Dean pauses in front of the first Jack o' Lantern he's ever carved. It's kind of a hack job, but it's on the Winchester's front porch for all the world to see. Mrs. Winchester put a green bulb in his and a brown one in Jo's, so the eyes shine with the right colors. The swell of pride over his pumpkin is annihilated by the sinking dread at what he's about to do.
He reaches over and tugs down the hem of Jody's skin tight, sin-black, pleather mini dress. "I can't believe that's what you wore."
She frowns down at her plunging neckline. "What?"
"You look like a Robert Palmer video reject." It's too late to do anything about it. He pinches his lips together, rings the doorbell, and straightens the slim, black tie Sam bought him.
Dean had scrubbed the pits of the green shirt and laid it out overnight. It's stiff and gross under his arms, but it looks good.
The second the coach opens the door, his face falls. Jody's lights up like Christmas. She practically sings, "Hey Johnny."
Dean looks back and forth between them. "You two..."
Coach Winchester shakes his head, but his heavy glare tells a different story: one Dean suspects he already knows but does not want to hear out loud.
"Mm. Something's smellin' good in there." Jody shoves past the old man and into the house.
Dean considers apologizing for his mother, but it's not like you get to pick. The coach claps his shoulder, unspoken apology accepted. And maybe he's got things to atone for himself.
By the time Dean steps into the kitchen, Jody has her nose over a steaming sauce pot. Mary Winchester is either scandalized, impressed or both. She can't take her eyes off Jody's six-inch heels.
Jo bounces into the kitchen and damn near shakes Jody's hand off. "Mrs. Smith, it's a pleasure to meet you. I just want to tell you have raised such a wonderful boy."
Jody snickers and points at Dean like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard.
Dean crooks his arm over Jo's shoulder and kisses her hair. She smells like a frigging lollipop. "It took a good girl like Jo to bring out the gentleman in me."
Mrs. Winchester cuts her eyes at them like she suddenly can't stand to see them so close. Dean wouldn't be surprised if Jo has already spilled the beans about Sam to her mother. Or maybe now that she sees wht kind of stock he's from, the idea of the street rat with her precious daughter is completely unacceptable.
"Dean, would you bring me the salt, please?"
It's two feet away from her, but Dean does as he's asked. Jody investigates the cabinets. Then, she leaves the kitchen, letting her voice trail off behind her. "Where'd that handsome husband of yours get off to?"
Mrs. Winchester stirs her sauce. With her lips pursed like this, Dean can finally see a resemblance between her and her kids. "Jo, honey, can you make sure everything's on the table?"
Dean decides to find his mother before she breaks something, but he's too late. Jody already has Coach Winchester cornered behind his bar. His back is turned, her hand on his shoulder as if she's trying to get him to face her.
The coach notices Dean first. Then he and Jody both look up and back away from one another. Coach narrows his eyes at Dean and leaves the room in a dark cloud of silence.
"Jesus, Jody. What the fuck?" Dean barrels toward her.
She downs the rest of the drink the coach abandoned and takes a deep breath. The doorbell rings just in time to spare Dean from having to hear her answer.
"I'll get it." Mrs. Winchester calls out from the kitchen.
Sam's mom answers the door in her baking apron. She reaches up as he bends low to hug her.
"Sorry, we're late."
Castiel raises a hand over his heart in melodramatic sincerity. He holds the other hand in the air, as if taking a vow. "My fault entirely. Massive wardrobe crisis."
Crisis is right. It took him two hours to decide what to wear, and that was after his customary hour-long cleansing ritual. The resulting ensemble is a plum-colored crushed velvet blouse, green, black and white plaid slacks and pearl-blue alligator skin shoes. His coal black hair is slicked back like he's working for Al Capone.
Sam's mother smiles politely and offers her hand. "And you must be Castle?"
"Castiel," Sam says.
She smacks her forehead. "I knew I would mess it up. I tried to use those mnemonics, you know, where you have a picture that you associate with the name and-"
"Oh, it's all right. We've actually met before, but it was in another lifetime. I don't expect you to remember." Cas is still shaking her hand, like he's meeting a celebrity.
