Chapter Text
Chapter One
Soccer practice ends early on Tuesday. Coach Wharf dismisses them with a disgusted look in his face and a dark slant to his eyes that remind Sam disconcertingly of his father.
The locker room is quiet and subdued afterwards, just a couple of the guys talking about the rager up at Bryant Park last Friday, about Kelly Ryder apparently going down on James Davies in front of the entire basketball team.
Sam closes his eyes and ears to it and concentrates on tying the laces on his thrift store sneakers. The canvas feels damp and stiff from the rain, chafing under his fingertips.
“Hey, Sam, you need a ride home?”
He tilts his head back. Ali Deels is standing over him, freshly showered. His freckled face is pink, his dark red hair wet and plastered to his forehead. He's dangling his car keys from one finger.
“Or maybe we could, like, head back to my place, work on our Chem project for class?” he adds.
Sam pushes his hair out his eyes, avoiding Ali’s hopeful smile. “Uh, no thanks, man. I’m getting a ride with Dean.”
“But he has practice, doesn’t he?” Ali says. It’s a rhetorical question, Ali knows Dean has practice. Ali knows Dean’s schedule almost as well as Sam does.
Undeterred by Sam’s silence, Ali takes a seat next to him on the bench, body angled towards Sam and eyes boring into the side of Sam’s bent face. Sam tamps down on the urge to scoot away from him. They’re not private right now. Ali shouldn’t be sitting this close, not where all the other guys can see them. It’s simple self-preservation.
“C’mon, Sam. We can work for a couple of hours, then I’ll give you a ride back to your place. Dean’ll be cool with that.” He nudges Sam with his elbow, and leans in close enough for Sam to feel his hot breath against the side of his face.
Sam flinches, images from a couple of nights ago skittering through his mind: Ali’s eyelashes fluttering closed against his freckled cheeks, his small ink stained fingers jerking in and out of Sam’s fly and long thin cock chafing against Sam’s palm.
Sam swallows, and jerks to his feet. “No, sorry, man. I can’t tonight. Dean’s expecting me.” He gives a bullshit what can you do shrug.
Ali’s expression falls, but he swallows, getting over it. “Oh, okay, okay, Sam. You’ll still be in early to work on the project, though? Right, man?” He smiles hopefully, eyes going round and beguiling like a cartoon strip.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”
Football practice hasn’t finished, the team still running through various plays on the field. Groups of parents, boosters, cheerleaders and various hangers-on are ranged across the brand-new bleachers, watching with the kind of deranged reverence only small-town football seems to inspire. Sam rolls his eyes inwardly, feeling contemptuous and superior as he watches Paul Ferguson, the head booster, stride up to Coach McCarthy to remonstrate with him over some fucked-up play. Seriously, does the guy have nothing better to do with his time? Sam takes his usual seat on the eighth row and looks for his brother on the field, finally spotting him in his number 33 jersey standing in the running back position.
They originally came to this town for a hunt: promising athletes being cut down in their prime, last year’s star quarterback and the swim team star three years before, potential winning seasons crumbling like dust without them. There was enough talk for locals to start telling tales of “a curse” which alerted Dad. He suggested that Sam and Dean go undercover and involve themselves in the high school’s sports programs. For once, Sam was happy to fall in line with his father’s orders. He liked organized sports and he’d always wanted to be part of a team activity that had nothing to do with hunting. Having Dad’s blessing this time around was just an added bonus. Dean was less enthusiastic; he’d finished high school the year before, and at twenty, considered himself way too old to go back. But Dad insisted, so of course Dean obeyed, lying about his age and getting himself accepted on the football team despite never even playing the game at high school level before to Sam’s knowledge.
They solved the case over a month ago - the disgruntled and downright petty spirit of a neighboring high-school coach exacting revenge on his major rival by literally scaring their best athletes to death. Dad was already halfway out of the door by the time they salted and burned the baseball glove belonging to the dead coach, on his way to a new hunt in Nebraska with Caleb. So Sam and Dean were forced to stick around in this dead-end town, still attending the high school and still playing sports. It seemed pointless to quit the teams at the time. Sam didn’t want to, and Dean... well, Sam wasn’t sure why Dean was still playing football, but it probably had a lot to do with the cheerleaders who flocked around him at every available opportunity. Not that Dean needed football to help him get laid, but this new level of popularity was something that neither of them had ever experienced before and Dean was making the most of it.
