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July 5, 2004
It’s a warm night when Dean crawls into bed with him. Closer to early morning maybe, just starting to lighten up outside. Somewhere, an owl hoots.
It’s warm but the kid is shivering. Barely, but Deacon can feel it. He turns to him, pulls him in tight. Dean’s still in his jeans, and he smells like gravel and smoke and gasoline. Deacon puts a hand firm on his back and tucks him in under his chin, presses them together from head to toe.
Dean makes a noise then, small in the back of his throat. He hunches his shoulders, turns his head as far into Deacon as he can get it, and Deacon lets him. Feels the flutter of eyelashes against his neck, and then wetness.
He can tell Dean’s trying hard to quiet his harsh breaths. His stomach trembles with the effort. Deacon puts a hand on his head and runs his fingers through his hair, runs another hand down his back, doesn’t know for how long, until he subsides, drops off into something of a sleep. Outside, there is the buzz and whine of cicadas. A bird sounds from the big tree out front. It always does at this hour.
There’s a bruise high up on Dean’s cheekbone that wasn't there before he left. Not too big, but a deep plum purple. His eyelashes fan out to touch the top of it. What that boy gets up to.
Deacon reckons it’s some little kid ghost. He always gets like this for those. Dean told him once he doesn’t believe in heaven but if they’re scared enough, small enough, he’ll tell a ghost or a werewolf or some other such nightmare that the pearly gates are waiting for them before he sends them god knows where. The boy’s got too much heart for this line of business.
It’s getting hot how they’re pressed right up against each other but Deacon doesn’t move. Dean’s hands are still clutched tight at Deacon’s shirt. There’s a furrow in his brow that Deacon wants badly to soothe away. He looks, for all the world, like a little kid who had a nightmare.
Deacon lets himself stay, Dean’s chest rising and falling steady against his own until the window lets in pale gray light. Then he slides his arm out from under him, drops a kiss on his temple and slips away to put the coffee on. Dean will probably grouch about how he makes it too bitter, but it’s better than nothing.
Good thing he’d told the guys he wasn’t coming in today. Yesterday, Sunday, he’d covered for some of them who wanted to spend the fourth with their families. It was no hardship, he doesn’t much like fireworks and Dean was gone anyway. But if he wasn’t— Deacon can admit to himself that he’d wanted him here. The fair was in town and he’d had thought maybe— maybe. Sometimes, Deacon thinks he’s been playing hooky a lot more since the kid showed up on his doorstep. Deacon thinks it should probably bother him more. So be it.
Before he took off for this job, Dean had shown him all the newspaper clippings he’d gotten ahold of. He said it was a strange one, figured maybe some haunting that only happened every couple years or so. How he got his hands on papers from 40 odd years ago, Deacon doesn’t know. The kid’s a damn good tracker, he’ll give him that much. A damn good hunter, and Deacon always hopes it’s enough. He’s not a praying man, but— well, recently he’s stretched himself to it.
Deacon isn’t one to tell a man how to live his life, but he won’t lie— his stomach drops every time Dean gets too interested in a news article, or when his phone goes off. It feels never ending. Dean goes, gets bloodied up, comes back, god willing. Tells him stories that Deacon wishes were made up.
He puts the coffee on. It’s shaping up to be a bright, hot day. A strong breeze rattles the window above the sink, and Deacon reaches up to let it in. Looking out, he sees the long black car hugging the curb. It gleams under the morning sun, but for a spray of dried mud low on the door. The wheels are caked in it too. Must’ve been raining up in Spokane. Deacon smiles— Dean must be beside himself.
He scrubs up the pot of chili he’d made the night before, careful of the noise. Corrals the few beer bottles and bowls that have gathered on the coffee table. The dining table really only gets any use when Dean is here.
Deacon thinks about attempting pancakes, but he knows he’ll just burn them. He sticks to the basics and scrambles some eggs, toasts up some bread. The bacon’s still sizzling, smelling damn good, when the bedroom door creaks open and Dean shuffles out.
It must’ve gotten too warm in the room, Dean’s stripped to just his boxers now. The soft, worn out green ones, with the elastic loose and curling low around his hips.
