Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8360404.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Sam_Winchester/OMC
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-23 Words: 15214
****** Outsiders ******
by oschun
Summary
     John is on a hunt and has left the boys in a dead-end factory town.
     Sam is 16 and starting to realize who he is and what he wants.
The rustle of sheets, the expulsion of breath that ends in a muffled groan, the
barely visible movement of a hand beneath the covers in the darkened room, the
quickening of sound and motion: it’s all so familiar. Newly familiar is the
catch in his chest, the heat that builds in his stomach and the way he starts
to harden in response. It’s like that lately.
Rather than flipping over and wrapping a pillow around his ears - his usual
reaction - he turns his head very slowly and narrows his eyes in the darkness
to watch the shifting of shadows across the long, darkened form in the bed next
to his. His hand edges down his bare stomach, slips into his boxers and grips
his erection. It’s almost involuntary.
He concentrates on the sound and movement coming from the other bed, matching
his breathing and the smooth slide of his hand to that of his brother’s, until
he imagines they’re touching each other, not themselves. His ribcage tightens,
squeezing the breath from his lungs in shallow pants, forcing him to bite down
on his lower lip in an attempt to remain quiet - but he cannot stop the grunt
that escapes his mouth when he comes in his hand. It’s a quieter echo of the
long, satisfied groan from the other bed.
It’s suddenly so silent that a ringing begins in his ears. He clenches his jaw,
holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut. His brother must have heard him.
He can sense him listening, waiting in the darkness. His muscles tighten as he
holds himself rigidly silent.
Eventually, he hears the sound of deep, even breathing that signals Dean is
asleep. Sam relaxes his body and lets out a slow sigh. He wants to get up and
clean himself. His bladder is full and starting to hurt but he can’t risk
getting out of bed. He lies staring at the ceiling, shame burning his face, the
cold come on his stomach starting to dry and stick to the sheets. He goes to
the bathroom only when he’s absolutely sure Dean is deep in sleep. He pees and
washes away the evidence of what he’s done.
***
The next morning Sam struggled to meet Dean’s eyes over the breakfast counter.
He concentrated his attention on the bowl of cereal in front of him, scooping
up the exact same number of corn flakes in each spoonful like it was some sort
of superstitious ritual. Dean didn’t break the silence either and left the
house earlier than usual, throwing something that sounded like a goodbye over
his shoulder.
School was interminable, each lesson dragging its way through the ticking
seconds. Sam felt more distanced from the noise and busyness than usual. He’d
only been at the school for two weeks and his natural defences were still up.
He didn’t bother eating lunch, went to the library instead with the other
social misfits who found refuge in its supervised solace, away from the
boisterous interactions of their peers. The librarian kept a beady eye on them,
staring daggers over the top of her glasses if anyone breathed too loudly.
He escaped the school’s confines as soon as the final bell rang and spent the
afternoon working on an English assignment under a tree in the overgrown yard
of their most recent address. A home it wasn’t. Sam looked at the house with
distaste. Paint peeled from the clapboard walls, the screen door hung on its
hinges and the roof leaked, leaving dark stains on the walls inside. The
neighbourhood was a mishmash of trailer homes and shotgun housing.
Through the broken fence Sam could see the kids playing in the yard next door.
There were four of them, ranging between the ages of two and ten. They were
skinny, pale-skinned and grubby-faced, playing strangely silent games through
the metal wreckage of abandoned cars in the yard. He’d watched them yesterday,
too, wondering at their silence.
A dog, secured to an iron bolt in the ground by a thick metal chain attached to
the collar around its neck, also watched the children play. The kids avoided
the perimeter allowed by the chain, and judging by the snarl on the dog’s face
as it watched them, there was good reason to stay away from it. It was some
sort of half-breed, the Rottweiler evident in its colouring and the size of its
head but not in the rangy frame.
A small, furred mass, buzzing with flies, lay near the dog. Day before
yesterday, Sam had watched a ginger cat foolishly attempt to take a short-cut
through the yard. The dog had come out of the long grass and gripped its back
end in crushing jaws, had shaken the slack form around a bit and then flung it
off to the side. One of the kids had ambled over a few minutes later and poked
the broken, bloodied body with a stick, then lost interest and wandered off,
leaving it where it lay. It was still there.
Sam watched as the youngest kid climbed out of an abandoned wreck he’d been
pretending to drive, squat and take a shit next to it. It was an easy procedure
as the boy was naked from the waist down, wearing only a grubby little t-shirt.
He finished and climbed back into the busted car.
A voice called from the porch of the kids’ house. Sam leaned over on his side,
trying to get a glimpse of whoever it was through the broken wooden pickets. A
boy of about his own age walked into view and called the younger kids. They
instantly left what they were doing and ran up to him. The older boy lifted the
youngest up onto his hip. Probably going to get shit on his clothes, Sam
thought. As if he’d heard him, the boy turned his head and looked at Sam lying
on the blanket with his books spread around him.
Sam was instantly struck by the intensity of the other boy’s expression. Even
with the younger child tucked protectively on his hip and rubbing its grubby
face with affection into his chest, he still radiated fierce anger and
defiance. He had a buzz-cut, glinting dark-blond in the sunlight, and sharp
cheekbones. His smooth, pale skin and full lips added an almost feminine
quality to his appearance, at odds with his rangy, muscular frame.
Something about him reminded Sam of the dog’s latent aggression. He felt a
shiver of fear and, for a moment, something else he couldn’t quite label. Sam
quickly looked down at his book. When he looked up again they’d disappeared
into the house.
Dean didn’t come home for supper. He’d taken a part-time job at the auto parts
factory that swallowed up half the town’s male population every morning and
then spat them out again in the evening to drink away their wages in the
various dives dotted around town. Dean was supplementing the money from the
factory work by hustling pool, and a couple of times a week he didn’t come home
until late at night. Normally, he’d tell Sam when he intended to go out. He
hadn’t mentioned it this morning, although he hadn’t actually said much of
anything.
Sam allowed his mind to wander back to the night before, something he’d been
avoiding all day, and couldn’t help thinking that was the reason why Dean had
gone out tonight. Dean had heard him, known what he was doing in the dark, and
was now staying away from him.
Sam sat at the breakfast counter, finishing off the English assignment that
wasn’t due for another two weeks. He’d cooked and waited until after nine for
Dean to come back. Finally, he gave up and set aside his books to eat the
dried-out meal on his own. The naked bulb above him cast a too-bright light
over the shabby kitchen and made him feel old and sad. He’d heard somewhere
that the average person spoke 4300 words a day, and wondered if he’d even made
it to a 1000 today.
He started trying to count the number of words he’d uttered during the course
of the day and then stopped, scared that he was starting to lose it. He had to
get out of this life. There had to be something else out there for him,
something more than this loneliness, this isolation from other people. Even
when Dad was home, he wasn’t really here.
Something weird was going on between Dean and him, too. It wasn’t like it used
to be. Even those occasional glimpses of something casual and carefree seemed
to have disappeared. He couldn’t remember when that had happened.
He was already in bed, the light switched off, but awake and waiting (as
usual), when he heard Dean return. The door to their bedroom opened and he
listened to the sound of Dean undressing: the thump of heavy boots being
discarded and unzipping jeans. Sam heard him collapse into bed with a deep
sigh. He could smell the booze on Dean from where he lay. He turned his head
and could just make out that his brother was facing him, his eyes glinting in
the dark. Sam looked back at him. Neither of them spoke.
They lay like that for a few moments. Sam was about to turn over on his side
and go to sleep when he made out a movement in the dark. Dean was trailing a
hand down his chest, and then, like he was issuing a dare, pushed the sheet off
his body. Sam’s chest tightened. It was too dark for him to make out any
details but he could see that Dean was naked and that he’d lowered his hand to
touch himself. Sam’s dick twitched in response. The rest of him remained frozen
in fear.
Dean turned his head to stare up at the ceiling and made almost no sound as he
jerked off. Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away and they started to water with the
intensity of staring unblinking at the movement of Dean’s hand. Real tears
started to well up after Dean came with a quiet grunt and turned his back on
him. Sam wasn’t exactly sure why, but he felt like crying, really crying, like
when he was younger.
Dean had already left when Sam woke the next morning. He stared up at the
stains on the ceiling and considered taking the day off school. He felt raw and
confused. A headache pooled just behind his eyes, and he wasn’t sure he could
deal with another day of noise and badly taught lessons. Deciding that to stay
in the house all day was a worse option, he hauled himself out of bed.
The day didn’t start well. A kid who’d been off school for a few days after his
Dad’s death freaked out during a lesson over something another kid said to him.
A fight ensued. It ended with a chair going through a window and two male
teachers having to haul the boys off each other.
It didn’t get any better. At recess a twitchy girl wearing a lot of black
eyeliner had come on to him, and when he’d politely refused her invitation to a
party, she’d called him a fag and spat on the floor in front of him. He wasn’t
sure which incident had rattled him more.
By the end of the day he was feeling tightly wound-up and just wanted to
escape. To Sam, the school looked like a prison or some sort of barracks with
its concrete central area, low prefabricated buildings and surrounding fence.
That wasn’t to be the end of it though.
A group of older boys were waiting for him outside a side gate when he left
school. The Winchester training kicked in and his senses sharpened as soon as
he saw them. They loitered a little way down the road outside the gate, huddled
around a shared cigarette. They pretended indifference when he appeared, but
from the changes in their body language he knew they’d been waiting
specifically for him.
