WARNING: strongly implied child abuse
Chapter Text
The way his hands are clasped before his downturned face, Sam looks like he's in prayer. His thumbs are tucked beneath his chin, elbows rested on his thighs. Every once in a while, he looks around the room, as if he's searching for someone familiar. He sits up slowly, takes a deep breath, then, assumes that lost-in-thought position again.
When Dean reaches for his knee, Sam flinches as if a bug has landed on him. Dean shakes his head and huffs out a humorless laugh.
Sam casts his eyes to the right, bringing Dean's attention to the security guard leaning on the counter, chatting it up with the nurse in the waiting room.
"Dude. He's a rent-a-cop."
"Shh." Sam narrows his eyes, dark circles already filling around them, although they've only been waiting a few hours. "Just…"
Dean wipes his hand over his mouth and stands up. "I'm going to get a soda. You want something?"
Sam shakes his head. Just as Dean is going through the door, another nurse enters and calls out, "Sam Winchester."
Sam stands to meet her as Dean turns to watch the exchange.
"You are Mr. Novak's emergency contact."
Sam nods, arms hanging at his sides. Dean thinks of stepping closer to offer a little support, but Sam won't want that. He remains by the door.
"Do you know how we can reach his family?"
"No." Sam takes a deep breath. "I mean, they... he doesn't…"
"I understand. Is Mr. Novak your partner? I assume you're not married."
Dean's heart clenches tight at the question. Sam's eyes flick over to him. Dean looks at the floor.
"No. He's a friend."
"But he is homosexual?"
Sam's nose turns up. "You need to know that?"
The nurse turns the clipboard so he can see and points to the question.
Sam nods. "It says optional. Leave it blank. Please."
"Any recreational drugs, to the best of your knowledge?"
Sam scratches his head and heaves out a loud breath. "I don't think so. I don't know."
The nurse makes a note on her chart. "The rest, I think we have in the system. Now, there's the question of insurance?"
"I'll take care of it."
She hands Sam some paperwork to sign, but continues on to say, " We've cleaned him up, run some tests. So far as we can tell he has no external wounds. The blood must have been someone else's. Was there an altercation?" The nurse looks over her shoulder at Dean.
"No, that's... unrelated."
She turns to stare at Dean point blank. No doubt she's already made her assumptions about the situation. He gives her a little smile and leaves them to it.
They've moved Castiel from triage to room 313. He just lays there. Not covered in blood, he looks peaceful and handsome with his dark hair and pretty mouth. Dean thinks of putting a pillow over his face. Or ripping out the IV. It doesn't seem like he's hooked up to any kind of machine where he could pull the plug.
A male nurse enters the room and puts a finger to his smiling lips. "Let's see if we can let him sleep."
Dean steps back to make space for him to check Castiel's vitals. When he's done, he touches Dean's arm. "He's going to be fine."
Castiel is tucked under Sam's arm with his head rested on Sam's shoulder. Dean walks behind them in the parking lot, searching for anywhere else to lock his eyes other than the way they're huddled together, all familiarity and comfort.
As Sam opens the back door, Castiel grips his shirt tight. Sam sighs over his shoulder asking with his eyes if Dean will drive.
Dean bites his tongue and nods as Sam hands him the keys. Once he has adjusted the seats and the mirrors, he looks into the rearview. Sam has still got his arm around Castiel. He mouths the words, 'I'm sorry.'
Dean just shrugs and clears his throat. "Where to, sir?"
Sometimes it works: turning his agony into comedy. This time it just falls flat.
"Home. To my place."
While Sam helps Castiel to the guest room, Dean blows out a loud, long gust of air. He surveys the state of Sam's room. Most of the dried blood is contained to the bed, but that is a sight Dean has to hold his breath to even look at. He finally decides to roll the poor, half-stiff dog up, along with the carving knife, and all the pillows and sheets. He runs into the kitchen to get a trash bag. As he's passing by the guest room, he wills himself not to look in at them.
He fails to show the same self-control on the way back. Sam is sitting on the side of the bed, wiping Castiel's hair from his face, murmuring something. Dean's chest tightens, and he takes a step back. Sam looks up, probably alerted to Dean's presence by the rustling of the plastic in his hands. His smile looks painful like he's been crying or he's about to start. It's a private moment. He steps away to give them some peace.
Dean rolls the mess from Sam's bed into the bag. The mattress is dry, but stained burgundy all over. All he can think to do is flip it. He is tucking a sheet under the third corner when Sam whispers, "He needs a shower."
Dean stands upright to find Sam leaning against the door jamb running both hands over his face.
"You gonna... take care of that for him?"
"We lived together for six years, Dean. He has nothing I haven't already seen."
Dean shrugs and nods, gut clenching into a ball. His throat constricts, and he turns away, tucking in the sheets to occupy his hands, even as his mind slips into overdrive.
"I won't, if you don't want me to."
What Dean wants to do is shout, 'He was drunk, Sam! He killed a fucking dog! Why are you taking care of him?'
Instead, he shrugs again and flicks on the television. "I'm not your boss. Do what you gotta do, man."
"I need some sleep." Sam shakes his head and stares at the screen.
Dean points to his bedside table. "Made you some tea."
Sam gapes as though Dean had just kissed his feet. "You made me tea?"
"Yeah." Dean pretends to be rapt in the stupid show.
He watches from the corner of his eye as Sam makes his way to the mug, wraps both of his large hands around the cup and just breathes in the steam. He has a sip, and his face contorts for a split second before straightening again.
"Too strong?"
"No. It's perfect." Sam puts down the cup.
He climbs onto the bed and lays his head on Dean's chest, arm slung around his waist. Dean strokes his hair and mutes the TV. There is something that's been on his mind since the hospital. He doesn't want to ask because he already knows and hates the answer. "Is he your emergency contact, too?"
Sam nods.
"You gonna change that?"
Sam sighs and wipes a hand down his face. "You're a minor, Dean."
"I didn't mean me. I meant... just, in general."
"Yeah. You're right. I should." He lifts the hem of Dean's shirt and places a light kiss on his belly. "Thank you."
"For what?"
Sam kisses him there again. "Just being here. Being solid."
"You're welcome." It's only through years of practice that Dean manages to keep the emotion out of his voice. He isn't sure what this emotion is anyway, but it's prickly and hot, and he would hate to have to walk or lay on it.
"I thought…"
"I know." He runs his fingers through Sam's hair.
"I just…" Sam shakes his head, warm cheek pressed against Dean's skin. "I knew he wasn't stable. I was just… so selfish."
"Dude. You're allowed to break up with someone and not have them lose their shit like this. "
"It's a cry for help."
"He's fucking insane, Sam. Normal people don't… kill dogs."
Sam leans up on his elbow. "Which is why he needs help."
Dean's nostrils flare as his internal temperature starts to approach its limits. "Let's talk about something else."
Sam moves up the bed and kisses him. It's sweet and brief and stings a little bit. Dean clutches the back of his skull and plunges his tongue into Sam's mouth.
Sam pulls away and says, "I'm beat."
Dean nods and watches the 1990s Jeopardy rerun. He used to think Alex Trebek must be the smartest guy in the world. Sometimes, he wishes to himself that someone would just give him cue cards in situations like this. Yeah. Like all the times he's been laying in dog blood fighting back tears and an erection, with his boyfriend's boyfriend in the next room recovering from a .4 blood alcohol level.
"You said you had news."
"Uh… Yeah." Sam lays flat on his back and allows Dean to unbutton his shirt while he speaks. "I talked to my mom. We're going to have dinner tomorrow."
"That's awesome." Dean smiles. "Your dad, too?"
Sam huffs. "One thing at a time."
"Guess that's fair."
"I also heard from my doctor's office." He folds both arms behind his head and licks his lips.
"Yeah?"
Sam nods and smirks. "Clean as a whistle."
"Now, that is fucking awesome news." He leans forward to plunder the hell out of Sam's mouth. To Hell with the pain.
Sam holds him back and brings a finger to his lips. "Shh."
Dean groans and rolls onto his back. "Does he have to stay here? I mean… I know it's not my place, but... Is there nowhere else he can go?"
"No. There isn't really." Sam lifts Dean's hand to his mouth and kisses his palm. "Let's get a little sleep."