Sam watches the offence run through a play. Dean’s the main feature: taking the quarterback’s snapped pass with easy grace, darting past the defense to make a clear twenty yards before being tackled by a beefy linebacker. Dean’s good, getting a couple of high fives from his teammates as Coach McCarthy blows the whistle to call them into a huddle. Sam's mostly not surprised by how good Dean is. His brother’s a natural athlete, quick and ruthless and in great shape. Years of hunting with Dad have made him able to think on his feet, take orders fast, and work as a team.
He keeps his eyes on Dean as the players leave the field. He’s carrying his helmet in one hand and talking to the quarterback, Carl Rogers. Dean says he’s a good guy, for a jock. Sam’s not so sure.
Sam gets to his feet and trudges down the bleachers to wait at the bottom for Dean to notice him. It doesn’t take long; his brother’s always had an ingrained radar for him. Dean catches his eye and cocks his head, raising his eyebrows, and Sam nods back at him. Wait outside in the parking lot. I won’t be long.
Dean’s motorcycle is parked out by the faculty building. Sam leans against the pillion as he waits for his brother. It’s warmer around this side of the school, the faint sun just starting to set, casting long, eerie shadows over the few cars left in the faculty lot. Sam runs one hand over the scratched faded leather of the bike’s seat. The motorcycle’s a new thing for them, though the machine itself is not new, not at all. Dean won it in a poker game in the first few days they were living here. The losing guy was happy to toss the keys over instead of real money - which should’ve been a warning to them - but Dean claimed not be worried, drunk and cocky and bragging to Sam afterward about just how freaking awesome he was.
Dean worked on the bike whenever he got the chance. Sam helped him out in between trips to the library, research for the hunt, and homework. Besides, there was nothing better to do in this dead-end town. Dean got it working perfectly, (just as well considering Dad had taken the car with him when he’d left to join Caleb), and it’s currently their only mode of transport, ‘cause there’s no freaking way Sam’s trekking the two miles out to the bus stop every day.
It's not long before Dean comes walking around the side of the building, duffle slung over one shoulder and shadow long and jagged.
“Hey,” Dean greets him. “Good practice?”
“Alright,” Sam shrugs. “You?”
“Man, fuckin’ awesome. You see me make that play?”
“No, must’ve missed that,” Sam lies.
Dean’s face falls slightly, but he disguises it with a shrug. “Well, I was awesome. Just so you know.”
“Of course you were, Dean,” Sam says, using his newly discovered patronizing-Dean tone of voice. It’s deeply satisfying.
“You bet I was, sarcastic little bitch. Number one running back now.”
“Wow, that’s just, like, so cooool, Dean.”
Dean shoves him, and Sam snickers, amused with himself. Dean tosses him one of the helmet and tells him to fix the chinstrap right. It’s what he says every single freaking time they ride the motorcycle together, Dean’s so predictable like that. Sam climbs onto the pillion, wraps his arms tightly around his brother, and presses his face into the broad leather curve of Dean’s shoulders. He jumps when Dean kick-starts the machine, the rumble and growl vibrating through every pore of his body as Dean roars out of the school gates.
“Hold on!” Dean shouts as they finally clear the main town limits and cruise out onto the quiet back country road that leads towards the trailer park where they’re currently staying. Sam shifts closer, tightening his grip around his brother’s waist as Dean opens the throttle. The needle dances past 50 – 60 – 70 – 80 mph as they tear down the leaf-streaked road. He ducks down behind his brother’s body, using Dean as a wind-break. He can feel Dean’s heart thump under his spread fingers, feel the warmth of Dean’s body through their jammed up bodies and feel the rumble and vibration of the bike’s engine through his thighs.
Dean lets out a loud whoop and Sam echoes it, throwing back his head and screaming out loud. He can’t help himself, crazy with exhilaration and the sheer euphoria of the moment. They’re going so fast it feels as if they’re about to take off, like that awesome moment in ET when the children fly on their bicycles past the moon.
They fly past the entrance to the trailer park, but Dean doesn’t turn in. He just speeds up even more, the miles eaten up under them. They finally come to a halt at a crossroads, maybe ten or even fifteen miles from where they're supposed to be. Dean swerves the bike around in an 180 degree turn, the wheels kicking up dust and grit. Sam blinks and adjusts his hold on Dean’s jacket, not realizing until now that he’s been holding onto his brother so hard that his fingers have cramped up.
