A/N: So...I had a bit of a tragedy. On Saturday night I finished this story, hit save, closed the file...and lost three hours of work and probably around 4k or 5k words of the 10k I'd written that day. On Sunday morning I reconstructed everything I'd lost, and now it's even longer, and now that I've edited I don't think it's worse, but in truth I'm not even sure. All I know is that it's done, and I could probably do better but losing the work was so upsetting and kind of demotivating that I worried more about pushing through and finishing this story than I did about how good it actually is. :)
So, I hope you like it, this chapter is an enormous stinking pile of angst...sorry about that, truly I thought this conversation was going to be schmoop and instead it just didn't happen.
It got long enough that I split it into two chapters. The rest is written, I just have to edit it, and it should be up tonight - tomorrow morning at the latest. There's some schmoop there. Promise. :)
I tried to work in the requests I've had for some more of Cas' point of view on things.
All in all...hope you enjoy! :)
Everything was most definitely not alright.
Judging by the brightness in the room, it was well into the afternoon, and brilliant sunlight rendered the light behind Dean's eyelids practically incandescent. No matter how much he might like to pretend to still be asleep, the heat made not moving uncomfortable, and the need to use the bathroom made getting up imperative.
He was disgusting. He was dirty, his skin sticky in places, his hair matted down. He could smell his own sweat and a tangy, slightly nauseating aroma that he suspected was stale semen. His body ached all over, his thighs and abs especially, the fingers of his injured hand refused to bend, not to mention his ass, reminded him pointedly that in the space of 24 hours he'd worn that damn butt plug for half a day, been fingered to the high heavens, then gotten reamed by two men in a row. Sure, two of those had been goddamn awesome but the first had stunk on ice. In his half-awake state it had been easy to forget and ignore all the places he hurt and just have really fucking amazing sex, but lying on the bed now he was reminded that he wasn't 19 any longer, and he felt every single place he'd been gripped, slammed into, or sucked on to the point of bruising.
Yeah, that was the problem. Nothing else was wrong.
Fuck.
We'll talk in the morning.
That had been easy to say the previous evening, when "talking in the morning" was "future Dean's" problem. "Last night Dean" could blithely promise explanations while basking in the gratitude and affection he garnered simply by showing up when his return wasn't expected. What a fucking low bar to hit. The twins had only gone easy on him because it had been a long day, and they'd been too happy he was back to pick a fight. Now that the afterglow had surely worn off and everyone had gotten some sleep, there would be no more procrastinating. "Today Dean" faced the unenviably task of actually putting in to words what the fuck had been going on in his head the previous day, knowing that doing so would open him up to even further questions that he'd have to either evade or answer, all with the understanding that if he wasn't extremely careful, he could drive away the two most important people in the world.
Holy shit, really? Jimmy and Cas were the two most important people in the world? What about Sam? What about Bobby and Ellen and Jo? What about…fuck…there really weren't any other names on that list. Not even Sarah. Sam's fiancée was sweet enough and Dean was attached to her because she made Sam happy, but if she disappeared forever and Sam was still happy it was all the same to Dean.
The twins really were the two most important people in Dean's world.
Fuck.
He really had to use the fucking bathroom.
Groaning, massaging his temples with his clumsy off-hand, Dean rolled off the bed. He felt a momentary stab of relief as he realized that he was alone, the door was closed, no one knew that he was awake.
They'd know as soon as he flushed, the pipes were audible throughout the apartment.
They'd probably been awake for a while.
They were out there, waiting for him.
Dean groaned again. Maybe it wasn't too late to drown himself in the bath tub.
The tell-tale flush gave him away, and Dean frantically sought some other means of delaying the inevitable. Eying the bath tub – it was too small for him to drown in, really – he thought a shower wouldn't go amiss. He hadn't taken one yesterday, too excited about the scene to come, and the prospect of putting clothes on over the layer of filth that coated his skin was unappealing to say the least. Flipping the water on to give it time to heat up, Dean went through his usual morning rituals, brushed his teeth, managed to not cut himself shaving, popped a vitamin.
Scalding water quickly washed away the gunk and spread relaxing heat through his tight muscles. With a sigh of relief, Dean allowed the water to sluice over him, run through his hair, stream across his skin, dye his flesh red everywhere it touched.
What the fuck was he going to say?
Hey, guys, I know I've been out of the closet for a decade but consider yesterday my extremely belated Big Gay Freak Out.
He wet a washcloth, lathered it with body wash, and scrubbed himself harshly.
Hey, guys, my baggage has baggage, and that baggage has baggage, it's like a big nesting clusterfuck of baggage, like those fucking Russian dolls. I'm sorry that yesterday when we stripped off one layer of how much I suck it uncovered a whole new layer of how much I suck right beneath.
Filling his hand with shampoo, he closed his eyes and worked up an epic number of soap suds in his hair.
Hey, guys, I fucking suck at saying I'm sorry because we learn this shit from the adults in our lives and the only adult in my life was John fucking Winchester and he never apologized for a damn fucking thing in his entire worthless bullshit existence.
Pain gripped Dean's heart, a slew of memories of his father flashed through his mind. John's smile, the way he laughed, the way his whole face lit up on the few occasions when he'd been truly happy. The hard-earned, rare words of praise, John laying a hand on young Dean's head, ruffling his hair, saying, "ya did good, son." John teaching Dean how to shoot, going on hunting trips together, working together to teach Sammy the ropes once he was old enough.
It hadn't all been bad times.
No son of mine.
There had been one hell of a lot of bad times, a stark contrast to the thin paucity of good that he could think of. Even the few shining beacons soured when he really thought about them.
That wasn't fair. Dad had it rough. John had loved Mary, and she died and left him a single dad with a job that couldn't support a family, too little money for daycare for the infant boy he didn't know how to care for, too few hours in the day for everything that had to be done. John didn't have the skills to raise Dean and Sam, he was overwhelmed, he was upset, he turned to the only thing that helped him. Dean couldn't condemn John for drinking, Dean had spent a good amount of his early twenties drowning in booze, too.
The litany of excuses was familiar. Dean had rolled them out repeatedly throughout his teens, the desperate justifications of a youth finally old enough to realize that his idol was badly tarnished. It was all fucking bullshit.
John could have done better. John should have done better. John had put all his shit on Dean from the time Dean was a little kid, and Dean was fucked in the head because of it. Dean was in danger of losing the thing that he wanted most because his dad hadn't been able to put his selfishness aside even to care for the only two people he'd had left in the world that he loved.
Surely, there must have been a time when John had loved both Dean and Sam.
Dean would never be like his father.
Resolutely turning the water off, Dean stepped out, toweled off, and got dressed quickly: boxers, jeans, one of Jimmy's ratty old t-shirts, socks to keep his feet warm. No matter what, he'd never turn into his dad. He wouldn't let the ghost of John that haunted him screw up his relationship.
