Even from the hallway, it's awful. All the honking and squeaking makes it sound like they're slaughtering every animal in the zoo at the same time. A few eyes perk up when Dean enters. A respectful hush falls over the band room as if he's the fucking President of the United States or something. Nerds can be so dramatic.
Dean ignores them and saunters over to Jo with his hands folded behind his back. She finishes assembling her flute. Unlike the other band geeks, she appears unfazed by the fact that everyone in the room is watching them.
He clears his throat before he admits, "I was an asshole."
She arranges her music without looking up, "Yes. You have been an asshole for some time now."
Dean nods and presents the peace offering. This orange flower is the only thing still blooming in Mildred's yard. It doesn't smell like much other than sweet dirt, but it'll have to do. He produces it from behind his back. It has wilted a little since this morning, but that makes it look like it's bowing. He reaches over and tucks it behind Jo's ear. If at all possible, the room becomes even quieter. He whispers, for Jo's ears only, "I'm sorry."
She peers up at him; mouth parted in awe. This is the moment when Dean realizes how big of a mistake the whole gesture probably is. There have to be ways to apologize to Jo that don't reduce her to a blathering stupor.
The band leader's tap on the podium snaps most of the students from their trance. Jo, however, is a lost cause. She still gapes at Dean like he's made of gold. Not what he was going for.
"Are you joining the band, Mr. Smith?"
He stands upright, "No ma'am, I am not." Electric guitar or drums, he'd consider learning. Marching band? Hats with mohawks? Not a chance.
"Then, we will see you at the game."
Dean nods to Jo and splits, hoping he hasn't messed things up worse.
Garth is huffing and puffing by the time catches up to Dean in the hallway. He leans on his knees to catch his breath. Dean can't help but grin at the goofy, little fuck. Garth gasps, "Coach is looking for you."
Dean taps - shave and a haircut - before turning the knob. Coach Winchester stands motions for Dean to take a seat. The old man folds his arms behind his back. "In the recipe for success, there is one ingredient that is more important that talent, Dean. Do you know what that is?"
Dean keeps his eyes from rolling by focusing on the coach's stern face. "No, sir."
"Commitment."
Dean doesn't put up with a tongue lashing from many people, but he bites his own to keep from talking back. Over the next half hour, Coach Winchester unloads on him about natural ability and crappy upbringings. Yada yada. He gives Dean the blues for being an insufferable asshole the last few weeks. Dean's been passing out apologies like candy, anyway. What's one more for the coach?
"Accepted. Now, last night you left your team in a lurch. So far as I can tell, you weren't ill or anything. Just chose not to show up. Correct me if I'm wrong."
Dean rolls his lips together but doesn't speak. What is he going to say? 'Sorry, Coach. I couldn't come to the game because I couldn't come to school, because I was avoiding the five-o, because I had just beaten the crap out of my mother's latest piece of shit boyfriend, because that's the fucking story of my life.'
Then, Coach Winchester hits him with last night's score: 27 to 3. According to the old man, they lost because of shit morale due to Dean's absence. It's a load of bull, but Dean's in no position to argue when he's wearing a pair of sneakers the coach bought and paid for. His other ones were busted to hell. So, when the coach tells him he's going to be running for the entire practice, Dean responds with a crisp, "Yes, sir."
"You got a problem with that?" Coach practically spits the words in his face.
It's a classic case of a good deed being thoroughly punished. Dean had tried to do the right thing and was having his ass handed to him. He couldn't just let some bastard get away with hurting Jody. Dean considers asking the coach how he would deal with this sort of thing. Instead, he just says, "No, sir."
"And you're going to run until I get sick of watching it. Now, get the fuck out of my face."
"Yes, sir."
Sunday, noon, the bell rings up at the Methodist church. Dean drags himself off the track, feeling like a grade-A asshole. 'Fucking idiot loser.' He calls himself every insult he can think of. He should have known that Sam wasn't going to show. This whole thing is just another way for him to fuck with Dean's head.
He pulls one heel to his glute to stretch out his tense right quad. Right here and now, he decides that he is going to block Sam's number from his phone. Yeah, it's a bitch move, but he's tired of this shit. Tired of going for a guy who doesn't have the decency to show up or cancel when they make plans.
