Dean does the same thing he does every morning, wakes Sammy up, makes them both breakfast (dry cereal, they are out of milk again), and walks them both to school. This morning, Sam is grouchy, does not want to relinquish his pillow, even after Dean pulls the covers off his bed and tosses them to the ground. Sam just shivers and curls into a ball, refusing to open his eyes. Dean flicks on the light and Sam grumbles again, finally pushing away from his mattress. His hair is pushed up on one side from sleeping on it and Dean laughs at him, then tosses him a clean shirt.

Dean watches Sam pull the shirt over his head and scours the bedroom floor for a close to clean pair of jeans. Dad would be mad if he saw the mess in their room, but he has been gone for days, weeks actually, so Dean does not worry. He kicks a few clothes out of the way and makes for the bathroom before Sam can get in. He can hear Sam yell from the other side of the door and laughs. In the mirror, he can see the faint tracings of a bruise, a reminder of why he hates high school. Dean does not wince when he presses two, cold, fingers to it this time. The blemish is healing well and maybe he will not have to explain it to Dad this time. He shakes the thought away and pulls his toothbrush from its resting place.

Sam smacks the door again, growing limbs rattling the doorframe. Dean really does not need another item on his list of things to fix so he yanks the door open and lets Sam brush his teeth beside him. Sam is almost as tall as he is now, growing much fast than Dean did at that age. He finds it strange to think of Sam growing up, losing his baby fat and turning into a man. He laughs at the idea, earning him a strange look from Sam, he ducks his head and spits into the sink. Dean claps Sam on the shoulder and maneuvers around him to leave the bathroom.

The kitchen is small with a barely-working stove and a humming refrigerator. Dean tried fixing them, but when John came home and saw him tinkering around them he was sworn away from electronics. John says he will electrocute himself, or worse burn the house down, that one stung a bit. He knew John did not mean it, but he felt it rot in his stomach like a decaying animal, ready to be picked away by the flies. They avoid talking about Mary, but some word choices can be painful reminders of the day she passed away. Dean opens a cabinet, the door teetering where it only hangs on one hinge now, and finds the cereal. Lucky Charms, Sammy's favorite. He shakes the box, there is barely enough for two bowls so he lets Sammy have it. He will steal Jo's breakfast at school, she will not mind, never does.

When Sam comes into the kitchen, Dean sits the box in front of him and watches him eat. Sam complains because he wants milk and the cereal makes his mouth dry, but Dean only has two bucks left and Dad never said when he would be home. Sam swallows down what he can and tucks what remains into the cabinet before grabbing his backpack and following Dean out the door. Dean chides at him to keep up, Sam may have long legs but he walks like a moping moose and school starts soon.

The sun has yet to raise, cool autumn air making them both shiver. Dean is a senior this year, and that does not make school any easier. In fact, he hates it even more, the extra work, added pressure of college, on top of watching out for pricks who want to pick a fight at every corner. He knows he and Sam were never raised with the same luxuries as some kids, but he sure, as shit is not going to let anyone tell him he is a less person because of it. Sam is falling behind again so Dean tugs at his sleeve, making him skip up to his pace. Sam pulls his sleeve back and shoots a glare in Dean's direction.

"Would you quit dragging your feet Sam, you're gonna make us late."

"Not like you care anyways, Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam rolls his eyes, but thankfully picks up his pace. Dean really does not like school, but Sam does and he is good at it. He gets good grades in every subject and even likes some of them. Dean is lucky he advanced this year, if not for Sam helping him with his homework he probably never would have made it. Dean knows he is not as smart as other kids are, knows he probably will not be going to college, instead recruiting to help his Dad on his sales outings, but he hates thinking he is a bad role model for Sam. He is big brother, the one that is supposed to set the examples and teach, not the other way around.

Before Dean and Sam can round the corner to the school, a sleek black car glides past them and Dean waits a heartbeat for the bashing that is coming their way. Instead, Crowley, a rich kid with too much time on his hands, rolls down the window, winks and blows a kiss in their direction. Dean is thankful for being spared total bullshit before the first bell even rings, he still hates Crowley though. The guy is always walking around, flaunting himself like he is nobility and makes Dean want to choke him with his cashmere tie. Fortunately, he has a little dirt on the guy, promises himself he will use it if Crowley pulls one of his stunts on him or Sammy, so Crowley keeps at bay mostly. Hell, he would feel bad for him if he were not such a dick.