Dean awakens sprawled across Sam's cushy bed. Even with the extra space, it's nowhere near as comfortable without Sam in it. It's after 10:00 AM. He's late no matter what he does, so Dean luxuriates: stretches out, scratches his balls and strokes his wood a little. He takes a long whiff of Sam's pillow and smiles. If he could bottle up that scent and take it with him...
When he comes from the shower into the kitchen, he's whistling the theme song from The Love Boat. He stops cold the moment he sees Castiel sitting at the kitchen table eating scrambled eggs.
Castiel peers up at him for a moment, with weary, blood-shot eyes. Sam's face tenses as he looks back and forth between them. Before Dean can decipher what he's thinking, Castiel leaps from his stool, knocking it to the tile behind him. His plate shatters, and his hands wrap around Dean's throat.
Gasping for air, Dean stumbles backward a few steps. As he careens to his back on the floor, he notices how perfectly straight and even Castiel's gritted teeth are. He closes his fists around the lunatic's wrists as Sam wraps his arms around Castiel's chest. Sam tosses the maniac into the corner by the stove and towers over him, breathing hard. Still, Castiel strains and struggles to get around him. He leaps at Sam's chest, screeching like an unhinged monkey trying to break from a cage.
Breathing through his open mouth, Dean just sits on the floor - ass on the living room carpet, feet on the kitchen tile - and watches.
Castiel picks up the frying pan and hurls it, eggs and all, past Sam. Dean flinches although it doesn't come close to hitting him. Sam glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. He grabs two fistfuls of Castiel's shirt and lifts him to his tiptoes. "Look at me."
Dean lets out a breath and climbs to his feet. He folds his arms and leans back against the wall.
Castiel snarls again and swats at Sam's hands. He snaps his teeth like a starved zombie. When that doesn't work, he butts his forehead against Sam's nose so loud that Dean can almost feel it crack. Sam grips his face and steps back. "God damn it, Cas."
Castiel snakes free and chases Dean into the living room. Dean hurdles over the sofa. Cas follows him, diving over the back. For a moment, they stand toe to toe. Castiel pants. "He's mine."
"Dude. You're fucking nuts."
Castiel lunges and Dean jabs him in the mouth. The crazy man reels on his feet, but doesn't go down. He snatches up a small statue from a table and slams it hard across Dean's skull. Dean stumbles and slumps against the wall.
"Castiel," Sam says his name like he's handing down commandments.
Castiel's arm is raised in the air, preparing another blow. His chest heaves as he looks between Sam and Dean.
"Put. It. Down," Sam says, eyes dark and vicious.
He doesn't comply. He doesn't brain Dean either. His moment of hesitation gives Sam enough time to cross the room and pluck the bronze elephant from his hands. Sam takes Dean's face in his hands. "Are you alright?"
Dean blinks up at him, head screaming. Sam's face morphs from concern to fury. He turns to face Castiel, seeming twice as tall and broad. "You don't touch him. You understand me?"
Castiel whines and strains toward Dean again. Sam grips his shoulders and gives him a light shake. "Stop it. I mean it. Stop, now. Or you're out."
Castiel collapses against Sam, weeping with his hands on his shoulders. "He's the sphinx, isn't he? You lied to me. You lied, Sammy. You told me you weren't fucking him."
"I didn't lie. We… Things changed."
Castiel's head drops forward, shaking from side to side as if he refuses to believe it. Then, he looks up, steel-blue eyes hurling daggers at Dean. "I'm going to gut him like a fish. I'm going to peel him. You hear that, you little whore? I'm going to -"
"Castiel, you listen to me." Sam shifts so that he stands between Castiel and Dean. "You don't touch him. You don't threaten him. As a matter of fact, you don't talk to him. You stay away from him. And if you so much as look at him wrong, ever again, I will end you."
Sam doesn't talk for the entire ride. Not a single word. Doesn't want to hear any music. Once they're parked, he plants a somber kiss on Dean's temple. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine." Dean grins, as if to prove it. He knocks on his forehead. "Solid steel."
"I'm going to deal with this. I just need a little time, okay?"
Dean nods.
"I'll see you tonight?"
"Same Bat-everything."
Sam smiles a little. Dean looks at the clock on Sam's console. His lunch period is underway. A good way to start the school day.
When he strolls onto campus, he finds about a dozen students on the front lawn, led by none other than JoAnna Winchester. They're all marching in a line, hoisting shoddy, handmade signs above their heads. Hers is standard college ruled, rainbow striped with the words Hate-Free Zone in black bubble letters.
"Jo. What am I looking at here?"
"What does it look like?"
Considering the abundance of rainbows and pink, Dean answers, "It looks like a fricking pride march."
"That would be amazing." She points to a stack of handmade signs. "You should stand with us."
He chuckles. "Yeah. I don't think so."
She blocks his way, shoving her poster in his chest. "This affects you, too."
"No," Dean assures. "It doesn't. I don't know why y'all are even doing this."
"You didn't hear?" She turns her nose up in self-righteous disgust. "Ash beat the crap out of Garth."
Dean looks aside, blood running cold. "That fucker."
"And called him a … you know what. I didn't even know he was gay?"
Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Does your dad know?"
"Everybody knows. And nobody is doing a goddamn thing about it. 'Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.'"
Dean shakes his head. "Jesus Christ."
Sam stares out of the restaurant window. Mrs. Mosely nudges him with her elbow. "Sam, are you ready to order?"
He looks up into the waitress' blue-lidded eyes and blinks back down at the menu.
"I think he needs a minute."
Amelia's eyes are wide and sympathetic. Dick Roman has his nose buried in the beer menu.
"Sam, you sure you're okay, honey?"
"Yeah." He puts on a fake smile. "Didn't get a lot of sleep."
Coach steps into the locker room and barks, "Smith."
Dean looks up from lacing his cleats. He hasn't dealt with Ash yet and isn't sure how to approach it. Ash didn't rat when Dean hulked out on him in the cafeteria, and technically, it's not his business. Ash was picking on Garth before any of this gay crap. Probably before Dean ever showed up in this town. Dean had tried to have Garth's back. What else is he supposed to do?
"Yes, sir?"
"Close the door."
Dean complies and awaits further instruction.
"JoAnna asked you to homecoming," the coach says without looking up from whatever he's writing.
Although it doesn't sound like a question, Dean confirms. "Yes, sir."
"That's not going to happen."
"Sir?" He blinks rapidly.
"You need to keep away from her." When the Coach finally does look up, it's like he's peering through Dean, like he was a ghost.
For a second, Dean is too surprised to respond. His mind reels over all the reasons for the coach to be this pissed. The only thing he can think of, he's pretty sure Coach Winchester would be strangling him if he knew. "I already told her…"
"I'll deal with Jo. You just do as I say."
Dean's mouth opens and closes again. It's the best possible outcome, as far as he's concerned, but it'll be a drag to disappoint Jo.
"You hear me, Smith?"
"Yes, sir."
Sam rises to his feet the instant he sees the waiter leading them across the restaurant. He hadn't expected his mother to bring his little sister, but he maintains his smile for both of them. Sam bows to kiss his mother's cheek and she wraps her arms all the way around him. He chuckles awkwardly, looking around the room at the curious patrons watching what should be a private reunion.
At the house, with his father right there, they had only exchanged a brief greeting before Sam was on his way out of the door again. Here, in this restaurant, surrounded by strangers, he finally allows himself to close his eyes and shut them out so he can cling to his mother. He sinks into her embrace until Jo says, "This guy is waiting."
Sam clears his throat, pulls out the chair for his mom and accepts his menu from the waiter. He offers Jo an uncertain smile, remarking to himself how pretty she is. An aching swell of jealousy fills his chest, and he laughs uncomfortably. He shifts his knife a few centimeters to the left, for no reason at all.
Once they place their orders, his mom claims his hand, tenderly stroking the back. "I'm so sorry, Sam. I thought for sure your father would…"
He squeezes her small fingers, not intending to become so aware of her ice-cold wedding ring. "Mom, it's okay. Everything's fine."
"I'm just so glad you called." Using her free hand, she dabs at the corners of her eyes with the cloth napkin.
"Me, too. I don't know why it took so long."