Sam crossed the street, head down and hands in his pockets. He avoided looking
directly at them as he passed but remained aware of their position. As soon as
the traffic cleared, they crossed the street and he could hear them behind him.
When the shove came from behind, he was ready for it and rolled his shoulder
forward to reduce its impact then spun around to face them.
“You hit on my girlfriend today, newbie?” One of them said. He hissed his words
through small, stained teeth, the product of bad dentistry and worse breeding.
Sam remembered the girl from recess. He responded in quiet, measured tones,
“Don’t even know your girlfriend, dude. And I didn’t hit on anyone today.”
“Don’t fuck with me, you little shit!” Conversation wasn’t exactly the point of
this confrontation; the boy made that clear by following his words with a right
fist. Sam turned his head to take it on the cheek, moved with the force of the
punch and fell backwards. In his mind he calculated the next four moves to take
them out. Worked it out logically like a game of pool, like Dean had taught
him.
Of course, he didn’t take them out, just lay there, hoping a single punch and
some grovelling on the ground would satisfy them. Fighting at school wasn’t
allowed. It was Dad’s golden rule. Stay out of trouble, keep your head down and
don’t attract any attention from the authorities. So he played possum on the
sidewalk.
He wasn’t expecting the boot in his stomach and it connected hard, forcing the
breath from his body in a long whoosh. The pain disengaged his mind from the
ingrained rules. He acted on instinct when the boot came at him a second time.
He reached up, grabbed it in both hands and twisted hard. The boy ended up on
the ground. That just got his buddies pissed off, who then started their own
boot party on Sam’s body. He curled up in a ball to protect his middle and
pulled his hands up over his head.
He was still preparing himself for a seriously violent ass-kicking when it
stopped. He heard shouting, a grunt of pain and the unmistakable sound of fists
on flesh. He lowered his arms, looked up and saw that someone else had joined
the fight. With surprise, Sam recognised the boy from next door.
“Holden, you fucker, this ain’t your fight. Stay out of it,” a short, thick-set
boy shouted at the new arrival.
“I’m making it my fight, fat guts,” the boy called Holden snarled. He was
bouncing on the balls of his feet and had his fists clenched in front of him.
There was a crazy glint in his eye, and he was grinning with anticipation.
Fat Guts took offence to the name and rushed him, putting his head down and
charging like a bull. Holden side-stepped the charge, grabbed the kid’s arm as
he rushed past and spun him around. He caught his other out-flung arm and
pulled him forward into a hard head-butt, at the same time lifting a knee and
shoving it between stocky legs. Even Sam grimaced at the kid’s howl of pain.
Fat Guts was on his knees, hands between his legs cradling his damaged goods.
The other boys stood facing Holden in a semi-circle off to the side, judging
whether this was a fight worth continuing. They were breathing heavily and one
of them had blood dripping from his nose.
The kid with bad teeth sneered, “You’re going to regret this, going to wish you
were dead like your fucking whore of a mother, Holden.” Holden stepped forward
menacingly. The boys stepped back in a mirrored movement, and Holden’s face
twisted into a dark, triumphant smile.
“Fuck this,” Bad Teeth said, “Let’s get out of here. Leave these two fags to
each other.”
The four thugs moved off down the street, checking over their shoulders to see
if they were being followed. Sam picked himself up, grimacing at the sharp pain
in his ribs. Holden turned to watch him get up.
“Why’d you do that?” Sam asked, dusting the dirt off his clothes.
“Wasn’t going to,” came the response. “Just another pussy new kid getting his
ass kicked. Then I saw you do that move where you flipped that fucker, Johnson,
on his back. You could’ve taken them, but you didn’t. Got me interested. Why
didn’t you fight back?”
Sam shrugged, “I don’t like fighting.”
“Nobody likes fighting except brain-dead assholes like them,” Holden said,
nodding his head in the direction the thugs had disappeared. “It’s got nothing
to do with liking it. Just has to be done sometimes. It’s self-preservation,
man.” He had a strange, low voice, something slightly androgynous about it,
like his appearance.
Sam shrugged again.
“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Holden said as he headed across the street
towards the opening of a path through the long grass. “What’s your name,
anyway?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Sam,” Sam replied as he followed Holden’s retreating back.
They crossed an abandoned plot of land south of the school, then dropped over a
ridge and followed a winding trail next to a slow-moving river. About a quarter
of a mile upstream the trail widened into a clearing next to a pool. Thickset
sycamores guarded an open area. At the center was a black patch where the earth
had been scorched by campfires. Beer crates, logs and car tires were arranged
in a circle of seats around the blackened area of ground.
Holden reached up into the branched fork of one of the trees and pulled out a
flat, square tin. He removed a clear plastic bag of cannabis and started to
roll a joint. Sam turned away and walked to the pool. The water eddied around
rocks, debris building up in banks around their sharp edges. He dropped to his
stomach and dunked his head into the water. Gasping at how cold it was, he
quickly stood up and shook his head like a wet dog, water spraying around him.
He heard Holden laugh. Sam lifted a hand to rub a graze that was smarting on
his cheek. His side hurt where a boot had connected with his ribs. He grimaced
and turned around to walk back to where Holden sat on one of the crates.
“Armadillo routine didn’t exactly work out, huh?” Holden said, watching Sam rub
his side.
“I was going for a possum impression, actually. Either way they were going to
kick my ass,” Sam responded.
Holden laughed. “Yeah, those assholes have no sympathy for road kill either
way. Let’s see,” he said. Sam lifted his shirt.
Unexpectedly, Holden trailed callused fingers over the bruise purpling Sam’s
ribs. It was a bold, provocative gesture, meant to elicit a reaction. Sam
sucked his breath in at the contact. Holden looked up at him, a knowing smile
curling at the corners of his mouth, then traced his fingers down the ticklish
plane of Sam’s stomach. His fingers came to rest at the border of Sam’s jeans.
Sam held his breath, waiting to see what would come next. He felt something
like disappointment when Holden pulled his hand away.
“Want some?” Holden asked, holding out the joint. Sam hesitated, meant to say
no, but then reached out and took it anyway.
Holden laughed when Sam coughed up the acrid smoke that filled his lungs. Sam
took another tentative drag and breathed in deeply. On his third drag the trees
started to roll in circles around him. He was overcome with dizziness and it
felt as if his brain was stuttering inside his skull. Vomit rose in his throat.
“It’s okay,” a gentle voice said. “Sit down.” Sam collapsed into a tire, the
rubber ring holding him fast.
“Did you eat today?” he heard the voice as though from a great distance.
“Breakfast,” he mumbled, feeling the blood drain from his face. Coldness
started in his hands, moved up his arms, and left pins and needles in its wake.
He heard Holden unzip his backpack. “Here. Eat this.” A sandwich was shoved in
his face. Sam lifted a heavy arm to take it and bit into the sticky taste of
white bread and something else he couldn’t identify.
“Have some water.”
Sam took the proffered bottle and swilled the gluey clumps of bread down his
throat. He felt sick and a little frightened. For a moment he wished for
something familiar. An image of Dean flitted across his mind. Then it passed
and the world righted itself as the spinning stopped. Sam blinked and shook his
head to clear his vision.
“You okay?”
Sam turned his head and saw Holden smirking at him. “Nothing like it, huh? The
whiting out. You should eat better, Sam. You seem like the kind of person who
needs to keep up his energy. Never know when you’re going to need it.”
Sam felt that he was being mocked and responded to the challenge in Holden’s
voice by taking another bite of the soggy sandwich, reaching for the joint with
his other hand.
Holden passed it over with an approving smile. “So, what were you reading the
other day?” he asked.
“Just some stuff for a book report,” Sam replied around a mouthful of sandwich.
The dizziness subsided and he started to feel better, good actually, as a
golden glow surrounded him. Lethargy curled long tendrils around his legs. He
felt heavy and unable to move, his ass parked firmly in the center of the tire.
“What book?” Holden asked.
“It’s called The Great Gatsby. It’s about--”
“I know what it’s about,” Holden interrupted.
“Oh.” Sam couldn’t hide his surprise.
“What? Surprised that trailertrashboy has read a novel like that?” Derision
soaked Holden’s voice.
“No, it’s not that,” Sam said quickly. “It’s just…I…,” he floundered.
“You just assumed I wasn’t as smart as you are.”
“Sorry,” Sam replied simply.
Holden looked at him critically. “What’s your family doing here? You don’t fit
in. Where’s your dad, anyway? His truck’s been gone for weeks.”
“He travels a lot with his job,” Sam repeated the familiar words.
Holden snorted, “In other words mind my own business. I’ve used that line, too,
when my dad was doing time in the state pen. I don’t think anyone’s going to
buy that either of our dads is the travelling salesman type.”
Sam shrugged and remained quiet.
“I’m going to get out of here. Someday soon.” Holden looked at Sam quickly as
if expecting him to disagree. Sam didn’t. He had a feeling that if this fierce,
proud kid really wanted something, very little could stand in his way.
“Now, Gatsby, he had the right idea. Go somewhere new, reinvent yourself,”
Holden continued.
“He was still left with nothing in the end,” Sam countered.
“That’s because he did it for the wrong reasons.” Holden squatted down next to
Sam, his face close, looking at Sam intently.
Sam licked dry lips, unnerved by the other boy’s proximity. “How’s that?” he
asked.
“He did it for a woman. You have to want it for yourself.” Holden leaned
forward, looking at Sam’s mouth. Sam was struck by another bout of dizziness
that had nothing to do with the doped daze he was in.