Sam scoffs under his breath and speeds up his pace, eager to get into the building with teachers and principals swarming around before one of these power hungry guys can get a hand on him. Dean stays close, fighting the itch to throw an arm over his younger brother and keep him close, away from everyone. Sam has been bullied since middle school, Dean thinks it is the long hair, but that does not mean he deserves it. He is the only one allowed to pick on Sammy, at least then he knows there is no harm. Sam ducks his head and starts avoiding eye contact with people and it pisses Dean off because his brother should not be this defenseless considering he is the one that taught him to throw a punch. Sam becomes so closed off around everyone, like if he bends his spine enough he will disappear.

Dean glares at any potential targets, none in the general vicinity, which lets Dean, breathe easy. He would hate to get detention first thing in the morning, Monday's are Victor's day and he has a penchant for wanting to kick Dean's ass. He always wants to harp Dean about his grades, says he needs to get his act together if he wants to get into a good school. Victor is just another person reminding Dean of how worthless he really is. Sam and Dean reach their lockers so Dean finally says goodbye to his brother and slips him their last two dollars for lunch.

As much as Dean hates grammar rules, he is glad when he can sit in his third period English class and write in his notebook. Each Monday, they have to journal, sometimes they can write whatever they want, other times they receive a prompt. Dean likes the prompts better, feels less compelled to spill everything he is really feeling. Today is not a prompt day. Instead, Mr. Singer wants them to write about their weekends. Dean spent his watching Sammy do homework and trying to hustle a few guys for grocery money (which he blew in one trip to the store), he does not want to write about that.

He elects to make up a story about him and Sam finding some park and shooting hoops all day. When they are both good and tired, they walk down to the local ice cream stand and Dean buys Sam a smoothie, because he is health conscious and that seems like something he would get. Dean gets a banana split with extra chocolate drizzled on top. His mouth begins to water so he starts thinking of something else to write about. Next, he and Sammy stumble upon a magic bag of money- no too unrealistic, Dean scratches out the next line. Next, he and Sammy return to their home, a two-floor classic with shutters on the windows and a freshly mown lawn. Mom makes them dinner, which is ready in time for Dad when he comes home from his desk job. They eat, talk about their days, and Dean and Sam retreat to their own rooms for sleep.

Dean is pleased with his story by the time the bell rings, so much so, he nearly misses the tone signaling the end of class and ends up a minute late for his next class. Math is worth missing, in his opinion, so he is not worried. The rest of his classes drag on insufferably and he fights himself not to leave. Finally, the lunch bell rings, he makes a break for the door and speed walks to the cafeteria. If he moves quickly enough, he can avoid the traffic of human bodies racing to get to their next classes.

Jo is at the table, biting a French fry while balancing a chemistry book in her other hand. Dean walks up behind her, examines the page then shuts the book with a quick swipe of his hand. She scoffs but does not make a move to open the book again elects to return to eating her lunch instead. Dean takes the seat beside her and watches people weave around each other like schools of fish searching for hiding places. Everyone moves as if they are programmed, knowing just where to go and letting their feet take over. Some bump into each other and roll their eyes before returning to their travel.

Dean thinks it is humorous the way students get this code embedded in their brains that bells are the most important sounds in their lives. Nothing can detour them from their fast track to success in the bleak halls of Kripke High. Then there are the ones that try to fit themselves into this mold, this fashion, that no one wants to squeeze into but contort themselves into anyways. They are bending backwards to keep friends they do not even like and Dean hates it, hates how the ones that have earned some ungrateful social status act as if they are gods. He wonders how they live with it, pretending, just to keep a friend in high ranks when they can cut ties, become something more solid, stable.

Jo snaps her fingers and brings Dean back to earth. He breathes a sigh and picks at her half eaten hamburger, sliding a cold pickle into his mouth before biting into the meat. She starts to complain but reels it back since she still has fries to eat anyways. Dean traces the raised letters of her chemistry book with his free hand, enjoying the smooth glide under his fingers.