All of a sudden there Sam is, strolling towards him. Every bit as fucking sexy as Dean remembers. If possible, a little more. His hands are jammed in the pockets of a tan jacket. Those thin hips and the long ass legs. Shoulders for days. God. Damn.
Dean's stupid stomach starts fluttering. He clamps down on that shit on the spot. No way he's going to do the whole butterflies thing. He is not going to let some guy make him into a nervous, stuttering female. Not even one this hot.
He drops his foot from the stretch and refuses even to let himself smile. As a matter of fact, he takes a moment to school his face into a scowl. "When'd you get here?"
"A few minutes before you." Sam's voice is so quiet; Dean has to lean forward to hear him clearly.
The guy isn't making any effort to hide his amusement with the situation. Those fucking dimples are going to put Dean in his grave. "I thought we were both running."
Sam grins on, still sounding like he's whispering for some reason. "We said to meet at the track. I don't run unless I'm being chased."
"I'll have to remember that." Asshole.
"You looked good, though. Good form." Sam's tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Dean mirrors the action, without even thinking about it.
"You could probably use a shower. Maybe a homemade smoothie?"
Dean wonders whether Sam always talks like this. Not quite like Mr. Rogers, but so soft and careful it makes Dean a little nervous.
He thinks, 'A smoothie. Seriously?' Out loud, he says, "How could a guy possibly say no to a smoothie?"
Hard to believe it, but Dean is riding beside a former NFL draft pick in a fucking five-year-old, dust gray Prius. Dean doesn't say anything. Why kill the moment and tell Sam what he has to already know? This car isn't a piece of shit, exactly. It's just boring as hell. Spotless, though, with one of those pine scented trees dangling from the rear view mirror. Artificial pine clashes with Sam's cologne and Dean's sweat.
Dean reaches out to turn on the car stereo. "You mind?"
"Go for it."
Some kind of classical music blasts through the stereo. Dean's eyes widen. "This your thing?"
"You can change it."
"No, it's cool." Dean never heard anything like this outside of an elevator.
He tries to figure out why someone would listen to this on purpose. He watches Sam drive. The guy's hands are fucking huge. Long fingers tap along to the music as if there's a beat. Dean asks, "What is this, like, Mozart or something?"
Sam gives a tight little grin that Dean just wants to lick.
"Um, it's Edward Elgar, actually. One of my favorite pieces. It psyches me up for … you know … whatever." Sam's voice is low and smooth and still uncomfortably gentle.
Dean can get used to it. "This pumps you up?"
Sam snickers. And there's that smile again. "Yeah, it does. Psyches me up, calms me down. Multifunctional."
"I think it's putting me to sleep."
"I'm seriously fine if you want to change it." He glances at Dean, just barely. Doesn't really meet his eyes for more than a second, like he doesn't want to be caught looking. "What do you like?"
Dean shrugs and turns the music down. "Rock, mostly. Rap's okay. Anything with a beat. But this is cool. It's … different."
They are quiet for a while, letting the cellos fill the space between them. Dean's hands itch to touch him. He rubs them against his sweatpants to keep them busy.
"I saw in the paper you won your game last night."
Dean's entire body goes stiff. "What do you mean?"
Sam looks over at him. "They always list the scores."
"Oh." Dean locks and unlocks the door. He winds down the window. He blurts out the only thing he can think of. "Nice ride."
"Inconspicuous, responsible and reliable."
Dean can't argue with that. He also can't think of anything else to say. His palms are sweating. Now, he's rubbing them over sweatpants to keep them dry.
Sam watches Dean's hands. "Are you sure you're okay with this? You seem … "
"I'm good." Dean always gets a little uneasy when he knows he's going to get fucked. It doesn't happen that often anymore and it has been a while.
Still, he's game. He's totally game. As if to prove it to Sam and himself, Dean rests a hand on Sam's warm thigh. Just like that, Dean is starting to tent his sweats.
The muscles in Sam's leg tightens under Dean's palm. He glances down and then, trains his eyes back onto the road. "I could just take you home."
