"Good morning." Sam attempts a smile at his cubicle neighbor, Mrs. Mosely.
Judging by the awe on her face, he must have spoken in Sanskrit.
"Well, good morning, Sam. How are you today?" He's heard her talk before, but never to him.
Her voice has this sing-songy quality that reminds him of a kindergarten teacher.
"I'm okay," he answers shakily, aware of the stares shooting at him from across the room.
Mrs. Mosely tries to be inconspicuous as she connects with some of the curious gazes of his co-workers.
Sam soldiers on. "And how are you?"
"I'm fantastic, Sam. Thank you for asking," she speaks slowly, deliberately, as if addressing a child.
"Of course." Sam nods and allows himself a deep breath, feeling as if he has accomplished his full workload for the day.
He gives her another tight smile, before sticking in his earbuds and retreating behind his mug of tea.
Sam lasts until around 10:00 AM. Not that he actually gets any work done, but he manages to stay in his seat, staring at the screen, idly tapping on his desk until shortly after 10. When he can't stand it anymore, he holds a file over his lap and stands - as discreetly as a man of his size can do - which means everyone in the office at least glances up at him.
Sam's cheeks burn so he can assume how flushed he is. Shielding himself with the folder, he slips down the hall and into the bathroom. He drops the manila folder on the sink and leans his back against the stall door once it is closed behind him.
His belt and fly are short work. He lets out a long sigh the moment he touches himself. Eyes closed, he lets his head hang back as he jerks himself much more rapidly than he usually would. But this is neither the time nor location for a long drawn out session.
Wide mouthed, he pants, shudders slightly and turns around to press his cheek against the cool wall.
It's pitiful. He has never done anything remotely like this before. Not in public. He simply could not get the thought of Dean out of his mind. Sam hasn't been completely flaccid since he dropped the kid off last night. He has beat off more in the past 12 hours than he has since high school: in bed before he fell asleep, woke up hard - took care of that in the shower, again after breakfast.
Now, he's oversensitive and slightly chafed, but it doesn't matter. He uses precome to make the glide easier, loosens his grip and yanks himself with all the finesse of a teenager.
The sound of skin on skin and, God, the thought of Dean. Every time Sam remembers the way he smelled, the taste of him, that weight on his tongue, warm flesh filling his mouth, fingers tight in his hair, Sam finds himself in this predicament. "Fuck, Dean."
Sam presses his lips together, nostrils flaring, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to control his breathing. He's never been particularly quiet, and a whimper escapes anyway. He comes with a groan, barely stifled behind clenched teeth.
He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, slowly regaining enough composure to go out among people. "Jesus."
Before he leaves the stall, he cleans up the mess with a wad of toilet paper - really should have prepared better than this. Dean Smith has turned Sam's brain into a sex-crazed mush.
Dean Smith grins. He's slick as oil. While the teacher's back is turned, he slouches down, holds his phone between his stomach and the desk to check out what Sam sent.
SW: Learning anything?
DS: How to sleep with my eyes open. Fucking Voltaire
SW: Interesting guy
DS: Not
SW: Need a break?
DS: Always
SW: Can I take you to lunch? You guys can still leave campus, right?
DS: I wish
There's no new message for a few minutes.
DS: Why?
SW: Just wanted to see you
Dean smiles.
DS: You saw me yesterday
SW: I want to see you now
DS: Aren't you working?
SW: Took half the day off. Couldn't concentrate
DS: Where you at?
It takes a second for Sam to send a picture of the front of Dean's school.
DS: WTF?
SW: See if you can find me
The corner of Sam's lip curls up the moment he sees the kid. He licks his lips and looks Dean over from head to toe. Jeans, Stones T-shirt, some kind of goop makes his hair stick up today. Looks good.
Dean smiles, too. He stops at the edge of the grove of trees and casts a glance back over his shoulder. From this vantage, they can occasionally see the runners in PE rounding the track, but there's still enough, golden, orange and red foliage to keep Sam and Dean hidden.
Dean stuffs his hands in his back pocket and stares a hole into the crotch of Sam's pants. He gets a show for his trouble. Sam was already hard when he arrived. At the sight of Dean, his cock dances.
"Come here." Sam holds out his arm.
Dean takes a step. Then he stops. He hangs one arm from an overhead branch and says, "You come here."
Sam licks his lips again. It's never intentional, just happens. He kicks off from the tree where he was leaning. His shoes crunch over those of the leaves that have already fallen. When he's toe to toe with Dean, his tongue peeks out again. Dean reaches up to chase it with his thumb.
Sam's cock strains at his zipper. He's suddenly, subtly aware of how loudly he is breathing, how quickly his heart is beating. The hot ache in his chest isn't relieved when he wraps a hand around Dean's neck. If anything, it gets worse. "I, uh…"
Dean palms Sam's crotch, smirking like it's his property. "You wanted to give me lunch?"
"I wanted to… take you..." Sam stammers, imminently less brave with Dean right in front of him.
Somehow, before he drove out here, and while they were texting, this had seemed like such a hot idea. Sam runs his knuckles over the bruise on Dean's face. "Is this…"
"Your ace driving, man. You really ought to make it up to me."
Sam looks over Dean's shoulder. "They'll be able to see us."
