He Sleeps In The Ruins - p.4
part one. part two. part three. PART FOUR.
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They’re eating spicy Thai noodles in the back seat of Jensen’s jeep, bare-foot and stretched out on the worn upholstery. The windows are rolled down and the hanging humidity that’s been living in the city for the past week soaks through their shirts and leaves them sticky and lethargic.
“Do people always leave?” Sam asks when he finds the silence to be as heavy as the heat.
Jensen is staring at his feet that are propped against the window, wiggling his toes, his back curved into Sam’s side. “What do you mean?”
“You,” Sam says. “Do people always leave you?”
Jensen shrugs. Sam can feel him tense. “Sure. I’ve dated a few people and we’ve broken up.”
“That’s not what I mean, Jensen.”
Jensen sits up and turns to face Sam - his face is tight, indifferent and livid and sweat drips into his eyes. “Then what do you mean, huh?” Jensen demands furiously. “What do you mean, Sam?”
Sam looks back down to his noodles. They’re warm, the heat burning the tips of his fingers, but he won’t let go.
“What do -” Jensen stops. He sinks into the seat, folding his hands his lap. “Yeah. Yeah, people always leave.” Jensen looks out the window, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes.
Sam sets his noodles down. He reaches for Jensen, resting his hand on his elbow. “I won’t.”
Jensen doesn’t say anything. Lets his hands fall back to his lap.
“I promise,” Sam whispers in Jensen’s ear. He wraps his fingers in Jensen’s. “I promise I won’t.”
Jensen sighs. He’s staring down at their hands, running his thumb across Sam’s fingers. “Okay.”
The heat makes the Thai spices smell musty and thick, sinking into the seats and sticking to their skin. Sam likes the smell. It reminds him of something he could call home.
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Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, a searing jab of pain coursing through his head. He’s breathless in seconds, clutching onto the sides of his head. Jensen’s arms are still draped heavily around his hips.
“Sam?” Jensen asks groggily. He peeks from under the mess of pillows and blankets, eyes squinting into the dark.
Sam grits his teeth, shaking his head - a flickering flash, the colors distorted and image skewed. Sam bites off a scream, burying his face into his hands - stop, stop now!
He sees it again: a familiar face and someone screams in the distance. It’s dark, blurry and Sam can’t really see. He strains to make out the face, presses his fingers to his temples - a body, hanging by its wrists, struggling weakly against the restraints. A sign with etched trees and lake shores, hanging crooked on the wall, in faded black paint - half a name of a town, Spirt, somewhere in Idaho. Moves closer to the sign and the face flashes up again - blood smeared along his face, skin pale beneath the dirt and freckles.
Jensen.
Sam tries to clear his head, but he sees Jensen scream silently and it’s too much like that night, too much like Dean, and he can’t handle this. Not now. He tries to push away, tries to rid of the vision, but he doesn’t have that kind of control. Never has.
He wakes up on the floor, hands pushed to his sides, cold sweat dripping down his spine, matting his hair to his forehead. Jensen is looming over him, hand pressed to Sam’s neck.
“Jesus,” Jensen breathes and his eyes flutter closed. “You scared me, Sam.” Sam sees Jensen’s hands shake.
“I’m fine,” Sam mutters assuredly, sitting up. “No big deal.” And that’s when Sam sees the wet streaked down Jensen’s face, reflecting the dim cast of orange glow from the table lamp.
Jensen wipes at his eyes with the back of hand.
“Jensen?” Sam asks in a timid voice. “Jensen, I’m okay.”
“I was scared, Sam. You just started screaming and - and thrashing around.” Jensen waves his hands in front of him, eyes these dark green saucers. “I thought you were - I don’t know…”
Sam stares at him, but he doesn’t finish.
Jensen clears his throat and whispers, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Sam holds his hands out in front of him, pushing Jensen away; keeps him at a safe distance because now it’s settling in on him. He hasn’t had a vision in months and he finally remembers; they all come true. He looks at Jensen and his heart stops for a second - feels the undeniable resentment and guilt and panic deep in his gut. “Just go back to bed. I’m fine. I just need some water.”
