Chapter Text
“Are you okay, Dean?” Sam asks when he picks up his phone after what feels like an eternity.
Dean curses inwardly and leans his head against the bathroom mirror. When did his little brother start worrying about him just because he’s calling?
“I should ask you that, bitch. You’re the one who never calls,” he says way harsher than he intended to. It’s not that he’s angry at Sam. He’s living a good life on the west coast, the one Dean busted his ass to make possible, let their father trample all over him for, just to keep him away from Sammy.
Okay, maybe not only for Sam. He needed John, too. Not needed needed. But well. Semantics.
That was the deal: Dean keeps his secret, and John leaves Sam be. Dean never would have thought that this would drive a wedge between him and his brother. But lying constantly to Sam probably didn’t help to keep his trust.
“What’s that supposed to mean, jerk?” Sam asks.
Dean huffs a laugh. At least their usual banter has survived the years apart, even though it feels a little forced by now with Sam used to talking with highly educated people. Dean’s smart, but he does not always sound like it. Not like the people his brother surrounds himself with. His friends aside, the only people Dean really communicates with are still learning to talk properly.
Dean pulls himself out of his self-deprecating thoughts. This is the drop speaking. Sam loves him just as he is. Or as he thinks he is, at least.
“Ah, nothing, Sammy. Just… Do you know where Dad is?” Dean presses out, hoping the question sounds nonchalantly enough.
“Why would I know? I’m the one John’s only calling when he needs money.”
Right.
Dean brushes the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead. God, he needs help. Soon.
“Yeah, sorry. Haven’t heard from him in a while, and I’m in a bit of a tricky situation here. But I’ll find another option.”
“What is it, Dean? Are you sick?”
Dean shakes his head, regretting it immediately as the world around him spins a little faster than usual. “Nah, just… It’s nothing, Sammy. Gotta go.”
“What’s wrong, Dean?” Sam asks, clearly worried now. Dean could kick himself. He should have known better than calling his brother. Sam usually looks through his bullshit.
It would be so easy to just say it. Sam would call the ambulance, Dean could just lay down on the cold tiles and rest until the rescue service would break through the door. Then, he would get free emergency care for submissives. It’s not his fault that he lives in a state, where the community only pays for that in life-threatening emergencies with no responsible dom around and not when a sub walks into hospital on their own two feet.
But Dean can’t say it. Sam thinks he’s a switch. If Dean were, he could bridge this shit with domming someone, but he isn’t. He is the only submissive in his family, and nobody knows about it but John ‘no son of me will be a needy slut’ Winchester.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Dean says and pulls the neckline of his shirt away from his throat. It feels suffocatingly tight. “I just have a dentist appointment and need someone to pick me up after,” he lies. “I’ll call you when I’m back, okay?”
Dean doesn’t fully understand Sam’s reply but it sounds affirmative enough. “Bye, Sam,” he says and hangs up. The phone glides out of his hand and falls into the sink. Dean braces himself on the basin and takes a deep breath.
Okay. John’s out of reach. Plan B or C must come to fruition.
Dean pushes off the cold ceramic and drags himself through the front door. He looks at the Impala but decides not to risk a drive during the beginnings of a drop. He’ll take the bus to the other side of town where nobody knows him. There, he’ll hit a bar and find a nice dom to lay him, or one he can stir up a fight with to put him in his rightful place. Either will do. And when the chips are down and he doesn’t get lucky, he’ll collapse on the street and the medics will take care of Plan D.
He’s been there before. In the past, he used to move town after leaving the hospital. It sparked too many questions. But he likes this place, his job, the friends—old and new—that live here. He doesn’t want to give that up.
Besides, his employer doesn’t know his true designation. It’s forbidden by law to enquire about it, and if someone asks to see his mark, he shows them the altered version, the first tattoo he’s ever gotten.
Why change what used to work? He doesn’t want to explain where his registered dominant is or why he didn’t help him. And the medication against subdrop is nasty as fuck. The last time, Dean puked for a week.