"Sam. I'm good."
Dean slides his grip up and grabs Sam's package. Not hard or anything, but still Sam gasps. He tenses and slams his foot on the brake. Dean lurches forward. His cheek crashes against on the windshield. The driver behind them lays on the horn as their car screeches around Sam's Prius.
"Sorry." Sam gets the car rolling at the speed limit again.
Dean rights himself in his seat. "I should probably buckle up."
"I'm sorry. I thought … maybe we could … Some people get to know each other a little first." Sam rubs the back of his neck.
He's blushing. Dean chuckles to himself and thinks, 'Straight guys.' Out loud, he says, "Sure. Okay. How do you want to do that?"
"I don't know. Talk?"
"Okay."
Sam nods. "Okay. Why don't you ask me anything? Nothing's off limits."
"Okay … Um, who's your favorite superhero?"
Sam pulls a sour looking face.
"Not good?"
"Not really one of my areas of expertise. It was never really my thing." He shrugs, apologetically.
"Well, we can talk about something else."
"No, I just … Don't laugh at me if I don't know something." Sam peeks at Dean from the corner of his eye.
"I wouldn't do that. Just pick one."
"Superman?"
Dean looks out of the passenger window to hide his grimace.
"No? So, who's your favorite?" Sam flicks on his turn signal.
"Caped Crusader, hands down."
"Oh. I don't think I've heard of him." Sam frowns.
Dean's eyes pop nearly out of his skull. "You haven't heard of Batman? You're kidding me, right?"
"Oh, Batman. I thought …" Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment. "You said … Okay, so, Batman is better than Superman?"
Dean shuts off the radio. "Absolutely. First of all, aliens are automatically disqualified. That removes Superman, Thor and a whole mess of other guys from the discussion."
"Why are we removing aliens?"
"I mean, because, come on. For one thing, aliens don't exist." Dean says like it should be the most obvious explanation on earth.
Sam grins. "Unlike superheroes."
"Do you want me to explain this or what?"
"Sorry." Sam folds his lips in to keep from laughing. Dean pokes him in his right dimple. "No, seriously, please. Continue."
"Well, for another thing, Bruce Wayne is super rich and super smart."
"How is that better than Ironman?"
Dean sucks his teeth, offended, "Oh, so you know about Ironman, but you don't know who the Caped Crusader is?"
"All I know about Ironman is that he's some super rich smart guy." Sam cranes his neck, waiting for the traffic to clear before he merges.
"Tony Stark is a complete douche. I'll give him credit, because, similar to Bruce Wayne, his greatest superpower is his intelligence, which is indisputably badass. But little kids can't look up to Tony Stark. You put Tony Stark in a room with a bunch of little kids, he'll start passing out shots. Besides which, he's hiding behind a suit. Dark Knight faces danger head on."
"In a mask?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, he's got to protect his identity."
"Of course." Sam nods solemnly.
"Also, integrity."
Sam looks at Dean with what appears to be sincere interest.
Dean counts off attributes on his fingers now. "He's fucking honest. He stands up for what he believes in and he doesn't kill, even though he could. Easily. But, the most important thing you need to remember about Batman is that he's just a guy. He's not perfect. He's not invincible. He had some messed up shit happen to him. He tries to make sense of it. At the end of his story, he dies, just like the rest of us. Now, you know. It's Batman. Every time."
"You've given this some thought."
"I like Batman." Dean smiles and then, laughs.
"I can see that." Sam watches the road for a while.
Every so often, his gaze flickers back to Dean who finally just spits out, "What?"
"Your face. It's all red. Are you okay?" Sam's fingertips brush over the cheek that had hit the windshield.
Dean's skin still tingles from the touch, long after Sam's hand is back on the wheel. "Oh yeah. I've had worse."
"Dean." Sam purses his lips, searching for the right words." Are you looking for some kind of … Daddy?"
Dean barely manages to subdue his cringe. "Is that what you're into?"
"No."
"Thank God. No. I just want to hang out."
Sam nods. "Good."
"Cool."
