Summer Blackout (Part I.)

Summer Blackout. Sam/Dean, underage, NC-17. 11,740 words. When Dean is seventeen, they spend five months being normal.




Sometimes Dean feels like a superhero. That's how he explains it to Sammy, when he's sitting in sullen twelve-year-old angst, picking at the end of his shoelace. Everyone who fights evil has to have a different identity. No one gets to know about the cool stuff you do, except you. It keeps you safe, and it keeps everyone else safe, because they get to pretend life is really as normal and boring as they think it is. Superheroes are always lonely. It's not easy. But they're lucky, because they have each other. And Dad. Most superheroes don't get that. Sam shoots him a look that plainly says this metaphor skews a little too young for him, but whatever.

Dean's got four years and thirty pounds on Sam, and it's still what he tells himself when he's walking home from the late shift at 7-Eleven. Gotta keep up appearances.


*


Dean's seventeen that year, and they're living in a little town in Arkansas.

Normally they only set up shop towards the beginning of a school year. They'll linger somewhere long enough for Dean to remember why he hates school, for Sam to think everything will be better and different, and then they're back on the road.

This time is different; there was an accident on the last hunt. Nothing too major - no one got hurt, anyway, but it was a close call. A gun didn't go off when it should have. Sam, who shouldn't have been there anyway, didn't quite duck fast enough, and if Dad didn't still have those military reflexes, the Winchester family would probably be short one person. Those near-misses are just part of the hunting life, part of doing what they do, but it shook them all up. They were rolling into Buckner the next morning.

It's pretty much a one-horse town. There are two churches, both of them white clapboard; there's a privately-owned grocery store and a few beauty salons; an "old-fashioned" candy store where you can pay $5 for a caramel apple; a smattering of restaurants on the main drag, and basically nothing else.

Most importantly, there's nothing creepy about the place. Everything seems a bit trapped in time, but there's no evil here. No foreboding buildings, no local lore of any kind. The most notable story in town is that Church of the Good Shepherd was once part of the congregation of Church of Nazareth, and had broken off in 1974. People are still scandalized.


*


Dad's drunk most of this year. Dean assumes Sam doesn't really get that, because to Dean's thinking, Sam's got the observational skills of a six-year-old. He deals with it the only way he knows how, which is to pretend it's not a big deal. Even if he thought to talk it over with Sam, he'd just shrug it off. Whatever. So Dad likes his beer. A lot of dads are like that.

It kind of terrifies him, though. Sometimes. Like when Dad heads out at six and claims he's going to be back in an hour, and doesn't stumble in until two. Dean always waits for him, laying awake in bed until he hears the thud and click of the door that tells him he and Sam are safe, Dad is safe, and everything is okay. And then there are times when Dad comes in too plastered to make it past the front door - things sound a little different then (slower movements, the door banging open and staying that way, as the wind whips in), and Dean will jump out of bed, feet slapping on the cold wooden floor, and deal with it.

Those nights, he can tell by the smell that it's not just beer anymore. Tequila, maybe. Vodka, probably. Dad's too drunk to move properly, and Dean has to hoist him up, take the brunt of his father's slouching weight, and stumble him over to the couch.

It's not Dad's fault that his life sucks so bad. Dean knows the only reason they're shipwrecked in Bumfuck is because Dad wants them to have a little bit of normalcy. He wouldn't be drinking like this if he were out there hunting more, doing what he needs to do. More than anything, it's really Dean's fault; if he tried a little harder to be responsible, if he worked more at proving himself, Dad wouldn't have decided to settle down and do the domestic thing for awhile. Guilt gnaws at him on these nights, so Dean doesn't mind the drinking, or the fear, or the task of tugging his dad's boots off. He leaves a pan next to the couch for the inevitable pre-dawn puking, and heads back to bed.


