See trigger warnings and notes on Chapter 1.


Late afternoon should have seen the road packed with commuters, illuminated harshly by the sun setting to his right over the unseen-Pacific. Instead, the roads were surreally empty, and the sense that civilization existed passed behind him quickly. With no more distractions, his thoughts rapidly spun out of control.

Dean fucking Winchester. Loser extraordinaire. John Winchester's useless son. Ellen Harvelle's charity case. Sam Winchester's idiotic embarrassment of an older brother. Castiel and James Novak's pet.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he broken? His life hadn't been that hard. Loads had it harder. Sure, his mom had died when he was a kid, but Dean wasn't about to cry a fucking river over it. Lamenting her death made no difference, spilled milk or something. John had been an alcoholic shitshow from day one, volatile, aggressive, domineering and capricious. Maybe John had been a little hard on Dean. So what? They had a roof over their heads. They had enough food to eat. They had clothes on their backs and shoes on their feet. They had school every day and the Roadhouse to go to when things at home got too rough. Sure, they only had food and clothes and school supplies because Dean had worked for them, but that's what life was. Life was working for the things you needed, earning them. Only spoiled brats got shit handed to them. Every regular Joe worked his tail off day in and day out. That's what it meant to be a man. Dean was a man, had always been a man, and he could fucking take his punishment. The things John had said were only words. The blows left only bruises, long ago faded away.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

There was no excuse for how scarred Dean felt. His body was intact, despite everything, skin smooth and muscled, face attractive, but his mind showed every sign of a battlefield. It was pathetic. John was the veteran, Dean had wussed out on enlisting, because he didn't want to risk dying on foreign soil for nothing, because if he were abroad he couldn't look after Sam, because going away at 18 would have meant leaving Sam alone with John for four years and Dean didn't dare let little Sammy face the brunt of John's temper and erratic behavior. His unwillingness to serve was yet another way that Dean had proved a disappointment to his father. Fucking dammit, Dean was a man. He needed to be a man.

Then why do you let those two pretty boys treat you like a fucking woman, son? John's voice taunted.

Dean did, he let Cas and Jimmy do whatever the fuck they wanted with him. He cleaned their apartment and did all the cooking, looked after the house, acted as their handyman, took care of their car. When they left him orders, and he followed them without question. His body was just another toy for their amusement. They forced him to discussing his feelings, as if his feelings were anything other than utterly irrelevant. There was shit to do, and he'd fucking do it, end of story.

When he'd been young, there had always been more work than hours in which to it. Sam was a kid, he deserved to get to be a kid. Someone had to help Sam with his homework, someone had to comfort him when he was scared, someone had to show him Star Wars and all the other classics, someone had to tease him for being a math-lete. Since John wasn't winning any parent of the year awards, Dean had taken up the mantle of making sure that Sam never realized that his childhood was anything other than apple pie and sunshine. At the same time, there was John and his pathological inability to take care of himself once he was soused: his vomit to clean up, his soiled clothes to wash, his large form to haul home from Harvelle's, drag into bed, his tab to be paid. There had to be money to pay for shit, there had to be dinner on the table at 6, there had to be breakfast ready at 7 and a bagged lunch to hand to Sam as he hurried out the door. There had to be someone to wake John's ass up to get him to work, the rare times he managed to hold down a job. There had to be money saved so that when Sam finally graduated from high school, there was a fund to pay for college. If Dean hadn't been determined to show Sam how important school was, leading by example, he'd have dropped out to work more. As it was, he'd worked two jobs through school and picked up a third as soon as he was done. He'd felt a hell of a lot less shitty back then than he did now.

In San Jose, Dean didn't have enough to occupy his time. He'd been letting the twins carry him. He'd been letting them use him, because he fucking loved it when they used him, when they filled him and fucked him speechless and left him a leaking, aching mess. As long as they enjoyed his tightness, his wetness, his heat, they would ignore what a tiresome drain his moodiness was outside of the bedroom. As long as they enjoyed his submissiveness, they wouldn't stop to reflect on just what a pathetic excuse for a man he was. As long as he kept the house clean and good food in the fridge, maybe they'd never notice what a shameless mooch he was. Maybe, if he was really good, they'd never realize that Dean wasn't the man his father had wanted him to be.

