Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lisa is something else.

By all accounts, she’s actually sort of perfect.

She and Dean met by chance. Just as she was coming into Starbucks, Dean was walking out.

And maybe he accidentally smacked right into the glass door instead of bothering to open it, because man, she’s just that goddamned gorgeous.

She was in her yoga clothes, hair pulled tight back, but she thought he was cute and agreed when he’d asked if she wanted to see a movie sometime.

She liked him well enough to give him a handjob in the movie theater. And hell, she liked him even more when he went down on her in the back of her mom’s station wagon in the parking lot after the movie was over.

The sex was amazing, but what’s more was that in the three months they’d been dating, Dean had grown to like her right back.

That’s what happens when you’re seventeen and having ridiculously awesome sex, though. Your brain plays tricks on you, and no sooner does your kind-of-pretty-much-girlfriend say ‘I love you’ does she come back with ‘I can’t do this anymore’.

Dean’s ears still ring with the words. And naturally it would happen to happen off of his home turf, in Lisa’s bedroom. She doesn’t have a particularly girly bedroom, but like many other girls his age he’s slept with before, she can’t seem to part with her stuffed animals yet.

There’s a bear just on the edge of her bed, a foot away from Dean, giving him the stink eye.

It’s not cool.

The entire room smells like her, like that pretty spray she wears and her cigarettes underneath that, like her shampoo and her lotion. Hell, she’s holding his hand as she’s speaking, long tan legs crossed over in front of her, looking down as she continues, “We’re not working.”

“We’re not?”

Well, that’s fucking news to him.

“I thought we had a good thing going,” he explains, trying to piece together the puzzle in his head. Good sex, good movies, good conversation… and hey, not many people can beat him at a hand of poker.

“I know, and it’s not that I don’t like you,” she tries to explain. “I just wonder if you like me.”

Dean frowns.

Did he accidentally eat mushrooms before he fell asleep again?

Of course he likes Lisa.

“What the hell kind of dumb question is that?”

Whoops.

He hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.

“It’s not dumb,” Lisa scowls back at him. “You’re the one that’s never said you love me.”

“So what?” Dean shoots back. It should be obvious that Dean likes her, right? He laughs with her, he gets her off, they have fun together… what about any of that indicates that Dean might not like her?

Why can’t girls just leave him be when it comes to this shit? If he didn’t like her, he wouldn’t be hanging out with her so much.

It’s a pretty cut and dry situation.

Lisa does not seem to think so.

“What are you talking about?” she just asks, eyes now rimmed red with tears. Ah, shit. “You tell someone nice things because you feel those nice things about them.”

The thought alone is enough to set the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickling.

“Man, saying that kinda shit is dumb,” he looks down at his hands. “I mean, I get it, it must feel nice, but… do you really need that kinda validation?”

“Do you really need to be such an asshole?” Lisa returns, eyebrows perched high on her forehead, challenging.

“It’s fuckin’ girly as shit,” Dean tries to get her to understand. “Why would I do that?”

“It’s not girly to share your feelings, Dean,” Lisa spits back. “It actually helps communication… you know, the thing that makes people understand one another?”

“Maybe if you were less emotionally needy, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Maybe if you actually said what you were thinking, I wouldn’t need to have this problem.”

“You want me to say what I’m thinking? Fine. You’re a needy bitch.”

The last time he sees Lisa Braden, she gives him a black eye.

Dean takes the bus all the way back to his house, almost a forty minute ride away. When the driver gives him a look of concern at the seventy-cent frozen convenience store burrito pressed over his eye, Dean mumbles that she shouldn’t worry about it and goes to sit in the way back where he can kick up his feet.

This night officially sucks.

He shuffles back to his house from the bus stop, burrito now mushy in his hands, his eye feeling a little better.

Sammy’s the only one home when he gets there, which isn’t surprising. Dad’s been working a really tough case these past few weeks, and when that happens it always means he’s around a lot less.

It’s probably best, because Dean doesn’t know that he could pretend nothing is wrong right now.

“Hey,” Sam greets from behind one of his big heavy text books. “I thought you were hanging out with Lisa tonight.”

Dean grunts in response, heading straight into the kitchen to pop the burrito in the freezer. Maybe he’ll eat it later when his stomach stops feeling like it’s all twisted up in knots.

“Whoa,” Sam whistles when Dean comes back into the living room. “What happened to your eye?”

“Lisa broke up with me,” Dean just supplies.

Sam laughs.

“Holy crap,” he sets his book down on his legs. “What did you do?”

Dean is still pretty sure he didn’t do anything.

Maybe the ‘bitch’ thing is what got him punched in the eye, but he still doesn’t know that any of his other behavior warranted a break up. He doesn’t say any of this, though, just pointedly avoids looking at his little brother and turns on the TV.

He flips through a few channels before he lands on one of those classic movie stations. Rebel Without a Cause is on, and fuck if that’s not just what Dean needs right now. He sinks back into the cushions and kicks his feet up on the coffee table.

“Dean, I’m trying to study,” Sam complains.

“Yeah, well, study this flick,” Dean shifts. “Great American Classic.”

“I’ve seen it before, Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes. “We’ve all seen it before. You make us watch it every time it’s on.”

“Because it’s a Great American Classic,” Dean argues back. How can anyone pass by James Dean and not stick around to watch the rest of the movie?

He’s suddenly hyperaware of where his palm rests against his thigh, just inches from his dick. There’s something about this movie that’s always made him squirmy, made him all hot under the collar of his shirt.

Dean’s always just figured he’s got a real affinity for the classics.

Plus, James Dean and Natalie Wood? That’s an attractive couple right there.

Dean’s fingers twitch, but he tells himself it’s nothing.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks after a little while.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean returns, tone clipped and voice too harsh for it to be even a little true.

“You don’t seem fine.”

“Will you can it with the girly bullshit!” Dean snaps. “Fuck, I just want to watch the goddamned movie without everyone getting on my ass.”

“It’s just me,” Sam frowns back. “C’mon, you can tell me what’s going on, I won’t tell anyone.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Dean insists. “Lisa and I broke up, she punched me, and now I’m watching TV. Can we stop production on the goddamned Lifetime movie already?”

Sam rolls his eyes and shuts his textbook, resolving to go study in his room instead of deal with Dean. Not that Dean blames him, he knows he’s a hard pill to swallow, and even worse he’s now managed to chase Sammy out of his study area.

He’s not supposed to get in the way of Sam’s homework, or studying. Dad’s already made that clear. Sam’s going places and doing things, even if those things aren’t exactly in the realm of dad’s understanding.

Dean’s just there to pick up the slack.