Time to face the music.
As soon as Dean opened the bedroom door, the smell of coffee hit him like a Mack truck, drawing him to the kitchen. Matching pairs of blue eyes pinned him as soon as Dean stepped into the room, looking up from where each sat on opposite sides of the small table, and his determination wavered, his cheeks colored, and he lowered his gaze rather than risk seeing and interpreting the meaning of their looks. Nonetheless, he could feel them staring at him as he crossed to the cabinets, pulled out a mug, filled it two-thirds full, and then defiantly went into the sugar bowl and poured in a healthy amount of sweetener.
"Wow, it's a three teaspoon day, is it?" said Jimmy. "That's a first."
"Shut up, Jimmy," Dean said spiritlessly.
"Dean…" Cas trailed off. "Would you look at us, Dean?" Reluctantly, Dean turned to face them, cloaking a narrow-eyed, lowered gaze under the illusion of blowing cool air over the surface of his coffee. They were harder to tell apart than normal, both equally mussed, unshaven, and tired looking. Jimmy wore a loose tunic shirt that Dean knew from experience was fricken angel soft; Cas had on an undershirt that bared muscular, toned shoulders distractingly. Both were watching him inscrutably.
"It's okay," Cas said, catching Dean's eyes insistently. "Whatever you say, it's okay. We don't have to do this at all unless you want to. You don't owe us an explanation." Cas' face was all earnestness and ingenuous trust, but Jimmy's told another story, clouded, brow furrowed. No matter what Cas said, one of the Novak twins felt owed an explanation.
Taking a sip of the coffee, scowling at the cloying sweetness and the scalding liquid that burned the top of his mouth, Dean placed the mug down. Setting his hands on the counter, he hefted himself up, an inadvertent grunt of pain accompanying the action as his injured knuckles protested unexpectedly and severely.
"What's wrong?" Cas asked, rising abruptly. Before Dean could object, cool hands were gently cupping his, manipulating his fingers, pain pricking him. He tried not to wince, but he couldn't help it.
"Doesn't matter," he said gruffly, jerking his hand away.
"But—"
"It's not serious," Dean snapped. "Look, I've got shit I have to say, and if I don't say it now, it's not going to happen, so please, just sit down and let me do this, alright? Please?"
There was a pause, Cas watching him with a troubled expression, and then Cas nodded slowly, a slight compression to his mouth the only sign that Dean's harsh reaction hurt him. A final tender caress against the injury sent soothing warmth up Dean's arm, and then Cas set the hand down on Dean's leg, turned and returned to his chair. Silently, Jimmy watched the exchange through narrowed eyes.
The moment stretched out as they honored Dean's request, gave him time to say what he needed to say, and he flailed for how to start, what to say. It was impossible to grasp an idea, every iota of him screaming that there was nothing he could confess to that wouldn't alienate the twins instantly.
They were both staring at him.
"Fuck," Dean muttered. "Seriously, do you two not realize how fucking intense it is with you both looking at me like that?"
"What would you rather we do?" said Jimmy sarcastically. "Wait, I know. Cassie, why don't we go out to lunch and Dean can say what he needs to say to the empty room – you'll text us when you're done, right Dean? We can come back after, when it's nice and comfortable for him."
"Not helping," groaned Dean, dropping his face to his hand, rubbing his fingers over his features, wishing he could scrub them away completely and disappeared. Anger flared in his breast, but he quashed it. Dean had earned every bit of approbation that Jimmy might heap on him and then some.
"Jimmy," Cas started angrily.
"It's okay, Cas," Dean said.
"It's not! This—"
"It is," interrupted Dean. Thank God for small mercies, Cas was directing his fixed gaze at his brother instead of at Cas. "Shit, man…I made you cry yesterday." That drew Cas' eyes back, and Dean gulped coffee and pressed on. "That's epically not okay. I acted like a total fucking asshole to both of you when all you did was try to ask me why I was upset, when all you wanted to do was to take care of me when, honest to God, I needed you to take care of me but there was absolutely no way I could let you do so. I'm so shit at communication that I couldn't even tell you, because facing your reaction to the shit that runs through my mind every damn day is unthinkable, and accepting your kindness when I haven't earned it hurts worse than if you were punching my lights out. I acted like my dad yesterday. I never want to be John. Never."
The anger in Dean's voice as he finished brought matched shocked, wide-eyed looks to handsome faces. Dean didn't talk about John, not ever, not even with Sam. The most massive, blow-out argument Cas and Dean had ever had was the one and only time that Cas had dared to broach the topic of John Winchester and raise the possibility that John's treatment of Dean was the source of Dean's issues. Cas could keep his psychoanalysis bullshit for his students and, someday, his patients. Dean didn't need a doctor to know that John had royally fucked him up, and he didn't his best friend to encourage him to be frank about his feelings related to the ways that John had abused him.
"Dean…" Cas trailed off.
Except, maybe, he did need the twins' support. Could Dean be happy as long as John haunted him? Did Dean have a single tool for combatting all the derogatory, negative commentary that constantly streamed through his head?
"Dude, I thought you worshipped your dad," said Jimmy slowly, his earlier exasperation fading in the face of his surprise. "You rip in to anyone who dares suggest that he was anything other than a gold star, 'exceeds expectations' parent."
"Yeah, well, he wasn't," said Dean, staring into the rippling surface of his coffee cup. "He was a drunk and an asshole. He couldn't be bothered to take care of himself, much less look after Sammy and I. Dad didn't think being a mother was his responsibility, but since it had to be someone's, it became mine. There was never enough money to afford everything we needed, there was never enough time to finish everything that had to be done, so I prioritized."
"When it was a choice between buying a comic book or buying food – there was no choice. When it was a choice between going on a school trip or being home right after school to help Sammy with his homework – there was no choice. When it was a choice between getting an extra half hour of sleep or cleaning up the vomit soaking into the living room rug – there was no choice. There was never any actual choice, there were only things that needed to be done, and there was only me to do them."
Fuck how he wished that Jimmy and Cas would do anything other than watch him.
"So I did what I needed to do." He chugged the coffee and watched the dregs like they could tell his damn fortune. Anything was better than looking up and being met by blue eyes again. There was nothing else to say. They wondered why he struggled so much to speak about his own desires, and that was why, there was little enough else to it. Wanting things got him nothing but trouble as a kid, so he stopped wanting anything for himself, replaced his own desires with Sammy's needs. It had all been worth it, to see Sam where he was now.
"Why don't you think you deserve those things, though?" asked Cas. Annoyance spiked through Dean. If that wasn't fucking "therapist Cas" voice, Dean would eat his boots.
