A Life Most Ordinary, Chapter Three

[sonofabiscuit77]

CHAPTER THREE

Don’t fake it baby, lay the real thing on me,
The church of man-love, is such a holy place to be...
Moonage Daydream - David Bowie

Back to Chapter Two

Dean regretted agreeing to Sam’s insane plan as soon as he descended the stairs, Sam greeting him with a frown, saying, “You’re not wearing that, are you?”

He ghosted one hand self-consciously over his leather jacket and jeans. He’d picked out this outfit especially, these were his best jeans, goddamnit.

“C’mon, man, you gotta lose a couple of layers,” Sam added.

“Like you?” he shot back.

Sam was wearing one of his many obscenely tight t-shirts that clung to him like it was freaking spandex, like one of those crazy cyclists, emphasizing every scary hulking muscle of his chest and arms, which Dean supposed was the point. His jeans were tight around the ass, with that fake distressed look that came with holes in strategic places, like just below his left ass cheek, revealing his even tighter black briefs. His hair was actually styled for once, slicked into something resembling a style - maybe a majorly crazy bed-head style - but definitely some sort of style. Seriously, looking at him dressed like this, Dean wondered how he’d ever thought his brother might be straight.

Sam shrugged, pressed his lips together, “Look, just, take off that shirt at least. It’s, like, seventy degrees outside. You’re not gonna need it.”

Dean rolled his eyes and complied, taking off his leather jacket, followed by the plain olive shirt; underneath that he was just wearing a faded gray t-shirt.

He rolled his shoulders self-consciously, shooting Sam a pissy look: “This good enough for you?”

Sam gave him a long look, then nodded approval. “You’ll do.”

The place was buzzing when they arrived, the doorman nodding hello to Sam and giving Dean an extremely close one-over and a shark-like smile. Sam smiled tightly and clapped the guy on the shoulder, hard.

“Don’t bother, Luke, he’s with me.”

“Nooooo, Sam, dude, you’re killin’ me. He’s real cute.”

“Hey, I’m standing right here,” Dean put in irritably, giving the guy some major stink-eye, not that he seemed deterred; his eyes were still raking up and down Dean’s body in a way that was making him wish he’d kept those layers on.

Sam laughed and placed one of his huge hands on Dean’s shoulder to steer them inside. The place wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. Okay, so the majority of the clientele seemed to be dressed like Sam, though Dean was proud to note that none of them carried it off as well as his brother.

He could feel several interested gazes on him as he followed Sam to the bar, not to mention some wandering hands - seriously, was this normal behavior in a gay bar? Were gay dudes always this damn forward? Sam seemed to take it in his stride, shouldering aside a couple of guys making out to make room for the two of them at the bar.

“Christ, I feel like I got fresh meat stamped on my forehead,” Dean bitched as they finally created some space to themselves. “Is it normal to get felt up like that? Jesus!”

“Dude, c’mon,” said Sam easily, “you’re easily the hottest guy in here, of course you’re gonna get felt up.”

Dean flashed him a shocked, side-long glance, but Sam was not looking his way, too busy trying and succeeding in getting the barman’s attention.

Sam placed their order for beers and shots and turned back to Dean. “Hey, relax, it’s okay. I’ll fight ‘em off if it makes you feel better, tell them all you’re my new boyfriend, or my new fucktoy.” His mouth curled up in a way Dean could only describe as evil. And smug.

“Fucking. Peachy. Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you’re desperate, and because you love me,” Sam replied with a beatific smile. Dean opened his mouth to retort but Sam was already paying the bartender for their drinks.

“Now if we play our cards right, these are the only drinks we’re gonna have to buy tonight,” Sam said as he handed over the tequila shots.

“Huh?” Dean gave him a confused look.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, c’mon, how’d you think I can afford to go out so often?” He raised an eyebrow at his brother and poked his lime wedge down into the neck of his Corona.

Dean just stared. “Dude, that’s like - I’m not a freakin’ chick!”

Okay, so yeah, he had often wondered how Sam managed to pay for all his nights out, considering the state of their household finances, but he’d always assumed it was just some sort of budgeting wizardry on Sam’s part; he'd never bothered enquiring.

Sam was watching him, looking amused. “This,” he tilted his bottle of Corona towards Dean, “cost eight dollars, and man, you don’t want to know how much the shots were.”

“Eight dollars?”