Even after the food arrives, she seems reluctant to let him go. As Sam reaches for his fork, his mother bows her head. Jo follows suit. After a moment of hesitation, Sam does the same.
He can't remember the last time he's even uttered the word 'God.' Then, he does remember: "Oh my God. Don't stop" and like almost everything does these days, it reminds him of Dean. Sam suppresses a lewd smile and listens to his mother pray for health, happiness, and a blessed meal.
Dinner passes in relative silence. None of them seems willing to break the spell with real questions. It's all appreciative hums for the food and "Would you pass the salt, please?"
Jo hasn't spoken a word since they arrived. She hardly even looks up from her plate. She was in first grade when Sam left for college and ten years old the last time he felt like her brother. He has no idea what to say to her. Jo's smile isn't very convincing. Sam can only assume his attempt at courtesy is just as wan.
The longer he looks at her, the more he sees that all grown up, Jo is not cute or pretty. She's gorgeous. She is every straight guy's dream with her blonde hair, big brown doe eyes, and petite build. Her lips glisten pink, no doubt with some fruity flavor that drives Dean crazy.
Dean likes girls; there's no way he isn't into JoAnna. He's already kissed her. He has to want more. And of course, she's into him. Dean is… irresistible. And that, right there, is the problem. Jo must find him every bit as hot and sweet and disarming and unnerving as Sam does.
If what Dean says is true, he and Jo had a thing, even before Sam and Dean met. That's a little under four weeks ago. That alone is difficult to believe; Sam feels like he's known Dean all his 's more, he can't stop asking himself the question: 'So what do they have now?'
Of course, Dean is telling the truth. He wouldn't just look Sam in the face and lie, would he?
Sam doesn't realize he's staring until his mother says his name. He smiles over at her, waiting for her to repeat the question.
"Did you want to say something to Jo?"
"Uh … How's school?"
"Good." Jo pushes the last of her broccoli around her plate with her fork.
"You, uh..." Sam shuts his eyes and tries to resist. The words tumble out in spite of his best efforts. "Do you... do you have a boyfriend?"
The minute the question escapes his mouth, he knows it's not something you ask a stranger. His little sister is, for all intents and purposes, precisely that. Her cheeks go a pretty shade of pink to match her lipstick. Dean must love to see her like this. Sam sniffs and looks away.
Jo winces to their mother. "Do I have to tell him?"
"JoAnna," Mary whispers. "Maybe he can help. Offer some big brotherly advice."
Sam has more difficulty painting on the smile this time.
"No. I don't," Jo says through clenched teeth, her face softening with every word that follows. "There's a guy I like, and he's... I think he likes me. Sometimes."
Her mother pats her hand and says, "His name is Dean."
If there was even a shred of doubt in his mind before, it's demolished now. They both look to him like he's some sort of guru, because they can't hear his heart slamming against his ribs. If the guru ever felt this sick, he'd throw himself off the side of the mountain.
"What does he say? Dean." Sam smiles, feeling a strange elation at saying Dean's name out loud in front of them, as if just that sound is a secret he's been dying to scream from the rooftop.
Jo shrugs. "At first, he was totally into me. Then he wasn't. Then he kind of was. Then he wasn't." She turns away from Sam and wipes at the corner of her eye, just like their mom had done.
Their mother rubs her shoulder. "He's a nice boy. A little rough around the edges, but clearly special."
Sam can't help but smile and nod at that description. His mother seems to know Dean well.
"I told Jo to let him come to her. You have to be patient and let him be the hunter."
Jo rolls her eyes. "And I'm what? The prey? I don't want it to be like that. I don't want to play hard to get. That's 1950s advice. Isn't it?" She looks up at Sam, caramel eyes wet.
Sam has a long drink of his water. He crunches the ice between his teeth to stall for time. This is a chance to start being a good brother again. Of course, he wants to give Jo solid advice and for her to be happy and to get what she wants. He also wants to send her running in the opposite direction of the boy he loves. "I guess ... it depends on the guy."
"If it was you…"
Sam takes a deep breath and tells the God's honest truth. "If it was me and there was this gorgeous, smart girl who was interested in me, I wouldn't give her mixed signals. That's a ... jerk thing to do. He sounds like a…"
"He's perfect." Jo corrects him, jaw set.
Sam doesn't argue because she's right.
"If you were me. What would you do? How would you get him to like you?"
Sam huffs and maps the quickest route to the exit. "It's not like there's a button you can push to make a guy like you."
"Isn't there, though?" Her head tilts as she meets his eyes.
Mary's eyes widen. "JoAnna. If your father were here…"
"But he's not. Sam. I'm asking you." Joana looks up to her brother, lip trembling, brown eyes glassy with unshed tears. "What should I do?"
Dean picks up the brown paper bag from the passenger's seat so that he can climb in. He shuts the door behind him and opens the bag so he can stick his nose into it. With a huge smile, he asks, "This for me?"
Sam nods.
"Italian?"
Sam confirms.
"Awesome." Dean starts to dig in to pull out a container.
"Don't eat in the car… please."
Dean stares at him for a moment. Eventually, he sucks his teeth. The bag crinkles as he folds it back down. "How was dinner?"
"Remarkably unpleasant." Sam pulls back onto the road. "My sister is in love with you."
Dean huffs as if he wants to refute it. "She's not -"
"Oh, no. She definitely is." Sam watches traffic out of his mirror to keep from seeing Dean's expression. "If you take her to homecoming -"
"Your dad already put the kibosh on that."
At that, Sam searches his face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I'm not taking her, so you can relax." Dean takes a huge bite out of a piece of garlic bread he's fished from the bag despite Sam's request.
"What happened?"
"I don't know," he answers, with his mouth full.
"You don't think your friend…"
"Who? Garth? No." Dean shakes his head. "Anyway, whatever. Problem solved."
"Are you still going?"
Dean yawns and takes another huge bite. "Bought the damn ticket. Might as well."
Sam sighs, thinking back to his first homecoming and Cara Jones who could not take no for an answer. And Kevin Sherwood, who Sam would have given anything just to dance with. "I wish I could…"
"Yeah, well, you can't." Dean swallows his bread.
"I hate that," Sam mutters out of his window, letting the cool wind soothe the sting behind his nose.
"It is what it is." Dean opens the bag looking for more food. "I take it Castiel is still at your place."
Sam nods. He hadn't been sure how or when he was going to broach this subject. The air already feels foul between them. "There's something I need to tell you, Dean."
"I don't like the sound of that."
Sam swallows and takes a deep breath. "I don't like it either."
"Then, can you just not tell me?"
"No," Sam says. "I need to tell you. Because I need you to understand and I need you to be there when it happens."
The acidic stink of nail polish poisons the air in Sam's apartment. Dean enters, a few feet behind Sam, with his head low and the bag of cold food hanging from his arm. His damn appetite is shot anyway.
Castiel peeks up from the sofa, where he's sitting with his legs curled up like a pretzel so that he can paint his toenails purple. "Oh my God. Look at it pout."
"Castiel," Sam grumbles a quiet warning.
"You already told him?" Castiel's asks and sucks his teeth. "No fair. I wanted to see the look on that pretty little face."
"Dean, would you excuse us for a moment?"
Dean doesn't budge as Sam kneels in front of the sofa, right in Castiel's face. "I told you…"
Castiel rolls his eyes like a bratty child. "I'm not talking to him. I was talking to you." He paints a purple stripe on Sam's nose.
Sam wipes it away with the back of his hand. "I'm trying to help you, Cas. I'm trying to -"
"Have your cake, and a little ice cream and a pouty little cherry." He sticks out his lower lip in what Dean assumes is meant to mock his expression, then makes an exaggerated whimper.
Dean rolls back his shoulders and stands up straight.
"I bet that mouth feels like magic on your cock, doesn't it, Sammy?" He snarls up at Dean like some kind of animal.
Sam looks over his shoulder and shakes his head that Dean is still standing there. "Please. Can you just… I'll be there in a minute."
"What? Is he too young to hear the word cock? I really doubt that. If you can suck it, you can say it, right, sweetheart? You know what he looks like to me?" Castiel squints, as if he's trying to look right through Dean.
"Castiel, shut up," Sam says, as if he has any authority over this nutjob.
