TUESDAY

Even before Dean opens his eyes, he knows; he's used to this. To Sam, all sleep-warm and perfect, his breathing deep and steady. The bulk of Sam takes up most of the bed. Eventually, in the night, Dean overheated from long limbs furnace-hot and sprawled over him like tethers. He's balled up in the top left corner of the bed, now, but he doesn't mind.

The closest thing he's experienced to this is opening his eyes to the juvie in the bunk across the cell or the snot-nosed kid in the next cot over at the shelter. It's not even the same universe. If he's honest with himself, he's not just used to waking next to Sam; he's a little hooked.

Dean holds his breath to hear more clearly and sinks into the low rumble of Sam's chest. His hand lays heavy and hot on Dean's sternum, anchoring him to the bed, and to the moment. Dean would give anything in his power never to have to move again.

But that's not how life works. Sam's long lashes batter open. He smiles sweetly and closes them again. Dean wipes his hair to the side and inspects the bandage over his eyebrow.

They skipped brushing last night to avoid the pain. Certain of his nasty-ass morning breath, he merely touches his busted lips to the corner of Sam's mouth that isn't split. It only stings a little, but it's enough to set off a flare in his chest and make his dick twitch.

Sam groans as he rolls over to turn off the alarm that just started rippling. He sounds like an old man and Dean starts to laughs, but stops just as quickly, gripping his aching ribs.

"Feel like I got hit by a mac truck, backed over and hit again," Sam mumbles, trying not to move his lips.

"I promise you, those assholes don't feel much better." Dean licks the dry corners of his mouth before he opens and closes his jaw a few times, playing with the clicking sound it makes.

"Jesus. Look at you." Sam's fingers barely brush his cheek.

Dean winces at the slight contact. "How bad is it?"

"Not good." Sam slowly flips onto his back and hisses in a long breath. "Repeat after me. Fighting is stupid."

"Okay, Dad." Dean grins. "Whatever you say."

"You're lucky I'm sore, because I would be tickling the hell out of you right now."

Smiling tugs at his split lip, but Dean can't help it. Sam groans even more as he hoists his bruised, beaten body up off the hotel bed.

"Do we have to go back?" Dean asks, only partially joking.

He could easily show Sam how to survive on the road. It would be awesome. Just the two of them, sailing down the highway in Sam's Prius, with nowhere to go. No one to answer to.

"We can take another trip next weekend, if you want. Maybe head west." Sam smiles down at him, offering his left hand and putting an end to the reverie. "Come on, so I can get you to school on time."

Dean's fingers dance along the dashboard as if it were a piano and he was the soloist performing this concerto. When Sam chuckles, Dean glances at him and smirks, all playful and seductive. Sam considers pulling over the car and sucking him off, fat lip be damned.

"Third," he calls out the gear and Dean shifts with his left hand.

Then, he carefully tucks his palm beneath Sam's ailing right hand, lifting it to gently kiss each bruised knuckle.

Sam parks a few blocks from the school, in a residential neighborhood, across the street from a bus stop. He checks out of his window to be sure none of the people in these houses is on their way to work or picking up the newspaper. "You got plenty of time."

"This our spot?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. I think it's pretty good."

Both of their mouths are too busted up for kissing. Sam's ribs are too tender for much of anything else. Dean rubs his cheek over Sam's, nuzzling him like a foal. Sam closes his eyes and smiles as Dean whispers, "You gonna make it back in time?"

"If I haul ass." Sam nods, murmuring, too. "Want me to hold onto your stuff?"

"Yeah." Dean nips his earlobe.

"Pick you up after work?"

"After practice," Dean corrects.

"If you want."

Dean smiles. "Yeah, I want."

He starts to get out. Then he turns and steals a kiss after all. Just a light, sweet peck. He pulls away, wincing and smiling. Sam strokes beside the angry purple bruise on Dean's face and boops his nose with a fingertip. "Go on. Have a good day."

Mrs. Mosely's eyes pop wide open when Sam slides in behind his desk. "Well, it looks like Most Interesting Weekend goes to Sam Winchester."

"Good morning." He lowers his head and smiles before setting his mug on his desk.

His neighbor to the left is a timid, dark-haired woman whose name he knows, but has never addressed directly. She sits back in her chair and asks, "Are you in a fight club?"

"I don't think that's a real thing, Amy, honey." Mrs. Mosely winks at Sam. "But if you ever run into Brad Pitt, you be sure and let me know."

Sam chuckles. Amelia shrugs.

"I fell down some steps," Sam mumbles and fires up his computer.

Mrs. Mosley laughs out loud. "So, that's your story?"

"And I'm sticking to it." Sam shares a grin with her despite the painful protests of his injured mouth.

She laughs and holds up her coffee mug for a toast. "Well, whatever it is, the fact that you took off work impresses the hell out of me. First time in two years, right?"