“Yeah, Dean, eight dollars. Now, c’mon, drink up.” He raised his tequila shot, indicating Dean do the same. Dean followed his lead blankly, clinking his glass against Sam’s and muttering a cursory, “Cheers,” before he downed it. The familiar stirring burn of the tequila sliding down his throat was nice, familiar and welcome, and he smacked his lips when he was done, aware that Sam was smiling at him from over the rim of his bottle with that fond Sammy smile.

“Sam!”

Dean spun around to see a tall guy approaching them, grinning widely. He glanced at Sam and felt a stab of annoyance as Sam grinned and waved the guy over. Huh, obviously Sam knew this loser, doubtless some ex hookup wanting to try his luck again. Awesome.

“Wow, so good to see you again! Christ, feels like it’s been ages,” the guy gushed, leaning in to clink the necks of their beer bottles. “How you been? I haven’t seen you around for ages.”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes; man, could this guy be any more obvious?

“So, who’s this?” the guy asked, finally noticing that Sam was - you know - already kinda in the middle of a conversation that didn’t include him.

“This is Dean,” Sam said. “My brother. Dean, this is Scotty.”

Right, so this time he was Sam’s brother. Evidently Sam had some interest in this loser.

Dean gritted his teeth and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Scotty took his hand; for such a tall guy he had weirdly small fingers.

“So you’re Sam’s brother? The famous Dean?” The guy’s eyebrows shot up and he gazed harder at Dean. “Wow. You gotta know, you guys look nothing alike.”

“Yeah, I got all the looks,” Dean retorted.

The guy laughed, nudging Sam in a way that was really fucking over familiar. “I like him, Sammy.”

Dean bristled, valiantly resisting the urge to shoot this small-handed loser a serious death glare. And why wasn’t Sam correcting him? No one got to call him that except family, damn it.

Instead he dropped his gaze, looking out across the bar, congratulating himself on controlling his temper. The place was packed, more and more guys passing through the door. No wonder Sam seemed to like it here so much; with all these willing guys looking for no-strings-attached sex, it was perfect. Sam and Scotty were talking again, heads bent together, that curl to Sam’s lip which meant he was flirting, which - he so didn’t need to do. It was obvious that this poor sucker had it bad, almost as bad as freaking Troy at the Deaf and Gay Club.

“Hey.”

Dean started at the voice so close to his ear. He dragged his eyes away from Sam and Scotty to see a guy leaning up against the bar, smiling warmly at him.

“Buy you a drink?” the guy asked.

Dean hesitated, glancing quickly at Sam, but Sam didn’t seem to have noticed, too engrossed with his new best bud, and fuck, at eight dollars a freaking bottle -

“Yeah, I’ll have another one of these.”

They settled into an easy conversation. The guy, Thomas, seemed nice, normal and surprisingly easy to talk to, not aggressively, scarily gay like some of the boys staring and waggling their tongues at him from various corners of the room. He worked as a civil engineer - it was as boring as it sounded - and had the sort of open friendly face that generally made terrible witnesses in court, the sort of people who melted like candy in sunshine under cross examination.

“So, you here on your own?” he asked Dean.

Dean nodded towards the end of the bar, towards Sam and his fan-boy admirer.

“Came here with my brother.”

“Sam? You’re Sam’s brother?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Dude, everyone knows Sam!”

“Oh, right. And, uh, is that a good thing?”

Thomas laughed. “I think you can guess the answer to that.”

Dean felt a prickle of irritation nibble at the edge of his spine and he nodded, “Right, right.”

“Hey, look, I’m sorry.” The guy stuck out his hand, resting it on Dean’s shoulder. Dean jerked his head up in surprise, but the guy squeezed gently, gave him a reassuring smile. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. Sam’s a great guy. And, you know,” he shrugged and smiled wryly, “really fucking hot.”

“So you’ve slept with him?” Dean snapped.

Thomas laughed again. Jesus, it was really freaking difficult to hate this guy. “Slept with? Not exactly. We’ve fooled around some. He gives the best head, not as good as me, but -” He broke off at the look on Dean’s face and his expression fell comically again. “Shit, man, I - I guess you don’t want to know that about your own brother, right?”

Dean froze, a jolt of something to his gut, his belly ducking and rolling, making him feel suddenly short of breath, he swallowed it back, took a swig on his beer. “Not so much.”

“Dude, I’m sorry.” The guy leaned in, he smelled good, of something nice, something… masculine. His voice fell, getting more intense, kind of husky, a low whisper against Dean’s ear: “How can I make it up to you? I’d really like to make it up to you.”