"A rent boy. Doesn't he? Pretty little face. Tight little body. I know a lot of daddies who would pay top dollar-"
It happens so fast Dean doesn't catch it. He only hears the loud smack and sees the way Castiel's jaw drops before his neatly manicured hand raises to his cheek.
"I'm sorry." Sam starts to touch his face, but Castiel shrinks away.
He leaves his polish open to stench up the place. As he passes by Dean, he looks him over, top to bottom. Dean's skin burns from the evil glare. His guts churn with the desire to beat this guy's ass into the ground.
Still holding his face, Castiel stomps from the room like a child sent to bed without supper. Sam stands, runs both hands through his hair and sighs. "I should…"
As he's about to follow Castiel, Dean holds a hand to his chest. He shudders to ask, "Am I a rent boy to you?"
Sam takes Dean's face between his hands. "No."
Dean pushes him away and retreats into the kitchen. He stands in the open door of the fridge, letting the cold air wash over him.
"Dean?"
Dean shakes his head, silently begging Sam to leave him alone, just for a moment.
He eats a few hands full of cold cuts, has a few apples and a glass of water. He sits on the floor in the kitchen for a while, texting nonsense with Jo and Garth.
Once he finally gets over himself enough to come to the bedroom, Sam is naked beneath a sheet. Dean's eyes are drawn to the outline of his dick, always a threat and a promise. Sam's eyes are closed, hands beneath his head. Sprigs of dark hair jut out from his armpit. The fur on his chest is curled and coarse. This Dean knows from twirling his fingers in it, but only when he's sure Sam is asleep.
Dean stands in the doorway, watching Sam not sleep. When Sam sleeps, his breath is slow and deep. Dean's mouth twitches, a flicker of a smile, when he thinks how similar Sam is to a bear in hibernation, when he sleeps. Always on his stomach, his massive, nude body taking up most of the space, his legs and arms spread out all over the mattress and anchoring Dean to the bed.
Sam opens his eyes, and he reaches out a hand. "Come here."
Without speaking, Dean slips out of everything but his boxers, and leaves his clothes in a heap beside the bed. Sam pats his chest in an invitation for Dean to climb aboard. Dean walks around to the other side of the bed and sits down. He lays with arms folded over his chest, making sure that no part of him makes contact with Sam's body.
They lay like that for a while. Sam breathes in and lets out long, stressed sounding sighs. He moves slightly and presses his knee to Dean's leg. Dean tenses and moves aside, maintaining the space between them.
"I have to help him, and this is the best way."
"Why do you have to help him?" Dean asks plainly. He doesn't whine, although most of him wants to.
Sam nuzzles behind his ear. "Because he needs help and he doesn't have anyone else."
Dean shoves him away.
"Are you going to be pissed at me forever?"
"I'm not pissed at you." Dean tries out Sam's line. He turns away and whispers, "I'm pissed at you."
Sam presses a hand to his cheek and draws him close enough to kiss the other one. "I know it sounds crazy, but I'm doing this for us. For you and me."
"Doesn't sound crazy," Dean says. "Sounds like bullshit."
"It's not. I promise. And it's temporary." Sam nibbles his ear. "Okay?"
Dean nods, hoping it will get Sam to shut up about it already.
"Let me see if I can make you not-pissed at me." Sam kisses him so tenderly that Dean's eyes flutter shut so that he can focus on the feather-light pressure of Sam's lips.
The warm sensation of it spreads south as Sam burrows his face against Dean's neck, kissing, and licking, before he sucks - hard. Dean's hand flies to the back of Sam's neck. "Shit."
"Are you going to forgive me?"
"Sam. It's…" Dean shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. "I don't like it, but it's not my fucking business."
"It is." Sam presses his soft lips to Dean's shoulder. "It's for us." He licks a broad stripe over one of his nipples, then the other. "So that I can be with you." His teeth nip lightly at Dean's hip. "Only you."
Dean's body buzzes like a tuning fork as Sam grips the base of his dick. He kisses the head and smiles. Then he takes the whole thing slow and smooth, until his lower lip is pressed against Dean's ball sack. Dean sits upright and grips Sam's head with both hands. He gasps, vision already blurring.
Sam pulls nearly off, and curls his thick tongue around the tip before he dives all the way down again. Dean groans and swipes a tear from Sam's cheek. He shudders, watching the spittle dripping from the corners of Sam's mouth.
Sam pulls off and pumps with his hand, taking a moment to lick his lips. "I love your cock so much."
Dean grins and strokes his hair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You're good at sucking it."
Sam smiles like Dean just awarded him some prize. As if to prove he's earned it, he swallows Dean again. He moans and bobs his head up and down, like a fucking professional. Square jaw slack, pretty mouth warm and perfect, his lips stiffen, cheeks hollow. Dean calls out, "Sweet Jesus."
Sam keeps his palm around Dean's shaft as he comes up to ask, "Is it good?"
"So fucking good."
Sam doesn't just respond to praise; he rises to it. He strains toward it like a flower seeking the sun. He sucks brutally sweet for what could be hours until he delivers Dean right to the Pearly fucking Gates. Then he pulls away, fist tight around the base of his dick.
"Fuck, Sam. Why?" Dean doesn't even care that he's whining.
"I want to ride you."
Still short of breath, Dean says, "Dude. You're too big for that shit."
"I want to try."
"It's not going to fucking work. You're too big."
Sam frowns like a huge, little kid and goes back to work. He rolls Dean's balls between his long fingers. Nibbles at his shaft. Rubs the inside of his thighs half-raw with his two-day stubble.
He lifts Dean's legs and bends to lick behind his knees. Dean would laugh if he could catch his breath. It's weird. It shouldn't be hot. Sam smiles and licks until Dean is wide-eyed and trembling, mouth hanging open in awe. Sam takes his ankles in both hands and opens his legs wide. Dean has held many a girl in this position, grinning down just like Sam is doing. He leans up on his elbows, preparing to protest, when Sam leans forward again.
Dean drops onto his back in time for Sam to pin his feet above either side of his head. His damp knees are pressed to his ringing ears just as Sam slurps a wet, hot stripe up his crack.
"Holy shit, Sam."
Dean had wondered about that. What it felt like - what all the fuss was about. It's not really something you ask someone to do - until now, when he gasps, "Do that again."
Sam smiles and obliges. He laps over Dean's hole, up to his sack and sucks in first one nut, then the other. He jerks Dean's dick slowly and returns to treating his asshole like a lollipop.
"Holy fuck, that's good."
"You like it?"
"Ha. Oh. Ah. Yeah."
Sam's tongue swipes wet circles around his hole, and as if that isn't hot enough, he spits right onto the center. The burst of cool air and warm moisture send Dean jumping half out of his burning skin. "Fuck, yeah."
Sam spits on him again and then, his finger is right. There.
Dean tenses, hips instinctively move up and away.
Sam freezes, holding firm to the backs of Dean's thighs. He looks from Dean's hole to his face and back again, like he's waiting for Dean to say something. Like he's waiting for a go-ahead.
Dean holds his breath - not wanting Sam to do it, unwilling to stop him.
There's no question in Dean's mind that Castiel is down to be penetrated. As a matter of fact, he's sure that fairy takes Sam's dick like a champ. Maybe that's why Sam still wants him and why Dean's not enough.
Dean can bottom. Not like he hasn't done it before. He never explicitly told Sam that he didn't want to get fucked. It's true, but he's never said it, and he would do it for Sam. He would take Sam's dick, in a heartbeat. Does he want to? No. But he would.
He doesn't want Sam to see him that way, which he knows is insane, if Sam wants it, but sane is not exactly how he's feeling right now. Right now, his ass is in the air and Sam is looking at him like he's a baby bird that fell out of its nest.
"You okay?"
Dean nods. "You want to…"
"Not until you beg me for it." Sam releases his legs.
Dean sighs, relief washing over him. "Ain't gonna happen."
"And that's fine too."
Dean tries to sit up. Sam stops him with one of those huge paws in the center of his chest. "I still want to ride you."
As he crawls up the bed to get the lube, Dean nips at his ribs. When Sam settles back over him, Dean watches the huge, gentle hand slick him up. He breathes through his mouth and lets the heat in his dick diffuse all over his body. He runs his own hands over Sam's flanks as he leans forward, reaches behind himself and produces a black plastic cone.