"You think so?" Dean grins.
Sam swallows. "Maybe."
"Then, you better be quick." The kid opens his own pants and smiles as Sam goes to his knees.
Sam's eyes reflect the sunlight. There's every single color of the leaves in them. Dean's a little breathless and already addicted to his cologne. With any luck, if he presses up against him, he'll get some of it on his clothes. Dean cringes at the girlishness of that thought but is quickly distracted from his self-disgust by the warm heat engulfing his dick.
"Shit." Holding onto that branch, he leans slightly forward, already short of breath.
Sam has lowered his jeans just enough to free him. From the back, if anyone can see Dean in the woods, it'll just look like he's standing there. But that little bit of fabric in the way does not stop Sam from taking Dean all the way down his throat.
"God damn, Sam."
Sam grins up at him. "Good?"
Dean swipes a hand over Sam's girl-soft hair, leans down and kisses him. "It's fucking amazing."
He dives down again, all the way until his lips are in Dean's pubes. Sam responds to praise. Good to know. He gags like a pro and stays there like that. Dean's knees tremble, balls clench. He nearly stumbles forward. "Fucking Christ."
Sam slides back until his lips are just wrapped around the head. He does this thing with his tongue where he swirls it around and then dips it into the slit. Dean makes a sound he's never heard out of his own mouth - or anyone else's, for that matter. He's reduced to a mix of trembling awe and helplessness.
His guts are all hot and tied up, and Sam is so perfect and greedy for him. He fucking left work early to come see him. Dean caresses his hair. It's just so fucking nice. Everything about him is. Dean feels this soft, fuzzy emotion, kind of like what you get when you look at puppies too long. It's not a feeling he's had before or one he wants.
He brings his other hand to Sam's shoulder and drives his hips, hard, into the guy's face - without any warning or anything. It's an asshole thing to do. These days, Dean would deck a guy if one ever tried to pull that kind of shit on him. Sam just moans.
Without pulling off, he nudges into the hand on his head. Dean assumes that means Sam doesn't want to be touched and drops it away. That's fine. He hates when guys do that to him.
Prefers to set his own fucking pace.
Sam looks up at him, eyes glassy and perfect. He moans in what sounds like disappointment. With one hand he puts Dean's hand back on his head. He holds Dean's dick in the other and comes off just long enough to whisper, "Pull it."
Sam's voice is so quiet, it takes a moment for Dean to realize what he said. Then his fingers curl in that silky shit, and he yanks so hard, he knows Sam is going to beat his ass for it.
Sam pulls off, but it's only to gasp, "Oh God. I fucking love that."
He really goes to town now, cheeks hollowing out with every slide nearly all the way off. One hand is working Dean's shaft, the other one is rolling his balls like he's got stress to work out.
"I'm…" Dean grips Sam's hair, body buzzing, white hot.
That moment of tightness is almost unbearable before the planet shifts. Dean shoots, shivering and half insane with how good it is. Sam swallows every fucking drop, moaning like it's the best damn meal he's ever had.
The way Sam gazes up at him makes Dean feel like the Pope or somebody's dad or something. There's all this adoration and tenderness in it. Dean clears his throat, takes a step back and puts his junk away. "You're next."
Sam hadn't let Dean bring him off yesterday. Dean might be a jerk sometimes, but he would never leave a guy hanging like that.
"Okay." Sam climbs to his feet. "But not here."
They'd had to drive half an hour to get here. It's more than worth it to Sam. The thicker the woods grow around them, the more the tension rolls off his body.
"You're not gonna chop me up or something?" Dean peers around himself and looks like he's only half joking.
Sam smiles and reaches for his hand. Dean looks down at the offer but keeps himself just out of reach. It can't be that he's worried about spectators. There's not a soul for miles. Only whippoorwills' songs and squirrels rustling the leaves. They might see a raccoon or a fox if they're lucky. All the frogs are gone this late in the year. Sam huffs to himself and makes a mental note - the kid likes his space, sometimes.
When Sam was Dean's age, he had always imagined what it would be like to bring someone out to these woods. Someone he wanted to be here with. Someone he'd want to kiss and touch and just be alone with.
There hadn't been anybody like that for him in high school. Yeah, sure. He had Jessica, but the whole point of being with her was for everyone to see it. No point coming out here. If he'd ever showed her this place, she would have expected Sam to go for second base. He didn't want that any more than she did. She was a church girl and what they had was perfect for back then. Just like what he has with Dean is perfect now.
Almost perfect.
Dean is perfect. And Sam's, sort of.
At the sight of the creek, Dean jogs ahead. By the time Sam reaches him, he's out of his shoes and socks off and has rolled up his pants like Huckleberry Finn. His arms flap a little bit as he tiptoes gingerly over the pebbles. The moment his toes touch the water, he hisses and looks back at Sam, mouth forming an O. "Cold as fuck."
Sam laughs and leans back on his elbows, still propped up so he can watch.
Cold as fuck, but Dean goes in anyway. Slowly. An inch at a time, but intrepid. Maybe it's a matter of honor to him. Maybe he's that type - who does things for honor or pride.
Sam wonders what else motivates this boy. Not for the first time, he wonders what Dean saw, why he wanted Sam, what this thing, this fling, means to him. Sam sits up, crosses his legs and rests his chin on a fist.