“I, uh,” he hesitated, licked his lips. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue: back off, I’m straight, I’m not interested - but something was blocking them, some part of him not wanting to push this guy away, some part of him responding to his obvious interest. But hell, wasn’t that the entire point of this fun little adventure? Finding some dude willing to suck his cock?

The thought made him swallow again, his stomach muscles tightening, his dick start to take interest. Christ, that was all it was - his poor dick crying out for some real action for the first time in - Jesus - in a year? Fuck, that was pitiful.

He pasted on his best, flirtiest grin, and looked up at the guy through his eyelashes; no one could say Dean Winchester didn’t know how to work his good side. “You can always buy me another drink?”

Thomas gulped, laughed shakily, and turned to signal to the barman.

“So, this your first time here?” Thomas asked after their drinks had come again.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Dean groaned, “Sam dragged me here. Thought I needed the break.”

“Yeah? Why?”

He rolled his eyes, gave Thomas a dubious look over the rim of his beer bottle. “Dude, you’re not interested in that shit. I know that look - you just wanna get in my pants.”

Thomas laughed again, deep and genuine. “Yeah, okay, so sue me. But in my defense, you have a really nice ass. And you know, the rest of you’s not so bad either.”

He grinned, licking his lips, that look in his eyes that was both predatory and calculated. Dean knew that look, had used it on girls enough himself, and this was the moment, the turning point: he could back down right now - put this guy straight, so to speak - tell him he wasn’t interested, he was only here because he was incapable of saying no to his little brother.

But he didn’t want to do that.

Thomas edged closer, taking Dean’s answering smile as an invitation, until they were almost touching, bare arms brushing. He had good arms, Dean noticed, thick and muscled, definition about as good as his own, not as good as Sam's, but then Sam’s body was something else. Thomas shifted his leg so their thighs touched, the movement sending a bolt of heat straight to Dean’s gut, to his cock.

“I’ve been told that I can do sinful things with my tongue,” he whispered. “I made Sam come three times in one hour - And, God, the things I wanna do to you. You have no idea how hot you are. You are way too hot to be straight.”

Dean blinked, tore his eyes away from his face, towards the end of the bar, towards Sam. Sam was watching him intently, his eyes dark and slanted, narrowed in with singled-minded focus on Dean’s face, on the places where Thomas was touching him. Sam lifted his beer bottle to his mouth, took a long sip, throat bared, long, gleaming neck, his eyes not leaving Dean. He was daring him. Dean recognized that look in his brother’s eyes, the blazing daggers in his gaze: this was a challenge. Sam was daring him to go through with it, a silent you don’t have the balls, Dean, but Sam should know better than that.

Dean forced himself to look away from his brother; his stomach was churning, all fluttering nerves and butterflies, hot beads of sweat collecting under his armpits and in the small of his back, making his t-shirt cling.

He took a breath and raised his eyes to Thomas. “Alright, stud, show me whatcha got.”

Thomas took possession of him like he was afraid Dean was going to change his mind, his hand locked around Dean’s bicep, thick fingers digging into the muscle. He dragged Dean through the crowd of tight, hard bodies, towards a door at the back. Jesus, this place had a freaking backroom? Fuck, he thought they were just a myth.

Through the door, he was immediately hit by the smell, the heady, unmistakably masculine scents of sex and sweat, more pungent that a locker-room after football practice. He blinked and gaped; it was darker than the bar, the only light coming from tiny reflected beads in the floor and plasma screens playing black and white erotica in each of the four corners of the room. The surreal pale light of the screens shone off glimmering naked skin and full erect cocks, the scene around him making him feel like he’d just walked into a triple-X-rated version of Madonna’s Justify My Love video.

Thomas pushed him back against one free section of wall, and leaned in.

“This your first time with a guy, Dean?”

He shivered at the sound of his own name being hissed out in a deep, unabashedly masculine voice; he nodded, relieved that the low lighting and loud music meant that Thomas couldn’t see his flushed cheeks or hear his thudding heart. Okay, so this was it, he was really going to go through with this, it was too late to turn back now. He - Dean Winchester - ex-football hero, police officer, twice-divorced, father-of-two was in the backroom of a gay club with a dude about to suck his cock.

“I’m gonna make this good for you, I promise,” whispered Thomas.

He swallowed back his nerves, tilted his head and threw him a challenging look: “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Thomas grinned at him. “You’ve never been blown properly if you haven’t been blown by a dude. We know how it’s done.”

