Chapter 2

It's three weeks before Dean goes back to the bar.

When Sam looks after their money, even the shitty wages Dean makes as a kid with no experience sweeping the floor at the local mechanics shop, stretches to fit their needs. The Impala is still making a funny noise, and she still needs that part, but she's running okay for now. It still takes him a couple weeks to scrape together the money Ethan gave him.

The money isn't the only reason he goes back.

Dean's not stupid. It's curiosity, plain and simple. He kissed a guy, and he's never even considered doing anything like that before. Okay, so he was sort of overcome with gratitude and wasn't thinking, but he thinks it's kind of telling that his subconscious responded with a kiss rather than, for example, shaking the man's hand to say thank you.

Then there's the fact that he liked it.

He's admitted that, at least to himself. It's been hard not to when he's spent every single night since lying awake in the dark with his fingers pressed to his lips, still feeling the ghost of Ethan's full, warm mouth.

He walks into the bar, and he's got enough on him to play a little pool, or maybe get a couple beers if the bartender doesn't ID him.

He spots Ethan straight away. He stands by the door and stares at the man across the room.

Ethan has blue eyes, and long lashes, but that isn't evident from this distance, so Dean must remember, he must have noticed. He's tall, long-limbed and slender, but with muscle that seems to be natural. It's not the kind of muscle that comes from long hours in the gym, and it doesn't come from fighting, either.

Jesus Christ. He's hot. Dean's never thought of a guy as hot before, but this guy? Definitely hot.

Ethan looks up, like he can feel Dean watching him, beams when he sees Dean, pushes through the scattered groups of people to reach him. "Dean," he says. "Hi." He's a little breathless, like he ran further than just across the room.

Dean looks up, schools his face blank. Then he puts his hand in his pocket, and he pulls out a roll of twenties, hands it over. "There's eighty there," he says. "I figure I won the first ten fair and square. But thanks. You really saved my ass."

"You're welcome." Ethan looks down at the money in his hands, then he peels one of the twenties off, tries to hand it back. "But you won this, too."

Dean shakes his head. "That bet wasn't fair." He shoves his hands deep in his pockets."

Ethan slowly grins, and he shakes his head slowly from side to side. "Okay. But let me buy you a drink." He jerks his head toward an unoccupied pool table. "A game, maybe? Friendly. No stakes."

Dean lets out a breath he's been holding since he walked in the door. He nods. "Okay."

---

Dean wipes the floor with him every time. "Stop letting me win, asshole," Dean says, as he drains his fourth beer.

Ethan laughs, shakes his head. "I'm not, I swear. You're really good. Who taught you to play?"

Dean feels like he's been punched in the gut. He coughs, and puts the empty bottle down on the table behind him. "My dad," he says, and then shakes his head, drops his eyes. The message is, don't ask, I don't want to talk about it, and it gets through, because Ethan's face falls.

Dean uses that as an excuse. He glances at his watch, and Sam is probably still up doing homework, and he's pretty sure no high school kid actually gets as much homework as Sam does, but hey, whatever makes the kid happy. "I should get going," he says. "My brother."

Ethan nods, and puts his half empty beer down. "You need a lift? I hope you're not driving. I'm sorry, I should have checked."

Dean shakes his head. "I walked. And I'm good. It's not far and I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it." The way Ethan looks at him almost hurts, it's so intense. Like hunger, but something softer. "At least let me walk you out."

Dean nods, and heads for the door.

The air is cool and fresh, clears Dean's head of the slight spin that is all four beers gives him these days. It's replaced with a kind of giddy nerves, as the quiet of outside makes him even more aware of the man walking next to him.

They reach the edge of the parking lot, and Dean stops right before he steps over the grass verge and onto the pavement. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even look up. His heart is pounding, and his palms are slick with sweat, and he came here for a reason but he can't make himself say it out loud.

"You sure you're okay?" Ethan asks.

Dean takes a deep breath, lets it out real slow and noisy. He starts to shake his head, and then stops, just lifts his eyes. Something twists, deep down low in his belly.

Ethan smiles. "Tell me what you're thinking, Dean."

Dean swallows hard, shakes his head. "I am way out of my depth, man."

"Do you need help, Dean?"

"What?" Dean narrows his eyes, shakes his head. "What?"

"Where are your parents?"

Dean lifts an eyebrow, feels his hackles rise. "They're gone. But I am plenty old enough to look out for my brother, and no one, not you, not anyone, is gonna take that kid away from—"

"Okay," Ethan says, holding his hands out in front of him, palms forward. "So this isn't about that. I just had to make sure. I don't know if I trust my own instincts about you, after the other night." Ethan comes a little closer, lowers his voice. "So I'm just gonna ask. Is it me?"

Dean can smell him again. Can feel the heat of his body. He could reach out and touch, if he wanted, and he can't breathe because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do about it. "Yeah," he says, and his voice comes out barely louder than a whisper.

"Talk to me, Dean," Ethan says.

"Uh." Dean turns away, scuffs the toe of his boot against the grass growing over the curb. It doesn't work, because even when he's not looking he can still feel Ethan's presence. "This is crazy," he mutters. "Absolutely fucking batshit."

"Why? Because you're not gay?"

Dean whirls around, locks his eyes to Ethan's face. "Uh, yeah?" He gets up close, leans forward and drops his voice. "Definitely not gay, but... I kissed you. And I stuck around tonight, even though I should have left after paying you back. I'm still trying to figure out what the hell that means."

Ethan lifts an eyebrow, bites his lip and swallows hard. He doesn't say anything, just waits.

Dean lets his breath out in a huff. "I liked it. It felt good." He falls back, walks into someone's car, leans on it. "Jesus."

