Author's Note: I held off on posting this, because I've been waiting for my beta to get back with the next 70 or so pages. I've been assured it's coming soon - stupid full time jobs - so I'm going ahead and putting this out there. On the plus side, I've been posting enough recently on other works, that I have very little anxiety over it anymore. Yay to not throwing up a little in my mouth every time I hit Post!

Chapter Seven

"Sammy needs to learn how to protect himself. Sammy needs to learn how to use a gun. Sammy needs to learn knife skills."

Dean parrots the words back at John, making sure his tone is as mocking as he dares and John looks appropriately annoyed. "You disagree?"

"I don't know. Kind of liked my idea better."

"Track and field isn't an option."

"Maybe, but it wouldn't be nearly as much of a waste of time."

Sammy turns to look at them from where he's standing ten feet away, glaring. "I'm right here! And I'm trying."

"Try harder." John doesn't move from where he's sitting on the hood of the car, cleaning the underside of his nails with a hunting knife.

Sammy's glare hardens, but he turns back and fires at the bottle, blowing a small chunk off a tree to the left. They were already in the last weeks of summer when John dragged Dean off for the job turned trap and he seems to be under the impression that he can teach Sammy to be an expert marksmen before they start school and finding time becomes more difficult.

Unfortunately, Sammy isn't Dean and John's idea of 'teaching' is to thrust a gun in Sammy's hand and say "hit the bottle," before ignoring him. Dean tried to help out at first, but John seemed to think Sammy shouldn't need the help. He has unrealistic expectations and that's Dean's fault. Dean isn't sure why he took to guns so well. He suspects it has something to do with giving him power he doesn't really have, but they feel like an extension of who he is.

Again, though, Sammy isn't him. Sammy's been firing bullets at the same empty bottle for a week and he can't get within two feet of it. From the stiffness of his posture and the unsteady grip he has on the weapon, he's too uncomfortable with it. He's probably imagining the bottle as a squirrel or a helpless bunny, because he's smart and he has to know that's where this is going next. Hell, if it wasn't for the fact that Sammy just isn't that good of an actor, Dean would think he's missing on purpose.

Dean is betting it's subconscious, because after an entire week, he should at least show some kind of improvement. If anything, he's getting worse. "If you'd let me help him, we might be done sometime this century."

Sammy shoots again, wider this time and John finally sighs out a, "Fine."

Finally. Dean pushes up off the ground and tries to ignore the sour frown on Sammy's face as he sidles up behind him. "Stop that, bitch face only works when I wasn't dragged out of bed before seven to watch you miss a target from ten feet away."

He can't see Sammy's face, but he can feel him relax under the gentle teasing. Dean takes a moment to widen Sammy's stance, kicking his brother's feet shoulder width apart before reaching over Sammy's shoulders and adjusting the grip on the gun, wrapping his own hands around his brother's. The warmth of skin against his palms is starkly different from the familiar feel of metal and it's strange to have the press of Sammy's back against his hip as he moves his own arms to force Sammy's to the proper alignment.

"Yeah, like that." He drops his head down and lowers his voice to a breathy whisper so John can't hear. "It's just a bottle, Sammy. Okay? You got me?"

Dean feels the nod of Sammy's head as he lines up the gun with the bottle and ignores the press of Sammy's back against his crotch. Or, tries to ignore it, he's sixteen, he gets a hard on when random people brush up against him in the halls at school and Sammy's doing a little more then just brushing. His back is warm and pressed firmly against him, shifting in an attempt to get comfortable with the position Dean is forcing him into.

"Now, you pull the trigger fast and hard. Don't hesitate or you'll mess up the aim."

He takes his hands off Sammy's, but doesn't move completely away and when his brother pulls the trigger, the bottle explodes and Sammy looks back, his face split in a big grin, dimples deep and ecstatic. "I did it!"

Dean ruffles the shaggy fall of hair and Sammy pretends to be annoyed by it, but the smile doesn't falter. When he looks back at the broken bottle, Dean takes the opportunity to adjust himself in his jeans and John chuckles at him. Fuck him, too. John goes out and gets whores, Dean has to take care of Sammy. It isn't like he has a lot of extra time to pick up girls and even if he did, where the hell would he take them? Right now, his second best friend is his right hand and even then he's interrupted more often then not, because John never ponies up for anything more then one bathroom and they're lucky if they have one dedicated bedroom to share with John on the couch. Most of the time they're in low rent efficiencies and privacy is one of those mythological things like Christmas trees and turkey on thanksgiving.

