Dean shuts the apartment door softly behind him, locks it and drags himself through the kitchen He breathes deep and slow, stalking slowly as if he's trudging through mud, to be sure he doesn't lose his shit.
Jody stands by her door, waiting with her arms folded, just like he knew she would be. "Dean, this guy…"
"Don't." Somehow, he manages to speak instead of screaming and not scream his lungs out. His entire body is shaking, and if Jody crosses the floor right now, her safety is not guaranteed. "Do not fucking talk to me."
"You're going to thank me. I have warned you over and over again about this. You don't get attached. I saw the way you looked at that guy. Like he's the sun and the fucking moon instead of some overgrown pedophile."
Dean hurls a shoe at her. He could have easily taken her head off, but he misses on purpose and puts a dent in the drywall. Jody gets the message, goes into her room and shuts the door.
He lays there for a long time, blinking at the ceiling.
With both of his hands wrapped around the phone on his chest, he picks it up and checks the screen again.
Around midnight, he'd sent:
DS: Hey
A couple hours after that:
DS: That's it, huh?
Two messages is Dean's limit. A guy's got to have some fucking pride.
At 3:13 AM, he thumbs in:
Think I left my wallet in your car
But he doesn't send it. Sam would see right through that bull. Dean doesn't even own a wallet.
"Fuck." He tosses the phone across the room and glues his eyes to the TV like his life depends on it.
Sam picks up the phone from his bedside table and silences the alarm. He's not sure if he slept. His body may as well be made of lead. Every movement is toil: getting up, the shower, the drive. Just sitting in the bank requires so much energy.
It's good that he had skipped breakfast. This whole thing with his accounts is enough to turn his stomach inside out. He should have seen it coming. In fact, he had.
The last time Castiel left, he had emptied 5K from Sam's checkings account in under a day. Luckily, some algorithm had alerted the bank to the abnormal spending patterns and Sam had been able to safeguard his simple savings before that was wiped out, too.
It's nothing new. At various times over the years, Cas has sent viruses to Sam's computer, shredded his work files, trashed his studio, dumped dog crap into his oolong. At least Sam assumed it was from a dog. There's no telling with Castiel.
This time, when Castiel left, Sam had changed all of his PINs the moment the door closed behind him. The next day, there was still a charge to one of his credit cards from a Holiday Inn. Sam had checked, and sure enough, that card was gone.
Cas hasn't held a job in years. Sam didn't want him on the street or worse. So, he decided to give him a little while to get settled. He set what felt like a reasonable limit of a few grand and checked back each evening to get an idea of how Cas was faring. Castiel had bought a few meals - and not inexpensive ones. He spent over $500 at some apparel shop. Sam had sighed and adjusted the allowance slightly higher. It was a matter of a few button clicks, and it wasn't like he couldn't afford it.
The money was gone within a week. Sam silently wished Castiel the best and hoped that would be the end of it.
For it to have come to this, Cas would have had to call the bank, impersonated Sam and say he'd forgotten the new access info. But again, it was nothing he would put past Castiel.
By the time Sam walks out of the bank all he wants to do is drive home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head and if possible, cry himself to death.
Instead, he goes to work.
A glob of turkey hash smacks wet against Dean's cheek, plops onto his shoulder and lands on the floor. Most everybody at the table laughs. He wipes the remaining foul-smelling moisture from his skin and looks at his hand.
His skin flushes hot. By the time Ash is picking himself up off the cafeteria floor, Dean is shoving his way through the double doors. The crisp air doesn't cool him down. Neither do the huge, deep breaths he's taking of it.
Hitting Ash was the dumbest thing he's done in a long time. Getting the hell out of there before he couldn't stop pummeling that asshole is probably the smartest.
Coach is going to have Dean's ass for this. Maybe he'll even be kicked off the team. Right now, he doesn't give much of a fuck.
Sam sits at his desk with his head in his hands. His body shakes, out of control. He hasn't thought about jumping off the building in a long time - at least since he met Dean.
Mrs. Mosely is a remarkably poor whisperer. "Is he crying?"
To his left, another co-worker answers just as loudly, "I don't know."
"Sam. Honey. You all right?" Mrs. Mosely slides her chair right beside him and places a warm hand on his shoulder.
Sam isn't crying. He is losing his fucking mind.