He sniffs hard and unfurls on the couch, knowing he’s going to fall asleep to the sound of James Dean’s voice humming pleasantly in his ears.

oo

“Dean,” dad knocks on his door. “Come on, son, this is ridiculous.”

It’s very not-ridiculous, though.

Dean woke up on the couch at five this morning and shuffled back into his bedroom.

When he woke up six hours later, he recalled what had happened the night before and found that he was unable to move. Sam has already tried to get him out of bed twice, but it’s tough when Dean won’t let anyone come in.

Sometimes he forgets that words aren’t banishment enough, as dad chooses that exact moment to barrel in, fed up with the bullshit.

“All this because a girl broke up with you?” dad rolls his eyes. “Did you forget to change your tampon again? Come on, get out of bed before I pull you out. If you need shit to do, I’ll give you some shit to do.” 

Dean’s whole chest feels like it might explode, but he rolls out of bed anyway. It’s not worth all the pissing and moaning he’ll get if he doesn’t, and what’s more dad is right. Moping around never solved anything. It’s better to just get up and get out and get your mind off it.

Man, he knew dating wouldn’t be worth all this shit.

As he pulls handful after handful of dirty dead leaves from the gutters outside, Dean’s mind refuses to keep itself away from thoughts of Lisa.

She’s so fucking cool.

Why wouldn’t Dean tell her something like that?

Is it really so hard to tell someone that you like them, that you think they’re worthwhile of being in your life? He thinks it and he feels it, he knows he does, but why the fuck can’t he say it?

Lisa, you’re cool.

Lisa, you’re the nicest person I know.

Lisa, you know all the words to Back in Black and you can hit all the high notes and can I just marry you so you’ll never leave me.

Dean’s throat spasms in a way he’s not entirely familiar with, and a terrifying, foreign sound escapes.

His eyes sting really bad.

And now his cheeks are wet.

Fuck.

“Dean?” Sam asks from his spot on the front porch. Shit, of course someone would have to be around to see this.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean mops up his face on his shirt sleeve.

“Dean, you’re really freaking me out,” Sam’s voice quakes. 

“I said shut up!” Dean snaps, stomping down the ladder so hard that it shakes against the side of the house. He blows past Sam and back inside, moving so fast he almost gets dizzy. Dad’s in his office, door ajar, and shouts after Dean when he passes.

Dean locks himself in his room and leans against his door.

He just needs a minute to get a fucking grip and nobody is allowing him to. Instead everyone just keeps bugging him, poking and prodding and now all Dean wants to do is sit in his room and cry like the fucking namby-pamby pussy he obviously is. 

The ache in his chest just won’t go away, though.

Fuck, he’s such a shithead.

He’s a shithead for treating Lisa like crap and he’s a shithead for doing the same goddamned thing to his family now. Even now he knows that if he went out and tried to explain what’s happening to his dad or Sam he’d wind up babbling about nothing.

Sam would say something about that only making him worry more.

Shit would be so much easier if no one gave a damn about him. He could handle that. Problems only seem to sprout up when other people start caring.

Dean thuds his head back against his door and looks up at the wall above his bed. He’s not much of a decorator, but he had to do something with that stack of old vintage license plates Uncle Bobby had let him take home from the salvage yard after their visit last summer.

Dean welded them into a collage of sorts and hung them above his bed.

Dad hadn’t understood why Dean felt the need to ruin a bunch of old license plates that he hadn’t needed to take with him in the first place, but Uncle Bobby, after Dean sent him a picture of the final product, said it was one of the ‘goddamned niftiest things he’d ever seen’.

Holy shit, Uncle Bobby.

Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Uncle Bobby, pressing the phone hard to his ear.

It rings so many times that Dean’s almost positive he’s going to get a voicemail recording, at which point he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but at least if Uncle Bobby knows something’s up, he’ll call Dean back.

“—shut the hell up for a second,” comes Bobby’s gruff command as he picks up. “Hello? Dean?”

“Hey, Uncle Bobby,” Dean’s voice comes out raspy.

“Aw, hell boy,” Bobby sighs into the receiver. “What happened?”

Dean relays everything as evenly as he can. Talking to Uncle Bobby is easier than talking to anyone, and Dean can never quite pick out why. Maybe it’s because Uncle Bobby listens.

Sam listens too, but Sam is thirteen and doesn’t really have solutions so much as he has an unending wealth of empathy.

And empathy just makes Dean’s skin crawl.

“Well, first things first, stop thinkin’ that you’re a worthless sack of crap ‘cause you hurt someone’s feelings,” Uncle Bobby concludes. “We’re human beings; that sort of comes with the territory no matter how hard we try.

“Second, if you can’t be home right now then don’t be home,” he instructs. “Trust me, your dad ain’t the easiest of people to be around on your best days. Take the afternoon off, go dick around downtown, go see a movie or somethin’. The sooner you get out of the negative situation, the clearer it’ll all become.”

The words make sense, and as soon as they register, Dean nods.

“Okay,” he says.

“You’re a good kid, Dean,” Bobby reassures him then. “Even the best people have their moments of idiocy, and bein’ a teenager you’re bound to have a whole host of ‘em. Don’t be so hard on yourself, all right? That’s my job.”

“Okay,” Dean sniffs.

“Get some tissues before you do anything,” Bobby then advises. “You wanna go off where no one can find you, you can’t leave a snail trail behind you.”

Dean chuckles softly at that.

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”

“No problem, kid. You drop me a line later, let me know you’re all right.”

“Will do.”

Dean slides his phone back into his pocket and rolls to his feet. Before he does anything, he blows his nose and dries his eyes.

He heads down the hallway, not stopping to answer his dad’s demands of where he’s going or what he’s doing. Sam is still outside when Dean steps over the threshold and hops down the steps.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam calls, jogging to keep up with Dean’s long strides.

“I’ll be home later,” is all Dean says.

Maybe if he knew that was the last time he was going to see his little brother, he would’ve gone for something a little more profound.

He catches a bus and takes it to his favorite diner in town. First and foremost, he needs to drown this fucking shit-ass feeling in a bacon cheeseburger and a milkshake the size of his face.

What little cash he has, he spends on his meal.

Without anything else to do, Dean takes to wandering.

They’ve lived in Tulsa for years now, and Dean still doesn’t know this place like he probably should. It’s never felt like home, no matter how hard he’s tried to settle himself here. He liked it back in Kansas. Their house was better, their lives were better, and mom didn’t fucking die when they were in Kansas.

 Dean bums a smoke off of some guy waiting for the crosswalk signal to change outside the diner.

He spends the rest of his afternoon meandering, surrounding himself in the white noise of the traffic and the hustle and bustle of people coming and going all around him.