Sam nods. He clinks his tea against her coffee. Amelia reaches out for a toast, as well.

"It wasn't that little dark haired guy, was it?"

"No," Sam answers, his good mood instantly crushed.

"Who was that, by the way? I had half a mind to call the cops that day."

Sam clears what feels like a century's worth of dust from his throat. "I don't know. Some guy."

Mrs. Mosely cocks her head. "He kept saying your name."

"Hm." Sam shrugs.

He turns on his cell phone, sees the alert for 63 new voice messages and switches it off again.

Dean bends low, checking that the boy's bathroom is empty. He leans back against the stall door, unbuckles his pants and lowers them just enough to grab his erection in his fist. He jacks himself slowly. Sam's way.

His breath catches in his throat as he strokes a little faster and slides his thumb over the tip to slick himself with pre-come.

"Aw, fuck, Sam."

He pants and groans, careful to keep the phone steady in his left hand the whole time. When he finally blows his load, shuddering and leaning his weight against the door, it makes the hinges clank noisily.

"Wish you were here." Dean grins to himself as he sends the NSFW video to Sam during work hours.

Sam's desk phone rings. Mrs. Mosely smiles over as he stands up to take the call elsewhere. He'd rather not take it at all. He'd rather toss the phone into the trashcan than answer this call. Instead, he presses the green button and says his own name by way of a greeting.

"Mr. Winchester. Hello. This is your doctor's office. We've got some test results for you."

Sam swallows hard. He walks down the hall with his shoulders huddled and an arm wrapped around his sore ribs as he prepares himself for whatever she says next.

Dean never asked for this. Not that it bothers him. It's just a little weird. At least once a week, Garth brings him a can of coke and presents it like Dean is a knight of the round table or something. All he can do is nod in awkward appreciation and hope the weirdo knocks it off eventually.

Ash claps his hands twice in quick succession. Dean can't think of a more obnoxious sound, until the jackass opens his god damned mouth. "Alright you bunch of sissies. Move your faggot asses."

A few guys grumble. Lockers slam shut. Glenn takes his sweet time lacing up his shoes. Coach has put Ash in charge of the warm-up run. As far as Dean is concerned, the best way to get this asshole to shut up is to get it done and over with.

"You shouldn't talk like that." The voice is so hushed. They could have all pretended they didn't hear it at all.

Of course, no one pretends any such thing. The locker room goes quiet enough to hear a mouse fart. And all eyes turn to Garth.

The malicious grin that spreads across Ash's face puts the Dark Knight's Joker to shame. "What'd you say?"

Garth clears his throat, but doesn't speak any louder. "In case there's a homosexual in the room."

It's like someone has sucked all the air out of the place, but it doesn't matter because no one is breathing anyway.

Ash carelessly waves an arm at all of his spectators and man, they are watching. "Only ones here are us and you. So, if you're saying I've offended your sensitive gay feelings, well, then ... you can kiss my ass. Except you'll probably enjoy it."

"I'm not gay," Garth announces it to the floor.

He is in no way, shape or form a match for Ash. Dean cannot understand why he is doing this to himself.

Ash cackles, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Yeah. Right. We've all seen the way you look at Smith like you want to suck on his balls for breakfast."

That earns a few snickers. Someone pats Dean on the back. His eyes snap up into the laughing face of one of the receivers. Usually, he'd pretend to be amused by this sort of thing, but not when he's about to lose his lunch.

"I'm not gay, all right. But ... some people are." To his credit, Garth never looks at Dean. Not once. Not for backup. Not for anything. "As many as 4% of the population, by some estimates."

Dean has never noticed before; Garth has a slight southern accent. It's totally random that he hears it now.

"That's not a whole lot, is it? We could exterminate their asses, no problem. Unless somebody else has a problem, I think that means I can say whatever the hell I want." Ash searches the faces of his minions, but doesn't seem to find any objections.

Instead of backing down, Garth pipes up, "Black people are a minority, too. So are women."

"So, are you saying you're a pussy or a nig-"

"Alright, Ash." Dean cuts him off and steps between them.

Not because he wants to. He wants to stay all the way the hell out of it. He wouldn't mind hightailing it from the room, but the entire team is listening. This thing is about to go from 0 to 100 real quick. He shuts it down just as the coach enters the room and looks between them. "What's going on?"

"Garth here is having a coming out moment." Ash snarls. "And quite frankly, I don't think he belongs on this team anymore."

"That's not …" Garth stutters and looks more hurt than if Ash had punched him.

"What's going on here?" Coach looks directly at Dean, glare lingering longer than seems strictly necessary. Dean assumes he is assessing his injured face, like everyone else has all day.

"Nothing, Coach. We're working it out." Dean assures him.

"Then, work it out and get your asses on the track."

