chava ꕥ

At some point, Dean and you always disappear to somewhere. Dean makes sure to park his little brother near the book store in town or the diner, or somewhere he can stay, isn’t too stranded. Then he takes your hand, out there for everyone to see, and the two of you walk or drive away. 

Sometimes you’re outside where no one can see. Dean lays out a blanket, and that’s where you have sex, under the open sky, invisible and yet anyone could walk by. It feels sinful and forbidden, and you almost wish someone would catch you - would witness what you have now. What you’ve gained.

Other times, it’s in the Impala, hungrily dragging at each other, never enough room to move, heads and elbows and heels bumping against leather and metal. It makes you feel endlessly alive, sounds loud in the interior, laughter and hands held over hurt body parts. You accidentally knee Dean in the groin once, and after apologizing profusely you offer to kiss it better. He doesn’t complain much after that.

When you do some work for Bobby, Dean always shows up eventually, pretending it's a coincidence, and sometimes Bobby needs to leave or take care of something and you race up the stairs, Dean pinning you against the hallway wall, hands pushed under your shirt. A few times, the two of you get so desperate for each other that you do it right there, the floor hard and dusty and uncomfortable under you but you couldn’t care less. So long as you can touch and feel Dean, none of it matters. 

He holds your hand when you’re walking through town, puts his arm around you every chance he gets. It’s not without its risks, and you know someone from your church could see you, tell your grandfather, tell your mother. You almost wish they would, would confront you there in the middle of the street, threaten you with eternal hellfire. You’d spit at them and laugh, and they’d call you crazy, say the devil got into you. 

Maybe he did. But you don’t care. 

Sam gets quieter, more careful around you. Dean says he suspects his little brother has a crush on you, so you’re extra nice to Sam. Bring him books from Bobby’s you think he’ll like, offer him the passenger seat when the three of you are going somewhere. 

Sam can’t help himself but enjoy the attention. You take him to the wide dirt road behind your house, practice driving with him. Dean’s already been doing it, and sometimes he comes with you but a few times you take Sam on his own. He’s not bad, although he always steps on the break too hard, making you rock back and forth. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says every time, and you tell him it’s fine, that he’s doing a good job. He gives you a shy smile then, blushing a little. You love him with all your heart. 

On one of those days, you bring cans of soda, a bag of his favorite chips. The two of you sit on the hood of the car, staring off across the wide fields. You’re secretly thinking of Dean.

“Do you think you and Dean are gonna get married?” Sam asks. You blink, clear your throat. Sam’s not looking at you, is staring straight ahead. His face is still round, but you can see the first harsh lines of manhood forming. His jaw and neck are starting to be long and sharp. 

You open your mouth to answer, then close it again. Take a sip of your soda to give yourself time to answer. 

Once or twice you’ve imagined it. Dean and you in a pretty house with a gaggle of children. You like it, but also something about it makes your stomach feel funny. Thinking beyond this summer, beyond the moment, there’s something terrifying about it. Like the picture you’re conjuring up is just out of focus. Anytime you do imagine it, you can’t help the house you and Dean live in turning into your own, or your grandfather’s. You don’t know how to stop it from doing that.

“I don’t know,” you settle on, because it’s as close to the truth as you can get. “Has Dean… I mean, has he said anything like that?”

Another image - Dean proposing to you just as he and his family are about to leave. Finally taking you with him. You shake your head to dislodge it. 

“No,” Sam says, and you feel a pang of something, “but I know he’s never had a girlfriend that lasted as long as you. Plus we’ve known you all our lives. I guess it would make sense.”

You nod slowly, studying Sam. He’s leaned forward, spine crooked. You lick some salt off your lips, shift around towards him. The way he’s looking away from you, so intentionally, like he needs to remind his whole body to do it. You can’t help but smile a little.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” you say, "wherever he and I end up going, you’re coming with us.”