Uncle Bobby was right. Out of the house, on his own, away from any of the various things that remind him of Lisa, he feels a little better. He fucked up, yeah, but he’s a fuck-up. He’s used to turning everything into a steaming pile of shit these days.

There’s a certain comfort in that. 

He doesn’t realize how late it is until the street lights come on and, fuck, he’s nowhere near where he should be. He’s behind the Home Depot by highway 75, on the complete opposite end of town.

Shit.

Dean doesn’t want to call dad to come get him, ‘cause he’ll never hear the end of it if he does. He can’t call Lisa, because she’ll never answer.

Ugh, why doesn’t he have more friends?

In a last act of desperation, Dean sticks out his thumb and hopes that someone with some semblance of a heart will stop for him.

Tonight, salvation comes in the form of a gangly looking guy named Garth.

“Where you headed?” he asks as he starts driving.

He could walk home from Owen Park and it won’t be too bad. It’s a hell of a lot better than the hour that it’ll take now, at least. He’s already dead tired from walking around all afternoon. By the time he gets home he’ll be dead to the goddamned world no matter what, best to let Garth take him halfway and not pass out under the highway somewhere.

Dad would never let him hear the end of that, either.

Dad never lets him hear the end of a lot, he realizes.

“Where are you headed?” Dean finds himself asking Garth instead.

“I’m actually just passin’ through,” Garth explains. “Started this mornin’ in San Antonio. On my way up to Minneapolis to see my grandma.”

“And you didn’t wanna fly?” asks Dean.

“No sir,” Garth shakes his head so fast Dean thinks his gangly neck might snap. “Flyin’s for the birds and God’s angels. I got no business bein’ up there.”

“I hear that,” Dean nods and draws in a shaky breath. He stares at the quickly darkening evening sky, at the Tulsa skyline and the dearth of landscape around them.

He finally replies, “I guess I’m going as far as you’re willing to take me.”

“Really?” Garth asks.

Dean nods again.

“’cause you don’t have any bags or nothin’,” Garth continues.

“Jesus,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Why the hell is everyone so concerned with what I’m doing? Just drive, Garth. Pretend I’m not even here.”

“All right,” Garth replies warily. “Just… if you’re plannin’ on murderin’ me, could you do it out in the middle of nowhere? I don’t want strangers just finding my dead body somewhere.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Garth,” Dean rubs his eyes. “If we’re both lucky, I’ll sleep the whole way.”

Garth likes to talk.

It doesn’t seem to matter that Dean nods off about twenty minutes in, he just keeps going. He talks about his family, about the women his mom talks to at church, about the fucking billboards that dot the highway.

The good thing about Garth is that he doesn’t seem to expect any answers. He chatters and chatters just to hear himself, and Dean doesn’t have enough energy to be annoyed by it.

Dean only jerks awake when his phone buzzes in his pocket. There’s a text from Sam asking where he is, and a missed call from Bobby.

Dean looks up at the dark stretch of road in front of them. Garth is chattering still, but is more than okay when Dean interrupts to ask, “Where are we?”

“Just passed Kansas City an hour ago, thereabouts.”

Shit.

He’s really gone.

He’s in an entire different goddamned state.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket, because maybe if he ignores the question altogether he can just make the situation go away.

Garth pulls over at a truck stop called “Kum & Go” and Dean can’t even find it in himself to laugh. He doesn’t need to pee or anything, so he decides to stretch his legs. Garth promises he’ll be right back and darts to the bathroom as fast as he can.

There’s a Dairy Queen across the street, but Dean spent all his money on his lunch earlier.

If he’d known he was going to be taking a little adventure, he would have grabbed his wad of cash he’s been saving out from under his mattress.

His stomach growls.

Garth is taking his sweet-ass time, so Dean heads inside. The smell of stale coffee and pizza hit his nose, and his stomach insists on being fed. Over and over his gut churns.

It wouldn’t be the first time Dean’s lifted something for a snack.

This guy at the counter has his eyes glued on Dean, though, and he definitely looks like the type who has a shotgun and a shovel ready and waiting.

Dean exits the station only to find that Garth’s car is gone.

It’s… just fucking gone.

“That son of a bitch!” Dean shouts.

Who the fuck just leaves a hitchhiking teenager in the middle of nowhere?

Holy shit.

Oh, holy shit.

He’s really, really fucked now.

He pulls his phone back out of his pocket. He has to call his dad, he fucking has to. There’s no getting out of this, no hitching back home.

And because Dean’s such a fuck up, because Dean is the worst excuse for a son ever, no matter how hard he tries, dad will hang this over his head for eternity.

Dean slips his phone back in his pocket and smears a hand over his mouth. Maybe there’s someone else here who could give him a lift. There’s one trucker that’s stopped to fuel up, tall and broad-shouldered and scruffy in the face. As much as Dean would like to ask him where he’s headed, he doesn’t think he could speak around the knot in his throat.

Out behind the station, Dean comes upon a truck driver. He fits the stereotype, with his protruding doughy middle and ragged clothes, his unshaven face and his trucker cap.

He introduces himself as Al and blows a plume of cigarette smoke in Dean’s face.

“You mind if I bum one of those off you?” Dean asks. Al fishes the pack out of his pocket and lights one on the end of his own cigarette before he passes it to Dean.

Maybe this will curb the hunger for a little while.

“You’re a little young to be travelling alone,” says Al, grin going menacing around his cigarette. “What’s a kid like you doing all the way out here?”

“What’s it to you?” Dean challenges back, hostile teenage edge still firmly in place.

His stomach gurgles insistently and Dean sighs.

“Uh, you wouldn’t happen to have a couple bucks, would you?” he asks. “I’m kinda strapped for cash.”

Al looks at him, calculating through those sunken eyes.

His hand comes to settle on his crotch, right over the very clear outline of his dick, and Dean immediately looks away.

Oh shit.

“I have a way you might be able to get what you’re looking for,” he says.

Does he mean sucking dick?

Oh, boy.

Dean is pretty sure he means sucking dick.

…

And now Dean is trying to gauge just how hungry he really is.

“How much?” Dean asks.

“Five.”

“Twenty,” Dean insists.

“Ten,” Al stubs out his cigarette on the side of the Kum & Go. “That’ll get you a nice meal.”

Dean doesn’t know that he’ll be hungry after this.

He finishes his cigarette and stomps it out on the ground, jaw trembling and legs shaking, because he’s going to do this.

He’s gonna suck this trucker’s dick for ten whole dollars.

Al’s already got his cock out and is running his palm lewdly over it. Dean wets his lips.