"You should come get in here." Dean gestures. "It'll shrivel your balls right up."
Sam shakes his head and laughs despite the fact that it's complete nonsense. "Why would I do that?"
Dean shrugs. "Just to do it."
Sam's chest is already warm again. His arm is draped over Dean's shoulder, fingers splayed between his ribs. His heart beats slow and steady under Dean's cheek.
Dean's hand runs up and down Sam's side, as far up into his pit and down his thigh as it'll go in this position. This guy's body is insane. Dean has been with big guys before, built guys. He actually seems to be a magnet for them.
But Sam is like a Greek god or something. Dean sticks out his tongue to see if he can reach Sam's nip without moving his head. Not quite. But Sam's massive fucking dick twitches against his thigh. Dean had managed about half of it before he gave up and let his hand do the other half of the work.
As much as Sam likes to choke, Dean had been expecting to get pushed around and what not. He would have put up with a little bit of that for Sam's sake, but he really hates that shit.
It turned out, Sam had laid perfectly still. His hand had brushed the back of Dean's neck once. Then he had dropped it onto the ground at his side and just let Dean does his thing.
Dean has been told, repeatedly, that he's a gifted cocksucker. He tends to think it has more to do with guys' obsession with his mouth in the first place. But Sam didn't say anything. Once Dean had spat that slimy shit out, he had laid there and waited for Dean to crawl back up his body and search his face.
Sam's eyes fluttered open. He blinked a few times. His pretty pink mouth parted, but he still didn't say anything.
"Was that okay?" It wasn't something Dean had ever been insecure about before.
It's head. It's like pizza. You can't really fuck it up unless you try. There had been a handful of times in Dean's life when he had gotten toothy on purpose or sloppy and lackluster. Generally, he gave about as good as he got.
Dean had never wanted to please a guy - or anybody - this much. So when Sam bit his lip and shook his head slightly, Dean's heart sank. He sat up on his knees, ran his hands down his thighs. He fixed his eyes on a nearby tree and muttered, "Sorry."
What felt like a javelin went through the center of his chest, and he stood up. Sam caught his ankle as he started to walk away.
"It was…" Sam started to speak. Then, he just raised his hand.
Dean looked down at him: the way his hair spread out in the grass, the peaceful look on his face. His pants were still open - mouth, too. "You liked it?"
Sam snickered, just a little. He seemed tired. "Yeah. Now, would you please, kiss me?"
It occurred to Dean that they hadn't. Both of their lips had been otherwise occupied since they met. Was that really just yesterday? He smiled and straddled Sam's chest. Looking down at the guy's mouth, Dean figured he might start to develop an obsession of his own.
Like most white people, other than Angelina Jolie, Sam's lips are thinner than Dean's. But they have this sensuous curve to them, especially when he smiles. And he has this maddening habit of wetting them every couple of minutes.
Sam brought a hand to Dean's face, the other to the small of his back. He licked his lips before they parted again, in anticipation.
Suddenly, Dean had the disorienting insight that he was going to remember this fucking kiss for the rest of his life. His heart did that thing again - that clenching, sinking, aching thing it had started doing the moment he saw Sam at the track yesterday. Maybe there had even been a foreshadow of it the first time Dean saw him. Dean thought of all that shit, and he couldn't move.
"You don't have to." Sam kind of smiled and swallowed. His hands retreated.
"I don't think I want to, man. Sorry." Dean's heart ached, but he could deal with private pain.
It looked like Sam was trying to smile, but doing a miserable job of it. His lips twitched and curled like he wanted to tell Dean it was okay, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say the words.
Dean didn't give a fuck whether it was okay with Sam or not. He wasn't going to kiss this dude. At least not until he got this emotion shit under control. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth and slapped Sam's flank twice. "Come get in the water."
At first, he didn't think Sam was going to do it. He hemmed and hawed and watched Dean shuck his clothes like a bad habit. The whole time, Sam shook his head like a little bitch.
Then, once Dean was up to his thighs and shivering, he looked back over his shoulder to see Sam folding his pants. 'What a fucking nerd.'
He smiled and waited until Sam was naked. That turned out to be a mistake. The moment Sam had rolled his socks together, he charged like a bull. Dean had tried to dodge him, but he was every bit as fast and powerful as he looked. He hurled his body forward, dragging them both under the icy surface.
Now, they're laying on the shore, like a couple of lizards. The sun is still shining, but it ain't exactly tropical. Dean's got goosebumps everywhere. Sam had warmed up again pretty much the moment they crawled out of the water. So, Dean had curled himself against his skin and soaked up that heat.
He lays there, listening to Sam's heart beat: steady as a clock.
"SHIT!"
Sam jumps. He hadn't expected the shout.
It's been a long time since he's had anything like that fun in the water. It felt so good to lay with Dean afterward that he must have fallen asleep. If that's all the kid wants - fun that feels good - Sam can do that. He's never had anything like that before, except in the early days with Cas. But still
Dean checks Sam's watch and swears again. He immediately hops to his feet and into his jeans, skipping the boxers. Sam folds his hands behind his head. Watching this kid do anything - there ought to be a fee.
"Practice?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
He scratches his belly.