Holden leaned his knees against the tire, put his hand behind Sam’s neck and
pulled him forward. There was nothing tentative about the kiss. Holden didn’t
ask permission with his lips, simply pushed his tongue into Sam’s mouth. The
in-out thrust of his tongue connected to a thread of electricity that ran down
Sam’s body, pooled in his stomach and tugged hard in his crotch. He made an
embarrassing sound in his throat and felt Holden grin into his mouth.
Sam was breathing heavily when Holden pulled away and sat back down on the
crate. “So, what other books do you like?” he asked, starting to roll another
joint. Sam was still trying to catch his breath and stared back at Holden with
wide eyes, his words holding no meaning.
Holden smiled as he flicked over the rolling paper’s edge, tucked it in, licked
the sticky border and rolled the joint up with practiced movements. He lit it
and blew out clouds of smoke that obscured his face. He looked across at Sam.
“Books,” he repeated. Sam pulled himself together and tried to respond.
Holden had read every novel he mentioned. Sam had never met anyone who spoke
about books with such a fierce passion. His eyes alight with intensity, Holden
told Sam about a book he’d read called The Outsider by a French writer, Albert
Camus. “This novel, man, it blew my head right open. It’s about not buying into
the rules that society forces on us, as individuals, about living your life by
rules that you’ve chosen, and taking responsibility for your own actions.”
Everything Holden said made absolute sense to Sam. He felt embarrassed about
his earlier assumptions. Everything about Holden was sharp and uncompromising:
the way he fought, the way he thought and spoke. Sam felt a stirring of
excitement, a shaking off of the dull torpor that had swamped him for months.
Anything was possible. His destiny wasn’t mapped out in front of him in shabby
motels, greasy diners, hunting and familial ties that hurt in their intensity.
Just because Dean and Dad had chosen this life didn’t mean he had to. He wasn’t
bound by society’s rules and neither was he bound to the Winchester family
tradition.
Showing off, Sam spoke about some of the obscure occult texts he’d sneakily
read while his dad wasn’t watching. He even recited a little Latin. He
pretended like it was just an offbeat interest, like the way other kids got
obsessively into anime or gaming. The Latin got him another fierce kiss and a
lingering hand on the inside of his thigh.
When the night started to thicken around them and Holden built a fire, Sam felt
a nagging impulse to get home. He pushed it to the back of his mind. He was
through waiting for Dean.
They stayed out late and stumbled back through the dark, smelling of wood smoke
and cannabis.
***
“Where the fuck have you been?” Dean was waiting for him in the kitchen,
sitting at the counter like he’d been there a while. He remained where he was
when Sam walked in. Didn’t raise his voice. That’s how Sam knew he was furious.
There was something tightly coiled about the way Dean sat so motionlessly, like
he might leap out of his seat any minute. His face was pale, lips pinched in a
white line of anger. Sam felt a twinge of fear. He didn’t reply, tried for
casual as he crossed the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out the milk carton
and took a long, thirsty swallow.
He jumped when the fridge door slammed shut. He’d forgotten how quietly Dean
could move when he wanted to. “I said, where the fuck have you been?” Sam wiped
his mouth, not wanting to do this confrontation with a milk moustache.
Before he could answer, Dean gripped his chin, twisted his face up towards the
light and took in Sam’s blood-shot eyes. He moved his face close and breathed
in Sam’s smell through flared nostrils. “Have you been smoking pot?” he asked,
voice incredulous.
Sam wrenched his chin out of Dean’s grip and turned to escape. He was slammed
hard against the fridge and gasped in pain, clutching his left side. Dean’s
forehead furrowed at his reaction. He knocked Sam’s hand away and jerked up his
shirt to check what had caused it. Sam didn’t try to stop him, just turned his
face away and waited.
“What the hell have you been doing, Sam?” Dean shouted angrily, his eyes
wandering over the bruises that littered Sam’s body.
He’d had enough. Sam pushed Dean away from him and shouted back, “I had the
crap kicked out of me at school. That’s what happens to the new kid. And I’m
always the new kid. But it’s not like you give a shit, Dean. You’re just pissed
that you had to wait for me for a change.”
“What? Don’t be a jerk, Sam.”
“How am I being a jerk? You’re the fucking jerk, Dean,” Sam snapped back.
Dean was close, his breath puffing in Sam’s face. Stoned and filled with angry
resentment, Sam widened his legs, standing firmly in front of Dean. Knowing
exactly what he was doing, he moved a little closer, licked his lips as he
lowered his eyes to look at Dean’s mouth then looked him in the eyes, all
defiance and suggestion. It was the suggestion that caused Dean to jerk back,
fear on his face. Sam smirked, pushed Dean away and stalked off to bed,
thinking: point goes to the younger brother.
***
They were playing soccer during gym class the next day. Sam on one team and
Holden on the other. Holden played soccer like he spoke about books, like he
fought: as if it was the most important thing in the world. Like that moment
was all that mattered to him. He pushed forward relentlessly and once
purposefully tripped Sam, who was playing defense.
Holden grinned over his shoulder as he dribbled the ball past Sam on the
ground. Sam couldn’t help but grin back at him as he watched him score.
Holden’s aggressive play and goal-scoring weren’t winning him any other fans on
Sam’s team, though. They started targeting him, playing dirty, purposefully
trying to rile him.
Just after half-time Holden got tripped up by Bad Teeth Johnson. Another kid
jogged past and stepped on Holden’s hand, boot studs biting into his skin.
Holden jumped to his feet, sprinted after them and shoved Johnson hard from the
back. There was a lot of cursing and squaring off as more and more members of
both teams ran up to join the fray. Sam ran across the field. He pulled Johnson
back as he was about to lay into Holden. Another kid already had Holden’s arms
pulled behind him. There was a small split beading with blood on Holden’s lip.
The coach, who’d been more interested in reading the newspaper than supervising
the game, came running over and pushed his way through the crowd of players. He
looked at Holden, looked over at the other boys ranged against him, then looked
back at Holden. How he came to the conclusion that Holden was the one to
instigate the fight, Sam had no idea.
The coach started yelling at Holden. Sam couldn’t help himself. “It wasn’t
Holden, Coach. Johnson fouled him. They started it.”
“Shut the fuck up, Winchester. You’re not even on his team,” a player on Sam’s
team hissed in his ear.
The coach ignored Sam and continued the litany of punishments he was going to
inflict on Holden for fighting on the field. Holden said nothing, wiped his
hand across his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek, and smirked back
insolently.
Anger flared in Sam’s chest. “Did you hear what I said, Sir?” He rolled the
final word out, changing it from a polite form of address to something that
sounded like he was saying asshole. The coach picked up on the tone and turned
around to face him. “You’ve got it wrong,” Sam said finally, definitively.
There was a pause as all the kids held their breath in delighted anticipation
and the coach started purpling with rage.
***
It was hot and stuffy in the basement store room. Equipment that hadn’t been
touched in decades was jammed in every corner. Dust and the old smell of sweat
and bad feet hung heavy in the air.
“You’re an asshole,” Holden said, grinning at Sam.
“How’s that?” Sam asked, turning away from his dismayed examination of the
room’s chaos.
“This is the worst punishment. Coach constantly threatens it but never has the
balls to actually make anyone do it. This is all your fault. It’s going to take
us days to clear this out.”
“My fault? If you didn’t always piss everyone off, we wouldn’t be here. It’s
obviously your fault. I thought you didn’t like fighting, anyway.” Sam
retorted.
“Seems to follow me,” Holden replied. A shadow flickered across his face for a
moment and then he started grinning again. He picked up a basketball and threw
it hard at Sam.
They worked for a couple of hours, hauling all the usable bats, balls and other
kit upstairs to another store room. The coach had been clear: big stuff in the
bigger storeroom, smaller shit in the other. Everything had to be cleaned and
dusted. If they got it wrong, they’d have to do it again. Sam had a feeling
there was no right. They’d be doing it again regardless.
They were wiping down gym mats and stacking them in a corner of the basement
room. It was stifling, the air hanging on their sweating bodies like a woollen
blanket. Two small, narrow windows were set high in one of the walls. Earlier,
Holden had climbed up a dangerously stacked pile of equipment to open them,
only to find they were painted shut.
Holden suddenly dropped his side of the mat they were carrying. “Fuck, it’s hot
in here,” he exclaimed and ripped off his t-shirt.
Sam had a quick, furtive look at Holden’s bare torso. He had small round scars
the size of cigarette burns marking the smooth, pale skin of his chest. A
tattoo that had a blue-ink, amateur look about it, like prison tattoos, curved
around his right nipple. Sweat beaded on his sternum and trickled down the
center of his body. Sam wanted to pull off his own t-shirt but felt too self-
conscious. He turned away and started to shove baseball bats scattered on the
floor back into a basket.
“Aren’t you hot?” Holden’s voice was a whisper that slipped down Sam’s spine,
raising goose bumps across his skin.
Sam turned around, grinned casually, and pulled his t-shirt off, throwing it to
the side with what he hoped came off as indifference. “Yeah, damn, it’s so
hot,” he repeated clumsily.
It didn’t come off as casual. Sam felt embarrassed. He moved to get past.
Holden stepped sideways, blocking his path. Sam looked up and thought, oh fuck.