“Okay.” Jensen says it like he doesn’t fully believe Sam and Sam doesn’t expect him to. “Just come back to bed soon.”
Sam shuts door quietly behind him; likes the sticky-slick feeling of his feet against the wood flooring. The living room is dark and daunting, intimidating when Sam can only see the outline of what he’s knows is there. He buries his head in his hands, rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm and waits for the after shocks to subside. Still feels the rush of palpable fear in his veins.
They all come true.
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Sam falls asleep on the beanbag chair, curled into a ball with his knees tucked into his chest. Jensen wakes him up before he goes to work. Kisses him softly and pushes his hair away from his eyes.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jensen whispers; he’s crouched beside Sam, their foreheads pressed together.
Sam nods, swallowing around the tight ball in his throat.
Jensen smiles and stands up. “Okay. I’ll call at lunch to check up. Get - get some rest, okay?”
When the door shuts, Sam slams his fists on the chair, feeling the tears pound at the back of his head. He wishes there was another way, but knows there isn’t.
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When Jensen comes home from work, Sam shoves him up against the wall and kisses him slow and sweet, all tongue and teeth, cradling Jensen’s head in his hand, cause he needs to feel. He shakes, fingers trembling as he runs them through Jensen’s short hair - rocks his hips forward and moans. Jensen makes a disgruntled noise; drops his things on the floor and his hands move awkwardly along Sam’s body, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“I can’t do this,” Sam mutters into Jensen’s lips when he pulls back.
“No.” Jensen’s hands fly out in front of him, fists twisting into Sam’s shirt. Bright eyes snap open and he looks terribly aware. “No, Sam. Please.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He unfolds Jensen’s fingers, peels them away from his shirt and steps back. He’s already made up his mind.
“Sam, don’t go!” Jensen pleads - he stumbles forward, his face painted with fury and despair, like he’s losing something bigger, something bigger than this. He stops. Looks at his hands. “I’m - I can’t be Dean for you. But I -”
“Dean’s dead,” Sam snaps - feels the blinding rage boil up in him, pricking at the back of his eyes and making his throat tight. “I just can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Sam.” Jensen voices cracks and his eyes are wet, leaking like a too-full glass. “Sam, God dammit, don’t leave me.”
Sam’s chest clenches and he bites back a cry of indignation. Pulls Jensen close, crushing their lips forcedly together, all teeth and tongue and this swift paced need to end it soon, before Sam lets it go too far. Tastes sweat and salt and mint; whimpers into Jensen’s mouth, “I have to.”
“No.” Jensen won’t let go of Sam. Clutches tightly to what he can reach, what he can grab and what’s real.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Sam feels the gun shift in the back of his jeans, cool metal hitting his skin uncomfortably. It reminds him: go. “I will if I stay.”
“You will if you go,” Jensen says quietly.
“I’ve made up my mind.”
Somewhere in him, Sam’s convinced that Jensen won’t stop him. Surprised when Jensen throws him against the wall and starts yelling so loudly, so quickly, Sam can’t understand him. Doesn’t expect the hard knuckles against his cheek, the sting in his eyes, and Jensen hitting him over and over and over. Even more stunned when Jensen crushes their lips together, his hands digging into either side of Sam’s bruised face.
“You said you wouldn’t,” Jensen hisses into Sam’s mouth. Their foreheads are pressed together and Jensen won’t let Sam look away. “I told - I told you people always leave and you said you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”
Jesus, Sam knows that. He knows he promised, knows people leave and that it always, always hurts Jensen, but. “I have to.”
Jensen holds on tightly to Sam. “I love you.”
Sam pushes away from Jensen. “God, Jensen. Don’t. Just - let me go.”
Sam has never felt so vulnerable, so painfully naked to the world, and he hopes that it won’t hurt as much as he expects it to. He remembers Indiana and the soft summer rain and he wants to be there again, where nothing can touch him - where it’s just miles and miles of empty space so vast and wide that they all get lost before they can find him. He’s safe there. Felt invincible not being able to touch edges.