Dean tucks his socks into his pockets. "Your dad's going to kill me. I'm already 15 minutes late."
As Dean pulls on his shirt, Sam wraps a hand around his shin. "Then skip it."
"I can't." He shakes his foot, lightly, but firmly kicking Sam's hand away.
"You know, in two years, I never blew off work before today."
"Well, good for you. I can't ditch practice. Are you going to drive me or do I have to run?" Dean pulls on his plaid flannel.
Sam sits up with a groan, just to express how much he regrets the moment being over. Sighing, he uses his socks to knock sand from his feet.
Dean kicks Sam's shoe toward him. "Can you fucking hurry up?"
It knocks against his knee. It doesn't hurt at all, but Sam blinks up and presses his lips together. It's just a little too familiar.
Dean says a tight, "Please," and doesn't speak again, even once they're in the car.
His fingers drum on his thighs; his toes taps. He groans when Sam slows for a yellow light.
Sam rolls his eyes. "You want me to disobey the traffic signs?"
"I want you to stop being a bitch and get me to school."
Sam draws his lips into his mouth and takes a deep breath. A cold sensation washes over his skin. When they pull up in front of the building, Sam looks out of his window.
Dean doesn't hop right out. "Look…" He pauses like he's trying to remember how to apologize. "You ought to come say hi to your dad."
Sam scoffs and looks over to see whether it's some kind of joke. "Yeah. Not a good idea."
"So, you're just going to leave?" Dean doesn't turn toward him, but Sam is sure this is as close to contrition as he's going to get right now.
So, he meets him halfway with, "You want me to stay?"
"I'm not going to fucking beg you." He already sounds belligerent again.
"Why not?" Sam smiles, really wanting the argument to be over.
"Fuck you." Dean chuckles, a little. "Come watch me throw."
Sam shakes his head. It's not that he doesn't want to see Dean play. He has not forgotten the cold shoulder the last time he saw his father and doesn't really a fresh dose of humiliation. Especially not in front of Dean. He'd seen it before, but Sam hadn't known him then. If his dad just ignores him with Dean standing right there… he just doesn't want to deal with it, today or probably ever.
Dean gets out. He takes a couple of steps. Then he turns around and spreads his arms. "Or go home. Whatever. I'll see you when I see you."
Even when Ash runs backwards, he's still dusting everyone. Dean is close, but this fucker is just plain fast. Dean runs and hisses at something sharp kicking at him from the inside. Might be Envy. Could be Hate.
A repulsive grin cracks Ash's stupid face. "Come on, slowpokes. Last one of you in has to suck Smith's dick."
Dean usually comes in right behind him, which is, perhaps, why he has the honor of being the suck-ee. Anyway, nobody finds it funny except for Ash. He spins back around and takes off like he's got turbo boosters sticking out of his ass.
Dean knuckles down a little bit, but there are still six laps to go, and he's not trying to kill himself before practice even starts. Today, he comes in third after this lanky senior, Todd Something. Once practically everyone is on the sideline, panting, with their hands on their knees, trying to pull themselves together, Ash crows, "Come on, Glenn. You lard ass. Move it."
Glenn always is the last one done his laps. He's tubby as hell and useful when it comes time for blocking. Speed is never going to be his strong suit.
Ash must have had his Wheaties this morning because he is not letting up. He cups his hands around his cake hole and shouts, " You really want Dean's meat, don't you? You fucking slow ass faggot. Pick up those fat feet, God damn it."
That sharp thing when Dean looks at Ash? It's Hate. Definitely Hate. Dean can't help wondering if - after spending the day with Sam - he's giving off some kind of gay-diation. Guys like Ash always have a sixth sense for weakness.
He thinks about saying something - telling Ash to lay off - but who wants that kind of attention? Coach Winchester watches Glenn with this stern, unreadable look on his face. Dean can't help wondering what the old man would say if he knew his own son was gay.
What would John Winchester do if he knew that Dean had fucked his son's face?
It isn't until they get out on the green and Dean starts tossing that he notices Sam. The sun is behind where he's sitting, way the hell up in the bleachers. Dean has to squint, but he recognizes that light blue blazer and the tan pants. The smile happens before he can stop himself. He hurls the next dead center into Donovan's chest. The receiver stumbles back a few steps.
Dean smirks up at the bleacher. Sam had to have seen that one. Dean is just about to send another one sailing when he notices the coach, using his clipboard to shield his eyes. He hands it over to assistant coach Ottinger and starts marching up toward Sam.
Sam's heart stops in his chest. His blood burns like acid. He searches right and left for the best escape route. In the end, he sits perfectly still, like a possum trying to trick a predator by pretending to be dead. As loud as his heart is pounding, there's no way he's fooling anyone.
It doesn't matter than Sam has a good six inches on his old man now and his own barrel chest. Some roles are indelible. Perception is reality. Sam could even spout all the psycho babble that explains why he shrinks back and lets his shoulders droop - why his chin and eyes drop as his father approaches.
The old man's footsteps rattle the bleachers until he is standing one level below Sam. His nostrils flare, perhaps from the exertion of the climb. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Hi, Dad." Sam's voice is thin and small, like a little kid, even to his own ears.