"I thought you looked familiar." She gives Sam a strange smile. "Why don't you boys come in?"
Without further discussion, Castiel barges past her and into the house. "Smells divine, Mary."
Sam drops his face to scratch his brow. There is no use trying to explain Cas.
His mother pats his arm. "He seems very spirited." She holds up the bottle Sam brought to examine the label. He hangs up his jacket and wipes his sweaty palms down his slacks. Bypassing the kitchen, Sam rounds the corner into the parlor.
Jody nudges Dean's arm. "Is that…"
As he turns around, Castiel bounds from the kitchen, clapping his hands in celebration. "Honey, look. It's the littlest heartbreaker. Did you know he would be here?"
Sam stops in his tracks, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. Castiel giggles into his fist.
"Let's go." Dean presses a hand on Jody's back and ushers her towards the door. Sam catches his elbow and Dean yanks away. "Get the fuck off me."
When Jody leaps between them, Sam blinks down at her. "I just… I need to talk to him. Please."
"No." Jody winces, like she's sick to her stomach. "You get lost, you freak."
"Mom." Dean gestures for her to wait for him by the door.
"I hate you talking to him."
"Just chill."
Dean lets Sam corral him into a corner raising his hands to make it clear that Sam is not to touch.
"Why are you here?"
"That's what you wanted to say?"
"You won't answer my calls. You…" Sam's lip trembles, glassy eyes trying to lock with Dean's.
"We're done, okay? Do you need me to say it any more plain than that?"
"Why?" Sam asks, sounding as if he's about to shatter. After a deep breath, he shakes his head. "No."
"No?"
"No. I can't… It can't be over. We haven't even really gotten started." He reaches for Dean's arm. "Let's just get through whatever the hell this is and then… we'll figure something out. Whatever it takes, okay?"
Dean doesn't agree to anything, but he doesn't argue. "Why are you here?"
"My mother said it was important."
Dean's eyes wander to the coach's bar where Jody and Castiel are plundering the hell out of his stash.
"I was with him for six years, and he never met my parents," Sam says.
"Whatever, dude." Dean tries to walk around him.
Sam presses his giant palm into the center of Dean's chest. "Not whatever."
"Dinner!" Mrs. Winchester's voice chimes from the kitchen.
It distracts Sam long enough for Dean to slip past him. Jo steps into the room and the smile melts from her face.
It's ten different kinds of fucked up, but at this point, it's a matter of self-defense when Dean slings his arm over her shoulder. Sam's mouth twitches like he wants to scream. The look on his face reflects exactly how Dean feels.
"We should go eat." The only reason Dean doesn't insist he and Jody split altogether is out of respect for Mrs. Winchester.
He knows how much work is involved in preparing all that food and the meal is probably going to be the only good thing about his last night in Kansas.
Jo nuzzles her forehead against Dean's chin as they walk to the dining room. She wraps her arm around his waist and whispers, "You have to tell Daddy. I can't do it. It has to come from you. But he will protect you, I promise. When he hears about this, he'll kick that freak the hell out of here and you won't have to look at him ever again."
She fits perfectly under Dean's arm. He's so comfortable with her. They move so naturally together. They make sense in a way Sam knows he and Dean never will.
Sam stands rooted to his spot on the floor until his mother curls her arm around his and escorts him to the table.
Once everyone is seated, Mrs. Winchester squeezes the coach's arm. "John, would you say the grace?"
Jody fights back her laughter. The others mimic him in bowing their heads. All hands are solemnly clasped over crystal salad plates. All souls await the blessing. Coach Winchester raises his dark eyes on Sam. "What is he doing here?"
Mrs. Winchester reaches across the table to touch Sam's hand. "I invited our son to dinner."
"Why didn't you talk to me first?"
"Because I had a feeling you might behave the way you're behaving now."
"So you went behind my back?" The old man's fists coil on either side of his plate.