His hair is going every which way. Faint lines crease his face from where he slept on Deacon’s arm. The freckles on his nose stand out stronger from the summer. He looks so young like this, bare to the morning light, his eyes soft and his mouth softer still. It surprises Deacon sometimes, how slight a figure he cuts without his big leather coat and his posturing.
No new bruises on his body as far as he can see. The one on his rib from Des Moines is yellowing out nicely. The one from Beaufort on his left calf is still a bit mottled.
Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Dean accepts the cup of coffee Deacon puts in his hand and yes, pulls a face after his first sip.
“Could stand a spoon up in this,” he says, but keeps drinking anyway.
Deacon comes up behind him, puts a hand on his warm, bare shoulder and squeezes. Presses his thumb into the back of his neck, and rubs slow and firm into the tightness of the muscle. Watches Dean soften into it. He hands him a plate, says, “Eat your food,” and settles down next to him with his coffee and his hand on Dean’s knee, thumb stroking over it slow and easy. Bit by bit, Dean’s shoulders loosen.
Dean doesn’t talk and Deacon doesn’t make him. He aches to get his hands on him, but no. Not yet. He’s a patient man, though with this boy, it’s a hard thing sometimes.
“The kitchen cooked up hotdogs for the guys yesterday,” Deacon mentions as Dean butters up his toast.
“Oh good,” Dean says.
Deacon hums. “I’m just glad they didn’t play the anthem over the speakers like last year. The guys weren’t too happy about the home of the free part.”
“I’ll bet,” Dean grunts, crunching on his bacon.
Sunlight streams into the kitchen, warming up the wood of their little dining table and sloping over Dean’s bare back. His freckles are gold against the pale flex of his shoulders. Dean’s filled out in the time he’s been here and Deacon is glad for it. His stomach is softer and his cheeks don’t have their gauntness anymore. The tightness around his eyes now replaced by faint crow’s feet. He keeps busy when he’s here too, fixed just about every damn thing around the place, and built a deck out back to boot. Deacon usually watches him when he’s on one of his projects, likes to sit on the porch as Dean fiddles around with his daddy’s car, which seems to be his favorite pastime. Watches as he gets lost in it, little pink tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, with his wrenches and gears, smeared in grease. It’s almost like he’s meditating.
After he eats, Dean makes toward the dishes but Deacon waves him off. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Go get washed up. They can smell you in Mississippi.”
Dean’s mouth twitches up a little, and that’s all Deacon was looking for. “I’ll make dinner,” he says.
Dean takes his time in the shower. Deacon has half a mind to join him but— there’ll be time for that yet. He finishes with the dishes, and goes over to click the television on after he pours himself another cup of coffee.
Looks like the Braves are barely beating out the Reds in the seventh inning. Chipper Jones is on third, so Deacon thinks the game will be theirs for the taking. The Diamondbacks struck out yesterday against the Dodgers, a pitiful showing that Deacon perversely enjoyed watching.
He switches the channel, and they’re showing a parade, he supposes some video clip from yesterday. Yankee Doodle plays as a long line of floats roll slowly by, decked out in so much red, white, and blue it nearly gives Deacon a headache. Little girls in patriotic face paint dance by holding sparklers and pom poms. Cops riding horses wave to the crowds. A giant cartoonish inflatable eagle flies over it all. Lord have mercy.
There’s a squadron of uniforms marching alongside a float emblazoned with a yellow insignia. A snake curls around the bottom of it. Military. Even from the tiny forms on the screen, Deacon can tell they’re just boys, knocking elbows and sneaking grins at each other while walking in step.
It makes him think back, to the boys in his charge. Just fresh-faced kids, at the start. Hell, he can even remember when John was like that. And then—well, there’s only so many horrors you can see—only so many you can do—before something in you changes for good.
His bad knee aches. He turns off the television, stretches out his leg.
He remembers a couple months ago, when Dean had just gotten back from a hunt. Deacon was still up, nursing a beer. The ball game was on, but he wasn’t really paying attention. Mostly he was watching out the window.
