Don't Dream It's Over, Chapter 4 – Respite
Eugene, Oregon
Between backdoor poker games and pool hustles and his flourishing career as a whore, Sam has accumulated a nice stake. He manages it with restraint so it pays for a few clothes, a bottle of decent scotch, ammo, and even a new Toshiba laptop.
Because it's a weeknight when most everyone's at home, pacing themselves to stagger through the work week, and because he feels restless and remote, Sam is taking a rare night off. No research, no hunting, no pick-ups. No pool or cards. At 11:55pm he actually finds himself in front of a small, old fashioned marquee theatre showing not six or eight separate films, but one feature at its midnite show: Last Tango in Paris. He remembers seeing Last Tango back at Stanford, but the recollection itself feels like a scene from a movie. On impulse Sam buys a ticket. The lights are dimming as he slips into the end seat in a row at the back of the nearly empty house. Everyone else is in front of him, easy to keep track of. He stretches his long legs out to the side and slouches down, content to be in the dark with this scattering of strangers, separate but with a shared purpose.
When the lights come up again Sam is still sitting, head back, staring at the frescoed ceiling. He has been crying and his face is wet. He reflects on Brando's character in the film – Paul - so utterly poignant in his desire to be known. The film's perception of the gulfs of difference that separate people – both strangers and those who know and love each other – mirrors Sam's own truth. His tears – the first he has shed since leaving Pontiac, feel like rain and not acid and maybe that is why he allows himself to think of Dean. How Dean would have HATED the movie - thought everyone in it was a douche (except Brando) and would have made endless crude jokes about the "butter scene." He laughs low and it is Dean's laugh he hears.
Several rows down, a man has gotten up to leave. Sam's eyes flick over him, flick back quickly. He sees only the man's profile as he turns away, but there is something familiar in shape or movement that kicks Sam's senses into overdrive and quickens his heartbeat. He follows the figure out on to the street. As Sam hits the sidewalk, the man stops, withdraws a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo from his jacket pocket. He lights a cigarette, the flare of the Zippo's flame limning his face, casting its bone structure in high relief. In the light his short, dirty blond hair glints golden. He has a fine nose and cheekbones, strong chin. He must feel the intensity of Sam's stare, because he snaps the Zippo closed and looks straight at Sam.
Sam looks back and decides then and there to be lost, because everything that Sam does is planned, calculated and purposeful – even his infrequent attempts at human interaction. In the few seconds it takes him to process the face – catalogue the similarities and differences, read the strength in the graceful, compact body, Sam allows to himself that this will end badly for at least one of them, and will almost certainly prove to not have been worth it.
Looking over, Sam scissors his fingers (…got another cigarette?) The guy nods and Sam's already walking over. He takes the proffered smoke but doesn't light it. The guy smiles faintly at that as if he's not surprised.
His eyes are a warm, bronze color. "Saw you inside. First time?"
"No."
"A fan, then. Such a great movie. On my top-ten-of-all-time list. "
"Yeah?" Sam smiles, flashing dimples. "What are the other nine?"
"Huh – truthfully? The list is always changing 'cos I love the movies. But that one - that one's a fucking masterpiece of human nakedness."
The guy stops speaking suddenly, looks down as if embarrassed by his own words. "I suppose that sounds all kinds of emo."
"Nah – it doesn't."
"I'm Chase".
Sam smiles, nods. "Sam."
Sam is enchanted because he wants to be. There's a bar nearby; they walk to it not speaking much, already comfortable with each other. Over beers and shots they talk about Last Tango and other movies.
The young man whose name is Chase is really nothing like Dean, personality-wise. He is cerebral, shy, and excitable. But Sam sees in Chase what could have been Dean, or maybe - what might have remained were all the outer Dean stripped away – the careless charm, the alpha-male aggressiveness, the carefully camouflaged vulnerability and self-doubt. It pleases Sam to think so, because Chase is open and receptive, not angry, wounded and intractable.
It's late when they leave and they're both half-hammered – not quite staggering but pleasantly goofy and loose, fuzzyheaded with sublimated lust. For the first time since Dean – left - Sam is smitten with a blessed numbness - a sense of non-feeling that is neutral instead of wounding - that carries no accusations, echoes or memories.
They are cutting through a small overgrown park when Chase suddenly stops, throws one arm around Sam's neck and brushes his scotch-kissed lips against Sam's. Sam doesn't so much respond as combust - crushing Chase to him, owning his mouth, pressing his entire length against Chase's hot, hard body.
"Christ!"