Not a man at all, whispered John's voice. Having a dick don't make you a man. Wearing a leather jacket and boots. Driving a muscle car. Listening to mother fuckin' rock and roll. Being the bread winner. Coming home to a woman who bears your children and cooks your dinner and spreads her legs in your bed. That's what being a man is. Talking about your feelings? Playing house? Being so fucking incompetent you can't find more than part time work? That's not being a man. Letting two dark haired, blue eyed twinks take turns fucking you up the ass – letting them shove their cocks in your mouth – liking it – loving it – begging for it? I don't know what that makes you, but you sure as shit ain't no man, and you're no son of mine.

Dean's phone burst out another cacophony of overlapping text noises as his signal revived. There was nothing any of the three of them could possibly say to him that he wanted to hear. As if in answer to the thought, "Smoke on the Water" faded in, guitar riff growing louder as Dean's phone rang. He ignored it with as much determination as he'd ignored the texts.

An hour saw Dean in Gilroy, stopped at a red light at an intersection where a sign pointed south, indicating where 101 followed the coast to LA, and east, along 152, towards Route 5. It had been three years since Dean had gone that way, driving the Impala 30 hours straight as he fled Lawrence. Then, he'd been sure that if he stopped or slowed down, he'd talk himself out of moving to California, go back to what was familiar, and never fucking leave Lawrence. He had wanted out.

What did he want now?

Cas' eyes were black with lust, rimmed in dazzling blue, as he whispered in Dean's ears. "It feels so good to be inside you, Dean, so good…" A gentle thrust struck Dean deeply, blind-sided him as a harder one never could have. That slow movement left Dean awash in every sensation, gave him time to feel as every pleasure mounted. He reveled in the pressure that Cas' cock put on his sensitive insides, wonderful as nothing else was. "You're so good to me." Dean longed to answer, to say the same, to grind back against Cas' hips and ride that perfect dick until Cas couldn't take it anymore, but he could be good for Cas, he had to be, and he held silent. Cas rocked their bodies backwards until they leaned against the headboard, grasped Dean's hips and pulled him down, driving Cas deep, forcing a gasp from Dean's lips despite all his efforts to keep quiet.

"My turn," Jimmy grinned mischievously from the far corner of the bed. His hole was spread, red and wet, as he withdrew the fingers he'd been using to prep himself. On all fours, Jimmy crossed to Cas and Dean, straddled their four legs easily, grasped the headboard hard and positioned himself over Dean's erection. "Hold him still for me, brother." Jimmy breathed the words against Dean's forehead, gently kissed Dean's temple.

With a throaty chuckle, Cas wrapped his hand around Dean's cock, held it upright and still as Jimmy lowered himself on to. Heat and pressure flashed across Dean's vision, pleasure snagged at his throat. Cas' voice echoed in Dean's head until he wasn't sure if words of praise were actually leaking gutturally from those pink lips, or if Dean was imagining the litany that said, "such a good boy, Dean, such an obedient boy, look at you spreading my brother open for me, look at how happy you're making him. See how much he likes to feel you inside of him. Tell him, Jimmy."

"Love your fucking cock," moaned Jimmy. Dean bottom out. The feel of being enveloped swamped Dean's senses, the musky smell of sex in his nose, two firm, muscled bodies surrounded him, filled him, were filled by him. "All stuffed with Dean fucking Winchester: a fucking dream come true, that's what that is. Fuck him into me, brother."

Despite the weight atop him, Cas pivoted his hips hard, driving into Dean's prostate with a burst of fire and adrenaline that had Dean resisting the urge to find something to hold on to, desperate to grasp Jimmy's hips, desperate to fuck into the twin until Dean burst with the bliss that coursed through him. Cas' thrust pushed Dean's hips up, pushed him into Jimmy, who gave a criminal moan and wiggled around Dean, wordlessly begged for more.