You watch as Sam blinks, then blinks again, and finally turns to you, his mouth in an o-shape, his eyebrows going high. He’s so expressive. You grin at him.

“Unless you’re really sick of us?” you ask, grimacing, but Sam’s already shaking his head.

“No,” he says, that familiar blush appearing on his neck where it’s bare, tanned from the sun. “No, I… that sounds nice.” You nod, and Sam nods too, and then the two of you look off into the distance again. 

Sam being around. It makes whatever is going to happen feel less unfamiliar.

There’s a weekend when summer is just beginning to turn into fall where Bobby needs to go out of town for a few days. Dean and you basically move into his house, fall over yourselves trying to get to each other, to undress. This time you make it to the guest bedroom. 

Something about the freedom you feel makes you brazen, and for the first time you get on top of Dean. It feels different, and the way it gives you control has you grinding roughly down on him, chasing pleasure. Your hands are on his chest to steady yourself, fingernails digging into his skin, while one of his hands is on your hip, the other shoved between your bodies, rubbing you. You are feeling higher than you ever have before, sweat freely running down your body in the stuffy room. No need to keep quiet, Dean staring up at you as if you are holy. He can see all of your body this way, no way to hide yourself. 

The bubble of pressure inside you is so immense that you think you’ll die when it bursts. Finally your body contracts and you fall forward, keening against Dean’s neck as pleasure explodes in you from your scalp to your toes. 

Dean’s arms shoot around you, holding you close, and one hand he buries in your hair, grabbing it, as your lower body keeps moving almost on its own accord, still riding Dean to drag all out of the feeling he is giving you, and he grunts against you as he comes as well, the sounds close to your ear like a beautiful melody, his hands gripping your hair, the pull perfect in your skull. 

You lie like this for a long time, the peace and quiet that’s washed over you making you feel like you’re wrapped in a blanket of lead. Dean stirs after a few minutes and you move as well, lift your head to look into his face. Dean pulls you in for the most gentle kiss you’ve ever gotten. Some emotion tugs at you, so strong and intense it feels like it's going to wash you away.

He pulls his face back again, looks at you. He doesn’t say anything for a while, and then he swallows. 

“What?” you say, a smile in your voice. Dean shakes his head a little. 

“Where have you been?” he says, and you’re not sure you understand. 

“Right here,” you say, because it’s the truth. 

Dean moves again, and you roll off him, let him slip out of you. He turns, takes the condom off himself, tying a knot into it, dropping it on the window sill, then moves so that he’s turned towards you. He brings up one hand, brushes your hair behind your ear. 

“I think we should sleep here tonight,” he says. “I don’t wanna drive back.” You nod. 

“Yeah, me neither,” you answer. You bring your hand up, stroke your fingers along his side, feeling shy suddenly. “We could, uhm. We could fall asleep together. And wake up next to each other. That’d be nice.” You look at Dean’s face, wondering how he’ll react. He grins at you.

“Always wanted to make a girl come first thing in the morning,” he says and you slap his shoulder, but can’t help but laugh. You roll towards him, then groan.

“Wait,” you say, “there’s another revival tomorrow morning.”

Dean groans too. He’s almost as annoyed at your churchly duties as you are, but it pays and you hope that it keeps you and your mother in good graces with them. That way, when you disappear once you turn eighteen, they will take care of her, you hope. 

“But, but, but, you can still make me come in the morning,” you say, rolling against Dean, making him laugh. “I’ll go there and then come straight back.” Dean shakes his head. 

“I think my dad will be there,” he says, then extends his arm, opening it for you and you cuddle against him. “So Sam and I will probably be there anyway.” 

“Even better,” you say against his chest. “But we have to behave, or my grandfather might kill me.” 

Dean huffs, then moves his hand, lets his fingertips run over your ribs. You giggle at the touch, and Dean wraps you up in both arms. You’re both quiet for a while. You’re just enjoying the feeling of Dean’s skin against yours, while he tugs a strand of your hair between his fingers, plays with it. 