Drunk and horny as he is, still, Chase is unprepared for Sam, whose need for sexual release is massive and beyond restraining. His lust for Chase is a poisonous fever born of grief, guilt, and shame. He feels as if electric current is coursing through his body making him jiggy and hyperaware. But Sam is silent even as his hands seek, and press, and claim - even as his mouth wrings gasping moans from Chase.
For his part, Chase has never been touched or handled quite this way before. When he had first caught Sam's eye a spark of – something – had flashed between them. But by the time they had left the bar Chase understood that whatever happened between them would not outlive the night. Now, caught in the eye of the sexual hurricane that is Sam, Chase is glad of that as he now also understands that whatever the outcome of this encounter may be, it is out of his hands.
A little grove of trees surrounds them - ambient sounds from the nearby streets are muted, blending into an undifferentiated low murmur. The only light comes from tall wrought iron lamps that form soft islands of light here and there, and as Sam and Chase lurch to a stop beneath a huge, old leafy oak, the lamp nearest to them crackles, sputters and goes dark. In the remaining whisper of light from the moon Chase senses more than sees Sam as he steers Chase backwards into the massive trunk of the oak. Pressing Chase's lower half into the tree with the pressure of his thighs, Sam rests his palms against the bark on either side of Chase's head, bends in, and all but sucks Chase's soul out through his lips. Then Sam's hands are everywhere on him and it's all sensation – searing, flashing fire where Sam touches him; his blood feels like quicksilver. He can feel every nerve ending in his body and each one is firing from this incredible tactile overload. Sam pulls back, silent as he has been throughout. He looks down into Chase's eyes. A thrill of fear jolts through Chase as, perhaps for the first time since this began he looks deep into Sam's eyes. He cannot begin to sort or define the mess of emotions churning within those agate-colored depths that now spark and glint strangely. The green irises seem lambent in the crowding darkness. Chase suddenly doesn't really want to look into them anymore.
But this body crushing his, the hard animal heat of it, is demanding release. And Chase wants more than anything to be the instrument of that release. Slowly, his hands slide down Sam's heaving sides, grip his hips as Chase sinks to his knees on the soft sward. Sam looms above him. Chase all but tears open Sam's jeans, desperate to feel his mouth around Sam's flesh. There is no time for butterfly kisses, teasing licks. His mouth closes over Sam, drawing him in deeply, completely, and Chase can't be sure whether the sighing moan he hears is his or Sam's.
Sam finds he cannot look down. He cannot watch this. To watch will destroy the beautiful numbness that allowed this to occur. Instead, he raises his face to the moon, his softly glowing eyes focused on nothing, his mind blessedly blank.
His release, when it comes, feels like a theft. The intensity of sensation is almost immediately subsumed by a crushing wave of loss and emptiness. Yet when he looks down at Chase on his knees, arms clasped around Sam's thighs, his gaze is pensive and almost tender. Chase turns his head up to meet Sam's eyes.
"Ummm – Sam – God, Sammy…" he exhales.
Before he can draw his next breath, Sam's fingers have snaked around his neck, wrenched him to his feet.
"Don't call me that," Sam grounds out between his clenched teeth, eyes stormy beneath drawn brows. "Not ever."
Chase wants to look away but can't. "S-sorry. I'm sorry".
He is momentarily afraid, but Chase is an empathetic sort, and Sam's pain and anger are not subtle. Nor is the aura of danger and power rolling off him in waves now. But Chase senses that he need not fear Sam; he is simply not important enough. The dark shadows swirling in Sam's eyes clear; his fingers uncurl from around Chase's neck so suddenly that Chase stumbles, off-balance.
Sam slings an arm around his shoulders. "C'mon." Not another word is spoken between them in the time it takes for them to exit the park. Once back on the darkened street Sam spies out a taxi, practically drags Chase to it, opens the door. Mind awhirl, Chase tumbles into the back seat and looks out at Sam, waiting.
"Address".
"What?"
"What's your address? Where do you live?" Chase, brain sluggish with spent adrenaline and alcohol depression, has to think for a second, understands that Sam is not coming with him.
Glad of that.
"I'm okay, Sam. It's okay."
Sam looks at Chase, his face impassive. "No. It's not." He slams the door, turns and walks away. By the time Chase gives the driver his address and looks back Sam has vanished, and Chase reflects fuzzily that the whole evening could have been some alcohol-fueled fantasy except for the lingering ache at the back of his bruised throat.
The ride to his apartment passes in a blur of confused emotions, fear of Sam and lust for him, tinged more than a little with a discomforting sense of awe. Chase's last thought as he falls gratefully into his bed is that this must be how people feel after a "close encounter."