We Drank a Thousand Times - Chapter 4
Jul. 21st, 2010 11:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glorious_spoonMarch, 2002
Dean's drinking a beer on the back stoop of the run-down cabin they're renting, watching the rain and avoiding the cold war going on in the kitchen, when his cell rings. He flips it open without looking at the number. "This is Dean."
"Hey. It's Jay." It's been months, but he still sounds the same, the low tenor gone rough and deeper than it should be from too much smoking, the Carolina drawl. "How you been, kid?"
A door slams inside, hard enough to rattle the windows. Dad and Sam stopped shouting at each other a while ago, but there's always a chance one or the other of them will come out here to bitch to him. Dean thinks he should start charging by the hour. "Been better," he says. "What's up?"
"Had a question for you."
"Alright, shoot."
"You ever hear of something called a Jersey Devil?"
Shit. "Like an evil-looking flying horse that likes to snack on livestock?"
"That'd be it. Marty down at the bar reckons he saw one. Most folks figure he's been dipping into his own stock, but that ain't like him."
"Well, they're real, if that's what you're asking."
"Yeah, I wondered. Think we might have one wandering the neighborhood."
Just in case his day wasn't sucking enough. "Shit. Okay, hang on a second. We're in North Dakota, there's gotta be somebody closer--" Pastor Jim's a little closer, but not by much and he doesn't like to leave his parish. Johnson and Yukimi are up in Canada, Caleb's in the middle of a hunt, and old Angie Ramirez lit out to Hawaii last year. Fuck.
"You know how to handle them?" Jay asks after Dean's quiet for a minute.
"Iron rounds to the head should do the trick," he says absently, "but we're two days away from you and--"
"Iron rounds I can get my hands on," Jay says, astonishingly. "Anything else I should know?"
"Wait. Dude, you're not--"
"Said it yourself, ain't nobody else around. Anything else I should know?"
"For the record, I think this is a bad idea."
"Heard you the first time," Jay says. There's some amusement in his voice, an edge of something else Dean can't identify. He can't think of any reason that it should make heat pool in the pit of his stomach but it does, desire hitting like a gut-punch.
He doesn't even fucking like guys like that, and he's bent over for enough sleazy assholes for rent money or bail to know.
Jay, though, Jay's different. And the last thing Dean needs in his life right now is a sexual identity crisis, so he shakes his head and clears his throat and tries to recall everything Dad scribbled down about that Jersey Devil in Maryland last winter. The notebook's on Dad's dresser, but he really doesn't want to head back in there just yet if he doesn't have to. Jersey Devils are pretty straightforward, anyway, as far as monsters go.
Jay waits patiently while he thinks; it's never been his way to fill up stretches of silence with chatter. Dean appreciates that, most of the time, but right now it's incredibly fucking distracting trying to think with Jay breathing slow and even on the other end of the line, just breathing. Waiting for him to speak.
"Okay," he says finally, and he isn't even surprised to find that his voice has gone raspy. "So, they nest in oak trees, usually as deep in the woods as they can get. Not more than two or three in a nest. They'd rather munch on cattle than people, but they'll attack if you get too close."
"Right."
"If you leave a bowl of milk near the edge of a field, that'll draw them out, but you want to find the nest, make sure there aren't any young." He pauses. "They aren't all that dangerous to humans. If you want to wait a week or so--"
"Emmet Harle's already lost half his stock," Jay interrupts. "I'll take care of it. Appreciate the help."
"No problem," Dean murmurs. "Hey, Jay?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful."
Jay chuckles, low and warm. "Will do."
The line goes dead, and he's sitting on the damp porch with a warm beer, phone pressed to his ear, half-hard and confused as fuck.
Inside, there's the sound of another door slamming. Dad growls something, and there's the sharp bark of Sam's retort, and it's on again. Dean sighs and empties his beer over the edge of the porch into the wet grass. Fuck it. His baby's long overdue for a tune-up, and he's long overdue to spend a little quality time with his best girl. She can be a finicky bitch, but at least she's up-front about it.
It's not until he's under the Impala, jeans soaked to the knee, elbow scraped and motor oil on his face, that his mind stops spinning.
***
Marty ain't all that eager to talk about it, and Jay can't say he's surprised. Man's a worse gossip than any five old biddies, but he ain't in any great hurry to get called crazy again. In the end, it takes Jay an hour and a half and five beers after Marty closes up to get him started.
"Figured I'd lost my damn mind," Marty says, spinning a half-empty glass distractedly in his gnarled brown hands. No darts this time, and it's quiet in here without the jukebox going. "Lost my mind. Ain't right that critters like that can walk around in the light of day. Just ain't right."
"Sure," Jay says, bumping his shoulder companionably. It's kind of funny to remember Dean and his daddy the last time they were in here, figure this was exactly what they were pulling on him. Marty's a friend, and if Jay were a better man he'd sit down and lay the whole business out for him, but he ain't and he don't. Some things are better not to know. "Where'd you see it?"
"Out by the edge of Earl Dempster's place, you know up on Ridgewater? Near that stack of junker cars he's got out by the woods."
Earl Dempster is an asshole, and if it was just his cattle, Jay would give some serious consideration to letting the monster do its business in peace. Ain't fair to the rest of the town, though, so he just claps Marty on the shoulder and gets to his feet.
"Thanks, Marty."
Marty's eyes, squinting out of his creased face, are a little too sharp to belong to a man as drunk as he is. "You think I'm nuts."
"Nah." Jay thinks about Dean shooting a ghost full of iron shot in Mae's front lawn last spring and he can't quite bring himself to lie. Ain't lie Marty's gonna remember it anyhow. "I believe you. Get yourself to bed now, you hear? Sleep it off."
Marty grumbles, but he don't argue. Jay sticks around long enough to make sure he don't break his neck on the narrow stairs going up to his apartment over the bar, then leaves.
***
It's after three in the morning when he gets outside, but he's feeling restless and twitchy. Got everything he needs to go after the critter waiting in the truck, and hell, there's no time like the present.
He swings by his place to pick up a mixing bowl and a gallon of milk and then drives out to Ridgewater Hill where Earl keeps his fifty acres of scrubgrass and cattle fenced in with barbed-wire that's twenty years old if it's a day. The half-assed junkyard that all the local kids raid for parts is tucked into the edge of the treeline away from the house, and Jay has to wade through sloppy, tangled dead grass that ain't been mowed in a year or more. Serve the dumb bastard right if he gets a grassfire up here come summer.
He feels more than a little stupid setting out the bowl of milk on a flat stretch of rock and standing there with his shotgun aimed at the dark woods, but he's hardly had enough time to start wondering if he ought to come back when there's enough light to see when he hears wings.
It ain't quiet, that's for sure. Goddamn thing sounds like a chopper coming down out of the murky sky and it screams when it sees him, showing teeth too sharp and white for a horse's mouth. Just in case the fifteen-foot wingspan and red eyes weren't enough of a giveaway.
Jay pulls back, braces himself against the backdraft of those giant wings, and fires.
The first shot goes wild, and the thing screams again, more like nails on a chalkboard than the kind of sound anything living ought to make. It rears, wings spread, kicking at the night air, and Jay's second shot catches it between the eyes. It crumples.
Jay lowers the gun, cautious, but it ain't moving. The stink is fucking incredible and for a minute he wonders what the hell he's gonna do with the body; then he realizes he don't have to worry. It's like watching a thing rot in double-time, skin going fragile and sliding away from the bone, crumpling and curling and turning greasy black, and inside of five minutes there ain't nothing left but a pile of muck and a nasty smell.
He kicks it apart until it ain't identifiable anymore, empties out the bowl of milk, packs up his gun and drives home.
Inside the door, he kicks off his boots. They reek like monster gunk. He's tired as hell, that's the first time since Kuwait that he's shot anything other than cans and skeet, and tomorrow he's gonna have to track down the nest and finish off the young.
He still sleeps better than night than he has since last spring.
***
August, 2002
Sam's half a mile down the highway, stalking along under the streetlamps with his head down and his giant pack dragging at his shoulders when Dean catches up to him. He pulls over, rolls down the window, and leans out. "Hey."
"Don't bother," Sam spits. He keeps walking, doesn't even stop to look up. With a sigh, Dean puts the Impala back in drive and crawls along next to him. It's a little cooler now that the sun's down, but the air is still sticky-warm through the open window. "I'm not going back."
"Wasn't gonna ask you to." He was, actually, but there's no way even in his head that it won't sound like begging and fuck if he's going to do that. "Dude, come on. Would you just hang on for a second?"
Sam stops, plants his feet in the gravel shoulder, and turns toward him with his arms folded tightly across his chest. It's the kind of pose that's clearly supposed to look tough but actually looks more like he's trying to hug himself. His face is red and his eyes are leaking. He looks closer to twelve than eighteen. "What?"