"Why the fuck do you think?" Dean managed to channel his irritation into exasperation. "I was 9 fucking years old, and I wanted that fucking comic book. There were 20 bucks in my pocket, from pawning off a bracelet of moms. I knew we needed groceries but I really wanted the comic and I had the money. That made me a selfish sonuvabitch, putting my desire for some damn picture book against Sam's need to have food on the table. Greedy little bitches don't deserve comic books. That's what I was, selfish, self-centered, greedy. Wanting the comic and resisting the temptation was hard. Knowing, intrinsically, that I didn't deserve the comic, because someone like me didn't deserve indulgences – that was easy. Instead of having to force myself away, I was never tempted in the first place. I went and bought dried pasta and past-due bread like I shoulda fuckin' done in the first place. Sammy and dad deserved to eat.
"That shouldn't have been on me, and I get that, it should have been on dad. But he couldn't do shit for himself or us after mom died, so I did what he couldn't. I know that it fucked me up. I know that it made me fucking impossible to deal with, and I appreciate how hard you've both tried, but if my being screwed up is a deal-breaker you have to tell me now because I can't live constantly on the edge of freaking the fuck out worrying that I'm going to lose you when you realize what a damn mess I am.
"Cause I am, I really am, I am utterly totally fucked in the head. Cas, you say the sweetest shit to me, and all I can think is how full of it you are, and when I tell myself that's bullshit cause you've never lied to me and you never would, I tell myself you're deluded, and when I convince myself that's not true, it turns to 'if he knew who you really are he'd never waste his breath.' Next thing I know I can fucking hear dad laying into me again for all the same shit: I'm stupid and lazy and selfish and disrespectful and ungrateful and I'm a fucking pussy for taking it up the ass. Only someone jacked up would enjoy the things I enjoy. What the fuck am I even doing? And it comes full circle cause I know that if you knew I was thinking all that crap just because you said something nice to me, you'd leave, cause what the fuck kind of loser can't take a simple compliment?"
He was shouting, all the pent-up emotion of years spilling from his mouth. Cas had his head quirked in the way that meant he was utterly shocked and Jimmy was staring as if he'd never seen Dean before and fuck it was exactly as he'd just been saying. When he let them see all the anger and self-loathing that was beneath the surface, they couldn't handle it, they didn't like it. The real Dean Winchester had no place in this threesome, only the sub, only the obedient boy who cleaned house and worked part time and lived dependently.
"Shit," Dean muttered, slamming the mug against the kitchen counter next to him. The handle snapped off in his hand. "Shit!"
"Dean—"
"No!" interrupted Dean. He couldn't help himself. Everything he felt was too much, facing their surprised condemnation was too hard. The looks on their faces warned him exactly what was going to happen when he stopped talking. If only he could find the right words, maybe he could keep this all from crumbling before his eyes. He needed this relationship.
Yes, this was a fucking relationship. It wasn't a fling and it wasn't temporary and it wasn't short term and it wasn't disposable. Jimmy and Cas weren't disposable. He needed them both, desperately, wanted them both. Being with them was essential to the happiness he didn't deserve and was never entitled to. Who was he fucking kidding? It was all gonna collapse anyway.
"Don't fucking say it, Jimmy. I know, okay?" Dean couldn't keep the anger and anguish from his voice. "I mean, even casual shit – you tell me dinner is good – all I can think is that it's fucking garbage, because I made it, and everything I touch turns to shit. Compliments don't make me feel good, they make me feel pathetic because fuck I've fooled you again and I wasn't even trying to. Somehow, it just happens, no matter what I do you both persistently flat-out refuse to see me. I have no fricken clue who you think I am, but whoever it is I know it's not Dean Winchester cause the person you see has value." There were tears in Dean's eyes, tears in Cas' and Jimmy's. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep going through the motions and waiting for you to figure out who I really am. I wake up every morning and I can't believe I'm in bed with the fucking Novak twins, cause the first time I laid eyes on Cas all I could think was how much I wanted to look up and see blue staring at me as I blew him, and that first night after I met Jimmy I went to bed and woke with my boxers soaked through because I'd dreamt about being with both of you. You two are literally my every damn wet dream come true and it's fucking surreal because that's not me, I don't get to have anything. And I know one morning you'll wake up and instead of seeing whatever fantasy you've constructed, you'll see me and you'll realize what a monumental mistake you've made. I'm so fucking scared."
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that doing so could deny the tears streaking his cheeks, dripping from his chin. This was not fucking happening. He wasn't crying in front of Jimmy and Cas. He hadn't just admitted how weak and pathetic he truly was. He couldn't…
There were lips on each of his cheeks, gentle pressure kissing his tears away. A denial died in his throat, replaced by a choked sob, and arms wrapped around his waist.
"I love you, Dean," Cas murmured in his ear. "I love you're being suave and cool, I love lounging on the couch with you watching Star Trek, I love when you're showing off the Impala like it's literally your baby, I love waking up and having you be the first thing I see. I love when you're strong, I love when you're vulnerable, I love you when you trust me. Nothing that lets me know you better will cause me to stop loving you. I honestly don't think anything could cause me to stop loving you."
"Even when you're being an asshole," continued Jimmy in his other ear. "Even when you're full of it. Even when you retreat from us and you're so far away I have no idea how we're going to get you back. Even when you play it cool when it is so obviously not cool. Even when you need and aren't able to give back a damn thing in return. Dean, it's you and it's Cas and it won't ever be anyone else."
"You don't know that." Dean hated how broken he sounded, how tired and sad and defeated. "You can't promise me that." I could never ask you to promise me that.
Neither answered and the silence stretched out unbearably. He had to fill it, had to make them see how damn blind they were. Burying his head against fabric and the firm flesh beneath without the least clue which of them he'd drawn close to, Dean continued, his voice muffled by the fabric.
"I'm never good enough. I'll never be good enough. No matter how much I do, there will always be more that I can't."
Somehow, Dean had to get them to look at him and see Dean. It was his own fault they didn't. There was so much he'd never told them.
"Jimmy, that thing…that thing you thought last night, about dad and me…that really didn't happen,"
"Really?" Jimmy's voice went flat, cold and angry, and Dean flinched. An instant later there was a hand on his head, fingers running through his hair, trying and utterly failing to ease him. "You expect me to believe that fucking John Winchester didn't hurt you in every way it's possible for a parent to hurt a child? You can't shit a shitter, Dean."
"What do you…?" The chest Dean leaned on rose and fell – it was Cas, apparently – and the hand on his head stilled.
"Winchester abused Dean," Jimmy snarled.
"I know," said Cas, troubled, redoubling his attempts at soothing Dean's tension. "I told you about the bruises…the things I heard John say…"
"No," said Jimmy, disgusted. "Not like that."