Not that he doesn't find time – blue balls are a very real thing, Dean found that out the hard way – but tugging one out is far quicker yet less satisfying than he thinks it should be. Of course, if he's so hard up, he can't spot a twelve-year-old Sammy without getting a hard-on, he may have to start making the time.

Saying he'll make time and actually doing it are two different things. John settles them in a large town and pays for a month in an efficiency shithole with no bedroom and one bathroom and then doesn't leave. It's one thing to stash them somewhere small when he won't be there, because Sammy doesn't take up much space and Dean's so used to his brother, it doesn't feel so much like an invasion of his space as just having both his arms. John's presence, however, is like an oppressive weight.

Normally, John settles them down and goes about his routine of disappearing for a week or two at a time, showing back up only to reassure himself that there's nothing worth his attention before going back out. In the six weeks since school started, John has left for one day. Dean wishes he could say it's as simple as him not having a job at the moment, but he knows that both isn't true and wouldn't matter. The yellow stone is still unrecovered and even without that, the demon doesn't like playing house with kids.

Which is another thing, because it's been years since John stood around and stared. If he was just staring at Dean, it might not be so bad, but he's staring at Sammy. Sammy seems oblivious. John's spent so many years ignoring Sammy, that he's learned how to return the favor. It's easy enough for Sammy to pretend John isn't there, but Dean's spent that same time learning to keep John in the corner of his eye no matter what else he's doing. After eleven years, it's second nature.

So, it's not surprising that he can wake up with morning wood, but he can't manage to do anything about it. He skips PE a few times and jacks off in a stall in the locker room, but the heavy smell of sweat and steam that permeates the entire room makes that a confusing and decidedly awkward activity.

Dean's all but given up when he meets Carrie. Or, more precisely, when Carrie decides to introduce herself to him. She's one of the popular kids, blonde, big brown doe eyes, and wearing some kind of lavender spice body scent that Dean doesn't hate, but still makes him want to sneeze.

She sits herself down next to him just as he's finishing up what passes for lasagna by school standards. "Hi, I'm Carrie. You probably don't know me, you don't really… socialize with, well, anyone – at all – but, I was wondering if you wanted to go out and get… I don't know, ice cream or something after school?"

Her cheeks are slightly pink and he can see a group of girls huddling together a few tables over, watching like they're trying to pretend they're not. It's not that he doesn't get it, he's heard the rumors the last few weeks. He's the new kid, they think he's cute, but he's anti-social and no one wants to approach him. If anything, he figures this is a dare of some kind and he'd like to help her out - it's no skin off his back if he's the butt of a joke, because they're probably leaving in a few days anyway – but he really can't.

"I'm sorry, look, you're cute and all, but I've got to pick up my brother after school."

She bites her lip and plays her fingers over a black rubber bracelet on her left wrist, leaning in and lowering her voice so no one else can hear. "Okay, then how about we skip next period and go make out in a closet for a while?"

"You what now?"

"Look, you're hot. Like, stupid hot. Like crazy, stupid hot and you have the whole bad boy thing going for you and my friends over there have been panting after you for weeks now, but you don't seem to notice and no one has the guts to say anything, so I am. Do you want to go make out in a closet instead of going to algebra?"

Hell yes, he does. He grabs his bag and she throws her friends a thumbs up and trots after him and it's amazing. It's better then amazing. She's soft in all the right places and lets him put a hand up her shirt and has no problem telling him where and how to move against her to make it feel good. He can't even be embarrassed when he cums in his pants, because he's got a tongue down her throat and her leg wrapped around his hip and he hasn't jacked off in almost a week.

When they're done, he's out of breath and she's grinning at him smugly while she re-arranges her skirt. If her disheveled clothes didn't give away what they'd been doing, her red puffy lips and the smell of sex clinging to both of them will.

She runs hands through her hair, tugging at tangles. "So, little brother?"

