Chapter Text
School’s out for summer in Sugar Run, Florida. Dean is young enough still to remember, viscerally, the joy that used to come along with the start of June, but all he feels now is a pit of dread in his stomach.
School keeps Sam and Adam busy all day. It feeds them two meals five days a week. It keeps Adam worn out and less likely to literally climb the walls. It keeps Sam from getting understimulated and, frankly, kind of bitchy. It keeps them out of Dean’s hair long enough for him to make just enough money to scrape together dinners.
Three months is a long time. It’s already so hot that the air is soupy around him, curling the edges of his hair and making his clothes stick all over.
The three boys are piled into their single wide, all sweaty knees and sizzling energy. The lone window unit is blasting but the heat still seems to be creeping in from somewhere, leaking like poison into the air. Everything smells like stale beer and chlorine, and Dean is sun-drunk after chasing Adam back and forth all afternoon.
It’s pb&j for dinner again. Dean’s got an apple Adam brought home from his last school lunch, so he slices it real thin to put out next to the sandwiches. There’s still some stale cheetos, too, so those top off the food pyramid tonight at Casa Del Winchester. The sun hasn’t set yet but all the light filtering in is flower petal pink and yellow, dusting the faded wood paneling where it seeps in through the smoke stained curtains.
“Foods up,” Dean calls, grabbing two plates and carrying them into the living room. He puts one on the old wooden coffee table in between the books that Sam has spread out, and one on the floor where Adam is on his belly.
“What the hell are you guys even watching?” Dean asks.
“Celebrity Death Match,” Sam and Adam say in unison.
Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it further.
The old answering machine on the counter is blinking, and Dean presses play as he finishes making his own sandwich.
"Winchester," a tight, prim voice comes through, slightly tinny. "If you could call me back, for once, it would be much appreciated. I may have a business opportunity for you. Also, I miss you, believe it or not." Dean rolls his eyes. Abigail Isabela Talbot is probably the closest thing he has to a best friend, but he knows that business opportunity means pills to sell and he's too worried about getting mixed up in something that could land him in jail if there's ever a home check. He should call her back though, he's been ignoring all of his friends lately. Messages from Vic and Lee and even Meg have piled up, unanswered. There's just no time right now.
Dean grabs his own plate and sits down next to Adam. There’s no cheetos on his plate.
“Dean,” Adam says, wiping a full mouth with sticky fingers. “Did you decide about if I can go to space camp?”
Adam is eight and generally good natured. He’s easy to please, for the most part. But he hasn’t shut up about space camp since some dorks came and did a presentation at his school.
“Yeah, buddy, I don’t think it’s gonna happen this year.”
It had never been an option. Dean had looked at the brochure that Adam brought home, saw a $600 price tag, and tucked the little pamphlet into his sock drawer.
“Maybe for the second half of summer,” Adam offers with a shrug before turning back to the TV. He’s golden-blonde from youth and too much sun. His nose is too red. His hands are so sticky, Dean should have made him wash them. If his mom were here it’s what she would have done. He bites his own sandwich and watches the stupid show.
They’re just about done eating when the screen door bangs against the frame, too loud in the little space.
“Sup losers,” Jo says. Her long hair is tied up on top of her head. She’s got a tupperware container in one hand, and she shakes at it Dean. “Pasta salad,” she says with a wink. “There’s, like, meat and vegetables in there and everything. And I snuck these out of the pantry.” She reveals a half empty tray of off-brand oreos.
“Sick,” Sam says, tossing a book down beside his leg. “You wanna play?”
“You didn’t think I came over just to chat, did you?” She rolls her eyes and sits next to Sam. Dean takes the tupperware and tucks it into the mostly empty fridge, next to two cans of Coke and two cans of Coors.
“Oh, here.” She turns to Dean, fishing a soft pack of Marlboro Light 72s out of the pocket of her shorts and tosses them at him. “Stole these from Dave.” They're a little bent, but they’ll smoke up just fine.
“See, this is why you're my favorite sister,” Dean says, bringing one to his mouth.
“I’m your only sister, dumbass.”