Dean turns and pushes up the visor on his helmet. “Alright, Sammy?” The words are partly muffled, but Sam can read the question in Dean’s expression.
He nods and Dean grins at him. He pushes down his visor and takes off again, taking them back the way they came. This time they make the turn into the trailer park.
“Man, that was freakin’ awesome! Don’t tell me that wasn’t awesome!” Dean exclaims as he pulls up outside the trailer.
Sam makes a face, trying to stop the grin from flittering across his mouth. “I guess it was kinda okay.”
Dean kills the engine and reaches behind to slap Sam’s thigh, letting out another whoop. Sam smiles to himself for real. This is his favorite version of Dean: open and expansive and drunk on the sheer exhilaration of the moment.
“Whoa, you been enjoying yourself back there, huh, Sammy?”
Dean cackles and turns his head to peer back at Sam, amusement in his eyes.
“Huh – what?”
Dean raises one eyebrow and wiggles his ass backwards against Sam’s crotch, and, ohhhh... Shit. He gets it now.
He’s sporting some serious wood, and he had no fucking idea. He’s been so caught up in the ride, he hasn’t even noticed.
He freezes, blushing furiously as he feels Dean’s amused and knowing gaze track over him.
“Dude, don’t sweat it,” Dean says, like Sam popping wood when he’s pressed up against his brother’s ass is totally no big deal. He grabs Sam’s wrist and yanks his hand forward, around his own body, planting it over the front of his pants and the – Holy fucking shit! - unmistakable erection he’s also sporting, thick and hard and obvious through his tight jeans. “See, happens to all of us,” Dean says matter-of-factly.
Sam jerks his hand away from his brother’s – Jesus... his brother’s fly like he’s been scalded.
“Get off, Dean! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He slides off the bike, clumsily tripping over the kick stand as he turns his back on his brother, fingers fumbling with the strap of his helmet and face burning red.
“Sam, c’mon, man, it’s alright, nothing to get embarrassed about,” Dean says, sounding conciliatory. Sam jumps when Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Dude, nothin’ I ain’t seen before, right? I’ve heard you jerk off a million times, and you’ve heard me jerk off–-“
“Dean! Please! Just, shut the fuck up!” Sam cries.
He tosses the helmet to the ground and slams into the trailer, making straight for the bathroom and crashing the flimsy door behind him.
He takes a seat on the closed toilet lid and waits for Dean to follow. Dean will probably try and talk to him, or annoy him, or tease him, it’s what Dean does, and this time around he’s most definitely given his brother plenty of ammunition.
He places his hand over his fly and prays for his erection to go away. He tries to think of something incredibly unsexy, Dad flirting with that female police officer back in Maryland. He shudders, remembering... ‘cause yeah, gross, but it’s making no difference to his dick. The stupid thing is still stubbornly hard and throbbing in his pants.
The front door bangs open and he flinches, hearing Dean say something and then Mason, the trailer park manager, answer him.
“What? It’s broken again?” Dean snaps, sounding incredulous and pissed.
“Yeah, she’s been whinin’ all fuckin’ day ‘bout not bein’ able to go to the john. I thought you said you fixed it. Where’s your father? It’s his damn job to deal with this shit,” Mason says in that horrible nasal whine that Sam has come to seriously loathe.
He hears his brother hesitate, then say quickly, “My Dad's not here right now.”
Fucking typical, Dean lying for Dad. And of course Dad’s not here right now, he’s never here. He’s been gone for three… four weeks now? Sam’s kinda lost count.
“It was fixed yesterday,” Dean continues, sounding pissed. “Me and my brother fixed it.”
“Well you did a crappy job, kid, ‘cause it sure ain’t workin’ now. Bitch hasn’t stopped fuckin’ bothering me all fuckin’ day.”
Dean sighs then says through gritted teeth, “I guess I’ll take another look then.”
“Yeah, you do that. Just get the fuckin’ thing fixed else I’ll be wanting your rent in cash. Backdated.”
Mason leaves, and the door slams shut.
Sam stays quiet, listening to his brother stomp around, gather up his tools, and then crash out of the trailer, bitching under his breath. Not that Sam can blame him, the two of them worked on that fucking toilet for two hours last night after dinner, and it was working when they left.