Something about the sight compels him. Something in the back of his mind clicks into place, and despite the all-around skeez of the situation and of the man, it’s a situation Dean isn’t wholly upset about.

He swallows hard and drops to his knees in front of Al.

Al guides the blunt head of his cock to Dean’s mouth, draws the moist tip over Dean’s lower lip.

The taste is different, definitely sharper than he wants it to be, but it could be worse.

“Well, if you don’t got one of the prettiest mouths I’ve ever seen,” Al hums. It’s sick how quick the compliment goes straight to Dean’s dick. He closes his lips around Al and gives a light, experimental suck.

“Oh shit, boy,” Al hisses. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to tease?”

What happens next Dean is entirely less prepared for. Al grabs the back of his head and shoves his cock all the way into Dean’s mouth. Dean gags and tries to pull away, tears burning the backs of his eyes for the second time today, but Al holds him roughly in place.

He feels like he might barf if Al keeps making him gag.

On the other hand, Al keeps saying all this dirty shit to him that actually makes him want to keep going.

“You’re a good little whore, aren’t you?” Al rasps. “You like it when I fuck your throat?”

Dean hums, because that’s all he can do. He wants to say no, but Al won’t let up. He tries to pull away but that just gets Al thrusting harder into his face.

This is Not Cool anymore.

Al shoves him off then and presses him down into the dirty, grease-stained gravel beneath them. Dean tries to kick but Al sits on his legs, and fuck he is heavier than he looks.

“What the fuck!” Dean shouts, but Al’s fist collides with his face and shit.

Shit shit shit this is fucking fucked. Dean’s heart thumps wildly as he struggles against Al’s grip. He can feel the bastard’s sick, disgusting hands groping his dick through his jeans before they flip him onto his belly.

He’s crying again, he knows that he is, so he screws his eyes shut and keeps trying to wrestle himself away. Even if that means Al killing him.

After today, how bad could death really be.

“Hey!”

Dean hears a second, unfamiliar voice.  

Al is gone from on top of him a few moments later. There’s an echo of the two men shouting at each other, fighting one another, but Dean scrambles to his feet and starts to run.

“Whoa, don’t you go runnin’ too,” the unfamiliar voice hits Dean’s ears and he stops.

It’s a good voice, smooth and buttery and rich.

Dean still flinches when the guy tries to grab him, though.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I won’t touch you.”

Dean looks up at him finally and realizes it’s that handsome trucker from out front.

“I’ll stay with you while you call the cops, if you want,” the guy offers.

“Why the fuck would I call the cops?” Dean sniffs hard. He pats around for his cell, but his pockets are empty. He looks back at the patch of gravel he’d been pinned to, but there’s nothing there.

“That fucker stole my phone,” he says. “And my goddamned wallet! Fuck!”

“You can use mine,” the guy offers and pulls his jenky flip phone out of his pocket. “Cops’ll come quick out here, the town’s just down that way.”

“And what am I supposed to say?” Dean snaps back. “I sucked a stranger’s dick for ten dollars that I never got and he turned out to be a raging psychopath? I don’t even know the fucker’s name other than Al.”

Saying it out loud makes him feel a little sick.

More sick than he already felt.

“Shit,” the guy grabs the back of his neck.

“I’m not reporting it,” Dean hands his phone back to him. His dad’s come home too many times raving about this kind of thing—people who are too stupid to keep their heads on straight and end up meeting with a fucking lunatic and getting themselves into trouble—to know that reporting it would be a fruitless effort.

“Can I at least give you a lift somewhere?” the guy offers. “I don’t think I can just leave you out here on your own.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to,” Dean clips back.

His stomach gurgles, though this time the nausea only makes it worse. Dean doesn’t wait for the guy to say anything though, just stalks off toward the road and sticks his thumb out.

He will go anywhere but here.

An indiscriminate amount of time passes before the guy returns to Dean’s side. In his hands he’s got a giant sub sandwich, a bag of chips, and a bottle of water the size of a baby elephant.

“Can’t have you goin’ hungry, brother,” the guy says. “My truck’s all filled up, so this is the last chance you got: can I drop you anywhere?”

Dean looks down at the food in his hands and back up at the earnest face of the man in front of him.

“I don’t got anywhere to be dropped,” he says, face burning bright red.

The man’s lips quirk up.

“Then you can catch a break in my truck,” he says. “I won’t bug you none. I got a bed in the back of the cabin. You can sleep as much as you like.”

And even though Dean knows he shouldn’t trust anyone ever again, he finds himself drawn in by the guy’s kind smile and even kinder eyes.

“Okay,” he nods.

“I’m Benny.”

“I’m Dean.”

oo

Dean spends the next couple of days with Benny, tagging along with him while he makes his stops. The back of the cabin is nice, and Dean spends his time equally between sleeping there and keeping Benny company up in front.

They don’t talk about much—Benny is, thankfully, more along the lines of the Strong Silent Type. Benny is nearly ten years older than Dean, and thus is able to do all sorts of cool shit in his off time. He goes shooting, he used to race cars, he even makes his own venison jerky, which Dean thinks is nothing short of the coolest thing ever.

Dad talks about how he used to do stuff like that.

Benny lives alone down in Louisiana, in a little house with a bloodhound named Fang.

Which is not a reference to Harry Potter, he finds out, but is reference to the dog’s unusually large teeth. 

He leaves Fang with his sister when he has to go on long trips like this.

Dean thinks he might like Benny a lot.

One night they’re stopped out near Laramie, both of them eating burgers on the bed in the back of the cab when Benny finally asks what he knows he’s been dying to ever since they met.

“Why are you running away?”

Dean shifts in his spot and shrugs.

“Come on,” Benny gives him a reassuring smile. “I got nothin’ better to do than listen to you.”

“Thanks.”

“Does it have anything to do with the fact that you were willing to put a dick in your mouth?”

“For ten dollars,” Dean adds, because that is Very Important Contextual Information.

“Okay, okay,” Benny chuckles. “Nonetheless, you got other skills. You cleaned up at that stop back in Pocatello.”

“Well, that’s because those guys were the worst poker players I’ve ever seen,” Dean shrugs and stuffs some fries into his mouth. They shouldn’t be talking about this, and with every second Benny continues to wait patiently for Dean to answer his question, Dean grows that much more uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with it,” Benny shrugs. “Folks’ll have you believe otherwise, but I never did put too much stock in what folks say.”

Dean sets his burger down and wipes his hands on a napkin.

“I don’t think it’s wrong,” he says. “I just don’t swing that way.”

“Shame,” Benny clucks. “Comin’ to terms with it’s the best decision I ever made.”

Dean’s lungs deflate all at once and he finds himself unable to loop away from the way Benny’s lips wrap around a handful of fries.