Dean smirks around his cigarette as he lights it. John always smokes in the house, but Dean tries not to. He steps out onto the narrow front steps as he inhales.
The sun is down low now but it’s still oppressively hot. Dean can feel mosquitos dancing across his calves. There’s nothing to do about it, he’s already all bit up and it will only get worse tomorrow. When he gets some real work at Bobby’s the smell of gasoline keeps them away for a bit. But it’s been slow, and getting slower.
Inside he can hear Jo’s N64 rise to life. She keeps it at their place so she has an excuse to avoid her new stepdad, and Ellen doesn’t seem to mind. She’s never been anything but good to all of John’s boys, hence the pasta salad. Dean wishes he could buy them a PS2, but it costs almost as much as Space Camp. Not gonna happen. Maybe the new stepdaddy Harvelle will get generous if he’s still around at Christmas.
Dean sucks his way down to the bottom of the cigarette too quickly. He’s antsy. He doesn’t wanna have to hope that Ellen drops food off a couple times a week. She’d been asking about John with casual indifference the first couple of weeks but as one month bled into two and then three, she just started dropping off dinners. He feels something wide and cavernous opening up beneath his rib cage and grips the metal of the porch rail until his hand hurts.
He’ll figure it out. This summer might not be space camp, but it will be something.
Dean watches the kids take turns on the controllers as they jump and smash their way through a castle. Adam falls asleep on the floor and Dean has to shake him awake to make him brush his teeth and change into pajamas. It would be so easy to let the kid pass out where he lay, but he's already worried that if his dad doesn’t come back soon, he’s going to end up with CPS at their door. Dean is old enough to raise them, but he has no job and no legal claim to them. Sam only has one more year before he’s eighteen and off to college but getting shuffled around group homes for the first six months of his senior year would probably derail that to some degree. But Adam… Adam is barely eight years old. Dean doesn’t wanna think about it. No, better to just bully the kid into moderately normal dental hygiene and keep answers about his dad vague.
“You guys should wrap it up,” Dean says, looking at Mario Kart flashing across the screen. He’s tired, and the couch in the living room is also his bed.
“Just sleep in Dad’s room, it’s not like he’s using it.”
“Nah, this is comfier.”
“This couch is like a hundred years old, Dean.”
“I know, and perfectly molded into the shape of my ass.”
Jo laughs. Sam just frowns.
“Well, if you don’t want it, I’m gonna take it. I’m too big for a bunk bed anyway.”
It’s true. Sam and Adam still share a rickety wooden bunk bed that was probably built in the 60s. Sam’s feet have been hanging off the edge since he was twelve.
Dean thinks about Sam taking John’s room, his books spreading out, his clothes in the closet. His father coming home to find it like that….
“Like hell you are,” Dean says. He snatches the controller out of Sam’s hands. Sam protests loudly, but when Dean finally pulls into first place ahead of Jo, he cheers.
Dean gets up early. The sun is just breaking the flat line of the horizon as he bikes out along the uneven highway. There’s just a single road running through this part of town, but Dean only has to bike for ten minutes before he’s pulling up to the gas station.
He leans his bike up against the side of the building and pushes the sticky door open. A little bell chimes above his head.
“Deano, rise and shine, my man.”
“Mornin’, Ash.” Dean nods as he steps into the store and beelines for the little grocery aisle. It’s a pain to ride all the way out to the Walmart, so most of their food comes courtesy of the Gas-n-Sip.
Dean’s got no idea when his next gig is gonna be, and he’s nervous to dip too deeply into his cash stash. Still, they gotta eat. He grabs a few cans of ravioli, a box of off-brand oatmeal, two giant, brightly colored oranges, and a gallon of milk. At the last minute he reaches for another bag of cheetos, and a small bottle of sunscreen for Adam’s face. It will have to do for now.
“Hey, if you’re in the market for any herbal needs, hit me up.”
“Thanks, man,” Dean says with a smile. It’s always nice to have a hook, but he rarely has the cash for it. He could ask about dealing, but it’s risky with Adam and Sam around. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
“Much obliged, man,” Ash says with a smile. "By the way, I was just about to toss these if you want them before they hit the dumpster. Technically they should have been tossed out a couple days ago." He holds up two frozen pizzas. They're gonna be kind of a bitch to balance on his bike, but there's no way he's passing them up.