“I can’t,” Jensen cries. “I can’t let you go.”
Sam has his hand on the door, sweat making the knob slick and difficult to keep his balance. His knees tremble and he knows he could sink into the floor. He can’t say anything, doesn’t know what there is to say, so he just stares at Jensen like Jensen will be able to read his mind, sort out the mess and make sense of this. Because Sam can’t.
“It’s - I can’t explain it, Jensen. I just have to.”
“Do you want to?” Jensen demands. He’s in and out, different expressions and different ways that he looks at Sam during this. “Do you want to go, Sam?”
“No.” The door half open, foot in the hall and he’s ready to run if he has to.
Jensen runs his fingers under Sam’s shirt, brushes the pads of his thumbs across the rough hip bones. Sam shudders; pushes Jensen’s hands away because he can’t. Jensen’s insistent - pushes Sam’s hand away from the door and kicks it closed. Tears Sam’s shirt off and presses their bodies flush together.
Sam tries to talk, wants to say I have to, but it’s all lost. Feels Jensen’s heart beat against his chest, something stupidly real, and he knows. He knows better. Jensen shakes against him - Sam can feel all of him - and it frightens him. Scares him to know that Jensen wants this as much as he does.
“You won’t go,” Jensen mutters into Sam’s lips. Hands in his hair, eyes wide and pleading. “You won’t.”
Not right away.
Sam crushes their lips together, fingernails digging into Jensen’s back, pulling him close; keeping him there. Jensen’s screaming and Sam feels it shudder down through his body. Jensen slams him back against the wall, bites down on Sam’s lip and whimpers.
“Don’t,” Sam pleads. “Don’t do this.”
Sam slides to the floor, back still pressed against the wall, sweat sticking to the paint; Jensen drops with him, and he twists himself into Sam, fingers trembling and jumping across Sam’s bare skin.
Sam wraps his fingers around Jensen’s wrists. Stops him. Hands cupping Sam’s jaw, thumbs pressing against the corners of his lips. Jensen doesn’t look at him; stares at his shaking hands. His body is slack, shoulders curling forward, and he falls into Sam’s open arms. Nails drag skin in rough, pink scars across his shoulders. Sting rushing through his nerves.
Sam doesn’t deserve this.
“I need you. Sam.”
Jensen looks like he’s given up, body limp and heavy. Sam rips Jensen’s shirt off and expects to see scars, remembers every single one so clearly in his head, but he still doesn’t understand. Not Dean, not Dean. Soft skin, pale and cold. Hands rest on Jensen’s arms; he doesn’t know what to do now.
Jensen leans forward, their foreheads pressed together. “You won’t.”
Sam’s scared of this. It was only one person - Dean was too familiar, too uncomplicated and there. Jensen is different; he doesn’t fit into what Dean was anymore, doesn’t fill out all the blank spaces like Sam used to make him.
Gentle, fingers sliding across his skin. Shivers under their touch. Jensen’s silent: the zipper clacks like thunder in the empty room, echoing in Sam’s head. They breathe in time, light and quick, struggling for something they can’t reach. He’s achingly hard and when Jensen cups him, he arches up, moaning deep in his throat.
Sam throws his head back when Jensen’s lowers himself onto his throbbing cock, feels something explode inside of him and fireworks behind his eyes. Jensen’s knees dig into Sam’s hips and it hurts, hurts so bad that Sam wants to scream, but he doesn’t say a thing. Throws his arms around Jensen’s shoulders and kisses his bare chest.
Jensen bites his lip, riding down with an overflowing need that shoots through his nerves. Sam feels it, sees it, likes the way it tastes when he kisses Jensen hard and fast and angry. He wants it to be over, even before it’s started, because he knows that he won’t be able to leave. Not now. Not with Jensen like this, so naked and open and so - Sam. Jensen doesn’t look him in the eye, keeps his eyes shut tight, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, when Sam makes Jensen look at him. He whimpers, head bent to his chest, fingers digging into Sam’s shoulders as he rolls his hips and pushes down, bated breath escaping past his lips in a trembling oh.