“Can I ask you something?” he says into the silence, and you nod against him. “Your grandfather. When you were living with him, did he ever beat you?”

You feel yourself tense. Dean’s referring to the years you and your mother lived with your grandfather before moving into the house you live in now. His country house, with large windows and more rooms than you can count. The one with your bedroom with the horses on the wallpaper. You had a dollhouse there that was almost as tall as you. You remember the narrow bed. The floorboard right when you came in the door, that creaked when you stepped on it. That sounded louder the heavier the person stepping on it was. That sounded so different when you stepped on it than when your grandfather stepped on it. 

“No,” you answer. “Not me. Pretty sure he beat his kids, but never me.”  You feel Dean nod, and he’s quiet again. You don’t understand why he’s asking these things. 

“Did he…” Dean starts, then pauses, then starts up again. “Did he ever do anything else to you?” You can hear the rush of your blood in your ears. Can hear your heartbeat. 

“Why do you ask?” you say, voice quiet. You hear Dean run his hand over his face. 

“You just… you act kinda strange around him,” he says. Of course you act differently around him, you’re terrified of him. You look at Dean’s shoulder, because it’s easier than looking at his face. Focus on a group of freckles there, their shapes, the way they are arranged. Like someone put them there on purpose.

“He came into my bedroom sometimes,” you say, and your own voice sounds far away. Dean is holding his breath. “I don’t remember much of it.”

Dean exhales, shallowly, and you quickly add: “He didn’t… rape me or anything.” Dean’s hand lands on your shoulder, just warming the skin there. 

“What did he do?” he asks. 

There’s a dead fly on the windowsill, you see, just beyond Dean’s shoulder and the three freckles. Lying on its back, almost comically, the condom wrapper Dean tossed there in his hurry to get to you lying next to it creating an abstract picture. You wonder if all flies lie on their back when they die, or if some of them die on their legs. 

“He touched me,” you say, and it’s like you’re slowly falling into the picture of the dead fly and the wrapper. Falling, falling, and there is no bottom. “My ass, or sometimes my face. My lips. And then he’d touch himself.”

Dean’s fingers are drawing circles on your shoulder, and the repetitiveness of the movement helps you focus. 

“He’d do that for a while and then sometimes he’d take my hand in his and made me touch him,” you continue. There’s a twitch on your hand, so you watch your hand instead of the dead fly. 

“It stopped when we moved out,” you continue, and you hear that your own tone is flat. “I thought for a long time that it hadn’t happened, that maybe I imagined or dreamed it, but… I’m pretty sure it did happen.” Dean takes a deep breath, his expanding chest moving your head. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” he says. Your head shoots up to look at him, and Dean’s frowning, the corners of his mouth are pulled down. 

“No, Dean,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s done, it’s in the past.”

“He should be in prison,” Dean continues and his voice is raspy. “Or, or, no, better yet, in an unmarked grave.” 

“Dean,” you say, and finally he seems to hear you, focuses on you. 

“I just want to leave, okay? Get away from here,” you say. He chews his lip while he looks at you. 

“But–” he says, but you interrupt him.

“It’s not yours, Dean, it’s mine,” you add and he blinks a few times. Then you feel his hand on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, voice low. You nod. 

“It’s okay,” you reply. He moves to kiss you, but then his eyes suddenly shoot up, as he looks behind you, towards the end of the room where the door is. 

“What the fuck!?” he says and you whip your head around, expecting it to be Bobby being home earlier, or even John, the thought that Dean’s father might catch you corrupting his son both terrifying and a little thrilling. It’s neither. 

Through a small gap in the door that you definitely closed, you see dark, fluffy hair and even darker eyes. Long throat, bouncing Adam’s apple visible even from the bed. 

Sam is frozen for a second, his eyes going wide, and then he runs off. You can hear his footsteps all the way down the stairs, then hear the front door slam. Dean huffs but you can’t help but laugh, and soon he joins in. 