He likes girls, though.

Like, he loves girls. He loves how they look and how they feel, how they smell and how they laugh and how they taste… girls are soft and pretty, and everything that guys like Benny are not.

Except, Benny is handsome and rough around the edges. He has a nice smile and big thick arms that Dean kind of wants wrapped around him and holding him close.

And he’d really, really like to try sucking dick again, under better circumstances.

His cheeks go red and fuck can he just can it with the crying? He hates it more than anything he’s ever done before. It’s not even real crying, it’s just stray eye water that comes out whenever he has a fucking feeling.

He’s getting real tired of this shit.

“Hey, now,” Benny sets his and Dean’s food aside so he can shift beside Dean. “You’re all right, Dean. Nothin’s gonna get you in here.”

Benny’s arm drapes over his shoulders and, god help him, Dean finds himself leaning into the show of affection. He just—

He can’t deal with anymore bad feelings right now.

And Benny’s arm around him is actually a pretty nice feeling.

Dean curls into him and lets himself be held.

He can feel the roughness of Benny’s stubble against his jaw, feel the firmness of his chest and smell the cheap truck stop soap and shampoo on his skin. His thick fingers stroke softly over the ducktail on the back of Dean’s skull, lulling him into submission.

Dean looks up then and realizes just how close Benny’s face is to his own.

He closes the gap between them and presses their lips together.

Benny feels unlike anything or anyone Dean has ever had had before. His scruff rubs against Dean’s lips, his giant paw-like hands cupping his jaw, stroking softly over his skin.

Dean pulls back, and fuck, he’s shaking.

“Hey,” Benny’s hands still hold Dean close. “Slow your roll there. You sure you’re okay with this?”

To be honest, Dean’s not all that sure at all. He’s not sure that this is okay, because everything has been coming undone these last few days and it refuses to come back together.

Dean just replies by pulling Benny back in against him. It’s addictive in a way; he just can’t keep his mouth to himself. It’s like that with girls too, he knows, but this… this feels different. Good, but like it shouldn’t be good.

Like shooting heroin or something.

He lets Benny take control, lets him tangle his arms around him and guide him back against the mattress.

Yes.

That’s all Dean’s brain can register:

Yes.

Benny kisses every inch of Dean’s face, nuzzles the crook of Dean’s neck and kisses all over there too.

He whimpers, digging his fingers into Benny’s meaty shoulders. He feels his dick start to get hard, and shit.

Just… shit.

Benny’s hands travel down Dean’s body in the smallest of increments, as though he’s memorizing every single part of his body through his fingertips.

When Benny’s hands push up his t-shirt, Dean doesn’t tell him to stop. Dean’s not a stellar masculine specimen by any means. He’s kind of weird looking still, with these pockets of baby fat that refuse to go away and odd angles sticking up everywhere.

And Benny worships every last bit of him.

“Fuck,” Dean sighs as Benny’s hand closes hot over his erection and ruts up against him. Benny chuckles low and soft.

“Different, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods.

“You want me to keep goin’?”

Dean nods again.

Benny pops the button on his jeans and pulls the zipper down ever-so slowly. He swallows hard and cants his hips upward. Benny strokes over Dean’s belly with one hand and drags down his pants with the other.

Dean’s boner pops up, ready and raring to go, and fuck.

Fuck, Benny’s got all this experience with dudes and Dean’s green as green can be. He’s gonna think Dean’s a total dweeb.

Why.

“Nice cock,” Benny comments lightly as he takes Dean in his hand.

Dean hiccups.

“Th-thanks.”

Flames lick up his arms and down his legs as Benny’s hand closes around him and starts to stroke.

Dean might like guys.

He doesn’t last long at all. He comes quicker than a virgin on prom night, toes curling and hips wriggling, all sorts of weird-ass sounds that he’s never made coming out of him as he rides it out.

He shoots so hard that a patch of wet starts to soak into the shoulder of his t-shirt.

“Fuck,” Dean covers his face with his hands, hiding. “I’m sorry, man.”

“What for?” Benny laughs.

Dean shrugs. Benny gives an affable shake of his head and grabs a rag from under the mattress. Dean wipes himself clean as Benny goes back into the front of the cabin, grabbing a bottle of water from the pack on the passenger’s side floor and handing it to Dean.

He guzzles half the thing in one go.

“You all right?” Benny asks as he swipes his hand on the same rag Dean used to pat himself dry.

“I think so,” Dean runs a hand through his hair and looks down. Benny’s stiffy is straining at the confines of his Levis.

“Hey, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “Can I suck you off?”

Benny laughs again, and Dean’s face immediately falls. Fuck, that was stupid. You’re not supposed to ask, you’re supposed to just go with the flow and let shit happen, and he fucked it.

He just fucking rat-fucked it to hell.  

“If you’re up for it, you’re more than welcome,” Benny returns then.

Dean really hopes he didn’t just squeak like he thinks he just might have.

He walks over to Benny on his knees and settles beside him. His hands still shaking, he undoes Benny’s jeans. Benny shifts so that Dean can slide them and his boxers down over his thighs.

Benny’s cock is big and thick, just like the rest of him, and for a second Dean wonders just how the hell he’s going to get his mouth around it.

With girls it’s a little easier, in that he’s never wondered how he was going to get his lips and tongue around a girl’s clit before.

“You’re fuckin’ huge,” he finds himself saying, and Benny leans back bashfully on his hands.

“Shucks, no need to sweet talk me,” he offers Dean a crooked grin.

Dean surges forward and kisses him again, because he likes it and he can.

He can now.

He closes his hand around Benny, heart hammering painfully in his chest.

Yep, dicks feel good too.

How has he not allowed himself this before?

Dean bends down and gets eye-level with Benny’s cock. He thinks he could sit here and look at it all night long, but he knows that’s some sick, cruel, sadistic shit. Benny’s breaths come in measured puffs above him, his fingers fisting his sleeping bag to keep himself from thrusting up when Dean’s lips close around his head and start to suck.

He even tastes good.  Dean wants as much of him in his mouth as possible, but that proves difficult since Benny is hung like a fucking horse.

“Hey,” Benny gasps. “Relax, you don’t gotta get it in all at once.”

Dean pulls back and reassesses his plan of attack. His jaw already feels a little achy.

So he starts jerking Benny off and just kind of sucks and kisses and licks whatever he can.

Benny lets out a groan, “That feels so good, Dean.”

He strokes his hand over Dean’s hair and, hell, that only makes him redouble his efforts.