"This is a family dinner, John. Sam is a part of this family."
The coach smashes his hands on the table and knocks over his chair when he stands. The cutlery bounces and clangs back down slightly askew on the white tablecloth. "This is my house, Mary!"
"John, please."
"I don't have a thing to say to him."
Sam is the only person not looking at the coach. He's too busy staring at Dean.
The coach shakes his head and starts to leave the room.
"Dad?" Sam rises slowly from his seat. He's half a foot taller than his father, but he seems small and somewhere around half his age. "I know I let you down..."
Coach Winchester stops in his tracks to glare at Sam. "Let down? A missed pass is a letdown. A lost game, hell, a shitty season is a letdown. The moment you turned your back on the game, you turned your back on me."
"Dad."
"I see you, all I see is failure. And I can't stand to look at it." Coach takes a stilted breath. "You had the chance to be a superhero, Sam. And you chose to be a gay accountant."
No one gasps. No mouths fall agape at the revelation. Jo looks angry. Dean is studying his plate. His mother watches like they're on television and Cas' expression is impossible to read. Sam's mother's face is blank and drawn, but she doesn't seem surprised.
"You knew?"
Sam's father scowls like he wishes he had snuffed his son in his cradle. "How could I not know? I probably knew before you. Bet you don't remember how you used to drool over the muscle magazines even before you started school."
Sam doesn't remember it, and he's too stunned to respond.
"You remember being ring bearer at your mom's cousin's wedding?" Sam's father continues, "How you told everybody in the church that you were going to marry Carlos Vega?"
Dean's face is a mask. It's driving Sam insane not to know what he's thinking.
"Do you remember that, Sam?" His father's voice snaps him out of his oncoming panic.
"Carlos was my best friend in kindergarten." That is all Sam recalls.
"Yeah, but that's not what you said."
"Oh, John, he was five. It was adorable." Sam's mother tries to touch her husband's hand. "Everyone laughed."
"They laughed because he wasn't their kid… Fifth grade. Scout trip. You remember that?"
Sam has the scars to be sure he never forgets that.
Somehow, though, he's only remembered the beating, not the cause of it. He always remembers his father's cold wrath, but not how his ten-year-old self had incurred it. In one cruel rush, the whole thing comes flooding back, like water bursting through a levee.
By some miracle, Sam is unable to cry about it now.
Mrs. Winchester rests her hand on the coach's. "We don't need to dwell on the past anymore, John. Sam. This is supposed to be a celebration. Our family is growing. Can we just celebrate that? Mrs. Smith?"
Jody looks at her and at Dean, but doesn't answer.
"Okay. We'll start with Sam's news." Mrs. Winchester motions to Sam and Castiel. "They're getting married. Isn't that lovely?"
"Sam is already married," the coach says.
Dean concentrates on forcing air in and out of his burning lungs.
Sam hangs his head. "I talked to Ruby…"
"Oh, how is she?" Mrs. Winchester asks. "Tell me that you two have patched things up."
Sam shifts his fork one inch to the left. "We talked. Yes."
"Where is she? What is she doing?" She rests her elbows on the table, and her chin on her folded hands, clearly awaiting a full report.
"She, uh, she lives in Florida. Near her parents." Sam clears his throat. "She has a daughter. Luna."
Dean's mother points her fork at him. "She's yours, isn't she?"
As soon as Jody makes the accusation, Sam's eyes fly to Dean. Dean's face warms, and he can only imagine what shade of pink he must be. If Sam is trying to be inconspicuous, he's doing a really shitty job of it. Dean shifts in his seat and stares at his plate.
"Luna?" Mrs. Winchester repeats the little girl's name.
Sam's daughter.
"Johnny," Jody calls after Coach Winchester as he flees the room.
"I can't right now, Jody. I just can't."
Sam's mother and sister huddle on the sofa like mourners, in their simple, black dresses, with their heads bowed. Cas and Jody are vultures, buzzing around his father's bar again. Sam gives a quick nod towards the steps and hopes that Dean will follow.