This one had been a long one, almost two weeks. Usually if a job was going too long or if he'd swung around to Stanford, Dean would send a postcard or give him a ring. But there was nothing this time.
So Deacon forgave himself his foolishness for letting out a breath when a long black car rolled up to his curb and a small figure got out.
He could barely make Dean out in the darkness, walking slowly up the driveway, his head bowed down low. Like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
There was the bang of the screen door, the key slotting in, and then there he was. Deacon could smell the smoke on Dean’s clothes from where he was sitting. His eyes were red, and his hair was matted with—Deacon hoped it was sweat.
Dean didn’t say a word, just kicked off his shoes and crawled onto the couch, onto Deacon’s lap. Straddled him, clutching his hands on Deacon’s shoulders, almost frantic, and kissed him hard and deep through shuddering breaths. Kissed him like he was trying to tell him something. Something for which he had no words.
Deacon carried him to bed then, and spent the whole night trying to get him to stop shaking. Later, he laid awake, thinking he might well know what Dean was trying to say.
Sometimes, Deacon thinks they’re just like us. People make more people, and monsters make more monsters. Hell, at least Dean will never go out of business. Ghosts haunting people who become ghosts in their own turn. It’s a wonder the world’s not overrun. But it’s none of his business.
The bathroom door creaks open. Dean comes out, along with a wall of steam, shoving a towel through his hair.
His hair is still damp, and it’s gotten longer, much longer than when Dean first showed up on Deacon’s porch. Back then, it was cropped short, choppy, like he’d taken a kids scissor to it himself. He probably had.
He keeps it longer these days. Cottoned on to the fact that Deacon likes it longer, maybe. In the humidity, it curls soft around his ears and low on his neck. Dean keeps threatening a haircut, what with the summer heat, but Deacon won’t call him on his bluff. He knows that Dean likes it longer too, or maybe just likes that Deacon likes it.
Dean’s wearing Deacon's old brown Henley. A bit too big on him, the collar gaping loose, the little gold totem on his black cord necklace swinging in the center of his chest. He comes over to the couch and sits leg to leg with Deacon, the heat of his bare skin bleeding into him. He fidgets for a bit, running his thumb and forefinger around and around his amulet. Picks up his Vonnegut. Pretends real hard at reading. Keeps jogging his leg up and down.
Deacon just drinks his coffee and watches him, openly. Dean stares resolutely into his book, though his eyes are unmoving across the page. He twists around the silver band on his right ring finger with his thumb. He does that a lot, when he gets like this. Pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, holds it there until the pink goes white, over and over. No matter—Deacon knows what's coming.
Dean glances up at him, quick, looks back down. He starts rubbing the edge of the page between his fingers like he’s trying to start a fire. Jiggles his leg, somehow, even harder.
Finally, Deacon takes pity on him. He sets his coffee down and stands up, holds out a hand. “Come here, baby.”
Dean looks up at him then, from under those long eyelashes. Takes his hand. Those green green eyes, so grateful. When he’ll learn he doesn’t have to be grateful, Deacon doesn’t know. Deacon tugs him up. He fits his hands to Dean’s hips, runs them under his shirt to stroke the small of his back and kisses him, deep and steady. Lets Dean sink into it, warm and soft and so damn good. Dean’s hands come up, hesitant, then run up and down Deacon’s arms. He moans, small, almost like a relief. This boy.
Deacon turns them around, walks Dean backwards into the bedroom, still rubbing circles into the hot skin of his back. Old fool that he is, Deacon’s stomach gives a warm tug when Dean comes in close, presses his face into Deacon’s neck, breathes in deep.
Inside, Deacon lays him down gentle on the bed, and Dean pulls him down with him. He goes—he always goes. Comes down on top of him and plants a forearm above Dean’s head to hold himself up while Dean makes a pretty picture under him, flushed pink down to the collarbone and biting at his lip. Below, his hands curl tight into the blanket. He doesn’t meet his eyes though, so Deacon tilts his chin up, strokes a finger over Dean’s cheek, careful of the bruise. Dean’s legs part so that Deacon is fully cradled between his thighs.