These maintenance tasks are part of the deal that Dad arranged with the trailer park owner to get them rent-free accommodation for however many months they were going to be here. But Dad’s barely been here since they rolled into this shitty town, so it’s Sam and Dean who’ve been stuck with the really crappy jobs that the daily guy can’t be bothered to handle: namely, blocked pipes and backed-up toilets and emptying trash.
Sam sighs and lets his head fall back against the thin trailer wall, his elbows against the toilet tank. He glances down at his crotch. Happily, memories of last night’s toilet fixing marathon seem to have finally deflated his stupid cock. He zips his pants and gets off the toilet.
He hates the trailer. He hates it even more than he hates the usual motel rooms and two room houses they live in. With a motel room, it’s always temporary, the very nature of a motel room is temporary. But there’s something about this place - about the entire trailer park - that is depressingly permanent. Something that gets under your skin and lodges there. Something that brands you and marks you out as one of life’s eternal losers, something miserable and suffocating and unrelenting. They may be hunters, fighting a war that is supposed to be above and beyond normal everyday struggles of paying bills and making rent and being able to hold your head up at school, but Sam knows that even after they move on from this place, (because unlike a lot of the poor assholes who live here, they will move on), there’s going to be some part of him that will never be able to completely shake it off.
*************************
On Thursday evening, Sam does his homework at Ali’s farm. The two of them work through a problem set, sitting close together at Ali’s desk in his big attic room, the sounds of Ali’s father and the farm hands working in the barn next door filtering through Ali’s open window. Ali’s room is sparse, no rugs or carpet on the smooth wood floors, and barely any furniture except for Ali’s enormous bed, dresser, old carved armoire and two overflowing bookcases. There are no posters on the wall, but his cork board is covered with articles about last year’s soccer team’s winning season, a color coded copy of his class schedule and several Polaroids of Ali and his dog, Jack.
For the last twenty minutes their legs have been pressed together, Ali’s thigh a solid block of denimed heat against Sam’s. It’s making Sam jittery and self-aware in a way that he hates, as if he's conscious of every muscle in his body.
Ali puts down his pen, and Sam stills. He flinches, and almost jumps when Ali’s hand lands on his thigh, though he was expecting it. The air around them feels still, tight and muffled, like they’re in their own private vacuum.
He hears Ali lick his lips and say, “Sam,” in a quiet, hesitant voice.
Sam says nothing, just breathing in and out. He doesn’t flinch but keeps dreadfully still as Ali’s hand edges up his thigh, higher and higher, his cock beginning to swell in his jeans with every inch. Ali hesitates again, swallows audibly, and Sam’s leg jerks in an involuntary spasm.
“No, don’t,” he says, though he doesn’t actually move or make an effort to push Ali away.
“I’m not gay, Sam,” Ali says abruptly.
It’s so unexpected, such a non-sequitur that Sam has the crazy urge to laugh out loud, ‘cause, seriously... what? He hasn’t even thought of that, of sexuality and labels and saying shit out loud. Is that what Ali thinks this is? What they’ve been doing?
“I know,” he says.
“This is something guys do together,” Ali protests, “it’s normal.”
Sam thinks about telling Dean what he and his “geek friend” have been doing in between homework and class projects and mini chess tournaments. He knows exactly what his brother’s reaction would be.
“I read it somewhere,” Ali adds.
Sam believes him. Ali’s exactly the sort of boy to have read up on what normal adolescent boy behavior should be and then try to emulate it, or at least try to track his own behavior alongside it, like he's conducting a social studies experiment.
He says nothing, and they both go quiet again. Ali’s hand is still on Sam’s thigh and Sam’s cock is still half-hard. He thinks about saying no and stopping things right now. He thinks about it as Ali makes his move, hand creeping up Sam’s leg to Sam's blatantly hard dick. He’s still thinking about telling Ali to stop a minute later when Ali’s got Sam’s cock out and is jacking it with awkward but effective jerks of his wrist.
He doesn’t stop it, and he comes all over Ali’s small, ink-stained fingers. Ali turns away from him, opens a drawer in his desk and fumbles out a box of Kleenex. His eyes are shiny, face flushed and lips half-parted as he avoids Sam’s gaze, turning to stare down at his page of quadratic equations like they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen.
Sam returns the favor for Ali because it’s only polite, because Ali’s supposed to be his best friend and because Ali is one of the only people at school who talks to him. And because, secretly, there’s a very real part of him that enjoys it. He likes to see with his own eyes the pleasure that he’s giving. He likes the slim, silky feel of Ali’s cock in his hand, and he likes to imagine the stunned and horror-struck look on his big brother’s face if he ever knew what his baby brother was up to.