*


If Dean were going to start feeling weird about shit in his life, his crush on Sam wouldn't really be the starting point. There are swamp monsters and vengeful ghosts vying for that distinction, so it seems easier to not care. He's not stupid about it, doesn't go around acting strange - it's just a thing. People jerk off to weird shit. He keeps the used-shirt-sniffing to a bare minimum and dispenses crappy girl advice. Wakes up early some days, because Sam likes to beat off in the morning. Breath hitching and voice cracking around little moans while Dean stares at the painted wall inches from his face.

Sam's pretty fucking unfathomable, when Dean gets right down to it. And maybe that's where the attraction lies. He knows Sam likes it in Buckner, and not just because their school system decided he was too smart for the seventh grade. He's just like that; he goes for everything that small towns consist of. Sam likes watching sitcom families who interact like robots; Sam likes watching episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show and pretending he knows what moms are like; Sam likes riding his bike over to his friends's houses on weekends and listening to crappy music. Sometimes, when Dean can't sleep, he tries to imagine what Sam must dream about. Trips to Disneyland? Baking apple pies? It's all inconceivable to Dean, who learned to roll with the punches a long time ago. He can't remember what it was like to feel innocent about the world, to assume that there was something better waiting on down the line.

He really does love Sam, even though he tries to not think about that very much. Ever since he was mid-jerk in a faggy-but-it's-okay-because-everyone-thinks-like-that-sometimes fantasy and he landed on the idea of going down on Sam, it's been kind of weird to think of things in those big brotherly terms. Still. He wants to protect Sam, give him some kind of wisdom gathered from his own crappy experiences. The only kind of protection he knows of, though, is the kind where you know how to fuck shit up worse than it can fuck you up, so he offers Sam the same guidance he always got from Dad: buck up, man.

Sam's gotta grow out of it sooner or later. So will he.


*


Dean starts playing sports that year. He's always been good at that kind of stuff. Yeah, so Dad was never the sort of person to play ball with in the park on a sunny day, but Dean can catch a loaded semi-automatic in the rain at night with one hand, so the Buckner Bruins are more than happy to use him. Dean likes the rules, the simple equation of it all. He likes knowing what he's supposed to be doing and how to do it, and he's inevitably the first person on the field for after-school practice and the last one to leave.

For the first month or so they're in town, Dad won't let Sam walk home by himself after classes. Too dangerous, he says, even though the most dangerous thing in town is them, followed distantly by, say, cougars or bobcats or something. No amount of indignant huffing spares Sam from sitting in the bleachers from three til five, doing algebra homework and reading whatever Great American Novel he's picked up in the library. He's awkward and unsure of himself in that setting, where the athletic and the popular congregate, his hair hanging limply in his eyes as he hunches over in the stands.

Dean claps guys on the back and smiles at the girls who sit in the other bleachers (the cool bleachers, because these distinctions can be made), but he lives for the act of being up at bat. Holding the wood in his hands. A look at the pitcher, a look at the ground. One up at the tip. It's like any other hunt, really - any other mission. Just gotta know your weapon, gotta know your enemy and how to take it down. The sharp crack of the bat against the ball isn't quite as satisfying as bullets embedding in a reanimated body, or the hiss of flames on a salted corpse, but it's something. Squeaky clean isn't him - never could be - but going through the motions is worth it for that release.

Sometimes, when Dean senses that it's going to be a bad night for Dad, he'll walk Sammy over to the park after practice. Two blocks from school, in the opposite direction of their little house - it's a relatively big park, because the one thing Buckner doesn't lack is empty spaces. The vegetation in Arkansas is different than what Dean is used to; they spend a lot of time in the dry southwest, where everything is sparse and red. Arkansas is lush. Green. Lots of tall grass and scrubby bushes that cling to the ground. There's a baseball diamond at the park, though, and a fence to catch stray balls, so he'll throw his bag of gear to the side and drag Sam to the center of it.

"C'mon, Sammy!" he yells when Sam woefully asks to be left alone with his book. "Y'don't want me to think you're a girl, do ya?"