His chest is a solid knot of tension. John Winchester sounds exactly the same as he always has: strong and in command. "You need to go."
"I'm just sitting here." Sam's eyes flick down to the field.
Dean is watching. Everyone is watching. His father turns and no doubt sees the same thing.
"You're distracting my players."
"They look good." Sam closes his eyes for a second to reboot. "I mean, they're playing well."
"Go home, Sam."
Sam takes a breath, stands and opens his mouth to argue, defend himself, say anything.
"Get the fuck off my bleachers, boy!" His father's lip curls, with a ferocity in his dark eyes that cut as razor-sharp as his words.
Sam blinks, chokes on the air in his lungs. Holds his breath to stop the sting. Somehow he strangles out, "Yes, sir."
Sam does not look for Dean on his way off the field. He doesn't want to see what kind of expression is on his face. He doesn't run, but he walks briskly - shoes clipping over the pavement.
Maybe tears would put out the fire behind his face, but they don't come. Other than the agony of Dean having witnessed that, he doesn't feel anything at all. Just the same void that accompanies any thoughts of his father.
"Sam Winchester?"
He turns to find the warmly smiling face of Mrs. Aldridge, the librarian - or at least she was in his day.
"Oh, honey. I always wondered when you'd breeze back through these hallways. Haven't seen you in... how on earth have you been?"
Sam's brain scrambles for an answer, but it turns out not to be necessary.
Mrs. Aldridge continues, " I've asked your father over and again how you are. You know we were all rooting for you so hard and then ... Everyone around here always said when you got through with ball you'd go on and do something even greater. I had my money on space science. I think half of the faculty said law. At one point your mother said you had studied medicine. I said, hands probably too big for brain surgery," she guffaws, "but I know he'll save a lot of lives. Is that what you're doing?"
"Um. Accounting, actually." He clears the catch in his throat.
Her eyes grow wide for a moment. "Hm... well, that's an honest living, isn't it?... You know where to find your dad?"
"Yes. Yes, ma'am."
Sam sits in his car, staring through the windshield. He doesn't want to drive, not feeling stable, not sure he won't have a breakdown - which is as bad as driving impaired. He reads the same passage of Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom over and over again.
"I was wrong. I admit it. I believed that there were things which still mattered just because they had mattered once. But I was wrong. Nothing matters but breath, breathing, to know and to be alive."
A couple minutes - or hours - later, Dean gets in and shuts the door. "Well, that was brutal. What the fuck did you do?"
"Can we not?" Sam's voice is shot.
It sounds like he's been crying, but he hasn't. Did enough of that back then to last a lifetime.
Dean shrugs and turns on the radio. His rock music is on from when they'd left the school. It blares out of the speakers. Dean quickly taps the button again. The stereo switches to playing to Sam's CD and the car fills with Dvorak's Stabat Mater.
And now, Sam cries. Not out loud, thank God. But a silent river runs hot down his face. He shakes his head, disgusted with himself and incredulous. This is the second time in two days that Dean has seen him lose it.
'Am I going to cry every time I see this kid?'
Dean quickly shuts off the painfully gorgeous cantata, apparently assuming it's the problem. They're both quiet for a moment. Then Dean begins to sing softly and horribly out of tune,
"Don't cry, don't raise your eye.
It's only teenage wasteland."
Sam blinks at him.
Dean shrugs. "It's what I got."
Sam sob-laugh-snorts, sniffs in a mess of snot. He hides his face in the crook of his arm until he has gotten himself together. He huffs, meets Dean's optimistic eyes and reaches for his hand. Just as quickly, Dean slips it away from his grasp. That stings, more than a little, but Sam nods and starts the car.
Dean's hand shifts and comes to rest on Sam's tender, overused, and self-sabotagingily captivated cock.
"You know this isn't a date, right?" Dean says, because he's an asshole and that's the kind of thing assholes say.
He says it more to himself than Sam. He just happened to have said it out loud, and Sam happens to be sitting here, so, he probably overheard. And that would explain the sour look on his face.
It doesn't explain why Sam smiles and nods. "That's fine. You sure you didn't want anything else?"
Dean pats his stomach. "I'm stuffed, man. Thanks."
"Of course." Sam gives that tight little smile that says he hasn't forgotten what went down with his dad - and who can blame him?
And he's probably still pissed at Dean for being a douche by the creek.
"Sometimes life hands you a bag of dicks."
"What?" Sam's bitch face starts to crack into a small, if confused smile.
The waitress swipes the little folder with Sam's credit card from where he'd laid it on the table. Dean leans back in his seat to watch her go. She's got one hell of a cute ass.
Sam clears his throat. "You were saying."
Dean looks back at him and blinks.
"Bag of dicks?"
Dean has to smile at that one. "You'd love that, wouldn't ya?"
Sam would die of asphyxiation if he had a bag of dicks.
"ASS-fixation." Dean chuckles to himself.
Sam shakes his head. He definitely acts like an adult too much of the time. Not his fault, though. Nobody's perfect. Sam's fucking close, but there had to be something wrong with him - other than that nasty ass rabbit food he had for dinner. Dean laughs again.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing."
The waitress with the cute ass returns with Sam's credit card. She leans forward and whispers, " I'm sorry, sir. It was declined. "
Sam looks up at her like she's speaking a different language. "That's not possible."