“Fucking little pervert,” he mutters, shaking his head, before he pulls you against himself. 

For the revival the next morning, Dean wears a crisp white shirt, and when he finds you after the service, you shamelessly check him out as you walk along the lawn, away from the crowd. 

You want to hold his hand, but it’s one thing doing it in town, another to do it here. There’s still part of you that wants the provocation, craves it, but it’s nice also to just bump your arm against his, which makes him grin. 

“Your dad hear anything new about his case?” you ask, and Dean shakes his head. John is working on a series of suspicious murders in the county. As much as you know it’s wrong to hope that he doesn’t find the murderer, once he does, it means he and his sons will likely move on again. So no news is good news. 

“I wish you could just stay here when he’s done,” you say, even though you know it’s useless. Dean looks up, the sun shining into his eyes, grimaces. 

“He needs me,” he says, voice low, not looking at you. You quickly grab his thumb, squeeze it once. An apology for bringing up the topic. 

You’ve had this talk a thousand times, it feels like. Dean is still staunchly against you joining him and his father, and the more you get to know about John Winchester, the more you understand. Dean loves his father, reveres him, but you’ve also seen how different he is around him. How he keeps his head down, eyes lowered. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t want you to see him like that. 

You’ve suggested that Dean stay in Sioux Falls, or that the two of you run away together. It sounds more adventurous than it is - he’s nineteen, you’ll be eighteen soon enough. But you know Dean would never leave Sam behind. That’s how you explain his reluctance, the way he tenses every time the topic comes up. Because it’s nicer than believing he is seeing this as some sort of fling.

“I’m all he has,” he said about Sam once, and you couldn’t help but hold him close, kiss him. A little boy taking care of another little boy. Dean might be a man now and Sam’s gonna be taller than you any day, but in a way, it still applies. 

“Bobby’s back but we could meet in the woods tonight,” you say, changing the topic. Dean nods. 

“I’ll bring the blanket,” he says and you chuckle a little.

“So considerate,” you say, making Dean laugh. 

“Anything for my girl,” he replies, looking into your eyes. 

You barely have time to bask in his words, when suddenly there is a commotion behind you. You both turn, squinting in the late summer sun to see what is happening. Some people are standing in a group, and someone’s shouting. As one, you and Dean start walking towards the group, hurrying. Dean sees what is going on before you. 

“Sammy!” he calls. You come closer, press through the line of people and your breathing stops. 

In the middle of the crowd are Sam and your grandfather, and the slap your grandfather lands on Sam’s cheek in that very second is so loud you’re sure you’ll hear it ringing in your ears for the rest of your life.

You are rushing forward before you know what’s happening and you shove your grandfather once you’re close enough without thinking about it, just wanting him away from Sam as quickly as possible. You can’t move him, he’s too big for that, and a second later you’re sure your hands will fall right off. But you get yourself between him and Sam. Your grandfather is bleeding, you notice distantly, a cut on his lower lip. 

“Get the fuck away from him!” you hiss, and it stills the old man as he looks down at you, surprise on his face. Dean is coming up behind you a second later, and you turn to see him grabbing Sam by the shoulders. 

“Are you okay?” he asks him while you continue to stare down your grandfather. You’re not sure if or what Sam responds, because Dean is next to you just a moment later. There is rage on him the likes of which you’ve never seen before and it ignites something in you, something deep and burning. 

Dean opens his mouth, but just then the crowd parts across from you, and John Winchester pushes his way through. 

“What the hell is going on?” he asks, voice loud and deep, surveying the picture before him. Your grandfather turns to him. 

“Your son attacked me,” he responds, indicating his lip. 

You blink. Sam? Sam attacked your grandfather? 

“I was teaching him a lesson,” your grandfather continues. A lesson. Sam’s red cheek is a lesson. It makes you fume even more. 