Gators run off the field, shouting. Blank-faced, Dean stands in the end zone, watching his teammates holler and carry on. Coach Winchester saunters over and claps him on the shoulder. His body lurches slightly from the contact. Dean makes a face that might look like a smile. He can't tell.
Apparently, Ash can keep his mouth shut. That asswipe just pretended like it never happened. Dean ought to be grateful and fired up about the win. But he doesn't feel anything, which is better than it could be.
He doesn't know why, but it's always been this way. The shittier he feels, the crappier things are at home, the more highly guaranteed he is to win. It's like his brain goes on auto-pilot and he plays like a robot.
The problem is, when the game's over, he's right back where he started.
On the bright side, if Sam never talks to him again, Gators are going all the way to state.
In the dim light of the parking garage, Sam furrows his brow. He leans over to examine the bold, ugly scratches on the door of his car that spell out the word: FAG
He tries to wipe it off with his sleeve, scrape it away with his thumbnail. It's a lost cause.
"You changed the locks."
Sam gasps and jumps nearly out of his skin. Even before he spins around, he recognizes the voice. "Jesus, Cas."
He grabs his chest as if he could slow the overactive beating of his heart.
"Did I scare you?"
Without moving his face, Sam watches Castiel's hand run down his shoulder.
"Miss you. So much. Wanted to surprise you, but you changed the locks." He smiles sweetly. "Did you have a break in or something? See? I told you that neighborhood wasn't so great."
Cas' hand is on Sam's face now. The other one tugs his shirt from his pants. "Why didn't you come look for me? You always look for me. Then you find me and we go home. Why didn't you do that?"
Castiel's hands are around Sam's neck, gently, firmly drawing him down. The door clicks open and voices flood the garage. A small swell of panic grips Sam as he recognizes his co-workers. So far as he knows, Castiel has never hurt anyone but him - and even that only mildly. But Sam wouldn't put anything past him.
Castiel slaps Sam's face, just enough to get his attention. "I'm right here. Why would you change the fucking locks, Sam?"
His voice is growing progressively louder. He still hangs off Sam's neck like a twisted talisman.
Sam glances over at Mrs. Mosley as she walks to her car with Dick Roman from HR. They've both stopped in their tracks to watch.
"Castiel." Sam tries to peel his arms away.
"What?"
Sam looks at his co-workers, at his car door and down into Castiel's eyes. Oddly, they appear storm-grey in this light.
Cas looks at Sam's car over his shoulder and grins. "Oh, yeah. Isn't that horrible? I know you don't like people to know" - he whispers behind hand - "that about you. That's why you always keep me hidden. But I don't mind. I love you anyway, Sammy. I always loved you and I'm always going to love you. No matter how much you hate yourself."
Castiel tries to hug him, but Sam holds him at arm's distance.
Mrs. Mosley hits Dick Roman's arm. He rolls his eyes but then asks Sam with a look whether he's okay. Sam replies with a nod and a tight-lipped smile as he waves them off.
They leave, but not before Mrs. Mosley gives one more concerned glance over her shoulder
All the while Castiel murmurs into Sam's shirt, "I didn't mean to stay gone so long, Sammy. I just ... needed to clear my head, you know. My poor baby. You must be so lonely. I know how lonely you get, even with everybody all around. How you get so sad and pitiful." Castiel strokes Sam's face as if he were a cat. "I don't want you to be sad anymore, Sammy. I want to come home and take care of you."
"Cas." Sam snakes away again.
Castiel stands on his tiptoes with Sam's face in his hands. His eyes darkens, voice lowers an octave. "Fuck me, Sam. I want you to fuck me right here."
He spreads himself out over the hood of Sam's car.
"Castiel, please." Sam breathes hard, watching for spectators.
"Come on, Sammy. Nobody's going to see you. Nobody's ever going to find out about you. I didn't tell them before, did I? No. And I'm not going to tell them now. I just need you to fuck me. I need it. I need your cock in me so bad."
It's only now that Sam realizes Castiel is wearing a black leather mini-skirt. It's not his first time in women's clothing and wouldn't be all that jarring except that there's nothing underneath it. He hikes it up around his stomach and shoves two fingers into his anus.
The door opens again. Sam grabs Castiel by his blouse and drags him to the back of the car. He swiftly pulls the skirt back down. Cas yells, "Don't touch me like that."
"Hey, everything okay over there." It's a male voice Sam doesn't recognize.