He hasn't really walked this house in more than six years. Everything seems smaller. There's no reason to get sentimental or offended that they've turned his old bedroom into an office. Dean alone is all Sam wants right now.
His eyes are drawn by the shuffle of Dean's ratty basketball sneakers over the hardwood in his parents' hallway. "You were supposed to buy new shoes."
"Yeah, well. I didn't." Dean's hands are in his pockets. At least he's wearing the black jeans, shirt and tie Sam bought him. Apart from the shoes, he looks perfect.
"Your money is at the apartment. I'll get it back to you."
"Why are you being like this? And what's with you and Jo?"
"Jealousy's not a good look, man." Dean picks a pad of Post-it notes from the table and says, "I think our parents are fucking. My mom and your dad. How nutty is that shit?"
"I definitely get that impression." Sam shuts the door. "Listen. I've been researching the hell out of this thing. Missouri. My apartment, we… I could definitely get into some serious trouble if we keep… but here, in Kansas, they've got these bullshit criminal sodomy laws on the books. Point one on the statute targets gay men specifically. It's unconstitutional, bogus garbage, but it's the fucking law. It's almost like the best thing would be for us to move to fricking Iowa."
Through Sam's entire legal tirade, Dean has been thumbing through the user manual for the inkjet printer. "What's with you and boy scouts?"
"Me and... yeah." Sam slumps to the floor with his back against the wall and lays out the story of his scars in Technicolor, sparing no detail he can remember.
It was just a stupid dare. Sam didn't even like Matt Carter. He had nursed a raging crush on Matt's brother, Nathan, for most of middle school, but that was later. Matt was cute, but he also pushed people around. Sam had never liked him, not even as a person.
For some reason Sam could no longer remember, Matt got it into his skull that Sam would love to kiss him. For the longest time, Sam had ignored his taunting, but at the end of the day, when Matt dared him, instead of working on the bonfire like he was supposed to be doing, Sam had grabbed hold of Matt's ears and sucked on his mouth until the stupid idiot stumbled backwards and fell over a log. It was priceless.
The whole troop flew, squealing, up to the campsite like they had seen a mountain lion. Sam had swaggered up behind them, feeling light as air, and big as Paul Bunyan for taking the bet, not for kissing Matt. The kissing had just been slimy and gross. He couldn't figure out why anyone would ever want to do it.
By the time Sam was nearly up the hill, his dad was storming toward him with a stick in his hand. His dad had never hit him, so Sam didn't even have the good sense to cower or run.
Sam had been stung by a jellyfish in Bermuda the summer before that. When the first blow struck his shoulder, it felt a lot like that. Only it was worse, because it was coming from his dad who was wearing an expression like he planned to kill Sam, one sting at a time.
Sam's dad spun him around and shoved his face into a tree. Stunned, Sam grasped at the trunk to keep from falling. His dad tugged down his khaki shorts in one quick movement. Just his shorts. The underwear, he left in place. Tiny mercies.
"Boys don't kiss boys, Sam." Each syllable came with a searing slice over the backs of his thighs. "Say it."
As Sam remembers it, he wasn't so much crying as gasping for air, trying not to asphyxiate, while hot tears poured down his face. How was he supposed to speak when he couldn't even breathe?
"SAY IT, SAM!"
"Boysdontkissboys." The words blurted out of Sam's mouth as he sucked in a jagged breath.
"Boys don't marry boys." Again, there was a sting from the switch and a shriek from Sam for every word.
"Daddy, please." Sam tried to turn around.
His father pushed him back into place, fist clamped around his neck, pinning his cheek against the bark as he lashed. "Say it, Sam."
Piss warmed the front of his Captain America Underoos and slid, tickly down his leg. His father never let up. "Say it, goddamn it."
"Boys don't … marry boys."
"Boys like girls. Boys love girls." There was just one swat for each word.
Sam's legs were on fire, as sure as if he had been burning at the stake. His father could have hit him a hundred or a thousand times more. It wouldn't have hurt any worse. He couldn't have cried out any louder. "Boys love girls."