"Yeah." Dean nods, pulling his shirt tails down over the damp patch of his jeans. He'll have to stop in the bathroom to clean up.

"Is he as cute as you?" For a second, Dean thinks she's serious, but her smile belays that. "So, same time tomorrow?"

"Huh?"

She stops, half out the door, "If you don't want to…"

"No, no, definitely… yeah."

"Good!"

Carrie's nice in that she's kind of a bitch. Maybe not as bad as some of the other girls, but she doesn't particularly care about Dean other then his ability to help move her up the social ladder. Apparently, fooling around with him is helping win her some serious popularity points and that's about all she wants from him. Not that she doesn't enjoy the dry humping and making out, she probably wouldn't do it if she didn't, but maybe she would. She has some serious self-esteem issues.

They aren't dating because that would require them doing something other then getting off in various closets and empty rooms throughout the school, and they aren't fuck buddies because that implies actual fucking or, at the very least, being friends with the person in question and he doesn't think they're friends, either. It's a little confusing, but mostly it just feels good so he tries not to think about it too much. It's about priorities and Dean has his – Sammy, Dad, John, himself, and how to properly dispose a gutted corpse when John's finished with it. That's it. That's all he has room for.

Still, it's fun and he's more relaxed then he has been in years, which is probably why he doesn't stop to think about the consequences until he has a slip of paper in his hand that he has to get signed by John, saying he has eight days of detention to serve – one for every class he skipped – which, of course, means they'll be moving again. John doesn't like being inconvenienced just because Dean couldn't keep himself out of trouble.

He can already hear Sammy complaining. Not that he even likes the shit apartment or the school he's in, because he's already told Dean how much he hates it there, but he hates moving more. He hates the uncertainty of where they're going. John never tells them, if he even knows himself. Sometimes, Dean thinks he just drives till he feels like stopping.

If the teacher hadn't called John… but she has and the rest doesn't matter.

"Dean?"

"Huh?" He pulls back from where he's sucking at the junction of Carrie's neck, his thigh pressing up between her legs. Her face is flushed faintly in pink, but twisted in annoyance. "Something wrong?"

"I don't know. Is there?"

"What?"

Her hand squeezes around his dick, not even half hard in his jeans. "You seem a little distracted."

Fair enough. He wants to be all there, but most of him is already in the apartment, trying to explain to Sammy why they have to pack before bed.

She drops her leg and straightens her skirt, correctly sensing the mood and that nothing's going to happen. Dean really wishes he could fake it, because he has no way of knowing if he'll get this lucky again, but he's not nearly hard up enough to be able to push past the mental image of Sammy with tears of frustration welling up in his eyes while he shoves their few possessions in his bags.

"So," she tilts her head, dragging her eyes up and down him before relaxing fully into the wall behind her. "What's eating you?"

He briefly considers telling her it's none of her business, but what the hell. "We're moving."

"When?"

"I don't know. Tonight probably."

She laughs a little, but it's sarcastic and forced. "Probably?"

"We move a lot." It's not an answer, really, but then he doesn't have one for her.

"Okay, well," she brushes his hair back out off his forehead and her nails scrape against his skin. "If you change your mind, I'm staying late to watch Lacy practice."

She knows he won't come, even as she throws him a look over her shoulder on the way out. He's made it clear his brother comes first and the few times she suggested it wouldn't kill the kid if he was fifteen minutes late, were the times he didn't bother meeting up with her.

He still goes through the rest of the day because there's no point drawing more attention to himself. If anyone suspects something is wrong with him, they might try a home visit or, worse, call John again and then the demon might feel the need to cover his tracks. He still might, but Dean can mitigate the damage by not adding to it. He doesn't, however, take notes. He throws away the homework on the way out and if the teachers notice, they don't say anything.

Dean isn't exactly a straight A student and not because he isn't smart. He gets the material, he aces the tests, when he shows up, but he doesn't bother with homework, or school projects. They aren't worth the time and effort. He's been through lectures and meetings about not living up to his potential, but he doesn't see the point. It's not like he has life goals and aspirations beyond keeping Sammy alive and getting his dad back. If that ever happens, then maybe, but Dean doesn't allow himself to live in a world of maybe. Maybe keeps him awake at night wondering what he's going to do wrong next and who'll get killed for it; maybe makes him wonder if his dad's body isn't too damaged to survive already; maybe is looking back at what he could have done different and who might still be alive if he had; maybe eats him up inside. So, he doesn't bother caring about his grades beyond keeping them above failing so no one has a reason to call John.

