Chapter Text
Dempster Ohio is a place that people just kind of end up.
Nobody aspires to take a trip there to see the sights. Nobody moves there for a better job or a better life. The whole town’s a cyclical shoreline full of life’s proverbial flotsam and jetsam. The washed-up wreckage of nicer stories.
It doesn’t seem like a coincidence how the name so closely resembles that of a garbage receptacle. Perhaps even the first settlers knew that their tiny village, in the middle of nowhere, was bound for nothing but mediocrity.
The town boasts two major industries. A meat packing factory, and a coal mine. All the grown, bearded men walk around smelling like blood and viscera or covered in soot. The life expectancy is at least ten years lower than the national average. The school is always starved for funding due to chronic low test scores. More roads are made of dirt than pavement. It’s a shorter trek to hit the railroad tracks than it is to reach the highway. The people born in Dempster also die there. Even the ones who try to leave always seem to come back.
Youth is difficult to stomach no matter the place or time, but being stuck between childhood and the burdens of becoming an adult in a town so dreary and stifling breeds a whole mess of contempt.
“God damn it, Ambrose!”
Kevin spits blood onto the dusty ground as he stumbles backwards. He’s a big boy. Body like a cannonball. His round belly doesn’t slow him down much. There’s a lot of muscle under the layers of fat. He’s a few months shy of seventeen. He’s already covered in tattoos and sports a constant scruffy beard. He’s beat the ever loving shit out of most kids in the trailer park.
“Whoops,” Dean grins, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet like a boxer. There are splotchy red stains on his taped-up knuckles. His slanted grin says everything about how he’s not at all sorry for sucker-punching dear Kevin square in the mouth. Because hell, he’s half Kevin’s size. Nothing but wiry muscle, dirty blonde hair, and boundless energy. People say he’s crazy. Would probably fight a cougar with his bare hands given the opportunity. He’s the only one who will actually challenge Kevin to a fight and occasionally come out on top.
The crowd around them widens the circle a bit. Skinny little boys and pimpled teens all taking a few cautious steps back. It’s hard to say what Kevin Owens is capable of when angry. There are rumors about him killing his meth-addict step-father and burying him by the tracks. Rumors so credible, the Sheriff even investigated him. He spent a couple nights in jail.
But no one turns to leave. This is the only sort of thrill to be had in a town with fewer cable boxes than rusty pickup trucks. Maybe today’s the day Dean finally bit off more than he can chew. Everybody’s gonna watch. It’s beautiful like a trainwreck is beautiful.
Kevin’s got his balance back. He takes a few heaving breaths, trying to wipe some of the blood and spit away with his forearm. Dean’s still jumping around. Tense. A coiled spring waiting to pop.
It’s quiet like an execution room. Spectators’ breaths baited. Waiting for the lethal injection to pierce skin. For the noose to tighten around someone’s neck.
Kevin lunges. Barrels forward quicker than he’s got any right to. Dean side-steps him. Sticks a leg out. Even manages to trip him a little. Then it’s three consecutive right-hooks, just beneath the ribs. High knee right to the stomach. Before anyone can really register what’s happening, Dean and Kevin are rolling around on the ground. Dirt sticking to their sweat and blood slicked skin.
Really, Kevin should have the advantage. All he has to do is pin Dean under his considerable weight and wail on him until he stops struggling. But Dean’s slippery. Kevin can’t seem to get a grip on him. Somehow, Kevin ends up pinned on his stomach, Dean sitting on his back with a forearm locked around his neck in a tight choke hold.
“C’mon,” Dean laughs, voice raspy and shot. “Tap out like a little bitch. I’ll letcha go. Scout’s honor.”
Kevin struggles. His face is starting to flush. It looks like he’s in a considerable amount of pain. Nobody in the crowd dares cheer. Because Kevin would remember. He’d come after each and every one of them. The abandoned lot is perfectly silent but for Kevin’s wheezing and grunting.