"Don't say it, Jimmy, it's not true."
"He fucking sexually abused Dean," Jimmy was absolutely furious. Cas went stiff, his hand stilled.
"He didn't." Anger seized Dean and he shoved them away from him hard. They stumbled back, Jimmy muttering curses under his breath, Cas' looking devastated. There were so many ways that Dean was a disgusting wreck, the last thing he needed was for them to come up with the one thing that wasn't true and believe it. "Dad fucking screamed at me if I set a foot out of line or dared to think that maybe, just maybe, I should spend a minute worrying about myself instead of taking care of Sammy. He beat me six ways from Sunday whenever he fucking felt like it, and I seriously thought he would kill me when he found out I liked cock. But he never laid a fucking finger on my dick or my mouth or my ass. He fucking hated me too much for that."
Arms were around him again in an instant, Cas pulling him close. Raising his hands defensively, he got a grip on Cas' shoulders intending to push him away, but he couldn't, he just couldn't. Instead he tangled his hands in the fabric of Cas' undershirt, laid his head over Cas' heart and sobbed. He'd never told anyone any of that, kept it close his whole life, from the first time when he was five and John had told him off for leaving Sammy in a dirty diaper all day; from the first time when he was eight that John had twisted his arm hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, had left it that way for hours before sobering up enough to pop it back in to place, telling him that if Dean tattled, the men from the government would take Sam away. He loved his father and Sam. He gave up everything he'd ever wanted for them, and John had hated him and he never understood why. It wasn't fair, it wasn't, he'd never done anything to deserve the shit his father had laid on him. Now he didn't even know what to do with himself because he couldn't lose Jimmy and Cas. Nothing would be worse than that. He'd fucking die without them. He might look like he was alive, but he wouldn't be. The last traces of Dean Winchester would be just fucking gone and all that would be left would be a ghost haunting some dusty mechanic shop somewhere.
"You're not going to lose us." Soothing words cracked through the horrors screaming in Dean's head. "We're right here. We're staying right here. You worked so hard for so long, Dean. You sacrificed so much for your family, and you're right, John didn't deserve your kindness and dedication. He shouldn't have yelled at you. He shouldn't have hurt you. You didn't deserve it, and it wasn't fair."
Oh, fuck, how much of that had he just said aloud?
"I still think I was onto something," grumbled Jimmy.
"You were," Dean said, exhausted and defeated. "John didn't touch me, but plenty of others did. I'm a whore."
I need them to want me, need me. I have to make them look at me. I can't keep pretending to be someone I'm not. Not with them. They're family. They're home. They're the most important people in the world.
"I'm fairly sure you haven't been sleeping around considering you've been in our bed almost every night since January," said Jimmy sarcastically.
"I never told Jimmy the things your father said outside Harvelle's," Cas said tersely. Though his words were clearly meant to be comforting, they blind-sided Dean. Cas had overheard what John has said that night, and he'd never said one damn word about it. What that might mean, the possible ramifications, exploded in Dean's mind. If Cas knew all along, why hadn't he told Jimmy? That simple question destroyed every flicker of an innocuous excuse that Dean could conjure in Cas' defense. Each potential explanation was worse than the previous.
Cas got off on knowing other men had used Dean. Cas cared so little that it didn't matter that Dean was damaged goods. Cas was so ashamed of Dean's past that he'd never even told Jimmy, when he told Jimmy everything. Dean was Cas' dirty little secret.
No, it wasn't like that, Cas cared about him.
It's not that he doesn't see me, it's that he's flat-out refusing to look at me. When he sees the real me, it disgusts him so much he has to hide it, even from his brother.
"Get your hands off me," mumbled Dean.
I thought we could make this work. What a fucking idiot I am. It's just like with dad. Underneath it all, it's all lies, the same lies, over and over again.
"Dean?"
Why won't you see me, Cas?
"I said, get your fucking hands off me, Cas," Dean roared. Cas tensed but didn't move. Enraged, beyond words, beyond thinking, Dean shoved Cas back as hard as he could, overpowering him easily. Tripping back, Cas slammed against the edge of the table and grunted in pain as it dug into his back. Balance shot, Cas slid to the floor, clutching his back with a groan.
"What the fuck?"
"Dean?"
Jimmy's shouted anger felt fantastic, Cas' confusion cut like a knife, and Dean was paralyzed. His instincts screamed to run, but he couldn't leave without knowing if Cas was alright, knowing if he'd hurt Cas.
Cas isn't the liar. Cas isn't the one who hides things. Cas isn't the one who hurts other people.
That's me.
It's not that the ghost of John Winchester in my head that makes me feel like shit, makes me do shitty things. He's not the reason I'm less than shit. It's me. It's always been me.
Before the horrible thought could translate into words or actions, there was a hand gripping the front of Dean's t-shirt, pulling him up, the cloth binding so tightly it cut into his throat, restricted his breathing. Blue eyes like bitterfrost seared Dean to the bone.
"What did I say last night?" whispered Jimmy with murderous calm.
"Do it," demanded Dean. "Whatever you're thinking, do it."
"I'm fine, Jimmy," Cas said, winded, rising awkwardly and taking labored breaths. "It's okay, Dean. I know you didn't mean to."
"Yes I did," Dean lied. "I'm John Winchester." He laughed mirthlessly, thick with self-hatred. "I'm just like my fucking dad. Just do it, Jimmy."
Now they've seen me.
Jimmy grip twisted, constricting Dean's breathing further, and Dean's throat burned. Cas came up behind Jimmy, laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. With disgust, uncertainty, anger, frustration, evident in every feature, Jimmy let Dean go as if removing a hand from something filthy.
"Get out," said Jimmy quietly.
Grim triumph brought a vicious smile to Dean's face even as his heart cracked. He'd finally done it, pushed too far, and driven them to hate him as much as he hated himself.
"It's been real," he said with false nonchalance and slid off the counter, walked towards the front door. His leather jacket and boots were back in their usual place, the twins must have cleaned up the scattered clothes they'd tossed around when they'd striped each other the previous night. The world lurched agonizingly.
I came home last night. I woke up at home this morning.
"Sit down, Dean," Cas said with utter self-command.
And then I tried to explain myself, and it all went to hell like I knew it would. I should never have gotten into this relationship.
Relationship. The word burned through his body like acid.
"Go fuck yourself, Cas," suggested Dean, jamming his feet in his boots. His vision of the room fractured and cracked. "Better yet, go fuck Jimmy. You two don't need me."
Don't want to leave, don't want to lose them, love them, want this, this is home, this is great, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I am John Winchester and I will ruin their lives just like he ruined mine.
"Dean. You will follow my orders. You will listen and you will sit down. Now."