"Jerk me off, Cas," whispered Jimmy. "Pound him into me. Want to feel your hands on me. Want to pretend it's your cock inside me. Make me feel so good, brother, please."

Dean jerked the wheel, pulling into the shoulder as he slammed on the breaks, breathing hard. Even in his own fucking fantasies Dean wasn't enough for the people he cared about. Even in his fantasies, he could do nothing but receive, and had nothing to give. Even in his fantasies, Dean was a surrogate for Cas, as far as Jimmy was concerned, and vice versa. Even in his fantasies, he was just a boy.

Dean could prove he was a man, and John Winchester's son. He could do what John never could – hold down a steady job, provide for Sam, provide for himself.

There was always work in Lawrence. By this time tomorrow night he could pull up at Harvelle's, get his old night job tending bar back, see if Singer could give him some hours at the mechanic. Instead of pinching every penny to barely cover some measly textbooks, he could send Sam an actual allowance so his brother could take his fiancée out like she deserved. Instead of depending on the small student stipends that Jimmy and Cas pooled to make ends meet, Dean could earn his money, pay his own way. Instead of feeling like a fucking failure all the time, he could get an apartment, eat some meals that included some actual honest to god fresh fruits and vegetables instead of dried pasta and tomato sauce he doctored up from stuff he got out of cans. Instead of letting two grown men – two gorgeous, caring, perfect men, his heart ached to think of them – treat him like a blow-up doll, he could act like a fucking normal guy, get one night stands at the bar, mess around, remember how to have fun having sex instead of having sex be so much Goddamn work all the time.

Fucking liar. One shots with strangers are nothing like being with Cas and Jimmy, and you fucking know it. You love that they do to you, you fucking adore it, and it feels better than any sex you've had in your entire ungrateful life.

He shouldn't love it. Loving having them coddle and care for him, loving needing their permission just to get off, was busted. Dean was so fucking sick of feeling busted all the time. When he'd lived in Lawrence with his dad, after Jimmy and Cas left for the west coast, after Sam headed off to Stanford, when it was just Dean and John in that tired house on that tired street in that tired city, Dean had felt normal. There was too much work for him to think, he woke up each day, early mornings at the tow company, mornings and afternoons at Bobby's, nights and weekends at Ellen's bar. By the time he got home, he'd take care of John, fall on his face, and wake up the next morning to do it all again. Years had passed like that. It had been easy, routine. Not like now, when he got lost in his own thoughts, honestly wondered what he wanted as if anyone gave a shit, found himself listening to the small voice in his head that dared to suggest that being with Cas and Jimmy made him happy, that maybe he could have his pie and eat it too.

That was bullshit. Letting himself have what he wanted was why he wasn't able to provide enough for Sam anymore. It was selfish, and he was over it.

Harvelle's and Singer Salvage. One night stands. His leather jacket, his boots and the Impala. Singing his lungs out to Zeppelin. A mattress in a closet with a kitchen sink, a single burner, a half fridge and a shower stall. That was all Dean wanted. That was all he deserved.

Dean made the turn on to Interstate 5. It was a long drive to Lawrence.

Damn, it'll be good to be home.

Maybe, if he repeated those words to himself enough times, he'd not think they sounded like rank BS.

I miss Lawrence.

He missed blue eyes and dark hair, wide shoulders and narrow hips, asses that were no less perfect for being a little boney, identical cocks that had no right to feel so damn good inside him, like fucking God on high had created a dick that was made to perfectly slot inside him.

A wash of text message noises – all R2-D2 and Luke, he noted disinterestedly – greeted him as he got on the Interstate.

We love you, Dean, only you.

Cas had promised to never lie to him, Jimmy had agreed to do the same, but they'd both lied when they'd said that. They loved each other, needed each other, not Dean. It was time for him to get out of the way. It was time for him to do what was best for everyone. Dean had been crazy to think he could ever be anything more than a small town failure.

Like father, like son.

Ain't no fucking son of mine.