Dean sighs again. "Sam, I have a headache and it is way too fucking hot for this. Come on. Get in the car."
"Was there some part of 'I'm not going back' that you didn't get?"
"Yeah, I heard you loud and clear the first time." Dean grins around the hard knot of panic settling like a stone in his guts. "Get in. I'll give you a ride to the station."
For a long minute, Sam just stares at him, and Dean wonders what he's going to do if Sam tells him to go to hell like he did Dad. "Fine," he says at last, and tosses his bag in the back seat.
There's no conversation on the way to the bus station. Sam's all but grinding his teeth and Dean's got a mouthful of words he's not gonna say, from Dad's just worried, he didn't mean it to What the hell kind of selfish bastard are you to Sammy, please don't go.
"We're here," he points out unnecessarily when he pulls into a spot near the main entrance. The parking lot is flooded with too-bright light, and the air tastes like asphalt and exhaust fumes. "Last chance to back out."
"I got a full ride, Dean," Sam says, opening his door. "To Stanford. I'm not backing out."
"Yeah, I figured," Dean mutters. He cuts the engine and climbs out, braces himself against the hot metal roof of his car. "Look, Sammy--"
"Come with me," Sam interrupts. He looks even younger, suddenly, scared and desperate.
Dean stares. "What?"
"You could come with me."
Yeah, be the highschool-dropout with the rap sheet a mile long, hanging around all Sam's new college buddies. Like the pothead loser big brother from fifteen-billion teen drama flicks. That'd be a laugh and a half. "Nah. Somebody's gotta stick around and take care of Dad."
He didn't mean it like that, but the mention of Dad does the trick. He can almost see Sam pulling himself back in, tossing up a pissy facade over his hurt. "Yeah, well, I guess that's what you do best, isn't it?"
"Sam, I really don't want to fight with you right now."
"So don't," Sam snaps, but he doesn't push it. "Dean, this is my life, okay? My life, not Dad's."
"I get it, okay? Jesus." For lack of anything better to do, he pulls out his wallet. There's not much in there, but he digs out a twenty and two fives; it's a long ride to California, and he's betting Sam blew all his cash on the bus ticket. He slides the money across the top of the car. "Here. Don't starve to death on the way there."
Sam's mouth twists, but he pockets it. "Thanks."
"Keep your knife handy. I don't care if your roommate thinks it's weird."
"Dean--"
"And bang a lot of sorority chicks, okay?"
"Dean."
He tries out a smile. "Just take care of yourself, Sammy."
"I'll be fine," Sam says, and glances down at his watch. "My bus is gonna be leaving soon. I should go."
"Yeah," Dean says. His throat feels dry.
Sam flashes him a smile, quick and nervous and so fucking eager that Dean wants to punch something. "I'll call you, okay?" he says, and Dean knows it's a lie even if Sam doesn't, yet.
He watches his brother walk away, and then he gets in his car and drives home to Dad.
***
Dad leaves about two weeks later. Two weeks of slamming around their tiny apartment and pretending nothing's wrong, and then all of a sudden there's some incredibly fucking urgent research that needs doing up in Quebec, which is conveniently about as far away from Stanford as he can get without hopping on a boat.
He splits in the night, the way he used to when they were kids and Sam would cry when Dad left them. Dean wakes up to an empty apartment and coordinates scribbled on the back of a bar napkin on the kitchen table. Coordinates and a note. Dean, take care of this. I have some things to work on in Montreal, call if there are any complications.
The coordinates are for West Virginia.
His cell phone's in his palm and his thumb hovers between the speed-dials for Dad and Sam for a long minute before he slaps it shut. Fuck it. He's a big boy. He can handle a hunt on his own.
He cleans out the fridge on his way out, leaves the door unlocked and the keys on the kitchen table. By nightfall, he's got three hundred miles behind him and he is absolutely fucking peachy.
***
Turns out there's a coven wreaking havoc (mostly by accident; five bored college students and a mostly-bogus grimoire wouldn't even be worth getting out of bed for if they hadn't managed to summon not one but three Salamanders without a single binding spell) in Lewisburg. Dean ices the Salamanders, torches the grimoire, and delivers a stern lecture to the dumb kids who started the whole mess.
See, Sammy, he thinks when the oldest boy's chin trembles under the brunt of his tirade. And you thought college was the safe bet.
One of them is a smokin' hot brunette, and he doesn't even try to get in her pants. And yeah, it's probably because he's fucking stupid, but he doesn't really notice he has a problem until the hunt's over and he's sitting in the back of some anonymous pool-hall, scanning the crowd, and he realizes that he isn't looking for an easy mark or a quick fuck. He's looking for the pocket of space Dad always causes at a bar no matter how full the place is. He's looking for Sam's too-big form hunched over in one of these back booths with a soda and a book. He's looking for his fucking family.
He's such a moron. Only halfway through his third beer and he feels like he's gonna puke, the smoky air heavy and too close, and he shoves himself to his feet, stumbles out of the bar and leans against the outside wall, taking huge, gasping breaths of the night.
Pastor Jim's place is only about a day from here. He could drive over, get a good meal and a few nights of sleep in a familiar place. Hell, if he looks half as miserable as he feels, Jim might even skip the preaching. It's a good idea. He's running on fumes and temper right now, and it would be smart to go someplace quiet and get his head on straight.
He already knows he isn't going to.
***
Metallica's tearing up his eardrums as he drives south on Interstate 77, fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit and telling himself he's not headed anywhere in particular.
It's a little more than an hour later when he crosses over the Carolina border.
***
It's days like this he'd stay away from the bar, if he had any sense. 'Specially with Marty up in New York visiting his family and what looks like a rowdy Saturday-night crowd. Full parking lot, anyway, and lightning in the air when Jay pulls into his usual spot near the back.
He gave Nellie and Missy a ride up to the state pen today to visit with Mae. It's good to see her and she's doing about as well as can he expected, but those visits always put some kind of restlessness in him.
If he had any sense, he'd go back to his place, catch a game on his old TV and head to bed early. Used to be, Keith would drag him home when these kind of moods hit. He always used to say Jay had more temper than a quiet fellow had any right to, but Keith's seven years gone now, and Jay needs a drink. He shoulders the door open a little harder than he probably needs to, kicks it shut behind him.
There's a wild kind of tension inside, like a thunderstorm found its way into the bar. The jukebox is on loud, but he can't hardly hear the music over the sound of hooting and cheering, the sick wet thud of flesh on flesh. Bar-fight. Over in the back corner, on the other side of the dance floor. So much for a quiet goddamn drink.
Somehow, he ain't even surprised when the crowd shifts and there's Dean Winchester, standing foot-planted on the sticky floor and wiping blood off his face with the back of his hand. That's just the way his day's been going.
Somebody's on the floor. Earl Dempster, looks like, and he's down for the count even if he ain't quite out yet. Legs kicking, but he ain't trying to get up. Dean's got two more guys facing him and a grin like a powderkeg.
He's fucking magnetic.
"Come on, now," he's saying. "Not my fault you can't tell the pocket from your own asshole. Just hand over the money you owe me and we can forget any of this ever happened."
Been a few years since Jay first hauled the kid out of a barfight, and if he had a lick of common sense he'd leave well enough alone, let Dean take out whatever's riding him on Jimmy and Earl. World owes those two assholes a couple of beatings at least, and Dean can take care of himself.
That'd be the smart move, but he ain't ever been able to make the smart move where Dean's concerned. He's across the bar before he even thinks about it, throwing an arm around the kid's strong shoulders. Gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble, not hard enough to do any damage. A warning shot, a leave me the hell alone.
Jay ignores it, shifts his grip and aims a big, unfriendly grin at Jimmy. "'Scuse my friend, here, fellas. He's having a bad day."
That much is true, for damn sure. Given the fact that it's late August and Dean's baby brother was making college noises last he heard, Jay can even hazard a pretty good guess as to why.
"Fuck off," Dean snaps, no questions about where Jay came from or what the hell he thinks he's doing. He's vibrating with tension, but he ain't stumbling enough to be drunk. Sober and pissed off, which just makes him that much more dangerous. "I can fucking take care of myself."
"Yeah," Jay says easily. "I see that. Come on."
It's about fifteen feet to the door, and every single step of them he's expecting to get jumped from behind, or for Dean to shrug him off and go back to his tussle. It don't happen. They get through the crowd without anything but a couple of sidelong stares. Jimmy and Earl don't seem disposed to take on the both of them together. Smart choice.
"...fucking let go of me, I'm not a fucking kid," Dean growls as Jay opens the door with one hand, keeping a good grip on his shoulder with the other. He don't make any attempt at getting loose, though, so Jay just pushes him out into the quiet night.
