Chapter 1

"I don't think he's coming back, Sammy."

There might have been a time Sam would have cried when Dean said that. There might have been a time he would have reacted at all.

But while Dean's heart feels like it's going to explode, and he's having to blink back tears, Sam just nods. Shrugs. "So he's dead," he says, and it's not even a question. "Dad's dead."

Three weeks since he answered his phone, gone a month when he said he'd be back in a week. "Probably," Dean says, and he hopes Sam can't hear the way his voice falls to pieces at the end of the word. "We have to assume—"

"Yeah." Sam lifts his head, pushes himself up, hands on his knees as he sits on the edge of a sagging motel bed. "So what do we do?"

Dean sucks air in through his nose, puts his hands on his knees, unconsciously mimicking Sam's posture, and then he lets his breath out slow. "Get out of this shit hole, for a start. Move on."

Finally, Sam has an expression. There's almost panic in his eyes, a crease of worry between his brows. "Why?"

"It's what we do, Sammy. I'm bored out of my mind. I still can't believe Dad made me stay behind."

Sam lifts his chin, and stares at Dean, wide eyed. "Maybe he knew he wasn't coming back, you ever think that?"

"You think he abandoned us, Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. But maybe it was too dangerous. Maybe he was protecting us. Keeping us alive."

Dean drops his eyes to the floor, shakes his head. "Nah. He was protecting you. Making sure I was still around to watch out for you."

"I'm not a baby any more, Dean."

"You're fifteen, Sammy. I'm not just gonna leave you behind."

"Then stay." Sam drops back down onto his elbows, scrubs his hands over his face and then lifts his head. "We'll get a place, stop living in crappy motels. You could get a real job, I could finish school here, then—"

"You mean stop hunting?"

"Why not? Who says we have to hunt for the rest of our lives?"

Dean lifts his eyes to the ceiling, fights the manic laughter that threatens to burst forth. "We know what's out there, Sam. We can't just ignore it."

"I can."

Dean stares him down. "I can't."

Sam sighs. "Fine, then. Hunt. But can't you do it local and have a normal life as well? Can't we stay?" He drops his head back. "Never mind. I could go stay with Uncle Bobby. Finish school in Sioux Falls."

"No." Dean shakes his head, because something about that smacks of wrong. "You're my responsibility, Sam. You're staying with me."

Sam lifts his head, looks right at Dean and smiles. There's something cunning about it. "Then we stay here."

---

Dean can't say that this version of normal isn't working for him, at least on some level. The crappy two bedroom house they rent in the crappy part of town isn't much of a step up from the seedy motels they grew up in, and it takes a while to start calling it home, but he only needs to see Sam's face when he gets in the door to make it all worth while.

It's not like he's going to start mowing lawns or erecting white picket fences or anything, but he can live with the lack of stress lines on the kid's face.

Today he comes in, just like every other day, dumps his books on the kitchen table and heads for the fridge. Dean cringes.

Sam slams the fridge door shut. There's no point pulling anything out, because it's empty. "I thought you were going to the store."

Dean's always been shit with money. Sam was twelve when their dad started giving it to him instead of Dean when he had to go away on a job, but now Dean's getting a legitimate wage and there's no one to take it off him. "Shit, Sammy. About that."

Sam slumps down onto a chair, across the table from where Dean's sitting with his feet up. "What did you do?"

"You know how the Impala's been making that funny noise? I figured out that she needs a part, and then I was gonna go play some pool to get the money I needed and—"

"You got hustled." Sam groans and drops his head onto the table. "Jesus, Dean."

Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out about eight bucks in change and dumps it onto the table. "Go get yourself a burger, Sammy. I'll figure something out. Maybe pawn one of the guns, or something."

Sam lifts his head and stares at the coins on the table. Then he scoops them up. "Okay, Dean. Nothing illegal, okay? We've gotta live here, now. We can't just pack up and run with the cops on our ass."

---

There's no way Dean's pawning any of the guns. Dad didn't leave them with much, and when Dean looks at the guns they do have, a sawed off shotgun, and a couple of handguns, he decides he's not going to pawn any of them. They need them all, more, if Dean's going to keep hunting, even local. It'll set a precedent, and they'll end up with nothing.

So he goes out again, finds a different bar, and he looks longingly at the tables while he figures out what on earth he can do to make some quick cash. He's got ten bucks in his pocket, and he's slapped less down before, but he's always had something to follow it up with. He'll have to go in to win, the first game, and then this place will be no good to him anymore. Not for this, anyway. Small town bars tend to remember the winners, and no one will put down the kind of cash he needs if they expect to lose.

But at least he can double it. Walk away from here with twenty bucks, and get enough at the store to feed his kid brother until the next time he gets paid.