The funny thing is, Sam's not half bad. He's unpolished and very awkward, but he's got the same reflexes and instincts that make Dean a good player. He's coltish, riding out another growth spurt, and even Dean can tell he's going to be one tall motherfucker when he's older. He has a nasty habit of banging into doorways and dropping things now, but he can still catch a curve ball, which is pretty cool. He even gets into it sometimes, with a sort of quiet determination - like if he's going to be forced to do a stupid task, he's going to do it really well. If he actually connects the bat and ball, Dean makes him run around the bases, inevitably dropping his mitt and chasing after him because, "Dude, that's so not fast enough!"

They stay in the park until dusk sets in and it's too dark to see the stitches on the ball. Their skin looks purpley-grey, Dean's white uniform (tight in the leg, looser up top, with a little blue belt and number 8 stitched on the front) lit up eerily. Dean shares his Gatorade with Sam those days, and they kick rocks on their way home, passing each other bottles of neon pink or green and laughing over whatever screw-up Sam made.


*


Dean's first real, honest-to-goodness girlfriend is a cheerleader. Of course. Dean doesn't really have much reason or opportunity to talk to girls in school. He flirts a bit, yeah, and done some hooking up at parties, but class projects are always done with other guys. His friends are all guys, and really, socializing with girls isn't something he's used to, having been home-schooled in the back of Dad's car for years. The cheerleaders pile into the bus for away-games, though, just like they're on the team. They flop into the bench seats, turn around and perch on their knees, laughing and talking and swinging their feet in those little white tennis shoes. They're kind of inescapable, and they're the first girls Dean gets around to chatting with normally.

Jamie Naker has brown hair and big blue eyes. More of those perfect, just-a-little-more-than-a-handful tits. Amazing legs, toned from being on the track team since the sixth grade, and this way of talking that makes everything sound reverentially important. She seems excited about whatever the subject is ("I love my shampoo!" "I can't wait for college!"), and she's really, really pretty.

Dean spends the whole ride to the game in Lowerdale seated next to her, oblivious to the loud conversations and thrown items around them. He's only got ears for her enthusiastic retelling of her mom's wedding last month, for her laughing stories about the places in her house her cat gets stuck, for her warm, sweet flirting. Her skirt - blue and white - hits just a little bit above her kneecap, and he stares for fifteen of the forty minutes at that expanse of thigh. A little golden from sun, downy in a subtle sort of way, because girls like Jamie Naker in Buckner, Arkansas don't shave their legs at sixteen. Dean's never really had an appreciation for something as arbitrary as legs before, but there's something really sexy about this girl's, something that makes the back of his neck prickle in an agreeable way.

Jamie carries the conversation for the whole ride, tilting her head this way and that, leaning close enough that Dean can feel her shoulder rub against his bicep when she shrugs. They bond over a mutual dislike of school musicals ("Like we need to see another production of Fiddler on the Roof! Can't they find something interesting? I've been reading this one for English class - " "Yeah, totally."), and she doesn't seem to notice his staring, because she agrees (laughing breathlessly, smiling blinding Crest white) to ditch the team and the other cheerleaders and go out with him after the game.

"After I win the game," is what Dean actually says, raising one eyebrow a little more than the other and smiling at her so widely dimples form in his cheeks. She rolls her eyes and laughs, but the Bruins do win, and Jamie spends the evening sitting with him in a booth at Mario's Pizzeria, giggling over his stories about the other high schools he's attended.

"God, Dean!" she says, picking pepperoni off the slice in front of her and licking the orange grease off her thumb. "You're so funny! Nothing like that ever happens here. I wish I got to travel as much as you!"

They date for weeks - about a month and a half, actually. It's weird, once the shine wears off. The very act of being in a relationship with someone comes haltingly to Dean. He doesn't like feeling like he has a counterpart, especially since they barely know each other. Jamie's in love, she tells him, but he can't stand her friends and that weird feeling in his stomach when she kisses him in public.

The only time he's really enjoying it is when they're parked in the back seat of the Impala, and he's sucking on her tongue. She lets him get his hand up under her sweater, but pins her knees together sweetly when he tries to get between them. Really, he's not sure he minds - in the cramped back seat, with the taste of someone else's spit on his mouth, the only thing he can think about is Sam. He hates her for not making that change.