John is quiet for a second, and you wonder if, for once, his anger will be directed at the right person. If for once an adult will stand up for Sam and Dean and you. But John simply raises his chin. 

“I’ll take care of this,” he says, then he nods at his sons. “Car.” 

You’re frozen in place, but then Dean grabs your hand and drags you along, the other one going around Sam’s arm. He takes you both away, silent parishioners turning and staring after you. The three of you don’t speak until there’s the crunch of the parking lot gravel under your feet. Only then Dean suddenly stops, turns his head back. His father’s nowhere in sight. 

“I should go back,” he says, forehead knotted. “See if I can help.” 

He looks at Sam, who’s staring at the ground. His cheek is red and looks like someone pressed a hot pan against it. You think of your grandfather’s big hands, the damage they can do. Have done. You move closer to Dean and take his face in your hands. 

“I’ll get Sam to your place,” you say. “You look for your dad.” Dean’s undecided for a second, but then he nods. 

“Thank you,” he says, then gives you a quick kiss. 

“Come on, Sam,” you say and placing a hand on his back, lead him towards your car. He follows along without a complaint, still not talking. You look back, see Dean striding off back towards the tent. 

In the car, Sam is still quiet. He’s looking down, face stoic, thick hair hanging over his forehead.

“Why did you do that, Sam?” you ask as you shove the key in the ignition, and he doesn’t answer. You think there’s tears in his eyes but you’re not sure. He sniffs. You extend your hand and lay it on his where it’s in his lap. He doesn’t react. You pull it back and start the engine.

The three Winchesters have been renting a small two-bedroom apartment over a barber shop in town. You park the car in front of the building, and Sam and you walk up the stairs. He takes out his key, unlocks the door and then you’re both inside. 

You haven’t been in here before, and for a second, it’s almost thrilling. To think that this is where Dean sleeps, lives, spends his time, however little of it. But then you see the state of the place and your heart drops. 

It’s filthy. There’s the smell of old food. Empty liquor bottles standing near an armchair that’s across from the TV, yellowed maps and documents tacked to the wall. Your arms go around you as you look around. The wallpaper is peeling. They’ve only lived here for a few months so some of the disarray and filth must be from the previous tenant, but still. It horrifies you. You think of your clean house, your airy bedroom. You had no idea. 

Sam sits down on the brown two-seater, his head still hanging low. After a second, you sit down beside him. 

“Let me see?” you say. Sam doesn’t move for a moment, then raises his head, but he’s still not looking at you. There’s no wound, no cut, but you can tell your grandfather didn’t hold back when he slapped him. 

“We should put some ice on that,” you say, Sam’s eyes still looking away from you, still off to the side like he’s defying you.

You let go of him, get up. Walk into the kitchen. There’s a towel you hope is somewhat clean and you open the refrigerator, look for ice. Cans of beer, a greasy carton of pizza. Ice cubes in the little freezer compartment and you grab some, your fingers quickly going numb at the cold, bunch them up in the towel.

You walk back over to Sam, sit in the same spot. Sam’s not moving, so you get your index finger under his chin, move his head so you can gently press the cold towel against the skin under his eye. Sam grimaces at the cold, and maybe the pain.

“Why?” you ask again. Sam swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing and then he looks at you. His eyes are wet, you see, making them look even darker. 

“Because he hurt you,” he says. You take a sharp breath. 

“What are you talking about, Sam?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. Sam looks into your eyes, his eyebrows twitching, his lips moving a little without any words coming out.

“I… I heard you and Dean, yesterday,” he says, and a violent blush goes over his face. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, or—or watch you or anything. I was looking for you ‘cause I wanted to ask if you wanted to watch a movie.” You drop your hand that was holding Sam’s chin. He looks at your face, and he looks worried. Worried that you’ll be mad at him, maybe. 