The door slams shut behind them, and Dean wrenches away from Jay's grip, breathing hard through his nose, then surges forward and shoves him up against the brick wall. His face is carved in shadow, hurt eyes blazing, and Jay's so braced for a punch that the kiss catches him completely off his guard. It ain't gentle, not even close. Dean kisses hard and desperate, and Jay would move his head back if the wall wasn't in the way. His hands come up, grip Dean's shoulders to push him back, but somewhere halfway through he loses the momentum for it and just holds on, fingers flexing in Dean's thin t-shirt.
It don't last long, maybe five seconds, and then Dean's pulling back. He still looks tense and furious, and Jay licks his lips. "Dean--"
"Shut up. Just--shut up, okay?" His voice is harsh.
Jay puts his head back against the wall, sighs. The night's cooling down, and there's heat rolling off of Dean in waves. He's a big, solid shape, hands braced against the wall on either side of Jay's head, bodies not quite touching anywhere but so damn close. "This ain't gonna fix anything."
"I know," Dean says. "I know, okay? I'm not looking--I don't--fuck."
There's a long goddamn list of reasons this is a bad idea, starting with the thirteen years between them and ending with the aimless fury riding behind Dean's eyes. And suddenly, not a single one of them matters. The space between them is too easy to cross, and he pulls Dean back in, mouths slotting together like they were made for it, rough and slick, stubble under his fingers.
"Son of a bitch," Dean murmurs, voice gone soft and startled. His right hand drops to Jay's shoulder, heavy and warm against the collar of his t-shirt, rough thumb brushing the bare skin of his neck.
This is a bad fucking idea, and he can't come up with a single reason they ought to stop.
***
They make it all the way to where Dean's beast of a car is parked in the back lot under a broken streetlight. The black sheet metal gleams like oil, and it's cool against his ass when Dean backs him up against it. The lot's quiet, empty for now, but anybody could come outside.
"Should get out of here," Jay murmurs, but Dean's fingers are already undoing his belt, quick and sure, no hesitation at all.
"Nah," he mutters, rough against Jay's ear. "Here's good."
"You wanna get us lynched, kid?" Jay asks, and Dean pulls away enough to grin. It's sharp-edged and a little too tight.
"Good point." He slides his hand behind Jay to open the back door, and then they're tumbling inside, onto the broad backseat. Dean pulls the door shut behind him without looking, like he's done this a thousand times before. Hell, he probably has.
Jay thinks about pointing out that the backseat of a car in a crowded parking lot ain't exactly private either, and that the smart thing would be to head back to his place or the motel, or to just can the whole idea. Then Dean's working on his belt again, breath coming out in a frustrated little huff against his collarbone, the hem of his t-shirt riding up under Jay's fingers. Hell with it. He's never been one for doing the smart thing anyway.
Dean gets his belt undone and slides down, letting his t-shirt come up under Jay's fingers. He pulls away long enough to yank it over his head and toss it at the front seat, and then he's shoving Jay up until his shoulders hit the opposite door, glass slick and cool on the back of his head, legs falling apart when Dean runs his hands up the inseams of his jeans. It's cramped in here, hot air going damp with how hard they're both breathing, and he feels a little like he dropped his brain somewhere out in the parking lot.
"Hey," he says. "Slow the hell down, would you?"
Dean snorts. "You want roses or something?"
"You're an obnoxious little shit, you know that?" Jay says, only it's hard to put much feeling into it when Dean's shoved his t-shirt just far enough out of the way that he can suck a line down the flat of his stomach.
"Yeah," Dean says from somewhere in the vicinity of Jay's belly button, thumbs riding low on his hips. He don't sound all that sorry. "So?"
"Just saying."
"Duly noted. You want me to suck your dick or not?"
His voice sounds good like that, fucking obscene, warm breath against sweaty skin, and Jay can't make himself speak. His hips lift all on their own, though, and that seems to be enough of an answer. Dean unfastens his fly deftly, shoves his jeans and boxers out of the way, and palms his cock with one broad hand.
Jay arches into it, fingers flexing against the smooth leather seat. "Fuck."
"That's the idea," Dean says, low and amused, and sucks him down.
"Fuck," Jay hisses again, eyes slamming shut, sucking air in across his teeth. It's been a long time, a damn long time and sweet fucking Christ does Dean know what he's doing, all hot lewd tongue, one hand holding Jay's hip down, the other one curved knowingly around the base of his cock, matching the rhythm of his mouth. Nowhere near gentle, but gentle ain't what either one of them is looking for.
His hand finds its way to the sharp curve of Dean's cheek, the shell of his ear, the soft, smooth skin at the back of his neck. Almost fragile. Ain't nothing fragile about the strong hand pressing him into the seat, though. Or his mouth, slick wet heat and suction, the slight scrape of teeth. Fucking goddamn hell.
Dean twists his hand suddenly, a rough motion just on the sweet side of painful, and Jay arches into it and comes hard, vision going white around the edges.
It takes him a couple of gasping moments to come down enough to realize that he's gripping Dean's neck hard enough to bruise, to let go. "Jesus," he says, and he almost don't recognize his voice. "Sorry."
Dean pulls away and grins up at him. His hair is wrecked and his mouth is swollen and wet. He looks smug, sexy as hell. "Don't worry about it."
Jay breathes out a laugh, gets his hands under Dean's arms to haul him up until they're face-to-face. Dean comes willingly, laughing into a messy kiss, but he pulls away when Jay reaches down between them to unbutton his jeans. "Dude, you don't have to--"
Jay mouths the side of his neck, the stubbled curve of his jaw. "Shut up," he murmurs, working his hand inside, and Dean does.
The angle's awkward, but Dean feels too good all big and sweaty-warm pressed against him to change it. His cock is smooth and heavy in Jay's grip and he rolls his hips forward with a groan. Takes a minute to find a rhythm that works, but then he does and Dean's shoves himself in even closer, cursing in a low, breathless voice against the side of his neck.
He comes with a small broken noise, tense and shaking like he's falling to pieces. Jay gentles him through it, slides his free hand through Dean's soft, short hair, cups the curve of his jaw. He's kind of expecting to get it slapped away, so it's a surprise when Dean turns his face blindly into the touch, lips parted, eyes closed, coming undone.
He drops his head forward onto Jay's shoulder for a long minute before pulling away, blinking. "So, uh."
Jay shakes his head and pulls his t-shirt down, wipes his hand clean on his jeans and tucks himself back in, zips up his fly. After a minute, Dean follows suit. He pulls himself into a sitting position and rubs the back of his neck, looking self-conscious and younger than Jay can remember ever seeing him. His bare belly is shiny with sweat and come, and he leans forward to grab his t-shirt out of the front seat and clean up. "So," he says again.
"Got a six-pack of beer back at the house," Jay says, keeping his voice neutral. "Could maybe use some help drinking it."
Dean's quiet long enough that Jay's sure he's gonna say no, but then he grins, sharp and sudden and real. "What the hell, sure. I'll follow you there."
***
So, he fucked a guy. Because he wanted to, not to pay the rent or make bail. That's different.
There's a part of Dean that wants to poke it over like a sore tooth, but seriously? Fuck it. He got off, Jay got off; his bones still feel heavy and warm and the edge of his temper has worn down enough that he doesn't feel like breaking everything he sees.
Jay hands him a beer, and he takes it, crossing his feet on the upturned five-gallon bucket in front of his chair. The lights are off on the porch, but the moon's high enough that he can see the shine on the Impala and the chrome on Jay's old truck, the dark tangle of trees along the edge of the yard. "Thanks."
He gets a quiet, flickering smile in return, and he pops the cap off, takes a long drink. Cheap beer, mostly cold and bubbles that taste good on his tongue, soothe away the lingering soreness in his throat, 'cause it's been a while since he did that.
Last guy he sucked off was some middle-aged stockbroker with wings of gray in his hair and a fat wallet. It was a few years ago, and he didn't much like it at the time. Didn't expect to like it tonight, either, but apparently his dick had other ideas.
Maybe he's developing an oral fixation or something. Of course, that wouldn't explain what he's still doing here, or why he keeps looking at Jay out of the corner of his eye, his stillness and his thoughtful expression, his long fingers on his beer bottle and the way his thin t-shirt settles on his body. He looks good, is the thing, and Dean doesn't have the first clue what to do with that.
Jay lights up a cigarette and doesn't say anything, and there's enough restlessness left in Dean that he sets his beer down, turns toward Jay's silent profile, and says, "So, what's the deal, here?"
Jay shrugs, slow. "You can stay, if you want. Reckon I got enough bacon and eggs for two. Or there's the motel down the road."
There's no pressure in his voice, just the offer. Take it or leave it. Dean rolls the beer bottle between his hands, gives himself time to think. The motel's twenty minutes from here, and it's already late. And for some reason the idea of walking up to the desk and getting a room with no Dad to drag him out of bed for three AM strategy sessions and no Sam to rag on his lame-ass fake ID's makes something a lot like panic twist in his belly.
Here, there's bacon and eggs. And maybe more sex. That'd be okay. "I guess I could stay," he says finally. "If you don't mind."