The night was full dark when a light on Dean's dash flashed orange, informing him that his gas tank was running low. The highway was empty in a way he adored, signs telling him that Bakersfield was coming up. Taking the exit before the city, Dean sped along a service road looking for a gas station, but the area was deserted, nothing to be seen except the matte black of hills and the comparatively lighter darkness of the night sky peppered with pinpricks of light.

There had been gas at the previous exit. He could turn back, be sure of filling the tank there rather than take the chance of running out and being stuck on the highway.

Dean had $100 in his wallet, every penny he possessed. With luck and care, it'd be just enough to get him to Lawrence. If he back tracked, he'd never make it.

It's enough to get you back to San Jose.

His heart throbbed at the thought, a frown strained his features. A dull ache had settled into his muscles, his thighs, his glutes, reminding him of the strain of earlier, and a thud behind his gritty, burning eyes reminded him of the tears he'd shed.

Real men don't cry, son.

He hated his dad. He hated John Winchester, and he hated Dean Winchester.

"Fuck!" Dean slammed a hand against the steering wheel, and on sudden impulse, pulled into a dusty lot beside the road. The headlights swept over scrubby, twiggy brush, barren hills, and a barbed wire fence before Dean turned the car off and plunged the scene into darkness. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did he was greeted by beautiful evening. The stars made mysterious patterns across the sky, and Dean remembered a night, a fucking lifetime ago, when he'd driven Sam out to the country to watch the Perseid meteor shower, and the adorable dork had pointed out all the constellations to him.

The Big Dipper was obvious, gracing the sky to the west. There was something about an arc, Sam had this whole mnemonic shit to remind him – if Dean followed the curve of the dipper handle, he'd find a bright star – there it was – that was important for some reason or other. It formed a triangle with two others, Dean thought – or maybe it was a square? Several bright stars dazzled on each side of the foggy mist of the Milky Way, just barely visible despite the light pollution of the highway and the nearby towns.

If he filled his tank and kept going, Dean wouldn't have enough money to return to San Jose.

Leaving a place shouldn't feel like tearing his goddamn heart out. Leaving Lawrence certainly hadn't felt that way. Fuck, that was how he'd known he was making the right choice when he started towards Califonira. Heading west, heading towards Sam, had felt like going home. Visions of his brother had kept Dean driving that whole way. A guilty frown danced across Dean's features. It hadn't only been Sam's face that had guided him like the fucking north star that long night 3 years ago. Bright blue eyes and a warm smile had drawn him on as well. Now, those same eyes drooping with disappointment were a spur that drove him away. He couldn't bear to return and see the reception he received, the reception he deserved.

Dean got out of the car, walked around it once, kicked the tires for the fuck of it, and scowled.

This was an easy choice. Get in the fucking car, turn the fucking key, drive to fucking Kansas.

With a sigh, he hoisted himself up onto the hood and stared up at the uncaring sky.

Once he returned to the road, there would be no going back. He just needed a few minutes. He just needed to stare up at the gorgeous California sky a little longer. Headlights spoilers his night vision, blanking the sky in unremitting blackness. Moments later he was plunged in solitary darkness once more, the car disappeared around a bend in the road. His phone made an R2-D2 noise that sounded even more forlorn than usual in the stillness and quiet. A shiver ran through Dean, his heart gave another pained quiver. How long before Cas realized this was for the best and stopped trying to contact him? Not long, Dean suspected. There was no comfort in that belief at all.

Another set of headlights trailed by, going unusually slowly. With a screech of tires, the car pulled in next to the Impala, sending up a cloud of dust. Surprised, Dean squinted at the vehicle and quailed. The small, boxy old sedan was unmistakable. His rebellious heart shook of the unpleasant tight sadness that had clutched at him and pounded with excitement. Despite himself, Dean's eyes craved the sight of Castiel's tall form incongruously unfolding from the small front seat. Idiot, he shouldn't text and drive, Dean thought, ashamed at the affectionate words. The car shut off, and Dean blinked against the sudden dark. He heard more than saw the driver's side door open, then slam shut.

He wouldn't miss Cas. He wouldn't miss Jimmy. He didn't need this. He was going home to Lawrence.

"Dean."

It wasn't Cas. It was Jimmy.