"Yes, sir." Dean nods and waits for the click of the door behind him.

Their teammates file out of the room. Ash eyes Garth like he's prey.

Dean sighs and looks back and forth between them. "Alright. We're going to follow the fucking rules and quit with the slurs. No slurs. Nothing that might be offensive to anybody. And we're going to assume that we don't have any gay players, because nobody has identified themselves that way. We clear?"

"Like a crystal, Cap'n." Ash smirks, still leering at the needle-neck kid.

He slams his fist into a locker and follows the rest of the team outdoors.

Dean sighs, shakes his head at Garth, hands open in question. "What was that?"

"Was it bad?" Garth screws up his funny looking face so much, Dean almost laughs out loud.

Dean claps his shoulder. "You know this shit has nothing to do with me, right?"

He's not sure why he says it. The words just spill out of his mouth. Dean is not ashamed or embarrassed, especially not about this thing with Sam. This thing with Sam is probably the best damn thing he's ever had.

So, why did he say that?

Maybe Sam's homophobia is contagious. Because that's what it is. Dean knows Sam doesn't want people to know he's gay. But Dean's not gay. He's an equal opportunity individual who happens to be getting it on with a guy these days. That's not the same as being gay.

Anyway, it's not anyone else's business. There's a difference between random strangers and the guys you play ball with. Guys you're supposed to be leading. Guys who already look up to you, whether they should or not.

Fuck Ash. Dean couldn't care less what a dickhead like Ash thinks. But for a lot of these guys, finding out their QB sucks dick would be a morale buster - even a dick as magnificent as Sam's. Not to mention what Coach would say about it. What Sam's father would say. That's a train of thought Dean refuses to board.

There's nothing wrong with keeping his private shit on the DL, for the sake of the team.

Garth narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Well, if it did, there wouldn't be a thing wrong with it," he says on his way out of the door.

"Yeah. I know that." Dean chuckles and scratches his ear. "Just scram, Harvey Milk. Jesus."

Dean waits at the bus stop where they agreed to meet. He has an ankle rested on his knee while he engages in animated conversation with a middle-aged woman in scrubs. The moment he sees Sam's car, he smiles and picks up his backpack. He waves back at the woman before climbing into the passenger's seat.

Sam doesn't even manage to get the car into gear before the kid has his fingers in Sam's hair.

"I want to kiss you, but my mouth is still fucked."

Sam chuckles and holds out his elbow to keep Dean from climbing over the center console. The nurse watches with wide eyes. Dean searches over his shoulder in the direction of Sam's gaze and sinks back into his seat.

"I'm in pain here." Sam grips his ribs. It's not completely a lie. They have been aching him all day.

Dean grips Sam's neck, coaxing him to tilt his head so he can have a better view of his black eye. "You don't feel any better?"

"I feel like somebody cracked a chair over my back and tried to beat the crap out of me. How are you holding up?" Sam quietly peels away the hand. "Will you put it in first? Been typing all day. My hand is killing me?"

Dean obliges, then leans his head back and pulls on his seat belt. "I'm just tired as fuck."

"I'm sorry I'm late. Got caught up in traffic." Sam pulls the car onto the road.

"No biggie." Dean drops his hand on Sam's thigh and just rolls his head over to ask, "There a reason you're not answering your phone?"

"Had to turn it off."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Should I ask?"

"No."

"All right, then. How was your day?"

"Pretty typical. I did, however, get some nice news." Sam grins.

"Oh, yeah? Spill." Dean's hand slides up toward his groin.

"I'll show you, soon as we get home."

They both hear it. Home. Neither of them says corrects it.

Sam clears his throat. "How about you?"

"My day was fucking nuts."

"Yeah?" Sam comes to a full stop at the red light and turns to face Dean.

He does look pretty exhausted. The bruise on his face is almost plum-colored. Sam strokes a hand over his hair, even though his knuckles scream at him for it. Dean smiles and leans into the touch, letting his eyes fall shut. "For one thing, everyone assumed I'd been in a street fight. Had to go to the counselor for that. Then, your dad was being weird as hell. Kept looking at me funny."

Sam flinches slightly at the mention of his father. "How so?"

"I don't know." Dean shakes his head like he's trying to make sense of it himself. "You don't think he knows…"

"About us? No way." Sam shudders, queasy with just the thought of it. "God, no."

Dean shrugs. "Then, Jo asked me to homecoming."

Sam blinks. The light turns green. The car behind them honks.

"Sam." Dean nods toward the light.

Sam blinks. Cars honk and start to drive around them. Sam just sits there blinking until he's finally able to speak. "Are you...Is she your…Jo is your -"

"I don't have a fucking girlfriend, all right?" Dean rolls his eyes like it should be totally obvious.

He also probably still has those panties in his pocket.