After school, Sammy's waiting on the sidewalk in front of the middle school. He knows the apologetic expression on Dean's face instantly and his shoulder's sag. Neither of them say anything, but they both take five minutes to make sure their clothes are packed down into their duffels and the few things they consider possessions are in their backpacks.

Sammy looks just as pained as Dean knew he would, sulking through spaghetti-o's and Medical Detectives – a show on the use of forensics in crime solving. He's developed an obsession with forensics and all things crime related since Dean told him about John's less then legal career choice. It's not the excited kind of obsession of a kid following their favorite baseball team, but more of a morbid curiosity. Like he wants to know more, but can't bring himself to ask, so he watches it on television to help fill in the blanks. Dean lets it go, because he doesn't want to answer any of those questions he knows Sammy has.

They fall asleep together on the couch, waiting for John to get back. Sammy finding his usual place pressed back to chest against Dean, his head pillowed on his brother's shoulder and the television going from late night shows to white static at some point they can't remember. When John wakes them up, it's three in the morning and the bags are already in the car.

Sammy says a few unflattering things under his breath, but thankfully, John just finds it amusing and hangs a few steps behind while Dean gets the kid out to the car on shuffling feet and stretches him in the back. Sammy shifts and twists and by the time their ten minutes out of town, he's breathing deep into the leather of the back seat, one leg hanging off onto the floor, the other twisted awkwardly to fit into the space.

It won't be long before they outgrow living in a car. Sammy's small for his age right now, but it won't last much longer. Dean rolls his fingers over the beaded bracelet Sammy gave him six years ago and thinks about how small Sammy was back then and whether John's even going to care when he outgrows it. Probably not. He says it all the time – whenever he thinks Dean needs to hear it again – his job is to keep Sammy alive and accessible, not happy.

He turns his head to look out the window at the pitch black of country highway when something falls on his leg. His hand grabs it before he looks down, because it's small and light. He'd think it was a bug if he didn't already have his fingers wrapped around a thin plastic circle, blending it together in his fist. The top of the black loop is sticking out of his suddenly clenched fist and it's just a little black rubber bracelet. They sell them at the mall for less then a dollar and half the kids at school are wearing them, but he knows who this one belongs to and he knows what the rough substance flaking off it onto his hand is.

John waits, gives Dean a chance to say something. When he doesn't, John offers, "You liked her?"

Dean has to think about it, because kind of, but no, not really. "No."

"Good." He actually sounds like he means it. "Find something more constructive to do with your time."

John gives it another minute before turning the music on. Sammy shifts in his sleep at the sudden increase in volume, but doesn't wake up and Dean slips the bracelet on his wrist next to Sammy's birthday present, letting it rub the flakes of red into his skin.

Dean's not insubordinate by nature. Really, he isn't, and even if he had been, John's done enough to beat it out of him, but he's closing in on seventeen and John keeps putting them up in one bedroom trailers and efficiencies. Even when he does start going out and staying gone more, Dean still has Sammy there twenty four seven and it's enough to drive anyone to hook up with the nearest available human. At this point he almost doesn't care what's in their pants as long they're willing to get in his. Almost, because fooling around with guys is going to draw a hell of a lot more attention then fooling around with girls and what John doesn't know, isn't going to get anyone killed, so the less attention he gets the better.

The first town after Carrie, he isn't desperate enough to even take a serious look around. By the second town, he finds himself looking at the girls, but the idea of following through makes him nauseous. Third school and they're coming up on Christmas. Dean's stomach still turns a little when he smiles at someone he catches staring at his ass in the hall, but before he can make for the bathroom, she uses a finger to call him over. She then proceeds to ask if he wants to spend their lunch hour having sex in the back stage area of the theater room.