The imperative in those words was undeniable, the voice of command that Cas used when he was domming Dean. Cas was not asking him, not suggesting, not dancing delicately around the point. He was insisting, and the dark promise of consequences danced behind the words.
Dean could think of no consequences worse than what would happen if he walked out that door for the second time in two days.
"Now, Dean," barked Cas.
Despite every warning in his head, because of every warning in his head, Dean did as he was ordered.
How many chances will they give me? How many chances did I give John? One too many, as it turned out. I can't let that happen to them.
The atmosphere in the kitchenette was fraught with tension. Cas' expression was utterly neutral and completely unreadable. His eyes were hard as ice as he stood in the center of tiled floor watching Dean's every move. By contrast, Jimmy was an open book, face flushed red with fury, hands shaking as he restrained himself. He leaned against the counter where Dean had been sitting moments before, glowering vengeance and punishment. A chill shivered down Dean's spine as he took the chair, feeling like a child confronted by two furious adults. Their anger intimidated him more than he'd ever admit, reminded him of his father in all the worst possible ways.
This is what I deserve.
"What just happened?" demanded Cas.
"I fucking hit you like the son of a bitch I am. Jimmy tried to strangle me and I decided to fucking leave but you ordered me back and for some godforsaken reason I listened." Dean folded his arms over his chest and rattled the words off blithely.
I pushed you and hurt you and proved once and for all what a worthless excuse for a human being I really am and I'm so, so sorry.
Cas' eyes narrowed shrewdly. "That. Just now. What just passed through your head, Dean?" Dean stared petulant defiance. Cas slammed a hand on the table, making the whole flimsy thing rattle. Despite himself, Dean flinched and grimaced, staring at the floor before him. There was a stain on the tiles. He should mop. "Tell me!"
"I'm just like my dad," he admitted reluctantly. "Like I've told you all along, this'll never work. Now you know why. Let me leave. I'm not capable of giving you everything you deserve."
"Then why're you crying, Dean?" asked Jimmy disgustedly.
Shocked, Dean raised a hand to his face, felt the moisture there. He was, he really fucking was. What was the matter with him?
"I'm sorry, Cas," he whispered. "I hurt you...I just...it'll happen again. I should go."
"That's why you're not your father," said Cas angrily. "Did he ever apologize to you? Did he ever suggest he'd done anything wrong?"
"You're the one who told me that an abuser will say anything to get what they want," muttered Dean.
"That's not an answer," Jimmy snapped.
"Come on, Jimmy, you know I'm right on this one," Dean countered.
"I know that today you've shared more than I've heard from you in 15 damn years," said Jimmy. "It must be hard as shit for you, and I'm willing to cut you the slightest bit of slack as long as Cassie wants to try and provided that you never lay another fucking finger on him again except to give him pleasure."
Scowling, Dean hunched further in on himself, dropped his arms to his knees, clasped his hands before him, and stared through them while appearing to stare at them. An unspeakably disgusting thought suggested that the way to end everything once and for all would be to raise a hand to Cas right now. Jimmy would clock him and kick him out, and there'd be no coming back. He'd not let himself come back. His stomach roiled at a series of horrific images: bruises on Cas' body put there by Dean's own hand; Cas making excuses for Dean's behavior as Dean had always made excuses for John's; Cas ashamed of himself and somehow convinced that Dean's behavior was Cas' fault; Cas believing there was anything he could do to prevent Dean from being Dean. Bile burned at his throat and he swallowed hard to force it back down.
Silently, calmly, Cas walked to Dean, knelt before him, looked up into his eyes. Jimmy trailed behind his brother, a protective guard dog, arms folded angrily over his chest, a vicious frown painting his face as he watched Dean with narrowed eyes, his body tense with preparedness to move at any moment if he had to stop Dean from hurting Cas. Watching Jimmy was like seeing a mirror of how Dean had postured to defend Sam from John's aggressive moods. Blinking back tears, Dean tried and failed to avoid the bright-eyed, earnest look that Cas was directing at him. A faint smile curled Cas' mouth.
"Tell me what happened," said Cas with gentle authority. "What did my mother and I overhear that night?"
"I told you," Dean muttered, "I was a fucking whore."
"So you let women bang you for money?" Jimmy managed to sound amused by the idea, despite the strained, stressful vibe filling the kitchen.
"Who said anything about women? Why do you think I give such good head?" Dean mimicked his levity, but bitterness spoiled the effect.
"Dean," Cas' began worriedly, hesitating. The ludicrous fact that Cas was evidently concerned about Dean after everything that had happened only made Dean feel worse. "You were, what, 15? And you were letting adult men…?" Cas swallowed. "You were selling your body?" Though Jimmy maintained his furious façade, his cheeks had a faint green sheen, and he gulped and averted his eyes.
Disgusting, son. Can't believe my boy is a fucking whore. You let them bend you over? You let them pound that bony ass of yours? You let these douche bags bang you? It makes me sick to even look at you.
"I was always at Harvelle's, cause dad was always at Harvelle's." The words dragged free of Dean, morose and quiet. "At first I was so young I didn't even know what they wanted. 'Pretty eyes, boy, pretty mouth, wanna help a brother out? I'll give ya five bucks.' We weren't so fucked that I was going to let a stranger give me five bucks. No one gave something for nothing. Later, I knew what they wanted, but I had too much pride to consider it. We were desperate, but that was disgusting, and we'd manage somehow." He laughed bitterly. "The mortgage was paid off – my grandparents left the place to mom and dad when they died – but we still had property taxes. Dad was on a particularly long bender, and I'd been pawning shit and stealing groceries to make sure there was food on the table. One day, a suit knocked on the door, and for a fucking miracle dad answered. The guy explained that if we didn't pay our back taxes to the city they were going to evict us and sell the property against the debt.
"All I could think was that it was our fucking home, it was Sammy's home. Where would we go if we lost the house? I thought dad would deal with it – I still believed in him back then, what can I say, I'm a fucking moron – but he just went back to the couch and drank himself into a stupor. The next day, too, and the next. The only thing left of any fucking value was the TV, and dad told me if I tried to pawn it he'd kick me out. I was too young to get a job." There was a question was bright in Cas' eyes, and Dean swallowed back a nauseous wave of self-disgust and admitted, "I was eleven. If John wasn't going to do something about it, that meant I had to. I thought of those guys at Harvelle's. All I had to do was swallow what little pride I had left and swallow whatever they shoved in my mouth. All I had to do was give them what they wanted, and I'd get what I needed. It was easy to find guys who were interested, but I did negotiate a salary raise, ten bucks instead of five. I managed to raise a couple hundred dollars, just enough to keep the city off our backs that first month, and the next, and the next.