"What the…" A fresh flash of heat sparks when Dean realizes what he's seeing.
Sam's smile is ultraviolet as he licks his lips and leans over the side of the bed to drop the plug quietly to the floor. "I wanted to be ready for you."
Dean's brain scrambles for a reply and comes up blank. Sam kisses whatever stupid look he's making right off of his face or engraves it there permanently. Dean can't tell. He's holding his breath as Sam hovers over him, insanely long legs splayed, knees damn near Dean's ears. He reaches back, holds Dean's dick in place and tries to skewer himself on it.
Up to this point, Dean has been dutifully lying still, looking back and forth between Sam's face and his massive, fully erect and always captivating dick. It points clear up at the ceiling. Dean can't help but make a grab at it.
"Stop." Sam swats him, his expression more like someone taking a test, than getting it on.
Dean doesn't even try to contain his laughter. Sam frowns down at him. "Suggestions?"
"You are way too fucking big for this."
Sam purses his lips in concentration. His knees drop to the mattress, and he leans forward. Dean takes advantage of the new position to lean up and bite one of Sam's nipples.
"Dean!"
"Sorry." No way he's sorry.
"Just be still." Sam hooks a forearm around Dean's neck.
Dean takes over holding his own dick, because if there's one thing he can do right, it's that. "I got it, okay. You just…"
Sam lowers himself until Dean exhales at the resistance at his tip. This man is too heavy to lean on anyone this way and Dean struggles for each lungful of breath. Still, he bites his lip and lets Sam control his descent.
His mouth is wide open, eyes shut, muscles in his face clenched. Dean stretches up to kiss him. Sam opens his eyes, as if he's surprised to find someone below him. He smiles a little and kisses Dean a lot. He resurfaces the inside of Dean's mouth with his tongue, all the while sinking inch by torturous inch. Dean fists the sheets and forbids his hips to buck.
Sam's tight heat around his dick, Sam's heart banging against his chest, the pressure of his lips, the slide of his tongue: it all sets off fireworks in Dean's chest. He gasps and struggles for control.
Once he's buried balls deep, Sam sits up and grins like his horse just came in first. The change in angle tightens the pressure, and they both cry out. Dean grits his teeth and focuses all of his energy on not moving. Not losing his shit, for once.
Sam's hands smooth down his chest. "Good?"
Dean just nods, appreciating air for the first time in his life.
Sam starts to lift himself, but halts when Dean grabs his thighs and wheezes, "Wait."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just…" Dean exhales and tries to clear his head. He does not want to get there before Sam again. Trying to think of something that will cool him down, he comes up with, "So, when's the big day?"
"Not now," Sam pants.
"I know, but when?"
"I don't want to talk about this now."
'That's fair.'
Sam rises up on his knees and impales himself again. Dean's back lifts from the bed, mouth wide in agonized pleasure. "Holy shit, Sam."
Sam does it again, shifting and rolling his hips. He leans forward, bracing himself on the mattress. Then, he lets loose: grinding, bouncing and churning like he's riding on Larry, that fucking mechanical bull. He groans loud, low and so dirty, Dean wants to bottle up the fucking sound. Also, he wants him to be quiet. Castiel is in the next room, for God's sake.
"Whew. Whoa, cowboy. Slow down." He runs his palms up and down Sam's thighs, trying to get him to relax.
"Mmm." Sam thrashes his head back and forth. "No way. I love this."
"I'm not gonna… " And that's that. Sam keeps riding him like a bronco and Dean's body spasms before he tenses, grabbing hold of Sam's hips, spurts right up his tight ass.
As always, Sam never gets mad at him for coming so fast. He just sits there, breathing hard through his smiling mouth, stroking that amazing dick of his. "God, you're so gorgeous when you come."
Dean gives himself a few moments to recover before he takes the Beast from Sam and jacks him quickly - the right way. He swipes at the slit and uses the pre-come as lube, twisting his wrist and jerking even faster. "Come on, Sam. I want you to shoot all over me."
That seems to do something for Sam. He's groaning and moaning louder than ever now, asshole tightening around Dean's oversensitive dick.
Meanwhile, Dean's mouth hadn't really run those words by his brain before he was spitting them out. He never wants anybody's jizz on him. He would actually put that on his turnoff list right up there with gagging.
And yet, he'd said it and Sam's obviously into it. His back is arched tight as a bow, leaning back, supporting himself with both hands on Dean's shins - too fucking beautiful to be real. Dean runs a hand from his sternum over his taut muscles to his navel, and it doesn't matter what Sam wants to do. If Sam wants to hang him out of a window and fuck him upside down, there isn't really any chance of Dean saying no.
Sam goes rigid and shouts as he shoots. The first glob lands warm on Dean's chest, and that's not so bad. Then he turns into a howling sprinkler and come splashes all over Dean's face, sputtering, "Oh my God. Fucking God, Dean."
Dean's eyes shut just in time. He can't help but chuckle. "Impressive."
He wipes away the spunk on his upper lip, while Sam uses his thumbs to clear Dean's eyelids.
"Are you okay?" He's still winded.
Dean smiles. "I'm fine. You trying to blind me?"
Sam laughs, breathlessly. "That was so hot." He leans down to kiss him, and Dean sighs as he slips from Sam's heat.
"Don't move." Sam climbs off the bed.
He hops up and sprints from the room. They had burned through the unscented baby wipes that usually wait in his bedside table. Dean snickers a little. Then, he remembers that they have a guest. Then, he remembers that HE is the guest.
He shuts his eyes against the hardening in his gut. His veins feel full of cooling lava, leaving his insides charred and black.
As soon as Sam returns, Dean asks, "So?"
Sam winces, but nods already knowing the question. "I've got to find Ruby first."
He sits on the side of the bed and makes a ritual of wiping Dean with the soft, warm wash cloth. Dean smiles while Sam takes care of his face. The rag smells faintly of lavender, like the goat milk soap in Sam's bathroom.
Sam sponges down Dean's chest before cleaning his limp dick. He places the rag on his night stand, snuggles in beside Dean and buries his face in his neck. Once he's good and cozy, he mumbles against his skin. "I don't know if the court does it or if I have to hire a PI or what? She won't hesitate to sign it, just, I have no idea where she is. Her parents were in Florida last time we talked, so I guess I'll start there."
Dean pats the hand on his chest. "Dude, you know she's on Facebook, right?"
"What?" Sam leans up and twists his face in confusion, like Dean is speaking French.
"How have you not looked on Facebook?"
"I'm not really into that."
Dean considers braining the guy right then and there. "Come on, Sam. They got fucking Easter Island tribesman on there. How are you not on Facebook?"
Sam turns away. "I was for a little while. Castiel hacked into my account a few years ago and it just … I don't have a lot of friends anyway. It's not really my thing."
When Dean shivers, he realizes just how much warmth had been coming from Sam's, literally, overly hot body. The guy is like a furnace. Dean wiggles under the blanket. "Yeah, well, your ex is on there. She's pretty hot."
"You've seen her?" Sam rolls over to face him again, hazel eyes wide.
Dean instantly goes quiet. He hadn't planned to tell Sam he had checked her out. It had just been that thing: that irrational terror that Sam had ever wanted someone else more than him. Dean knows it's nuts. That didn't stop him from spending an hour on her profile.
"Show me," Sam demands, sitting up in bed.
"You're not pissed?"
Rather than answer, Sam hops out of bed again and runs, buck naked, out of the room. He returns with his laptop and watches Dean navigate to Facebook. He hadn't tried to Friend Ruby or anything that weird. He'd just spent an embarrassing amount of time checking out her pictures and judging her lame posts.
Sam watches like he's never heard of the Internet before. Dean plants the computer on his lap, gets up and pulls a pair of Sam's sweatpants from his middle drawer. He ties the drawstring and still, they sag so low that he has to stop every few seconds to pull them up. But Dean doesn't feel like putting on his jeans, and it calms the nervous flutter in his chest, just a little bit, to be wearing Sam's clothing. "Going to the kitchen. You want anything?"
Sam shakes his head without even looking up from the screen.