Holden carried a smirk like nobody Sam had ever seen. His mouth curled up to
the side in an expression that was: knowing humor, combat and sexual challenge
all rolled into one. A look that belonged on the face of somebody way older and
more experienced than Holden had any right to be. Sam stepped back from it and
met the wall. Holden moved forward and put a hand out to stroke Sam’s dick
through his shorts. Sam’s stomach clenched with fear and hungry desire.
Keeping his eyes on Sam, Holden stepped closer and pushed his hand down Sam’s
shorts. Sam thought he was going to pass out when Holden’s hand stroked his
naked flesh. Nobody had ever touched him like this. It wasn’t like when he
fantasized about another person touching him, a girl he liked, Dean (Sam pushed
that thought away). This was too real. He didn’t know what to do with his hands
so held them clenched next to his sides. He felt a trickle of sweat run down
his neck. His dick was hard and throbbing.
Holden was looking at him intently as he moved his hand further down. Sam felt
too exposed, like his face was broadcasting everything he was feeling. Holden
stepped even closer and pulled the waistband of Sam’s shorts away from his body
so that he could get a firm grasp of Sam’s dick. He started a tight-gripped
movement up and down. Sam groaned and leaned heavily against the wall.
Light slanted through the narrow windows above them and glinted in the gold of
Holden’s tightly shorn hair. His lips sheened with moisture where he bit at
them. Sam could smell the sweat on both of them. Their breathing was harsh in
the otherwise silent room.
Sam dropped his head to the side, unable to look Holden in the eye as he felt
his orgasm start to build. His breath was coming in short pants. Holden started
repeating the word, “Yeah,” in time with Sam’s quickening moans. When he said,
“Yeah, c’mon, Sam,” Sam’s release erupted from his body and he coated Holden’s
hand with his seed.
Sam opened his eyes. Holden pulled his hand out of Sam’s shorts, reached over
and picked up Sam’s t-shirt to wipe his hand on it. He was grinning. As he
opened his mouth to say something, they both heard heavy footsteps coming down
the stairs.
A tight balloon of panic burst in Sam’s stomach. He quickly turned to shove
more baseball bats into the basket. Holding Sam’s t-shirt in front of his
crotch, Holden faced the door and spoke to the coach who grunted that they
should go home but he’d be expecting them after school the next day. There was
nothing in the coach’s manner to suggest he had any idea what he’d just walked
into.
As soon as the coach had left, Sam turned to Holden with a sigh of relief.
Holden threw Sam’s t-shirt at him. “C’mon, we better get out of here,” he said
as picked up his own t-shirt and pulled it over his head. “We don’t want to get
locked in overnight. I don’t know what we’d do to keep ourselves entertained,”
he smiled suggestively. Sam blushed and looked away.
Holden said his dad was working a late shift at the factory and that he had to
get back to his brothers. “They pretty much take care of themselves, but it’s
Jimmy’s birthday, so I should probably get back.” Sam nodded, feeling sympathy
for the poor unknown Jimmy whose birthday seemed to elicit so little attention
from his family. He wondered how Holden’s mom had died.
***
Dean was at home when Sam got back. He’d picked up pizzas for supper and
cleaned the house, something he normally left for Sam to do. Sam knew Dean was
trying to make something up to him. He was feeling guilty.
A couple of pizzas weren’t going to cut it this time, though. Sam was tired of
feeling alone all the time, tired of being hauled around the country like extra
luggage, tired of the way he was left out of the decision-making, tired of
Dean’s blind acceptance of Dad’s rules, and he was damn tired of Dean thinking
he could control him all the time. A slow anger simmered inside him when he
looked at Dean and thought back to the way his brother had jerked off in front
of him and then turned his back on him.
Sam refused to respond to Dean’s questions beyond the occasional grunt or
monosyllable while they ate in the kitchen. Eventually, Dean was forced to talk
about his shift at the factory to fill in the silence. Sam hid his surprise. It
was him, never his brother, who talked while they were eating. If he was
honest, he normally started talking as soon as Dean walked through the door,
would sometimes follow him from room to room jabbering on about all kinds of
crap. There was very little he didn’t talk to Dean about. Well, things were
going to change.
Sam ignored Dean’s attempt at humorous anecdotes about the roughnecks that
worked at the factory and eventually Dean lapsed into silence.
Then Dean started talking again. Really talking, in a way that Dean seldom did.
He didn’t look at Sam as he spoke, pulling apart a slice of pizza on his plate.
He told Sam about how much he really hated the boring, repetitive factory work,
how he disliked the narrow-minded claustrophobia of the town.
Without meaning to, Sam started to warm to him, was about to join the
conversation and tell Dean that he felt the same way about the school. But then
Dean started complaining about being left at home when Dad went hunting and
talking about how much he was itching to get out there. Sam’s heart hardened
again, and he continued with the silent treatment.
“How long you going to keep up the sulky teenager routine,” Dean eventually
asked.
“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam replied and went to the living room to watch T.V.
They were sitting silently on the couch, watching some boring action movie,
when Dean asked, “Do you want a beer?”
“’kay,” Sam grunted, surprised, but pretending not to be as he watched the
flickering screen.
“So now you’re a stoner and drinking beer,” Dean said triumphantly, like he’d
caught Sam in a trap he’d cleverly set for him.
“Dean,” Sam responded with huffed forbearance. “Are you offering me a beer or
not? And I’m not a stoner. Don’t tell me you never smoked a little grass when
you were my age.” Sam was starting to enjoy the surprised look Dean got when he
managed to get one over on his brother.
“It’s not the same thing.” Dean’s expression showed that he was uncomfortable
with the hypocrisy of his statement.
“Of course it isn’t, Dean, because you can do whatever you like but I can’t,”
Sam said bitterly.
“I’ve never been able to do what I like,” Dean said quietly as he went into the
kitchen to get Sam a beer. Sam refused to even think about whether there was
any truth in that.
***
“Want to go down to the river after school? Coach isn’t in today, so I thought
we could hang out at the clearing.” Holden’s’ voice was full of promise. Sam’s
heart started racing with a combination of fear and excitement. He quickly
looked around to see if anyone in the cafeteria was watching them.
Sam was grateful there’d been no embarrassment between them this morning when
they’d walked to school together. Holden behaved as though nothing had
happened. Sam hadn’t been sure if the incident in the store room was just a
one-off, a weird way for Holden to show he was grateful for Sam supporting him
on the soccer field.
It clearly wasn’t to be a one-off. Sam wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or
scared.
Then he remembered that he was supposed to go home straight after school to do
some training with Dean. For a moment he considered ditching Dean, then
remembered how angry his brother had been when he’d come home late the other
night. He wasn’t ready to push Dean too far. Even though it wasn’t often
directed at him, Sam knew Dean’s anger wasn’t something he wanted to
purposefully invite.
“Can’t,” he replied. “I have to do something with my brother.”
Holden got a closed look on his face. “Whatever,” he said coldly and got up to
leave.
“Wait.” Sam grabbed his arm. “Can we go tomorrow?”
Holden’s expression softened. “Yeah, maybe, if coach isn’t in. Otherwise we’re
going to have to clear out that fucking store room. Gotta go. I’ll see you
tomorrow,” he said quickly, pulling his arm out of Sam’s grasp.
As he pulled away, Holden ran his fingers across Sam’s palm, a light gesture
that somebody watching wouldn’t even notice, but for Sam it was so intimate he
got an instant erection and had to linger over his apple juice before he could
leave the table.
***
Dean always pushed him hard when they were training. He got really serious
about teaching Sam the survival skills that would keep him alive on a hunt. It
was never a question that Sam would become a hunter, that he’d join the family
business. That assumption was pissing him off a lot lately.
They used to have more fun sparring when Sam was younger; now Dean was more
like a drill sergeant, more like Dad. Today it was annoying Sam more than
usual. He was fighting back harder than he normally did, surprising Dean with
his aggression and refusal to concede even when Dean clearly had the upper
hand.
“Somebody piss you off today, Sammy?” Dean teased as he gently cuffed Sam on
the right cheek. Sam wasn’t quick enough to bat Dean’s arm away. Dean laughed
at him and cuffed him quickly on the other cheek. Frustration boiled up in Sam.
He jumped forward and shoved Dean with all his strength, almost knocking him
over.
The expression on Dean’s face was almost comical. “What the fuck, Sam,” he
roared. He moved forward, gripped Sam’s upper arms and shook him. “Don’t ever--
” He was cut off by Sam hooking a leg around his ankles and pushing him over.
Dean fell, pulling Sam with him. They rolled on the ground, both trying to get
the upper hand. Of course, it ended with Dean pinning Sam down. He held Sam’s
arms in a bruising grip, his full weight pushing him down so that no matter how
much Sam struggled he couldn’t escape.
Eventually, Sam lay quietly. The fight leaked out of him and embarrassingly he
felt tears run out the corners of his eyes.
“Sam, what is it? What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Dean demanded, concern
hiding beneath his laboured breathing.
Sam looked up at him, also breathing hard from their tussle. “It’s…everything,”
he said, filling the word with all the despair and confusion he felt.
“Aaw, Sammy,” Dean started, then exclaimed, “Shit!” He leaned on an elbow and
rubbed his thumb along Sam’s bottom lip. Sam hissed when he rubbed over a cut
where Dean’s elbow had caught him. “Shit, Sammy. I’m sorry,” Dean said, his
face twisting with guilt.
“It’s okay,” Sam sighed, feeling his own guilt for causing that expression on
his brother’s face. “I was being an asshole.”
Dean grinned, “Well, that’s true. You were being an asshole.”