"Ellen knew, of course." Dean's voice was flat and emotionless, his mind as blank as it had gone when some ass would grab the back of his head and hold him in place as they abused his mouth and throat mercilessly. "As soon as I hit my first growth spurt and could pass as a few years older than I was, she put me behind the bar and paid me under the table until she could hire me legally. It didn't matter. Adding bartending on top of whoring still didn't earn enough, but for once I was making a little fucking headway – paying more than was added each month – and that was something. Even better, tending bar helped me meet customers."
"Dean—"
"Just lemme finish, Cas, okay? Can I do that?" Dean interrupted desperately. He closed his eyes against any reply, against the sympathy on Cas' face, against the way Jimmy's anger had given way to horror. Cas really had never told him. "When I hit high school, I picked up third job at the gas station, and I…I sucked less cock." He heard Cas gasp to hear it put so bluntly, and the sound nearly broke him. Now they knew how tainted Dean really was. Wasn't that just swell. "I hated doing it, hated the way it made me feel about myself, hated when some asshole suggested how much more they'd pay to pop my cherry, hated that I actually fucking considered it cause we were that fucked. We were doing okay. I didn't have to keep doing it. Until, not for the first time, dad found where I'd stashed my savings and he blew everything I'd earned for a fucking month on some hooker's bed and a mess of booze he'd just piss out the next day. Not like the city would give a shit that that was why I couldn't pay them. I needed the money, so I returned to the world's oldest profession. That's when John caught me. That's what you saw. Congrats, Cas, you walked in on the worst night of my life and as a result it became even worse. Want a fucking medal or something?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" breathed Jimmy.
"Yeah, I tell all my friends about my history as a fuckable mouth for hire," said Dean sarcastically.
"Cas, why didn't you tell me?" Jimmy repeated. "If I'd have known—"
"What, Jimmy?" Cas snapped? Dean opened his eyes to see Cas looking up at his brother intensely. "How could you have improved the situation? Mom knew, and instead of suggesting that we help Dean, she decided he was a criminal and that you and I mustn't have anything to do with him. I had no idea how you'd react, and I wasn't going to risk telling you just to have to listen to you blame him, too." Jimmy opened his mouth angrily. "Obviously I didn't think you'd condemn him for homosexuality like she did, but all the rest? I wouldn't take the chance. Dean already had it so hard, and I was so helpless to do anything to make his life easier. The least – the very least – I could do was protect his secret."
"That's why you didn't say anything?" blurted Dean.
"Of course," said Cas, startled, looking back to Dean. "Why, what were you thinking?" Dean colored.
"You're a fucking saint, you know that?" Dean muttered. "I don't get you."
"Yes, you do."
"Seriously, not even a little," Dean confessed. "Never have, never will. You got the brunt of all my shit, you saw my bruises, you heard the things my dad said, you knew about…everything…and you stayed my friend. Cas, is there anything I can do that you won't forgive? Cause that's busted, man. You gotta realize you can do better."
Instead of answered, Cas laid hands on each of Dean's tear-streaked cheeks, palms cool and soothing against his heated flesh. It was so unexpected he flinched, so welcome that he leaned into Cas' touch, reveled in it even as his thoughts rebelled and reminded him of what he did and didn't deserve. Drawing Dean down and forward, Cas brought their lips together gently, and Dean suppressed a mewl of longing into a faint whine.
The kiss broke off, and Dean watched Cas wide-eyed, wondering what was coming next.
What do I have to do to get him to stop believing in me? His thoughts were thick with amazement and confusion. Dean knew exactly how to get Jimmy to hate him – all he had to do was hurt Cas – but if Cas had a trigger to turn him flat-out nasty Dean had never found it. As soon as Dean's actions started causing Cas sadness, Jimmy acted like a normal fucking person and got pissed. Nothing rattled Cas, except apparently the idea of losing Dean. Cas was too impossible to be real.
"Why, Cas?" whispered Dean. "Why me?"
The hands on Dean's cheeks trailed along the sides of his face, brushed over his temples, combed through his hair, and Cas drew their faces closer together, forehead to forehead, shadowed gaze pinning Dean.
"I'd give anything for you to see what I see when I look at you," murmured Cas tenderly, carding his fingers through Dean's hair. "I wasn't there for you when I should have been, but I'm here now, and as long as you want me here, I'm never going to leave."
"See, that's exactly what I mean," Dean said. "You don't make any damn sense. You've always been there for me, Cas. You've always known what I needed, and you've always given it to me."
"I wish that were true," Cas sighed. "I don't have the luxury of pretending it is, nor do I wish to do so. I was too worried about what I needed, too concerned with what you thought you needed. I could have helped you, and instead I kept quiet." Cas rubbed tears from beneath Dean's eyes. "All through high school you projected such a casual attitude, Dean Winchester, not a care in the world, a leather jacket and a classic car and a favorite spot to make love to cheerleaders behind the bleachers. I was the only one you let see beneath that mask, but you always seemed so upset when you peeked out that I never pushed for more; instead, when you gave me glimpses, I retreated, I looked away, because I thought that was what you wanted."
What do I have to do to get them to see me?
"It was—"
If they see…
"I let you think that all I cared about was that surface, let you think I was disgusted by your bruises and the scars I could see crisscrossing your heart," Cas spoke over him. "It wasn't until I was older and I realized that you could have gone into a bathroom stall to change – you must have done during football practice. You let me see those bruises because you wanted me to. It wasn't until I was older that I realized that your behavior was the equivalent of anyone else screaming for help. I loved you because you saw me, not the choir boy, not the teacher's pet, not my family name. I loved you because you took care of me even when I couldn't ask for help, not because you wanted praise but because you cared enough about me to inconvenience yourself. I loved you because you stood up for me even when I wouldn't stand up for myself. You deserved a friend who saw you, Dean, deserved a friend who did all those things for you just as you did them for me, because you're wonderful and you deserve everything. Instead I balked when confronted by the pleading in your eyes that said don't look."
Please don't look, Cas. Please don't see my crimes, please don't see my dirt, please don't see my sins. Please don't see that I earned every hurt, deserved every blow, had every cruel word coming to me. Please don't see that all of this happened because even when I tried my hardest, I was never good enough.
"There's nothing you could have done, Cas," said Dean. "There was nothing either of you could have done."
"We could have tried," said Cas.
"That's bull, Cas, you did try," Dean said stubbornly. "You ignored your mom when she said not to hang out with my filthy ass. You didn't tell anyone what you knew. You hung out with me. You came to the gas station, got me through my shifts. You saved me, Cas."