So he watches for a while, and then, when he sees an opening, a guy looking for an opponent that Dean has been watching and is sure he can beat, he goes for it.

About half way through the game, he realizes the guy is watching him right back. He's not too careful about letting Dean see him do it, either, letting his eyes linger just a split second too long as Dean takes his shots.

Dean's being hustled again, but it doesn't matter, because ten bucks is chump change, and this guy is playing to lose.

So with twenty bucks in his pocket, he walks away.

The guy catches up with him before he gets out the door. "You're not even gonna give me a chance to redeem myself?" he asks. "Come on, kid. Give me a break."

Dean turns, walks backward with a smile on his face. "Sorry, man." He stops, and puts his hands in his pockets. "I know what you're doing. But I need this money."

The guy is taller than Dean, older. Maybe thirty. He looks Dean up and down again, but this time it's more curiosity than evaluation. "I'm Ethan," he says.

Getting beaten in the last bar still stings. "Dean," he says. "But I can't risk you kicking my ass."

Ethan tips his head to the side and studies Dean through narrow eyes. "No risk, then. Give me another game, and if you win, double your money. If I win?" He grins, maybe even blushes a little. "You keep your twenty bucks."

"What? Why the hell would you do that?"

The guy shrugs, a slow, fluid movement as he shoves his hands deep in his pockets. His eyes drift away, over the noise and movement of the crowded bar. "You gonna let me play with myself?"

It doesn't make any sense. The table they were on is already occupied. There's plenty of other people this guy could play pool with, if that's all he's after.

"Come on, Dean. It's easy money, the way you play."

That, at least, if the guy isn't playing him for a sucker, is the truth. "Table's gone," he says.

Ethan grins and grabs Dean by the elbow. "Come on. We'll have a beer while we wait for it to free up."

Dean's too surprised to say no.

---

Ethan gets them both a beer, passes a fifty over the bar before Dean has a chance to protest, and drags him back to the pool tables. Mostly, they just run commentary on the game that's happening on their table, Ethan doesn't ask him anything about himself, and Dean doesn't offer.

Ethan's eyes are on Dean more often than they are on the game, though. It feels a little like being face to face with something that wants to eat him, and Dean's instincts kick up a notch. There's no way this guy is innocent, no way he just wants to play pool.

There's something else going on here, and Dean's going to figure it out. He watches Ethan right back.

He looks pretty normal, but looks can be deceiving. The guy has dark hair, almost black, a hint of a curl. His eyes seem to always hold a kind of guarded expression, like he doesn't trust easy.

When Ethan goes back to the bar, Dean doesn't take his eyes off his second beer from when the bartender pops the cap off until it's in his hands.

The game itself is just like the last. Ethan watches him, and Dean watches Ethan, and again, it's like the guy is playing to lose.

So when it's over, and Dean stuffs the offered twenty right down deep into his pocket, Dean throws the dregs of his beer down his throat and holds his hand up, palm flat over the mouth of the bottle when Ethan takes the empty off him. "Nah, man. Thanks, but I gotta go."

Ethan's face falls, like Dean killed his puppy or something. Dean wants to laugh, but he keeps it in. He can't hold back a smile, though, as he looks toward the door.

"Yeah," Ethan says, and there's something in his voice. A quiet and curious realization, perhaps, and Dean has no clue what it means. "I should probably call it a night, too." He schools his features blank, and he nods at the bartender, and he heads for the door.

Dean's immediately alert and on his guard. He takes a good look at the bartender, a pretty blonde, and she stares right back at him. Then he turns his attention back to Ethan, and he follows him out of the bar.

There's a knife in his boot, but he left the gun at home. He can take this guy, though, if he tries anything. He's no monster, and Dean doesn't know what he's planning, whether he thinks Dean's bluffing and has more than forty bucks on him or something else. But Dean can take him.

Ethan's waiting for him, right on the edge of the shadows outside the bar. He lifts his head, makes eye contact, and then he fades into the darkness.

Dean could walk away. Hell, he could call the cops. He doesn't do either of those things. His curiosity is killing him, so he follows.

There's an alley between the bar and the next building, wide enough to get a delivery truck down the back. There's a couple cars parked in here now, and Dean slips between someone's shiny new Toyota and the brick wall. He hasn't gone for his knife, because Ethan's not a monster, and Dean can get off a punch if he needs to.

His heart is pounding, but he keeps his breath under control. He's careful, silent, waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before rushing in.

Slowly, the outline of a man appears. He's not gone far, and he's leaning up against the door of the Toyota. He's relaxed, shoulders back, hips jutting out. And he's watching Dean.

Dean stops, frozen. One of Ethan's hands is pressed flat to the car door. In the other...