"Are you a boy, Sam? Are you?" Sam's father dug his thumb into the side of his throat.
His whole body ignited with pain; the world spun before his eyes. He tried to respond to the trick question with the wavering hope that his father would let him live. "Yes, Daddy."
"Say it."
"I'm a boy." It had made him think of Pinocchio. Sam was old enough to know his nose wasn't going to grow. And old enough to know that, somehow, his father was making him lie.
"Say it."
"I'm a boy."
His father held him in place. "And boys do what?"
"Like girls."
"You got that, Sam?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"You know what happens to boys who kiss boys? They die. People kill them because they're dirty. Is that what you want?"
"No, sir."
His father stepped back and dropped the stick. Sam clung to the tree until his legs buckled and he slid to his knees in the cold piss-mud.
When he was finally able to turn around, the whole troop was still standing on the crest of the hill, watching, like the Winchesters were the main attraction in the Coliseum.
Sam watched his father's back as he marched off. In the distance, an engine turned over, and wheels peeled out as he left the campground.
Mr. Carter, Matt's dad and troopmaster tried to scoop Sam up, but it hurt his legs too bad. So, he made Matt and another kid help Sam up to his tent. He put some kind of ointment on the gashes on the backs of his legs and the scrapes on his face.
When Sam's father came back, he smelled like sweat and beer, like he always did after bad fights with Sam's mother.
Through the walls of his tent, Sam overheard Mr. Carter saying, "I'm not telling you how to raise your boy, John."
"Make sure you don't."
"But some of those gashes are pretty deep. I think he's going to need some stitches."
"He'll be fine," Sam's father said. "You take care of your boys. I'll handle Sam."
"And now, you know that."
Dean curls his fingers in Sam's hair, massaging his scalp and making him rest his head on Dean's shoulder. "Your dad's a fucking asshole."
Sam doesn't reply.
"To give up his son over fucking football. You realize he's insane, right?"
"He always said it was the family business."
"It doesn't matter." Dean grips Sam's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "It's complete bull. And who fucking cares that you're an accountant. You're not going to cry over a maniac like that. I won't allow it."
Sam huffs and nods his agreement.
They sit in silence for a what feels like a long time before Dean stands and snags a paper weight football from the desk. "This used to be your room?"
Sam points at the corner that now houses a computer desk. "My bed was right there."
"Bet you got laid a lot." Dean presses the power switch on the printer and the machine hums to life and back down again.
"I guess I could have. I was basically mauled at Homecoming my freshman year."
"Yeah. You told me about that. Girl probably thought you wanted it."
"I didn't. Sam's lip curls as he thinks of Cara Jones in his lap with her dress hiked up around her waist. "I dated this girl, Jessica Moore, for the rest of high school. Super Christian, so she didn't want to have sex any more than I did. I mean, I wanted to. Just not with her. The guys on the team assumed we were doing it. That was good enough for me."
Dean hunts for something else to distract himself and avoid eye contact. Sam doesn't try to force the issue. Instead, he points to the far wall. "I had four Tom Brady posters. I was so into him."
Dean nods like he can see where Sam had them lined up on the wall. "Yeah, he's hot. His wife, too."
Finally, unable to stand the distance and the uncertainty any longer, Sam takes the paperweight from Dean and sets it down. He holds the kid's busy hands in his own and swallows thickly. "What do you think of me now?"
Dean looks down at their hands rather than at Sam's face. "What am I supposed to say to that?"
"That you hate me. Because I'm just like your father."
Dean pulls away and fiddles with a stapler. He paces the room, putting space between them again. "You know how many times I wished my father would have just split and left us the fuck alone instead of chasing us across the fucking country? You're nothing like that dirtbag. Plus, you didn't even know, right?"
The stapler pops open, sending a tiny rain of shiny binders to the floor. Dean looks down at them for a long moment before he plops into the black leather office chair and begins swiveling back and forth.