He stands between Castiel and the man, trying to shield them from each other's view.
Cas shoves Sam and says, "This man..."
In a last-ditch effort to keep his insane private life private, Sam mashes his lips to Castiel's. The guy apologizes and Sam's pulse lowers a notch as he hears the footsteps receding.
Cas leaps into the air. Years of muscle memory make Sam catch him. He promptly sits the much smaller man on the back of the car. Castiel laughs and starts to open Sam's belt, ankles locking him in place.
"No." Sam catches his hands.
"You can't tell me no." Cas squirms to free himself.
"Castiel, it's over."
"No, it's not." He fights harder.
Sam holds his wrists tightly. "It is."
Cas shakes his head, lips taut.
"You and me. We're done." Sam's voice is calm, but his heart beats out of control. His throat is tight, mouth dry like he's been gargling sand. He steps back from between Castiel's legs, huffs out a breath, and fixes his hair. "You need to... you need to get some help."
Castiel snickers. "You can't do that."
Sam nods, takes a deep breath and leaves him there, stunned. He sits in the driver's seat and stares ahead with hands on the wheel. He should have done this five years ago. Better late than never.
The moment of silence is shattered by a horrible scraping and pounding overhead as Castiel scrambles over the car to the windshield. He slides down and beats on the glass with his fists. He takes off a high-heeled shoe, bangs with it and yells. Not words. Just an awful shrieking that reverberates off the concrete, echoing like demons shouting back from the depths of hell. He stops for a moment, apparently enjoying the sound. Then he calls out in a chillingly feminine voice, "HELP! RAPE!"
Castiel stops the moment Sam gets out of the car. He glares at the open passenger side door. Eventually, he slides off the hood. He sniffs, adjusts his skirt and juts his chin into the air. He holds his hand out, wrist delicately arched.
Sam shakes his head, but escorts him to the seat, slams the door shut, gets behind the wheel and drives off. "Where do you want me to take you?"
"Home. Silly." Castiel giggles and pulls at Sam's face.
Left hand on the wheel, Sam manages to hold him off. "Are you still at the Holiday Inn on Radford?"
Castiel's face falls. "You knew and you didn't come for me?"
"I told you…"
Cas frowns, turns his knees forward and lets his chin drop to his chest. "The card ran out. I kept expecting you to come. Kept waiting for you. I have to blow the stupid manager every day I want to stay. He's this big, fat, nasty guy who probably can't even see his own ugly, little cock. If he could he wouldn't show it to anyone else."
Sam steels himself against Cas' whining. "You need to go somewhere else then."
"I don't have any money. I don't have anything but that stupid dog. I don't have anything. All I have is you. And all you have is me. That's why we're so good together."
Sam shakes his head and swats away Castiel's reaching hands.
"I miss you, Sammy. I miss your beautiful cock and your beautiful smile and your gigantic hands on me and your goofy hair all over the place." Castiel makes a sounds halfway between a sob and a laugh. "I only left because I... I wanted you to miss me, too."
When they arrive at the hotel, Sam offers Castiel all of his cash: three twenty dollar bills. "It's all I have."
Cas eyes his wallet. "It's not all you have."
Sam looks through, sighs and pulls out another card. "Castiel, look at me. I need you to understand that this is it. I can't do this with you anymore. No more money. No more contact. Tell me you understand that."
Castiel frowns at the card in his hand. "You're going to be sorry."
"Cas."
Castiel wipes away his tears with his palm "You're gonna be so fucking lonely without me. You're never going to find anybody else because you're too afraid for anyone to know what you are. And I hope you rot. Alone. In hell, you fucking pathetic closet case."
He stumbles out and doesn't bother to close the door before he stomps away on one broken shoe.
Dean gnaws at his cuticle. He bites his lip bloody and forbids himself to do what every cell in his body is dying to do. He is not going to cry. If there's one place he could get away with it, it's here, but he hasn't yet and he isn't going to do it now. Dean will fucking jump off a bridge before he lets himself cry. He clamps down on it - muscles tense, lungs burning from his refusal to breathe.
He nods in gratitude for the tea that Mildred sets in front of him. He sighs, breath mingling with the steam.
Mildred taps his back. "You know, if it's as bad as all that, Joanna Winchester is carrying a big, bright torch for you. She's a really sweet girl."
"I know." He digs at one eye with the heel of his hand, suddenly so exhausted.