"Dean." Ethan takes a step forward, and then stops. "I liked it, too. I like you."

Dean looks up. He trusts this guy. Dean doesn't trust anyone, except Sam. Truthfully, doesn't even trust his father, should he still be alive, by some slim chance. But he trusts Ethan. "I want you to kiss me," he says, and his heart pounds hard enough he can hear it.

Ethan takes another step forward. Another. One at a time, until he's standing over Dean, and he's close enough that his breath warms Dean's face. "Are you sure?"

Still slumped against the car, Dean looks up, tugs on his lower lip with his teeth. "Fuck yeah," he says.

The first thing Dean realizes, is that Ethan's giving him plenty of time to change his mind. He comes in so slow that Dean actually lifts an eyebrow at him, as if to say 'hurry the fuck up, I'm not getting any younger here'.

Ethan grins, and then he comes the rest of the way.

He brushes his lips over Dean's at first, feather soft and then gone again. Dean can't help the little grunt of frustration at having it taken away again so soon, and Ethan grins, sucks his lower lip into his mouth, before coming back in.

That's more like it. It's just a kiss, nothing too dramatic about a kiss, Dean's had plenty of kisses. What he's not expecting is how different it would be.

For a start, he's used to being the one doing the kissing, and here he is, being passive, standing in the middle of a parking lot after dark and letting a man kiss him. And girls are soft, smooth. Ethan's lips are soft, but they're rough, and there's the rasp of stubble—Ethan's against Dean's, and Dean can hear it, and feel it, and it sends a tingle of excitement through him that shocks him with the direction it's taking.

He's not sure where to put his hands at first, settles on palms flat against Ethan's chest. There's hard muscle beneath his shirt, the rasp of a hairy chest. And this is so far from anything Dean's ever wanted before, ever thought about, but he tips his chin up and he opens his mouth, and goddammit, he kisses back.

Alright, that rush of excitement is just adrenaline, it's gotta be, like the middle of a fight, and the way his fingers claw at the front of Ethan's shirt is some kind of instinct related to that and the tiny moan he lets out is like when he grunts right before he punches a monster right in the face.

He ignores the way his dick twitches in his jeans, because sometimes that just happens, okay, and he tries not to think about it too much.

Dean had every intent and expectation of being the one to end this kiss. That intent flies out the window, gets lost, and doesn't come back to him until Ethan pulls away, holding Dean's face in his hands and peppering his lips with soft, quick pecks.

"You didn't hate that," Ethan says, as he takes a step back, putting space between them.

Dean's face burns. He drops his eyes away, tries to get his breathing under control, and shakes his head. "Nope."

"So. What now?"

But Dean's not done. It's hard to breathe, and his jeans are too tight, but if he walks away, he's not sure he's going to have the balls to come back. So he looks up, and he knows this, knows how to make this work. He smiles, lets it reach his eyes, and he lifts an eyebrow, and he scrapes his teeth over his lower lip.

Ethan closes the space between them, holds Dean's face in his hands again, but when he's barely an inch from Dean's lips, he pulls up short. "Am I reading this right?" he asks. "You want more?"

Dean just nods, as much as he can with Ethan's hands holding his face almost immobile.

And it's like Ethan has exhausted his limit of restraint when he comes in fast, holding Dean's face in his hands, kissing him hard. It's more like what Dean's used to, albeit on the other side, but he can identify with this, the raw, masculine desire that drives you to devour, to press your body against your partner's and push. Dean's pinned to a stranger's car door, can feel the panel give under their combined weight, and he doesn't care. His dick is hard, almost to the point of aching, and as much as he can, he presses back against Ethan's hard muscled thigh.

He gasps for lack of air when Ethan finally pulls back, but the euphoria doesn't fade.

"Come home with me," Ethan whispers.

Dean almost says yes. Almost. "Gotta get home," he says. "Kid brother."

Ethan lets out a breath, long and slow, then he steps back. "Right," he says. "But tell me I'll get to see you again."

"Definitely." Dean nods, emphatic. "But give me your number. I don't want to traumatize the kid." His face heats. "Not yet, anyway. Not until I've had a chance to break it to him gently." He drops his head down onto Ethan's shoulder, breathes out in a huff. "'Cause this is crazy."

"It's not so crazy, Dean." He pulls a scrap of paper out of his back pocket, a pen, scrawls his number. "But you go home. Look out for your brother." He steps back.

Dean nods, smiles up at him, and he starts to walk away. He's got to step around his dick, trapped uncomfortably inside his jeans.

---

Dean leaves it, like, a day, before he calls. Waits till Sam is out of the house, gone to the library.

It feels weird. Like he's on the other end of this, on the other side. Girls rarely got Dean's number. The phones were for jobs, for contact with their dad, with each other. They almost never had a fixed land line. Dean liked it that way. That way, he could just not call, and more often than not, he didn't.

To give up your phone number makes you the one who wants the contact more. Dean needs that kind of control right now. Needs that reassurance. Needs to know that when he calls Ethan, there won't be an awkward brush off on the other end of the line.

"Hey," he says, when Ethan's voice, deep and warm, comes on the line. "It's me."

Even more reassurance comes, when Ethan says, "Dean," his voice even warmer, his pleasure evident. "I'm glad you called." There's a pause, a moment where he might be biting his lip, choosing his words carefully. "I was afraid you wouldn't."

"Hey, man. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I can't stop—" He stops, because he's running his mouth off, but the quick beat in his chest, the nervous energy it heralds, has his brain to mouth filter hobbled.

"Thinking about me?"

Dean swallows, hard. "Yeah."

"Me, too, Dean," Ethan says. "Me, too."