Dean wakes up a sticky mess. He growls down at his traitorous dick. "Nice."

It's not as bad as pissing the bed, but now the sofa upholstery is all cum-smelling. Even when he remembers exactly who he was dreaming about - and it's someone he beats off to when he's awake - wet dreams make him feel like a little kid. It's a drag having so little control over his own body.

He shoves his shorts to the bottom of his laundry bag and jumps into the shower quick, before Jody can see. The last time this happened, she didn't let him live it down for months. For good measure, he busts off another one under the lukewarm water.

He lays a towel out on the sofa, stretches back his shoulders and flips on his Saturday morning cartoons. Flashback theatre: Ren and Stimpy. That'll do.

On the first commercial, he runs to the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of Malt-O-Meal Marshmallow Mateys only to discover that the milk, that he was shocked to find in the first place, is actually closer to cottage cheese. It plops out of the bottle in foul smelling clumps, destroying his Mateys and his morning. "Sonofa..."

Dean dumps the gunk into the sink. Then, he carries the whole bag of cereal to the sofa to eat it dry, with his hands. On the next commercial, he texts Sam.

DS: What you doing today?
DS: We should hang out.

'DS: As totally normal friends, one of whom does not want to fuck the other one.'

Sam has got to dig the perfect English.

'Boundaries.'

Dean can respect boundaries. He doesn't like it, but he can do it.

SW: Busy.
SW: Have a good weekend
DS: U2

Sam is working when he hears Cas shriek from the other room. "Not there, you fucking idiot."

He promptly sets his glasses on the desk and goes to see what is the matter.

The movers are engaged in a rapid-fire conversation in a foreign language. They carefully ease the huge, glass coffee table slightly to the right.

"You know what? Fuck you, wetback. I know what 'maricon' means." Castiel's face is a menacing shade of red as he spits the words into the man's face.

Sam steps between them and rests his palm, gently, on Cas' hot and heaving chest. "I got this. Why don't you …"

"Fuck you, too." Cas storms onto the balcony.

Sam gives the man a painful, apologetic half-smile. "I'm sorry."

The mover just shrugs like he puts up with that kind of crap every day and asks, "Where you want it?"

Sam dredges up and dusts off the collegiate level Spanish that he has hardly used since he passed the course. "Um … aqui. Por favor."

A smile flits over the man's face as he nods. Once it's in place, Sam offers an indistinct "Gracias."

He signs the delivery confirmation form and shakes both of their hands before they leave.

Dean's elbow rests on the door handle, his forehead in his palm. Sitting in the back seat is giving him a freaking headache. The fucking Winchester's singing is not helping. These people couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. That does not stop them from squawking at the top of their obnoxiously joyful lungs.

Seriously, all their happiness is like pureeing his brain in a blender. The music might not even be too bad if they would shut up. In spite of himself, Dean's foot taps to the beat. The next time the chorus comes around, he finds himself mumbling along. Something about "a pirate, a puppet, a poet, a thief..." Too many words to get right the first time, but catchy.

Jo smiles over at him and he immediately shuts it down.

"Daddy, turn it up. Dean likes it."

Dean can see the coach's eyes on him in the rearview mirror. He starts to protest as the old man cranks it up, but it's that refrain again. This guy sounds like he's singing through his balls.

They wait until the song is over to pile out of the car. The second the car door opens, Dean groans. He immediately regrets accepting this invitation. It's free to get into the Douglas County Fall Fair, but everything inside these gates is going to cost money that he doesn't have.

His plan had been to make up some excuse why not to go on the rides: nobody could verify whether he'd recently had surgery or not. As much as he's always wanted to try out bumper cars, he'll get a chance some other time. Or not. It doesn't matter. The problem is the smells. The smells alone are going to make the whole thing torture. He is about to enter a sugar-laden, deep-fried corner of heaven and his own personal hell will be not getting to eat a damn thing.

Something brushes against the back of his hands: Jo's knuckles. He stuffs his own hands into his pockets and doesn't even turn to see what kind of look is on her face.

Just ahead of them, Mrs. Winchester curls her arm around the coach's and kicks her legs out like she's at Radio City Music Hall. She's still singing that song.

"Hey, Yo."

Dean's blood curdles at the familiar voice even before he turns around and finds Ash's fist hanging in the air. Dean bumps his against it just to make the moment pass.