**************************************
Ali gives him a ride back to the trailer park, dropping him outside the entrance and leaving with a cheerful wave, all awkwardness and embarrassment already forgotten. Sam raises his hand to wave back, and watches the taillights disappear over the ridge.
He thrusts his hands into his pockets and turns into the park. Most of the trailers are still lit. The flickering lights from TV screens and muffled sounds of talk shows and reruns of football games filter through thin metal walls as he trudges up the lane to their trailer. A few people have their doors open, some sitting outside, smoking or drinking. A group of five guys are outside Bill Marmby’s trailer, drinking beers, smoking and conversing in low gruff tones. They look up as Sam passes by, with a narrowed, suspicious cut to their eyes, and Sam’s breath catches for a moment, imagining that they can see inside his head and know what he was doing only an hour earlier. But they barely notice him. He's just that kid who empties the trash or fixes the broken toilet. They go back to their conversation, their raspy nicotine-soaked voices reminding him with a wrench of Dad and his hunting buddies talking strategy and lore and good vs. evil until late in the night while he and Dean are supposed to be asleep.
The lights in the Winchester trailer are on low, and there’s no sound of the TV. For a moment Sam thinks that Dean’s still out, remembering that he’d told Dean he’d be back later than this, it’s scarcely nine thirty after all, then he hears a gasp of breath, and of course, he’s so freaking dumb. His brother’s got company, making the most of little Sammy's absence.
He pauses by the front steps and rolls his eyes. The gesture's for his own benefit as there's no one around to see him. But what the fuck is he supposed to do now? Wait outside? Here? Gatecrash Dean’s little party? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s walked in on Dean with one of his conquests. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s listened to his brother having sex, hearing Dean orgasm is a regular occurrence in Sam’s life. But Dean would bitch at him if he were to break things up now. He'd call him a fucking cock-block for the rest of the night, and probably a lot of tomorrow, and sure, it’s kinda funny, but he hates Dean being pissed with him.
There’s another moan, louder this time, deeper and almost gravelly, and Sam frowns. It's not Dean's voice, he knows Dean's voice, but it sounds too deep to be a girl.
He tiptoes carefully onto the metal steps, putting one hand against the door for balance. He peers carefully through the narrow, dirty window by the door. Dean’s on the couch, and he’s not alone, and the person on top of Dean is most definitely not a girl.
Sam freezes, heart skipping a beat and mouth falling open in shock.
Jesus Christ, Dean’s making out with a dude.
The air evaporates from his lungs and Sam just gapes as he watches the guy on top of Dean lean down to take Dean’s mouth in a kiss. He watches Dean’s arm with his familiar leather bracelets encircle the guy to cup his ass. He watches Dean's hand with the familiar silver ring snag in the guy’s frayed denim pockets and tug him closer.
Holy shit.
Sam steps off the porch and backs away. His heart is beating, adrenaline fast, like they’re on a hunt. Except of course there is no hunt, just Dean and some guy dry humping on the couch.
He hesitates outside the front of the trailer, not sure which way to go now or what to do. He stares at the mushy ground, disturbed and lumpy from the rain and the tracks of the motorcycle. If he smoked then this would be a good time to have a cigarette. Dean smokes sometimes, though never when Dad’s around, he's too much of a good little solider for that.
Shit, Dad. What the hell would Dad say if he knew about Dean’s sudden taste in guys?
So, does Dean have a taste for guys? The evidence right now points to a big fat fucking yes. But is this guy the first? It’s not like Sam can tell anything from what he’s just glimpsed. He can't tell who the guy is or if he knows Dean or if this is a one off like all of Dean’s other one-night-stands. Or if... shit. Maybe Sam knows him too? Maybe he’s in school with them, maybe he’s on the team with Dean?
Sam worries his lip, fingers clenching into fists in his pockets. He glances at the trailer. He needs to know who this guy is. He has to know what’s going on with his brother. He deserves to know.
