August 8, 1997

Dean fears what truths could be exposed to the wrong person.

We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving.
— Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass

They were careful, usually.

A few nights after the river, when Sam went unexpectedly to an old friend’s movie marathon and John took himself off to meet the Friday night crowd at Lloyd’s bar, Dean had Cas over. They went for a trail ride, ate dinner together, then Dean brought Cas up to his room.

Desire grew in Dean day by day. Sometimes touching Cas was all he could think about. Memories and fantasies thrilled through him: he wanted to do everything with Cas. He wanted his mouth to know every part of Cas’ body. He wanted to leave no part of him untouched, assailing him relentlessly with lips and tongue and fingertips. He wanted as much in return; he wanted Cas to look at him the way no one had before, to see even those parts he couldn’t bear to have seen. To examine every inch of him mercilessly and to witness Dean as whatever he truly was. He wanted Cas to drive him mad with delay, to tease him till he broke into pieces. He wanted to want, to beg. To feel overcome and sated. He wanted to know what it was like to become one body. He wanted to know how it felt to be inside Cas and he wanted to feel Cas buried in him.

It was the first time they’d undressed completely, bodies made golden and dark by lamplight. In his childhood bed, Cas fucked his thighs. He’d never imagined how it would feel. Desperation rose in him and he reached a hand back to grip Cas’ hip like it might keep Cas from ever leaving him. Cas came and it marked Dean forever, a strange and addictive heat that left him trembling. He wanted his skin to show everything: the lovebites, the come, the handprints stamped across his body.

Their long naked bodies embraced in Dean’s bed, tangled and touching everywhere possible. Dean could fall asleep here with his head under Cas’ chin, Cas’ hand clasping the forearm that Dean stretched across his chest, Dean’s foot sliding down against Cas’ calf like he might still warm to a second round. They were young and the night was supposed to be left to them.

Dean didn’t immediately recognize the sound of an engine growing louder, coming up the long lane to the farm. It struck him later than it should have. He lifted his head, eyes on the open window.

“Shit,” he said, and he’d already started to rise up when he heard the next sound. A crash of metal. An engine still trying to rev, then cutting out.

“Shit,” he said again, rapidly searching for his clothes. He smelled like sex, the whole room smelled of it, surely.

Sound carried on the night. A vehicle door slamming closed. John cursing, like he had some unseen audience to speak to.

Cas didn’t need to be told to move with the same alacrity as Dean, although Dean was faster. Dean didn’t wait for Cas as he raced down the stairs.

John hadn’t come in yet. Dean shoved his feet into his cowboy boots and went outside.

The light over the barn illuminated John’s truck, the front passenger side crumpled around the hydro pole that brought power to the house and barn.

Dean slowed as he came closer. John moved with a heavy swagger, piss-drunk. Even without something to be guilty of, Dean wouldn’t have gone too close.

“Dad?” he called out cautiously.

John cursed and kicked the tire of the truck. He stumbled back to his door and climbed in again. Probably wanted to reverse back from the pole, and even if it didn’t seem wise, Dean wouldn’t intervene. John drunkenly put the truck in drive, foot pressing the gas pedal as far as it would go only to have his back tires shift against the road and the smashed metal grind as he pushed further against the pole.

He’d been lucky not to knock the power out.

He was lucky not to kill himself either. A little faster, a little more to the right, and it could’ve been a different story.

“Dad,” Dean called again. The truck engine sputtered to a quit and the lights dimmed out. Steam rose from the broken radiator. John got out of the truck without making any progress.

“Fuck this thing,” said John. He slammed the door shut. “Always fucking with me. Don’t fucking need it.”

John pitched forward like the ground tossed under him, side-stepping heavily in his attempt to make a straight line for Dean. Below his dark hair, a bloody mark marred his temple. He must’ve hit his head off the steering wheel.

“Dad…” Dean took a few careful steps back, keeping distance as John closed in. He just had to get John into the house, into the kitchen, where he could steer all his focus to the prospect of a beer from the fridge. John was too drunk to entertain more than one idea at a time.

He’d had a bad night. He was back early and he was plastered and he was cursing like the devil. He hadn’t got in a fight or he’d look worse than this, but he’d lost money or been kicked out or ran into somebody he hated. On a night like this, Dean would’ve stayed in his room and pretended to be asleep and let John take out his anger on the walls or the furniture. If he punched a door or broke a table, he’d get it out of his system. They could be replaced.

Dean didn’t know if Cas could see; whether Cas hid inside or had come out.

He couldn’t look over his shoulder.

He could back away, but he could not run away. There was a distinction. If he moved too fast, John would react to it.

John had the luxury of dictating his own pace. He was carried forward by a drunken momentum that closed in on Dean. When he was in striking distance, he grabbed the collar of Dean’s shirt, pulling him in, forearm barred across Dean’s collarbone.

John reeked of beer and whiskey. He leaned his weight into Dean so that Dean tilted back on the heels of his boots. John pushing him back and holding him up at once.

Precariously balanced, Dean half-raised his arms, palms flat and open.

“I’ll take care of that truck, Dad,” said Dean, pulse fluttering in his throat. “You know I can fix it up.”

“Fix it up,” John echoed. He took in a breath and exhaled it carelessly in Dean’s face. He considered whether he’d accept Dean’s words at face value or choose to see them as a gross attempt at manipulation.

In the night, his eyes were dark caverns.

The muscles in John’s face relaxed. He huffed again and let go of Dean’s shirt, patting his shoulder.

Dean sank back from his heels, tension loosening. No fight tonight.

John’s heavy hand stopped on Dean’s shoulder, fingers pressing in.

“Who’s that?” he said. His face turned towards the house, shadowed gaze fixed on a point.

Dean looked over to where Cas stood on the porch steps. Dressed and tidy. If his hair looked messy, well, it always did.

“Cas came over,” said Dean. “We were bored.”

“Nothing wrong with the horses?”

“Nothing wrong with the horses,” Dean said. There were so many lies he had to tell, he spoke plainly wherever he could.

“Huh.” John let go of Dean again and swaggered past. As he climbed the porch steps he said, “Not gonna charge us for a social visit too, are you?” And he laughed and didn’t wait for an answer.

Dean slowly approached Cas at the steps. Cas never took his eyes from him.

“Dean…”

“Please go,” Dean said. The quiet of his voice surprised him, barely more than a whisper.

“I—”

“Please.”

Cas didn’t reach for Dean or kiss him goodbye. It wasn’t safe to. He went to his motorbike and pulled on the helmet, fastening the strap underneath his chin.

Dean wrapped his arms around himself to fight off the chill in the night air.

Inside the house, John bent over a beer at the kitchen table, eyes red and vacant.

In the living room, Wayne’s World played on the TV. Cas must’ve found the tape and popped it in. Some plausible excuse if John went looking for answers. Dean flicked the TV off.

Upstairs, the bed in Dean’s room had been re-made. The window opened a little wider to let in the night air. Dean shut his door after himself.

Dean lay back on top of his quilt and put a hand over his eyes.

The ache of despair that haunted him finally caught up in full. He shook, trying to keep quiet while hot tears rose under his hand.

He turned to his side, the way he had lain with Cas. His legs curled up like he could roll himself small enough to hide from his own inner pain. He wanted to be back to the moments of just before, lying against Cas’ body exactly where he was meant to be. It wasn’t fair that it couldn’t be easy. It wasn’t fair.