Sam half returned the smile, “Just watch your back, Dean. I’m going to be able
to take you soon.” He managed the bravado, despite being crushed beneath Dean’s
weight into the dusty ground.
“In your dreams, kiddo.” Dean got up and stretched out a hand to haul Sam up.
Sam instantly felt the loss of Dean’s heat on his body. He’d wanted Dean to hug
him, or something, but that wasn’t going to happen. Dean pinning him to the
ground in a wrestling grip was about the only way he’d get that close to his
brother.
Surprisingly, Dean sort of put an arm around him and briefly patted him as they
walked back to the house.
***
Fear twisted in Sam’s stomach as he made his way down to the clearing the next
afternoon. Kissing Holden could be attributed to being stoned; allowing Holden
to jerk him off in the store room could be attributed to the heat, or teenage
experimentation, or something. There was no pretext for this.
Holden wasn’t anywhere to be seen when he got there. Sam noticed a bundled-up
blanket and six-pack of beer next to one of the up-turned crates. His stomach
dropped. He felt like a girl about to be deflowered on prom night.
Sam heard rustling behind him and turned to see Holden coming down the hill.
His shirt was tied around his waist. Jeans hung low on his hips, showing the
taut grooves that ran down into his groin. A joint hung out the corner of his
mouth.
Sam got that weird feeling in his stomach again. God, he was behaving just like
a girl. He turned away and saw a throwing knife jammed into a log. He worked it
loose from the wood and threw it into a tree on the other side of the clearing.
Holden had reached the bottom of the hill and stood watching him. Sam retrieved
the knife, threw it again in a clean arc and hit the same splintered spot a
second time.
“Good throw,” Holden said with admiration.
“I’ve had some practice,” Sam admitted.
“Want a beer?”
“Sure.” Sam went over and took the beer Holden held out to him. Holden picked
up the other beers and walked down to the river to place them in the cold
water. As he walked away, Sam saw two thick red welts running down his naked
back. At the end of one was a mark that looked a lot like the shape of a belt
buckle. Sam wasn’t able to hide his expression when Holden walked back up
towards him.
In response, Holden’s face twisted into a sneer, “A lot of fun was had at my
house last night. It was Jimmy’s birthday after all. Dad sure got into the
spirit of things when he got home after work.” He spat on the ground, leaned
over to pick up a lighter, and re-lit the joint. He looked over at Sam through
the smoke, cocked his head to the side and quietly asked, “Your dad get back
last night?” He was looking at Sam’s mouth.
Sam quickly covered his split lip. “What? No. Dean. I mean, Dean and me
were…No. It’s not like that!” It made him sick to think that Holden could
connect his father’s mindless violence with Sam’s own family.
“Of course it isn’t,” Holden said mockingly, taking the knife from Sam and
throwing it hard. It hit Sam’s mark dead-on. Holden turned back to him and
said, “I’ve had some practice, too.” There was something a little frightening
about the way he said it.
Holden registered Sam’s expression. He gave the knife back to Sam, “Step back
ten paces and let’s see you hit it again.” He grinned, his eyes lighting with
challenge. The shadow had passed and Holden’s casual cockiness was back in
place.
Sam grinned back, responding to the change in Holden’s tone. He didn’t want to
think too hard about what went on in Holden’s house, or in his own for that
matter. He had a swig of his beer, took the required ten paces backwards and
turned to face the tree. He steadied his breathing, the muscles in his arm
tightening. He was in the momentum of the throw when Holden said, “I’ll suck
your dick if you hit it.” Of course Sam’s arm shook and the knife went
careening off to the side. Holden snorted.
Sam turned and said with a grin, “You’ll suck it anyway.” He sprinted off to
get the knife before Holden could see the blush that burned his face. Holden
let out a whoop and burst into surprised laughter behind him.
By the time they’d had three beers each, the challenges were becoming sillier:
eyes closed, back to the target, turn around six times first. Sam was dizzy and
laughing raucously after the last. The knife was stuck about eight feet up
another tree.
While Sam was still snorting with laughter, Holden walked with unsmiling
purpose towards him, and then dropped to his knees on a crate in front of Sam.
The laughter instantly died on Sam’s lips and he swallowed hard.
“You were right, you know?” Holden said, running his tongue over his lips.
“About what?” Sam asked breathlessly, knowing the answer. Holden grinned and
unbuttoned Sam’s jeans in reply. He pushed jeans and boxers down to Sam’s
ankles, watching Sam harden. He didn’t touch him, just watched Sam’s dick
stiffen and rise. Sam didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath until Holden
lowered his head.
He was enveloped in wet heat. “Shit,” Sam moaned breathily, the air pushing its
way out of his lungs. Holden slipped further down Sam’s length, his tongue a
wet, caressing cushion against the underside. He tightened his lips over his
teeth, sucked hard, pulled up and then down again. Sam dropped his head back
with a groan and looked up at the grey-blue light of the sky through the trees
above him. He gripped Holden’s shoulders and closed his eyes, soaking up the
pleasure of all that sensation.
He was close to coming when Holden pulled off him. Sam looked down into bright
eyes and that ever present smirk. “Good?” Holden asked.
“Yes. Good,” Sam whispered. Holden grinned at the awe in his voice.
“I brought a blanket. Want to get horizontal?”
“Okay,” Sam answered, his breath catching in his throat. Holden got up and
walked back towards the ring of makeshift seats. Sam pulled up his jeans,
leaving them unbuttoned as he followed. Holden picked up the blanket and led
Sam a little way up the hill behind a curving line of thick bushes where he lay
the blanket down on a mattress of grass.
Sam followed Holden’s example and stripped off his clothes. They lay down naked
on the blanket surrounded by long, pale-yellow, whispering grass.
Sam looked at Holden’s body stretched out next to him. He was taut, almost too
thin, wiry muscle evident beneath pale skin. Sam reached out and traced a
tentative finger along the circular tattoo on his chest, following a whorl of
ink to his nipple. Holden sighed, his chest rising, holding, and then falling
back down again.
Emboldened by Holden’s response, Sam trailed his fingers towards the center of
his chest over the small white craters that scarred his skin. Holden stiffened.
Sam dropped his head and pressed his lips to the cigarette burns someone,
probably his father, had left on Holden’s skin.
“Don’t touch me like that.” Holden’s voice was small and cold. Sam lifted his
head quickly. Holden’s face was hard, unaccountably angry.
“Like what?” Sam asked in bewilderment.
“Like I’m a girl, or your boyfriend.” Holden said in the same cold voice. Sam
pulled back, embarrassed. Holden reached up and gripped him by the back of his
neck, pulling Sam’s face down to his. He kissed Sam hard, tearing open the
split in his lip. When Sam gasped in pain, Holden gentled the kiss, slipping
his tongue slowly in and out of Sam’s mouth until he forgot the pain.
Holden broke the kiss, shifted back a little and stroked a long thin scar that
ran down Sam’s flank. He pressed his thumb into one of the yellowing bruises
that Johnson and his cronies had left on Sam’s ribs. It still hurt and Sam
grunted.
“We both have scars. They just make us stronger,” Holden said as he took Sam’s
hand and wrapped it around his dick, their fingers meshed around Holden’s
flesh. “Touch me like that instead,” he whispered.
Holden removed his hand, leaving Sam’s fist clenched around his erection. He
lay back on the blanket, eyes closed and body stretched out in unselfconscious
pleasure.
The heavy heat in Sam’s hand was strange, unfamiliar. He adjusted the angle and
pulled up, experimentally rubbing a slow finger up the slippery slit. Holden
approved with a throaty moan. He reached across and took Sam’s dick in his
hand, moving in synch with him.
They were both close when Holden opened his eyes, his pupils blown. He pushed
Sam’s elbow out from under him and rolled on top of him. Sam opened his legs to
accommodate his body. Holden thrust hard, his dick in the dip next to Sam’s
hipbone. Heels digging into the ground, Sam pushed his hips upwards. Holden
dropped his head and shoved his tongue into Sam’s mouth, tongue and hips moving
to the same rhythm.
Sam came first, shuddering, mouth open in a long drawn-out groan. Holden’s seed
spilled out soon after, mingling with Sam’s in the wet heat between their
bodies. He bit hard into Sam’s shoulder as he came, grunting into his skin.
They lay like that for a few minutes, neither able to move, then Holden rolled
off. They lay spread out beneath the pale grey light of the overcast sky,
chests heaving as the sweat cooled on their skin.
“Do you know what I hate most about this fucking place?” Holden suddenly said
as he sat up and pulled a half-smoked joint from a matchbox he’d rooted out of
the pocket of his jeans.
“Huh?” Sam mumbled, staring up at the sky, unable yet to even string coherent
thoughts together.
Holden lay back down, his head next to Sam’s, looking up. “It’s the way the sun
never really shines, like it’s trying to fight its way out from behind the
clouds.” Sam looked up at the heavy ceiling of clouds weighing down on them,
understanding what he meant. He’d been aware of the close claustrophobia of the
overcast sky since Dad had dumped them here.
Holden blew quick, fat smoke rings upwards. “I want to go somewhere where the
sun shines hot and defiant, where the colours are sharp. I saw this documentary
about a religious festival in India when they paint the houses this intense
blue. The colours and the light were so intense. Fuck going to New York with a
buck in your pocket and a song in your heart, and becoming just another
hustler, right? I want to go to Goa. There are all these people living on the
beach, like they did in the 60’s. Or maybe Thailand.” His voice was wistful. He
brought the joint up to Sam’s lips. Sam took a drag.