With the way Benny keeps grunting and moaning and saying all these nice, dirty things, Dean figures he might not be half bad at this. There’s a sense of pride that comes with being able to reduce someone to nothing but a panting pile of jelly, with girls and guys. Dean can’t help it.

He likes making people feel good.

And he likes being good at making people feel good.

At least, that’s what he figures until he ends up with a mouthful of spooge that he can’t swallow hardly any of. He coughs most of it onto his chin and wow that stuff tastes… odd.

“Holy shit,” Benny swears and runs one of his thick hands through the crop of hair atop his head, sweat making it stick up every which way.

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes again.

Benny grabs him by the back of his head and pulls him into a kiss.

A sloppy, come-flavored kiss.

God that should not make Dean’s dick twitch so insistently.

“You apologize one more time and I’ll make you sleep up on that rickety ass pull out bunk,” Benny warns, and reaches up to pat the hidden compartment wall above them. “C’mon, let’s watch a movie or somethin’.”

Benny hops to his feet, readjusting himself so he’s tucked back into his pants, and unstraps the TV from its little hutch at the foot of the mattress. He flicks it on and puts a DVD into the player just below it.

Dean curls up against the wall, only barely registering the sound of the Twilight Zone menu before he dozes off, sated.

oo

 The next couple of days bring more of the same. Benny’s mouth is even more mind-blowing than his hands, pulling these sounds and feelings out of Dean he’s never made or had before. 

It’s so intense that when they’re not fooling around, Dean is perpetually hard thinking about when they will be fooling around again. There are even a couple of times when Benny’s driving and Dean’s just woken up from a nap, when he’ll languidly jerk himself off and make Benny listen, knowing full well he can’t get up and join in.

Just the two of them on the road together… it’s the most alive that Dean has ever felt. 

And when Benny says it’s nearing the end of what for him has been a six-week long stint in his truck, he’s heading home. 

He knows better than to ask Dean if he’d like to go back to Tulsa. 

“Where are we?” Dean asks as he hops out of the cabin into a little dirt lot. There’s nothing but a small collection of cars and a few big rigs, and a ramshackle little structure that stands hand-made and organic in defiance of the hard metal automobiles around it.

Harvelle’s Roadhouse. 

“We’re a little outside of Lincoln,” Benny explains. “Found this place my first time out on a long trip. May not look like much, but Ellen runs a neat little place. Reckon you might like her.” 

The inside of Harvelle’s smells like sawdust and warm beer, a scent that, for whatever reason, sends John Winchester’s face swimming back into his mind for the first time in nearly a week. 

Oh god, it’s been a week. 

Reality comes crashing down on him as he realizes that he’s never been gone for this long before. He knows dad gets testy when he leaves—fuck, what if he left Sammy to bear the brunt of all that?

He doesn’t follow Benny up to the bar, but sits down at one of the tall tables near the front of the room. 

He’s an asshole.

He’s such a fucking asshole. What the goddamned Christ-fuck was he thinking? He can’t just leave Sam on his own with dad. Fuck, he can’t leave dad alone with Sam, they’ll kill each other. 

If they haven’t already. 

“Dean?” Benny stands a reasonable distance away, light eyes clouded with concern.

And now Benny’s worried. Kind-hearted, easy-going, cool-as-everloving-fuck Benny cares about why Dean can’t catch his breath, why he can’t stand up, why he can’t do anything but shake his head and freak his shit out.

You’d think after seventeen years of being a human he’d learn how not to fuck it up every once in a while. 

“Whoa, now,” Benny comes forward and tries to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Dean is having none of that. He bats his hand away and scoots his stool as far back as it will go. 

“Dean, c’mon brother,” Benny’s thick, voice settles over him. “You’re scarin’ the crap outta me.” 

Shit, he is such an asshole. 

“Sorry,” he balls his hands into fists. 

“Hey, you got no reason to be sorry,” Benny stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. “Hang tight. You want anything to drink?” 

Dean doesn’t respond, so Benny just resigns himself to a nod and heads to the bar.

God, Dean prays Benny returns with something good and alcoholic.

No such luck.

Benny sets a bottle of Coke down in front of Dean and sits across from him, a beer tilted up to his lips.

“You’re an asshole,” Dean scowls.

“Maybe,” Benny nods, “but I’m an asshole who’s not contributing to the delinquent of a minor in a public establishment.”

Dean purses his lips, but a Coke is better than nothing he decides, and hugs the bottle close to his chest. Maybe if that lady at the bar stops looking, he can sneak one of those bottles off the shelf behind her.

Quickly, as with the rest of the bar, Dean and Benny get caught up in the football game flicking across the dinky TV in the corner.

Well, Benny gets caught up in it, and Dean, as he’s been prone to do these last few days, gets caught up in Benny. Benny is this big, burly man’s-man—a blue collar, meat-and-potatoes, beer-swilling working stiff kind of a guy.

He’s the kind of guy dad would want Dean to be.

The kind of guy Dean sorta wishes he felt like all the time.

With Sam there was no doubt—he and dad clashed way too much, butting heads even when Dean was there to step between them. Dad was never going to get a stiff upper lipped little soldier from Sam, but Dean.

Dean was willing to be whatever dad needed him to be in order to keep the conflict at bay and Sam safe and taken care of.

His stomach turns once again with the thought of Sam and dad left alone. Sam doesn’t get half of the crazy bullshit that Dean gets from dad, mostly because Dean worked real hard to make sure he didn’t.

The best of things Dean’s heard from dad would set Sam off in an instant.

He wonders if dad would grab Sam the way he does Dean, if fucking something up will earn Sam the same smack on the head it earns Dean. His gut leaps up into his throat at the thought of Sam’s face contorting at the smell of liquor on their dad’s breath, how it’s turned from a childish look of fear to an adolescent wrathful glower.

Benny sets his beer down on the table—it’s his third, he’s officially started to slow down his consumption.

Dean grabs it and checks to see if that bar lady is watching.

She, like everyone else, is caught up in the game.

Dean guzzles the beer, his personal best for speed, and slips to his feet to find something else.

He grabs the bottle closest to the edge of the counter and slips into the back of the building. There’s an office and a closed door that Dean opens. Inside is a bare-walled little room with stacks upon stacks of boxes gunking it up. Dean sits against one and unscrews the cap off the bottle in his hand.

Tequila punches him right in the nostrils, conjuring up images of the night dad took them to a Cinco de Mayo barbecue hosted by one of the guys on the force. Sam and Dean had both decided against all reason to see who could drink the most before they got sick.

They both ended up losing.

This should be nice and unpleasant then.

Nausea settles in as his upchuck reflex tries to repel the offending liquid that burns a hole in his throat.

He holds his resolve and drinks down as much as he can.

His world starts to swim and his face starts to get hot.

