#bobbyjohn

It was better to sleep with hookers. At least hookers kissed when he asked them to. They didn't just jack him off without looking him in the eye. A hooker would clean John’s load off his stomach, not hand him a facecloth and let him take care of it himself.

But hookers didn’t fall asleep next to John and stay there all night, either. After twenty years of sharing motel rooms with his boys, John didn't sleep right unless he heard someone else breathing. Hell, even with Dean, John rarely stayed asleep for longer than an hour or two. Next to Bobby? He was out cold until morning.

Bobby woke up damn early. John gave up on sneaking out before him a long time ago. Instead, he slept as late as his body let him, then took a long, hot shower. That gave Bobby enough time to get out in the junkyard before John came downstairs. Bobby wasn’t completely impersonal—he always left out a pot of coffee, and sometimes a few strips of bacon or a plate of toast—but he knew better than to talk after that kind of night.

There were worse things for John to do. There were other mistakes that he was trying to avoid. Bobby was a man, at least, a real, honest-to-God man, not a twenty-four-year-old kid. He was grown enough to deal with the consequences of his actions. John was trying to break some bad habits. If he wanted to stay sane, he’d keep this one.

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The Winchesters passed through the Bay Area when Sam was a kid. They stayed in a shitty motel in San Jose, and Dad went to the bar across the street every night. He left the name of the bar—Ted’s—and its phone number on the refrigerator, just in case. “Hunters drop by the place sometimes,” Dad said, “so use my real name.”

They never called. Sam was ten by then, old enough to know there was no point in bothering him. If he needed something, it was better to ask Dean. If Dean couldn’t take care of it, John sure as hell wouldn’t.

Still, when Sam arrived at Stanford, he remembered the name. It wasn’t too much trouble to get a train down to San Jose. When he was homesick enough to contemplate calling Dean, Ted's was the easier cure.

Sam’s college friends sometimes hung out in dives, but not like this. The dives in Palo Alto at least occasionally saw rags and mops. Ted’s was forgotten about by everyone except for hunters and a handful of alcoholics, and there was barely a difference between the two. Every man inside looked like a police sketch of Dean. They wore ragged flannels, drank bottled Coors, and paid in cash.

None of them were as straight as they looked. If Sam paid for one guy’s beer and threw him a look on the way into the bathroom, he’d be on his knees in front of Sam a minute later. Somehow, the butchest ones were always the most willing.

It was never quite right. Their lips were too rough, or their hair was too shaggy under Sam’s fingers. Even if Sam closed his eyes, he couldn’t pretend he was buried in his brother’s throat. Even aside from that, the head was crappy. The bathroom locks were broken, so the guys always rushed, and half the time, they spit his load out on the bathroom floor. By the time Sam had himself tucked back away, they were already back at the bar.

It didn’t matter. Sam didn’t come to get sucked off—he came for the smell. It soaked deep into whatever shirt he wore and lingered for days. That mixture of sweat, cigarette smoke, and cheap beer was the closest thing to home Sam had ever known. A quick blowjob in a barstall could never fill the emptiness in Sam’s stomach, not when he ached for car rides and motel rooms shared with his brother. Burying his face in Dean’s scent and fucking his own hand wasn’t a perfect substitute, but it came a hell of a lot closer.

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Dean was taking home a chick tonight. That was for sure. Fucking men was always a mistake.

Pussy was easier to get, anyway. Dean needed to hang around the right places to attract men. Unless Dean wanted to go to a spot in the middle of a city covered in rainbows, the only bars to pick up guys were ones where his feet stuck to the floor and the felt on the billiards tables was wearing thin. No one there had money to lose on pool.

The real problem was that hunters liked those joints. They all looked for the seediest bars they could find. Each and every one would claim it was to stay under the radar, but Dean knew better. A lot more of them sucked cock than would admit to it.

That was just one of the many reasons he stopped screwing men. Too many of them shared his line of work. It was too hard to solve a case with someone when all Dean could think about was the way his cock felt from the inside.

Girls were nice. Girls were simple. They were easy to impress. Most men barely even grunted when Dean went down on them, but it only took two minutes of muff-diving for a girl to start squealing. Besides, guys just wanted to come and go. Dean was lucky to keep a man in his bed for longer than fifteen minutes. Girls didn’t mind spending a half hour making out before anyone’s pants even came off.

Well. That was true of the guys Dean hooked up with those days, anyway. Dean used to spend entire days shut in motel rooms drawing entire symphonies out of two particular men, but that was all over now. They both decided it was best to cut things off. Of course, they never asked Dean what he thought

Sam and Dad had better things to do than sex. They had degrees to earn and abominations to kill. Dean was the only one with no place to be on a Wednesday night besides a shitty dive. Dean tried to seek out classier joints, he really did, but the second he walked through their doors, he found flickering lights and “cash only” signs. This place was no exception. The only chick in the entire place was old enough to be his mom. Dean would get laughed out of the building for even trying with her. The guys looked like they would punch Dean if he dared make a pass at them.

Dean was right. He wasn’t picking up a guy that night—he wasn’t picking up anyone at all. He was once again doomed to sitting at the bar and drink until he couldn’t keep it up if he tried.

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