And then Kevin’s hand falls against the ground. Tapping pointedly three times. Dean lets go right away and jumps up to his feet with a very tasteful victory crow. Kevin rolls onto his back, gasping for air.
***
New faces are few and far between in Dempster. So of course, the whole town’s all atitter when the rumors start to circulate that some distant member of the McMahon family is gonna be crawling up out of the woodwork.
To say the McMahons are well-loved would be a darn far stretch of the truth. The family’s owned McMahon’s Meats as long as anybody can remember. They’ve always been the Boss Men, with all the money. Vince, the aging patriarch, is a bumbling caricature of Scrooge McDuck. By most accounts, his daughter ain’t much better. Her husband Hunter manages the plant, and, well, there’s always sledgehammer leaning against his desk that gives you the distinct feeling he ain’t afraid to pick it up and use it.
But, there’s an exception to every rule. Stephanie couldn’t get pregnant, so she also didn’t get a chance to pass along the nastiness that seems to run in the family’s genes. She and Hunter adopted a kid from Samoa. Roman, the heir to the fortune, ain’t actually half bad. A bit of an oddball, maybe. Sticks out like a sore thumb, seein’ as he’s about six feet of bulky muscle and body hair. Looks like he could rip a man in half without breaking a sweat. Lotsa folks figure he’s mean, since he’s the silent type. If you get him talking though, it’s apparent he’s about as threatening as a puppy made of marshmallows. The bastard listens to classical music and wants to be a geologist.
“I already told you. I don’t really know much about him,” Roman groans, slumping back at his desk.
Dean can’t stop bouncing his leg. He gets so twitchy when he has to sit still. It’s always worse in detention. Where he’s just supposed to be quiet or do homework. It’s impossible to focus.
“He’s yer damn cousin,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Have you never even met him?”
“The last time I saw him, we were fourteen. I’m sure he’s changed a lot?”
“And your folks didn’t say anything about why he was getting shipped off to bum-fuck nowhere?”
“Something about him being in ‘trouble’?” Roman shrugs. “They weren’t very specific. The only concrete thing mom said was to keep him away from you.”
“Me?” Dean places a hand on his chest in mock-offense. There’s a happy, bubbling feeling in his chest. He hates Mrs. McMahon an awful lot. It’s a private source of endless joy that she disapproves of him so thoroughly.
“You and the quote ‘other trailer trash’. But you know. It’s better not to argue with her.”
“We should throw your cousin a welcome party.”
“Dean, no.”
“Roman, yes.”
“Dude we can’t--”
“Just think about it,” Dean holds up a finger. “We could keep it small. Get a thirty rack and a bottle of Jim. You, me, Bryan, maybe Becky and Charlotte…?”
Roman sinks lower in his chair and grunts. Everybody with eyes knows he’s got a crush on Becky. Who wouldn’t? Beautiful red-head, that’s somehow sweet as pie. And Charlotte… well. Charlotte’s a stone-cold bitch. But you can’t really have one without the other. And if she’s drunk enough, Char’s been known to get nasty in more productive ways than emotional battery.
Once she sucked Dean off in a tractor barn. He wouldn’t mind a repeat performance. He kept his mouth shut about it after the fact, in hopes she might be persuaded to do it again.
“C’mon, Roman. It’ll be fun. Just say you guys are going to Bryan’s house or something, and we’ll live it up.”
“Every time you say that, I feel like bad things happen.”
“What could possibly go wrong?”
“Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will.” Mr. Jericho interjects from his desk. He’s got his feet propped up and he’s flipping through a magazine. Sometimes he yells at them to be quiet and study or something, but lately he seems to have given up.
“Sorry, sir,” Roman immediately offers.
“No you’re not.” Mr. Jericho snorts.