Dean murmured, “Okay.” He had to admit there was something in that logic. Jess had loved everything about sex with him, had freaking worshipped his body, but she’d still found blowjobs a chore, and Cora, she’d pretty much been up for anything, but even she would always make sure he promised her something in return before agreeing to go down on him.

“Okay,” Thomas repeated. He smiled again, and Dean smiled tentatively back at him, almost jerking away when Thomas pressed his mouth on his, the sudden and terrifying beat of: guy, guy, guy, he’s a guy snapping against every inch of his brain, threatening every immediate, instinctive response.

“Relax,” Thomas whispered, “c’mon, it’s okay, man.”

He closed his eyes and went with it, opened his mouth to Thomas, let him push his tongue in, his own hand coming up to cradle his head in the same way he did when he was kissing a woman - and oh, that was weird - the short, stubbled buzz-cut under his palm, he wasn’t used to that, chicks had longer, softer hair. Sam’s hair would probably feel like a chick’s, he used so much freaking shampoo and conditioner and some chick shit he called “treatment” -

God, why was he thinking about Sam’s hair?

He pushed the thoughts from his brain and concentrated on this: on the way the guy was devouring his mouth, the rough scrape of his teeth, and fuck, yeah… that felt good. He’d always kinda liked it rough, it was one of the reasons he and Cora had lasted as long as they did, ‘cause there sure hadn’t been much else keeping them together. Thomas groaned and pulled away from him, nipping at his lower lip as he did.

“Christ, so hot, so fucking hot,” Thomas moaned, and Dean felt a stab of vindication, that was his first gay kiss and already he had the other guy moaning like a freaking pornstar. “Gonna make this so good for you, Dean, so good.”

He gasped as Thomas’ big hand cupped his crotch, rubbing the palm against his growing hard-on, Thomas leaning in for another kiss. This time he gave back as good as he was getting, one hand on Thomas’s bristly head, the other at his waist. Thomas whimpered and pulled away, started kissing at his jaw, his neck, finding that sweet spot that had always gotten him so turned on at the base of his neck, Dean shivering and going with it, Thomas’s big, talented hand massaging his cock through his jeans.

Thomas pulled back and smiled at him, slow and lush, the lights making his skin shine, lips glistening from their shared saliva and bitten-off kisses. He leaned in and stroked his thumb over Dean’s lower lip.

“Christ, you are so hot. Gonna make it so good for you.”

Dean's gut clenched up; no one had ever spoken to him like that, with that uninhibited admiration and lust. Thomas dropped to his knees, tilted his head back to look at Dean, and smiled serenely. Then he was leaning forward and actually freaking nuzzling at Dean’s crotch, mouth hanging open in anticipation, like a hungry dog; his fingers flicked Dean’s fly open, and Dean's dick sprang out like a switchblade. Thomas groaned and leaned in and licked up the underside, eventually closing his mouth around the head and sucking hard.

Jesus, God, that felt good. It had been so long, fuck, how fucking long had it been? Over a year since someone had sucked his cock, man, that was so damn long, and this felt so damn good. He groaned and raised his eyes from Thomas’s bobbing head, blinking lazily at the mass of bodies pressed up against all four walls, and froze…

…Sam.

Sam, his Sam, his brother. Sam pressed up against the opposite wall. Sam naked from the waist up, torso gleaming like a Greek statue, jeans open, and that guy, that Scotty on his knees in front of him, worshipping him. Dean gulped, gazed, hopelessly captivated, mesmerized by the sight before him, by the slide of sweat down Sam’s naked chest, by the light playing across the rippling muscles of his abs.

Their eyes met and it was like a snap of Dean’s heart, a head-rush and a gun-shot crack of heat to his gut all at the same time. He could see his brother’s hand cradling Scotty’s head like it was no bigger than a baseball, guiding him backwards and forwards, Scotty’s mouth gliding up and down Sam’s big cock. But none of that mattered, no one else in the entire world mattered because all of Sam’s attention, all that wonderful, fascinating Sammy attention was focused utterly and completely on Dean.

Dean flinched, wrenched his gaze away, he was shaking, he couldn’t look up again, he -

He gulped and took a deep breath. He had to look up again; he had to see if Sam was still watching, see that he hadn’t imagined it.

Sam was still watching, his lips half-parted, sheen of sweat on his nose and throat shimmering in the ethereal white light, dark strands of hair glued to his forehead, those slanted fox-like eyes locked on Dean, boring into him, touching and tracing all of him, every pore and cell of his body, as deliberate and hungry as a touch. Sam licked his lips, tightened his hold on Scotty’s skull, making his head bob faster and faster as Dean felt his own cock respond, twitch and throb as Thomas’s tongue slid down its length.