"You still want to major in chemistry?"

"That's the plan," she says, reopening the cover, forcing him to retreat his hand."You know what you want to do yet?" Her voice is calmer now, face turned away, like if she shows too much interest she will drive him away, scare him with just her words.

"I don't know yet." He swallows down the rest of his, rather her, burger and wipes his hands on a napkin. "Besides, Sammy's the brainy one, got his future mapped out already." His smile is full of pride.

"Yeah, you're smart too you know. Dumb people don't read Vonnegut."

"Anyone can read Vonnegut if they know how," he says, lining up his napkin, now folded into the shape of a triangle.

"You know what I mean, you dweeb." She holds her hand in the shape of a goal, which Dean knocks the paper football through perfectly, hitting her on the nose. She wipes it with the back of her hand and flicks the napkin back at him.

"I think I'm just going to work with Dad, get into the sales business or something." He lines up another shot.

That has been his plan all along. Sophomore year of high school was the tipping point, after failing three classes he knew he could not cut it. Summer school killed his free time, making him unable to watch Sammy, which made Dad angry. He knew school just slowed him down, elected to follow his Dad with whatever he does when he is gone. Dad says it is sales, but Dean has never heard about a product yet, or a revenue. His dad leaves and comes back with money though. Good enough for Dean. Jo drops her fingers and huffs an agitated sigh, Dean knew she would be upset. Always going on about how Dean can make decisions for himself, do something he actually enjoys.

"Dean! I thought you were going to at least try to find something you enjoy."

"I did," he flicks the paper football and it skitters, tumbling to the floor.

"Winchester," Dean holds up a hand, deflecting her scowl and covering his face at the same time.

The bell rings and Dean takes the opportunity to shove a few fries into his mouth and race to his next class.

A few voices, a cacophony to Dean's ears, ring from the bathroom walls and he can feel the sweat bead on his brow. He knows these guys, Gordon Walker and a few of his friends Dean cannot name, but knows by face. Knows to avoid them. They are laughing about something; he can hear someone tumble into the stall beside him, making him pull his pants into place in case they decide they want to open his stall. He thinks if he is completely still; quiet, that they will leave without bothering him.

Dean is a fighter, trained by his dad when he was young. John taught both him and Sam how to defend their selves the first time Dean came home with a new bruise and a split lip. These guys, these animals, though, they play dirty and Dean does not like it. He would rather sit in this stall all day if it meant avoiding them. The stall beside him shakes again and Dean has to claw into his jeans when he hears it because every nerve ending is telling him to man up and help this poor kid. He can see the backs of the kid's sneakers and panics because what if Gordon can see his. He can feel his lungs seizing, trapping between wanting to pull his knees up to his chest and not wanting them to catch his movement.

"Little prick tried to hit me," another hit against the wall. "Cute, think you're real cute don't you Winchester."

Dean's lungs collapse and fill with his own bile because he is sure they cannot see him in the stall. That either means they knew he would be here or Sammy's the one on the other side of the stall, probably plucked from the sea of students on his way to class. Dean's stomach rolls and he squeezes his hands into fists, presses them against his temple. If he just breathes, fucking breathes already, he can do this. Sammy's out there and he just needs to run out, grab him, and get out of the bathroom before any of them can stop him. It sounds so easy worded like that, just a fluid movement of grabbing Sammy and running in his head.

Dean's legs wobble, suddenly jell-o replaces his bones and he cannot figure out how to walk properly. He braces himself against the door to his stall and inhales. He unlatches the door, the creak of the lock echoing through the small facility making him cringe and grit his teeth. Just grab Sammy and go, he tells himself. Before Dean can even get the door all the way open, one of Gordon's guys has him pushed against the wall opposite Sam. He can see Sam, long legs barely touching the floor as another of Gordon's guys holds him against the stall. He is breathing heavy, nose dripping blood and knuckles split.

Dean thrashes against the senior holding him, tries to get some leverage against him. He pushes against the tile wall with one foot and presses his knee against him. He only succeeds in budging the guy by a few inches before Gordon kicks him in the side of his shin. He screams out, holding back as tears burn the back of his eyes and digs his nails into his palms. The guy holding him snickers and pushes against him harder. Dean can feel the chill of the tile on his back and tries to focus on that instead of the way his knee burns. He is muttering curses under his breath trying to think of some way to get out of this stupid corner he is boxed in.