Sam leans forward with his hands on Dean's knees to make him be still. He prostrates himself before the boy and holds his flawless face between trembling hands. "Would you look at me, please?"
If Dean was in his right state of mind, he would have told Sam to stop being a girl. As it is, he feels like a fucking girl himself: all overheated and melty, heart beating out of control. It never fails. This is what Sam reduces him to.
Sam lifts up onto his knees to kiss him. Dean holds him back by his shoulders. "You need to go see your kid."
Sam shakes his head and lowers his eyes. "She's not … I mean, I'm pretty much a sperm donor."
"Do you know what it's like growing up without a dad, Sam? It's bullshit. This kid has a father, and if you want to call yourself a man, you need to fucking suck it up, and go see her."
Sam scratches the back of his neck and eventually nods, all earnest and glassy eyed. "Yeah. Of course, I know, you're right. Doesn't mean I'm not scared out of my mind."
"How old is she?"
"Five."
"Little kids don't bite."
"Actually, some of them do." Sam kisses the back of Dean's hand where it lays on the armrest. "Would you go with me?"
Dean's mouth falls open, and he snorts out a strange laugh.
"She should know you. Right from the start."
"That's … kind of a huge deal." Dean pins his gaze to the clock on the wall. "Look, I wasn't going to say anything, but we're leaving tomorrow."
Sam lets the words sink in. Then, he shakes them away. "What if I don't want you to go?"
"Tough."
"It doesn't matter where you wind up. I will come see you every single weekend."
Dean's laughs it off, insides roiling.
Without warning, Sam pulls at his fly. That would have been fine if they weren't in his parents' house - Dean's coach's house with everyone downstairs. He glances at the door. "Dude."
"I need you now." Sam's voice is shaky, fingers fumbling with his button.
Gently, he pushes Dean back against the chair to slide down his zipper. Dean lifts his hips slightly so that Sam can tug his jeans and briefs down, just enough. Sam licks his lips. Dean's shaft twitches back at him, plumping up like Sam is some kind of dick tamer.
He bows his head to place a kiss on the tip. Dean grips the arms of the chair and watches, because if he does anything else, he'll lose it. Sam pushes the fabric of Dean's shirt out of the way, and he tucks it under his chin. Sam sticks out his thick tongue like a little kid. Then, he presses Dean's cock to his stomach so he can lick a hot stripe from his balls to the tip. He blinks slowly, hazel eyes turned up, as if for approval.
"God." Dean's hand quivers on its way to Sam's neck.
He takes him in, to the hilt and hums, sending vibrations rippling through Dean's whole body. Dean closes his eyes and clenches his teeth to keep back the sounds welling up in his throat. The fingers of both hands twine in Sam's hair to hold him still as Dean pumps his hips, fucking up into Sam's moaning mouth.
Sam grips his thighs and pulls off for a moment to catch his breath. His eyes water and he lets the tears trail down his face. "I don't want you to go."
It isn't another two minutes before Dean shoots down Sam's throat, drowning in the tidal wave of pleasure crashing through his veins. His back arches off the chair. He bites his own tongue to keep from shouting out loud.
Before he catches his breath, he sinks to his knees on the floor in front of Sam and wraps his hands around his neck. It would be great if it weren't for all the goddam staples biting into his knees through the denim. He reaches for Sam's belt with one hand.
Sam nuzzles his cheek. "You don't have to do anything."
"Would you shut up?" Dean sucks Sam's tongue into his mouth, savoring the salty aftertaste of himself. "You have to be quiet. I mean it."
Sam nips his bottom lip. "I'm always quiet."
"Like hell, you are." Dean grips a handful of Sam's Beast over his slacks.
The damn thing reaches most of the way to his knees. Sam rubs his huge hands over Dean's shoulders and down his arms while Dean sets him free.
'What the fuck. This is the last time I'm ever going to see him. If we're going to do this shit, let's do it.'
Dean turns around in Sam's arms and juts his hips back to grind his ass against the massive, seeping hard on.
Sam's arm closes around Dean's waist, holding him up and in place. "I don't have any lube, Dean."