It's not half bad for a first time, they don't miss class, and he doesn't hook up with her again. Hell, he doesn't even know her name. He figures it's better that way, because if John kills her – and he might, because he made it pretty clear how he felt about Dean hooking up with girls and this is probably the closest Dean's ever come to open defiance – it'll be easier to push her back into the catacomb of people he's seen dead for one reason or another.

If John knows about it, he doesn't say anything. The girl is still in class the next day and the day after that and Dean feels a sense of relief. Not about having had sex, though seriously that was awesome, but because he got away with it. He isn't going to push his luck, but having gotten away with it? It feels good.

Just after his seventeenth birthday, John takes Dean to a pimp. They go through this particular town in southern Louisiana at least once a year. Dean knows people there, not good people, but he knows a few drug dealers by face if not name, the old lady that owns the should-be condemned motel they usually stay at, some of the local prostitutes that take out rooms in the 'establishment' – and he's using that term lightly - and their pimp, Snagglepuss Joe. So named, because of the cartoon cat that takes up his entire left arm.

They hadn't gone very far, just to the other end of the motel where Joe has a room rented and one of his girls strung out on the bed, her pupils like pin points in bright blue eyes ringed with lashes caked in black mascara. The only thing he can think is that maybe this is John's idea of a birthday present. Thing is, Dean liked sex the one time he had it, but he knows the kind of girls Joe peddles and he's not even remotely interested in middle aged women so shot up on drugs they don't care what you're doing as long as it gets them their next hit. He'd rather stick his dick in a blender. At least a blender isn't as likely to give him a venereal disease.

Dean takes about five seconds to assess the situation before he says, "No thanks," and turns around to walk out.

John grabs him by the back of his neck and turns him around, "Cute, now sit."

He doesn't want to sit, but John shoves him down and he doesn't have much of a choice. If it's not about the girl, though, what the hell is he doing here? The bedside table has a few things laid out. Pens, knife, paper clips, random odds and ends that he can't really make heads or tails of, and Joe's dressed in his wife beater and tattered jeans, the heater turned up so high it's actually hot in the room, despite the forty degree temperature outside.

John stays standing over him, looking down with his normal air of authority and a tone of something that isn't quiet disinterest. "Joe here has kindly offered to give you a lesson in a skill I sadly lack experience in."

There's only one thing Dean can think of that Joe might be able to teach him that John can't. As far as Dean knows, Joe doesn't deal in boys, never has, but that doesn't really mean anything. If you're a petty thief that likes to snatch wallets and someone leaves their front door unlocked, why the hell not? It's the same principle. At least, he figures it probably is; Dean's never thought much about it, not until just now.

He turns to Joe and states bluntly, "I will bite it off."

Joe laughs, full and honest to god amused and John chuckles darkly next to him and Dean's can't help the sink in his stomach before John says, "Lock picking. I've never really had the need, but Joe assured me he can teach you."

Lock picking? That's… actually that's kind of awesome and completely unexpected. John gave him the spare cuffs and told him to figure it out a few months ago and Dean's been trying, but there aren't exactly books on the subject at the local libraries. It isn't like the demon to enlist outside help, especially not the human variety. Unless Joe's not human.

He narrows his eyes at the pimp and says, "Christo," which gets him nothing by a confused laugh from Joe and John smacking him upside the back of the head. Human, then. Not that he would have refused the help, either way, but still good to know. Joe isn't exactly a small man, certainly a good deal bigger then Dean, but Dean has a knife tucked into his boot and he's pretty sure knife trumps fist if it comes down to it.

John stands a moment longer, staring at Dean like he doesn't want to leave and finally steps back. "I'll get him in two hours."

The room isn't silent because the television is on low and whoever the girl is, she's mumbling to herself a few feet away, but Joe doesn't say anything until John's footsteps have faded and there's a faint slam of a door. When he does, it's with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile. "A little overprotective, ain't he?"

Not really, no. Or, well, possessive is probably more accurate, not that he's talking about this with Snagglepuss Joe while a doped up hooker is having a conversation with her imaginary friend in the same room. Instead, he sticks with what he knows best. Violence. "I have a knife."

Joe keeps on smiling. "Good to know."