Dean nods and makes his way down the hall. He can't stand to stay in the room, watching Sam's reactions to seeing his FUCKING WIFE for the first time in half a decade. No light shines from under the guest door, so he assumes Castiel managed to sleep through Sam's animal noises.
That's something. If Dean never sees that guy's face again, it'll be too soon.
He decides to break up some of the tension in his body and take his mind off this whole stupid Ruby/Castiel thing by singing. The first thing that comes to his mind is:
Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser, baby
So why don't you kill me?
It's not exactly heart lifting, but it's pretty much how he feels.
Dean is spreading mayonnaise on whole wheat bread when a prickly chin presses against the nape of his neck. Something about the angle feels wrong, but it isn't until ice-cold hands snake around his chest that Dean spins on his heels, holding the butter knife like a violent oath. "Dude. Don't fuck with me."
Castiel smiles like a rat. "Hohoho. Aren't you a little ruffian? About what I figured. I can see why Sammy thinks that's fun." He reaches around and tries to lodge his fingers in Dean's crack.
Castiel laughs when Dean shoves him away. "Still sore?"
He's not wearing a stitch of clothes and Dean makes a point of not checking him out. He keeps his eyes glued to the guy's annoyingly pretty face. Castiel leans with one elbow on the counter, grins and runs the same finger he tried stick down Dean's pants over his bread then sticks it in his mouth. "You may not know this - then, again, you might. In a pinch, mayo is a pretty decent lube. How much do you have to use, kitten, to fit all of Sam up in you?" He smiles. "That cock is a miracle, am I right?"
Dean curls his knife tighter in his grip, but doesn't move for certainty that he'd kill Castiel if he did.
"Why don't you make me a sandwich, sphinx?" Castiel brushes his cold fingers down Dean's arm.
Dean pushes him again, even as the goose bumps pop out over his skin. "Make your own fucking sandwich."
"So rude." Castiel pouts and steals a slice of Dean's meat. "Didn't you ever go to kindergarten? You have to learn how to share. I'm sharing, aren't I? Sharing my Sammy with you? Being way too fucking generous…" His tone changes instantly from light and playful to dark and threatening. "What are you really after? Hm? His money? Is that what you want?"
"I'm telling you right now. Back away from me, man." Every muscle in Dean's body is coiled and ready to spring.
"Did you know Sam hasn't had a television in over five years? Is that your candy? They don't have HBO at the shelter, do they?" Castiel narrows his eyes.
"Fuck you."
"Who wouldn't spread their legs for a little Game of Thrones?" Castiel takes a step back and cocks his head like he's studying a lizard at the zoo. "You're wondering how I know? Your clothes are clean. Teeth brushed. Tail all bushy, coat shiny. Only a few bruises."
Dean swats away the hand that tries to touch his face.
"But take the urchin out of the street and what do you have? A dirty little street kid, in clean clothes, with that same hungry-hungry look on his sad, little face." Castiel plucks Dean in the center of his forehead.
It's the last straw. In one fluid motion, Dean hooks his elbow around Castiel's neck and holds the tip of the butter knife at his temple. This is as close as he's ever come to killing someone and the most he's ever wanted to. Dean's heart pounds in his ears, and he presses the steel against pale skin, wondering what it will feel like to jam it in and watch this asshole die.
The second he hears Sam approaching, he shoves Castiel to the floor. The guy quickly scrambles to his feet before Sam enters the kitchen. He steps back and lowers his gaze, as if he's contemplating Dean's bare feet.
Sam glances back and forth between them, like an angry parent deciding which of his naughty children to scold first. "Is he talking to you?"
Dean shakes his head, holding the knife behind his back.
"Castiel, go to sleep." Sam tosses over his shoulder.
"Yes, master." Castiel bows like he's on stage and slinks from the room.
Sam rolls his eyes and holds out his palm. "You coming to bed?"
"Yeah." Dean drops the plate in the sink and tosses the sandwich, appetite obliterated.
Sam walks behind Dean, massaging his shoulders, kissing them.
"Night, lovebirds," Castiel chirps as they pass the guest room.
Once they're back in bed, Dean scratches behind his ear. "He's just cool now?"
"Castiel is a very… capricious person."
"That's what you like?" Dean flinches, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Sam rolls over on top of him. "I like you."
Dean forces a small smile. "Why does he call me a sphinx? Isn't that that thing in Egypt?"
Sam closes his eyes and sighs. "It's a stupid joke."
Dean chews on his lip before he asks, "You two are telling jokes about me?"
"No. Cas…" Sam's brow furrows, but he gives up trying to explain. "Look, what he said, before … Have you ever…"
"I'm not talking about that, Sam." Without knowing exactly what he was going to ask, Dean shuts it down. "You got all kinds of shit you don't want to talk about. So do I."
"You can ask me anything." Sam's gaze hardens as if he's bracing himself for a barrage of questions.
At the moment, Dean only has one. "How the hell did you wind up with this guy?" His throat threatens to close around the words.
Sam huffs. "Short version? He was my wife's dance instructor." It takes a long time for him to gather the rest of the statement. "He wasn't like this at first."
"They never are." Dean rubs his eye in a way he hopes looks more sleepy than sad. "That's the kind of guy you like? You know, Fruity Pebbles."
Sam shrugs. "I like a lot of different things."
"But, you just couldn't resist him? Had to have it?" Dean says lightly, doing his best to keep the torment out of his voice.
"No. I never went after any guy, ever. Cas is the first guy who ever came on to me." Sam rolls onto his side and drops his face onto Dean's shoulder. He wraps his arm around him and strokes his back until his hand lands, warm and heavy at the crest of his ass. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?"
For a second, Dean thinks Sam means he's lucky to be here, like this, in Sam's arms. He already fucking well knows that, but he's about to argue to save face, when it occurs to him, that it's the kind of thing he would say, not Sam. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother gives you a hard time about me - and she probably should. But she knows, you know. You don't have to hide."
Dean nudges Sam's hair aside, so there's a patch of forehead for him to kiss. "You don't have to hide either."
He scoffs at that. "When did you come out to her?"
Dean shrugs. "We're not all weird about sex like most people. It's just a thing, you know?"
"So, why didn't you tell her … what happened." Sam looks up with this apologetic expression in his eyes, like he's atoning for all assholes everywhere.
Dean tenses without intending to. "That's different. I was a little kid. He was her fucking boyfriend. I didn't want her to think I ... it's not like I hopped up in his lap, you know?"
"Do you want to tell me about it?" Sam whispers against his cheek.
Dean shakes his head. He's never telling anybody that shit as long as he lives.
"Go get me a beer, kid."
Dean rolled his eyes. He was watching the damn game, too. But it was just a commercial, so he scooted and did what Marc said.
His mother's latest boyfriend was far from the worst. He never hit either one of them. Just that afternoon, he had spent a good ten minutes behind their apartment tossing the ratty baseball Dean had found to him while he worked his way through a cigarette.
The old lady across the hall had been hanging up her clothes at the time. She smiled and said something about Marc being proud when his son was in the World Series. Marc hadn't even corrected her. He had just smiled and ruffled Dean's hair. So, it wasn't a hardship getting the guy a beer. He was okay.
Dean heard it from the kitchen. The song on this commercial that he loved. He couldn't help dancing his way back to the sofa. He laughed when he realized Marc was watching him and played it up a little, waving his arms up and down like snakes, swinging his hips like this lady he had seen with a fruit basket on her head. It was hilarious.
Marc took his bottle and watched Dean with this weird look on his face. When the commercial was over, he said, "Come here."
Jody had a thing for military guys. Marc was no exception. His voice was this low, commanding rumble. In this particular instance, though, it was quieter than usual. Tender in a way Dean hadn't heard him speak before. "Do that again."
"What?" Dean stood before him, pulling at the fraying hem of his t-shirt.
"Your little dance."
Dean snickered and made a face. "I don't remember what I did anymore."
"Yeah, you do." Marc nodded. "It was good. Come on. I'll give you some."
Dean did a less enthusiastic version of his moves; it wasn't the same without the music. As promised, Marc cracked open his bottle and offered Dean a swig. Dean reached for the bottle, but Marc held it out of reach, insisting he hold it while Dean drank. Marc's other hand was big and clammy on the back of Dean's neck, supporting him as he tipped his head back for his first ever pull of beer.