"I tried it three times, Sir. Do you have another one you can use?"
Sam gawks down at his card, shakes his head and pulls out his wallet. While he's rifling through his plastic, Dean says, " Hey. I got a little cash."
He leans up on his side to pull a wad of bills from his pocket.
"No. That's not..." Sam protests, but Dean has already given the girl a twenty.
She blushes slightly and refers to her receipt. "It's ... um .. $42.74."
"For a couple burritos and a salad? Sheesh. Glad I didn't get that second slice of pie." Dean lays all of his crumpled dollars on the table.
Sam gently takes the twenty from her and replaces it with a different card. "Try this one, please."
"Dude. I got it."
Sam offers him back the money. "Please, put it away."
"Is this some kind of thing with you?" Dean's voice is tense and starting to raise, although even he is not sure why.
Sam takes a breath and coos, "I want to do this for you. When you have a job, you can take me to dinner, okay?"
"I have a job."
Sam purses his lips and looks up as the waitress approaches and shakes her head. His mouth falls open.
Dean smiles and says, "Can you give us a second, please, Mandy?"
She mirrors his ease, nods and walks away.
Sam shakes his head, staring at his card. "That can't be."
"So, listen. You got any change in between your seats?"
Sam's head goes on shaking, like he's trapped in a loop of disbelief.
"Yeah. I didn't think so. Well, I got thirty-three bucks. So, we're either going to have bolt, wash dishes or get creative."
Sam makes a call to his bank. After about half an hour of tedium, frustration and redirected calls, the representative confirms what Mandy said: all of Sam's accounts are blocked. Not empty, thank God, but blocked. They can only rectify it when he comes in person, during business hours - tomorrow.
"All right. I got this." Dean turns in his seat. When he turns back again, his face is stone-cold in concentration. Then he nods, like a man about to go off a diving board. "Just sit tight. You get up, Mandy's manager's going to call the cops."
"What are you…"
Dean winks at him and slides out of the booth. On his way across the room, his hand brushes over the arm of a middle-aged man in a sport coat who is eating alone. Dean turns around and makes an elaborate show of apologizing. He puts his hand over the man's, looks in his eye with a smile Sam has never seen. It's all syrup and grade school. He tilts his head, just so and repeats the apology.
Sam's no flirt, but he fucking well knows what it looks like.
Dean has been gone a little under a minute before the man looks over his shoulder at Sam and leaves his seat. Heat flashes in Sam's chest, and he rises out of his seat. A few people look at him and he, slowly, eases back down. His hands curl into fists on the table, toes tapping beneath it.
Dean wouldn't … This is when it occurs to Sam that he doesn't know Dean. He has no idea what Dean would do.
The man is gone for under two minutes. He gives Sam an inscrutable look as he returns to his seat. Sam is not a violent person, but he sincerely considers going over and bashing this stranger's skull in. As he's going over the pros and cons, his phone goes off.
DS: Handled. Meet me at the car.
Sam sits there. Can't move. Breathes loudly through his nose.
"Sorry for the confusion," Mandy says as she starts to clear the dishes from in front of him.
Finally, Sam manages to stand and walk towards the door. His body feels heavy and strange, as if he's moving through water. He stops just behind the guy who had followed Dean. He's never hit anyone before.
The guy turns and starts at Sam standing there, probably at the size of him. He shrinks back. Sam glares down at him, trying to figure out what he's supposed to do.
"Sam."
Sam's face snaps up at the sound of Dean's voice.
"What the hell are you doing? Come on."
Sam shakes off the daze and follows. Dean is leaning on the car with his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles.
Sam doesn't want to ask. Doesn't even want to know, just doesn't think he'll be able to function normally if he doesn't. "What did you do?"
"Didn't do shit." The kid has gum.
Sam scratches the back of his neck and huffs. "He just gave you twenty bucks?"
"Only had a fifty." Dean shrugs. "Rich people."
"Dean, what did you…"
"I gave him a bullshit story and a fake number. So, maybe we should get the hell out of here." He stalks around to the passenger door.
Sam drives in silence for a while before asking, "How did you… know?"
"He was watching me like a hawk when we came in the place. Didn't really stop. I guess you didn't notice that." Dean bites his lower lip and nods his head in sharp, jerky movements to the rock song he's turned on.
"Shit." Sam winces. He just sat there the whole time while some creep was leering at Dean. He should have given that guy the beat down after all. "Why didn't you say something?"
"What? I'm supposed to cry 'cause some guy is looking at me? People are allowed to look. Ended well. Not a big deal." The song ends; Dean starts flipping through the stations.
There are other questions, now, that Sam wants to ask. Questions with answers that would make him crazy. Sam bites down on them, winds down the window to let the crisp air cool him off.
Dean steals a glance from time to time. He knows Sam is freaked out and itching to give him the third degree. But he doesn't say anything else, and Dean doesn't volunteer any more information. This is one of those classic 'you can't handle the truth' moments.
Dean pops in one of Sam's classical CDs.
The guy just mutters, "I have to go to the bank crazy early in the morning. I'm sorry. I'm just gonna just take you home."
"That's fine." It's not fine and Dean's biting a hole in his cheek.
