rivers_bend

Title: Five times Dean didn't suck Sam and one time he did (part 3/6)
Words: ~2800
Rating: Adult
Genre: Slash, angst, implied pre-slash (wincest S/D)
Characters: Sam, John, Dean/OMC
Warnings: angst, impaired consent. Possible trigger scenario. violence
Spoilers? For the pilot.
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters the following NEVER would have happened.
A/N: This chapter is a complete 180 from the previous ones in tone. To all the angst lovers out there, this one's for you! Thanks to lima_sierra for beta.
Summary: Maybe Dad could have been just a little bit proud. His son, who went to twenty one schools in thirteen years by the way, got into fucking Stanford.



Three

The wallpaper was red with white, black, gold and green swirls on it. Dean was wondering who had decided that it was ok to design wallpaper that ugly and then who thought it was ok to buy it and put it where people were going to be trying to sleep. Anything to not listen to Sam and Dad, who just would. Not. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Sam got in to Stanford. Full ride. School for total brainiacs too, not some Podunk little place no one had ever heard of. He shouldn't have applied in secret and sprung it on them like this, sure. And he definitely needed to respect that Dad had issues with him leaving. But maybe Dad could have been just a little bit proud. His son, who went to twenty one schools in thirteen years by the way, got into fucking Stanford. On a full scholarship. But they were as stubborn as each other.

Dean wanted to put his fingers in his ears, but instead he looked hard at the carpet. It looked like the wallpaper had vomited on the floor. Chree-ist the room was fugly.

Sam got louder, breaking through Dean's carefully constructed wall of interior decorating criticism. 'I'm eighteen now, and you can't stop me.'

Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his father so angry. 'If you walk out that door, don't come back.'

Wall and carpet forgotten, Dean looked at his brother. Sam would back down, let his father win this one. The consequences were too big. Sure he wanted to go to college, but if they just waited 'til everyone calmed down - talked about it more –

'Fine then. I won't come back.' Picking up his bag, he looked at Dean, but his expression was too broken for Dean to read.

Without another word he was out the door.

The slam rattled the window. Dean felt like Sam had taken all the air in the room with him. That might explain the pressure of tears behind his eyes, the pain in his chest. When he looked at his father, John just said, 'Don't start, Dean.'

So he didn't start. He picked up his keys and followed Sam out the door.

Dad's truck was in front of the room, relegating the Impala to the guest spaces along the side of the building. Sam was nowhere to be seen on the street, which sent a shot of panic through Dean's system, but as he rounded the corner, he saw his little brother. He'd paused, resting his palm on the hood of Dean's car. The one constant thing the Winchesters had always had in their lives. Their 'not normal' lives, Sam would say.

'Sam,' Dean called.

Sam looked up and started to walk away.

'No, wait. I'm not-' Dean suddenly felt a pain in his chest like he'd swallowed an ice cube, and wasn't sure he could continue. No choice. 'I'm not trying to stop you. I just wanted… Sam…' Dean closed the distance between them.

'Dean, don't. Please? Just – I can't do this if you –' He looked like he was going to cry.

'I'll take you to the bus station. I won't say anything if you don't want me to, but I need to – dammit. Sam, just let me do this, ok?'

Sam threw his bag into the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

They were about three miles from the motel when Sam broke the silence. 'It's not-' he fiddled with the sun visor, pulling it down and then shoving it back up again. 'I don't want to leave you, Dean.'

Which isn't what it felt like. It felt like that was exactly what Sam was doing. But Dean said, 'I know.'

'The way this should work is you take me to the bus station, or hell, maybe you even drive me to California, and we hug and you say good luck, and I say thanks, I'll see you in a couple months, and before we both know it, it's Thanksgiving. And I'm coming home to a big turkey dinner, and you ask how classes are going, and I tell you I got an A on my midterm, and Dad says well done, son, and we eat til we're sick and watch some football and then I go back until Christmas. When I come home again, and we have a tree and presents, and I'm studying for finals, but you cajole and beg til I agree to go to a party with you, and we get drunk and you fuck some girl in the guest room and I end up getting stuck talking to some geek who hacked the pentagon with his playstation.'

Dean looked over at Sam, trying to smile at the joke, but it just wasn't there. He couldn't even give his brother that.

'But it's not going to be like that. And that's why I need to go.'

Sam's fingers were knotted so tight in his lap it looked like he was going to snap the bones. More than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, Dean wanted to give Sam a house to come home for Thanksgiving to. But Sam was right. It wasn’t going to be like that. Not since Mom died had there been anything like what Sam was talking about for the Winchesters. All he could do was reach a finger to touch the knot of Sam's fists.