He creeps around the back of the trailer. It's shadowed, not visible to any nosy neighbors or to the people inside. He treads softly, taking care not to make a noise. The ground here is even softer underfoot and he thinks disgustedly of the shitty pipe-work common to every trailer in this craphole of a park. He knows it intimately after all the pipes Dean and he have been forced to unblock and dismantle over the past few weeks, the clogs of human and animal hair, the food and other shit they’ve had to remove. He’s reached a good spot. The window above him gives a much better view of the couch than the one at the front. He presses one hand against the cold dusty wall, bracing himself, and he peers inside.
The guy is still on top of Dean, his head bowed and face hidden, though Sam can make out short dark hair, just beginning to go bald on the top of his head. His body is bigger than Dean’s, his shoulders and arms thicker and more muscular, his skin slightly more tan. One of his hands is cupping the side of Dean’s face, his fingers splayed out over Dean’s cheek and temple, and thumb resting against Dean’s parted lips. His other hand is caught in the waistband of Dean’s jeans, the rocking jerking movement of his arm wholly familiar to Sam. One of Dean’s arms is tossed over his head, draped over the arm of the couch in a languid, decadent sort of a sprawl that reminds Sam with a wrench of how Dean looks when he watches TV. Dean’s other arm is curled lazily around the guy, the tips of his fingers disappearing under the hem of the guy’s flannel shirt.
Sam swallows and moves his attention to Dean’s face. His brother’s eyes are half-closed, his expression serene and blissful, mouth shaped around the guy’s thumb. There’s a kind of intimacy in Dean's face that makes Sam feel funny. Dean’s face is flushed, and Sam can hear him murmuring something too low to make out. Dean arches his hips up, ass momentarily leaving the couch, and Sam realizes with a lurch of panic that he’s about to watch his brother come.
He yanks his gaze away, feeling like he’s been scalded. Behind him, his brother is coming into some unknown dude’s hand and letting that same dude lean down and kiss him in an intimate and private way that bares no relation to the big brother Sam knows so well.
He stands in silence, with his heart beating wildly and stomach churning queasily. He wonders if Dean’s going to jerk the guy off now. If once Dean’s gotten his, he’s going to return the favor, just like Sam did only an hour before in Ali’s bedroom. The thought makes him want to laugh out loud, a dirty, crazy little snicker building up in his chest. He and Dean both exchanged hand-jobs with guys on the same freaking night. Well, at least they’re still in sync. Dad would be proud.
He has no idea exactly how much time has passed. It feels like years, but it’s probably only been five minutes since he waved goodbye to Ali. He realizes distantly that he’s shivering, despite the prickly heat in his gut and the churning in his belly. He decides that it’s probably okay to look now. Dean and the guy must have finished whatever it was they were doing.
He turns around and peers through the window once more. Dean and the guy are standing up. Fully dressed thank God, though Dean’s shirt has a few buttons undone, his hair mussed, cheeks pink and expression satisfied. He looks like he does just after he’s gotten laid: smug and satisfied and all’s right with the world. The other guy has his back to Sam and is shrugging a navy hunting vest over his flannel shirt. He says something to Dean, the words muffled and low, and Dean chuckles, that curl to his mouth that means he’s a little embarrassed. Dean bows his head, takes a step towards the guy, and puts his hands on his shoulders. He leans in and presses his lips to the guy’s. The guy’s hands move to cradle Dean’s face as they kiss.
Sam’s pulse hammers but he can’t look away. He can't stop looking at his brother making out with a dude, just a couple of feet from where he’s standing. He can see it all so clearly - the line of drool on their lips as they break apart, the plush pink sheen of Dean’s mouth. The guy keeps one hand on Dean’s cheek, cradling his face like it’s something precious. Dean’s eyes are wide and locked on the guy’s face, naked and intimate in a way Sam isn’t used to seeing on his brother. This obviously isn't just a one night stand. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. Dean knows this guy. Hell, Dean likes this guy.
The thought makes his throat feel tight and painful, like he’s about to cry. He clenches his fingers into fists and watches Dean back away from the guy, saying something. He can actually make out the words now, Dean’s voice suddenly clear once more: “Gotta go, man, my brother will be back soon…”
The guy nods and turns around and Sam grabs onto the window in surprise.
It’s Paul Ferguson. Paul Ferguson, the richest guy in town. Paul Ferguson, the head booster for the school's football team. Paul Ferguson, who is not much younger than Dad. Paul Ferguson, who is most definitely married to a woman. Paul Ferguson was just making out with Sam’s brother.