"I understand. The heart wants what it wants." Mildred sits down in the chair across from him. "Well, what exactly is the problem? I thought this girl likes you, too."
"I think … she does. It's just … a matter of timing, I guess." Dean's voice quivers.
"Meaning?" Mildred takes a slog of her tea.
"Meaning, I am, apparently, too young for - her." He sniffles, just once, but it's enough to make him feel like a complete loser.
"Oh, child. Do you know I was your age when I married my first husband? If I had it to do over, I wouldn't get married at all."
"I don't want to marry him, for fuck's sake. I just … It's not fair."
Mildred doesn't bat an eye at the pronoun. "No. I suppose it's not. What can you do about it?"
Dean has been so caught up in feeling helpless and acting normal around everyone else, that he hadn't thought of it that way. "Come back here in two years and hope he still wants me. Or fucking get over it." He nods, resolved. "I'll just get over it."
Mildred nods, thoughtfully, as well.
Dean has a sip of his tea. It's peppermint but kicks his throat a little more than an herb in water should do. "Did you spike this?"
She shrugs and hides an impish grin behind her mug as she has another drink.
Fork in his right hand, phone in his left, Sam eats steak while he surveys meat. No one seems to post anything other than dick pics and abs. Shaking his head, he deletes the app and puts down his cell.
A hostess guides a family with two kids. One of them is a boy - maybe 13 - round face covered in acne. Sam holds his breath and turns his entire body away from them as if they have the plague. Or as if Sam does and knows himself to be contagious.
He should have known. Maybe he had. Most kids are out of school by 18. Sam had Dean pegged for 17, which is, technically, still illegal. But it's not 16. And what's the difference, really, between 16 and 15? What if he were 14? Would Sam still have been attracted to him? Attraction is physical. You can't control what your body wants. You can control what your body does and that's what Sam is doing - staying the hell away.
What about the mind? Can you control who you fall for?
Fall for
'Christ.'
As much as he'd like to deny it, Sam was definitely starting to fall for a 16-year-old.
'Just what kind of sicko am I?'
He wonders, not for the first time since last night, about the men on sex offenders lists. Are they allowed to just eat and shop and go anywhere? Or do they have some sort of ID that keeps them out of respectable establishments like this one? Sam should probably leave.
The family is seated at the table right in front of him, with the children facing in his direction. The worse part? Sam is wearing a sport jacket, just like that creep who had followed Dean. He raises his hand for his check.
Dean nurses his beer and rolls his eyes as the bottle spins. It's a juvenile game, but he has nowhere better to be. He's still not sure why he agreed to come to this thing. Having six people over on a Thursday night just because your parents aren't home does not a party make.
The neck of the bottle lands on this dark-haired kid named Bradley. Carter, whose house it is, sticks out his tongue and acts like he's going to throw up. Everybody laughs, including Dean (although he doesn't see what's so fucking funny). Bradley sits there like he's been turned to stone. Carter makes this big speech about how it's his house, and he should get a free spin.
They're both decent looking. Dean would fuck either one of them.
Sam's eyes grow wide like a kid in a sex club. His heart beats out of his chest. He's never been anywhere like this without Cas. Technically, it's not a sex club. It's just a bar, but still.
Once his eyes adjust to the lighting, they wander over all the leather, the many many full beards and the chains. They take in the glass surfaces, and all the mirrors. Finally, he sees himself. He fixes the collar on the black leather jacket he never wears for a reason. He looks like a Fonz wannabe.
His pants are too tight. What the hell was he thinking? He can totally see the outline of his shaft. And if he can see it… Sam shakes his head at his reflection and turns on his heels to get out of here before he makes an even bigger ass of himself.
A man is right in front of him, which means this man was right behind him only a second ago.
"Hey." He scans Sam's body, eyes widening at the bulge.
He's nice looking, dark skinned. In his button-down shirt and jeans, he's dressed like a normal person, not a cowboy from hell. He's half a foot shorter, but Sam's used to that. The guy smiles brightly, though and offers his hand, also like a normal person. "Gordon."
Gordon guesses, correctly, that Sam has never been here. He offers to show Sam around and introduces him to a few people. He buys Sam a drink. Before it even arrives, his hand is on Sam's thigh - way high on Sam's thigh. He's telling jokes and laughing at them himself.