'Dad meant what he said, Dean.'

'No. He didn't.' Dean tried to quell the panic rising in his chest, concentrated on the bend in the road so he wouldn’t start crying like some fucking girl. 'No. No way.' He looked at Sam, at the muscles of his jaw like marbles under his skin. 'I know Thanksgiving's out, but you could have Christmas with us.'

'I can't. I know Dad. He meant it.'

The bus station was just ahead already. Dean wished it was further away. Like as far as the moon kind of further. 'Sam, you can't just go and not come back.'

'You know where I'll be.' Putting the ball in Dean's court, refusing to take any responsibility for keeping this family together, letting it be Dean's job, just like always.

'And you have my phone number.' The words sounded angrier than Dean meant. Maybe even angrier than he felt, because that was his job. Had always been his job. Be the good son, the perfect brother. Fight, hunt, cook, watch out, take care, keep the peace. Dad and Sam both counting on him to always do the right thing.

'Dean, I'm sorry. Don't – please, don't hate me.'

Just as well Dean was distracted by negotiating the parking lot, because Sam sounded so damn broken, and avoiding the fuckwits looking for a space kept Dean from begging him to stay. When he'd shut off the engine, Dean said, 'Don't be stupid.'

'Yeah.' Sam unknotted his fingers. 'Well, thanks for the lift.' Dean thought for a moment that Sam was going to put an arm around him, but he was just reaching into the back for his bag.

'I'll wait with you 'til your bus comes.' Because, fuck that, Sam was not just walking off into the sunset.

'You better get back to Dad.'

'Dad's fine.'

'Oh. Right. Did he give you orders to see I got on the bus? Make sure I didn't wimp out and try to come crawling back?'

What the fuck? 'This has nothing to do with Dad. This is me.' Dean got out of the car and shut the door, waiting for Sam to follow suit.

'I do know how to buy a bus ticket, you know.'

Dean gave up. If this was how Sam wanted to play it, he couldn't fight him anymore. 'Goodbye, Sam,' he said, when Sam straightened up with his bag over his shoulder. 'Good luck.'

'You too.' Sam wouldn't meet his eye. Dean watched him walk into the station, watched him get in line, pay for a ticket, and walk around the corner into the waiting area, out of sight. He never once looked back.

There was a bar across the street, which was just as well. Dean was pretty sure he couldn't see to drive.

Three bottles of beer and four whiskey chasers into his drunk, a big-mouth drew Dean's attention to the pool table. College boys, a whole pack of them, with this loud-assed fool as their leader. He wondered which one of the pack Sammy would turn out to be. The straight man to the clown's antics? The one who was trying to compete? Probably the one at the table who was trying to pretend he didn't know his friends. Dean guessed he'd never know. Sam was g-o-n-e gone.

Mother-fucker, he was not drunk enough to deal with this shit.

'Never mind the beer,' he said to the bartender. 'Another whiskey.'

That one, and a double on top for good measure, and Dean started to feel the clench in his jaw unlock. This wasn't the kind of bar where they worried too much if you puked in the parking lot, so the bartender kept the whiskey coming when Dean shoved another $20 across the scarred wood.

'You break that, you're paying for it.'

Dean wondered why the guy behind the bar was shouting at him and what the hell he thought Dean was gonna break, then he realized that it was aimed at the frat-boys who were brandishing their cues and making honestly? light-saber noises. Dean figured it was time to hit the head.

He tripped on his own foot as he slid to the floor, grabbed the bar to keep from falling, and ended up kicking the bar stool. Maybe he should have stopped at six, or seven, or some number lower than whatever number of whiskeys he'd stopped at. The guy who could be Sammy, if Sam looked a little more like a fox, caught his eye. Checking his balance, Dean let go of the bar and headed for the back.

The door banged open as Dean was washing his hands. Foxy the frat-boy. Dean quashed the giggle that threatened to erupt along with the urge to put his fingers on his head like ears and paw the ground singing Foxy Lady. He seriously had to stop watching Wayne's World every time it was on.

'Hey,' the guy said.

Dean nodded and headed for the door.

'Don't think so.' The guy caught Dean by the wrist, catching him off balance again. 'I need a favor.' He was staring at Dean's mouth, and Dean got an idea of what the favor was going to entail.

'Oh yeah?' Dean knew he was strong and fast when he was sober, but this guy had a grip like a vice and Dean was so far gone from sober he barely remembered what it looked like. Playing along seemed like the best option for now.

