleep on a cozy couch, Dean's head resting softly on Seth's shoulder, with Seth's hand easily upon his knee.
"I wasn't aware how sentimental you are," Dean softly murmured, his voice low and barely audible.
"Oh shut up Dee."
"Okay okay I'm kidding." Dean carefully ran his finger along the borders of the picture, experiencing a fierce jumble of feelings, something profound and loving was constricting in his chest. "This… this is even better than Napa."
Seth moved in closer, gently placing his forehead against the edge of Dean's temple in an affectionate gesture. "Happy anniversary, Ambrose," he said with warmth.
Dean grinned. "Happy anniversary, Rollins."
-- #
Outside, the motel sign buzzed quietly.
Inside, Dean rested his head on Seth's chest, fingers spread across his ribs, heart at last slowing to something human.
They were given the following week to engage in a charade in which they would act as if they were enemies.
They would shout and endure pain, all the while expressing their feelings of betrayal.
But here, in this tiny bubble of quiet space between narratives and hotel pillows, they had love.
Tangled, flawed, hurting love.
The kind that knew all scars.
The kind that endured.
"Next year," Seth muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'll make it up to you somehow."
Dean smiled warmly, genuinely, his face a picture of inner joy. "This? This right here is really my way of making it up to me."