Dean makes it back to the house just as Adam is waking up. He makes himself a cup of coffee with instant grounds and sugar, and uses the rest of the boiling water to make oatmeal for Adam and Sam.
“So,” Dean says, ruffling Sam’s overlong hair as he rubs sleep from his eyes. His pajama pants are too short on him now, he’s all ankles. “I gotta go scrounge up some work today, which means you two gotta stick together. I don’t care what you do, but don’t leave the park and don’t light anything on fire.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t put up a fight. He wishes he didn’t have to ask anything of Sam, but it’s just not possible to keep an eye on the kid and food on the table.
Dean is immensely grateful that both Sam and Jo seem to love Adam. He really wasn’t sure that was gonna be the case when Kate first turned up, eighteen and a day and playing house-mother. Dean had been wary; he had been almost twelve at that point, suspicious, but he’d been won over by how nice John had been acting toward them, playing the loving father. And it had been so nice to have help.
In the end she bolted before Adam’s third birthday. Dean doesn’t even blame her. She’d never been good at the parenting thing, and John was no help. Adam doesn’t even ask about her anymore.
But everyone loved baby Adam right away. Jo pushed him in the stroller and Sammy took on the role of wise sage, imparting wisdom onto him whether the subject was wild frogs or MTV music videos. Adam just soaked it all in, is still sitting there, soaking.
“There’s pasta salad in the fridge for lunch,” Dean says. “Try not to eat it all. You can see if Jo will go swimming with you later.” He tosses the sunscreen on the table. “And use that, both of you.”
Dean goes door to door, offering to clean out gutters and mow tiny lawns and fix pipes. He’s been doing odd jobs for so long that there’s not much he can’t do at this point. It’s slow, and while almost everyone knows him and trusts him, there’s just not much work to be done or money to be spread around.
He manages to get a couple lawns in, the sun beating down on the back of his neck the whole time. He’s hungry, and hot, and already dreading the shape of the next few months. He works his way across the west side of the park, ignoring the truly unkept houses or places with no car and no lights. Eventually he comes to a man sitting on his porch.
“Mornin,’ sir,” Dean says with a smile. He recognizes the man, knows his name is Novak, but they’ve never talked. He’s a quiet guy; keeps to himself and never bothers anyone. He’s probably in his fifties, older than Dean’s dad, or worse for wear, anyway. His hair is salt and pepper, a couple inches too long and connected to a scruffy beard. Dean figures he was in some war or another, from the way he majorly favors one of his legs.
Mr. Novak nods at him. He's got a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
"I was just coming by to see if anyone this way needed some help with the grass or the gutters or, well, anything really." Dean flashes his most charming smile. Mr. Novak squints at him.
"You're one of the Winchester kids, yeah?"
"Yes, sir. Just trying to make a little money for the summer."
Mr. Novak’s eyes are sharp, squinting into the sun. The sky is the kind of bright blue that seems almost unnatural. His trailer backs up against the start of the swamp, and the Cypress trees crowding up in the middle ground create a saturated contrast. Dean can already feel the mosquitos creeping up.
"Might be something you can do for me," Mr. Novak says. He rises without another word and goes inside. When he doesn't immediately return, Dean inches up the porch, pulling the screen door open.
All single wide mobile homes look more or less the same in terms of structure. You enter into the living room, turn your head either left or right to see the cramped kitchen, and then turn the other way to look straight down the hall where one, two, or sometimes even three bedrooms hide behind the same brown doors. Some of the trailers are older than others. Dean's house is close to thirty years old, marked by its 1970s charm like the too-long carpet that was maybe soft once, and the peeling vinyl paneling. Mr. Novak's flat cabinetry and fluorescent lighting mark it as more late 80s.
"What do you know about floors?"
Dean refrains from making a joke about the floor being the thing you walk on, and instead tries to sound knowledgeable. Mr. Novak's carpet is thin, patchy. It's peeling around the edges of the room, thick stapes visible.