'Yeah.' Licking his lips, frat-boy used the hand not grinding Dean's wrist to bone-meal to palm his dick through his jeans.

And why the fuck not? Sam was on a bus to California, he was likely to put a bullet in his dad's head if he went back to the hotel feeling like this, and the guy was foxy. 'Sides, if he was already on his knees, he didn't have nearly so far to fall.

'You a cock-sucker then?'

Dean knew there wasn't really a right answer to that question under the circumstances, but his damn-fool drunken mouth didn't bother to check in before answering, 'Yes.'

'Thought so.' Foxy used the leverage on Dean's wrist and a hand on his shoulder to push him to the floor.

Wet, cracked tiles. Dean's favorite. Though for ambiance it did beat the alley behind the butcher's shop in Lancing. Dean was jerked back to the moment by Foxy's thumb pushing between his teeth. Feeling that he was sloppy drunk, uncoordinated as hell but not caring, he sucked, wishing for a flash of a second that this was Sam's thumb, that Sam was here. Which didn't mean he wanted –

'Here you go, suck on this.' Foxy. Not Sam. And just as well, because he had his cock out now, and thinking about sucking Sam's cock was all kinds of wrong. Whiskey should be banned.

The guy was obviously not a connoisseur of blow-jobs, he just grabbed Dean's head and fucked into his mouth. No skill required. Which, given how Dean's head was spinning, was maybe a good thing. Dean just tried to keep his teeth out of the way and the drink from coming back up. He'd learned that his gag reflex was kind of like fear. If you fought it hard enough, just didn't give it head-space, you could get it to go away while you needed it to. Though the way the guy was going at him, Dean was starting to think maybe he deserved to get vomit on his expensive shoes.

Just when Dean thought he was going to lose the battle, Foxy pulled out and spunked on Dean's t-shirt. 'Classy,' he said. 'Christ, you're a slut, aren't you?'

Which was pretty rich, considering he was the one who'd just come all over a stranger in the toilets of a downtown dive. Dean just wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

'Samuel J Bruckheimer, the fuck you doing in there?' The shout preceded the speaker by only a fraction of a second. No time for Samuel J fuck, Foxy's name was Sam? to tuck himself back in or Dean to wipe his shirt off. Great. Loud-mouth. Just who Dean felt like spending some quality time with. He reached for the sink to pull himself up.

'Dude. Did this piece of shit come on to you?' Mouthy was looking at the scene with horror. And what the fuck? Dean wasn't sure how he'd translated what he'd seen into Foxy Sam being propositioned against his will.

'I… um…' Apparently coming up with excuses and putting his cock away were mutually exclusive activities. Foxy focused on getting his fly done up.

'Do you need me to kick his ass?' Loud-mouth clearly thought he was starring in a John Hughes film.

Dean had his feet underneath himself and was ready to fight if that's how this was going to go down.

'Hey, fag, did you come on to my friend here?'

'No.' He came all over me though. Dean checked the instant replay. Yep, the second part was silent. Seemed his mouth was listening to his brain now.

'So what's going on here, Bruckheimer?'

Dean saw in Foxy's eyes that now was not going to be any kind of touching coming out moment. 'Yeah,' Sam said. 'He was hitting on me. Fucking faggot.'

Always a believer that the best defense was a good offence, Dean got the first punch in.

Samuel J didn't really have his heart in the fight, but he was putting on a good show for his friend and Dean had gotten too used to having a weapon and fighting things it was ok to kill. Not to mention that no amount of adrenalin was going to metabolize the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. The odds weren't in Dean's favor. Especially not when the third guy came in and joined his friends.

The bartender broke it up, hauling loud-mouth off Dean by his throat. He even gave Dean some ice for his eye before he sent him on his way. 'Don't bother coming back,' he said. He needn't have worried. If Dean never saw this fucking town again it would be too soon.

His girl was still in the lot at the bus station. Under a huge light. He was too drunk to drive, not to mention his eye was swelling shut, but he wasn't going to call his dad for a ride. Looked like the light was out in the back corner of the lot though. He could probably make it over there. His baby would never forgive him if he took her out and rolled her or something worse, but she'd take him to a dark corner and let him get some sleep. Dean pulled a blanket out of the trunk and moved his car.

Aching worse than he could recall having done in years, Dean curled up in the back seat, blanket pulled over his shoulders and ice on the side of his face. He was almost asleep when he remembered that Sam was gone and never coming back. What the hell was the point of getting drunk and fucked and the shit beat out of you if it wasn't going to hurt so bad you couldn't feel anything else?

Part 4