This is probably as much a punishment for him as it is for Dean and Roman. After all, he’s the music teacher. He’s got no business running detention. But he never seems to report it when students wander off during class. He’s got that whole ‘if they don’t wanna be here, then they can fuck off’ attitude. So if Dean and Roman get caught smoking behind the gym when they really should be in band, well, Mr. Jericho seems to get shouldered with some of the blame.
Dean almost feels a little bad for him. Chris is an alright guy. In his late twenties. Has a tendency to wear jeans and t-shirts instead of ties. If anyone else gelled their hair that much, there'd be a lot more whispers about ‘em being a queer. Jericho is pretty well-liked, though. So people let it slide.
“You got any fun plans this weekend, teach?” Dean rests an elbow on his desk and offers up his best shit-eating grin.
Maybe a little part of him wonders about Chris’ sexuality more than he should. It’s hard not to. Most men in Dempster would knock your teeth out at the mere insinuation. Chris just kinda sidesteps questions with a knowing smile. And well… Dean’s got eyes, you know? Chris ain’t a bad looking guy.
Who doesn’t have inappropriate fantasies about authority figures every now and again? It’s not like Dean’d ever do anything about it. Probably. Maybe. Given the chance, he’d drop to his knees and open his mouth in a goddamned heartbeat. That’s really nobody’s business but his. He doesn’t even share those kinda late-night musings with Roman, and he tells Roman basically everything.
“Oh, you know,” Chris drawls. “Drinking myself stupid and questioning what wrong decisions I made in life to wind up babysitting idiots like you two.”
“If you’re so bored, you could let us go early.”
“I think you’re forgetting why we’re all stuck here in the first place, Ambrose.”
“Can you blame me for trying?”
“I can blame you for not using any of your bountiful, wily charm for something productive. Maybe if you’d turned that diabetes-inducing smile on Mrs. Sable, we’d all be free as birds right now.” Chris looks up, catches Dean’s gaze and holds it for a moment. It sends a lurch of heat through Dean’s body. He’s weak. He’s already starting to chub up. Fuck.
“Well, damn,” Dean licks his lips. “I’ll have to try harder with the sweet talk next time.”
“Atta boy.” Chris winks.
Dean’s dead. Gone and buried. Even if the moment's over, and Chris is back to reading his magazine. He wants to grab Roman by the shoulders and scream did you see that? Did that just happen?
But of course Roman didn’t see it. He’s a sweetheart. Got some of the highest grades in the class. It’s just that he’s not very—whaddaya call it—emotionally perceptive. Sometimes misses the nuance, you know?
“So,” Dean turns back towards Roman. “We’ll plan on Saturday night?”
“He’s not even getting here till Friday.”
“Cool. I’ll get the booze.”
“Dean--I don’t--”
“I’ll invite Becky and Char, you tell Bryan to get out his party clogs?”
Roman stays quiet for almost a full thirty seconds before barely mumbling, “OK.”
“There’s my champ.” Dean claps him on the shoulder. “Maybe you’re finally gonna lose that pesky v-card, huh? Become a real man.”
“Shut up.”
***
It’s not that hard to talk Becky and Charlotte into a party. Dean’s got the formula down. My mom works nights. There will be beer. There will be music. Roman’ll even pick you up.
Becky gets all blushy just at the mention of Roman’s dumb name. It’s a dang maricle they haven’t boned yet, they way they go all moony eyes at each other whenever they’re in the same room. Charlotte is a little harder to appease. She wants to bring Paige. She wants to know who else will be there. She wants to know if there will be food. She wants a ride back home whenever she decides it’s time to go.
Dean promises her the goddamned moon. They both know it’s a lie. She agrees to go anyway.
Getting the party supplies ain’t that hard either.
Dean has been jacking forties from the corner store since he was twelve. Over the years he’s gotten to be good friends with the owner. They both know Dean ain’t old enough. But when he plops a thirty-rack down on the counter and offers up a crisp, twenty-dollar bill, good old Mick would rather have money than missing inventory.