Sam screams something at the guy holding him and wriggles against the door. When Gordon turns to him with a smirk, rolling up his sleeves, Sam advances his movement. He gets a hand free and starts clawing at the guy holding him, leaving marks one the guys arms. Dean tries to do the same, kicks at the guys gut with his good leg and manages to get some sort of reaction out of him. He loses his hold on Dean so Dean tries to wriggle from behind his arm to get to Sam. Gordon rounds on him and lays a blow to Dean's nose and he cannot ignore the way it burns, cupping his face in both hands, blood trickling onto his hands. While he is doubled over, Gordon kicks his bad shin and Dean's legs buckle. The scream escapes his mouth before he can stop it.

Sam is screaming and cursing, Dean can hear slap of skin on skin but the tears stinging his eyes make it hard to see. Gordon kicks him in the rib, now Dean really cannot stand, his own arms wrapped around his waist, as blood trickles down, spilling over his lips. It is a bitter taste but Dean cannot wrench his hands from his flannel to wipe it away. He coughs and tries to get some air back into his lungs, chest burning when he does. Gordon laughs from somewhere above Dean and he can hear the slap of skin on skin again, this time Sam is the one grunting and crying out.

The senior that was holding Sam before now yanks Dean by the back of his shirt until he is lying on his back. The back of his head smacks against the tile floor, which causes him to see white for a moment. His head hurts and he cannot find the will to move, eyes refusing to open. The sound of something snapping, followed by a high-pitched wail makes him jump into action. He pulls to his feet slowly, head swimming with the feeling. He tries to shake it off but that just makes the colors swirl, stalls blending into toilets, clashing with sinks.

Dean gets a grip on Gordon's shirt, yanks him back, Gordon trips over his own feet, and falls to the tile, gasping as he does. Sam is sitting slumped against the toilet holding his arm; tears are streaming down his face, sobs wracking his small frame. Dean gets a grip around his waist and helps pull him to his feet, he fights it at first, not wanting to be touched. Dean gets it, his arm is definitely broken if the way it hangs so limp is anything to go by, but they need to get out of there before Gordon gets on his feet again.

"Sammy, c'mon, get off your ass," Sam scrambles to his feet and Dean ushers him to the bathroom door, pushing him out ahead of him. He starts to follow him, but one of Gordon's guys gets a good handful of his hair. Sam starts to turn back, but Dean shakes his head, Sammy needs to go somewhere and get his arm braced. Dean winces when the hand on his scalp tightens, feels his hair tug and pull until he is behind the closed door of the bathroom again.

Dean sits in the principal's chair and picks at the wood of one of the armrests. Every part of him burns and aches and he would rather be sitting in math than be sitting in front of the principal. She arches her fingers, the tips pressed together, as she asses the report in front of her. All of the times Dean has been brought in this room rests, compiled, in a manila folder, times new roman, double-spaced, printed and ready. Dean brushes a chipped piece of wood the floor and traces its movements until it lands on the carpet, indiscernible amongst the pattern. He watches the clock and counts the ticks until the minute hand moves again.

"Dean," she starts.

"Naomi," she grimaces at the use of her first name.

"What can we do to prevent these meetings?" Her voice is caring but her eyes are hard.

"Expel Gordon, maybe. For starters. Maybe you can prevent another freshman from having their arm broken, who knows." He knows he is being smug for someone riding a fine line but Gordon has been kicking his and Sammy's asses since day one and it is about time someone did something.

"Gordon says you are the one who started all this."

"Yeah, well that's a lie."

After Sam ran off, Gordon had his guys hold him down as he beat the shit out of him. It was as if every bone in his bone was breaking simultaneously, while remaining intact all at once. Gordon knew just how to kick and hit to leave bruises and sore muscles. The worst part was Dean just took it, in too much pain to move and fight back. Sam was out of the line of fire and that is what is important. After what felt like an eternity of Dean getting his ass handed to him, Sam came running back with the principal, assistant principal and the school's security guard, an out of commission cop, just strong enough to break up fights and restrain students if need be. He was the one to pull Gordon off him, bring him to his feet, and practically carry him to the nurse's office. No serious injuries, just going to be feeling awful for a few weeks, should probably have his knee looked at.