They break up in May, when everyone else is excited about prom.


*


Dean's daily chore schedule is more like that of a housewife than a teenage boy. He washes the dishes, he vacuums, he takes out the garbage, he does laundry. He swings by Select Mart a couple of times a week, because no matter how many frozen dinners and boxes of Kraft Mac 'n Cheese he buys, they manage to burn through them. Sam's going this popsicle phase, too - the Dole kind that are mostly juice, and aren't that sweet. Dean's teeth don't like the cold, and he can't ever finish them before they start to melt - but he's more than willing to encourage Sam's desire to suck on stuff, and buys them two boxes at a time. The pastel-stained sticks wind up all over the house, a veritable forest wasted on shitty jokes. (When is it time to go to the dentist? Why do cows wear bells?)

Maybe if he had bigger balls, he'd call Dad on how fucking unfair it is to leave him being Mr. Mom. He'd go all Hulk - throw around his relatively new muscle and make a thing out of it. Play the guilt card (he keeps it up his sleeve like an ace, knowing he'll never actually cheat), bitch about missing his childhood. There are thoughts Dean doesn't let himself think, most of the time. Opinions he doesn't let himself have, about Dad and their lives. Maybe he could make himself go there, dump all that stuff out on the table. He might get something out of it - more alone time, less chores. But it would also mean more of Dad around, shitfaced and frustrating. And he's been doing this responsible thing for so long that it just comes naturally - something in his brain is right there to tell him that throwing bitchfits isn't responsible. Anyway, better to save that argument for when Sammy'll need it.

Dad hides bottles around the house, and Dean wonders if he learned that trick from some Lifetime movie marathon or something. It's not exactly subtle, the bottle of hooch stuck between the couch cushions, waiting to bruise someone's ass. In time the others surface - some travel-sized ones behind the bookcase. Whiskey behind the lifetime supply of ramen in the top cupboard. It's depressing because Dean doesn't want to think about his father being someone with crutches in his life. Someone who has dependencies, who can't suck it up and cope with things. If Dad can't take his own, "Buck up, man," advice, where does that leave any of them?

Dean swipes one of the miniature bottles of vodka and downs it while trying to watch scrambled porn on channel 87.


*


Sam's birthday is observed perfunctorily - a cake from the supermarket. Balloons Dean picks up on the same trip for the cake, because blowing them up in rapid succession until they're totally lightheaded is something of a tradition. It's also something of a tradition that the person one year closer to death gets to pick what's for dinner. This usually means making the choice between Cracker Barrel or Applebee's, but since they're actually in a house this year, Sam smirks and says he wants hamburgers.

"Hamburgers," Dean repeats, leaning back in his chair until it's balancing on one leg. "You want fast food?"

The look on Sam's face just intensifies - one corner of his mouth tugged up tightly as he rolls his eyes. "No, stupid. I want you to cook hamburgers."

Dean thunks his chair back down on all its legs.

In the end, they make them together. Dean complains a lot, and Sam more or less runs the show - apparently his friend's mom makes them a lot, which is the origin of this brilliant idea. They make a royal mess - not aided by the brief, ill-conceived raw beef fight - and burn the first batch. Cooking comes about as naturally to Dean as quantum physics, but Sam's good at everything, so they kind of cancel each other out.

"Feel any older?" Dean asks, scrubbing the blackened remains of their failed attempt out of the iron skillet. He's wearing the stupid apron he always wears when doing dishes, and Sam's sitting on the counter, trying to eat a burnt chunk.

"Oh, loads," he says, bits of charcoal flecking his teeth. "My back's killing me, and golf suddenly sounds like fun."

"Smartass." Dean flicks both hands at him, sending trails of warm dishwater across Sam's t-shirt. Sam gives him a look of astonishment, and chucks the unhamburger at Dean's head.