"Well, we could try and reinforce the places where it's coming up, if you want. Or we could pull it out and get a new one in here, or some of that laminate flooring, easier to clean."
Mr. Novak nods. "I'll pay you five dollars an hour to rip it up and haul it out of here. If you do well, you can help me lay the new stuff later this week."
"You got it, Mr. Novak. Do you want me to get started?"
Mr. Novak nods, pulling another smoke out of the pack. He lights it, and then nods again, this time toward a shelf in the hall. "Toolbox down there, if you need it. Get everything out the front door."
"Yes, sir."
"You can call me Castiel, if you want."
"Cool. I'm Dean."
Castiel just looks at him, pulling another drag from his cigarette before heading into the cramped little kitchen.
Everything in here is a shade of brown. The carpet is grey-brown. The couch is yellow-brown. The curtains are a once-cream-but-now-brown-brown. Cigarette smoke clings to everything. The AC unit is quiet in the window, it's hot as an oven as Dean works.
He wastes no time, pulling up the carpet and the foam insulation beneath. His hands burn, but he doesn't slow down. There's a box cutter and a crow bar and he uses them in turn, cutting out pieces he can tear and haul out the front door. He likes the quiet buzz that comes with working with his hands, with being too hot to think or feel much beyond the movement of his body. He's got about half of it done when Castiel comes back into the living room. It's past midday now, the hottest part of the day. Dean wants the AC on so bad, but knows better than to ask.
He's sweating like crazy, shirt plastered to his chest, hair sticking up. He wipes his brow with his arm and it's slippery on slippery. Sweat drips down toward his eyes.
"Here," Castiel says, handing him a plate with a ham sandwich on it and a can of beer. Dean is surprised, he hadn't expected to eat until dinner. He eats too fast, drinks a little too fast too, but it's an oasis in the desert of heat. Castiel's eyes are on him, and Dean can't tell if the look is curious or judgmental or something else… Sometimes men watch Dean, leer at him. They do it to Jo, too, but almost never to Sam. He doesn't know what to make of that. He can't tell if Castiel is leering, but his gaze has weight.
"Thanks," Dean says once he's done eating. He wipes his sticky hands on his cargo shorts.
"You can finish up tomorrow," Castiel tells him.
"I don't mind," Dean says. He's only been here about three hours, and he made another ten bucks before he got here, but he's hesitant to waste any time he could be working. Castiel has a heavy brow, but his lips look soft and dry. Big hands, rough enough that Dean thinks he must have done some kind of labor at some point. It's probably just his back or his hip or whatever that has him needing help with this stuff. "I can help with other things, too. I've been told I'm good with my hands." Dean winks, watching to see how the quip lands. Castiel looks at Dean's hands, and then back at his face.
Dean should play it safe; getting loose-lipped or reckless here could get his ass beat, but he's always had a little bit of a hunch about stuff like this. He can pick out the guy at the bar or the truck stop who might be willing to spend a little extra for ten minutes with his mouth. It's not something he'll be able to do much with the kids running around all summer, something that's been harder since his dad took off in their only car. Still, this is a guy who knows where he lives. He shouldn't….
Dean looks up at Mr. Novak through his lashes. There isn't really a height difference between them, but the older man is thicker, heavier with age and muscle and time. He's broader and probably stronger, if not for the injury. Dean could outrun him, if he had to, but to where? His own front door?
He reaches out a hand to touch Mr. Novak's belt, presses a finger to the silver buckle there.
"Been told I'm good with my mouth, too."
Castiel squints at him, head tilting slightly.
"Is this a sexual proposition?" he asks, too serious, too genuine. Dean almost laughs.
"Uh." Dean feels his cheeks warm. "No, I mean. Doesn't have to be. I guess that depends on whether or not you're gonna kick my ass." He palms the back of his own neck, feeling sheepish. "Just, you know…gets lonely out here, right? And I could use the cash. Doesn't mean anything." He knows the line. Has heard enough men say, I ain't a fag, you know, before sticking their dicks into his mouth.
Sam had been going on and on about cognitive dissonance after reading a psychology book a few years ago. He said it was when your thoughts and your actions were totally mismatched. Then he said that's probably how Dad can convince himself he’s a stand up guy and a good father while still disappearing for weeks at a time.
