Chapter 6

Dean's ass hurts like a bitch even in the Impala's soft leather seats, but he still can't wipe the smile off his face.

"You scare me sometimes, Dean," Sam says, as Dean pulls up outside the school. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"Shut up, Sammy." Dean's still grinning.

Sam pops the door open. "Dean's in luuuurve. Awww, it's adorable." Sometimes Sam really is just a normal teenager.

Dean lunges for him, but his ass twinges and he winces, and Sam dances away, anyway.

"Jesus, Dean. What'd he do to you?" Sam pulls a face. "Don't answer that. I don't want to know."

"You really don't. Now, get lost, before I start honking the horn and embarrass you in front of all your little friends."

Sam glares. "You wouldn't dare."

Dean's hand hovers over the center of the steering wheel.

"Jerk." Sam starts backing away.

Dean reaches over, pulls the passenger door closed, and through the open window, calls out "bitch." Then he revs the engine, tries to ignore the ticking, and he peels out of the lot, leaving Sam staring after him with a sour look on his face.

Dean hits the horn, just for good measure, laughs as he tears off down the road.

---

Dean's going to have to do something about being so distracted at work. Not getting fucked Sunday morning might be a plan in future, because the stiffness doesn't help. He wears Jimmy's slap to the back of his head several times as he zones out, the worst being when he's sitting in the office-slash-breakroom and staring at the phone while it's ringing, and Jimmy comes in to see why he isn't answering it.

He's thankful at the end of the day, heads home looking forward to speaking to Ethan, even just hearing his voice, because he promised he'd call.

He drifts through dinner, can't even be bothered snarking back at Sam, because he's still pissed about his stunt that morning. Registers something Sam's saying about Parent Teacher night, but doesn't pay much attention.

Then he can't even concentrate on the television, so focused on the phone, and making sure he's the one that answers it.

Sam heads off to bed, and Ethan still hasn't rung.

The clock ticks toward midnight, and Dean's got to admit, it's not going to happen. It hurts, but maybe Ethan got tied up at work. Maybe he got busy. Maybe he forgot.

---

Dean spends Tuesday obsessing. He's going to call Ethan as soon as he gets in.

His ass feels better, and he's actually kind of disappointed about that fact, but when he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Ethan inside him.

He gets a slap to the back of his head because he's doing it leaning up against a broom when he's supposed to be sweeping.

Ethan isn't home when Dean calls, and he either doesn't have an answer phone, or its been turned off, because it just rings and rings and rings. Dean tries three times over the course of the evening, and that sick feeling inside just gets worse and worse.

When Sam asks, Dean lies.

"He said he might be working late most of the week." Fakes it good for a change, says it like it's nothing.

But there's an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, a sickening twist of nausea that he almost can't bear.

---

He tries again on Wednesday. Picks up the phone when Sam's in the shower. It rings and rings.

Dean reaches for what that might have meant in his old life. Someone you care about doesn't answer the phone, it means they're in danger, maybe kidnapped, maybe dead. But this isn't his old life. Ethan isn't a hunter, he isn't being haunted or stalked or hexed. And he's not Dad.

Still, it feels like a better option. Dean can do something about that. He knows how to handle it. Fight. Hunt. Salt the bones and burn them. The alternative is something he doesn't have the skills to work with.

So he clings to the first. He worries. And he keeps calling.

Then, when Sam's gone to bed, early night because he's got school in the morning, Dean gathers his weapons, and he heads around there.

---

The Impala gives a shudder when he pulls up outside. The lights are on in Ethan's apartment. A curtain twitches, then goes still.

Dean tucks a handgun into the back of his jeans, there's a knife in his boot, and he heads up the path.

Something stops him from simply kicking in the door. He knocks, and waits. Long moments pass, then it opens a crack.

"Ethan." It's a breath more than a word, one Dean's been holding for hours. "You're here."

"You shouldn't have come, Dean," Ethan says.

Dean's heart freezes solid. "You didn't answer the phone," he accuses. "What was I supposed to do?"

Ethan swallows hard, won't meet Dean's eyes. "Take the hint."

"Hint? What fucking hint?" It's there, right there, but Dean can't accept it. There's a block in his mind and he's got to exhaust the other possibility, first. "Is there someone here?" he hisses, low enough to mask it from anyone inside.

Ethan looks at him then, and his face is cold and closed off. "No."

Dean shifts, peers over Ethan's shoulder. The coffee table is a mess, empty whiskey bottles and glasses, and he looks close at Ethan. His hair is mussed, his eyes bloodshot. There's a faint scent of alcohol clinging to him. "No." He shakes his head, because it's too much to comprehend, and none of it makes sense.

Ethan rolls his eyes, then steps back, let's the door bang open. "Search the place if you like. There's no one here."

Dean looks up at him, narrowed eyes. "What am I looking for?" His fingers itch to reach for his gun, but he waits. "Why didn't you answer the goddamn phone?"

"Because I made a mistake."

Dean takes a step back. "What?"

"I'm sorry." Ethan turns away, just walks away, grabs a bottle by the neck and pours the tiny trickle of amber liquid in the bottom into a grimy glass, throws it back. "You're too young." He throws his head back and laughs. "And you have a kid. A fucking teenager."

"He's my brother," Dean says, barely a whisper. "You knew I had a brother."

Ethan whirls around, bottle swinging in his hand. He shakes his head. "I'm not going to be your fucking experiment."

Dean's jaw drops. "You're not. Ethan, you're not. You're drunk." He reaches out, about to cross the threshold, to go after Ethan.

"Get out," Ethan says, crossing the room. He puts his hand on the door, tries to close it in Dean's face. "Don't come here again, and stop calling me. We're done."

Dean stares at the door as it slams shut. Stares in disbelief.

Then he turns, and one foot in front of the other, he gets back to the car. He closes the door, turns the key so the engine roars to life. A couple of fat tears roll down his cheeks as his chest contracts in a violent sob.