When John comes in, Dean's still wearing his apron. They're both nearly soaked through, and Dean's got Sam flung over one shoulder, howling with laughter. He's shaking him upside down, and the contents of Sam's pockets have already fallen to the floor - quarters rolling off under the refrigerator and crumpled pieces of paper under Dean's feet.

"And what in the hell is going on here?" he asks, folding his arms and taking in the soapy, damp mess.

"Cooking," Sam says thickly, from somewhere around Dean's knees.


*


They wind up, eventually, with something pretty palatable. Dean finishes scrubbing out the skillet while Sam's changing out of his wet shirt, and they monitor the second batch with scientific intensity. They turn out a little pink in the center, but Sam - newly thirteen and unable to quit grinning - defensively says he likes them that way. And that's that.


*


Dean can feel himself start to slip when the school year ends.

Summer hits with a strange, dry heat - the kind that makes your skin prickle with sweat before you even make it from the door to the car. The kind where the sidewalk melts the bottoms of your shoes. Wads of sticky, oozy chewing gum litter the streets where kids seem to have spit them without even caring - probably too sugar-parched to bear the sweet tang any longer. Dean gets that.

The school year winds down with a lot of assemblies to honor kids who didn't spend the year sitting in the back of the room, staring off into space. He wasn't there when photographs were taken for the yearbook - it's surprising his name makes it in there at all. He feels weird, scribbling his signature into the copies people put in front of him. Smiles in a sheepish way when he explains that he doesn't have one, so no, they can't sign his. He makes it home on the last day of school with a handful of loose-leaf papers on which people have written down phone numbers and addresses, promises to keep in touch. Jamie waves at him from across the already-dead front lawn outside the main building.

He doesn't really see anyone after that. Most of them supernova to points beyond for real summer vacations, and the rest are busy doing whatever they do. He's invited to a couple of parties in early June, but then the phone goes out - Dad forgot to pay the bill, and it takes two weeks before it's working again. When it's back up, people have stopped trying to stay in touch.

Sam starts living in the movie theater downtown. It only plays one movie per week, three showings a day, and by Friday he can quote whatever craptastic film it is, line for line. Independence Day. Twister. Space Jam. Phenomenon, which they snicker at. Dean doesn't usually go, because it's easier to use the two hours for some private jerk-off time. But that's okay, because Sam actually has friends.


*


The job thing happens out of boredom, mostly, but it's also because they're pretty strapped for cash. Dad's winning combination of scamming, betting and turning the occasional wrench has kept them afloat, but it doesn't cover the miscellany of two teenage boys. Sam needs new sneakers, a wheel for his bike, a Green Day CD. Dean's requirements are a bit more basic - a couple of Hustlers and some Mountain Dew - but clerking at 7-Eleven keeps him square for that as well.

He gets the night shift. Works with a guy named Bill, who tunes the boombox to country stations and is usually stoned. He talks about hunting and his girlfriend, and he's exactly the kind of person Dean doesn't want to encounter in a dark forest during open season. Mostly, Dean just ignores the list of chores the manager leaves for the graveyard employees, and tries to entertain himself by reading magazines plucked from the rack.


*


The whole reason Dean tried out for baseball was because Dad told him to. Dad, as it happened, had been a bit of a sports hero when he was in school.

"You could use a hobby," he'd said. Raised a hand, then, at the inevitable retort. "One that doesn't involve cleanin' guns."

It had worked as a diversion, at least for a little while, but now Dean's itching for a fight. That's the only thing he really, honestly misses about the days on the road - the promise of combat. Something to get his heart rate up, make him feel alive. His days are spent sleeping, now, and eating Cheetoes while he watches Cheers re-runs. His nights are spent restocking the candy aisle in a florescent glow. His biggest accomplishment is the high score on the Space Invaders game over by the alcohol case.

Yeah, he's spoiling for a fight. Sometimes, after his shift, he'll go walking around town with this on his mind. Looking for someone's ass to kick. He doesn't know who, really - maybe he'll see someone purse-snatching or something. Maybe someone will look at his boots and black t-shirt and think he's some kind of punk. He walks the four blocks that make up the rough part of town with dedication, meeting the gaze of everyone who passes by. Nothing ever happens.