There was no one else in the room; everyone had melted away, even the guy at his feet, the guy giving him all this pleasure was fading away, until there was only Sam. His Sammy watching him get blown by a stranger with an unmistakable yearning in his eyes. Dean blinked, and Thomas vanished, replaced by Sam, kneeling before him, head tilted back, revealing that long, glistening line of his throat, the strong jaw and dark hair fringing his eyes, big, wide mouth and pink tongue swiping across his lips. “Wanna suck your cock, Dean, my Dean, wanna feel you on my tongue, want you to come down my throat. I want all of it, want you. Always wanted you, big brother. Always you.”

Dean cried out, and came, cock pumping out his release in Thomas’ mouth, chest spasming as he panted for breath.

“There, you like that?” Thomas unbent and stood up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Dean nodded hopelessly, fumbling with his fly as he buttoned himself back up. “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He was shaking, trembling, he’d just experienced the most epic orgasm of his life and he’d done it because -

He couldn’t think about that, couldn’t look across the room, see Sam, see the reality of what he’d just done, what he’d just fantasized.

“Yeah, uh, gotta go,” he stammered, and fled.

He pushed through the crowded bar, desperate to get outside, get away from the club, away from Thomas, away from Sam.

He got into the car, curled his fingers around the familiar shape of his baby’s steering wheel, panting for breath as he tried forcibly to calm himself down, tried to stop shaking. This kind of physical reaction was rare for him; he prided himself on always being in control of his body, of being able to use it as a weapon, as a force - in football, baseball, track - all the sports he’d played, still played, hell, even when wrestling with Sammy -

He choked, breath caught for a tight terrifying second in the back of his throat. He forced himself to breathe - in, out, in out.

He needed - something, something familiar, something he loved, something comforting -

Sam.

Oh God, no, not Sam. Why did everything lead back to Sam?

Sam could never be familiar or comforting, not anymore, not after tonight, not after what he’d just done, what he’d just seen on his brother’s face, what he’d just imagined. Sam could never be comforting again.

Jonah, Simon.

Yes, his boys. He needed his boys, had to see them, make sure they were okay, hold them tight and protect them from everything. God, he loved them so much. His boys.

He uncurled his fingers; they felt stiff, cramped, indents in the skin where he’d been gripping the wheel. He raised a shaky hand, ran it over his face, shocked to feel the wet-warm sensation of tears against his palm.

This was what it was like to feel devastated, he thought dully, to feel like someone had rammed something into his chest and rummaged around with his insides, turning every feeling, every emotion, all the love and affection he’d ever felt for his brother and twisted it into something else - something perverted, something sick, something wrong.

He lowered his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers, hyper-aware of himself. His skin felt clammy, still sweaty from the club, his dick sticky and gross in his boxers, his t-shirt stuck to his body like saran wrap over cold cuts.

His own brother, his own baby brother. Sammy. His Sam who was - always had been - so much more than a brother.

He passed another shaky hand over his face, hearing the rasp of his stubble against Dad’s ring. Shit, he really needed to get a grip; he couldn’t go and see his boys in this kinda state. He’d always promised himself that he’d never do this, never let either of them see him like this, like all those times he and Sammy (oh God, Sam) had seen their father drunk or drooling on his various prescription meds, like all those times they’d helped put him to bed, pulled off his boots and suffered through his raving declarations of affection.

He exhaled and replaced his hands on the wheel, fingers moving instinctively to start the engine, eyes flicking to the mirrors and over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking lot.

He pulled up outside Jess’s place, dimmed the headlights, killed the engine and turned to stare at Jess’s one-storey house. The lights from the kitchen and the living room were on, and could picture her in there: researching something interesting for her students to paint, or maybe painting herself, or reading something instructional. Jess was not the sort of person who could just lie on the couch and watch TV; she always had to be doing something, making something or learning something. It was a trait that he’d found both admirable and exasperating when they’d been married.

Setting his teeth, he slid out the driver’s side. He was not going to pussy out now, he was going to go on in there and see his boys. Jess could say whatever the hell she wanted, and fuck it, anything was better than going home and risking running into Sam.

Jess answered the door looking a mixture of bewildered and exasperated.

“Dean? What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“You’re lucky I’m awake.”