They should have just bolted. What the hell was he thinking, doing something like that in front of Sam? The guy is… he's never going to want to talk to him again. "You think I'm…"
"I don't know what to think," Sam answers as if he's been waiting for the question.
"I didn't do anything with him." Dean refuses to apologize because he's telling the truth.
"I believe you," Sam replies stiffly, eyes never leaving the road.
"I mean, what kind of guy goes on a date and does something like that?" Dean is aware that he's called it a date. He hopes that will kind of smooth things over somewhat.
"The whole thing is my fault, and I'm sorry."
Well, that doesn't make any damn sense. "What do you mean?"
"If my… " Sam lets out a long breath. "Someone is messing with my accounts."
"Like identity fraud?" He and Jody had stolen more than a few credit cards in their madcap adventures. He wondered, for the first time, if they had left anybody in this kind of lurch.
"Something like that."
"That's fucked up," Dean mutters.
"Yes, it is."
Once the car pulls up in front of his building, Dean doesn't move until something occurs to him. He grabs for Sam's hand so fast he busts his own on the gear shift. He curses, shakes out the pain and spits out, "Come up? For just a second."
"I don't know if it's -"
"I just want to make you come one more time tonight. You don't have to stay long or anything." Dean palms Sam's crotch. He's already getting hard. "I guess, we could do it here."
"Dean." Sam stops his hand.
So, this is how he blows it. There's not really anything else Dean can do, but take his shit and get out of Sam's fucking car. "Fine."
Sam runs a hand down his face and sighs. Dean is halfway up the walkway when he leans out of the driver's door and shouts. "Hey. I need some uh… water."
Dean smirks. "Right this way, sir."
Sam follows him quietly up ten flights of stairs. There's an interesting odor on every story: urine, vomit, disinfectant and other chemical smells Sam can't place.
"Humble abode. Sam." Dean says, by way of introduction.
Sam casts a cursory glance around the kitchen. The furnishings consist of a square poker table and two steel folding chairs. Cockroaches scuttle over a pile of take-out containers in the sink. 'Humble' is an understatement.
He has never been in a place like this. He was not aware that there were Americans who live in this kind of squalor. It's an indignity he can hardly stand for Dean to endure. But it is way too soon for what Sam has (embarrassingly, even in the privacy of his thought) already been thinking.
'Too soon, Sam. Way too soon.'
That's a discussion for after a couple of years, not a couple of days. They aren't lesbians, after all. Sam can't think of anything nice to say, so he says, "It's nice."
"It's not." Dean tosses his key on the table.
"Sure, it is," Sam argues for no reason.
"Dude. I've seen where you grew up. I've seen where you live now. So, you don't have to blow smoke up my ass. This place is better than sleeping outside, but just barely." He hands Sam a beer from the fridge and takes one for himself.
The kid leads Sam to the living room in which there is a tattered, gray sofa that reminds Sam of a hoary, worn out elephant. There's a 13" television on another steel chair. Besides that, the room is bare.
"Can I see your room?" Sam asks, hoping it will be a little better.
"You're standing in it."
"Where do you sleep?"
Dean spreads his arms to present the sofa. He turns on the TV and drops himself onto the couch. "No DVD player. No cable. We do, however, have 13 channels of shit to choose from."
Sam settles next to him with a small grin. There is no way he's going to waste his time watching TV with this beautiful creature next to him.
"Would you quit looking at me?" Dean knocks his knee into Sam's.
Sam shakes his head. "I don't think so. Probably not ever."
Dean chuckles, puts down his beer and crawls into Sam's lap. He licks his lips, slowly, maintaining predatory eye contact. As desperately as Sam wants that mouth on his, he can't exactly complain when it's clamped onto his neck. Waves of heat rush through him and he holds Dean in place with a hand on his neck and one around his waist.
Sam does not protest when the kid slips to the floor between his knees. His head falls back against the sofa. He spreads his arms out wide, giving Dean his way, because that how he likes it. His eyes close, mouth parts, letting out a small breath. His cock is raw as ground meat, but he can't find it in himself to decline this.
He hisses as Dean pulls him out.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." He lies. "Little sensitive. Just take it easy down there."
Dean responds to that with a soft kiss to the tip and a tongue in the slit. Sam grips the fabric on the sofa and lets out a groan that is as much about pleasure as pain. This kid is so fucking talented.
Sam doesn't say that because he doesn't like to swear and he has a feeling Dean has heard it before. Maybe not in the most pleasant contexts. As if he can sense how tense Sam is about being touched right now, his lips are wide; they hardly close around him at all. So all Sam feels is warm air and spit. No pressure.
It's perfect. And Dean is… "oh God."
Sam is vaguely aware of a door creaking assumes it's in the adjoining apartment.
"Well, aren't you loud?" There's no mistaking a half-naked girl. She kicks Dean's leg. "Hey, little shit."
Dean never even comes up for air. He waves her away with one arm. Sam pulls him off and scrambles to shut his pants. The girl chuckles and shakes her head.
Sam would rather not notice all the skin, but it's not an option. Her legs are short and trim. There's a pale sliver between the silken fabric of her matching top and panties. The top half of a pink crescent shaped scar peeks out from the lace adorning her clavicle. She's not the same girl from the photo, although she's dark-haired, too. This girl is slimmer and less dressed. Sam's sunken heart reaction is no different.