Yep, that’s it.

This is what he needed.

Something that’ll sting so he doesn’t have to think about his dad or Sam anymore. The cold emptiness in his belly has been replaced by something warm, something lovely. He thought he felt that something lovely with Benny over the last few days, but Benny’s probably sick of him by now too. He has his life to go back to, a dog to love and a sister to play with…

Or, y’know, the other way around.

Dean slides onto his back and stares up at the ceiling above him. He kicks his boots up on the boxes, bending himself into an ‘L’ as he carefully tips tequila between his lips.

The room is definitely spinny as fuck right now.

Maybe if he falls down the rabbit hole he’ll float down into an awesome acid trip world like that Alice chick.

Eating mushrooms all day, smoking with a fuckin’ caterpillar…

That’d be awesome.

“Dean!” the door busts open and an upside down Benny and bartender lady stand over him. Or hang in front of him.

Whatever they are doing, it is imposing as hell and severely putting a crimp in Dean’s style.

“Give me that,” the bartender snaps and pries the bottle from Dean’s hand. Benny then hoists him up easily over his shoulder and deposits Dean in the office he’d passed, where Ellen and Benny look at him with those screwy, demanding sourpusses.

Dean lets out a giggle and babbles, “Sourpuss.”

“Jesus Christ,” the bartender rolls her eyes. “He’s hammered.”

“Ellen, I’m so sorry,” Benny—all two of him—runs his fingers through his hair.

“S’not your fault, Benny,” Ellen sighs. “I just don’t know where to keep him ‘til he sobers up.”

Dean lies back on the couch he doesn’t really remember sitting on and rolls over to face the ceiling again.

There are so many holes in the ceiling tiles…

“How is—“ he burps up some unholy tequila stomach juice fumes “—how do you count them all.”

“Okay, c’mon,” Ellen lays a hand on Benny’s chest. “You go watch the game, I’ll talk to this boy.”

Dean makes a grab for Benny, which would have probably been more effective if Benny hadn’t already left. He pouts and smacks his head against the cushions.

“Now,” Ellen pulls up her desk chair and sits beside Dean. “You do realize I just left a bunch of drunken idiots out in my bar alone during football season. So, you’re gonna tell me just what the hell it is you were thinkin’ so I can get back out there.”

“Why do you care?” Dean challenges, shifting on his place. The nausea is kicking up again, though whether it’s from the room spinning or the booze finally soaking in, Dean can’t say.

“Why?” Ellen asks. “’cause I got a kid in my bar, drunk off his ass on my couch after drinkin’ enough tequila to sedate a goddamned rhinoceros.”

Dean’s stomach turns painfully and before he knows what the hell is happening, Ellen sticks a waste bin right beside him and pats his shoulder as he vomits into it.

“All right,” she hums. “Let it out, you’ll be okay.”

It’s a soothing hand, a careful touch that Dean swears takes the edge off of his pain. He looks up at her and asks, “Are you a mom?”

“Lord,” Ellen pulls her dish rag off of her shoulder and swipes around Dean’s mouth. “Yeah, I got a daughter a little younger than you. Reckon I’d straight murder her if she ever pulled this kinda stunt, though.”

Dean just nods. She feels like a mom, and for the first time in fourteen years Dean finds himself feeling looked-after, feeling cared for in that way that his own mom once made him feel.

“Oh,” Ellen’s face softens. “Oh, honey.”

She scoots over and pulls him into a hug, and it’s not until Dean sees spots of wet spread on her t-shirt that he realizes he’s crying again.

But this is some damn ugly, got no shame crying, complete with choking and snot rockets and the unceasing torrential downpour of tears. Dean grips Ellen’s shirt tightly in his hands and just…

Cries.

He cries until he’s pretty sure he can’t cry anymore, and will never be able to cry again. He cries because this, all of this, is so fucked.

“Fucking pansy ass faggot,” he mumbles into Ellen’s chest.

“Say what now?”

“That’s what he’s gonna say,” Dean hiccups.

“What who’s gonna say?”

Dean can’t reply, so he just sobs some more. That’s all he can remember how to do. He can’t speak, he can’t look up, he can’t even listen to whatever the hell Ellen is saying.

All he can hear is that little voice in his head, a broken record of I’m shit, this is shit, why am I even alive. It’s not like he does anything good for the world—the only good thing he ever did was make sure Sam was taken care of, and now that that’s over and done with he’s got nothing else.

He’s finished.

“Okay,” Ellen hums, stroking a hand over his hair. “Honey, you’re all right. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

It’s the most convincing lie Dean has ever heard.

However long it is later, Benny comes back in. He stands in the doorway, unsure of what to make of the scene. Fuck, he probably can’t believe he let himself get swindled into fucking around with Dean.

“I hate to do this, but,” Benny scratches the back of his head. “Dean, I gotta get goin’. I know you don’t wanna go home, but if you’d like you’re always welcome down home with me.”

“Don’t do that,” Dean bites back. Benny raises his eyebrows, confused as all hell, and Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t need your pity, okay? And I sure as shit don’t need this either,” he attempts to get away from Ellen, but only ends up flat on his ass on the floor.

“Dean,” Benny says softly. “Come on, now. You’re my friend.”

“Why?” Dean shouts. “Why are you my friend? I’m a fucking shit-ass waste of space, okay?”

“Hey,” Ellen interjects. “I do not tolerate that kind of talk, you hear me?”

“Fuck you, you don’t know anything about me.”

Ellen leans down close to his face and hell if Ellen doesn’t inspire the fear of God back in him. “You talk to me like that again and I will paint your back porch red. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean nods.

 “I know what you’re goin’ through has got to be rough, but you got no business talkin’ to anybody like that,” she continues, “And you certainly got no business bein’ rude to a man who’s only risked his ass to keep you outta trouble.”

Guilt bears down on him with the weight of an olive press. He’s a shit. He’s such a fucking raging piece of shit and no one is doing anything about it.

“Dean,” Benny begins again, but Dean cuts him off.

“Just go!” he shouts.

And against his vehement wishes, Benny bends down and presses a kiss to the top of Dean’s head.

“I’ll call in a few days,” Benny tells Ellen.

“Sure thing,” Ellen nods. “You go on home, baby.”

Dean is left sniffling to himself, legs extended out in front of him. He can’t feel them, though.

He punches himself in the quad.

Nothing.

“All right,” Ellen stands up. “Can I leave you in here while I close up?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but nods.

How long has he been in here? Do bars generally close down so early? It was light when he’d left Benny and the rest of the patrons to drown his sorrows.

He busies himself with trying not to barf again, but he can feel the cold sweat break out on his skin as his body tries to sober up.

