greenapple: sufjan plays the typewriter (writing)
[personal profile] greenapple
My Heart Is For Strangers
2200 words
May 2006
Adult content: language, concepts, situations, explicit sex
Summary: Dean takes comfort where he can.

Bobby hasn’t put plumbing in the house, yet, but he’s got a solar shower out back, built with corrugated steel and wood planks on three sides. John and his boys have already used it; as guests, they naturally have first claim on the eight-gallon reservoir. The ground all around is muddied, a puddle of standing water and dark tracks where it's run through the dirt, small footprints where the boys have been.

He stands naked beneath the sunwarmed spray, just enough to wet his skin; and he soaps up, his hands over tight muscles, the old shrapnel scar in his thigh. Pulls the chain again and raises his head to the water, shakes it out of his eyes. Creamy foam running down his thighs, his calves. His hand lazy on his belly. He spreads his legs wider, steadies himself with a hand on the boards. He cups his balls, looks down to watch himself, his hand move slick over his cock.

When he hears a noise from the open doorway beside him.

Oh, shit.

He’s all freckles and big green eyes in a pointed face, bones poking out his shoulders and knees. His shorts down, and his hand on his small dick, still only a shadow where his hair should be.

Dean turns to run, but Bobby is faster. He grabs the boy’s arm.

But instead of trying to break free, Dean turns into him, clutches tight with his arm around Bobby's waist and presses his cheek onto his chest still slick and dripping with water and soap. His own cock going soft, but Dean’s little prick stiff and hot, humping against him.

Whoa. Easy, he says. Dean.

Slow and careful, he slips through the boy's grip. Squats down on his heels, one knee in the dirt, and tries to pull him away; but Dean won't budge. He grabs on tight again, around his neck. The soft little tickles he feels there, he realizes, are kisses. Sensual, his mouth sucking and licking the water off his neck, making little animal whines as he rubs against him. Silkywarm, back and forth on his stomach. Scratching his flat, copper coin nipple against the whiskers of his beard.

So small in his arms.

I’m not what you’re looking for, he says like a breath into Dean’s ear, and the boy arches in his arms, his whole body shaking and a warmth spreading between them, on his belly and thighs.

Oh. He holds the rest of the curse between his tongue and his teeth. He inhales slow and deep, tugs on one of Dean's arms, but they only snake tighter around his neck.

Got yourself all worked up didn’t you? Bobby splays his hand over Dean's naked back, his skin heated and flushed from his orgasm. He lets go of the kid’s arm. Dean drops onto his knees and wiggles even closer, pushing against him, shivering and breathing in shallow hitches, and Bobby’s soft cock and his sack nestle between the boy’s legs like they belong there, and Dean is rubbing his face on his shoulder and his cheek, and this could turn into an even worse place that he’s let it so far, because it’s been a long time since someone touched him like they meant it.

Boy, he says. And then he says, Dean, and Dean’s mouth opens and closes on his skin like a little fish.

He’s stronger than this, and he’s going to prove it by walking away. He reaches down to bunch Dean's underwear in his fist, tugging them up between his knees.

He freezes when he hears the hammer cocking. Looks up over the boy's shoulder to meet John’s eyes.

I think you got the wrong idea, Winchester.

I don’t give a good God damn what you think, John says. Dean. He doesn’t look at his son. Dean scrambles to his feet at the order and yanks up his shorts, his underwear; staggers back from Bobby like he’s coming out of a trance.

It ain’t what it looks, Bobby says.

Shut up, John says, and with Dean out of the way, he pulls the trigger without preamble and the bullet clips Bobby on the right shoulder. The sound of the shot is still loud in his ears, the pain in his shoulder nothing yet but cold burn, and John says, You got about five seconds to get inside before I decide to kill you.

Bobby scrambles up from where he’s fallen back, hand pressing to the wound he can barely feel, his feet skidding in the gravel and woodchips. Blood streaking down his side. He slams his good shoulder into the screen door. Leaves dark slippery footprints across the dirty linoleum.

When John comes for him, Bobby's got his pistol grip Browning in one hand; he grits his teeth and racks it onehanded, almost loses it in his wet grip, but has it leveled at John through the screen door before John can make it up the steps.

You get, Bobby says, barely a noise at all, but John looks at the gun, drops his eyes. When he raises them back up, there’s nothing behind them.

You come near me and my boys again, and I’ll kill you. I swear to God.

He turns on his heel, opens the door to his car and gets in. Dean with his head down. Sam brighteyed and openmouthed against the window, probably knowing better than to ask questions. John guns the engine, backs out of the drive, kicking up a dirtcloud, and he doesn’t turn around until he hits the highway, swings out onto the road and drives away.


What did you come here for?

Dean just looked at him, then looked at the floor between his knees. Bobby waited. Dean looked back up and said, Guess I just wanted to see you.

See me.

Yeah. Dean’s eyes went wide and white around the edges, but this time he didn’t look away.

Sam’s gone. Bobby could see the bones of the kid's knuckles where he was clenching his fists.


No. Dean let out a breath he’d been holding, and it sounded like a laugh, but it wasn’t. No. He’s just gone. California.

Just as bad, he wanted to say, but instead: How’d your daddy take that?

Dean didn’t say anything, and Bobby stopped asking questions.