“And I could tell that you two were, like, in bed,” Sam says, the blush spreading to his ears. “And I was leaving, I was gonna leave, but then I heard you, and what you said about him, and…” He looks away, embarrassed. You lower the hand holding the towel.

“So you punched him?” you ask, unbelieving. Sam presses his lips together for a second. 

“Yes,” he finally says and then he looks into your eyes, and you’ve never seen him this serious. 

“I’d kill anyone who tries to hurt you,” he says, his voice low. 

You feel your lip tremble, look at the boy in front of you. Quiet, shy, bookish Sam who becomes nervous when you so much as look at him. And he decided to take on your grandfather, patriarch, leader, almost two heads taller than him. 

“Sam,” you say, and your voice sounds thick. But Sam isn’t deterred. 

“I know you’re Dean’s girlfriend or whatever, but, but—” he stutters, and then he leans forward and presses his lips to yours. 

It’s barely a kiss. He has his lips pressed together tightly and he pulls back after what must be two seconds. He looks shocked at himself. 

You open your mouth to say something, anything, tell him you love him but not like that, that he is too young, that you don’t think about him that way, that no one has ever stood up for you like that, that even though you told Dean not to make a scene, Sam’s actions move you so deeply that you become almost dizzy. That you wouldn’t even have known how to ask for this, this thing he’s done, because you didn’t know it was possible for anyone to care like this.

But then the door flies open behind you and John and Dean stride in. They are mid-argument. 

“You were supposed to watch him!” John is barking, and his voice is so loud and rough that you flinch. “How fucking hard is that, Dean?” 

Dean’s jaw is tensed, and he’s not looking at John’s face, instead keeping his eyeline to his father’s shoulder and lower. 

“Yes, sir,” he mutters and you’ve never heard him speak so quietly, so carefully. You’ve never seen him this scared. John’s breathing hard, and then he notices you and Sam on the couch. He looks at you for a moment, and you wonder if he’s about to yell at you too. 

“You should leave,” he says, voice calmer but eerily so. 

You don’t want to leave. You do, but you don’t want to leave Sam and Dean here with this man, with this rage. You want to grab them and run away with them, as far as you can, and never look back.

 But Dean catches your eye and gives a terse nod. You swallow, and then slowly get up. You throw Sam another look, but he’s also looking down, so you have no choice but to walk past John and Dean and out the door. You walk down the stairs, feeling unsure on your legs, the hot air outside making your skin feel like it’s blistering.

When you sit in your car you put your hands on the steering wheel. They’re shaking. You should go back. Grab them and flee. It’s nonsense, an irrational thought, but yet every cell in your body is screaming with it. You take a deep breath, slowly exhale. Throw another look up at the apartment door. Then you start your car and leave. 

You sit by the phone until the sun goes down. You’re anxious, chewing your nails, your leg jiggling to expel some of your energy. Nobody calls the house. You wonder what they’re talking about, the people who saw Sam Winchester attack your grandfather, saw Dean Winchester hold your hand. You wonder what they think of you, and the small, surviving part of you that still wants to keep up appearances, that morsel you haven’t managed to kill yet, is terrified, while the rest of you is terrified for the boys you love. It makes you feel sick to your stomach, thinking of them.

The phone rings and you flinch so violently that it’s painful. You pick up before the second ring. 

“Hello?” you say. 

“I’ll be at your house in ten minutes,” Dean’s voice says. 

Dean, coming to your house. He hasn’t been here in years. You realize it doesn’t matter. Your mother probably wouldn’t even recognize him, and the live-in carer doesn’t give a shit what you do. You nod. 

“Okay,” you say, and then Dean hangs up. 

You walk outside and wait for him there, because inside has become too oppressive. It’s the longest ten minutes of your life, and then you hear the Impala before you see it. It’s dark and the headlights blind you before Dean turns them off. 

He gets out of the car, walks around it and towards you. His arms are around you before you even get a good look at him. You hug him back, hold him so close it becomes difficult to breathe. 