"Wouldn't have offered if I did," Jay says, and when Dean looks over at him, he's smiling a little.
***
He stays for almost a week that time, the first time. Borrows Jay's shed to detail the Impala, AC/DC blasting out of a boombox that's probably only a few years younger than he is, heat pounding down from a dry blue sky.
"Sam left," he tells Jay the second morning. Early morning, because Jay opens up the shop by himself. There's sun on the kitchen floor, coffee in a chipped mug in front of him, and beard burn on the insides of his thighs. It's a warm not-quite-discomfort where the seam of his jeans rubs into his skin. "A couple of weeks ago."
"I figured," says Jay.
"Him and Dad--" Dean stops, shakes his head, drinks some coffee. Black as tar and about as tasty, but it'll sure as hell wake him up. It's an improvement over the dishwater crap Sam likes to brew, anyway.
Liked to brew. When he was still around to brew lousy coffee. Maybe he's poisoning his new Stanford buddies with it by now, who the fuck knows?
Jay lets the unfinished sentence cool in the air for a while, and then he stands, stretches, neck popping. He's thirty-five or so, Dean guesses, and he's in good shape, but there's still some stiffness in his joints. Crow's feet starting around his eyes, although that might just be the fact that he smokes like a chimney. That shit'll age your skin.
"I'm heading down to the shop," he says, instead of pursuing the conversation. "Y'all can tag along if you feel like it."
"Yeah," Dean says. "That'd be good."
***
It's like a blast from the past, hanging out behind Jay's shop and staring out at a stretch of dry scrubgrass leading up the hill out back. Four years, give or take. It's not a long time, in the grand scheme of things.
Definitely not long enough to get this tired. Fucking Christ. Last night was the first time he's really slept since Sam bailed. Maybe that's why he hasn't managed to work up any kind of respectable freak-out about sleeping with Jay. Too tired. And really, banging another guy is one of the least weird things about his life lately.
Anyway, he likes the guy, and Jay's not trying to coddle him into talking about anything, which already puts this about two steps above anywhere else he could have ended up.
***
Dad calls on Friday morning with instructions to meet up in Amherst. He sounds like he's aged about a thousand years in the past month, but at least he's not barking every word out like the drill sergeant he sometimes forgets he isn't.
"It's a poltergeist, from the sound of it," he says. "A nasty one. I'm gonna need your help, son."
"I'll be there," Dean says back, pulling on his jeans one-handed. He's careful not to give away by words or tone the relief that's filling him up like a warm bubble. Sam left, and that's just six kinds of jacked, but Dad's not gone. Not for good. Dad still needs him.
Jay's pouring himself a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter when Dean comes out, dressed and carrying his duffel. There's sweat dried sticky on his skin, but he can shower when he gets to Massachusetts tonight. The hickeys Dad won't even notice. Not like they're an unusual occurrence.
"Gotta hit the road," he says.
Jay nods, pulls a stained travel mug out of the cupboard and empties the rest of the pot into it. "Might as well take this with you, then."
Dean takes it, cradling the battered plastic in both hands. "Thanks, man. I--really. Thanks."
He doesn't just mean the coffee, and Jay's slow smile says that he knows that. "Anytime. You just take care of yourself."
"Yeah," Dean says, and grins, shifting the duffel strap into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. "Yeah, I'll do that."
***
Easter, 2003
"This fucker," Dean says happily on the other end of the line, "he was fifteen feet long. At least."
Jay tucks the phone under his cheek to light his cigarette. It's soggy and not all that warm out on the porch and it ain't like Mae's around to yell at him, but it still don't feel right to smoke in her kitchen. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Had Dad pinned down in the basement of this museum. I got a broken ankle, right? Can't freaking move, and there's this scaly son of a bitch about to take a chunk outta his face--" Dean pauses, long enough for a gulp of whatever it is he's drinking. Jay breathes out smoke on a chuckle. Sounds like the kid's three sheets to the wind already. Feeling no pain.
"So, this thing's gonna start chewing on his head, right? And there's me with no gun. Can't stand up, so I grab the nearest pointy thing I can get my hands on and I chuck it as hard as I can. Skewered him right through the eye. Saved Dad's life, honest to God. And then I look--" he starts cackling. "I crawl over there and haul Dad out from underneath it, and I look, and it's a freaking umbrella."
"An umbrella," Jay repeats dryly, but he's smiling. Hard not to, considering how damn pleased Dean sounds with himself.
"Cross my heart, man. I killed a lindworm with an umbrella."
"That's something else, all right."
"Are you shitting me? It was awesome. Way cooler than Saint George and his pansy-ass spear."
"Yeah," Jay says, shaking his head. Saint George. He's spending his Easter talking to a drunk ghostbuster about slaying dragons. Why the hell not. "Sounds like it."
Dean's silent a couple of minutes, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter. "How've you been, anyway? Haven't talked to you in a while."
Sometimes, Dean's a goddamn mystery to him. These phone calls don't happen all that often, but they're common enough. Dean don't mention the week he spent in Canfield back in August, and Jay don't let on that he spends any time at all reminiscing on it. Ain't been all that many guys for him in the past few years, because there ain't never gonna be anybody to replace Keith and Jay ain't looking. But somehow, Dean's managed to carve himself out a little spot all his own. Confuses the hell out of Jay.
"Been doing good," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Real good," Jay says. "Having a little bit of an Easter dinner with Mae's family. Nellie's on break from school."
She's on the other side of the kitchen window, jabbing at something on the stove with a scowl that could blister paint. Mae's a damn fine cook, but it don't look like her little girl's inherited the gift.
Still, it's a place to go for the holiday. Ain't something everybody has, and he'll choke down whatever charred-up meal she serves for the chance of seeing her smiling like a kid again. College is good for her. She seems easier these days. Less like a scared rabbit and more like the laughing little girl he remembers.
Dean's quiet long enough that for a minute Jay thinks maybe the call got dropped. "Huh," he says at last. "Forgot it was Easter. Maybe the gas station has some of those marshmallow chick things." He laughs. "Dude, Sammy used to love those things. This one year, he couldn't have been more than ten, we lifted like twelve packages of 'em from a 7-11, and he ate every one. Puked his guts out for an hour."
Jay chuckles, but there's an unexpected nip of sadness in his chest. He could ask after Sam; maybe he's earned that right, but he don't. "Never got the taste for those myself."
"Yeah, me neither," says Dean. He ain't quite drunk enough to slur his words, but from the sound of it he ain't far off. "Give me a bacon cheeseburger any day. But Sammy, man, that kid's got a sweet tooth like you would not believe. Like a hummingbird, or something. A really freakin' giant hummingbird."
Jay was just gonna step out for a quick smoke, but he finds himself leaning back in his chair, bare feet kicked against the cool, damp porch, listening to Dean talk for a good twenty minutes before Nellie sticks her head out to call him back in.
"I gotta get going," he says after Dean wraps up a rambling, maybe-true story about a Ferris wheel and a couple of trained bears.
"Yeah," Dean says back, slurry and mellow. He's been sipping on something this whole time, enough to tilt him over from tipsy to actually drunk. "I guess I should head back over t' the bar, make sure Dad doesn't get himself arrested. Fuckin' holiday," he adds mildly. "Shoulda remembered that. Good talkin' t'you, Jay."
"Yeah," Jay murmurs. "You too."
***
Dean's not a great believer in introspection. There's too much about his life that he doesn't really have any interest in dwelling on, and anyway, what's there is there and no amount of navel-gazing is gonna change that.
So he doesn't spend a lot of time agonizing over what happened with Jay. He's not queer. Not that there's anything wrong with that, or anything, just that he isn't. It was a one-off kind of thing, because Jay's a friend, sort of, somebody he can trust not to stomp on him when he's down.
If Dad has any idea about his periodic calls to an 828 number, he doesn't bring it up.
They gank a pack of chupacabras down by the Mexico border that summer, swing up through Palo Alto to spy on Sammy for a couple of days once the fall semester starts. He's doing good, seems like. Far as they can tell from a distance, he's doing good. Filling out, putting some meat on that scrawny frame, and he's always with a bunch of people, talking, laughing, poring over geek books in the courtyard like one of those freakin' college pamphlets guidance counselors always have laying around. He doesn't notice them trailing him, and that's a good thing, Dean tells himself.
He seems good, though. Happy.
"We could go talk to him," Dean suggests after about a week of watching Dad watch Sammy do his college thing. "I mean, no big deal, just--"
Dad's already shaking his head, crumpling up his takeout wrappers and stuffing them in the bag. They're standing against his truck in the early morning sun, outside Sam's dorm. Mist is lying low across the ground, and everything looks too shiny and clean to be a part of any world Dean belongs to.
"We've already hung around here too long," Dad says. "Time to be moving on. I'll give you a ride back to the Impala, and then we're heading up the coast."