Dean looks back over his shoulder. "I don't give a shit."
For the first time in his life, Dean actually wants to be fucked. More specifically, he wants Sam to fuck him, right here in the bedroom of this house where he had to hide all those years.
He lowers his chest onto the seat of the office chair, wets his fingers in his mouth and reaches back to begin opening himself up. It's been a long time. He's tight as hell and Sam is huge. They're both going to have to be patient, or Dean is going to feel it for a week. Then again, that wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened.
Sam kisses the back of his neck. The Beast dips into the crease of his ass. A warm hand clutches Dean's waist. Sam's hips reel back and forth, dragging his dick slowly between his cheeks, slipping over his hole. Dean is as ready as he's ever going to be.
All of a sudden, he's being lifted and twisted like he doesn't weigh anything until they are kneeling, facing each other again.
Sam licks his own hand, arches his back and angles his shaft down to lodge himself between Dean's thighs. Dean locks his knees together and lets Sam pull him close, staring hard into his eyes.
The first few presses forward and back are calm and steady. A low hum sounds in Sam's throat, like an engine revving. It doesn't take long for that sound to grow into a rumble and then, a growl. The louder he gets, the harder he rams.
"Sam," Dean half-whispers/half-gasps, trying to get him to shut up.
Sam folds his arms all the way around Dean's torso and begins to snap his hips in earnest. "Fuck."
Dean lifts off his knees every time Sam drives forward. He isn't groaning anymore; he is full on sobbing. Sam's fingers slip through Dean's hair. "God. Don't fucking leave me. Dean, please."
That hand settles on the back of his neck and holds so tight it borders on painful. Sam whimpers and thrashes against Dean's body, not chasing his climax, but like it's dogging him.
"Shhh. It's okay. I'm right here," Dean breathes into his ear.
Sam's arms close even tighter around him as he wails like a wounded animal.
"Sam." Dean's spine is bent at an awkward, not entirely comfortable angle.
His head lolls back in Sam's hand. Sam's mouth latches onto his throat, making greedy, wet noises. Dean wills himself to let go. To give Sam his way. More than anything, he wants this big, beautiful, broken man to forget all the crap he's been through. To use Dean to make himself feel good. "That's it, Sam. Ah, God. Whatever you need."
The doorknob turns slowly, like in a horror film. The door opens even slower. At least that's how it seems. In a matter of seconds that stretch out like minutes, Coach Winchester's face morphs from curious to horrified.
"Jesus Christ, Sam. Get off of him." Sam's father grabs him by the scruff of his shirt.
He hauls him away from Dean and tosses his body halfway across the room. In the scuffle, the chair overturns loudly, one of its steel arms scraping Sam's back deep enough to leave a fresh scar.
Dean fixes his clothes, avoiding the coach's eyes. Sam pulls up his pants and stands on the balls of his feet, ready to fight, if necessary. "I love him, Dad. I don't care how old he is or what you think of it. I love him. I'm completely fucking in love with this kid."
Dean's face has gone vacant again. It doesn't matter; Sam will fight this battle for both of them.
"He's your brother."
"What?" Sam and Dean reply in unison.
Sam's father does not repeat himself. He glares at Sam until the words begin to sink in, even if they still don't make any sense. John Winchester grabs a fistful of Sam's shirt. "That doesn't leave this room. You understand me? You even dream of telling your mother, I'll kill you." His eyes flicker to Dean before he moves to the door. "Get yourselves together and come downstairs, for Christ's sake."
'Sometimes when old men call you son, it's out of a sense of entitlement. Sometimes it's something else.'
"I just … I need…" Dean searches the room for something, for nothing, for anything.
He leans away when Sam tries to smother him in his overlong arms. Dean needs space, air, an explanation, and to get the fuck out of this place. He shakes head and escapes the room.
Mary and Jo have disappeared. For a welcome change, Castiel is actually quiet, sitting with his legs crossed, twirling a tumbler of something Dean could use a shot of right about now.