“I’m not really seeing you as a hippy, living on a beach,” Sam said, watching
the smoke curl upwards.
“My mom went to India. Looking for spiritual enlightenment. Or to take a lot of
drugs, more like.”
“What happened to her?” Sam asked quietly.
“She came back.”
“Yeah?” Sam didn’t want to push.
“It’s the grey of the factory. It eats into this place and into people. Being a
junkie on a beach somewhere isn’t the same as being a junkie in the grey.
Stupid bitch shouldn’t ever have come back.” Sam flinched at his words.
“She didn’t even need to live this life. I have these strait-laced
grandparents, who live like 20 miles away. They have money, you know? But they
don’t see us.” Sam’s chest tightened painfully. There was no self-pity in
Holden’s voice. He just said it wryly, like it didn’t really matter that there
were people living down the way who should have cared about him.
“She used to read, or that’s what she said. All my books used to belong to her.
I don’t know. I never saw her read a fucking thing. Maybe she did before.” He
flicked the butt into the bushes angrily. “I’m not going to end up like them.
Either of them. I’m going to get out of this place before it sucks my soul out
of me.”
“What about your brothers?” Sam asked tentatively.
Holden paused and then said quietly, “I can’t save them and me.”
A silence hesitated over them, enclosing them in their own thoughts.
“Where’s your mom?”
Sam knew it had been coming. He couldn’t lie. Just lay there without saying
anything. Holden twisted to stare at him with something that looked like
betrayal on his face. Sam looked back at him silently.
When Holden moved to get up, Sam grabbed his arm. “I can’t. I just can’t.
Okay?” he looked imploringly at Holden’s tight, angry face.
Holden looked like he was going to hit him. Sam waited for it. Holden leaned
forward and bit him hard on his bottom lip, he pulled back and said, “You’re an
asshole.”
Sam ran his tongue along the inside of his lip, sucking away the blood. “You
keep saying that.”
Holden grinned. “That’s because it’s the truth.”
Sam smiled back. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“No probably about it, Winchester. You’re definitely a complete fucking
asshole,” Holden said with humour, getting up.
“Fuck you, Holden,” Sam said, stretching out on the blanket and looking up at
him.
Holden looked down at him, running his eyes over Sam’s naked body. “You wish.”
Sam’s courage had pretty much been spent. He said nothing. Holden smirked, “Get
your ass up. Places to meet. People to be.” He reached down and slapped Sam
hard on his still wet stomach.
***
Dean stood leaning over the sink and looking out the kitchen window at the
yard. If he’d actually believed they’d be here for any length of time he’d have
cleared it, cut back the long grass and weeds, moved all the rusting metal out
of the way. As it was, there wasn’t much point: Dad would come back and they’d
move on.
The factory squatted on the horizon like a concrete ashtray filled with smoking
butts. He hated this place, hated having to work at that shit-hole to pay the
bills. He hadn’t heard from Dad in days, was starting to worry that something
had gone wrong on the hunt. His hands tightened on the counter. If he’d been
allowed to go with, he wouldn’t be standing here worrying about it. Inertia ate
at his gut like an ulcer. He could almost hear the traffic on the highway,
speeding its way out of the grey town.
He looked out at the small mound of dirt under the tree. The mongrel next door
had killed somebody’s cat. The neighbours left it lying where it died, buzzing
with flies. He’d noticed it this morning, had watched the grubby kids playing
in the yard, paying no attention to the dead thing. By the afternoon it had
eventually freaked him out enough to make him squeeze his way through the
broken pickets, shovel it up and bring it back over to their side. The kids had
stood in a solemn little row of mourners on the other side of the fence
watching him as he buried it.
He’d tried to talk to them when he’d crossed the line into their yard, but
they’d just looked back at him in open-mouthed surprise, the biggest kid
gathering up the others behind him protectively. The dog had tried to come at
him, but a sharp kick in the ribs had sent it cowering and snarling to the
furthest end of its chain. The smallest kid had giggled and clapped his hands
in approval.
He hated this place. It made him angry and claustrophobic. Seemed to have a
worse effect on Sam. Where the hell was Sam, anyway?
Like he’d wished him into appearing, Sam emerged at the bottom of the yard. He
stopped beneath the tree, waiting. Another figure appeared behind him. Dean
recognized the older kid that lived next door. He watched them talking to each
other. There was something strange about the way they stood so closely
together, shoving each other playfully. When Sam ran a slow hand up the other
boy’s arm, Dean gripped the counter again, almost hard enough to snap it off.
***
“You going out?”
Dean was at the door, shrugging into his leather jacket. Sam was sitting at the
counter, books spread out in front of him.
“Want to come with?”
Sam’s eyes widened in surprise, “To a bar?”
“Yeah,” Dean leaned up against the doorjamb, looking back at him with an
unreadable expression on his face.
“You’re kidding, right?” Sam snorted. “You never let me come with you.”
“Seems to me that if you’re old enough to smoke pot, to have the shit kicked
out of you, and whatever else you’ve been up to lately, you’re old enough to
drink a beer in a bar.”
Sam’s forehead furrowed, he couldn’t work out whether Dean was being serious or
not, there was something odd about his tone. Dean turned on his heel, pushing
open the screen door. “I’ll see you in the car.”
Sam sat in the silence of Dean’s departure, undecided whether he should follow
him. Curiosity won out and he snapped the books shut, grabbed his jacket and
went out before Dean changed his mind and left without him.
The bar was busy for a Thursday night. Dean instantly laid claim to the pool
table, leaving Sam at the bar nursing a beer and trying to look like he
belonged. Dean hustled with practiced ease. He’d already worn out his welcome
in most of the bars in town, but this place was new territory for him. He was
pretty much the center of attention in the corner of the room.
He always started out slow, as innocuous as Dean could ever manage to be,
pulling in the men with his earnest new to the game routine. Then he’d take off
his jacket, strut around the table and reel in the giggling girl spectators
with his pretty boy routine. He’d gradually up the stakes, increasing the
excitement and competition, winning a few games, but never too many. With time,
the men would become distracted by alcohol and the dynamics around the table,
and Dean would clear up with his cold cut to the chase routine before anybody
actually realised what was going on. Then he’d leave.
Sam had heard about the routine often enough. “Fucking show-off,” he huffed
into his beer, alone at the bar.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by a heavy cloud of perfume as a woman sidled
up next to him. “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?” The voice was raspy
with years of smoking. A cigarette, smeared with lipstick, poked out between
thin fingers, the nails painted scarlet. A cloud of copper-coloured hair, stiff
with hair spray, surrounded her face. Her lips were painted the same colour as
her nails. She was probably in her mid-40s, still attractive in a blousy seen-
and-done-it-all kind of way. Sam nervously glanced down at the ample cleavage
on display above the low neckline of a very tight red dress.
The woman smiled. “How old are you, honey?”
“E-e-eighteen,” he stuttered over the lie. He knew he couldn’t get away with
twenty one.
“A wonderful age,” she sighed. “So young.” She trailed hard, red nails along
his forearm. “So strong.” Nails dug gently into his muscle. Leaning forward,
she whispered into his ear, “So many new things to experience.”
Sam choked on the heaviness of her perfume. His mind raced, thinking of a way
to escape. The toilet. Of course! He was about to make his excuse, when he felt
a steel band around his shoulders. Dean laughed in his ear. “Found someone to
teach you a thing or two, have you, Sammy?”
The woman looked Dean appreciatively up and down. “I was just about to suggest
that very thing to your young friend,” she grinned, flashing sharp vixen teeth.
Dean grinned back at her, holding Sam tightly around the shoulders, preventing
his escape. He looked at Sam, smirked, leaned forward and whispered
conspiratorially to the woman, “He does need a woman of…experience,” he drawled
the word out, slow and suggestive, “to introduce him to the ways of the world.”
Anger curdled the fear in Sam’s stomach at the way Dean spoke, like he was
bartering with the woman, and Sam was the “goods for sale”. He forced his way
up off the bar stool, angrily flung Dean’s hand off his shoulder and stormed
out of the bar without saying a word to either of them.
Dean’s mocking voice followed him across the parking lot. “What’s the matter,
Sammy? Don’t you like pussy?”
Sam stopped, turned around and walked back towards his brother. “Not when I can
get a stiff cock,” he said in Dean’s face. He’d meant for it to be defiant,
rebellious, a casual vulgarity to embarrass Dean. Instead, it came out wrong
and he was the one that felt hot with itchy embarrassment. An odd expression
tightened across Dean’s face.
Sam felt hurt, angry, off-balance. “Why do you have to push me all the time,
Dean? What were you trying to prove back there? How young I am? Huh? What a big
man you are? Why would you try to embarrass me like that?”
“You force me into doing it,” Dean said in a low, tortured voice.
“What?” Sam shouted in disbelief. “I don’t force you into anything, Dean. Why
don’t you just leave me alone? Why are you so goddamn scared of me growing up?
I just want to be my own fucking person. And I don’t need your damn help in
finding someone to fuck.” His chest heaved with the emotion of his outburst.
“Girls I could handle,” Dean whispered. Said it like it was supposed to make
sense, like it was an answer to a question. And of course it did make sense,
was the answer to an unasked question. This thing that had been looming over
them the past couple of weeks, that had been building up like a storm cloud
above them a lot earlier than that, took shape, stepped out from the shadows
and started circling them.