Dean sighs. "Yessir."
***
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Author's Notes & Acknowledgments
Dean's drinking a beer on the back stoop of the run-down cabin they're renting, watching the rain and avoiding the cold war going on in the kitchen, when his cell rings. He flips it open without looking at the number. "This is Dean."
"Hey. It's Jay." It's been months, but he still sounds the same, the low tenor gone rough and deeper than it should be from too much smoking, the Carolina drawl. "How you been, kid?"
A door slams inside, hard enough to rattle the windows. Dad and Sam stopped shouting at each other a while ago, but there's always a chance one or the other of them will come out here to bitch to him. Dean thinks he should start charging by the hour. "Been better," he says. "What's up?"
"Had a question for you."
"Alright, shoot."
"You ever hear of something called a Jersey Devil?"
Shit. "Like an evil-looking flying horse that likes to snack on livestock?"
"That'd be it. Marty down at the bar reckons he saw one. Most folks figure he's been dipping into his own stock, but that ain't like him."
"Well, they're real, if that's what you're asking."
"Yeah, I wondered. Think we might have one wandering the neighborhood."
Just in case his day wasn't sucking enough. "Shit. Okay, hang on a second. We're in North Dakota, there's gotta be somebody closer--" Pastor Jim's a little closer, but not by much and he doesn't like to leave his parish. Johnson and Yukimi are up in Canada, Caleb's in the middle of a hunt, and old Angie Ramirez lit out to Hawaii last year. Fuck.
"You know how to handle them?" Jay asks after Dean's quiet for a minute.
"Iron rounds to the head should do the trick," he says absently, "but we're two days away from you and--"
"Iron rounds I can get my hands on," Jay says, astonishingly. "Anything else I should know?"
"Wait. Dude, you're not--"
"Said it yourself, ain't nobody else around. Anything else I should know?"
"For the record, I think this is a bad idea."
"Heard you the first time," Jay says. There's some amusement in his voice, an edge of something else Dean can't identify. He can't think of any reason that it should make heat pool in the pit of his stomach but it does, desire hitting like a gut-punch.
He doesn't even fucking like guys like that, and he's bent over for enough sleazy assholes for rent money or bail to know.
Jay, though, Jay's different. And the last thing Dean needs in his life right now is a sexual identity crisis, so he shakes his head and clears his throat and tries to recall everything Dad scribbled down about that Jersey Devil in Maryland last winter. The notebook's on Dad's dresser, but he really doesn't want to head back in there just yet if he doesn't have to. Jersey Devils are pretty straightforward, anyway, as far as monsters go.
Jay waits patiently while he thinks; it's never been his way to fill up stretches of silence with chatter. Dean appreciates that, most of the time, but right now it's incredibly fucking distracting trying to think with Jay breathing slow and even on the other end of the line, just breathing. Waiting for him to speak.
"Okay," he says finally, and he isn't even surprised to find that his voice has gone raspy. "So, they nest in oak trees, usually as deep in the woods as they can get. Not more than two or three in a nest. They'd rather munch on cattle than people, but they'll attack if you get too close."
"Right."
"If you leave a bowl of milk near the edge of a field, that'll draw them out, but you want to find the nest, make sure there aren't any young." He pauses. "They aren't all that dangerous to humans. If you want to wait a week or so--"
"Emmet Harle's already lost half his stock," Jay interrupts. "I'll take care of it. Appreciate the help."
"No problem," Dean murmurs. "Hey, Jay?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful."
Jay chuckles, low and warm. "Will do."
The line goes dead, and he's sitting on the damp porch with a warm beer, phone pressed to his ear, half-hard and confused as fuck.
Inside, there's the sound of another door slamming. Dad growls something, and there's the sharp bark of Sam's retort, and it's on again. Dean sighs and empties his beer over the edge of the porch into the wet grass. Fuck it. His baby's long overdue for a tune-up, and he's long overdue to spend a little quality time with his best girl. She can be a finicky bitch, but at least she's up-front about it.
It's not until he's under the Impala, jeans soaked to the knee, elbow scraped and motor oil on his face, that his mind stops spinning.
***
Marty ain't all that eager to talk about it, and Jay can't say he's surprised. Man's a worse gossip than any five old biddies, but he ain't in any great hurry to get called crazy again. In the end, it takes Jay an hour and a half and five beers after Marty closes up to get him started.
"Figured I'd lost my damn mind," Marty says, spinning a half-empty glass distractedly in his gnarled brown hands. No darts this time, and it's quiet in here without the jukebox going. "Lost my mind. Ain't right that critters like that can walk around in the light of day. Just ain't right."
"Sure," Jay says, bumping his shoulder companionably. It's kind of funny to remember Dean and his daddy the last time they were in here, figure this was exactly what they were pulling on him. Marty's a friend, and if Jay were a better man he'd sit down and lay the whole business out for him, but he ain't and he don't. Some things are better not to know. "Where'd you see it?"
"Out by the edge of Earl Dempster's place, you know up on Ridgewater? Near that stack of junker cars he's got out by the woods."
Earl Dempster is an asshole, and if it was just his cattle, Jay would give some serious consideration to letting the monster do its business in peace. Ain't fair to the rest of the town, though, so he just claps Marty on the shoulder and gets to his feet.
"Thanks, Marty."
Marty's eyes, squinting out of his creased face, are a little too sharp to belong to a man as drunk as he is. "You think I'm nuts."
"Nah." Jay thinks about Dean shooting a ghost full of iron shot in Mae's front lawn last spring and he can't quite bring himself to lie. Ain't lie Marty's gonna remember it anyhow. "I believe you. Get yourself to bed now, you hear? Sleep it off."
Marty grumbles, but he don't argue. Jay sticks around long enough to make sure he don't break his neck on the narrow stairs going up to his apartment over the bar, then leaves.
***
It's after three in the morning when he gets outside, but he's feeling restless and twitchy. Got everything he needs to go after the critter waiting in the truck, and hell, there's no time like the present.
He swings by his place to pick up a mixing bowl and a gallon of milk and then drives out to Ridgewater Hill where Earl keeps his fifty acres of scrubgrass and cattle fenced in with barbed-wire that's twenty years old if it's a day. The half-assed junkyard that all the local kids raid for parts is tucked into the edge of the treeline away from the house, and Jay has to wade through sloppy, tangled dead grass that ain't been mowed in a year or more. Serve the dumb bastard right if he gets a grassfire up here come summer.
He feels more than a little stupid setting out the bowl of milk on a flat stretch of rock and standing there with his shotgun aimed at the dark woods, but he's hardly had enough time to start wondering if he ought to come back when there's enough light to see when he hears wings.
It ain't quiet, that's for sure. Goddamn thing sounds like a chopper coming down out of the murky sky and it screams when it sees him, showing teeth too sharp and white for a horse's mouth. Just in case the fifteen-foot wingspan and red eyes weren't enough of a giveaway.
Jay pulls back, braces himself against the backdraft of those giant wings, and fires.
The first shot goes wild, and the thing screams again, more like nails on a chalkboard than the kind of sound anything living ought to make. It rears, wings spread, kicking at the night air, and Jay's second shot catches it between the eyes. It crumples.
Jay lowers the gun, cautious, but it ain't moving. The stink is fucking incredible and for a minute he wonders what the hell he's gonna do with the body; then he realizes he don't have to worry. It's like watching a thing rot in double-time, skin going fragile and sliding away from the bone, crumpling and curling and turning greasy black, and inside of five minutes there ain't nothing left but a pile of muck and a nasty smell.
He kicks it apart until it ain't identifiable anymore, empties out the bowl of milk, packs up his gun and drives home.
Inside the door, he kicks off his boots. They reek like monster gunk. He's tired as hell, that's the first time since Kuwait that he's shot anything other than cans and skeet, and tomorrow he's gonna have to track down the nest and finish off the young.
He still sleeps better than night than he has since last spring.
***
August, 2002
Sam's half a mile down the highway, stalking along under the streetlamps with his head down and his giant pack dragging at his shoulders when Dean catches up to him. He pulls over, rolls down the window, and leans out. "Hey."
"Don't bother," Sam spits. He keeps walking, doesn't even stop to look up. With a sigh, Dean puts the Impala back in drive and crawls along next to him. It's a little cooler now that the sun's down, but the air is still sticky-warm through the open window. "I'm not going back."
"Wasn't gonna ask you to." He was, actually, but there's no way even in his head that it won't sound like begging and fuck if he's going to do that. "Dude, come on. Would you just hang on for a second?"
Sam stops, plants his feet in the gravel shoulder, and turns toward him with his arms folded tightly across his chest. It's the kind of pose that's clearly supposed to look tough but actually looks more like he's trying to hug himself. His face is red and his eyes are leaking. He looks closer to twelve than eighteen. "What?"
Dean sighs again. "Sam, I have a headache and it is way too fucking hot for this. Come on. Get in the car."