He feels indecent just staring at her, so he looks away, unable to believe Dean would bring him here with a girl waiting. He tries to piece together whether it's a prank or Dean's idea of punishment.
Dean just wipes his mouth with the back of his arm.
Sam ventures another look and sees her more clearly in the faint glow of the TV. She's not a girl at all, but a young woman with yellowing bruises on her face. She is a good deal older than Dean, maybe a few years younger than Sam himself. And pretty. Even with the marks, she is very lovely, with delicate features and a slight figure that Sam has no trouble imagining nestled against Dean's lithe body. She must be a better fit than Sam's hulking form ever would.
The salad in his stomach starts to revolt, trying to escape the way it came in.
The woman looks Sam over like he's a shit smear on the bottom of her bare foot. "This your coach?"
Dean doesn't even look at her. "Jody, this is Sam. Sam, Jody."
Sam stands, more out of habit than respect. Jody gapes at his outstretched hand but does not shake it. Her eyes do, however, flicker to his crotch. "Well, he's fucking huge, isn't he?"
Dean shakes his head at her crass remark and starts flicking through the channels. "You ever see Encino Man?"
Sam shakes his head. He can't even begin to imagine what that is. He wipes his ignored hand on his slacks.
"Well, she's actually a neanderthal."
Jody looks back and forth between them. "Wait a minute. Did you do that to his face?"
Sam stammers. "No. Yes, but no. Not intentionally. I wouldn't..."
She aims her interrogation at Dean now. "What, while he was fucking you?"
"Jody. Get lost." Dean rolls his eyes.
"Rough love? That's what you like?"
"Oh, my God." Dean throws his hands up. "There was a minor car accident, okay?"
"So, you were blowing him." She nods, believing she's cracked the case.
"Jody. Shut up! Go get your whatever and leave us alone." Dean points at the kitchen.
She points a finger in Dean's face. "Don't you let him fucking hit you."
"He's not ... " Dean looks up Sam. "He's not like that."
"They never are at first." Jody scowls at Sam, gives him the middle finger and continues into the kitchen.
Sam huffs loudly and takes his place beside Dean again. "I'm sorry. Is she your sister?"
"More like my roommate?"
"More like his mother." Jody returns to the living room with a beer. She stands behind the sofa with her arms folded, like a chaperone.
Dean turns to look at her. "What do you want?"
"Can't I look?" She mumbles like a sulky child, still scrutinizing Sam.
Dean waves her off. "No. Go to bed."
"You know, Sam, my son is quite the little whore. But he doesn't usually bring them home."
Dean narrows his eyes. "Sometimes they've already been here, Jojo."
Jody sneers at Sam as if he had made the sassy remark. "Is that what you like about him? His smart mouth?"
"You know what, Jody?" Dean leaps from the couch, grabs her elbow and drags her into the kitchen.
Sam tries not to listen, but their voices are still audible, even over the nonsense on the television.
Dean asks, "What is your problem?"
"Why would you say something like that? It makes me sound like -"
Dean cuts her off. "Look, I've got company. I'm not going to do this with you now."
"What do you expect? I come out of my room, and you're on your fucking knees…"
"How many times have I caught you on your knees, Jody? Huh?" Dean blows out a breath. "Sam is okay. And he's going to stay until I say he has to leave."
Dean storms back to the couch. Jody storms across the living room and slams the door behind her. Sam sits his beer on the floor. "Should I go? I should probably just go."
Dean rests a hand on Sam's knee. "I don't want you to."
"But I should."
Suddenly, the bedroom door opens again. Jody stomps over and bows so low that Sam can feel her hot, foul breath on his face. She reeks of the cheap beer they're all drinking mixed with gastric acid and whatever she had for dinner. "Why are you fucking a 15-year-old?"
"Sam?"
"Sam?"
Sam's brain comes back online to what sounds like his name being spoken underwater. Or maybe Sam is underwater. Maybe that's why he can't breathe.
Dean is calling him. Dean, who is fifteen. Dean, who Sam has definitely touched in some inappropriate and highly illegal ways. That Dean is fifteen, and he's calling Sam.
Sam stands up and leaves because there isn't anything else to do.
He is aware of 15-year-old Dean following him, calling out to him. The boy's feet pitter patter after Sam down the steps. Someone is yelling behind one of these paper thin walls. Loud music on another floor. A baby cries.
Sam can't gather his thoughts enough to respond until they are on the sidewalk in front of the building. He takes a gulp of fresh air, turns and asks, "Is it true?"
"Does it matter?"
The sound that spills from Sam's throat can only be described as deranged laughter. It ends as abruptly as it erupts.
"She forgot my birthday." Dean finally answers, weakly.
"So, you're 16?" Sam closes his eyes and tries to process it. "Jesus." He huffs and covers his mouth with his hand. "Yes, Dean, it matters, because, for one thing, I don't want to go to jail."
"She's not going to call the cops. I don't even know what her deal is. She probably just wanted to get laid tonight and didn't."
"Good night, Dean." Sam folds himself into his car.
His tires screech against the pavement as he drives off, too fast. It's nowhere near fast enough.