When you finally lean back to look at him you gasp. The area around his eye is swollen, and there’s an angry bruise on his chin. You reach your hand out, touch his cheek. He winces, but doesn’t stop you. 

“Dean,” you say and he shakes his head. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice shaky. “Look, you need to listen to me—” 

“Is Sam okay?” you ask, sudden worry for his brother making you nauseous. 

“Yes,” Dean answers. “He’s freaked out and feels guilty. I thought John was never gonna stop screaming at him.” 

John. You wonder at that, why he calls him by his first name, but then Dean starts talking again. 

“He’s making us leave, tonight,” he says. 

Your brain is slow on the up-take, and then desperation washes over you. 

“No, no, no,” you say and your voice is whiny. 

“He says the case is a bust,” Dean explains, “and that we should have moved on a long time ago.” You press your face against Dean’s neck, hug him close. 

“No, Dean, please,” you say, and already tears are in your eyes, threatening to fall. “I don’t want you to leave.” You hear Dean’s slow exhale to control himself, but he falters. Instead, he wraps his arms around you. 

“I don’t want to leave either,” he says and then he makes a frustrated sound. “Fuck, I don’t want to leave you.” 

You look up at him, at his beautiful, bruised face. You almost ask him to stay, almost ask him again to take you with him, even though that is not in the cards, now less than ever before. You could go through the entire spiel again, but it wouldn’t matter. So instead you say the only thing you can say. 

“I love you.” 

Dean is quiet as he looks at your face, into your eyes. 

“I love you too,” he says, and then he presses his lips together, pushes his forehead against yours. 

“I don’t wanna go,” he says and his voice is thick with emotion. 

You stand like this for a while, just touching, just being close. You try to soak him in, soak Dean in. John won’t come back to Sioux Falls, you realize with a sick twist in your stomach. He doesn’t need Bobby to watch the boys anymore, they’re old enough to be on their own, and he won’t stand the insult of facing your grandfather again. You can drive to see Dean or he can come to you, if he’s close by, but the worry that John will stay far away after being embarrassed like he was today makes your heart feel heavy. When you’re eighteen you can follow them, but still, it won’t change anything, in the end. Not while Dean has his little brother to look after. Dean squeezes his eyes shut. 

“I have to go,” he says, and it takes you everything not to scream and cry and beg him to stay. “He’s gonna be even more mad if I…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You raise your hands, hold Dean’s face in them. 

“I’ll see you soon,” you say, even though you’re not sure if it’s the truth. Dean does his best to smile, but it comes out half-hearted. He kisses you, desperately presses against you and you feel tears run down your face while he does. Dean breaks the kiss, breathing hard. 

“I have to—” he says, and you nod. 

“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s okay.” Dean looks into your eyes again. 

“I love you,” he repeats, and now you’re the one trying to smile. You fail utterly. 

“I love you too,” you respond, voice blubbering. 

Dean kisses you again and then he’s out of your arms, walking to the car. You want to sink to your knees, cry for him. But you don’t, don’t want to make this harder than it already is. You wrap your arms around yourself. 

Dean doesn’t look back at you while he gets in the car, but once he’s behind the steering wheel you can see the shadowed silhouette of his head turn. He stills a second, and you wonder if he will come back. But then he starts the car, and a second later he is pulling away. 

Once he is out of sight, you bury your face in your hands and cry harder than you ever have in your life.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

There’s not much to your name, not much you take with you. Clothes, money. A few books. The picture of your dad. A picture of you and Sam and Dean that you took a few summers ago. That’s it. It’s all you need. 

The drive is long, and you don’t want to spend money on a motel room, so you sleep in your car. It’s uncomfortable, and on the second night, a man comes up to the window, knocks on it, asks you to open up while his other hand rubs his crotch. You climb into the front seat and drive away. The next night you stick newspaper to the inside of your windows. Still, you don’t sleep well.