"You understand my situation, though."

"What, that you're too blind to notice a pattern. Too caught up to see that every time this happens, Sam and I are the ones who end up broken and bloody while Gordon gets off clean."

"Until we have an eye witness, it's a matter of he said, she said Dean. It happened in the bathroom, where there are no cameras to check, no teachers monitoring. Without definite proof that he has been the one doing the harassing, along with the evidence that you struck back, all of the parties involved will be given suspension, Sam too."

"This is bullshit," Dean says under his breath. It is the same situation every time. Sam and Dean earn a new injury accompanied by a mark against their records.

"I understand you are upset." She shuffles the papers back into the folder and lines them up against her desk before moving it to the side. "We need to speak with your father, we tried calling the landline but it's disconnected."

"Why does he need to be involved all of a sudden?" The school's policies have always been clear, students get their punishment and serve them. As long as the students show up, parents do not need to be involved.

"With Sam's injury, the situation is different. We're calling Gordon's parents as well and informing them of the state Sam was left in as a result of the dispute." She flattens her palms on the desk and leans in. "Sam's arms is broken Dean, we just need to call your dad and let him know what hospital he is at so he can be picked up."

"I'll get him."

"Dean, that's not how this works."

"As far as I see it, I'm suspended effective immediately. That means I can leave right, go get him."

Naomi sighs and pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She pulls a new folder on to her desk and picks out a piece of paper, then puts the folder back. She finds another one and plucks it from her filling cabinet, reads it over, and tucks the paper and file away again. A pen is pushed towards Dean along with the paper.

"You know this part, sign the paper, we file it, add it to your record and you must stay off of school property for as long as we say. Your emergency forms never listed a hospital, which means Sam is going to be at one of the schools choosing. I'll have to talk to the nurse and figure that out, you stay here until I return." She pats Dean's shoulder and leaves the room.

Dean stares at the paper, all too familiar with the format. He knows just where to sign, knows the usual amount of days he will have to stay home. Knows how many days he will have to make up assignments for later, catching up without notes or power point presentations to guide the way. He smoothes a hand over his jaw and wonders when he will start to grow facial hair. His knuckles and face hurt and he is ready to go home and press an ice pack to them. He signs his name on the dotted line and tosses the pen, pushing the paper across the desk with it.

Now he has to try to find this hospital to get Sammy. He wonders how long Sam has to stay home and hopes he will not have to miss too much work. Knowing him, Sam probably asked for all his assignments ahead of time and the school will have someone assigned to take notes for him. Dean is just going to be further behind, but maybe he can get a start on some of the chores before John gets home. He should look into some quick jobs for some food money, maybe hit the bar and do some swindling.

Naomi comes back with the papers with a look on her face that Dean does not like. He braces himself for whatever she has to say next.

"I have the name of the hospital but Dean," she sits in her chair and folds her hands together. "You and your brother are still minors. While you may be able to pick him up this time, we still need to get a hold of a guardian. We need to know someone is looking after him."

"Dad works late, I look after him while he's away."

"You're a student."

"So?"

"So, as a minor and a student you do not count as a guardian. Dean, why can't you just call your father for us so we can speak to him about this?"

Because Dean does not know where he is. "Sorry, can't afford a cell phone, work doesn't exactly accept personal calls either, you know the drill."

Naomi rolls her eyes and scribbles something on a note pad. "This is the hospital," Dean reaches for the paper, but Naomi's grip tightens. "I need to speak to him Dean, soon." She lets go and Dean nods.

Dean has to wait for Sam in the lobby. They had to take x-rays and Dean wonders how John is going to pay for the medical bills, speculates if being a salesperson gets someone health insurance. He is reading an outdated magazine, mostly looking at the pictures and smelling perfumes as he waits. A few nurses cast him glances, but otherwise he is unbothered. Sam comes out a while later, cast and sling with him. The doctor hands him something and ushers him out, says a few words that Dean cannot hear. He tries to focus on the words of some article while he waits for them to finish talking.