"Was there some part of 'I'm not going back' that you didn't get?"
"Yeah, I heard you loud and clear the first time." Dean grins around the hard knot of panic settling like a stone in his guts. "Get in. I'll give you a ride to the station."
For a long minute, Sam just stares at him, and Dean wonders what he's going to do if Sam tells him to go to hell like he did Dad. "Fine," he says at last, and tosses his bag in the back seat.
There's no conversation on the way to the bus station. Sam's all but grinding his teeth and Dean's got a mouthful of words he's not gonna say, from Dad's just worried, he didn't mean it to What the hell kind of selfish bastard are you to Sammy, please don't go.
"We're here," he points out unnecessarily when he pulls into a spot near the main entrance. The parking lot is flooded with too-bright light, and the air tastes like asphalt and exhaust fumes. "Last chance to back out."
"I got a full ride, Dean," Sam says, opening his door. "To Stanford. I'm not backing out."
"Yeah, I figured," Dean mutters. He cuts the engine and climbs out, braces himself against the hot metal roof of his car. "Look, Sammy--"
"Come with me," Sam interrupts. He looks even younger, suddenly, scared and desperate.
Dean stares. "What?"
"You could come with me."
Yeah, be the highschool-dropout with the rap sheet a mile long, hanging around all Sam's new college buddies. Like the pothead loser big brother from fifteen-billion teen drama flicks. That'd be a laugh and a half. "Nah. Somebody's gotta stick around and take care of Dad."
He didn't mean it like that, but the mention of Dad does the trick. He can almost see Sam pulling himself back in, tossing up a pissy facade over his hurt. "Yeah, well, I guess that's what you do best, isn't it?"
"Sam, I really don't want to fight with you right now."
"So don't," Sam snaps, but he doesn't push it. "Dean, this is my life, okay? My life, not Dad's."
"I get it, okay? Jesus." For lack of anything better to do, he pulls out his wallet. There's not much in there, but he digs out a twenty and two fives; it's a long ride to California, and he's betting Sam blew all his cash on the bus ticket. He slides the money across the top of the car. "Here. Don't starve to death on the way there."
Sam's mouth twists, but he pockets it. "Thanks."
"Keep your knife handy. I don't care if your roommate thinks it's weird."
"Dean--"
"And bang a lot of sorority chicks, okay?"
"Dean."
He tries out a smile. "Just take care of yourself, Sammy."
"I'll be fine," Sam says, and glances down at his watch. "My bus is gonna be leaving soon. I should go."
"Yeah," Dean says. His throat feels dry.
Sam flashes him a smile, quick and nervous and so fucking eager that Dean wants to punch something. "I'll call you, okay?" he says, and Dean knows it's a lie even if Sam doesn't, yet.
He watches his brother walk away, and then he gets in his car and drives home to Dad.
***
Dad leaves about two weeks later. Two weeks of slamming around their tiny apartment and pretending nothing's wrong, and then all of a sudden there's some incredibly fucking urgent research that needs doing up in Quebec, which is conveniently about as far away from Stanford as he can get without hopping on a boat.
He splits in the night, the way he used to when they were kids and Sam would cry when Dad left them. Dean wakes up to an empty apartment and coordinates scribbled on the back of a bar napkin on the kitchen table. Coordinates and a note. Dean, take care of this. I have some things to work on in Montreal, call if there are any complications.
The coordinates are for West Virginia.
His cell phone's in his palm and his thumb hovers between the speed-dials for Dad and Sam for a long minute before he slaps it shut. Fuck it. He's a big boy. He can handle a hunt on his own.
He cleans out the fridge on his way out, leaves the door unlocked and the keys on the kitchen table. By nightfall, he's got three hundred miles behind him and he is absolutely fucking peachy.
***
Turns out there's a coven wreaking havoc (mostly by accident; five bored college students and a mostly-bogus grimoire wouldn't even be worth getting out of bed for if they hadn't managed to summon not one but three Salamanders without a single binding spell) in Lewisburg. Dean ices the Salamanders, torches the grimoire, and delivers a stern lecture to the dumb kids who started the whole mess.
See, Sammy, he thinks when the oldest boy's chin trembles under the brunt of his tirade. And you thought college was the safe bet.
One of them is a smokin' hot brunette, and he doesn't even try to get in her pants. And yeah, it's probably because he's fucking stupid, but he doesn't really notice he has a problem until the hunt's over and he's sitting in the back of some anonymous pool-hall, scanning the crowd, and he realizes that he isn't looking for an easy mark or a quick fuck. He's looking for the pocket of space Dad always causes at a bar no matter how full the place is. He's looking for Sam's too-big form hunched over in one of these back booths with a soda and a book. He's looking for his fucking family.
He's such a moron. Only halfway through his third beer and he feels like he's gonna puke, the smoky air heavy and too close, and he shoves himself to his feet, stumbles out of the bar and leans against the outside wall, taking huge, gasping breaths of the night.
Pastor Jim's place is only about a day from here. He could drive over, get a good meal and a few nights of sleep in a familiar place. Hell, if he looks half as miserable as he feels, Jim might even skip the preaching. It's a good idea. He's running on fumes and temper right now, and it would be smart to go someplace quiet and get his head on straight.
He already knows he isn't going to.
***
Metallica's tearing up his eardrums as he drives south on Interstate 77, fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit and telling himself he's not headed anywhere in particular.
It's a little more than an hour later when he crosses over the Carolina border.
***
It's days like this he'd stay away from the bar, if he had any sense. 'Specially with Marty up in New York visiting his family and what looks like a rowdy Saturday-night crowd. Full parking lot, anyway, and lightning in the air when Jay pulls into his usual spot near the back.
He gave Nellie and Missy a ride up to the state pen today to visit with Mae. It's good to see her and she's doing about as well as can he expected, but those visits always put some kind of restlessness in him.
If he had any sense, he'd go back to his place, catch a game on his old TV and head to bed early. Used to be, Keith would drag him home when these kind of moods hit. He always used to say Jay had more temper than a quiet fellow had any right to, but Keith's seven years gone now, and Jay needs a drink. He shoulders the door open a little harder than he probably needs to, kicks it shut behind him.
There's a wild kind of tension inside, like a thunderstorm found its way into the bar. The jukebox is on loud, but he can't hardly hear the music over the sound of hooting and cheering, the sick wet thud of flesh on flesh. Bar-fight. Over in the back corner, on the other side of the dance floor. So much for a quiet goddamn drink.
Somehow, he ain't even surprised when the crowd shifts and there's Dean Winchester, standing foot-planted on the sticky floor and wiping blood off his face with the back of his hand. That's just the way his day's been going.
Somebody's on the floor. Earl Dempster, looks like, and he's down for the count even if he ain't quite out yet. Legs kicking, but he ain't trying to get up. Dean's got two more guys facing him and a grin like a powderkeg.
He's fucking magnetic.
"Come on, now," he's saying. "Not my fault you can't tell the pocket from your own asshole. Just hand over the money you owe me and we can forget any of this ever happened."
Been a few years since Jay first hauled the kid out of a barfight, and if he had a lick of common sense he'd leave well enough alone, let Dean take out whatever's riding him on Jimmy and Earl. World owes those two assholes a couple of beatings at least, and Dean can take care of himself.
That'd be the smart move, but he ain't ever been able to make the smart move where Dean's concerned. He's across the bar before he even thinks about it, throwing an arm around the kid's strong shoulders. Gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble, not hard enough to do any damage. A warning shot, a leave me the hell alone.
Jay ignores it, shifts his grip and aims a big, unfriendly grin at Jimmy. "'Scuse my friend, here, fellas. He's having a bad day."
That much is true, for damn sure. Given the fact that it's late August and Dean's baby brother was making college noises last he heard, Jay can even hazard a pretty good guess as to why.
"Fuck off," Dean snaps, no questions about where Jay came from or what the hell he thinks he's doing. He's vibrating with tension, but he ain't stumbling enough to be drunk. Sober and pissed off, which just makes him that much more dangerous. "I can fucking take care of myself."
"Yeah," Jay says easily. "I see that. Come on."
It's about fifteen feet to the door, and every single step of them he's expecting to get jumped from behind, or for Dean to shrug him off and go back to his tussle. It don't happen. They get through the crowd without anything but a couple of sidelong stares. Jimmy and Earl don't seem disposed to take on the both of them together. Smart choice.
"...fucking let go of me, I'm not a fucking kid," Dean growls as Jay opens the door with one hand, keeping a good grip on his shoulder with the other. He don't make any attempt at getting loose, though, so Jay just pushes him out into the quiet night.
The door slams shut behind them, and Dean wrenches away from Jay's grip, breathing hard through his nose, then surges forward and shoves him up against the brick wall. His face is carved in shadow, hurt eyes blazing, and Jay's so braced for a punch that the kiss catches him completely off his guard. It ain't gentle, not even close. Dean kisses hard and desperate, and Jay would move his head back if the wall wasn't in the way. His hands come up, grip Dean's shoulders to push him back, but somewhere halfway through he loses the momentum for it and just holds on, fingers flexing in Dean's thin t-shirt.