The silence stretches just long enough that Dean's heart kicks up and he's thinking about bolting. It'll be work lost, in the end, but then Castiel asks, "How old are you?"
"Twenty, sir."
Castiel looks at him for an agonizing minute, but his gaze isn't full of anger, or pity, or even hunger. He starts loosening the buckle on his belt.
"You'll have to do it by the couch, can't stand for too long," he says simply.
"Yeah, a'course," Dean says, and his stomach does a little watery flip at the sound of the leather sliding out of the beltloops. "Uh, is fifteen okay?"
Castiel sits down, pulls his cock out, and nods at him. He doesn't take his pants off, just pulls himself out enough for Dean to work.
He's uncut, not quite hard yet but not all the way soft either. Dean never knows for sure with the old ones, sometimes it takes forever to get them hard, to make them come. Sometimes they shoot off in two minutes. That's why he charges the flat rate. Usually, if it takes too long, the guy will get embarrassed, get mad at Dean, sometimes storm off without paying him. He's learned to take the cash first. But he doesn't ask Mr. Novak for it upfront, figures he'll get it with the rest of the day's pay.
Dean sinks down to his knees. It's hot, and Mr. Novak is a little sweaty, but he's clean, like he showered that morning or maybe just before bed. He smells like skin and soap and sweat and he doesn't touch Dean at all as he leans down to take him in his fist, and then into his mouth.
Dean keeps his fingers tight around the base of Castiel's cock, squeezing. He sucks at the head, letting saliva pool in his mouth to make the slide wetter and softer. He runs his tongue along the slit and then works it down to the sensitive spot on the underside of the head.
Castiel is quiet, he doesn't make any noise but his breathing speeds up a little, and Dean can feel his thigh twitch under his palm. Solid muscle under denim. He's being polite, not grabbing Dean at all, not touching, and Dean can appreciate the etiquette. Makes him wonder if he's ever done something like this before.
Dean works himself along the shaft with practiced ease, letting Castiel slide further and further down his throat. He's not fucking him rough, doesn't try to make him gag, just takes what Dean offers. A wide palm comes up to his shoulder, not pushing, just bracing, squeezing gently.
Dean feels his own dick twitch in his pants, not hard but curious. It happens sometimes, when his body doesn't quite get the memo that this is work and not play. When the guy is the right age or shape, or when he's real gentle with how he touches him.
Dean moans softly onto him, less to speed things up and more to make sure that Castiel is enjoying it. He wants this to be a regular thing, could be easy money if the guy can afford it. His cock and balls are resting on the edge of his briefs, held up by the denim of his pants still around his hips, and Dean can reach out and play with his nuts while he blows him. Mr. Novak makes a little breathy sound when he does, and the hand on his shoulder tightens a little. It spurs Dean on.
He slides up and down, creating suction on every upswing until Castiel pushes at his shoulder, and Dean takes the hint. More often than not guys will just shoot off in his mouth, and he's always surprised by the rare good manners. He pulls off with a wet pop, still using his hand to jerk him off. Castiel brings his own palm down to cup the head of his cock as he comes, catching it in his palm. It shines against his tan skin in the late afternoon sunlight.
Dean offers him the paper towel from his lunch plate still sitting on the coffee table. There's a little bit of mustard on it. Castiel wipes his hand, drops it back into the plate, and then tucks himself away.
"Thanks," Castiel says. He fishes out his wallet, pulls a few crumpled bills out and hands them to Dean.
"Anytime," Dean says with a smirk. "Really, if you want it again, just let me know. And I can still come by tomorrow, for the floor and–whatever, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Cool. Uh, well. Thanks for the food. And the beer, and stuff. I should, you know. Head out."
"Okay."
Dean searches his face for signs of regret, for the freak out that sometimes comes after straight guys get a little too into it, but Castiel just seems calm and stoic as ever, watching Dean with the same mix of curiosity and reservation.
Dean stands, awkward and half hard in his shorts. He gives a little wave and then ducks out the front door into the scorching summer sun.