The door opens and in walks a young girl, blonde and confused.

“Who the hell are you?”

Dean grunts in response.

“Joanna Beth, you leave him be,” she calls. “Come help me put up the stools.”

Dean curls up and lies down sideways on the floor.

Horrendously, that old Eric Carmen song comes into his mind, that one that Celine Dion covered.

Fuck, why does he know that?

Is that just inherent knowledge you get once you start sucking dick?

“Mama,” Joanna Beth calls. “He’s singin’ now.”

“Oh, lord,” he hears Ellen shout.

“All by myself,” Dean hiccups, off key and to no tune in particular. “Don’t wanna be--all by myself anymooooore.”

It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking sad.

“Okay, Dean,” Ellen comes back in. “Jo and I are gonna take you home for the night.”

“I don’t wanna go home!” Dean shouts. “I hate it there. I fucking hate it. I hate my dad and I hate my brother and I hate everything about that goddamned place.”

“Okay,” Ellen nods in understanding. “We’re not taking you to your home, we’re taking you to our home.”

“Fucking leave me out back,” Dean grunts. “The goddamned coyotes will come for me.”

“Jeez, if he’s gonna be such a downer maybe we should,” Jo comments.

“Joanna, that is not how we do things,” Ellen warns. “We’re gonna take him home and let him sleep it off.”

They load him into the back of Ellen’s Jeep Cherokee, where he nearly falls asleep with his face plastered to the window. Ellen and Jo speak in hushed tones up front, and for a lack of conversational topics to contribute, Dean just keeps singing All By Myself.

Ellen and Jo manage to get him into their home; it’s a tiny house, but he supposes it’s just the right size for two people. They drag him to the couch and set him down, and Ellen sticks a big soup pot in front of him.

“In case you get sick during the night,” she says. Jo returns a few moments after with a tower of blankets and pillows, which Dean accepts gratefully. He unfolds himself on the couch and hugs a pillow close to him.

“Fuck yes,” Dean sighs happily. “This is the shit, right here.”

“Watch your mouth,” Ellen snaps.

“Like you haven’t said worse,” Jo comes back.

Dean grins into the pillow.

oo

Sick as a dog is an understatement.

Dean spends his first hour of wakefulness yacking up his guts into Ellen and Jo’s toilet, body shaking and entirely certain that he’s going to die.

He doesn’t, though, because death would be too easy, and he’s left to face the rest of his desolate existence ahead of him.

What the fuck was he thinking?

He flushes the toilet and drags himself across the linoleum and out to the brown shag carpet. He plants himself face first in it and resigns himself to just resting here, just for a second, just until he gets his strength back up and can hitch a ride back down to Tulsa.

“Oh, well that’s a lovely sight,” comes Ellen’s voice. “Come on, Dean. Up you get.”

Dean whines but crawls up the wall and steadies himself.

“Dramatic little thing, aren’t you?”

She hands him a glass of water and two Advil.

“Come on and sit,” she beckons him back out into the living room. “I wanna talk to you.”

Dean pops the Advil and swallows, wincing. That’s either coming up in three seconds or he’s going to pass out from how righteously nauseous he still is.

“Now,” Ellen sits down on the couch with her cup of coffee. “Why did you run away?”

It doesn’t carry the same weight that it did a few days ago, but the accusation still stings.

“Dean,” Ellen says again, and Dean lets out a breath through his nose. He does not answer her, and does not plan on doing so.

“Boy, I could guess and guess, but it’ll just be easier if you cop to it.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Dean snaps. “I just… did.”

“You didn’t mean to run away?” Ellen raises her eyebrow. “’the hell did you manage that?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shifts, clutching his water close to his chest. “I was just out in the city and I… I don’t know. I wanted out.”

“Your daddy didn’t give you that shiner, did he?”

Dean’s hand flies up to his eye. He’d forgotten about that, because it’s mostly healed now. There’s patches of purple and yellow here and there, but nothing the untrained eye would pick up.

“No,” he replies finally. “My, uh… ex-girlfriend, I guess.”

“She hit you?”

“I may have called her a needy bitch,” Dean looks down at his lap.

“Oh, lord,” Ellen rolls her eyes.

Dean relays the rest of the story, keeping his tears at bay. He doesn’t have the energy to cry right now. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything but confess every single problem he has to the water-stained ceiling above them.

“I have to go back,” he finishes, sitting back up. His head feels fit to burst, but his chest feels lighter, even if his nerves feel a little tender and exposed.

“Dean,” Ellen sighs.

“I left my little brother, Ellen,” Dean asserts. “He’s my one damn responsibility, I’m not messing it up. I don’t care if my dad kills me, I… I gotta go.”

“I admire your loyalty, Dean, I really do,” Ellen sits forward. “But there’s only one responsibility every person has and it’s to themselves. Now, from what you’ve told me about Sam, he sounds like a smart kid. He’ll be fine without you there, Dean.”

He knows that, too.

The worst part is that he knows Sam will be okay.

The worst part is knowing that he has no sense of purpose other than looking after his baby brother.

“Dean,” Ellen places a hand on his knee, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“What am I supposed to do?” Dean asks, genuinely hoping Ellen can give him something, anything he can work with.

Ellen purses her lips and draws in a deep breath.

“You gotta live,” she just replies. “Live for yourself. Do what you wanna do. You’re a kid, Dean. That’s what kids are supposed to do. It ain’t fair that you got so much put on your shoulders, and believe me I understand responsibility, but you’re not doin’ yourself any favors goin’ back there.”

“I don’t care,” Dean shakes his head, but even he’s not convinced.

“Well, you’d better start,” Ellen says. “Because I don’t tolerate anyone under my roof  not giving a damn about themselves. You shape up and realize you’re worth somethin’, you just may end up findin’ yourself useful somewhere else.”

She stands and holds her hand out for Dean’s now empty water glass.

“You’re welcome to our home, Dean,” Ellen says then. “If you’d like, we can take you shopping later today.”

Dean looks up. He’s still in his same clothes from a week ago, though now with—fuck, with one of Benny’s giant shirts draped over his shoulders.

“I can’t let you do that,” Dean mumbles.

“You’re not livin’ in my house with only one pair of chonies, young man,” Ellen gives him a pointed look. “And I know they won’t let you back into school if you smell like a pigsty.”

“I dropped out,” Dean shakes his head, and Ellen’s face falls. “When I was sixteen. I’m… well, you coulda guessed I’m not all that smart.”

“You’re plenty smart, Dean,” Ellen insists. “You’re just a damn fool.”

She heads to the kitchen and calls from inside, “Just count your lucky stars that I let myself suffer fools.”