Sam knocks the magazine out of his hand, laughing as it flops to the floor. Dean would laugh too if it was not for the fact that he was so damn worried. He never in his life heard Sam scream like he did in that bathroom, and now he is standing in front of him laughing. Suspended from school too, to beat it all. Dean picks the magazine up and tosses it on the table before returning his attention to Sam.

"What's got you in such a good mood?"

"They got me on something for the pain. I think it's messing with my head." He flaps the paper in his hand. "I get a prescription for now." He says and hands the paper to Dean.

Dean eyes it before slipping it into his pocket.

"It still hurt?"

"Like a bitch, but the medicine helps." Dean stands and tousles his hair, Sam ducks out of his reach.

"Come on. Let's get home before it gets dark."

The walk home is longer, but thankfully, their neighborhood is small. Dean does not feel the need to watch over his shoulder every second, not like in some other towns John has stopped at. This one is quaint, some bad eggs here and there, but nothing too serious or dangerous.

When they get home, Dean heats up some canned soup and they eat dinner together while Sam studies from one of his textbooks. They are low on supplies, a few cans of soup left and a frozen bag of peas. They have half a loaf of bread and some peanut butter for lunches, and tap water to drink.

"The school wants to talk to dad," Dean finally says.

"Shit, do they really?"

"Yeah, say it's 'cause your arm got broken."

"Dad's gonna be pissed if we have to call him."

"I know," Dean turns on the sink and starts washing their dishes, looking for something to keep him occupied.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean nothing, if they don't hear from him it's just gonna get worse."

"Better than him throwing a shit storm. Listen, we keep up that Dad's at work, busy working late shifts until the suspension is over. Gives us about a week for him to get back and if he isn't home by then, we call him."

Sam closes his book and leans back in his chair. "Fine."

"Good, now clean the room up and get to bed. You're going to want to rest after today. I'll fill your prescription tomorrow." Sam nods and slides his book into his backpack.

"What about you?" He asks, starting towards the bedroom.

"I'm going to clean the living room up first, make a list of things we need before I head out tomorrow."

"Not what I meant. You look like shit Dean."

"Yeah and you're not miss centerfold yourself pipsqueak," he lays the dishes out to dry and turns to face Sam.

"Don't be an ass," Sam goes into the room and Dean can hear the bed creak.

By the time Dean has the living room cleaned, Sam is asleep. The pills must be good because he hardly even budges when Dean turns on the lights and starts shoving clothes into a bag so he can wash them later. He gets most of it straightened up and decides to vacuum tomorrow. When Dean throws on a jacket and turns out the light, Sam still does not move. Dean steps out of the room and, quietly, shuts the door. He steps out of the front door and locks it behind him before turning down the street.

Crowley's house is close by, close enough to walk to alone at night without worrying. Dean steps up the concrete staircase to their porch and taps his knuckles against the door and cringing at how sore they are. He probably should come back another time but Sam needs his prescription filled meaning they need money. Dean has to take his opportunities while Sam is asleep, not wanting to rouse suspicion. If he is lucky, Crowley will be awake and he can get this over with tonight. A light turns on in the living room and he steps back on the porch, putting space between him and the door.

"Winchester, what a surprise," Crowley drawls from the other side of the door.

"Whatever, I need to talk to your dad."

"Alistair is with my mom at the moment, no can do buddy boy." Dean squints and rolls that through his head.

"When is he going to be back?"

"Not until late I'm afraid, it's their anniversary tonight and I'm sure he doesn't want to spend it with you." Dean can feel his eyes scan his body and ducks his head.

"Just, Sammy broke his arm and we need some money," he finally spits out.

"Well that's just a perfect, a whore looking for some money."

"I'm not a whore." Dean spits at the ground. He does this because he needs to, not because he gets pleasure out of spending time with Alistair. Now, he needs the cash more than ever.

"Well, can't help you," Crowley bites out and begins to shut the door.

"Wait, seriously I need this!" Dean forces his foot in the door and wiggles a shoulder through.

Crowley rolls his eyes and pulls the door back again. "A begging whore," Crowley mutters under his breath. "What's in it for me?"

"Jack shit," Dean shrugs and Crowley begins to shut the door again. Dean stops it before it can be closed and leans into Crowley's personal space.