"I should have," Cas said, eyes dazzling as they swam with tears. "I should have grabbed you and pulled you out of the hell that was your life, never let you go home, had you get Sam and taken you both to the church. The pastor could have found someone to look after you, and you'd have been free from John. I could have talked to Ellen Harvelle, found someone who could have taken you in. I could have confronted John, made it clear that you had friends prepared to defend you from his abuse. I could have called Social Services, who wouldn't have separated you and your brother unless they absolutely had to, not at your ages. I could have done the research and told you that it was possible to declare your independence at 16 and take Sam with you. There were so many things I could have done. Instead, I treated you the same way everyone except you and Jimmy always treated me, the way I hated."
"So, what, now you think you owe me?" Dean snapped gruffly. "You don't. I don't want your pity, Cas. Why would you owe me shit?"
"Because on the first day of class, when the whispers among the girls that I was cute were rapidly fading in the light of Rhonda Hurley's report of what a goody toe-shoes I was at church and what a privileged background I came from, when I kept repeating to myself that all I had to do was keep my head down and get through the next four years and then I could leave Lawrence, you came up to me, sat at the desk next to mine, and said, 'hey, my name's Dean, who the fuck names their kid Castiel?' " Cas was smiling at the memory, but Dean smirked. He hadn't remembered what he said. He'd only remembered he'd seen the gorgeous, lean, blue-eyed boy, seen the intellect and exasperation and resignation in his eye, and known he had to find some way to be the boy's friend, had to be part of Cas' life, had to bring a smile to those beautiful eyes, had to get their lips together. "So I told you, and you were like, 'wow, Cas, that sucks.' I was in awe. In your tone, in the way you shook your head and smiled, rolling your eyes, I could tell that you just knew that I wasn't dressed like that cause I liked it, and I didn't go to church cause I wanted to, and that even though I said all the things that were expected of me, I wasn't happy. The only other person I'd ever known who looked and actually saw me was Jimmy." He paused and grinned. "The fact that you're gorgeous didn't hurt."
"Come on, Cas—"
"I wanted you so much," Cas breathed. "How could I get Dean Winchester to notice me? By being whatever he needs, of course. So I watched you closely, and tried to be what you wanted. That was how I interacted with everyone else – figure out what they expect of me, who they want me to be, and be that – and I tried to do the same with you. Yet, with you, it didn't work at all. Sure, we hung out all the time, you were my best friend, the only real friend I'd ever had other than my brother. Despite that, sometimes I felt like I didn't know you at all. You didn't invite me to your house, didn't want to come to mine. You let me come to you with my problems, but you never came to me with yours. It took a year before you introduced me to your brother, even though you'd met my whole family by then. And sometimes, I'd catch glimpses – you'd look so sad, so lonely, so vulnerable, but I knew how hard you tried to look strong, and so I never said anything. I thought, if I just waited long enough, if I made it clear that you could trust me, if I just behaved as you wanted me, you'd eventually come to me on your own, but you never did. It was easy to convince myself my feelings were unreciprocated, especially when you started dating any girl who asked you. So I kept my crush a secret, shared it with Jimmy, and the two of us did…what we did." Cas went crimson with embarrassment, and Jimmy flushed, self-conscious in a way that Dean hadn't seen the previous day, when Jimmy had seemed almost upsettingly comfortable discussing his sexual history with his brother.
"After school, I stayed in Lawrence even though my whole life I'd dreamed of leaving and getting away from my family," Cas said. "Jimmy was in California – but you were in Kansas. Not being with him left a hole in me so big I could hardly stand it. We'd been sharing a bed for eight years when he left for Stanford; I hardly slept the first few months of freshman year. The room was so empty without him, I'd phone him in the middle of the night just to hear his voice, just to ease the longing in my heart, hear the same longing echoed back at me from halfway across the country." After listening in still silence for so long, Jimmy moved, knelt behind his brother, wrapped his arms around Cas and lay his head on Cas' shoulder, peering up at Dean as well. Cas shuddered, let his eyes slip shut for a moment at the pleasure of physical contact, before he continued. "I thought it would be alright, because even if I didn't have Jimmy, I had you, but there was too much distance between us and we only grew further apart as we got. It was easy to convince myself that you were never going to feel about me the way I felt about you, and my ever-growing guilt that I'd never done a thing to help you, that it was too late for me to do so, made it harder and harder to be around you. If I couldn't help you, I might as well leave and take care of myself. It was selfish and cruel and I've never forgiven myself for abandoning you."
"You didn't—"
"Dean," Cas said firmly. "I let you wax eloquent on your perception of events, even when I knew them objectively to be untrue or inaccurate. Do me the courtesy of allowing me to do the same. You asked me what I see in you, you asked me why I feel I owe you, and I'm telling you. My years away from you, when we Skyped and hung out at holidays but otherwise didn't meet, gave me the perspective to figure out where I'd gone wrong. You're so self-effacing. The privacy and secrecy you ostensibly sought weren't actually what you needed, they were simply all that you thought you were entitled to have. I'd seen your bad boy exterior, envied and loved your confidence, bravery, work ethic, intelligence, sportsmanship, tenderness, loyalty, but when you showed me your weakness and vulnerability, I ignored them. Just like everyone else in your life, I acted as if how you actually felt and what you really experienced were irrelevant. Instead of acknowledging your feelings, giving them the weight and attention they deserved, I marginalized them. I thought I abandoned you when I left Lawrence, but really, I abandoned you in the locker room the day after I saw you and John outside Harvelle's. That's when I learned the truth, that's when I could have said, 'Dean I see you and I will help,' and instead I let you think that I was just like everyone else, that I didn't want you after I discovered that you were beautifully, flawlessly, perfectly human.
"After John died and you decided to move to California, I was shocked," Cas confessed. "When you knocked on my door and still wanted to be my friend, I was even more amazed and grateful. Finally, I was an adult and I could be there for you as I should have been all along. Having you around again just reinforced all the feelings that seven years apart hadn't cooled. You could have been angry with me for how I treated you, but instead you were true to me such as I was never true to you." Cas tipped his head forward, drawing Dean with him, and kissed him again. "Why do I love you, Dean? How could I not love you? Since the very beginning you've been there for me, you've seen past my actions and words to my heart to give me what I really needed, and you've forgiven me every mistake I've ever made. You've done for me everything you think I've done for you, when in truth I let you down at every opportunity when I could have proven myself worthy of you. At least, the least three and a half years, I've been able to start to make amends, start to give you what you deserved all along."
"You were just a kid, Cas." Dean lifted a trembling hand, brushed through Cas' tousled hair.
"So were you," Cas said gently.
"I never was," Dean's answer was automatic and unequivocal and the complete, unvarnished truth. Dean's childhood was sacrificed on the altar of Mary's death, John's alcoholic incompetence, and making sure that Sam didn't have to go through all the same shit that Dean dealt with every day. His hand fell away to lay limply in his lap once more.