He would have left Dean alone with his grief, but he’d just driven six hundred some miles so he wouldn’t have to be alone. Bobby figured he’d had plenty of alone, and what he needed right now was someone who understood their life, someone he didn’t have to hide from. It said a whole hell of a lot about the way they lived that he was the closest thing the boy had to a friend.

He got up and opened the sink cupboard, sat the half-empty fifth of Southern Comfort down between their two chairs. There’s probably a cup around here somewhere, if you wanted to look.

No, I’m good. Dean took the first swig, long and dirty, as if he were trying to kill something inside.

When they were down to a quarter full, Bobby pulled a joint out of his front shirt pocket and lit it, sat back smoking and watching Dean. The kid had his chin resting on the table and he straddled the kitchen chair. His hands made sigils with spilled whisky on the chipped formica.

Always wondered what kind a man you’d turn out to be.

What’s that mean?

It means just what I said. Then he added, You’re John’s boy through and through.

Dean smiled. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth and eyes heavy.

But you got your own way of things.


Living. You’ve got a softness your daddy never had. Least not that I seen.

Now you’re just trying to piss me off, he said, and he sounded like he was talking in his sleep.

The shadow of the window lay on the table between them, and Dean’s hair lit up yellow and orange, legacy of a childhood and a mother forgotten in all but name.

Dean stretched his fingers in the sunset light, he hooked his ankle around Bobby’s leg and pressed his cheek into the plastic tabletop.

Boy, Bobby said. I never done what you’re asking.

Dean pulled away, his cheek sticky, sat up in the chair and blinked. I’m not asking you anything.

Aren’t you?

Fuck this shit, and he stood, knocking over the chair, walked out the screen door to the back porch, blinking against the sun, and Bobby could see the tears the kid probably didn't even know he was crying shine white on his cheek.

He finished his smoke.

Dean was still leaning there against the banister, and Bobby walked up behind him. Brought his hands down heavy on his shoulders, then light and uncertain on his hips. Slid them round to his stomach and Bobby pulled him tight, and Dean leaned back against him, and they stood like that until the hills turned purple.

Come on, kid, let’s go inside.


There was a rectangle of light on the floor from the hall. The room itself all in shadow. His skin lit up moth white.

Bobby stood over him, his belt unbuckled, his jeans peeled back. Thinking in loops, in circles and excuses.

The kid was knees up with one hand down in the deep shadows between his thighs, the other lightly stroking his cock and rolling it back and forth on his tight belly. Just looking at him. Straight at him, blinking slow, eyes wide open.

He wouldn’t have believed his own self. If he’d have woken up this morning and told himself he was gonna be here.

He undressed, angry for being shy. His waist was thicker, his hair thinner than Dean had last seen him, and he was never anything special to begin with. He turned away, trying to hide himself, but Dean said, No, and touched his thigh with a sweaty hand. You gonna make me do this myself?

Dean slid his legs flat onto the bed, stretched his arms over his head. Bobby put a knee up on the mattress, then closed his eyes and lowered himself onto him, nestled his cock between the boy’s thighs. Which, if he was being honest with himself, was something he’d been wanting to do again for ten some years. Dean smiled against the hollowed scar on his shoulder.

He didn't know what he expected it to be, except different; tighter, he guessed, and maybe rougher. But when he pushed inside, felt the head of his cock slide through, and Dean's body close back down around him, he could only think, This is power. Then Dean shifted and bent and pressed his knees tight to his chest, and it didn’t matter anymore what he thought about anything. He held Dean down by the wrists and pushed further into him, the tight ring of muscle contracting around him delicious and dirty, and he was cursing the kid a filthy blue streak he would have been ashamed of if he'd have been anywhere near his right mind.

But Dean was echoing him, pushing him on, giving voice to some of his own demons. Saying Bobby and now and then Sammy, and once, Daddy, that made Bobby slam hard into him, his balls slapping loud against the kid's ass. Then the consonants all blurred together until it was one word, one plea for love, recognition, release.

In the morning, Bobby woke up with a hangover, a hard on, and an empty bed.


Rumsfeld holds them off, his chain whipping tight, and the both of them have their asses pressed to the old Chevy, trying to hold off the snarls and menacing teeth with raised hands and shitscared smiles.

Down, he says, and Amicus, and Rummy shivers and whines, jumps back to his post on the towtruck, chain dragging in the dirt.

Five years gone, and he’s got Sam with him this time. Standing tall behind his big brother like he’d protect him from anything. He sees the way they walk around each other, touching without touching, and he thinks he always knew there was something about Dean that you either surrendered to, or you had to shut out because it was too big. The way his daddy had.

He likes the man little Sammy’s become. Scared of him, too. Dean got some of the best of John, but Sam got a lot of the worst. Reckons that’s one reason Dean holds on to him tight as he does, though he’d never tell anyone that, least of all Dean.

Sam touches his books like they’re beautiful women and Bobby thinks, This boy is all right.


They're both heading out his door, and Dean says, Thanks for everything, and those wide open eyes say, For not saying anything. And maybe for other things Bobby doesn’t care to think about.

He didn’t feel it when he was here, but he feels it when he’s gone. Later, after everything’s died down and everyone’s got the answers they want to hear.

How it felt being inside him. His arms tight around his neck.

He swears at himself for an old fool, grabs his Browning and heads outside to find Rummy, to bring him home or to bury him.

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