Jody silently nurses a drink as well. She raises her eyes timidly when he comes down the steps.
"So, what the fuck?"
"You guys are really loud," she mumbles.
"Jody. What. The. Fuck?"
Coach Winchester has the nerve to say, "Don't talk to her that way."
Dean's head snaps around to glare at the man and then back at Jody. She scowls at Sam, who has just come down the steps, and then lowers her face. "I told you to stay away from him."
"You knew?" Dean whispers, unable to speak the words any louder, amazed he's not screaming at the top of his lungs.
"I found out about Sam today." She glances at the coach. "I recognized John the second I saw him, of course, but I didn't know he had other children... We didn't do a lot of talking."
The coach stares at his feet as Jody explains.
"Listen, Dean. John and I have decided…" She looks at the old man again. "It's for the best if you stay here."
"What?"
Dean yanks away as she reaches for his hand. He bolts out of the door and is halfway up the block when his mother pads up behind him. She's had to abandon the whore shoes to catch up. "Dean."
"No." He doesn't even turn to look at her lying face, and flinches when her hand brushes his arm. "Don't fucking touch me. Do not talk to me."
"Dean, your dad…"
He stops in his tracks. "He's not my father. How can he be my father, Jody? It's not possible."
"There are some things that... " She scratches the side of her neck and touches her lips. "You just have to trust me on this. He can keep you safe here."
"So, he's not my dad?" His eyes narrow, watching her for confirmation.
She nods. "No, he is. And I can't explain it now. And you can't tell Mary Winchester. She'd… She wouldn't understand. You'd crush her, and you're not like that. You're not cruel like that."
"What's to understand?" Dean's laugh borders on hysteria. "John Winchester fucked you when you were a kid, ran off, and left you to … " Dean pauses, unable to bridge the widest gap in this story. "Who is the guy? The guy that's always after us? If Winchester is my dad, who the hell is that?"
"I can't … Maybe someday I can tell you everything. Right now, this is your family." She gestures behind him to the house. "John is your father, but no one else can know that. We just thought it would be good for you to know, so that you and Sam ... You told me you were going to knock that off."
"Yeah, well. You told me my father was the creep in the leather jacket."
"I'm sorry I lied. And I…" She starts to walk backward, away from him.
"Jody." Dean's feet might as well be superglued to the spot. "You seriously want to just leave me here?"
"Do you know the chances… This is the best… It's…" When her lip starts to tremble, she turns her back and hurries away.
"Jody!" He calls after her, unable to move. "Mom?"
Dean stares into his cup: Schnapps with a splash of tea. Mildred crosses her arms over her chest. "Well, you don't have to tell me the details, but you've done enough moping to know that doesn't fix a thing. Come, help me clean this attic."
As he's rising to follow her up the stairs, the doorbell rings. Mildred answers and Dean hears Sam's voice at the door, but lacks the energy to run through the back door like he should do. When Sam enters the room, Dean rolls his eyes and looks away.
"My mom thought you would be here."
Mildred plants her fists on her hips. "If you were supposed to be hiding out, you should have said so."
Sam stands there like he has some announcement to make, but there isn't anything to say. He lowers himself beside Dean on the couch. Mildred looks between them, and Dean can see the precise moment the lightbulb goes on in her skull. Her mouth opens wide, and she says, "Sam. Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Baker."
"Then, I'll leave you boys to it."
She's hardly left the room before Sam tries to twist their fingers together. "What did your mother say?"
Dean folds his arms over his chest, keeping his fucking fingers to himself. "She's fucking leaving me here."
"You mean…" Sam sighs and lowers his head. "Thank God. I mean, you know how much better off you'll be, right?"
Dean has never wanted to hit anyone more in his entire life.
"And that's why. That has to be why my father said that. And my mom said the family was growing, even before she knew about Luna, because… They had this all planned out. We're supposed to act like brothers. Not that we are. We can't be. You know that, right?" Sam grips Dean's knee. "We're not brothers, Dean. Look at me. We're not. We can't be."