“Good boy,” Deacon says softly, and he can see Dean’s eyes darken as he gives up a little whine. He runs his hand under Dean’s shirt, over his side, his stomach. Bunches it up to Dean’s neck so he can get at his skin, trails his hand over the spread of freckles across his collarbones. The soft dip where his collarbones meet flushes darker then, becomes mottled with peachy-pink. Lord, but he’s beautiful.
Dean’s nipples pucker up a dark pink after Deacon rolls his fingers over them for a few long seconds. He pinches one, quick and sharp, then takes it in his mouth, soothes it. He laves at it softly at first, can feel it pucker up hard on his tongue. Closes his mouth over it then, sucks hard and he can feel Dean’s groan up through his sternum, feels Dean tighten his legs around him.
He pushes himself back up to see Dean panting shakily, his mouth parting open and soft. Deacon can’t tease any longer, he dips down and kisses him, lush, and Dean moans into his mouth. Lord above. Deacon swallows it, and bites at Dean’s plush lip, not hard, but not soft either and Dean shudders under him. Keens up so that Deacon can feel how hard he is under those thin boxers.
Deacon pulls back, straightens up and Dean makes a small noise, confused. “Shirt off, baby,” Deacon says, and Dean stares for a second, then swallows hard, struggles up to his elbows to pull his Henley off. His nipples are still drawn up tight, both a pretty dusty pink. Deacon wants to put his mouth on them again. He will, in time.
Dean goes to tug off his boxers too, but Deacons stops his hand. “No,” he says. “That’s mine.” Dean blinks but says nothing, just licks his lips, his eyes so wide and open. Deacon lays him back down on the mattress. Settles again on top of him, and Dean’s legs curl high around him like instinct.
He strokes Dean’s bent legs slowly, down the soft skin of his thighs, blemished only with old scars and Deacon’s previous attentions. Comes finally to the worn cotton of his shorts and covers his hand over the hard bulge there, squeezes him slow and easy through it, and watches as Dean sighs, arches his neck back to bare his throat to him. Deacon wants to put his mouth there, and Dean wants it too, but first—
Deacon reaches for Dean’s hands, gently uncurls them from the blanket. Takes both of them into one hand so that his wrists turned into one another and presses them up over Dean’s head.
“Keep them there,” he whispers into Dean’s ear, and watches the soft shell go red. He can hear Dean’s breath click, pick up pace. His eyes slip close. They’ve done this before, but not often. He watches above as Dean stretches his hands farther up, wraps them around the metal bars in the headboard. Dean turns his face to bury it in his shoulder with a little whimper, and Deacon lets him, for now.
Dean’s outstretched forearms strain, bulging green veins on the thin skin of his biceps. Deacon traces his hands down them, down to his face, still angled away from him. He noses into the hot, flushed skin of Dean’s neck, thumbing up at the sharp line of his jaw. Breathes in deep as Dean pulls his head back to let him in deeper. Under his own, he can feel Dean’s sweat-beaded chest rising and falling fast with open shallow breaths.
Deacon’s dick is heavy and pressing firm against his thin pajama pants, has been for a while. He ignores it. Raises himself up a little to get his hands under Dean, slides his boxers off to just under the curve of his ass, knuckle brushing the hard swell of Dean’s dick as he does, and that pulls a sharp gasp out of him. Deacon tugs them down a little further, just enough so that Dean’s thighs, bent back to his chest, are still restrained by them. Dean pushes against the cloth desperately, but knows better than to push too hard. His dick is flush with his stomach now, the tip of it pearly and slick, and there’s a deep furrow between his brows but he doesn’t make a sound.
Straining his hands above, his legs around him, Dean’s body is long, lean. The top of his ribcage becomes two sharp points under his pale, stretched-thin skin. Deacon reaches his hand under, finds Dean’s balls, so heavy, and rolls them, squeezes them just shy of gentle, which pulls a high, long whine from him. Good lord.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as Dean swallows, rough, and arches up, a long shudder running all through him. Every muscle in his body is taut, his mouth pink, gasping open and sinful. His eyes are still screwed shut, his neck stretched out, and Deacon smooths his hand up over Dean’s dick, up his chest, and wraps his hand around his throat, lightly at first, then harder after Dean starts trembling all over. Strokes his thumb over the smooth skin, the bluegreen vein jutting out the side of his neck. Dean’s heart beats under his hand, fast and erratic.