He's a dentist, if Sam heard him right. Seems like a nice enough guy and exactly what Sam was looking for: someone who looks, sounds, smells and acts nothing like Dean.
It takes Carter and Bradley about ten minutes of evasion to finally get it over with. Even then, it's just a quick peck. They both back away, wiping off their tongues with their sleeves and groaning like they had just eaten a pile of dog shit.
'Morons.'
It's lips. There's no difference - unless the guy is older and he hasn't shaved in a day, and he has really great cologne.
Dean sighs.
This hot blonde, Niki, has been leaning up against him all night. She spins, and it lands on Carter, but she nudges it over to Dean. Carter practically has a fit. Dean has seen him watching her all night and feels a little bad for him. Not a lot, though.
Dean works on his beer and lets them hash it out. Finally, it's decided that because she has already kissed Carter and not Dean, that it's Dean's turn.
He honestly couldn't care less. Sits down his bottle and makes space for the girl to kneel in his lap. It makes her skirt ride way up. Dean puts his hands on her waist. She rests her arms on his shoulders. And as great as all this is and as ready to go as his dick it, part of him wants to knock her ass on the floor.
It's a messed up thing to think, and he doesn't do it. He gives her a cocky smile and whispers, "How you doing, sweetheart?"
She melts against him like butter: warm and soft and wrong wrong wrong
Girls are easy.
Guys are even easier, to be honest. Guys, it's all below the belt. You can pretty much grab a guy's cock and he won't complain.
Chicks, it's all above the shoulders. Girls want nuance. They want to be talked to a certain way, looked at just right. Kissed all soft and sweet, at least at first.
Then you fuck. Then it's over.
That's how Dean plays it. Every time. Up until now.
He's never had somebody stuck on his brain and under his skin like it is with Sam. He hates it so bad, he could scream. Instead, he leans in, kisses this girl dizzy and tries not to think of anything else.
'Why didn't I just kiss him? What kind of idiot passes up a chance like that?'
He can't even pretend this girl is Sam. Her body is 50 different kinds of wrong.
He does it anyway - kisses her like it's Sam. 'Cause Sam ain't here and she is. Sam is probably never going to talk to Dean's sorry ass again. The fuck if he's going to be celibate the rest of his life.
He swipes his tongue against hers and she hums. Dean pulls back to take a look at his handiwork. Her eyes are still closed. She's just kind of swaying on his lap, mouth slightly parted. Her eyes flutter open, and she leans in for another go. Carter makes a sound like a buzzer from a game show. "One kiss."
Niki flips him the bird, stands up and takes Dean's hand. She leads him to the can like a lamb to slaughter.
The bass is so loud, Sam can feel it in his teeth. The walls vibrate. The whole place stinks of sweat, semen, and unwashed ass. There are probably other odors in this stall that Sam, in his limited experience, can't even identify.
He turns his face aside as a slimy mouth clamps onto his neck and slurps like a leech. Sam's nose turns up in spite of his earnest desire to enjoy this. He has never just had a hook up in his life. It's about time, right? One night stands are supposed to be great stress relief, right?
'Just go with it. Stop thinking and go with it.'
Niki acts like she's starving. She latches onto Dean's neck and makes these greedy moans that might be a turn on under different circumstances. Her fingers creep up his shirt, and as much as he wants to bat them away, he lets her.
When she finally comes up for air, he grins, because that's what the hell he's supposed to do. Of course, Dean is hard, because he's alive and some girl is clawing at his zipper. She gets her hand down his pants and, yeah, it's good. He closes his eyes and lets her. She's clearly done this before and obviously never to herself. It's a valiant attempt, though and he doesn't say anything. Most girls just get thrown off when you give them instructions.
Dean's eyes open again when she lets him go. She leans her feather-weight with one hand on his shoulder in order to reach down to pluck her underwear from her ankles.
"Crap. I don't have a condom?" It's a lie. Dean is always, always prepared.
"I've got one in my purse. Hold these." She hands Dean her panties and starts for the door.
He catches her arm and pulls her back into a kiss. He gets his fingers down between her legs and, man, is she wet. Just from that little bit of kissing. His dick responds to how moist she is and makes him say, "Damn, girl," because he's alive and she's hot.
But some other part of him is in panic mode. His heart is beating all fast, not in a good way. As if he doesn't know exactly where this is going. Or as if he doesn't like it, when usually he loves it.