John Winchester doesn’t give a rat’s ass that he needs to be put under, now and then. For him, Dean is good enough to look down at when he’s feeling out of his depth. But when John has a girlfriend or a well-paid job waiting for him, he doesn’t give a shit about his oldest son’s well-being.
Dean pushes away all these thoughts. They are futile. He’s the one still living according to a promise given two decades ago. He should be over it, but he can’t help but worry that everything would change if his little brother or his friends found out who he really is.
Dean breathes a sigh of relief when bus 153 comes into view. That one will bring him across the city without having to change.
The driver looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Are you okay, honey?” she asks.
“‘M fine,” Dean says and puts a bill on the table in front of her. He doesn’t wait for the change, just tumbles to the seat closest to the back door.
He rests his eyes and concentrates on his breathing. He knows he can’t stop the feeling of his skin growing tighter, but he can keep himself from tipping over if he stays as calm as possible. He’s been there at least a hundred times before. He knows the drill. But he’s running out of time. This drop is progressing faster than usual.
He should have slept more. He knows that. But all of his friends were battling some kind of demon in their lives. And as much as he hates it, his submissive brain struggles with saying ‘no’. How could he have let them down for something as mundane as sleep?
Well, he should have, but it’s too late for that now.
After a forty-minute ride, he stumbles out of the bus and right into the next open bar. He scans the room for ladies, but he can’t see any except the woman behind the counter. She’s wearing a beautiful collar, though. She can’t help him with this.
He checks the men, but none of them looks harmless enough to go home with. Dean’s too deep already. Sure, women can be assholes, too, but even in this state, he could still keep one from tying him up or doing something else he wouldn’t agree to with a stranger. But not with a male dom.
Plan C it is, then.
He doesn’t even need to act much when he runs into the next best bulldog of a man.
“Hey, asshole. Look where you’re going,” Dean shouts, probably a little too loud. His ears are ringing by now. But that’s okay. The guy in front of him grows crimson in anger. He was a good choice.
“Who are you calling an asshole?” the man growls, dom voice leaking into the words. It makes Dean’s hair stand on end in the best possible way.
“No brawls in my bar!” the submissive behind the counter calls.
Dean grins. “Why don’t we sort this out outside, asshole?”
The dom puffs like a steam engine. “If you like to play, bitch.”
‘Gotcha,’ Dean thinks and nods. Time for a good hiding.
***
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean greets his brother and puts an icepack on his swollen cheek.
“Hey. You sound weird. Everything okay?”
“Just the local anaesthetic. No reason to worry that pretty head of yours,” Dean says.
“Was it bad?”
“No, not really. Feeling much better now.”
God, if Sam knew that he’s not talking about a dental filling but a fight, he’d be so pissed. But with the bruises blooming on his torso and the gravel that he can still feel digging into his knees, the itch under Dean’s skin has simmered down to a manageable background sensation, one he’s used to since presenting as a teen.
He’s never been all square, always balancing on a razor blade. John didn’t do much more than give him a beating, especially when he was drunk. Dean is used to walking the thin line every unbonded submissive has to walk if they don’t have anyone to put them under. He’s learnt to deal with it.
“I’m happy to hear that. So, how’s the job?” Sam asks.
“Good,” Dean replies and lies down on the sofa, barely suppressing a groan. “The kids are sweet.”
The kids. He hopes his face won’t look like mush the next morning. But the guy mostly attacked his guts when he was on the ground. He should be fine. Or he’ll say he ran into a door. That one always works. He’s known by his friends for being ‘clumsy’ like that.
“I’m glad you found something that makes you happy, Dean.”
“Yeah, Sammy. Me too,” Dean says.
He is happy. He survived another attempt of his body to kill itself. He knows it won’t be the last. But that’s what happens when you live against your biology. There’s always a price to pay for freedom.
But he’s fine for now. That’s all that matters.