“C’mon, I know you never go to bed before 12.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line, and left the door open behind her, evidently his cue to enter. He hesitated for a moment before he stepped over the threshold, pushing the door firmly closed. It was about as good an invitation as he could expect.

“Shoes!” she called over her shoulder, already disappearing into the kitchen.

He toed off his boots, remembering how she’d tried to implement a strict 'no shoes indoors' rule back when they’d been married. It hadn’t worked; neither him or Sam, not to mention Jonah, or Simon when he’d started wearing shoes, had ever come to grips with the idea of different footwear for indoors and outdoors. It just wasn't something that he and Sammy had ever been taught. In fact, he had clear memories of watching his father sleep - in his bed, on the couch, even in the bath tub on one particularly bad night - with his boots and overcoat still on, as if he had to be ever eternally prepared to fight off the unknown, those figments of his tortured imagination that never left him, especially not in sleep.

He pried his boots off and padded down the thick carpeted hall to the kitchen. After the divorce, Jess’s parents had bought this place for her and she’d done it up herself until it was about as different from the Winchester place as it was possible to be. It reminded him of a Swedish furniture showroom, all pine-wood and a lot of white - walls, carpet, curtains, cushions - things actually matched in Jess’s house. He didn’t think anything had ever matched in their house.

Jess was standing by the refrigerator topping up her wineglass. She looked up and gave him a once-over, asking, “You want some wine?”

“You got any beer?”

“No.”

“Okay, wine is good.”

She nodded, and took down another glass from a high cabinet, pouring him a generous measure. She picked up the glasses by the stems - another Jess thing, she totally hated finger marks on glassware - and brought them over to the small pine kitchen table.

He took a seat opposite, murmuring thanks which she didn’t bother to acknowledge. They sipped their drinks in an awkward silence for a few seconds, before she sighed, raised one hand to push a stray curl of blond hair back into her messy pony-tail.

“Are you going to tell me what’s eating you, or have I got to guess?”

“Nothing,” he answered quickly. “Just - wanted to see if the boys were okay.”

“Right,” she said with a skeptical twist of her mouth. “Sure you did.”

He spread his hands, gave her a shit-eating grin, but the skeptical look did not disappear. She nodded her head towards the open door. “They’re asleep, but go right ahead, do whatever you have to.”

He slid off the chair and walked back out into the hall, down to the last door on the left which he knew was the bedroom the boys always used when they slept over. They were sleeping on top of the bed, on the embroidered white counterpane in the old GI Joe camouflage sleeping bags that had once belonged to him and Sammy. He tiptoed closer, the light from the hallway falling in a slanted rectangle over the bed, illuminating the tip of Jonah’s nose and the soft brown hair tumbled messily over his forehead. Simon was lying in the shadow, his squeezed-shut eyes fringed by their long baby-soft lashes and looking curiously naked without his glasses.

Dean leaned over, gently pressed his lips to Simon’s sleep-warm forehead, feeling Simon’s messy dark curls scratching against his cheek as he breathed in the familiar, warm scent of his son’s skin. He turned next to Jonah, and pressed an identical kiss to his forehead, tenderly ghosting one finger over the supple arch of his cheekbone, the scattering of freckles on his cheeks and nose that were identical to his own. He was such a ridiculously attractive kid; he was really going to be a heartbreaker when he grew up. It was something that filled Dean simultaneously with a lot of pride and a lot of disquiet. He knew from personal experience that attractive people did have it a lot easier, but he also knew from personal experience that the kind of good looks Jonah was going to have could equally be something of a burden - something that was bound to attract the wrong sort of attention. Still, Jonah was his boy to protect, and he would take down anyone who threatened or hurt either Jonah or Simon without thinking twice about it. It was the same kind of all-encompassing protectiveness that he’d always felt towards Sam.

The thought of Sam made his chest tighten up and his stomach lurch. He swallowed it back, the taste of bile and acid and sour white wine scalding the back of his throat. He couldn’t - not yet - he couldn’t think about Sam. He spared another glance for his two boys, the overwhelming love for them suddenly settling so heavily on him that he wanted to cry with it, and he knew that he was behaving like his father, like Dad had been at his worst moments.