Niki juice is running all down his fingers like he's been rolling and squeezing her for days. He flicks his thumb over her clit. She makes a sound he usually loves. It makes him kind of sick this time. Her body rolls, she leans her forehead against his shoulder.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and lets the guy's fingers spider down his chest. The stranger - Greg? - fumbles over Sam's crotch and croaks. "Damn, you're hung. I can't wait to get that inside me."
Greg tastes like an ashtray. Sam pulls his mouth away and winds up with a tongue jammed into his ear. He shudders and cleans it with his finger. "Listen, I'm … I'm sorry. I just … This isn't me."
He stumbles out of the bathroom stall and leaves Greg - or whatever his name is - with his mouth and pants hanging open.
This is what Dean needs. This girl, right now, to wipe Sam away. Something else on his mind, in his arms. He sticks his fingers in his mouth. Niki tastes like ham. She whimpers, "God, I want you to do it."
"Yeah?" Her tits are a little less than a handful, but that's all right.
"Yeah." She leans against him, so small, so sweet. The anti-Sam. "But I don't without …"
"Smart girl." He pretends to frown, secretly more relieved than disappointed.
Niki reaches for his dick again. Dean ignores her vice grip and her clumsy confidence. He squeezes his eyes shut. When he comes, it's to a crystal clear image of Sam on his knees - hazel eyes staring up into his.
The girl smiles over her shoulder at him while she washes her hands. "See you out there."
Dean nods and leans back like he's holding up the wall. He grins until the bathroom door closes behind her.
Sam sits in his car, trying his best not to hyperventilate. He huffs out a breath when his phone alerts him to a new text.
DS: What ever happened to friends?
Sam shakes his head and whimpers, "Please."
Perched on the toilet with his pants still hanging open, Dean looks down at his phone. "Come on, Sam."
He drops his head in his hand. Grimacing, he grinds the heel of his palm in circles, as if he could wipe away the want.
At the final whistle, the Gator's crowd roars along with the team. Dean just laughs. He lets his teammates hoist him onto their shoulders and laughs some more.
A couple of guys douse Garth with what's left of the ice water in the cooler. Then, they all file into the locker room. A cute, bookish girl with thick-ass glasses, a pad, and a pencil approaches Dean. "Do you have anything you want to say about the game?"
Coach Winchester steps between them and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You know they don't print your name, son. It'll just say 'the Gator's quarterback.'"
Dean clears his throat. "Well, um, we got off to a rocky start, and they were pretty tough. But we just got in there and did what had to be done."
It isn't poetry, but that's the game, in a nutshell. The coach claps his back and Dean runs off to catch the rest of the squad. Jo bounces down from the bandstand and waves her flute. She still has on that crazy band hat with the green and black Roman mohawk. He smiles and waves back.
By the time Dean is dressed, showered and out of the locker room, Jo has changed out of her uniform. She's as cute as ever, waiting for him by the front pillars near the main entrance. She's got on just the right amount of that sugar-sweet perfume to make him want to stand closer. The curl of her ponytail hangs over her shoulder like a little invitation.
Maybe Dean's finally getting over the Sam thing because he's feeling kind of weightless and immortal like he does after most victories. He reaches out and tugs on her hair.
Jo's flower-pink chapstick glistens in the artificial light of the parking lot street lamps. It would be so easy and taste so good. She would just open up to him like she did before. No one would have any problem with it. Everyone would think it was great. He could close his eyes and pretend she's whoever he wants. It would be so easy with Jo.
But she's just Jo. That's good in a different way and he's done leading her on. "Hey."
She smiles so cute, it's a shame. "Hey. You coming to Ash's party?"
Dean opens his mouth to say 'sure' when his phone buzzes.
"I guess you have to get that." Jo faces away with her arms folded.
"Let me just see who it is."
SW: That was fucking amazing
SW: Never seen a kid handle the ball like that
Dean's heart flips in his chest. He searches the entire parking lot but doesn't see Sam anywhere. It's getting dark, but most of the cars are gone. If he's close, Dean should be able to see him. He texts back:
DS: R U still here?
Jo gives Dean's back a gentle nudge. "Who are you always texting?"
"Nobody. Just give me a second." He hunches his shoulders a little to hide his screen.
SW: Looking right at you. Who's that?
DS: You don't recognize your own sister?