Sam lets Dean enter the apartment first. He chuckles as the kid gives in to the temptation to touch everything he sees. He, accidentally, knocks a frame from the bookshelf and fumbles to keep it from crashing to the ground. After a few minutes, Dean smiles over his shoulder. "Nice place."
What Sam has gotten himself into, he is not sure. He just knows he has to stop looking at this kid. He isn't going to have any resolve left if he keeps it up. "Thanks. Um. Smoothies, right?"
"Sure." Dean drops his backpack on the sofa like it belongs there. "You read all these?" His shouted question floats into the kitchen.
"Most of them," Sam answers without raising his voice.
"You don't have a TV?"
"Um, no."
"How do you live? And where's Chalupa?"
Sam doesn't answer. Talk about the dog means talk about Castiel. He goes into the kitchen, assumes Dean is still getting acquainted with the place. He has just started collecting ingredients when the kid steps up beside him and humps Sam's leg like a horny puppy. Sam laughs uncomfortably and spills whey powder all over the marble countertop.
Sam salvages what he can before he reaches up to grab the stevia from the cabinet. Dean catches his arm, draws back the sleeve and examines the scar that runs along his wrist. "I didn't take you for the type."
Gently, Sam reclaims his arm and gets back to work on the drink. He knows the scar looks like an ineptly attempted suicide. "That's not what it is."
"So, what is it?"
"A long story."
Dean nods. "Some other time, then."
Sam spoons peanut butter into the blender. Dean busies himself with one palm on Sam's ass and the other on his crotch - all while slowly grinding against his leg. Flames shoot up Sam's spine and set off a sunburst in the center of his chest. He holds his breath and tries not to grind into the hand cupping his erection.
"God." The kid says, "I figured you'd be big, but fuck."
"Blueberries?" Sam's voice cracks.
Dean smiles and grips Sam's bicep. "Shit. Still pump, huh?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Man, that's nice." Dean leans into massaging his arm.
Sam tries to ease away, just to keep himself under control.
It doesn't matter. This kid is an octopus. He punches Sam's pec a few times, firmly, but with a tender edge to it. Then, his hand inches under Sam's shirt. He rubs down Sam's chest and abs. Dean tweaks his nipple and fire washes over Sam in waves. He can't remember the last time he'd felt so hot. So good.
This kid.
"You don't run at all anymore?"
Sam smiles and inches a little further away. "No. I was just kidding with you. I run a few times a week."
Dean flexes his arm and holds it under Sam's nose.
"Um. No, thanks." Sam does not want to put his hands anywhere on this kid because he is not sure he'll be able to stop if he starts.
But Dean insists until Sam finally gives his arm a light pinch. It's solid, like he expected, and it sends another surge to Sam's cock. His pants are already uncomfortably stretched. Sam nods in reluctant approval and returns his attention to his blender.
Dean grinds into Sam's thigh while casually loosening his belt. Sam's body sways into him and back away. Somehow, with the blood swiftly flowing away from his brain, Sam manages to ask, "Um, how old are you, Dean?"
"You changing the subject on me?" His voice is rough and warm, whispered up like that onto Sam's neck.
"I don't think so. I just think it's funny that we've known each other for over a month and I have no idea how old you are."
"Yeah. It's hilarious." Dean murmurs without a trace of amusement.
He flicks open Sam's button.
Sam stays his hand. "So?"
Dean gazes up with huge, dark pupils. "Would you sleep better tonight if I say 18?"
As Sam starts to stutter an answer, Dean slips to his knees and frees Sam from his pants.
"Jesus." The kid gulps.
His eyes grow wider. His hands are even smaller than Castiel's. One of them wraps around Sam's shaft, but just barely. And God, it feels so good, Sam's head falls back for a moment.
"Dean." He cups a hand under the boy's chin.
"I'm just … admiring." Dean shakes his head in wonder.
Sam licks his lips and lets the boy measure and assess him. Dean slides Sam's pants further down his thighs and frowns.
His palms smooth over the patchwork of healed stripes on Sam's skin. "What happened here?"
Sam's arousal falters, slightly. "Another long story."