Dean is frantic. He needs this bad. Deacon won’t keep it from him. He reaches for the lube on the nightstand, coats his fingers and reaches down, down past Dean’s keening, leaking dick and circles his middle finger around the soft wrinkle of his hole. The sparse hairs there crinkle against his palm.
He pushes his slicked up finger in slowly, and finds that Dean’s a bit loose already, and Deacon—Deacon imagines him opening himself up in the shower, and Deacon leans down and takes his mouth, almost savage. Adds another finger and opens him up wider, and Dean breathes out sharp into his mouth. Deacon pushes his tongue deep into the soft heat of Dean’s mouth, licks all along his teeth as he fucks his fingers into him. A low-grade shiver runs all throughout Dean, from up his arms, still clasped above his head, to his thighs clenched tight around Deacon’s waist.
Deacon slides his fingers out then, a soft pop, and straightens up with one last bite to Dean’s lip. Sits back on his knees and says, “Eyes open, baby,” and he can see it’s a struggle for Dean, but he blinks them open, slow and dazed, and Deacon gets that glass green he wanted. “Good,” he tells him. “Perfect.” Dean’s throat clicks at that, lets out a shuddery breath.
Deacon slides out of his own pajama pants then, a little awkward from the position. Pulls his t-shirt off along with it. He slides both hands on the backs of Dean’s legs, bends them back so that his thighs are flush with his stomach. Lets them go and Dean keeps them there. Flexible young thing. Dean doesn’t make a peep, just licks his lips and swallows, with some effort. Deacon palms his own dick, and bends to kiss down the soft inside of Dean’s thigh. Gets to the tender crease where his leg meets his groin and breathes in deep the hot musk of him. Bites there, just for a second, and then finally, finally, pushes inside.
Christ, the hot clench of him. Deacon has to shut his eyes against it for a second, and he almost misses the sound of Dean’s long, stuttered groan. When he looks up again, he can’t help but press in further, harder, as far as his dick will go until his thighs are slapping against the backs of Dean’s. Under him, Dean is still stretched taut under him, eyes fluttering, slack-jawed. He looks like a damn marble statue.
Deacon rocks into him, again and again, grips his legs and pushes down on them. Leans on them and Dean opens wider, wider, always. Takes it so beautifully. He’s gasping for air, punched out little guttural sounds, but his hands are still clasped obediently over his head, the knuckles gone white. Oh, he’s a good boy.
He’s close, Deacon can tell. The muscles in his biceps jump and shudder, and Deacon reaches up a hand, closes it over Dean’s throat again, the skin so thin there, so hot to the touch. Presses firmly on the sides of his neck, the muscle tense.
When Dean comes, it’s with a nearly inaudible sigh, his whole body arched into it, and Deacon keeps fucking him, slow and deep. Keeps his hand on his throat, squeezes harder and Dean hazily flutters his eyes. Deacon thumbs at the corner of Dean’s raw bitten lips, and his mouth parts to let him in, obliging, always. He slips it in, the very tip of his thumb, strokes across Dean’s tongue with it and Dean slowly licks the rough pad, his eyes heavy and lidded. God.
Deacon fucks it into his mouth, deep, as he fucks Dean, and Dean, oh so sweetly, starts to suck, and with the hot suction of his mouth and the tight, slick clench around his dick, Deacon spills into him. Nearly falls on top of him, but catches himself on his forearm beside Dean’s head. A wet pop as he pulls his finger out of Dean’s mouth, and Deacon strokes it down his face, a shiny trail from his temple to his jaw.
Dean’s eyes are glassy and soft as he looks up at him, from under those eyelashes, then looks down quickly. Shy, even now. He looks lighter. Good. Deacon drops a kiss on his temple and pulls out, a slick mess following out onto the raw, red skin of his thighs and ass. Dean’s whole body has gone loose-limbed, and he can barely hold his legs up now. It almost makes Deacon want to start up again, seeing him so soft and open. But he’ll let the boy have his sleep for now.