He thinks a lot about technique, since he doesn't get any practice. Dreams up scenarios he might encounter - if there were two of 'em, if there were three. For a couple of weeks, he spends his work shift sitting behind the counter with one of those yellow office pads, drawing out diagrams in ballpoint pen. He's pretty sure he's figured out the best way to take on a group, although it's pretty gory. It would have to be one hell of a purse-snatching.

Sam finds the pad later, when he's cleaning his half of the room. "You should try reading Sun Tzu," he says. "If you're into tactical combat now."

"Shut up," Dean says.


*


Dad leaves for a hunt in early July. Dean finally musters the energy to beg shotgun, but no. Two weeks, Dad says, keys in hand. And I'll be calling. What he really means is, As long as it fucking takes, and don't think this is an opportunity for you to get away with stupid shit, because you never know when I'll be back. It's all in the tone.

Consequently, Dad's not around when the sky fucking falls and Sam's little girlfriend dumps him.

He slumps into the house that night around eight, and Dean's all ready to bitch him into next week for not calling and letting him know he'd be out past dark - and then Dean sees his face. Notices that he's slouching himself into a kind of parenthesis, which he hasn't done much of since the last growth spurt. It doesn't take much wheedling to get the story out, such that it is: she wants to "hang out" with other people. It's pretty harsh.

Dean's hated the idea of this girl ever since Sam came home with barely-suppressed glee and told him about her in late-night whispers. She's nothing like Jamie, from what he can tell - just another plain, smart girl who was in Sam's advanced science class. They did homework together when school was in, and then - now - biked to the library together. Went and saw crappy movies together. Did the boring, normal things that Sam seemed to like so much. Hell, they probably shared milkshakes at the soda shop.

When Sam comes home with the weight of the world on his shoulders, staring down the rest of his life without this girl, Dean hates himself. He doesn't feel sympathy; he feels relief. He's been waiting for this ever since Sam confessed it all to him, so it's hard to be the brother he's supposed to be, all woeful shakes of the head and pats on the back.

"You need booze," is what he finally says, as Sam purses his lips and stares at his ratty sneakers.

"Huh?" Sam looks up through his mess of bangs, eyebrows pushed together. He seems very thirteen in that moment, unsure of himself and sad, and that should be all Dean needs to back off. Drop it, change the subject. But he's not good at that sort of thing. Backing down gracefully isn't his strong suit, so he wordlessly goes to the bookcase and pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels out from behind the well-worn copy of Early Egyptian Talismen.

Sam isn't a total lightweight, and Dean's pretty impressed by that. He's knocked back a few mouthfuls before he even starts to go pink-cheeked. Dean can taste his mouth on the bottle, maybe. He thinks he can, anyway, and that's enough to make his prick half-hard in his jeans.

"So how far'd you get with her?" he asks, stretched out on the floor. He's horny in that way where everything seems pleasurable. A slow burn that makes him want to rub his bare arms against the carpet. He's drunk enough to follow the impulse, enjoying the rough, worn fibers on his skin.

"Dean!" Sam looks embarrassed, or irritated or something.

"She dumped you, man," Dean says flatly, enjoying the knife-twist of that bluntness that shows in Sam's face. "You get to talk about how slutty she is. It's the rules."

Sam blushes, taking another swig of whiskey. It shakes in the bottle noisily, and Dean images Sam's backwashing into it like a third grader. It makes him want more. "She - she let me touch her," he says, a pathetic combination of brave and morose. "Just - god, just her boob!" he adds, at the look on Dean's face. "And just for, like, a minute."

"Pretty slutty for junior high," says Dean, and Sam doesn't look cheered by this. "I didn't get boob 'til I was a freshman."

Sam's expression is kind of priceless. "Really?"

Dean nods in a loose sort of way. "Valerie Walker." He gestures in front of his chest, hands cupped, and closes his eyes reverentially. Sam laughs and takes another gulp of the whiskey, sloshing it down his chin and then wiping it off hastily.