SW: Jo? Don't see her often.
SW: You guys friends?
DS: Where the fuck R U?!
SW: See if you can find me?
Dean struggles to keep his grin and his groin under control. He turns to Jo. "Why don't you go ahead? I'll catch up."
"You have a ride?" Her eyes wander around the campus, trying to figure out what Dean is looking for.
He's already running when he yells back, "Yeah. I'll see you."
Jo watches him all the way across the parking lot. Dean doesn't notice because he never turns back around. Finally, she turns and goes back into the school.
Dean runs directly to the woods behind the field. Sam leans against a tree with one knee bent in what is supposed to be a very 1980s John Cusack pose. He hopes he's pulling it off and doesn't look quite as ridiculous as he feels.
Dean ducks beneath a branch and sweeps his eyes over the length of Sam. He wets his lips. "So, this mean we're good?"
Sam swallows thickly and lets the warmth of Dean's gaze wash down his body. The kid steps in front of him and brushes hot hands over Sam's shoulders.
"Dean. I'm not really a good person." Sam's inability to stay away from him is just another proof of that. "I don't want to hurt you."
Dean smirks as his palms rove down Sam's chest. "You can't hurt me, Sammy."
"Don't call me that."
"What? Sammy?" Dean's brow raises, incredulous.
"Yeah. Don't." Sam shakes his head. He looks at the ground to keep his depraved eyes off this ravishing child. "It would never be intentional, but I hurt everyone."
"I think I can handle it." Dean's hand shifts to Sam's belt.
Sam catches his wrist. "Look, there's no law against us being friends."
Dean leans near enough for their chests to touch. He stands on his toes and breathes, warm and moist into Sam's ear. "Would you stop with that? I don't want to be your friend, Sam."
"That hurts my feelings." Sam clutches Dean's narrow waist - tries to hold him away.
Dean snaps his hips forward, makes Sam feel his arousal. "You know exactly what I mean."
Sam groans. He crushes Dean close for a second. Then pushes him back and takes a deep breath. He adjusts himself through the straining fabric of his pants and looks over Dean's shoulder at movement among the trees.
Dean glances back in the direction of Sam's gaze. "Hey, buddy," he says slow and easy, turning around.
A lanky, goofy looking kid stands there like a slack-jawed statue. "I didn't see anything."
"You sure?" Dean approaches him slowly.
The other boy's eyes flick to Sam who scratches the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact.
"Nothing. It was dark and… Is that Coach's kid?"
Sam's heart clenches.
Dean takes the boy's face between his hands and gently smacks his cheek. "It's no one. Because you didn't see anything."
"Yeah." The skinny one nods emphatic, eyes fixed on Dean's.
An irrational pang of jealousy courses through Sam. He tamps it down. 'This guy isn't Dean's type. Is he?'
Then again, Sam had been all limbs and knobby joints like that in middle school. The boy's peculiar face is still contorted in shock. Dean's hands are on his neck.
'Friends. We're friends. He can touch who he wants.' Sam diverts his eyes and reminds himself that he has no right to despise the tender way Dean handles this kid.
"Good boy, Garth. Now, run along," Dean tells him, and the other kid scurries like his tail is on fire.
Sam sighs. "You're sure he's not going to say anything?"
"What would you suggest I do? Kill him?" Dean watches Garth run across the field.
"No. Obviously. I don't know … You could pay him?"
Dean turns his head at the suggestion. "Seriously? That what you did?"
"No one ever knew about me." The one time he thought a teacher suspected, Sam had become closely acquainted with his father's handguns.
"Is that what you would have done?"
Sam reaches up and snaps a twig from a branch above his head. "I don't know what I would have done. I just know that if you're not ready to come out …"
Dean snatches the stick from Sam's hand and tosses it to the ground. "There's no … there's no coming out to be done. I'm having a conversation with a friend here. We're friends, right? You and me."
"Yeah." Sam's smile is strained and false. "I guess there won't be a problem, then."
"No. It won't." Dean turns back to stare across the field.
The skinny kid has vanished. Sam bites his lip, balls his hands into fists, presses his own back into the tree and wishes there was a chain to bind him there. To keep him from touching Dean the way he wants to, so badly.
"So, what are you going to do now?" Dean tosses the question over his shoulder.
"Go home, I guess." Sam barely hears his own voice.
Dean nods. "Can I come? Just hang out."