Sam realised that Dean somehow knew about Holden. He understood, too, that Dean
wasn’t talking about taking issue with Sam’s sexual preferences. It was about
this other thing. This nameless entity that lurked behind Dean’s refusal to
touch him unless he had to, that made Sam long for the warmth of Dean’s hand on
his shoulder, against his skin. And not the affectionate brotherly gestures of
his childhood. When had Dean stopped touching him? He couldn’t even remember.
But it wasn’t like he didn’t know why he’d stopped.
Dean looked stricken, his face white in the fluorescent light from the bar. Sam
felt his chest hollow out. He reached across and placed a hand flat on Dean’s
chest. “Dean,” he whispered quietly. He felt a shudder spread through Dean’s
body at the touch of his hand.
Dean stepped back from the touch. Took another step backwards, then another.
“Since you’re not interested, I’m going back into the bar to get my dick sucked
by that very willing older woman. You do whatever you want. I won’t try to help
you get laid again.” He put his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Just trying
to help, Sammy.” He almost managed the smirk, almost, before turning on his
heel and going back into the bar.
Sam stood like that, shoulders hanging as if weights were attached to his
hands, the leaden sky above weighing him down further. Eventually, he shook
himself free and ran back to the house, as fast as he could, the soles of his
feet pounding the pavement and lungs burning.
***
Dean must’ve slept on the couch. Nobody ever slept in “Dad’s room.” Not like he
ever needed a room anywhere they stayed. Nevertheless, neither of them ever
intruded on the space that Dad would occupy if he was around. He didn’t need to
be around for his presence to linger.
Dean had left the house before he got up. Sam wondered how long they could go
on like this before something gave.
He was sitting in class, staring out the window, wondering how his life had
managed to get so screwed up. Not like it was bad enough to know that the
monster in the cupboard was real, now he had to deal with this monstrous
creature at his ear that chattered incessantly about the physical pleasures he
could explore with a skinny, abused boy who dreamt of India. It was the same
monster that whispered really quietly, like even it was afraid to speak too
loudly, of darker desires.
“I’m sorry, Sam, are we keeping you from your plans for the weekend?” He looked
up to see his English teacher arching her eyebrows at him. “Daydreaming about a
girlfriend, perhaps?”
There was a scattering of snickers from the sea of faces turned around to look
at him. For a moment he considered saying, “Actually, I’m thinking about how
much I want my brother to invite me into his bed at night. I know he wants it
as much as I do, and I know that this thing between us is going to destroy our
relationship, and he’s all that I have, so, really, your assumptions are
completely ridiculous.”
But he didn’t say that, just apologized and asked her to repeat her earlier
question.
He’d promised a girl from his chemistry class to help her with an assignment.
They were sitting at a table outside talking about the work. She was a member
of the school’s alternative tribe. Everybody belonged to a tribe: the geeks,
the jocks, the rebels; everybody belonged somewhere. Even the weirdoes ganged
together to protect themselves. Outsiders who floated on the edges of the
tribes just messed with the balance of things.
It was like this at every school and part of the reason why he always had such
a hard time. He was a geek. Clearly. His grades proved it. He was also good at
sports, but being a Winchester meant he’d never fit into the mainstream. He
could be defiant with teachers, especially male teachers, questioned what they
were teaching but remained too polite, used the word “Sir” too often, to be
accepted by the rebels. He hovered in the no man’s land between the tribes, and
that made everyone uncomfortable.
He wasn’t sure why this girl had purposefully sought him out. He’d decided she
really just needed help with the assignment and was thus in full flow about the
surface tension of liquids when she suddenly interrupted him. “You’re friends
with Holden, right?”
Sam looked up from a diagram of a water strider illustrating the elasticity of
water. The girl had an elfin face, framed by straight black hair cut Cleopatra
style. Her expression was amused. Sam realised this wasn’t about the surface
tension of liquids, sighed, and closed the textbook. “Yeah, I’m friends with
Holden,” he replied.
“You seem like a nice guy, Sam. You’re new here and everything. I don’t want to
tell you who to be friends with, but Holden’s…” she struggled for the right
words. “He’s damaged goods, you know? I’m not saying that to cut him down or
anything. I just wanted to warn you.”
Sam looked back at her, irritated at her meddling. “Do you even know him?”
She smiled patiently. “Yes, Sam, I do know him. I’ve known him a long time. I
care about him, but I’m not blind to what he does to people. He’s fascinating
and kinda drags you into his way of thinking. Before you know it, you can’t see
straight. I see the way you are with him…” Sam looked back at her, a hard, cold
look masking his embarrassment.
“Oh, fuckit,” she said, getting up. “Take the advice or leave it. It’s up to
you. I have no ulterior motive in telling you this. Just be careful.” She
picked up her books, smiled at him with sympathy in her eyes, and walked away.
***
“There you are. Chess club run over? Practising your Bobby Fisher moves, young
master Winchester?”
Sam sighed. “Shut up, Holden. School doesn’t even have a chess club.”
“A sad state of affairs,” Holden shook his head in mock-sadness. “I’ll
certainly be bringing it up at the next PTA meeting.” He was sitting on his
favourite seat, a beat up plastic beer crate in the clearing, the obligatory
joint hanging from the corner of his mouth. They’d gotten into the routine of
meeting at the clearing after school.
“Do you even do anything extracurricular, you lazy ass?” Sam asked.
“Sure,” Holden smirked. “I’m all about the extracurricular, baby,” he said
suggestively.
Sam sighed again and sank into the tire next to Holden that had become “his”
seat in the way families have “their” seats around the dinner table. “Don’t
call me baby,” he said irritably. He was tired, hadn’t slept properly the night
before, and was dreading going home.
Holden snorted. “Just an expression, baby. Bad day, baby?” He pushed his foot
up into the back of Sam’s bent knee and kicked out his leg.
“Just quit it, okay. I’m tired and not in the mood,” Sam snapped.
His tiredness just encouraged Holden’s affected behaviour. “How soon he tires
of me,” he moaned theatrically with a hand over his eyes. “Where’s the love,
baby?”
“Love?” Sam said, refusing to be flippant. “Thought you didn’t do love. Anyway,
I think you might be impossible to love.”
Holden laughed, free and open, no self-pity in his voice when he said, “You
sound just like my mother.” His tone changed, eyes glinting as he said, “I have
something for you.”
Sam snorted. “I’m sure you do.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Winchester. It’s something else. Although,
I’ll give you that other thing too, only later.” He reached into his backpack.
“Check it out.” A glint of metal, handle, then barrel of a .45. Sam pulled away
quickly, surprised.
“Want to do some target practice?”
It wasn’t like Sam hadn’t seen guns before, but somehow this felt wrong. “Put
it away, Holden. Where the hell did you get that?”
Holden smiled, stroking the gun. “It’s my Dad’s. C’mon, we can go down the
river a little way and shoot some cans.” His voice was slow, caressing, like
his hand.
“I don’t want to,” Sam said uncomfortably.
“What the hell’s the matter with you? Didn’t think you’d pussy out over a gun.”
Holden looked annoyed.
“Whatever,” Sam said, getting up. “I’m going home.”
Holden turned his hand, finger slipping into the trigger guard and lifted his
arm to point the gun square at Sam’s chest. Sam didn’t think it was loaded, but
instinct dictated the cold rush of fear that spread through his body. “Put it
away, Holden,” he said quietly.
In the couple of weeks that Sam had known Holden, he’d witnessed moments where
Holden’s expression seemed to shut down and he got these weird shark eyes. That
was the only way Sam could describe it. It was like Holden switched off for a
moment and looked at the world through the cold, assessing eyes of an animal,
not a person. At Sam’s quiet command, that expression descended over his face.
Holden cocked his head and looked up at Sam with curiosity, like he was
considering what Sam would do if he didn’t put the gun away. Sam felt a twinge
of actual, knowing fear and realised the gun probably was loaded. It wasn’t
that he thought Holden wanted to hurt him, it was that he knew Holden was
dangerous when he was excited by a what if...
He’d had enough experience at hiding who he was and what he was thinking to
know that the best way to deal with the situation was to pretend it wasn’t a
situation. He moved very slowly out of the gun’s range and pretended irritation
as he slumped back into the tire, “Holden, you’re an ass.”
There was a moment of heavy silence, then Holden snorted and placed his hand,
still holding the .45, on his knee. “So, we going shooting or what?” he said,
turning to grin at Sam like he hadn’t just pointed a gun at his chest.
Sam’s heart was beating too fast. It was hard to keep an even tone when he
said, “No, Holden, I told you. I’m not interested.” He wasn’t going to indulge
Holden’s gun fantasy: he understood their destructive power too well. And he
wasn’t going to be intimidated into doing something he didn’t want to.
Holden dropped his head to the side to look at him, “I like you, Sam. You never
seem to lose your cool.”
Sam looked back at him, feeling the dark undercurrents of attraction he always
felt around Holden, but the rush of anger and exasperation was more dominant.
“You’re full of shit, Holden.”
“That’s a compliment right?” Holden smirked.
Sam sighed, “No, not really.” He got to his feet, started to walk away and
heard Holden follow him.
Sam walked ahead of Holden on the path, ignoring the occasional irritable
mutterings behind him about better ways to spend their afternoon.
Sam stopped in surprise as he came through the long grass into the bottom of
their yard. Dean was standing under a tree, looking down at a mound of upturned
earth.
Holden bumped into him, still grumbling. He looked past Sam’s shoulder and Sam
could almost feel him bristle with hostility. “Well, if it isn’t your big
brother, Sam.”