Sam gapes in disbelief. He watches Paul Ferguson take the couple of steps towards the door and hesitate. He turns around with one hand on the handle, and his eyes drink in Dean like he’s trying to memorize every inch of him. And then he’s gone, shutting the door quickly behind him.
Sam listens to the crunch of gravel as Paul Ferguson walks away, and he wonders distractedly where he’s parked his car. He’s got an expensive ride, one of those huge-ass SUV’s that cost upwards of $50k, with one of those douchey personalized license plates. However you look at it, it’s pretty noticeable. Surely the guy can’t be stupid enough to have parked it anywhere near the trailer park.
The Winchesters may not have been in town very long, but Sam knows the town’s history better than most of its residents, partly due to the research he and Dean did for the hunt and partly due to Ali taking his role as town ambassador very seriously. Sam knows that Paul Ferguson, scion of the wealthy Ferguson family, is a big deal.. He's the Chief Booster for the high school football team, former mayor and grandson of the town's founder. Paul Ferguson is the big cheese in these parts. The Ferguson family owns a chain of food stores (Ferguson Foods), a couple of family oriented restaurants, (Ferguson’s), a huge-ass car dealership (Ferguson Motors), and even a strip club (La Piñata, the only business not to bear the Ferguson name). His money pays for the football program; it bought the new field and the new bleachers and brought in the current coaching staff from a rival town. Paul Ferguson’s wedding to former Miss Oklahoma seven years ago is still spoken of by town residents like Ali’s parents in awed, respectful tones. Paul Ferguson is a local celebrity, and now it seems he is also Dean's lover.
What is Dean thinking? What is Dean doing? This isn’t some one-night hookup, this isn’t some high school fuck. This is Dean having an affair with a married man who happens to be the most powerful guy in town. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut, like someone’s reached inside his chest and rummaged around and taken his heart in a death-grip. He can't believe that Dean would do this to them.
He doesn’t think he’s blinked since he saw Paul Ferguson’s face. He forces himself to blink, his hands still so tightly curled into fists that his wrists are cramping. Slowly he unclenches them and rests one hand against the cold dusty wall of the trailer. He gets to his tiptoes again and peers through the window once more.
Dean’s lying on the couch, slouching in his usual position, a beer resting between his thighs and remote in his hand. This is how he’s presenting himself in time for Sam’s arrival. This is the fake show he’s going to put on for Sam. And if Sam were to ask him, then he’ll make up some bullshit about going out for a beer with the guys, about coming back here and watching the game for the rest of the evening, about getting a burger on his way back and if Sam’s still hungry then there’s some take-out pizza from the other night in the refrigerator. He’ll lie there on the couch, nonchalant and cool, and he’ll fucking lie to Sam’s face to protect that fucking pervert.
Sam stares at him long enough for his eyes to glaze over and his head to start aching. Finally, he forces himself to look away, and slowly, he steps away from the trailer.
He slides his body between a couple of the empty trailers, mud and dust scraping against his – Dean’s – jacket, probably leaving marks and stains. Not that anyone will notice or care, not in his family.
Dean’s never lied to him before. Dad’s the one who lies to him, but Dean’s always been straight with him, the only person in his sucky life that he can rely on.
Except that’s not true anymore. How many times has Dean been with Paul Ferguson before now? How many lies has Dean told him to keep his dirty little secret?
He doesn’t want to go back in there. He doesn’t want to be in the same room where Dean just fucked around with Paul Ferguson. It’s disgusting and sordid, and it’s so beneath them and what they stand for. Dean’s so much better than that.
He should tell Dad. It would serve Dean right if Dad found out. Dad would put an end to it. Dad would fucking kill Paul Ferguson, Dad wouldn’t give a shit that he’s the most powerful guy in town. Dad would put him in the fucking ground for messing with his boy. And the fucker would deserve it. He would deserve everything coming to him - being exposed for the filthy pervert he is, fucking around with a high school student half his age. It would end him. And Dean would know that it wasn’t acceptable, that he couldn’t go around doing that sort of shit.
He should call Dad right now.
The thought fills him with purpose. He heads towards the phone booth by the entrance. Thankfully, it’s not busy, and he has enough quarters in his pocket to get through to Dad’s cell.
He wrenches the door to the booth open, wrinkling his nose at the customary smell of piss and beer. He lifts the receiver and slots in the quarters, punching in Dad’s cell phone number. It rings five times, and he’s about to give up and hang up, ‘cause what kinda message can he leave? He can’t explain everything in a fucking phone message.