"You're so gross," he says, laying out on the floor near Dean. He stretches his legs out the other way, so they make an angle, his head somewhere near Dean's hip. His grip is wobbly when he hands the bottle back, over his shoulder. "Claire's not slutty. She's... she's nice."

"Uh-huh." Dean's in a real following-your-impulses mood, and notices a few seconds later that his hand is in Sam's hair, smoothing it off of his forehead. Tweaking the ends. "She sounds like a real winner."

"She is," Sam says fervently. He reaches up absently to touch Dean's hand, his thumb and middle finger forming a loose ring around his wrist. "She's smart. And she reads all these books. Poetry and stuff."

Dean digs his fingertips in towards Sam's scalp, kind of amazed at how much hair he's got. It's all soft and shiny, too. Sam's fingers rub against the inside of his wrist when he moves his hand, and that's nice. "So do you."

"Not the same," Sam sighs, and then he starts laughing. "Your hands are cold."

"Maybe your head is just too warm." Dean ruffles his hair up, and it stays that way, the natural whorls made far worse.

"Maybe." Sam turns to look at him, then, taking the bottle back. "What if she was the girl, man? What if she was the girl I was supposed to be with, and I did something wrong?"

Dean doesn't move his hand, so he winds up touching Sam's temple when he says, "You really think that? Miss Blue Ribbon at the Junior High Science Fair is your freakin' soulmate?"

"No," says Sam, after a minute.

Later, Dean won't be able to remember the details of this - it'll all be made indistinct by the glow of alcohol. He'll remember the brightness of the overhead light on Sam's face, and the pleasant numb feeling in his limbs, but that'll fade right into Sam's mouth, wet and vague. The shape of his bony fingers on Dean's skin will bleed right into him on his back, looking up at Dean plaintively.

Right now, though, it all seems crystal clear. Sam turns his face against Dean's stomach and looks at him thoughtfully. Dean's t-shirt rode up a bit when he flopped down on the carpet, so Sam's cheek is pressed against his skin, and he feels awash in warmth and want. His visions's a little blurry when he shifts - sits up and kind of makes a grab for the bottle of Jack, but Sam's not as sluggish with the liquor as he is, and moves a bit faster, hoisting himself up to a sitting position and holding it at arm's length the other way. His teeth glint in a stupid, drunken grin, and Dean reaches around him, this way and that, for it.

The one thing Dean will be able to really remember is that it's all just an excuse for him to get his hands on Sam.

They fall back onto the floor again with a thud, which is the bottle landing on its side. It glug-glugs its contents out all over the floor, but the carpet is the same root-beer brown as any other cheap place built in the mid-70s, so Dean doesn't reach for it. Just leans down and kisses Sam on the mouth, lips dry and tongue wet. And, against all odds, Sam just kisses him back, stifling a choking laugh against Dean's lower lip.

Mapping Sam out is a lengthy process, because there's so damn much of him. Dean takes his time; there's no need to rush. No one to tell him to hurry up. The whiskey's made time slow and thick, and in that instant, it doesn't feel like there's anyone else in the world. Sam arches under him, shivering and ticklish at every flutter of fingertips. Mouth falling open when Dean finds a good spot.

He licks his way up Sam's legs - dusty with dirt from the yard, from biking everywhere. Slides his teeth against his knee, leaves red marks on his thigh. It's all nonsensical, touch and go. Dean doesn't know what he's doing, just that Sam's spread out in front of him, and that's a good thing. This is Sam, he thinks, mouth going sloppy against his hipbone, and it seems impossible.

Dean's hand is huge on Sam's prick, fingers tight around the shaft. He only considers it for a second; pausing to watch as Sam pants, flushed and wet-lipped, and then he's swallowing down the tip. The details of this kind of thing have always eluded him in fantasy form, but he sucks the sticky head into the hollow of his lips, and his mouth is so bitter from the booze that he can't even really be weirded out by the taste, the smell.