"You got a lot of those." Dean traces one welt with his finger before leaning around to press his lips lightly to it.
"Dean, I don't…"
The kid laps up a bead of pre-come from the tip of Sam's cock. He groans and presses his hips forward toward that soft, warm tongue without meaning to. It is amazing, but it isn't what he wants. It isn't what Sam has been fantasizing about for the last month. He reaches down and grabs the kid by his armpits to hoist him to his feet.
Dean gasps, "Okay."
Sam licks his lips. He tentatively shadows a single finger over the outline of Dean's erection. "Is that okay?"
"What?" Dean looks down to see where Sam is nearly, but not quite touching him. "You're not going to break it, man. Just. Fuck. Touch me like you touch you."
Sam ghosts over the boy's crotch. Dean covers the cautious hand with his own. He holds it in place until they're both gasping for air. Sam falls to his knees and gazes up at Dean's beautiful face.
"Holy shit." He strokes Sam's hair back from his face.
"Can I?"
The boy nods and watches slack-jawed as Sam kisses his cock over the fabric of his pants. Slowly, Sam slips them down. "This is okay?"
Dean's hands clutch Sam's shoulders. "Shit, man. You're fucking killing me."
"You don't like it." Sam backs away, to keep Dean from getting upset. Castiel never tolerated Sam so much as looking at his arousal. Sam had figured Dean would be different.
Dean groans down at him. "Just fucking do it. Please."
"You want me to?" Sam is on the verge of tears with confusion.
"Sam. What the hell?" Dean strokes himself, his legs beginning to tremble.
"I just want you to be …"
Dean grabs a fistful of hair and drives his cock into Sam's still speaking mouth. "I'm sorry. Fuck."
Once he breaches Sam's lips, Dean drops both hands to his sides.
Here Sam is, kneeling on the cool slate floor of his kitchen with this pretty boy's pretty cock on his tongue. He surrenders a quiet sob and cranes his neck so he can peer up at Dean.
His eyes are squeezed shut, "Is it okay if I … "
Dean tucks his t-shirt under his chin and begins to move, carefully. He eases himself back and gingerly slides forward again. The muscles in his thighs twitch beneath Sam's fingers.
Sam loves every second of it, everything about it. He wants to dwell in this temple every day of his life. His jaw forced wide. The slide of hot skin and the firm fullness filling his mouth. And, God, the smell of him. Musky, spicy, filthy. It is better than Sam ever dreamed.
He hums his appreciation and hopes it will be even half as good for Dean. The kid pats his head. "You want to stop?"
Sam grips Dean's cock and pulls off with a wet plop, "No."
If he could spend the rest of his life with his face in Dean's crotch, Sam would die a happy man. He grasps Dean's hips and gazes bleary eyed up at the boy. "I want you to fuck my face."
"Holy shit. Are you serious?" Dean's lips are all pink and wide.
Sam nods and pulls him back into his mouth. Dean tenderly holds Sam's hair out of his face. Then, he closes his fists tight and tilts Sam's his face heavenward. God, Sam loves that. The way Dean just moves him where he wants. The kid gives a few careful, testing thrusts. Then, he lets loose. "Oh, fuck."
'Oh fuck.'
With one hand on the back of Sam's head and the other firmly holding his chin, Dean's hips grind wildly. Sam's eyes water, jaw aches. He has never had anything strike the back of his throat this way. He isn't prepared for the breathless sensation. Panicked, he grunts and pushes Dean back. The boy lets him go and stumbles backward. "I'm sorry."
Sam gags and coughs. He swipes the spit and tears from his face.
"I'm sorry, Sam. I…"
He raises his leaking eyes to Dean's and gasps, "More."
"Are you shitting me?"
Sam practically devours that beautiful, shimmering cock. Dean seizes a handful of Sam's hair and clenches his ass cheeks until he is buried to the hilt. "Oh my fucking god."
Course, sandy pubic hairs tickle Sam's nose. He suppresses a sneeze. He consciously loosens every muscle in his body to let Dean drag him forward. Dean slams viciously into Sam's face over and over again. Sam whimpers and whines and takes it. And God, he loves it. But it isn't long before he has to push away again. He feels like he's drowning and burning at the same time. His cock leaks like a faucet.