Sam turned around at Holden’s aggressive tone. “Holden, don’t start anything.
You don’t understand anything about Dean.” He said it quietly, clearly, but
Holden was looking beyond him at Dean like he hadn’t heard.
Before Sam could stop him, Holden had pushed past. “Hey,” he said to Dean,
making it sound more like a challenge than a greeting. Dean took his time
turning around to face him.
“I’m Holden, friend of Sam’s. You’re his brother right?”
“Yeah,” Dean said quietly. Sam’s heart clenched at how dejected Dean sounded,
like he’d been thinking about something really sad before they’d arrived. Sam
quickly moved up next to Holden, putting his hand out slightly to the side, as
if to hold Holden at bay. He watched Dean drop his eyes to take in the gesture.
“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Holden said, bouncing a little on his
heels. Sam felt like he should be choosing sides, was already moving to cross
the space between him and Dean when Holden said, “Your Dad’s away a lot, right?
You’re like a dad to Sam. Man, I know what that’s like.” He sniggered. “Gotta
keep the boys in line.” He looked at the scabbed split on Sam’s lip
meaningfully. “Spare the rod, like my daddy always says.”
The expression that crossed Dean’s face almost felled Sam where he stood. Sam
opened his mouth to dispute Holden’s insinuations but found the words froze in
his mouth: hard, icy stones that refused to be spat out. Dean’s right fist
clenched like he was going to take a swing at Holden. He held back, controlled
enough to know that would automatically justify Holden’s words. His jaw
clenched as he looked at Sam.
Sam opened his mouth again to speak, but Dean had already turned and was
walking back to the house, anger in the rigid set of his spine. It was so
unlike Dean to walk away from a fight that Sam stood for a moment, his mouth
still open as he watched the screen door shuddering on its final rusty hinge
after Dean slammed it shut behind him.
Sam turned to face Holden. “Why did you do that?” He couldn’t help the way his
voice wavered.
Holden was still in his fighting stance, legs astride, fists clenched. “You
gotta stand up to them, Sam, or they’ll beat you down your whole life.” He
didn’t even look at Sam as he said it, stared at the door like he was thinking
of following Dean.
“You know nothing about me, nothing about my family.” Sam’s voice rose in angry
disbelief at Holden’s presumption. He looked at Holden, feeling like he was
really seeing him for the first time. Holden carried his shitty baggage with
him so heavily he couldn’t see anything else.
It was like Holden only just noticed him, his body language changed, settled,
as he turned to look at Sam. He frowned. “I’m looking out for you.”
Sam grimaced. “I don’t need your protection. Look after yourself and your own
brothers. I don’t need your help, Holden,” he whispered fiercely.
He felt a wrench that he took care to hide as he stepped back and said coldly,
“Just stay away from me, Holden.” Was it always going to be like this, this
choice between his family and other people?
“Whatever.” Holden was quickly on the defensive. He mimicked Sam’s movement
backwards. “You’re just a tourist anyway, not like I didn’t know that.” He
turned around and strode across the yard, violently kicking the broken pickets
out of his way as he crossed over to his own side.
Sam took a deep breath and turned around to see Dean watching him through the
kitchen window.
Dean remained facing the window as Sam walked into the kitchen, his reflection
grey and cloudy in the glass. His arms were stretched out to the side, fists
clenched around the counter and tension in every line of his body. “I would
never hurt you, Sam.” His voice was harsh, aimed at the window.
Sam knew how seriously Dean took his responsibility towards him and how much
Holden’s insinuations would hurt and unsettle him. “I know you wouldn’t, Dean,”
he said as he crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around his brother’s
body, pushing up close to Dean’s warmth. He didn’t care that it was breaking
the rules. He was tired of the damn rules anyway.
“Don’t,” Dean replied curtly.
“I know you wouldn’t,” Sam replied as something broke in him. He pulled Dean
around and hid his face in his brother’s neck. He didn’t think about it, just
opened his mouth and sucked gently at the warm skin beneath his lips.
“Sam, don’t.” Dean rasped, but didn’t move away.
“I know you wouldn’t,” Sam breathed against Dean’s neck, moving his hips closer
and fitting them into the cradle of Dean’s.
“Sam!”
“I know you wouldn’t. Know you wouldn’t,” Sam repeated over and over against
Dean’s skin. He pushed his hands under Dean’s T-shirt at the back, just into
his jeans, fitting them into the curve of Dean’s spine.
When Dean tried to shift away, Sam held him against the counter with his hips.
He steeled himself for the shove to push him on his ass. It didn’t happen.
Dean’s arms remained stiffly out to the side, but then the way he leaned
against the counter loosened, his body more accommodating.
Sam sighed into Dean’s skin. He didn’t want to pull his head out of Dean’s
neck, didn’t want to look him in the face, but needed to get closer to all that
heated skin. He pulled back and saw the same stricken expression on Dean’s face
from last night. Ignoring it, Sam quickly pulled off his t-shirt and threw it
to the side. He felt a rush of exhilaration at his confidence and daring.
“Sam!”
Sam ignored the fear in Dean’s voice. He knew half of what Dean communicated
had nothing to do with what he said. Anyway, Sam preferred the message Dean’s
body was sending him. He pushed Dean’s t-shirt up so that he could fit his body
flush against his brother’s, feeling the hard planes of Dean’s chest against
his, Dean’s heart beating in tandem with the crazy rhythm in his own chest.
Dean was still saying don’t and Sam was still whispering what he knew as he ran
his tongue down Dean’s chest to a nipple, closed his mouth over it and sucked
hard.
“Fuck,” Dean breathed. Sam felt the moment Dean gave up. He stopped saying no
and arched into Sam’s mouth. Then Sam was being lifted in strong arms, flipped
around and shoved hard up on to the counter.
“I know you would never hurt me,” Sam said again as he opened his legs,
wrapping them around Dean’s waist. He turned his head and tried to capture
Dean’s mouth.
Dean twisted his face away and Sam knew that was wrong. He tried again, but
then forgot why it was so necessary to make Dean kiss him when his brother put
a hand between his legs. Sam’s head dropped back, hips pushing into Dean’s
touch.
Dean pulled Sam’s pliant body forward off the counter and slowly lowered him
until his feet touched the floor. Sam was almost as tall as Dean, but not
quite. His legs were shaky beneath him. Dean gripped his hips and ground their
erections together.
Overwhelmed by Dean’s larger frame and greater physical strength, Sam suddenly
felt the same intimidation he sometimes experienced during sparring. He’d
started this thing but had no control over it now. He felt a thrill of fearful
excitement at how wildly Dean bit into his neck and thrust against him.
Dean reached down, breathing hard, and started unbuttoning Sam’s jeans. Sam’s
heart stuttered in his chest. Dean gave him a wild-eyed look before lowering
himself along with Sam’s pants.
Sam knew there was something he needed to remember, but forgot what it was when
Dean knelt in front of him. His brother’s hot mouth closed over his aching
flesh and he fell into ecstasy.
It still nagged at the back of his mind when Dean stood up and pushed him back
against the counter, shoving his hips hard, the rough denim of his jeans
rubbing against Sam’s dick. They came at the same time, their groans echoing
through the shabby kitchen.
Sam wanted to say what he’d said before, but it stuck in his throat.
Even though his hands were gentle as he pulled up Sam’s jeans and tucked him
back into his boxers, there was something wrong about the way Dean refused to
kiss his upturned mouth. When Dean walked out of the kitchen to change his
jeans, Sam knew why he couldn’t say the words again. He no longer believed that
Dean would never hurt him.
***
They left the sad, grey town the way they left every other place. Dad came
back, battered and hollow-eyed, and nobody said anything about anything. Dad
didn’t talk about the hunt and Sam didn’t talk about Holden. Dean didn’t talk
about the factory, about his frustration and fears. John watched the way his
sons avoided touching each other, noticed the new sense of unease between them,
but said nothing.
When Dean flipped back his sheet and invited Sam into his bed the night before
they left, he didn’t use his mouth to kiss Sam or to speak to him, and Sam
wondered if all the other pleasures Dean’s mouth gave him would be enough.
As they drove out of town, Dean sighing with relief and turning the music up
loud, Sam watched the town dwindle into a grey smudge behind them through the
back window. He silently wished Holden luck in escaping his life and smiled at
the mental image of him lounging under a palm tree with a joint hanging out of
his mouth, watching the light sparkle over a blue ocean.
He sighed and did as he was told when Dean quietly said, “Face the front, Sam.”
It was more than just an instruction to turn around in his seat. Sam watched
the road stretch out in front of them. Dean started singing along with the
blaring AC/DC. Sam grinned at his brother’s obvious happiness at being back on
the road.
The smile was wiped from his face as he experienced a sudden moment of panicked
realisation. Dean would never leave this life. He was a hunter and would
probably die on the road at the hand of some evil creature. It was never only
going to be about the demon that killed mom. By binding himself even tighter to
Dean, Sam had condemned himself to this shiftless, fearful existence. To leave
this life would mean turning his back on his dad and everything he’d been
raised to believe in, but mostly, it would mean leaving Dean.
He couldn’t deal right now with the terror of that thought. Instead, he turned
to Dean and started teasing him about his taste in mullet-rock. If Sam’s voice
sounded tight and wavered a little, Dean didn’t mention it. Instead, he smacked
Sam lightly on the back of the head and said, “House rules, Sammy, driver picks
the music.”
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!