“Well now,” Mick smiles. It’s a little hard to tell underneath his large, scruffy beard until his eyes crinkle and he lets out a chuckle. “What sorta mischief you getting up to?”
“No mischief, sir. Nothin’ but good wholesome fun.” Dean picks up a box of condoms and drops them on top of the thirty-rack without batting an eye.
That earns another hearty laugh.
The stage is all set. Dean even cleaned up a little. Took out the garbage and put the dirty dishes in the sink. A trailer is still a trailer, even if it’s clean. It’s more than a little cramped. Two bedrooms, one kitchen, a living room that can barely fit a couch and a television he rescued from Roman’s garbage. But Dean’s never been in the business of putting on airs or pretending he’s some kinda fancy. He’s just more inclined to make an effort if it improves the chances of getting his dick wet.
That’s what tonight’s about after all. He’s got dibs on Char. Roman’s got Becky (provided he actually has the balls to do anything about it). And well… Roman’s cousin and Bryan are just gonna have to fight it out over Paige or share.
There’s a knock on the front door. It’s a little early. Dean’s mom just left for the diner half an hour ago. The beer in the fridge might not be completely cold yet. Dean’s wearing his only jeans that don’t have holes in them. He thought about combing his hair, but that seemed like a step too far. It might ruin his signature don’t give a fuck aesthetic.
He saunters over to the front door and tugs it open. Bryan’s standing there holding a mason jar full of clear liquid.
“You fucker,” Dean laughs. “Is that Wyatt moonshine?”
“Stopped off this afternoon. Got a whole sermon and a half about how the end times are nigh.” Bryan tosses Dean the jar and strolls into the house.
Bryan is a pretty average fella. Obviously descended from the ‘hill folk’ that slowly migrated down to Dempster as civilization progressed. Short, and stocky, with a very thick blonde beard. There’s dozens of him walking around down in the mines.
He’s nice enough. Has access to stronger booze than you can buy in any store seeing as he’s not afraid to drive up back into the hills and purchase it at the source. The Wyatts are some distant, twice removed cousins of his. Dean would never go on his own, but he’s ridden along with Bryan a couple times, and it’s quite the trip.
Dean unscrews the lid of the jar and takes a whiff. It’s strong enough to make his eyes water. They’re probably gonna have to mix it with soda to get the girls to partake. But Dean would like to think he’s man enough to have it straight.
He knocks back a big swig before he can second-guess himself. It burns the whole way down like he just drank some pureed ghost peppers. He coughs. Can’t help it. Bryan laughs up a goddamned storm. Because Dean’s a purebred Townie that can’t take his Shine the proper way.
When he recovers from the first sip, Dean mixes himself up a glass with ice and some sprite. Bryan drinks his straight.
By the time Roman’s pickup pulls into the driveway, they’re both a little sloshed, listening to Danzig and squalling along.
“Not about to see your light, but if you want to find hell with me, I can show you what it's like, till you’re bleeding…”
They’re singing when the door swings open. Becky and Charlotte walk in first. All dolled up. Then comes Roman. Looks like maybe Paige didn’t make it after all? The last person to walk inside must be Roman’s cousin. Dean’s too intoxicated not to do a double take.
Because, well, when you haven’t ever seen somebody but you’ve heard about them, you kinda build a mental image of them. Roman’s big. Hunter’s big. The whole McMahon family, biological or not, runs tall and muscular. They play The Sports. They are High Class and Well Dressed. So, Dean wasn’t expecting a carbon copy of Roman, exactly, but he was definitely not prepared for a scrawny, skinny-jeans, studded belt, ripped up chucks and glasses wearing, goth kid. Like. This guy’s hair is almost as long as Charlotte's. Dark, curly black, with a bright blonde streak at the front. Dean would almost wonder if he’d missed the memo and Roman’s cousin was actually a girl, if not for the beard.
“Guys, this is Seth. Seth, that’s Bryan and Dean.”