"Dude, do you want…"
Sam growls up at him. "Finish."
In one harsh motion, Dean jams so far into Sam's mouth that they both shout. Only Sam's voice is muted by cock. It's less than a minute more when Dean wheezes, "Sam, I'm gonna…"
He tries to pull back. Sam grips him tight with both hands, binding the boy in place, forcing him to come right where he is. Dean shudders against him. The briny taste and slick of him filling Sam's mouth, his release sliding hot down Sam's throat is the most vulnerable, intimate experience of Sam's life so far.
"Holy fuck." Dean pulls out, legs aquiver. He holds onto the counter with both hands as he catches his breath.
Sam crumbles forward with his forehead on the cold floor. He curls up, sobbing so loudly he kind of scares himself. He can't imagine what Dean must think - just can't stop.
"Dude. Sam." Dean's hand is tender on his back. "I'm sorry. I thought …"
Sam shakes his head and tries to speak. Tries to tell him it's okay. More than okay.
Sam can't
He just can't
A series of faltering, unintelligible sounds chokes out of him. Dean lowers himself over his back, murmuring apologies, soothing his lovely hands through Sam's hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sam, please."
Somehow, Sam manages to bring himself to an upright position. He hauls the boy forward and clutches his neck, still weeping like some kind of lunatic. Without planning to, he sprinkles soft, pious kisses over Dean's cheek, down his jaw, anywhere his worshipful lips can reach. It's the only way he can begin to express what he's feeling - all the unspeakable gratitude, the relief, the blessed openness.
Finally, the torrent of tears eases to a mist. Sam's chest still aches. His face and knees are in glorious pain from being on the floor so long. Sam's cock is still fully erect when he whispers. "Thank you."
"What, are you … You okay?" Dean leans back to get a better look at him.
Sam nods, before lowering his face and starting to weep again.
After another long while, they both sit with their backs to the kitchen cabinets. Dean drops his head onto Sam's shoulder. Then, he punches the man in the arm. "You scared the shit out of me."
Still sniffling, Sam laughs and wraps an arm around the kid to pull him close.
The afternoon passes quickly with both of them putzing around the apartment like it's the most natural thing in the world. They have lunch and eventually, dinner. Most of their talk is football. Not Sam's father and not the draft. Nothing concrete, just strategy.
Sam has a little work to get done, so he sits next to Dean on the sofa while the kid dozes off. Sam can't remember the last time he's felt so comfortable in his own home.
Although Dean snakes a hand under Sam's shirt and tries valiantly to start something up again, Sam decides he has freaked them both out enough for one day. Around 10:00, he begrudgingly pronounces it time to drive Dean home.
Sam ejects the CD and searches until he finds a station that plays brash, rhythmic music with spoken word over it. "This good?"
Dean nods.
You can't play football for 20 years without being exposed to rap music. It just never grew on Sam. He can, kind of, see the appeal, though.
He keeps stealing glances over at Dean. The kid doesn't seem to be enjoying the music. He just stares out of the window.
Finally, his face snaps around at Sam, "What? You kinky bastard."
Sam laughs, relieved by the jab. "Nothing."
"Nothing my ass. How long have you been fantasizing about that shit?"
Sam smiles. It's a good question. "A long time. Did you like it?"
"How could I not like you choking on my dick? Right up until you start fucking crying on the floor like I broke you or something."
Sam cracks up at that. This kid.
"Fuck, man. What is your girl going to say when she finds out you're a frigging cock slut?"
Sam glances at him a few times more. "Dean. You know I'm gay, right?"
Dean scoffs. "Don't worry, dude. Gagging on one dick does not make you gay."
"No, I'm…" 'How have I not been clear about this?' "Did you not know that?"
Dean gawks back at him. "You shitting me?"
Sam shakes his head and turns for a second to see the expression on Dean's face: doubt, maybe. "Why would I?"
"I don't know. 'Cause you're like that? You like to play games."
Sam blinks rapidly and nearly pulls the car over. "You think that about me?"