Dean’s boxers are damp with sweat, and Deacon tugs them off all the way, squeezing down his thighs and his calves as he does, a little massage. The boy’s legs must be aching. Dean just about purrs at that, and Deacon hides his smile as he kisses his shoulder, turns him on his side and tucks in behind him, close to the warm sweaty skin. Boneless now, Dean slumps against him and knocks out instantly.
Deacon pulls the blanket around them, and wraps an arm around Dean. The window is cracked open, and the faded old yellow curtains wave slightly in the breeze. Motes of dust swirl high up in the white light slanting into the room, falling on the dark wood of the dresser next to the bed.
There’s a faint shout outside, and a couple of kids run by the window, laughing. Enjoying the summer holidays. Deacon shifts to put his chin above Dean’s head, stretches out his knee until it pops. If Dean had heard, he would’ve ribbed him for it, called him an old man. So he is.
Deacon closes his eyes, naps a while. He wakes up once to take a piss, careful to not jostle Dean but he’s fast asleep. When Deacon blinks awake again, sweat is beaded all along his spine. Too damn hot in here. No breeze to speak of now, and hot orange light streams right into his eyes. He rubs a hand across his face, and it comes away damp. The blanket is tangled around their legs, and he kicks it off fully. His stomach rumbles. Must be afternoon now. Slept through the day, it seems.
Deacon looks over, and Dean is staring at the ceiling.
“It was just a little girl,” Dean says. His voice is quiet, hitched. “A bad man. Just people.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I couldn’t save her.”
Well. He shifts, pulls Dean to his chest, holds the back of his head. Strokes his hair. Deacon feels wetness on his skin and he has to grit his teeth against the way his chest clenches. He squeezes the boy tighter against him, rocks him almost.
Dean tells him all his stories from the road. Well, all the good ones at least. He’s proud of it, what he does, thinks himself a hero. And sure, he is.
But—they called them heroes, too, when they got back from the jungle. Stuck a couple of ribbons on their uniforms and sent them on their way. Deacon can still see it though, on nights he can’t sleep. Coming across whole villages burnt down and littered with bodies. Kids piled high on dirt roads. Yeah, Deacon knows people make the best monsters.
He's got too much heart for this world. It makes Deacon want to hide him away, where the monsters and the people alike can’t get to him. Instead, he just puts his hands on him. Slow, deep circles between the blades of his shoulders, the shaking muscles in his neck, for long minutes, until he quiets, somewhat, his fingers still clutching at Deacon’s back.
Somewhere, a faint creak sounds. Old house settling. The air conditioner kicks on, the cool mechanical whirr of it filling the house. It’s still light outside, though the sun is sinking deeper into the horizon, the sky a fast darkening blue. Eventually, Deacon gives Dean’s shoulder one last squeeze, and slips out from under him. Scrounges around the floor for his clothes, then goes into the kitchen to fill up a glass of water.
“Come on, kid,” he says when he comes back to the bed, his throat not a little scratchy. He clears it. Dean takes his time rolling over to face him. Leans up on his elbow and takes the glass after rubbing at his eyes till they go red. Redder. “You promised me dinner,” Deacon says as he watches him drink it.
A little huff, then Dean stands, rubs his hand over his face once more. “Burgers alright?”
“I’ll get the grill started,” Deacon says. Passes a hand through Dean’s hair, once. Then he gets some water himself, and steps through the creaky little door at the back of the pantry and walks out onto the deck, the wood pleasantly warm on his bare feet.
The wind’s picked back up and a gust of air blows over him, bringing with it the smell of pine, and something else smoky. Maybe a bonfire somewhere. Faintly, he hears Dean creaking around in the kitchen. Deacon goes down the two wooden steps to stand in the grass, dry between his toes, but the soil is moist beneath. The moon is just visible up above, translucent against the clear summer evening. All around him, the sound of crickets starting up. The world open, still so open and full of life.