He shut his eyes, remembering vividly the one time he’d woken up to see Dad sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of his and Sammy’s room, six-year old Sammy held tightly in Dad’s arms while Dad had rocked and sobbed, his face buried in Sammy’s messy hair, wailing out Sammy’s and Mom’s names, crying out how much he’d loved them - his boys, his wife - while Sammy had trembled in his embrace, mutely pleading with wide, scared eyes for Dean to rescue him from this strange, frightening man they’d called a father. Dad had loved them, Dean knew that, but Dad had been so broken, he’d never been able to truly be a father towards them, just as Mom had never been able to be a mother to them. That evil sonofabitch had seen to that, he had stolen their father from him and Sam just as completely as it had stolen their mother.

“I told you everything was okay,” Jess commented when he finally withdrew to the kitchen again. Her tone was recriminatory, sort of mulish and it didn’t suit her, sounded way too much like how she’d sounded in the days before she’d finally left him.

He shrugged and picked up his wine glass, sliding back onto the chair, draining his glass in one gulp. He watched her silently refill both their glasses, the enormous diamond on her left hand glinting like it was part of the credit sequence to one of those old James Bond movies.

“So, uh, how’s the wedding planning coming along?” he asked, breaking the awkward silence.

She sighed and gave a self-conscious roll of her eyes. “Okay, it’s all done, practically. We’ve booked the cars, my dress is ready, caterers booked ages ago. It’s all taken care of.”

“Wow, gotta be, like, - what - four, five months to the big day?”

“More like two,” she answered.

“Two, shit. That’s really gone by fast. So, have you ordered food and flowers and all that sort of stuff?”

She sighed and gave him a dubious look, “Dean, c’mon, you haven’t come here to talk about the arrangements for my wedding. I have very clear memories of you barely even wanting to talk about the arrangements for our wedding.”

He huffed out a sardonic sort of a laugh and her own lip curled up in wry amusement. That was the thing about Jess, she tried so hard to hold a grudge, to appear strong and unwieldy, but she always gave in, unable to prevent herself - at least with him.

“So, are you going to tell me what you and Sam fought about this time?” she said after a moment.

“What makes you think Sam and I have been fighting?” he retorted defensively. The last thing, the absolute very last thing he wanted to do right now was talk about Sam. It was to get away from Sam, from all thoughts of his brother that he was here now, having this supremely awkward tete-a-tete with his ex wife.

“Oh, come on, Dean. You always get like this after a fight with Sam.”

“Like what?”

“Like, you don’t know what to do with yourself, like you’ve lost your true north.”

“Huh, what?” He very nearly spat a mouthful of wine back into the glass. “What kinda lame shit is that?”

She gave him a cool, knowing sort of look and tapped her enormous ring against the side of her glass. “It’s something Jeff told me about. He talks about it with his patients, and well -I think it makes sense. You see: everybody has someone who they look to for advice, who keeps them going, who’s their immediate go-to person as soon as they need anything, the person they share everything with, the first person they call when they get bad news or good news or any kind of news. For most people - it’s their partner, their husband or wife or girlfriend or boyfriend, whatever. For you, it’s Sam, it’s always been Sam. That person is your true north.”

Dean didn’t say anything, taking in her words. Put like that, it was kinda difficult to argue with her: Sam was the person who he went to for advice, they always made decisions together; Sam was the person he called during work when he was bored. It was him and Sam against the world, it always had been.

“I never really got that,” Jess continued. He blinked, and she smiled back at him, a brittle, rueful twitch of her lips. “About you and Sam - I thought that would change when we got married, that I’d be that person for you, but I wasn’t.”

She trailed off and they both fell silent. He didn’t want to think about what she was saying to him, what it all meant. He felt too exhausted to think; his body ached all over, worse than the brutal work-out sessions his college football coach used to put them through.

“I don’t see what any of this shit has to do with tonight,” he said finally.

She shrugged. “I’m just saying - when you fight with Sam, it’s overwhelming for you, because he is your true north. When you lose that, you get lost and confused, like you don’t know what you’re doing. Sam’s just the same with you. I remember back in high school when I was dating him, whenever the two of you had a fight, he’d come over and he’d be so pathetic and bewildered that it was sort of endearing, like a lost, little boy. It wasn’t quite as endearing when you and I were married. When you marry someone, you want to be the most important person in their life, not the fifth or sixth most important, after their kids, their brother, their job and their car.” She raised her eyebrows, her mouth twisting up in a way that made her look suddenly quite bitter.

“I, Jess -“ he mumbled.

“Whatever,” she said airily, waving one hand between them, that damned enormous ring flashing again like a sparkler on the 4th of July, “I’m over it now. I’m getting married in two months. You and I are old history.”