Dean laughs, bitterly. "I know that about you."
"You think I've been playing games with you?" Sam's face heats and tenses. That accusation is far more painful than it should be.
Dean goes back to staring out of his window for a while. Then, he looks back. "So, you're telling me that wasn't your first time?"
"Oh, no. It was. It was… " More of his life Sam doesn't want to try to explain.
"So, what kind of fag are you? You been in the priesthood all this time?"
Sam turns the music down. "Um. No. I've been with someone who … doesn't enjoy that."
"A guy?"
"Yeah." Sam draws his lower lip into his mouth.
"Who doesn't like head?" Dean eyes widen, clearly, understandably incredulous.
"Happy to give, not to receive." Sam would rather not be talking about Castiel.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest and continues his study of the darkness outside. "Bullshit."
"Everybody's different, Dean."
"See? You're fucking with me again." He turns the music back up.
Sam gently touches the button and turns it off. "I swear, I'm not. His name is Castiel and he is not like anyone else on earth. I guarantee you that."
"You know what? Forget it. I don't care. It was hot. You're hot. I don't give a shit. Let's talk about something else."
"Okay." Sam glances and waits to see where Dean will steer the conversation. When it becomes evident that no new topic is forthcoming, Sam volunteers, "How's your season going?"
"All right." Dean grunts. "Your dad says he called some kind of scouts or something."
"Seriously?" Sam can hardly believe that. His dad does not stick his neck out lightly.
Dean shrugs. "That's what he said."
"I really have to see you play, don't I?"
"You do whatever you want." Dean leans back and closes his eyes.
His hand is already on the door handle when Sam pulls up outside of his building.
Sam catches Dean's arm before he can jump out. "Hey. Are you mad at me?"
"Naw, man." The kid jerks his arm away.
The thought that Sam will never see Dean again results in a moment of minor hysteria. "Dean, what did I do?"
"Nothing. I don't know."
"Did you want to have turned me gay? You wanted me to be straight? Was that part of the fun for you?" He's grasping at straws.
Dean's face is solemn. "It's not like that."
"So…" Sam leans to the side to try to get Dean to look at him.
"I don't know. I don't fucking know, all right. I'm just tired or something."
"Would you please tell me what the problem is, Dean? I don't think I can leave here if you don't talk to me." Sam can imagine himself sitting outside of this apartment building all night, wracking his brain to figure out what went wrong.
"Your fucking boyfriend, man." Dean barks. "I never fucked around with a guy who had a boyfriend before."
"But you have messed around with guys before?" Sam chooses each word carefully.
Dean's voice is suddenly so cold and vicious. "Do I seem like a virgin to you?"
Instinctively, Sam backs up to give him room. "But you're usually the one on your knees, right?"
"Fuck you." Dean starts to climb from the car again.
Sam opens his hands in a gesture of harmlessness and goodwill. "Please. Look. I'm not judging, okay? I'm getting to know you."
"If you're asking if I've ever been fucked. Yeah. Plenty."
Sam nods as casually as he can. It doesn't surprise him. Dean is so pretty. His body is tight and slender. Even when he finishes growing, with his delicate, sulky features, he'll probably still look like 'the type.' "Do you not like it?"
Dean shrugs and mutters. "It's okay. If the guy's okay."
"Have you been with guys who aren't okay?" Again, carefully worded.
He snaps anyway. "Haven't you?"
Sam isn't getting anything right. The whole thing is unraveling. This kid is going to be done with him, and Sam is going to lose his mind. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I've been with one guy for the last six years and he's the only guy I've ever been with."
Dean studies him for a long moment, "What, are you married to him?"
Sam has to laugh at that, albeit bitterly. "You know, it's funny. When I was a kid, that was never a thought that would enter your mind - that two guys could be married. And now, it's just … crazy how completely things can change."
Dean shrugs and opens the car door.
"Dean."
"What?" He shouts back. He doesn't even turn around to face Sam.
"I'm not with him anymore. And I was never playing games with you. I was … Like I said, it was complicated. Now, it's not. Okay?"
"Whatever." Dean practically dives out of the car and slams the door behind him.
