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In my mind, in my head

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When Sam says that, tells Dean “I think we can beat God,” with that hesitantly hopeful puppy-dog look on his face, he tries, really tries to convey the proper emotion. To look ready to fight.

And he is now. Dean’s got a stronger sense of purpose and drive than he’s had in days and maybe he still wants a beer right now to settle back, but at least it’s not an entire case calling his name.

So yeah, Dean tries to muster up the emotion, but he knows it falls flat. And he knows why it falls flat. Lee’s betrayal is still raw, his nerves are still fried from hearing Cas’s voicemails and driving all night, grieving and anxious and my god, he killed Lee.

 

___

 

Lee was a monster, but he was also a first love; pain and pleasure always had to be so closely intertwined in Dean’s life, didn’t it?

He wants to talk to Cas but like hell that’s going to happen. He would talk to Sam about it (or really, he’d drink next to him and look all mopey and closed off and sad until Sam took to trying to crack him like a particularly difficult pistachio nut and then, maybe then, he’d let a little bit out, carefully adjusted to leave out the big things, the still unsaid things).

He wants to leave Sam to recover with Eileen though; doesn’t want to taint whatever bond they have with the certified Dean Winchester touch.

So when they break and Sam looks like he wants to talk strategy and dive right in with a concerned but fierce Eileen at his side, and he looks up hopefully at Dean and Dean carefully stares at the exact midpoint between Sam and Cas, knowing Cas won’t meet his eyes, knowing he can’t meet Sam’s, he tells him “maybe tomorrow Sammy.”

He leans in, pats his knee on the bed, waves at Eileen, and not knowing what Cas may or may not have told them, goes for his usual familiar pat on Cas’s shoulder as he leaves the room.

Something taut within him snaps when he feels Cas tense under his hand. Dean thinks it may have been a heartstring or something like that.

He allows himself his one beer, knowing that the people who are alive and matter most to him are safe as they can possibly be down the hall. He doesn’t bother with showering or changing clothes, just kicks off his boots and lays down and succumbs to what he hopes will be a dreamless sleep.

 

____

 

Lee is looking at him, mischief written across his face as he runs one foot up and down Dean’s shin under the table. Playing footsie while they’ve both still got a visual on a drunk, on his way to hammered, angry John Winchester is a dangerous game. Dean schools his face and continues to finish his fries, sending an ‘are you serious’ eyebrow angled towards his father in Lee’s direction.

The hunt went okay. The monster’s dead, and they were able to save the daughter and get her safely to some nearby grandparents, but the mother didn’t make it.

The mother looked an awful lot like Mary Winchester.

He doesn’t expect to see John until late tonight, if not the next morning altogether.

“C’mon,” Lee says, leaning in across the table. “I’ve got my own pickup, my own motel room-”

“And?” Dean cuts him off.

His face is suddenly serious and his foot returns to its home territory. “John’s smart and knows what he’s doing most of the time, Dean, but I don’t want to see you falling into his bad habits before having a chance to make your own. All work and no play, that one.”

He could address the sleight aimed at his father, but he’s too sated off of his burger and beer to put up the pretense.

“You calling yourself a bad habit?” he says instead.

Lee levels Dean with a heated look, “Only if you’re in the mood to make some mistakes.”

Ah, fuck it.

They’re barely through the door before Dean turns and pins Lee to it. The blue eyes and dark hair just do it for him, okay?

In the dimly lit room, he sees Lee fumble behind his back to lock the door and as he leans in closes his eyes, he smiles against his lips. For all his showy aggression, the kiss is soft, chaste.

Dean teases Lee, nipping at his bottom lip, bringing one hand off the door to glide through his hair, before suddenly gripping tight. Yep, John has no idea his soldier son is a little fruity. His little soldier son had no idea until Lee came along.

But that’s lying to himself. He had known, but he had never been able to bring himself to act on it. He still hadn’t with Lee, not at first. With Lee, he just hadn’t rejected his advances. Hadn’t frowned when he’d slapped his ass after a good hunt. Hadn’t stopped his hand when it began to slide up his thigh after a few drinks.

Lost in thought and the mindless exchange of kisses, Dean’s caught off guard when Lee starts walking him backwards, taking advantage of the now lax cage of Dean’s arms around him. Dean quickly readjusts, bringing his hands to Lee’s hips.

Then Lee shoves him down onto the bed. Quickly, he straddles him and dives right back in and Dean is in for it tonight, he can tell. Lee’s hungry, hasn’t made a sound besides little moans and whines, and now he’s attacking Dean’s neck with a vengeance and it feels so good that the thought of visible hickies doesn’t even concern him.

He falls back on the bed, rolls them over without much resistance and returns the favor enthusiastically. When he pulls back and looks down, he realizes he’s looking into a different pair of blue eyes. He sees shorter, messier dark hair.

Cas shifts underneath him, groans out “Dean,” but it’s Lee’s voice. Why-

 

___

 

Dean wakes up, hard and confused and upset. What special hell does he deserve for this? Worse, he hears soft voices speaking meaning at least two of the others are still awake. He regrets bringing only one beer back to the room.

Fuck.