He let the awful, bitter stuff dribble back into the bottle and then wiped off his tongue with the back of his hand. Marc laughed.
"How do you drink that?"
"It'll grow on you."
Dean shook his head and moved to sit back down. Marc stopped him with one hand on his hip. Dean stared at the veins popping out of his muscley arms.
"You want to touch?"
He shook his head.
"Yeah, you do." Marc teased him, took a drink and flexed his bicep in front of Dean's face. "Go on.
Dean pressed one of the veins with his pointer finger. It squashed down and popped up every time he did that. Then he curled his hand around the thick muscle. Marc grinned. "God, you're pretty. You know that?"
Dean turned up his nose. "I'm not pretty. Girls are pretty."
"You're pretty as any girl I ever saw." Marc took his chin between his thumb and forefinger, hand stinking of stale cigarette.
Something happened in Dean's stomach at the compliment and the contact. Something like riding a roller coaster. He couldn't decide whether he liked it or hated it.
Marc twisted and tied up Dean's shirt, so it was like the little bras the Cowboy cheerleaders wore. He poked the cold mouth of his bottle into Dean's belly button and laughed when he gasped.
Dean looked down at his new outfit and shook his head. "Still not a girl."
"No?" Marc suddenly looked so disappointed. "How we gonna fix that?"
Dean tried again to take his seat on the other end of the sofa.
"Sit down here."
Dean looked where Marc was pointing and decided it couldn't hurt anything to sit on the floor between Marc's legs, as long as he could go back to watching the game. Marc drank his beer, absentmindedly stroking his fingers through Dean's hair. He pressed his warm hand against Dean's ear and encouraged him to rest his cheek against his even warmer thigh.
Jody was never all that affectionate. It felt weird and kind of wonderful to have someone touching him, even if he was being treated like a dog.
On the next commercial, Marc spoke in that soft version of his voice again. "You know what we could do? We could pretend. You like to pretend, don't you? Always acting like you're an astronaut or something."
Dean nodded slightly. His eyes had started to slip closed during the last quarter.
"You can be the little girl, and I'll be the daddy. That sound like fun?"
It didn't sound like fun. It sounded stupid. Dean just shrugged.
"It's gonna be fun. Watch. You'll be my little girl, and you're going to do everything I say, right?"
Dean kept his eyes on the TV, still sleepy, but also with this odd tightening feeling in his stomach.
"What's your name gonna be? Hm." Marc's hand was on his neck. "What name do you like?"
There was this girl in Dean's class who was already sprouting boobs. She was a walking miracle, as far as he was concerned. Dean said her name because he was always thinking about her anyway.
"I like that." Marc stroked his hair back from his face. "Such a good girl, Kimmy."
He kept saying it. The whole time. Good girl, Kim. That's my good girl.
"Come on, Kimmy. Eat up. It's good for you. What, you don't believe me? Lots of protein. Make you grow big and strong, like me." Marc wiped a finger down Dean's nose and stuck it in his mouth, dripping with that awful stuff that had come out of him. "There you go. That's my good girl."
The next time his mom worked late, Dean had just stayed in his room, drawing cars. There was a knock on his door, but no lock. He didn't move or say anything when Marc came into the room. He didn't even budge when a plastic shopping bag landed on his bed.
"You don't want to see what I got you?"
A crisp, white baseball, still in the packaging, never been touched. Dean didn't even realize his hand was moving towards it until Marc snatched it up. "Uh-uh. Girls don't play baseball."
He watched while Dean put on the headband, the pink skirt, and the white ruffle socks. He needed help with the training bra, and Marc painted on the lipstick. Then Marc had picked him up like a princess and carried him to the bigger bedroom he shared with Jody. He stood him up in front of the only mirror in the apartment.
Dean stared at his reflection, but it couldn't be himself he was looking at. It was an entirely different person. A girl. A pretty one.
"Good girl," Marc chanted. "Good girl, Kim." Squirted that cold stuff on him. "So wet for me." "Won't hurt" But it did. Hurt bad."You can take it, big girl." Hot hands on her back. Nasty ashtray smell stinking up the air until Kim buried her face in the warm puddle on her pillow.
Most of the time, Dean doesn't even think about it. It was like something he had seen in a movie. Like it had happened to someone else.
"I told you before, my mom had a boyfriend who messed with me. I don't know what else you want me to say."
Sam nods. "Something similar happened to Cas."
"I'm not like him."
"No, you're not. I just thought you should know, you're not the only person who ever went through…"
Dean glares at Sam for a moment. He means well; he's just clueless. "If Jody had been there, she would have said I asked for it."
"Why would she ever say that? How could she think that? You were a little kid." Sam cradles Dean's head in his hand, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb.
Dean wants to shove him away, make him stop, except that it feels amazing.
"Because I…" Dean clears his throat, wishing he could flee from the room. "A lot of people think I'm like that. I kind of am, I guess."
"You mean, you like attention?" That thumb trails back and forth, slow and hypnotic. "There's nothing wrong with that."
Dean's body flushes warm at the kindness in Sam's eyes. "Doesn't really match, though. Me and you."
"I disagree." Sam kisses him. "I think we're like night and day."
Dean chuckles. "Is that why you never want anyone to see us together. Because you hate the attention?"
"I don't want you to get hurt because of me."
"Nobody's going to…" Dean stops before he finishes the statement he knows is untrue.
"Yeah. It's already happened once."
"That? That was awesome." Dean grins, feeling lighter just thinking about the fight.
"I hated it. Every second of it." Sam's eyes darken. "And I don't want anything like it to happen again."
"Bring on the haters. I like to brawl."
"I noticed." He smiles softly, tracing Dean's eyebrow with the tip of his finger.
"It's like ball, you know. Without the rules. Cathartic."
Sam's eyes flick up slightly.
"You like that? Vocab gets you hot?" Dean can't help but laugh at the latest of Sam's kinks.
"You know how I feel about a smart jock." Sam leans close to his ear. "You know, you're kind of perfect."
Dean closes his eyes tight before anything can escape. In case he fails, he rolls over to face the wall. "Just kind of?"
Sam laughs and kisses his shoulder.
Just as he's starting to relax, something occurs to him. "You gonna be mad if I don't want to be there?"
"I need you to be there." Sam presses up against him, slotting his soft dick against Dean's ass. "I need to be able to look into your incredible eyes and know that you know that I'm yours."
Dean's body tingles everywhere Sam touches him.
"Because I am. You know that, right?"
It sounds good, but Dean saw how Sam was with Castiel. He's known from the beginning that his days with Sam are numbered. He's too tired to even argue about it. "You think he's going to wear a white dress?"
Sam laughs. "Wouldn't surprise me, actually."
"Bet he'd look pretty hot, too."
Sam's chuckle sounds as much like relief as amusement. Dean can hear it as the laughter trails off, that Sam is beat, too and about to fall asleep.
Dean's eyes open and he confirms that there is a knock on the door in real life, not just in his dream. He groans and starts to get up. Sam stills him with a hand on his chest and looks at his phone.
Dean yawns and grumbles, "Time is it?"
"Two."
In the dim light, Dean watches Sam step into that pair of dark blue silk pajama pants. "Who do you think it is?"
"Neighbors? I don't know." Sam shrugs and goes to answer the door.
Since he's awake anyway, Dean drags himself out of bed and to the can. He grins as he hides behind the door so that he can pounce on Sam when he gets back.
They both flash their badges. The shorter man speaks, "I'm Officer Riley. This is Martez. You the homeowner?"
"Yes, sir," Sam answers, certain his heart is audible outside of his body.
"Mind if we come in?"
"'Course." Sam steps aside, making space for them to enter and wills himself not to glance down the hall towards his bedroom.
One officer peers into the dark living room. Every slight, calculated movement they make winds up his nerves more tightly.
"Anyone else home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mind if we talk to them?"
Sam clears his throat. "Everyone's asleep."
"Won't be just a second."
There couldn't possibly be a worse moment for Dean to lean his head out of Sam's door. He's shirtless in a pair of the black briefs Sam bought him for his birthday. The rest of Sam's life flashing before him sounds precisely like the slamming of prison doors.
"Hey, buddy," the shorter officer, Riley, says with an insidiously false smile.