It don't last long, maybe five seconds, and then Dean's pulling back. He still looks tense and furious, and Jay licks his lips. "Dean--"
"Shut up. Just--shut up, okay?" His voice is harsh.
Jay puts his head back against the wall, sighs. The night's cooling down, and there's heat rolling off of Dean in waves. He's a big, solid shape, hands braced against the wall on either side of Jay's head, bodies not quite touching anywhere but so damn close. "This ain't gonna fix anything."
"I know," Dean says. "I know, okay? I'm not looking--I don't--fuck."
There's a long goddamn list of reasons this is a bad idea, starting with the thirteen years between them and ending with the aimless fury riding behind Dean's eyes. And suddenly, not a single one of them matters. The space between them is too easy to cross, and he pulls Dean back in, mouths slotting together like they were made for it, rough and slick, stubble under his fingers.
"Son of a bitch," Dean murmurs, voice gone soft and startled. His right hand drops to Jay's shoulder, heavy and warm against the collar of his t-shirt, rough thumb brushing the bare skin of his neck.
This is a bad fucking idea, and he can't come up with a single reason they ought to stop.
***
They make it all the way to where Dean's beast of a car is parked in the back lot under a broken streetlight. The black sheet metal gleams like oil, and it's cool against his ass when Dean backs him up against it. The lot's quiet, empty for now, but anybody could come outside.
"Should get out of here," Jay murmurs, but Dean's fingers are already undoing his belt, quick and sure, no hesitation at all.
"Nah," he mutters, rough against Jay's ear. "Here's good."
"You wanna get us lynched, kid?" Jay asks, and Dean pulls away enough to grin. It's sharp-edged and a little too tight.
"Good point." He slides his hand behind Jay to open the back door, and then they're tumbling inside, onto the broad backseat. Dean pulls the door shut behind him without looking, like he's done this a thousand times before. Hell, he probably has.
Jay thinks about pointing out that the backseat of a car in a crowded parking lot ain't exactly private either, and that the smart thing would be to head back to his place or the motel, or to just can the whole idea. Then Dean's working on his belt again, breath coming out in a frustrated little huff against his collarbone, the hem of his t-shirt riding up under Jay's fingers. Hell with it. He's never been one for doing the smart thing anyway.
Dean gets his belt undone and slides down, letting his t-shirt come up under Jay's fingers. He pulls away long enough to yank it over his head and toss it at the front seat, and then he's shoving Jay up until his shoulders hit the opposite door, glass slick and cool on the back of his head, legs falling apart when Dean runs his hands up the inseams of his jeans. It's cramped in here, hot air going damp with how hard they're both breathing, and he feels a little like he dropped his brain somewhere out in the parking lot.
"Hey," he says. "Slow the hell down, would you?"
Dean snorts. "You want roses or something?"
"You're an obnoxious little shit, you know that?" Jay says, only it's hard to put much feeling into it when Dean's shoved his t-shirt just far enough out of the way that he can suck a line down the flat of his stomach.
"Yeah," Dean says from somewhere in the vicinity of Jay's belly button, thumbs riding low on his hips. He don't sound all that sorry. "So?"
"Just saying."
"Duly noted. You want me to suck your dick or not?"
His voice sounds good like that, fucking obscene, warm breath against sweaty skin, and Jay can't make himself speak. His hips lift all on their own, though, and that seems to be enough of an answer. Dean unfastens his fly deftly, shoves his jeans and boxers out of the way, and palms his cock with one broad hand.
Jay arches into it, fingers flexing against the smooth leather seat. "Fuck."
"That's the idea," Dean says, low and amused, and sucks him down.
"Fuck," Jay hisses again, eyes slamming shut, sucking air in across his teeth. It's been a long time, a damn long time and sweet fucking Christ does Dean know what he's doing, all hot lewd tongue, one hand holding Jay's hip down, the other one curved knowingly around the base of his cock, matching the rhythm of his mouth. Nowhere near gentle, but gentle ain't what either one of them is looking for.
His hand finds its way to the sharp curve of Dean's cheek, the shell of his ear, the soft, smooth skin at the back of his neck. Almost fragile. Ain't nothing fragile about the strong hand pressing him into the seat, though. Or his mouth, slick wet heat and suction, the slight scrape of teeth. Fucking goddamn hell.
Dean twists his hand suddenly, a rough motion just on the sweet side of painful, and Jay arches into it and comes hard, vision going white around the edges.
It takes him a couple of gasping moments to come down enough to realize that he's gripping Dean's neck hard enough to bruise, to let go. "Jesus," he says, and he almost don't recognize his voice. "Sorry."
Dean pulls away and grins up at him. His hair is wrecked and his mouth is swollen and wet. He looks smug, sexy as hell. "Don't worry about it."
Jay breathes out a laugh, gets his hands under Dean's arms to haul him up until they're face-to-face. Dean comes willingly, laughing into a messy kiss, but he pulls away when Jay reaches down between them to unbutton his jeans. "Dude, you don't have to--"
Jay mouths the side of his neck, the stubbled curve of his jaw. "Shut up," he murmurs, working his hand inside, and Dean does.
The angle's awkward, but Dean feels too good all big and sweaty-warm pressed against him to change it. His cock is smooth and heavy in Jay's grip and he rolls his hips forward with a groan. Takes a minute to find a rhythm that works, but then he does and Dean's shoves himself in even closer, cursing in a low, breathless voice against the side of his neck.
He comes with a small broken noise, tense and shaking like he's falling to pieces. Jay gentles him through it, slides his free hand through Dean's soft, short hair, cups the curve of his jaw. He's kind of expecting to get it slapped away, so it's a surprise when Dean turns his face blindly into the touch, lips parted, eyes closed, coming undone.
He drops his head forward onto Jay's shoulder for a long minute before pulling away, blinking. "So, uh."
Jay shakes his head and pulls his t-shirt down, wipes his hand clean on his jeans and tucks himself back in, zips up his fly. After a minute, Dean follows suit. He pulls himself into a sitting position and rubs the back of his neck, looking self-conscious and younger than Jay can remember ever seeing him. His bare belly is shiny with sweat and come, and he leans forward to grab his t-shirt out of the front seat and clean up. "So," he says again.
"Got a six-pack of beer back at the house," Jay says, keeping his voice neutral. "Could maybe use some help drinking it."
Dean's quiet long enough that Jay's sure he's gonna say no, but then he grins, sharp and sudden and real. "What the hell, sure. I'll follow you there."
***
So, he fucked a guy. Because he wanted to, not to pay the rent or make bail. That's different.
There's a part of Dean that wants to poke it over like a sore tooth, but seriously? Fuck it. He got off, Jay got off; his bones still feel heavy and warm and the edge of his temper has worn down enough that he doesn't feel like breaking everything he sees.
Jay hands him a beer, and he takes it, crossing his feet on the upturned five-gallon bucket in front of his chair. The lights are off on the porch, but the moon's high enough that he can see the shine on the Impala and the chrome on Jay's old truck, the dark tangle of trees along the edge of the yard. "Thanks."
He gets a quiet, flickering smile in return, and he pops the cap off, takes a long drink. Cheap beer, mostly cold and bubbles that taste good on his tongue, soothe away the lingering soreness in his throat, 'cause it's been a while since he did that.
Last guy he sucked off was some middle-aged stockbroker with wings of gray in his hair and a fat wallet. It was a few years ago, and he didn't much like it at the time. Didn't expect to like it tonight, either, but apparently his dick had other ideas.
Maybe he's developing an oral fixation or something. Of course, that wouldn't explain what he's still doing here, or why he keeps looking at Jay out of the corner of his eye, his stillness and his thoughtful expression, his long fingers on his beer bottle and the way his thin t-shirt settles on his body. He looks good, is the thing, and Dean doesn't have the first clue what to do with that.
Jay lights up a cigarette and doesn't say anything, and there's enough restlessness left in Dean that he sets his beer down, turns toward Jay's silent profile, and says, "So, what's the deal, here?"
Jay shrugs, slow. "You can stay, if you want. Reckon I got enough bacon and eggs for two. Or there's the motel down the road."
There's no pressure in his voice, just the offer. Take it or leave it. Dean rolls the beer bottle between his hands, gives himself time to think. The motel's twenty minutes from here, and it's already late. And for some reason the idea of walking up to the desk and getting a room with no Dad to drag him out of bed for three AM strategy sessions and no Sam to rag on his lame-ass fake ID's makes something a lot like panic twist in his belly.
Here, there's bacon and eggs. And maybe more sex. That'd be okay. "I guess I could stay," he says finally. "If you don't mind."