“Yeah?”
Sam flinches at Dad’s voice. He licks his lips, says, “Dad?”
“Sammy? Everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah. I’m fine, Dad.”
“Good, that’s good. What about your brother? Where’s Dean?”
Sam hesitates, ‘cause Dean...Dean is not okay, Dean’s seriously fucked up and this is why he’s calling Dad right now, to let him know what’s going on with Dean, to make him come back and sort things out. But Dad will be livid, Dad will punish Dean. He’ll tell Dean how disappointed he is in him, and Dean will get that heartbroken, damaged look, and Sam can’t stand seeing that look on his brother’s face.
He can’t do it. He can’t tattle on Dean.
What Dean’s doing is wrong, and there’s part of Sam that fucking hates his brother right now, that can’t bear thinking about him, but getting Dad involved, turning Dad against Dean.... However angry he is, he can’t do that to his brother.
“He’s fine too, Dad. He’s just at home, watching TV.”
There’s a noise at the other end of the phone line, a muffled sound as Dad says something, covering the receiver with his hand so Sam can’t hear his exact words. When Dad gets back on the line he sounds distracted and vaguely annoyed in that way he always seems to be when speaking to them on the phone.
“Well, that’s good, Sammy. Look – I gotta go – Caleb thinks he might have something.”
“Oh right, okay, Dad. When do you think-–“
But the rest of his question is cut off, the dial tone buzzing in Sam’s ear. Dad’s hung up.
Sam bites his lip, stares murderously at the phone, and slams it back down onto the hook.
What a fucking waste of time and money. Tomorrow’s lunch money wasted. And it was his own fault, chickening out when it came to the crunch.
Pussy, he says to himself, lifting his lip into a sneer and catching his reflection in the glass pane of the booth. You’re a fucking pussy Sam Winchester.
He slams out the booth and walks toward their trailer.
He pushes the door open. The hinge creaks, flimsy metal scraping against the warped linoleum floor like the ugly piece of crap it is.
Dean looks up from the TV as Sam forces the door shut behind him, eyebrows raised and expression welcoming. “Hey, man. You have a good time?”
Sam shrugs and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t feel like talking He’s not even sure he can talk. He can’t look at Dean, remembering the look on his face when Paul Ferguson cupped his cheek and kissed him on the lips.
“Sam?” Dean prompts, sounding concerned. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Dean! Christ’s sake, just leave me alone!” he snarls.
He stomps across the floor and slams the bedroom door behind him, Dean’s wide-eyed, incredulous expression burned against his retinas. He sinks to the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands. His chest is heaving, stupid hot tears burning at the back of his eye sockets. Christ, he’s pathetic, what a great impression of an emo-teen. Any minute now Dean’s gonna come in here and mock him.
He braces himself, waiting for Dean to come in and give him shit for acting like such a prissy, emo bitch. Or even worse, for Dean to sit down and try and figure out what’s crawled up Sammy’s ass this time. But Dean doesn’t come, and Sam’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
He gets into bed because it’s late and because he can’t concentrate on anything else, not on homework, not on reading, not even on listening to Dean’s old Walkman. He strips down to his undershirt and boxers and crawls under the covers. His gut churns and his chest feels tight every time he hears a noise from the other room, Dean getting up to go to the bathroom, couch cushions creaking as Dean sits again, the puffy sound of the refrigerator opening and closing as Dean fetches himself another beer.
He falls asleep at some point, tumbling into a thick, heavy sleep filled with disturbing dreams and memories of that time three years ago when Dean was clawed up by the harpy. It was one of the few times Sam was truly scared for his brother’s life.
He wakes up feeling thick-headed and fuzzy. His heart thumps from the dream and the memory of how it felt to hold Dean on his lap in the backseat of the car while Dad broke land speed records to get them to the nearest ER. He blinks; the light’s beginning to edge through the long, thin strip where the grubby, fake-velvet curtains don’t meet at their small window. He glances to his left and sees Dean bundled up in the covers beside him, lying on his front. His cheek is smushed into the pillow, his lips parted and eyelashes fluttering like black spidery curtains against his cheeks.
Looking at his brother like this, vulnerable and still and quiet, makes Sam feel uncomfortable and twitchy. He slides out of bed, pulls on his clothes and shoes and tiptoes out of the trailer, carefully closing the door behind him.