Dean shakes his head. "Wrong guy."
Officer Martez is an olive-skinned man, approximately Dean's height, but of stockier build. He speaks softly and clearly makes an effort not to seem imposing. "What's your name?"
"Mike," Dean says without seeming to think about it.
"How old are you, Mike?"
"18." He lies so effortlessly; Sam's eyebrows shoot up inadvertently.
"Got any ID?"
"Nope." Dean juts his chin toward the ceiling, and Sam wishes he would act slightly less defiant.
Riley looks him over. "Well, looks like we crashed a slumber party. What you boys been up to?"
Sam doesn't open his dry mouth for fear he'll be up to his knees in vomit if he does.
Dean answers, "Slumbering," and steps up beside Sam. He's close enough to touch, but thank God, he doesn't.
"So, let me guess. Cousins?" Riley grins and gestures between them. "Of the kissing variety."
"That's none of your fucking business." Dean shoots off.
Sam closes his eyes and covers his own mouth with his hand.
"You're awful defensive there, Mike." Riley stalks menacingly close.
Even though he's a few inches shorter than Dean, everyone in the room is aware of the government-issue Glock 22 on his hip.
"Pretty banged up there, too, huh?" Martez points to Sam's knuckles. "This guy been knocking you around?"
"No." Dean nearly shouts. "Hell, no. If you guys don't have a warrant or something-"
"We got an anonymous tip," Riley counters, chest poked out.
"Tip about what?" Dean asks.
"That your mute friend here might be sodomizing a minor."
Sam's knees nearly go out from under him. He coughs out an anguished laugh.
Dean sneers. "Well, I don't blame you for rushing over here. You catch something like that, it ought to keep you in spank material for weeks, little man."
Riley steps into Dean's space, eyes narrowed, palm hovering over his taser. Martez calls his name like he's calming an attack dog.
"Yeah, Riley." Dean spits out his name. "You better step off before your girlfriend has to watch you get your little ass kicked."
Sam has seen Dean fight. He knows that the kid sees it coming. Even for Sam, it's like it happens in slow motion. Dean takes the punch to the gut, doubling over with a breathy groan. Before he can recover, Riley has shoved him onto his face on the floor. He digs a knee into the back of one of Dean's legs and jerks Dean's arms behind his back to strap on plastic restraints.
"Hey! Hey! That's not necessary." Operating on instinct rather than judgment, Sam moves to intervene.
"Back the fuck up!" Martez yells and draws his weapon.
Sam's heart slams against his chest and his hands raise of their own accord. The officer keeps his gun trained on his chest. Dean spits blood onto the floor as Riley jostles him toward the door.
"Wait. Wait." Sam looks frantically between them. "Can I get his clothes?"
Martez escorts Sam to his bedroom. Out of nerves and force of habit, Sam starts to fold Dean's jeans.
"Just hand 'em over." The officer snaps, clearly agitated. "I hope for your sake his age checks out, or we will be back."
"You know, you don't have to be such a dick." The Spanish-looking cop says leading Dean to the patrol car.
"I think we've already established that I like dick."
The guy shakes his head. "We're out here to protect your ass." Or maybe he's middle eastern. Dean doesn't give a fuck.
"My ass is fine."
"So, what's the deal?" At least the cop takes off the cuffs before he opens the back seat and hands Dean his clothes. "That guy pick you up somewhere, offer you some money, kick you around a little bit? You tell us what's up and we can get somebody to bring him in tonight?"
Dean shakes his head. There's no point trying to convince anybody of anything. Everyone just makes their own assumptions anyway. "Just a guy who saw me sleeping on a bench and offered me a place."
"Modern day Good Samaritan?" The other pig, Riley, had wanted to arrest Dean for disorderly conduct. Asshole. He sounds less than convinced.
"Yeah," Dean says. "A Samaritan."
"No strings, Pinoke?" Martez glances over his shoulder.
"No fucking strings." Dean sighs. "Just a nice guy."
"So, why are you half naked?" Riley asks.
"Because we were fucking. The last time I checked, that not illegal."
"Ten minutes across the border it is," the other one says. For flavor, he adds, "little faggot."
"Riley, chill," Martez says. "In Missouri, legality depends on how old you are."
"I already told you."
"Yeah, we'll see," Riley growls.
Martez looks back at Dean. "Why were you sleeping on a bench? Trouble at home?"
Dean stares out of the window, counting streetlamps to keep himself cool. "Just needed a fucking break from my mom."
Sam stands in the doorway, body shaking, reeling on his feet, paralyzed by uncertainty about what to do. When he finally manages to step back into his apartment, Cas peeks out of the door to the guest room.
"You did this?"
Cas purses his lips. "He's not good for you."
"My God." Sam runs his hands down his face.
Castiel tries to touch him. He yanks his arm away to keep from striking out.
"He would let you fuck him and then slit your throat in the night to steal your watch. I have known kids like that, Sam. You're not safe with him."
Speechless, Sam shakes his head, goes into his room and shuts the door. It takes him two minutes to dress, grab his keys and leave.
When they arrive at the station, Martez sends Dean to dress in the bathroom. Aware that the next step is fingerprinting and attempts to confirm his ID, he climbs onto the trashcan and slips out of the window. It's a two story drop and his left ankle buckles when he lands. Dean swears and hobbles down the alley. Thank God for Sam thinking of his clothes and the fact that his cell is still in his back pocket.
Jody answers on the first ring. "Dean?"
"Hey."
"Where are you?" Her voice remains soft, as if she's afraid to scare him off.
"Um. Hold up. Let me get to the intersection."
The phone beeps to let him know there's an incoming call. That makes the ninth attempt from Sam. He ignores it and keeps moving.
"You're all right?"
"I might have a pig tail, but otherwise fine. If you could hurry up, that'd be awesome." Dean looks over his shoulder in the direction of the police station.
"Stay outside and keep moving. Circle the block. I'll call when I'm close."
"Not my first rodeo," he says, but he's glad as hell to hear her voice. "I'm sticking closer to the station than they'd expect, so seriously, hurry up."
"Smart."
He tells her where he is and that if he gets the sense that someone's coming after him, he'll check back in with new coordinates. Chances are, though, Riley and Martez have bigger fish to fry than some big-mouthed kid. Most important thing is that he's thrown them off Sam's scent.
He limps around the block, keeping his eyes peeled in the dark. The phone buzzes in his pocket, again. He sighs and answers it. "Dude. You need to stop calling this number. They check your phone records and … fuck."
Dean wipes his mouth, not even wanting to think about what kind of trail they've left with their text and call history alone. He wonders whether it would help anything to burn the phones. "We need to stop talking."
"Dean, are you in there?"
"In where?" Dean looks up the street, toward the station at a gray Prius slowly rolling past.
Checking to be sure that no other cars are on the road, he waves his hands frantically. Sam pulls over, relief plain on his face. "Get in."
"Are you fucking crazy? What are you doing here?" Dean checks for motion at the police station.
"I couldn't just leave you… They let you go?"
"Sam, those pigs wanted to book you. You're on their fucking radar now." Dean backs up from his window and runs his hand through his hair. "You being here is extremely stupid."
There's a muffled sound down the alley. Probably a cat jumping on a box, but Dean turns to get a quick look anyway.
"You taking that heat was stupid," Sam says.
"I know what the fuck I'm doing. I know how to deal with cops. When's the last time you were arrested?"
Sam doesn't have an answer for that one.
"Exactly. Now, get the fuck out of here." Dean points up the street, in the opposite direction of the police station. "Jody's coming."
"Let me drive you home."
Dean shakes his head. "No. We need to…Just… Go home, okay?" He leans into the passenger window and whisper-shouts. "I'm not trying to get you fucking locked up, okay? Now, would you please, go home."
"You don't even have on any shoes."
"Cops have 'em." Unfortunately, they were the good shoes he had gotten from Sam's dad, not the worn-out Chucks that pinched his toes, but oh, well. It was like one of those foxes chewing off its foot to escape a trap: a small sacrifice for freedom.
"Get in the car," Sam says. "Wait with me, until your mom comes."
"No." Dean pushes back off the car and swallows hard, aware that the party's over and that this is the last goodbye. "No. Get out of here."