"What's good, Smith? Coach. Mrs. Coach." Ash slides a slimy gaze down Jo's body. "You're lookin' mighty fine today, Joanna."

Jo tucks her arm into Dean's. Now they look like a miniature version of her parents. He can't even blame her, though, and doesn't make her stop. Amazingly, Coach Winchester doesn't seem put off by the eye fucking Ash is giving his daughter. That's probably because he is watching the family approaching them.

"Mom and Dad, this is Dean." Another familiar voice pipes up from his other side.

'What is this, a fucking reunion?'

Dean awkwardly raises one hand, impressed and distracted by how normal-looking Garth's parents are. The little girl standing between them is standard issue, too. Garth's the only one who looks like he belongs at Hogwarts.

Garth's mother damn near shakes Dean's hand off. "It's so nice to meet you, Dean. We were really excited to hear that Garry's friends with football players! Weren't we, honey?"

Garth's eyes blatantly plead with Dean not to contradict.

"Uh, yeah. Actually, I been meaning to ask the coach if we need a water boy or something." He actually had thought about it, but just hadn't gotten around to it before now.

Coach is transfixed, as if he's trying to classify Garth's genus and species. Mary Winchester elbows her husband's arm and he chokes out, "Uh, yeah. Sure. Every team needs a water boy."

"That work for you?" When Dean looks at Garth, he's got that elf with clothing look again. "All right, then, we'll catch you at school."

As Garth and his people disperse, Ash claps Dean on the back. "What's it feel like having that fucking fairy ride your dick?"

Mrs. Winchester frowns at the crude language. Dean just scoffs and rolls his eyes. Ash doesn't seem to notice. He just waves and runs off to catch up with some of the guys from the team.
Dean slides his arm out from Jo's. That doesn't stop her from peering up at him like he just slayed a dragon or something. She locks her elbow back around his. This time, he doesn't move. She's soft and warm; it's not the worst thing that ever happened to him.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder and Dean leaps away from the girl. The coach gestures with two fingers. "I need you to come take a look at something with me."

A freeze washes down Dean's spine, "Look, I wasn't…"

"Shut up."

Dean sighs and follows the old man over to a duck shooting stand. With both of their backs to the ladies, he pulls out his wallet. "You got any money?"

"I'm good." Dean tries his best not to look at it. He pins his gaze to a bobbing bird instead.

The coach slaps a 50 into his hand and growls, "Pay me back," before pocketing his billfold and strolling back over to his wife.

"Turn right."

Sam obeys the gruffly barked command. With his arms out wide, like a scarecrow crucifixion, he peeks down at the finger between his navel and the button of his pants.

"You do know that you're allowed to breathe." The redhead at his feet smirks up at him.

He flips his eyes to the ceiling. "Yeah, I know."

"You act like you've never done this before. Every time." Her grin is more amused than critical.

"Don't judge me, okay?"

"I will judge you. Because you're a gigantic baby. Turn around." She manhandles him into turning his back to her.

"You're so rough."

"You love it. Hands in the air." Once Sam complies, she tugs at the bottom of his shirt and draws her hands down his sides. "Come on, baby."

Sam chuckles and twists slowly from side to side while she hums the Chubby Checker song.

"Like you mean it."

Sam bends and sways his body in every possible direction he can imagine. "It feels great, Charlie."

"Of course it feels great. It also looks fantastic. Have you given any thought to my offer? Val pointed out, and I would have to agree, that you are far and away our sexiest customer."

He bows his head to allow himself a mortified snicker. "Oh, no. That's not really me."

"Well, if you reconsider, the offer stands. Half off a three piece suit for a few photos on the website? It's a pretty hot deal, Sam. Kick off that modeling career. Fully clothed."

"No. It is. It's a good deal. I just… don't like a lot of…"

"Attention. I got it. Too bad." Charlie drops her pin cushion into her sewing kit. "Haven't seen you in a while. Is there an occasion? Our boy got a hot date?"

"No." He laughs to himself again.

Though, this time it's with a bitterness that makes him sigh loudly enough for Charlie to raise her eyebrows. "Everything okay?"

Sam nods. It isn't lost on him that his tailor is the closest thing he's had to a friend in years. She's great. He likes her. She's incredible at what she does, but it's not like he can actually talk to her. He should probably find a different type of professional for that. "Just … needed to do something nice for myself."

"Good enough for me, kiddo." She brushes the lint roller down his back a few times. "Now, go give Val all your money."