"Wouldn't have offered if I did," Jay says, and when Dean looks over at him, he's smiling a little.
***
He stays for almost a week that time, the first time. Borrows Jay's shed to detail the Impala, AC/DC blasting out of a boombox that's probably only a few years younger than he is, heat pounding down from a dry blue sky.
"Sam left," he tells Jay the second morning. Early morning, because Jay opens up the shop by himself. There's sun on the kitchen floor, coffee in a chipped mug in front of him, and beard burn on the insides of his thighs. It's a warm not-quite-discomfort where the seam of his jeans rubs into his skin. "A couple of weeks ago."
"I figured," says Jay.
"Him and Dad--" Dean stops, shakes his head, drinks some coffee. Black as tar and about as tasty, but it'll sure as hell wake him up. It's an improvement over the dishwater crap Sam likes to brew, anyway.
Liked to brew. When he was still around to brew lousy coffee. Maybe he's poisoning his new Stanford buddies with it by now, who the fuck knows?
Jay lets the unfinished sentence cool in the air for a while, and then he stands, stretches, neck popping. He's thirty-five or so, Dean guesses, and he's in good shape, but there's still some stiffness in his joints. Crow's feet starting around his eyes, although that might just be the fact that he smokes like a chimney. That shit'll age your skin.
"I'm heading down to the shop," he says, instead of pursuing the conversation. "Y'all can tag along if you feel like it."
"Yeah," Dean says. "That'd be good."
***
It's like a blast from the past, hanging out behind Jay's shop and staring out at a stretch of dry scrubgrass leading up the hill out back. Four years, give or take. It's not a long time, in the grand scheme of things.
Definitely not long enough to get this tired. Fucking Christ. Last night was the first time he's really slept since Sam bailed. Maybe that's why he hasn't managed to work up any kind of respectable freak-out about sleeping with Jay. Too tired. And really, banging another guy is one of the least weird things about his life lately.
Anyway, he likes the guy, and Jay's not trying to coddle him into talking about anything, which already puts this about two steps above anywhere else he could have ended up.
***
Dad calls on Friday morning with instructions to meet up in Amherst. He sounds like he's aged about a thousand years in the past month, but at least he's not barking every word out like the drill sergeant he sometimes forgets he isn't.
"It's a poltergeist, from the sound of it," he says. "A nasty one. I'm gonna need your help, son."
"I'll be there," Dean says back, pulling on his jeans one-handed. He's careful not to give away by words or tone the relief that's filling him up like a warm bubble. Sam left, and that's just six kinds of jacked, but Dad's not gone. Not for good. Dad still needs him.
Jay's pouring himself a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter when Dean comes out, dressed and carrying his duffel. There's sweat dried sticky on his skin, but he can shower when he gets to Massachusetts tonight. The hickeys Dad won't even notice. Not like they're an unusual occurrence.
"Gotta hit the road," he says.
Jay nods, pulls a stained travel mug out of the cupboard and empties the rest of the pot into it. "Might as well take this with you, then."
Dean takes it, cradling the battered plastic in both hands. "Thanks, man. I--really. Thanks."
He doesn't just mean the coffee, and Jay's slow smile says that he knows that. "Anytime. You just take care of yourself."
"Yeah," Dean says, and grins, shifting the duffel strap into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. "Yeah, I'll do that."
***
Easter, 2003
"This fucker," Dean says happily on the other end of the line, "he was fifteen feet long. At least."
Jay tucks the phone under his cheek to light his cigarette. It's soggy and not all that warm out on the porch and it ain't like Mae's around to yell at him, but it still don't feel right to smoke in her kitchen. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Had Dad pinned down in the basement of this museum. I got a broken ankle, right? Can't freaking move, and there's this scaly son of a bitch about to take a chunk outta his face--" Dean pauses, long enough for a gulp of whatever it is he's drinking. Jay breathes out smoke on a chuckle. Sounds like the kid's three sheets to the wind already. Feeling no pain.
"So, this thing's gonna start chewing on his head, right? And there's me with no gun. Can't stand up, so I grab the nearest pointy thing I can get my hands on and I chuck it as hard as I can. Skewered him right through the eye. Saved Dad's life, honest to God. And then I look--" he starts cackling. "I crawl over there and haul Dad out from underneath it, and I look, and it's a freaking umbrella."
"An umbrella," Jay repeats dryly, but he's smiling. Hard not to, considering how damn pleased Dean sounds with himself.
"Cross my heart, man. I killed a lindworm with an umbrella."
"That's something else, all right."
"Are you shitting me? It was awesome. Way cooler than Saint George and his pansy-ass spear."
"Yeah," Jay says, shaking his head. Saint George. He's spending his Easter talking to a drunk ghostbuster about slaying dragons. Why the hell not. "Sounds like it."
Dean's silent a couple of minutes, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter. "How've you been, anyway? Haven't talked to you in a while."
Sometimes, Dean's a goddamn mystery to him. These phone calls don't happen all that often, but they're common enough. Dean don't mention the week he spent in Canfield back in August, and Jay don't let on that he spends any time at all reminiscing on it. Ain't been all that many guys for him in the past few years, because there ain't never gonna be anybody to replace Keith and Jay ain't looking. But somehow, Dean's managed to carve himself out a little spot all his own. Confuses the hell out of Jay.
"Been doing good," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Real good," Jay says. "Having a little bit of an Easter dinner with Mae's family. Nellie's on break from school."
She's on the other side of the kitchen window, jabbing at something on the stove with a scowl that could blister paint. Mae's a damn fine cook, but it don't look like her little girl's inherited the gift.
Still, it's a place to go for the holiday. Ain't something everybody has, and he'll choke down whatever charred-up meal she serves for the chance of seeing her smiling like a kid again. College is good for her. She seems easier these days. Less like a scared rabbit and more like the laughing little girl he remembers.
Dean's quiet long enough that for a minute Jay thinks maybe the call got dropped. "Huh," he says at last. "Forgot it was Easter. Maybe the gas station has some of those marshmallow chick things." He laughs. "Dude, Sammy used to love those things. This one year, he couldn't have been more than ten, we lifted like twelve packages of 'em from a 7-11, and he ate every one. Puked his guts out for an hour."
Jay chuckles, but there's an unexpected nip of sadness in his chest. He could ask after Sam; maybe he's earned that right, but he don't. "Never got the taste for those myself."
"Yeah, me neither," says Dean. He ain't quite drunk enough to slur his words, but from the sound of it he ain't far off. "Give me a bacon cheeseburger any day. But Sammy, man, that kid's got a sweet tooth like you would not believe. Like a hummingbird, or something. A really freakin' giant hummingbird."
Jay was just gonna step out for a quick smoke, but he finds himself leaning back in his chair, bare feet kicked against the cool, damp porch, listening to Dean talk for a good twenty minutes before Nellie sticks her head out to call him back in.
"I gotta get going," he says after Dean wraps up a rambling, maybe-true story about a Ferris wheel and a couple of trained bears.
"Yeah," Dean says back, slurry and mellow. He's been sipping on something this whole time, enough to tilt him over from tipsy to actually drunk. "I guess I should head back over t' the bar, make sure Dad doesn't get himself arrested. Fuckin' holiday," he adds mildly. "Shoulda remembered that. Good talkin' t'you, Jay."
"Yeah," Jay murmurs. "You too."
***
Dean's not a great believer in introspection. There's too much about his life that he doesn't really have any interest in dwelling on, and anyway, what's there is there and no amount of navel-gazing is gonna change that.
So he doesn't spend a lot of time agonizing over what happened with Jay. He's not queer. Not that there's anything wrong with that, or anything, just that he isn't. It was a one-off kind of thing, because Jay's a friend, sort of, somebody he can trust not to stomp on him when he's down.
If Dad has any idea about his periodic calls to an 828 number, he doesn't bring it up.
They gank a pack of chupacabras down by the Mexico border that summer, swing up through Palo Alto to spy on Sammy for a couple of days once the fall semester starts. He's doing good, seems like. Far as they can tell from a distance, he's doing good. Filling out, putting some meat on that scrawny frame, and he's always with a bunch of people, talking, laughing, poring over geek books in the courtyard like one of those freakin' college pamphlets guidance counselors always have laying around. He doesn't notice them trailing him, and that's a good thing, Dean tells himself.
He seems good, though. Happy.
"We could go talk to him," Dean suggests after about a week of watching Dad watch Sammy do his college thing. "I mean, no big deal, just--"
Dad's already shaking his head, crumpling up his takeout wrappers and stuffing them in the bag. They're standing against his truck in the early morning sun, outside Sam's dorm. Mist is lying low across the ground, and everything looks too shiny and clean to be a part of any world Dean belongs to.
"We've already hung around here too long," Dad says. "Time to be moving on. I'll give you a ride back to the Impala, and then we're heading up the coast."
Dean sighs. "Yessir."
***
Author's Notes & Acknowledgments