He produces handcuffs from his back pocket and demonstrates how to pick the lock with one of the paper clips. It's deceptively simply and Dean struggles with it for nearly half an hour before he finally manages to wedge it in and twist it to get the right bend and angle. It pops open and Dean looks at the open cuff in wary relief. He'd done it, but it had taken a lot longer then he was gonna have if there were Hunters watching him.

"Bobby pins work, too, anything small, metal and bendable. Wood's no good, it'll break off in the mechanism and you'll be up shit creek even if you get the key. With enough practice you can get it done in under a minute." Joe takes the cuffs back, snaps it on his wrist and twenty seconds later, drops it back in Dean's lap, open. "Now, if you don't have a paper clip handy, there's another way."

He pulls the ball point pin over and brakes off the metal clip. "We call this a shim - just a small, flat piece of metal."

Joe snaps the cuffs back on himself and wedges the shim in. A few clicks later, it slides open. "Shim's a little harder to come by. You can make one from a Coke can or the end of a pen if you can find it."

He tosses another pen at Dean and the cuffs. This is easier, takes less time, but Joe is right, in a pinch, a shim would be harder to come by then a paperclip. They practice a few more times. The girl falls asleep at some point.

He's got the paperclip bent one way, then the other and he's trying to find the hole again when Joe decides it's a good time for conversation. "So, s'that really your daddy, or is he your daddy."

The way he says daddy the second time makes Dean drop to damn paper clip. He fishes it out of the matted down carpet and glares at the cuffs rather then make eye contact with the pimp. "It's not like that."

"What's it like then, kid?" Dean looks up for a second and Joe's got his elbows propped on his knees like he's honest to god interested. "I've known your daddy a while now and he don't strike me as the paternal sort."

"He's not."

There's a long stretch of silence and Dean tries to focus on the lock while Joe apparently goes back to digging where he's not wanted. "Why's your daddy so interested in you learning how to get out of those?"

"Why does a low-life pimp from bum-fuck Louisiana know how to get out of handcuffs in the first place?" Actually… "You know what? Never mind, I think I can figure that one out for myself."

There's a flash of something like anger and Dean's hand twitches, thinking about going after his knife, but waits and the anger subsides quickly enough. Joe reaches over and takes a cigarette out of the night stand, lighting it almost absently. The woman isn't moving. Her breathing is fast and shallow. Dean manages to hold in a gagging cough as smoke hits him in the face.

It's a tense sort of stalemate and Dean decides it isn't worth the effort. "Last summer some guys tried to use me to get to him. It's not happening again."

Joe seems to let the words sink into him before he nods. "It's not just cuffs you'll want to worry about. If it's not cops, they might use rope. You any good at hand to hand?"

Some, yeah, but not really. John prefers weapons to fist-a-cuffs. He's shown Dean a few tricks, but nothing more then what he needs to hold back an attack until the demon can get there. His hesitation must read louder then the words he isn't saying, because Joe seems to understand.

"Next time your down this way, I have someone that can teach you a few things. Probably teach that brother of yours, too."

"Sammy's off limits." It's automatic, like breathing. Sammy is his responsibility and he'll pass what he learns to his brother if he thinks he needs to. This probably is, but then it begs the question, "Why? What's in it for you?"

Pimps and drug dealers and hustler, they don't do things for free. That woman half alive on the bed behind Joe knows that better then Dean. If Joe's offering him something, there's a cost and he's not sure he wants to pay it.

"Say you owe me."

"Owe you how?" Because there are things he won't do, not even for John and then there's a bigger list of things he'll only do for John.

Joe shrugs, but his smile hasn't dropped, just faded a little in annoyance. He must not be used to smart kids asking the right questions and wanting to know exactly what they're getting into. Joe's bread and butter is a little naive and a lot desperate and Dean's neither.

"When I need it, you vouch for me with John."

It's not a bad deal, really. Snagglepuss Joe isn't a good guy, but he's nowhere near the worst Dean's ever met – that privilege goes to John himself. Besides that, Dean's pretty sure Joe's getting the raw end of that deal, because John doesn't really take Dean's word for anything unless it has to do with Sammy. Okay, he doesn't take Dean's word for that either, he just lets Dean draw the line there. For now, anyway.

So, really, if that's all he's asking, Joe's giving Dean something for nothing and Dean's gonna take it. "You got yourself a deal."