Sam's blood rushes cold. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. "She likes you."

Dean shrugs. "I'm a likable guy."

"Have you…" The car seems to be spinning. Sam suddenly needs to lie down. "Are you sleeping with my sister?"

"No. Sam. No." Dean sighs and reaches for his hand.

Sam holds it out of his reach, desperately needing a moment to compose himself. His face and hand hurt, but he rubs the one with the other. The thought of Dean with other people makes Sam sadder than he wants to admit to himself. The idea that Dean has a girlfriend makes him miserable. Dean with his little sister is beyond Sam's ability to tolerate.

"I kissed her. Okay? Once. Before me and you ever met."

Sam drops his head into his hands, covering the emotional agony on his face. He was already in pain, so it hardly matters. He massages his forehead with his fingertips.

"You want to pull over?" Dean fidgets in his seat.

When Sam looks up, he's watching traffic out of the rear window.

He whispers so he doesn't shout, "What'd you tell her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Jo. What did you say to Jo?"

"Do you know the balls it takes to ask someone out? Jo's my friend. I told her yeah, sure. That we can go as friends." Dean shakes his head, shrugging, making this face like it's the most natural thing in the world to date a guy and the guy's sister at the same time.

Sam grinds his teeth together, his whole body shaking. "You're going to homecoming with my sister?"

"Is that a problem, Sam?"

He chokes out a laugh, feeling the first tear well in the corner of his eyes. "First time I had sex was after homecoming."

"How was it?"

"Unpleasant." Sam chokes out the answer.

"Yeah, like ice cream?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, I've already crossed that milestone, okay?"

"Don't fuck my sister, Dean," Sam growls - his voice deep and unfamiliar, even to his own ears.

He grips the steering wheel to keep himself from grabbing Dean or doing something else he'll only regret later.

Dean shakes his head and huffs. "Maybe you should just take me home."

"Maybe I should." Body still tense, Sam eases his foot off the brake.

Dean folds his arms over his chest and stares out of passenger side window.

'Just get home. We'll deal with this. It doesn't have to be an issue. You don't own him.' Sam floods his mind with reasons to relax.

"I'm not going to fuck Jo, okay. She's my friend," Dean spits out over his shoulder.

"What am I?" Sam doesn't mean to sound so needy, but there it is. The question he's been asking himself is floating around in the car like carbon monoxide.

"You're …" Dean shrugs and makes a sound that doesn't exactly fill Sam with confidence. It's a cross between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. "I don't like labels, man. You know that."

Sam nods.

"Can't we just ... keep having a good time without having to call it something?"

Sam nods and bites a fresh wound into his upper lip to keep from speaking his mind. To keep from screaming and cursing.

"Sam."

"No, that's fine." He tries not to tense when Dean touches his wrist.

Dean sucks his teeth and crosses his arms again. "Now, you're pissed at me."

Sam mumbles. "Not at you."

Sam has been quiet the whole ride, but he seems to have loosened up a little bit. Dean had turned up whatever classical music he was listening to and spent the rest of the drive wishing he had never even mentioned the stupid homecoming or Jo or anything else.

Sam nods a greeting to one of his neighbors at the mailbox. The old guy peers over at Dean as he leans against the wall, waiting. Sam flips through his envelopes and doesn't acknowledge the guy's curiosity or make introductions. That was to be expected, though.

Once they enter the elevator, Dean presses Sam up against the wall and grins up at him. "That guy reminded me of Grandpa Munster."

Sam smiles stiffly and lets Dean paw his crotch. "I would have introduced you, but I forgot his name."

Dean chuckles at the lie. It doesn't matter. Their thing is not about anybody else. He nips Sam's chin, kneads his balls through the fabric. "Come on, Sammy."

"Dean." Sam rolls his eyes.

"Sam. Sorry." Dean sighs and steps away, giving Sam the space he so obviously wants right now.

The elevator chimes and the doors open. Dean adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and silently follows Sam to the door to his apartment. Maybe when that's closed behind them, Sam'll relax and they can enjoy the rest of the evening.

But it doesn't happen that way.

"I'm just going to change," Sam murmurs and heads back to his room.

Dean doesn't follow him. He can respect a guy wanting to be left alone for a while. Dean blows off some steam and heads into the kitchen, thinking maybe he'll surprise Sam and cook something.

What sounds like a distressed shout comes from the back of the apartment. Dean drops the milk, leaves the fridge hanging open and rushes to see what's going on.

For a moment, he pauses at the door blinking at the scene.

Dean is not squeamish by a long shot, but he's never seen so much blood in his life. Even once he gets his wits about him, it's hard to process what he's seeing: the little dog lays limp in Sam's ex's lap while Sam cradles the unconscious, black-haired man against his chest.

And blood. Just everywhere.

Sam peers up at Dean and whispers, "Help."