"I won't tell your mom you're Daddy is a pedophile and has been messing with the Winchester boy down the street ever since he rolled into town," Dean whispers.

Crowley's face is red with anger as he throws the door back and moves to the side.

"They'll be back at midnight. I'll tell my mom you're spending the night. Please for the love of God, do not bother me until they get here. You can watch T.V. in my room, I'll be working on my essay." Crowley looks him in the eye. "You ever call Alastair that again and I'll have Gordon rip you a new one." Dean smirks and hops the stairs to Crowley's room.

Crowley calls his parents while Dean watches T.V. and prepares himself for the night. He only comes here when he needs too, usually when they run out of money and John is gone too long. Now, they are out of money and Sam needs his prescription filled. They have a medical bill coming in the mail, Dean is sure, and they are behind on a few payments. If he can get enough for a few meals and a bottle of pills tonight, Dean thinks it is worth it. He sits on Crowley's floor and rests his head against the bed, Crowley does not let him on any of his furniture when he comes over, and he is not allowed to speak. He just sits and stares at the monitor checking the clock every five minutes.

When Dean started this, he thought it would be a onetime deal. They were out of money and Dean was down on his luck when it came to gambling. Honestly, he was never good at it to start with. Alastair had watched him from the bar, laughed when Dean got a bad hit, and had to hand over his winnings. Dean, fed up and frustrated, called him on it. Alastair got pissed, started calling him boy and demanding respect. Dean was itching for a fight but when they got into the alley, Alastair had other plans, tossed a few dollars at Dean when he was done and left.

Dean kept showing up at the bar because they were always running low on cash, even when Dad was home. Sometimes they just were unable to keep up with payments and Dean had to hustle to make ends meet. He still sucked though, so eventually Alastair struck a deal with him. Dean comes to him when he needs to, but he has to work for it. Something about his wife not cutting it and Dean being right for it was thrown around but Dean did not care, he still got payed and that is what mattered. Nothing about it feels right but he does what he has to.

The sound of the garage opening tells both Dean and Crowley that Alastair is home. Crowley rolls his eyes when Dean eyes the door eagerly, he wants to feel ashamed but he is ready to get this over. Alastair and his wife patter around in the kitchen, Dean can hear them from the bedroom. He turns the volume down a bit, as they start their way up the stairs. Crowley shuts his computer off and climbs into bed, pulling the sheets over himself. Dean is sure he is not going to sleep. Crowley's mom opens the door and wiggles her fingers at Dean, checking to see that Crowley is asleep. Dean can barely hear her as she whispers.

"I can set the couch for you if you're tired." He feigns a yawn and nods. There is too much anxiety buzzing inside of him for him to be tired.

When he steps into the light of the hallway, she makes a noise and places a palm on her chest. She looks almost scandalized and Dean remembers the bruises he has. She cups his face and turns it from side to side, inspecting the marks. Dean hates that she is so nice when he remembers what he does while she sleeps. He hisses when she brushes a thumb over the bruise on his eye.

"Sorry," she whispers. Dean shrugs and follows her down stairs.

A couch is in the den that Dean usually sleeps on, when he stays over. He will wait down there until Alastair comes creeping in and locks the door. When he is done and has his money, he will sneak out and slip back into his own house before Sam can wake up. Sam knows he goes out and makes money somehow but he just leaves it at hustling for now, no reason to scar Sam. Crowley's mom grabs a blanket from the hall closet and ushers Dean into the den. She drops the blanket on the couch and tosses him a pillow before retreating upstairs.

The room is quiet for a long time, Dean stares at the ceiling under the blanket and counts out the seconds, then the minutes before he hears a door open upstairs. A few stairs creek when stepped on in the wrong spot and Dean cringes at each one. The nerves are swimming in his stomach and he tries to anticipate what Alastair will want in exchange for money this time. Normally he gets off with a blowjob, which is easy. He can close his eyes and pretend he is somewhere else. He is asking for more tonight, though, and thinks he knows what is coming.

Alastair pulls him off the couch, catching him off guard, and Dean drops to the floor with a thud. He muffles his own complaint and gets up, brushing himself off. Alastair already looks pissed and Dean knows he should just get to it.