"Oh-- Dean!" Sam half-shouts. Dean knows, weirdly, that Sam's actually saying his name in surprise - the way you'd yell it at someone wandering into rush-hour traffic. Not because it was what he was supposed to say. Not because he was trying to start some kind of porno dialogue. Dean likes that distinction.

Enough to bob down further, letting the hot skin of Sam's cock drag along his tongue. He thinks about those weird little tremors of lust he's been getting for months now, and the noises Sam makes when he's jerking off at dawn. He doesn't get around to anything else, though, because Sam's pushing himself up into Dean's mouth and blowing his wad. No warnings, no hair-pulling - just all of the sudden, Dean's spluttering around gobs of jizz, and Sam's sighing like everything in life just worked out.


*


They don't talk about it in the morning. Dean doesn't, anyway, and Sam seems to take that as a cue.

He's already at the kitchen table when Dean wakes up. No lights on, no noises being made, just sitting there slumped over some book. The room is full of watery-grey light, which isn't really enough to read by. If Dean wanted to sound like a grandma, he'd bitch at Sam for ruining his eyes. Instead, he rifles through the cupboards and unearths an old bag of marshmallows, half-empty and held shut with a clothespin. Sam looks blue and pale in that lighting. And young. And pretty. Dean doesn't want to see that.

They don't say anything at first. The only sound comes from the hum of the refrigerator's motor clicking on, the clattering of the clock in the living room edging closer to nine, and the guttural roar of the coffee maker.

Dean starts talking randomly, pointlessly, just to fill up the silence and let Sam know he's not pissed. He talks about Bill. Talks about this woman who comes into work every night with one of those mechanical voice-box things, buying cigarettes, and the way she always hits on him. Sam looks at him dubiously, so Dean pushes his thumb against his throat and does an impression, which finally makes Sam bust out laughing. Dean joins in.

"You and Josh doin' something today?" he asks, sitting down at the table and gulping down coffee. Sam reaches over, pries the mug from his hands and sips at what's left. It's the only clean cup in the kitchen. "That stuff'll stunt your growth, you know."

Sam grins at him and lifts an awkward shoulder. "We might. Homeward Bound II is at the uniplex."

Dean makes a face. "They sequeled that?"

"Yeah, I know. We could make fun of it?"

"And I could clean the toilet bowl with my tooth brush. No thanks. You crazy kids have fun."

Sam's silent, clutching the mug between his huge hands. "I could stay home."

Dean can still taste the grit of dirty, tanned skin, like it's embedded under his tongue. Like it's a flavor and not just an idea. "Nah," he says easily. Gets up to claim his toast from the jaws of the toaster. "Don't need you underfoot while I'm tryin' to vacuum."


*


Things are weird for a few days. Dean feels pulled a little too tight, like he's waiting for the cops to show up and drag him off, or something. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, and is shocked when it doesn't. Sam's a little more clumsy than usual, his teeth seeming to always be on edge, but he's not mad. In fact - Dean finally figures it out - he's regarding Dean the same way Dean's regarding him. Waiting.

Once he gets that, Dean makes a point of punching Sam on the arm. Stealing his cans of soda. Calling him a retard. Doing the same stuff as always, with a brand new kind of gusto. Like always, Sam follows his lead, and then things kind of seem okay.


*


Dad's still gone when the first really miserable heatwave hits. There's no air conditioning in their house, of course, so the whole place seems to stagnate. The air's thick like pancake batter, and they spend about five minutes in the bedroom before declaring it unfit for human exposure.

Compared to that, the living room seems refreshing. More windows to throw open, and if they're lucky they can get a cross-breeze. It's better than the one square window in their bedroom, and even though Dean refuses to let Sam leave the door open, it's a couple of degrees cooler than the rest of the place. There's no pull-out bed in the couch - those fuckers are too heavy, too impractical - so they just pile blankets and pillows on the floor. Sam sprawls out with a pile of cheap comic books and glasses of ice water. Dean watches Nick-at-Nite with the volume turned off, trying to figure out episode plots without sound.

It's two in the morning when it happens again.


*


PART II.