Everything Cas said was unbelievable, the exact opposite of what Dean thought. It was inconceivable that Cas saw their past so differently, inconceivable that Cas could know so much of Dean and yet still see so little of the truth. There hadn't been some great, untapped store of sensitivity and humanity beneath Dean's leather jacket and football uniform. Underneath his bad boy attitude, Dean was no one.
Cas guided him into another kiss, and Dean felt numb, unable even to reciprocate.
"What's the matter?" murmured Cas with concern.
There weren't even words to answer that question. What wasn't the matter? How could Cas think that Dean didn't deserve him? It was like he'd stepped into the twilight zone. Next thing he knew, Rod Serling would walk across the kitchen waxing philosophical on the human condition or some shit.
I can't keep living with secrets from them. I can't keep wondering what will happen when they finally know everything. I can't keep living on borrowed time. No more secrets. No more omissions. All or nothing. Show them everything, and pray that they can accept it. Show them everything and finally know that they can't. If they're going to go, I need them to just go already, before I reach the point that I can't bear to exist without them.
"I killed John."
I can't bear to exist without them.
The world flashed black, his stomach churned, he panted as if he were sprinting his hardest.
As long as there's a single secret, there will always be a wall between us, there will always be a voice that whispers 'if they only knew the truth.'
Kneeling before him, Jimmy and Cas stiffened before him, rigid with tension, nearly indistinguishable with quirked heads and confusion.
If I'm ever going to get to have this, I have to tell them everything.
"I killed my dad."
I want this. I need this. Please Cas…please Jimmy…don't stop believing in me now…
"I don't understand," said Cas, drawing away from him to lean back on his heels, drawing Jimmy with him.
I can't do this anymore.
"The obit said he died of liver failure," Jimmy's voice was thick with confusion. He slid his hands down to rest loosely around Cas' waist, casual familiarity and intimacy that Dean envied. The distance between him and them had never felt more unbridgeable.
I need them to love me, not whatever bullshit masculine ideal I've been trying to project since I was eight.
"Yeah, well, that's bull," grunted Dean. His vision swam, showing him four of the twins, then only one, and he drew in each breath desperately, let it out as a quick huff. "I mean, that's what he died of, but it's not how he died. He'd been doing better, not drinking as much and I thought…I'm such a fucking idiot, he said all the same shit, and I fell for it all again, and was surprised again when I came home and he was nursing a bottle of whiskey. The son of a bitch had no money, which meant he'd stolen mine, and I just lost it. Asked him what the fuck kind of asshole steals from his own son when I'd been working my ass off to keep him fed and clothed for literally as long as I could remember. He was fucking pissed, told me I was disrespectful, selfish, ungrateful, all the same shit he always said to me, but I'd had it and I didn't back down. Got him so pissed at me that he took a swing, which he hadn't done in years, not since I got tall enough to look him in the eye. Well, he wasn't expecting me to catch the punch, or that I'd punch him back." Dean was breathing so hard it was difficult to get the words out steadily, and his vision trailed streaks of black amidst the white counters and pale maple cabinets of the room. Cas' face before him was distorted nauseatingly, and Dean couldn't stand to look any longer, so he lowered his gaze, stared at the floor, which even distorted he at least knew was actually white and black.
"You've got to understand, it was just a gut punch, he'd hit me like that so many times and I don't even know what I was thinking. I didn't think I'd hurt him bad. I mean, he fell, and he groaned, and fuck, I thought, I was just like him, it was just like today." The words choked in a harsh exhalation and a rush of sick in his throat that he barely swallowed back. He'd hit Cas. He'd hit Cas. Oh God. "But then he got up, he was back on his feet looking for the booze, and all I could think was, like father, like son, we might as well be in this shit show together. So I grabbed a bottle, and bet him I could drink him under the table. He gave me the cockiest shit-eating grin and said only a man could do that. Finally, I thought, a way to show him that yes I was a fucking guy, using one of John's own measures, right? What made John Winchester a man? Throwing his weight around and fucking putting me down and getting totally smashed. If I could out drink him, I'd have the fucking trifecta, and I'd have turned it against him like I shoulda done ages ago." The edges of his vision showed cloudy white, diaphanous, floating away. Somewhere in his mind screamed that something was wrong, but he couldn't divert any attention from his narrative. He had to tell his family the truth.
"Dean—" an alarmed voice interrupted. His eyes throbbed fit to burst from his skull, his lungs burned, and his head ached like it was going to explode.
"I know, Sammy. It was a stupid thing to do, and fuck, did we drink a lot, and I was right, I could out-drink his sorry ass. He passed out on the couch, and feeling damn smug I went upstairs to get some damn rest because unlike some losers I had to go to fucking work in the morning." Something gripped his arm. He pulled away violently and nearly planted on his face as up and down inverted. Something's wrong. Of course something was fucking wrong. He'd hit Cas and killed his dad and fucking hated himself and after giving everything for Sam, when his brother knew the truth he'd lose his family – his brothers, all three of them, Jimmy and Cas were family as sure as Sam. "I didn't know, Sam, you gotta believe me. I mean, how many times did dad pass out drunk just like that? Four or five nights a week, every week, our whole damn lives. When I got downstairs the next morning, it was more of the same, with the added bonus that he'd thrown up, and wasn't that a fucking fantastic stink to wake up to? Except when I went to clean it up there was blood in the vomit. I called an ambulance, but it was already too late – ruptured spleen, liver failure, triggered like a fucking count down from the minute I hit him, but I didn't mean to, Sam! I followed him to the hospital, and he fucking died while I watched, and I should have felt sad, should have felt angry, should have grieved, and instead I felt relieved. He'd been fucking right about my all along, I was a heaping pile of ungrateful, uncaring shit. But I swear, Sammy, I didn't mean to kill him. You have to believe me. It was an accident. Please don't go. I can't be alone again, not like those last few days in Lawrence. I can't. I'm not strong enough – I was never strong enough – and it'll never be alright."
An urgent breath caught in his throat, his lungs labored desperately, his heart fluttered without actually seeming to pump, and his thoughts blanked in pain and nausea and guilt. Someone shouted his name, and then there was nothing. Exactly like he deserved.
Endnote: FYI...I don't know much about Social Services and I don't know what the legal age of independence is in Kansas (I spent about 30 seconds googling before I gave up). I'm sorry if my references to those are way off base, I know most states the legal age is actually 18, but I went with it for story...feel free to con crit/correct me. :)
Oh, and apropos of nothing? "My baggage has baggage, and that baggage has baggage, it's like a big nesting clusterfuck of baggage, like those fucking Russian dolls" might be my personal favorite line I've ever written. I cackle every time I see it. :)
Edited to add: Good news and bad news - I've decided not to post the last chapter tonight (7/20)...because I've been waffling but have finally decided to add smut. So, no story end tonight, but more smut...worth it, I hope?