"How much this time?"

"Enough for food, a prescription, and maybe a few utilities." He drops his head and focuses on the floor.

"Shit, prescription for what? You go and catch something, you little cunt?"

"No," Dean quickly defends. The only person he has been with is Alastair. "It's Sam, he broke his arm and needs some pills for the pain. Medical bills too, but my dad can take care of it."

"How long has daddy been gone?" Alastair asks, already stripping out of his pants.

"A week or two, we don't know when he's coming back this time."

"Still think he's just doing sales?"

"I don't know anymore." Dean nearly chokes on the words. He hates thinking of his dad as a liar, hates admitting it in front of Alastair even more, but this is unusual for them.

"Get on your knees," Alastair says, stepping out of his boxers.

Dean falls ungracefully and winces when his bad knee hits the ground.

"What do you want this time?"

"On your hands, arch your back a little." Alastair walks behind him and pushes on his spine a little.

Dean bites back a complaint, hates it when Alastair touches him as if he owns him. When Alastair begins to slide his boxers down his hips, Dean closes his eyes and pretends he is somewhere else. If he focuses hard enough, he can meditate, get lost in some make believe world. It helps that Alastair likes him quiet, he can zone out without worrying about offending him.

Dean did not find out that Alastair was Crowley's dad until he was forced to stay late at school for the first time and saw him picked up. Alastair spotted him right away, tried to duck into his car as Crowley made his slow decent to the car. Dean tried not to look, it all felt so real when he saw him like that, outside of the bar. After that, they stopped meeting in alley's and hotels and Dean started showing up at Crowley's on weekends his mom was away, uninvited. Crowley caught on quick, but never said anything. Never knew how probably. He will still fuss about it, taunt Dean, but he never talks shit about his dad, not once.

Dean finds it harder to distract himself when Alastair finally presses fingers inside of him. He takes a minute to catch his breath and find his train of thought again. While Alastair works, Dean thinks up something quick. He squeezes his eyes shut and pictures an empty field somewhere in bum fuck he does not care. The field has a cool breeze and smells like freshly mown grass. Dean tries to get lost in his senses, feels the grass under his palm, almost as if it is real. As Alastair slides in, he pictures a swing set somewhere down a path. He sits on it and pumps his legs until he is flying through the air, free of limitations. Sam is in the field playing with a golden retriever. The dog is almost as large as Sam's body, but she is nice and rolls in the grass, tongue hanging out of her mouth. While Sam rubs the dog's belly, Dean takes a stroll further down the path and dips his foot into a lake when Alastair comes.

The illusion is ruined when Alastair grunts into his back. He pulls out and Dean pulls his boxers back up. Alastair does the same and pulls out his wallet; he roots around a while until he finds a couple of large bills and drops them on the floor next to Dean. Dean grabs them and looks up to thank him, his jaw nearly dislocates when he sees her.

"Shit," his voice is pitched with puberty, cracking against his will.

"It's just a little more than normal, don't do making a scene boy."

"No, shit," Dean says, nodding in her direction. He can feel himself drowning in shame.

Alastair turns around and Dean can practically feel the tension. Alastair's wife is standing in the doorway with a hand over her mouth, the other clutched over a glass of water. Her eyes are wide, body stiff. Dean should leave, knows he should get out before it gets ugly but his legs are like concrete and he cannot find his pants.

"I just wanted some water and I heard a noise," she squeaks out, muffled by her palm.

Alastair grabs Dean by the hair, still sore from earlier, Dean hisses and tries to move away, but his grip only gets tighter. He pulls Dean up, shoves his pants into his hands, and drags him, by the hair to the front door. Dean wants to say something, wonders if he should, but the words are trapped in his throat. Alastair hurriedly opens the door and shoves Dean out into the cold night, still in his boxers.

"Don't come back," with that, he tosses a few more bills at Dean before shutting the door and locking it.

At first, Dean just stands there staring at the door. They have been doing this night after night and he never really thought they would be caught. Before the wind can steal them, Dean picks up the bills and shoves them into his pocket before pulling his pants back on. He runs a hand through his hair, his scalp is still sore and the pain is enough to stop the thoughts racing through his mind.

"Shit!"