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The Party's Over

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He found a girl.

Not just a girl. The girl.

The white picket fence, blonde blue eye, legs to heaven girl that would grant all of his wishes for suburbia and Dockers and strip malls. The enemy. The most dreaded creature, even above the vampires and spirits and other twisted shit Dean protected that shit hole apartment in Palo Alto against.

Now they're moving in together.

She has a full size bed.

Dean woke Sam up for his chemistry midterm two semesters ago. They were plastered together, sweaty from activity that could be done without their father knowing and students caring. Chest to back. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam tighter in that moment before kicking Sam awake. It had been months.

It has been months now.

West coast hunts have been all Dean has picked up for the past two years. He was never more than a six hour drive away.

Do you have time?

Did you finish studying, big head?

Could you clean up your shithole apartment for me, maybe, would it kill you to practice cleanliness?

But what's the point now.

A call came through for a job in Florida. Key Fucking West. John wants him to take it.

Because he knows

And he approves.

Like he fucking knows.

Like anyone could know what this means for Dean. Like anyone got to see what it's all done to him on the inside.

Life is like Swiss cheese. Except the holes are shithole motels. Never too much difference between one or the other. Dean likes the word shithole.

He wants to tear that studio up. He wants to torch it. He wants to pin Sam down on the pavement outside and force him to watch it all burn down. Look. Look at this. This is how much I hurt. This is how much it hurts to love you.

He doesn't really want that.

Not really.

Fuck, not really.

There are nightmares that creep into the motel rooms and slip under itchy pillow covers. They slither. They're white. They smell like oil and flame.

But they're always quiet. They speak to Dean like he's three.

And they promise never to lie to him.

It's weird.

Hang up. Dial tone. Her voice in the background. Was she easy? Did she ask him? Does he see the similarity in their hair color when she's sucking him off?

Cope with it. Deal with it. Orders from the boss. A fresh credit card. The use of the Impala.

The cheapest of the Daniels family finds its way into his hand. Fuck the glasses. Three in and the burn blisters and singes the muscles he used on Sam six months ago. Didn't he like it? Deep. To the root. Gag choke stuffed full.

Fragments of books he read in between classes hound him, tearing him up in spots on his chest and middle that ache, sting, and whisper to him that there's so much more to him than this. There's so much more pain in store for him; he has no idea.

Splinters of phrases get caught in his eyelids. He can see the words.

ever want to crawl
in someone's arms
white out the world
in someone's arms
and feel the world
of someone's arms
it's so hot in hell
if I don't sweat
I'll melt

Hell. He'll. The visceral difference between one tiny apostrophe. Knock it back, son. Prove you're a man. Sissies are drunk under.

He ain't no sissy.

This is what hell do.


This is what he'll do. Go to Key West. Save the damsel in distress. Drink. Crash. Drive. Drive all the way up the Easy Coast and show them what they've been needing.


Was she easy?

Dean crawls into the bathtub. He finishes the fourth bottle of whatever was left for him. Medicine. Booze. It'll put hair on your chest, son. Well, he's got not much of that, not much at all. But is it really his fault?

Was it his dick?

Was it his GED?

Let me go, Dean.

But you're mine.

Just let me go, Dean!

But what...

"The fuck happened to you?"

About me.

"Jesus, Dean, you're a god damned grown man. Get up."

It was always mutual. They grew up this way.

"Get up!"

Dad, I was just sucking him off. It seems like yesterday. My heart is like egg beaters. I helped him study for that English test. I blew him for every subject. English. Calculus. Psychology. Sociology. A. A. A. A.

Where's my GPA?

My diploma?

My recognition for the pain in my knees and the ache in my jaw and the twinge of agony when he'd rub his come into my skin and tell me, "I want you to stay tonight."

Just tonight.

"I leave you alone for two fucking days and this is what you've been doing? This what you spend the money I gave you on? Answer me, Dean!"

Not any other night.

A ghost in Vallejo sliced him in the ribs. That was day surgery. Shards of shit. Not technically day surgery, either. But he didn't wanna stay. Didn't want the questions. Didn't want the hassle. He tried driving down.

Isn't this funny? Vallejo. Maybe the zodiac is still out there.

Coming down coming down coming down. It's so good. Stay tonight. No, Dean, I have a test tomorrow. No, I'm not at my apartment, quit nagging me, I'm an adult, remember? I can do this on my own, Dean.


My friend's car broke down.

Can you fix it?

I can do this on my own, Dean.


Use a condom.



Never did before.

That's why.

Anything else, princess?

You stink.

I'm sorry, I was in the car for six hours on my way here to spend three hours fixing your friend's fucked up Chevy.

Jess said thank you.

Yeah, she did.

That's where he remembers her from. How could he have not seen it? How did he miss that?

He's gagging again. But there isn't a cock in his mouth. What is it? Does it matter? His shoulders twitch. His head lolls. She did say thank you.

"You're choking on your own vomit, Dean, I hope you're proud of yourself."

Rough hands pull and yank at his shirt collar. Forward. His mouth is pried open and vomit rolls out. Dean half expects it to be thank yous and fire.

He'll. Hell. Go to Key West.

Never again.

Sam isn't allowed to touch him that way anymore. No.

The party's over.

How does he feel this good on fire.