A set of keys. Something churns deep down in Dean's stomach as Ethan presses a button, and the lights come on in the car as the doors unlock.

"Shall we get out of here?" Ethan asks. All the uncertainty is gone from his voice. It's lowered an octave, gone sure and a little husky.

"Oh, crap," Dean breathes. He's stunned, shocked still. Like a deer in headlights. Right before it becomes roadkill.

"God," Ethan says, "You're beautiful." He pushes away from the car, steps right up to Dean before he can move, reaching out. His hand comes down on Dean's cheek, and Dean backs up against the wall, still so surprised he doesn't know what to do. And then he leans down, brings his face really close to Dean's.

Dean can smell him, a kind of warm, clean masculinity that he doesn't find in the least abhorrent. "Wait," he stammers, and it's ridiculous. Dean came down here ready to knock the guy out. He's a hunter. He can defend himself against ghosts, werewolves, anything. "Stop."

Ethan stops. He doesn't pull his hand away, doesn't step back. He just freezes, looks down at Dean with a question in his eyes.

Dean turns his head away. "I'm... Oh god." He shakes it off, slides out from between Ethan and the wall. "Sorry, man. You got it all wrong. I'm not..." He looks back, just a glance, and Ethan's face is expressive, like everything he's feeling is right there on the surface, and the horror, the shock, and maybe a little fear, is showing. "I don't know how I didn't..." The way Ethan was watching him all night, his eyes on Dean when he bent over the table, Ethan practically begging Dean for another game, buying him drinks. "I'm really sorry."

Dean starts to walk away.

"You've been watching me since the moment you walked in tonight," Ethan says, calling out after him. "You approached me."

Dean stops, but he doesn't turn around. His fingers play at the seam of the hood of Ethan's car, his eyes noting the pale blue shimmer of the silver paint at the edge of the overhead lights, before it's blocked by the corner of the building. It's almost exactly the same blue as Ethan's eyes, and how does Dean even know that? "I figured I could beat you. I really needed the money." Dean's never going to be able to come back to this bar. He's horrified.

"What for?" Ethan asks. "What do you need the money for?"

Dean turns his head enough to look over his shoulder. "I'm a screw up," he says, and then turns fully to face Ethan. "I got a kid brother at home and no food in the house because I'm a goddamn idiot and lost all the food money and I don't even know you so I don't know why I'm telling you." He drops his eyes to the pavement, shakes his head. "And I read you wrong. I'm sorry."

He turns to go again, rolls his eyes at the footsteps behind him, and he expects the hand that grabs at his arm, so he doesn't lash out. "What?"

Ethan turns Dean to face him, then he drops his grip, and he reaches for something.

Dean reaches for the gun that's not tucked into the back of his jeans, stops when Ethan pulls his wallet out of his pocket.

"How much do you need?" Ethan says, as he opens his wallet.

Dean lifts his hands, palms forward. "No way, man."

Ethan shrugs, and he peels off three twenties, folds them deftly with his fingers, and he tries to hand them to Dean.

Dean takes a step back. "I can't just take your money."

Ethan's quicker this time, moves around into the light, and Dean turns to face him, but only succeeds in letting himself get crowded up against the hood of Ethan's car, and he feels very exposed, and his hands are still up, so he can't stop Ethan when he shoves the roll of bills into his front jeans pocket.

"I read you wrong, too, Dean. I'm sorry about that. But I had a good time with you. And I want to help. Call it a loan if you want. Pay me back when you can. I'm here most nights."

Dean left the house with ten bucks in his pocket, and he's going back with a hundred. Sam eats a lot, he's growing like a weed, and now Dean won't have to watch him eke tiny meals out until Dean gets paid again. Dean won't have to go hungry just so Sam can eat.

A rush of emotion sweeps over him, chokes him up. He wants to say thank you, but the words won't come. He doesn't see what he's going to do until he does it, reaching up on his toes, pressing his lips to Ethan's mouth, and he pours all his gratitude into it, lingering past the moment he realizes he's kissing a dude under the lights of a parking lot outside a bar in a small, conservative town.

He's gasping when he pulls back. Stops just long enough to say "thanks, I will," and then he practically runs across the lot to the car.

As he pulls out, he looks back. Ethan is still standing there under the lights, watching Dean go.

---

Sam's doing homework on the kitchen table when Dean gets in. He dumps the carrier bags down beside the fridge, fishes the few bills out of his pocket that was left over, and gives it straight to Sam. "It won't happen again," he says, and then, "You okay out here? I'm thinking about hitting the hay."

"Yeah, sure," Sam says, looking up at him, then down at the bags, a crease between his brows. "I'll put that away, you get some sleep."

Dean smiles gratefully, and heads for his room.

He needs to think.