There was an awkward, heavy sort of a pause, and he bit his lip, wished suddenly that he’d crashed in on Jeannie and Steve, hell, even Bobby; he shouldn’t be here right now, gate-crashing Jess’s time with the boys. She’d already put up with enough of his shit over the years.

He pushed his wine glass away, but made no effort to get to his feet. “I should go.”

“You shouldn’t drive,” she told him.

“I’ve driven in a way worse state than this, and it’s not far.”

“Exactly. You should walk. Leave me the keys; I can bring the car back tomorrow when I drop the boys off. Seriously, Dean, listen to me. You’re a cop; it won’t look good if you end up with a DUI.”

“S’not like any of the guys would actually book me for it.” He thumped his chest with the edge of his fist, pulling a ridiculous face. “Solidarity, yo.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. I’m supposed to have confidence in our county’s finest.”

“Hey, I’m pretty damn fine. Or so they tell me.” The line came out instinctively as did the accompanying look,: one corner of his mouth turned up into his most endearing smile, his lashes half-lowered, eyes lidded.

She glanced at him as if she wasn’t sure what to say, the silence getting heavy and loaded between them. He saw her eyelashes flutter, the telltale ripple of her throat. He knew Jess, he knew how she worked, and he knew what worked on her. There was a part of the two of them that had always been hard-wired towards each other. He edged his hand over the table top, fingers brushing up against her long tan arm; he smoothed one finger against the soft skin, watching the fine blond hairs spark up in its wake.

“Dean, what are you doing?” she whispered, her voice cracking over the words, tone low and unsteady.

He looked up at her, widening his eyes, mouth slipping upwards into a warm, wicked smile. “C’mon, Jess, you and me - we were always so good together. Don’t you want that again, just for one night? God, ‘cause I do, I really fucking do.”

She swallowed, the fingers of her other hand flexing around the stem of her glass. Her eyes were still downcast, as if she was trying to read something in the grain of the wood, not daring to look up and see him. He slid his other hand over the table and rested it over her left hand, the huge diamond pressing into the skin of his palm. He entwined their fingers together and squeezed gently.

“Just one time, that’s all I’m talking about, just one time, nothing serious,” he coaxed. He could feel his cock stirring in his jeans, and he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. This was familiar, this was nothing like sordid blowjobs in a gay bar with a dude, this was nothing like disturbing fantasies about Sam, this was him and Jess and the awesome sex they’d always had together, the way they’d always been able to drive each other crazy, her long gorgeous legs wrapped around his waist, her amazing tits cupped in his hands -

God, it was so familiar, so easy, he wanted that again.

It felt like an age before she finally raised her head, lip caught between her teeth as she met his gaze. Slowly, she shook her head, withdrawing her hand from his grasp. “No,” she said, but there was definite reluctance in her voice. “I can’t do that to Jeff. We’re getting married in two months.”

He nodded his head. In a way, he’d pretty much expected that answer, would’ve been weirdly disappointed in her if she’d given in so easily to him. Jess was classy; she had integrity, it was one of the many things that had made both him and Sam fall for her.

“Okay,” he raised his hand, passed it over his face. “I, uh, I hope you’re not offended. I know I shouldn’t’ve -“

“Dean, it’s okay,” she said, and her tone was gentle, understanding. She reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. “You’re right, me and you - it was pretty damn amazing most of the time, and I can’t pretend like I don’t think about it, that I don’t remember how it was, and sometimes wish that we could do it again.” She gave a half-shrug. “But I love Jeff and well, you’ll find someone.”

“Right, sure, ‘cause I’ve got such a great track record?” he snapped out, tone gone bitter. “And, oh yeah, my brother is my true north.”

She shrugged off the sarcasm. “Maybe you’ll find a girl who doesn’t mind being second best. You never know, it might happen. Maybe Sam will find someone else, someone who will finally replace his big brother in his life.”

Her tone was joking, light, but the words immediately made Dean’s blood run cold. He pulled his hand from her grasp and got up from the table with a jerk.

“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll, uh, I’ll leave the car. You’re right, I don’t wanna get wrapped around a tree, would be fuckin’ hypocritical.”

She got to her feet, a worried expression immediately ghosting across her face, her nose wrinkling. “Dean -“

He spun around, “It’s okay, Jess. I’m okay. And I’m sorry about before, I should never have - I mean, you’re engaged and we’re divorced. Jesus, I suck, I know I suck. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

“It’s - okay,” she said, her frown deepening.

“I can let myself out!” he called out as for the second time that evening, he fled from a room.

On to Interlude Two