“Look at me, Jensen,” Sam mutters. He runs his hands desperately down Jensen’s face, fingers cupping his jaw and tries to make him look. “Please. Look at me.”
“Will you think of him?” Jensen pants. Eyes flicker up for only a second before they’re closed again. “Will you think of Dean when you look at me?”
Sam winces when Jensen slams down, knees locking and leaving evident bruises on his hips. “No.”
Jensen presses his lips against Sam’s neck, tongue darting out to lick at the sweat-slicked skin. “It’s why you’re leaving, right? Because of him.” Forehead falls against Sam’s collarbone as he quickens, holds his breath longer, hips snapping, finger nails dragging across Sam’s bare neck. Sam doesn’t know what to do with his hands - wraps them around Jensen’s back, threads his fingers through the short, coarse hair. Finds it all awkward and uncomfortable as Jensen grinds against him; it’s right, though.
He throws his head back against the wall when Jensen slams down, shoving him over the edge and Sam can never get used to coming so fast and hard like this.
Jensen pushes himself away from Sam, wrapping a tight fist around his own blood-red cock before Sam can reach for him; comes in two short strokes and spills messy across his fist and stomach. Finally breathes; uneven and panting. Looks up at Sam - scared. It reads like words in novel across his face: he knows he’ll regret it.
Sam lunges towards Jensen, taking his face in his hands and kisses Jensen softly, gently. Cradles him in his arms and holds him close; wants everything to be stupidly real again. Jensen pushes at Sam, yells into his mouth and fights, fights against Sam.
“You are nothing like him,” Sam whispers in Jensen’s ear. “Nothing.”
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Sam wakes early. Jensen stirs when he rolls out of bed; mumbles something in his sleep and turns over, throwing the blankets over his head to block the morning light threading through the curtains.
Sam walks down to the café at the end of the block and picks up two black coffees and two blueberry muffins. The city smells like exhaust and cheap perfume; it grows on you after awhile.
“Jensen?” he calls when he steps into the apartment, setting the bag of muffins on the kitchen table. He carries the coffees with him, pausing in the hallway. “Jensen? I’m back.”
Steps into the bedroom. Empty bed, pillows and blankets, thrown to the floor. Sam feels his heart beat quicken - something wrong and he knows, instantly, leaving was a mistake. Glances around the room: broken glass near the window and droplets of blood on the hard wood floor, smeared hand print near the splintered frame. Sam drops the coffees and screams loud enough that the woman living next door pounds on the wall.
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Sam tears apart the apartment looking for the key to Jensen’s jeep. Leaves the place with the coffee on the floor and the lights on; neighbors from down the hall yell at him as he jogs past their rooms.
My fault. He knows.
He takes the interstate out of the city. Eerily calm, surrounded by the smell of old Thai noodles and Jensen, air conditioning chilling him to the bone. He takes the first right he can once he’s out of the city and drives.
And all he can think about is what Arnold will say when he sees Jensen’s abandoned apartment, blood and coffee staining the white-wash walls.
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He’s been in this place before. This place where everything is simple in its own complicated way; simple when you learn how it all works and it just never makes sense anymore. But you don’t question it because it’s there and you take whatever you can, just cause you need it as badly as the next person.
He sleeps restlessly; awake every hour and stares at the ceiling like he’ll find something there. Stops wondering, stops thinking. Just stops. Stops for whatever reason that kept him moving for so long and he doesn’t have to know anymore.
He buries his face into the thin pillow and he doesn’t do a thing. He doesn’t scream or cry or think. He wishes he could forget, wants to erase time and go back to Indiana, go back to the summer rain and he wants to feel nothing. He wants it to be easy again.
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Sam wakes up at noon and, for a minute, he forgets. Thinks he’s back where he’s meant to be, back on the road and it seems okay. Then. It rushes back to him and it feels like someone has sucked him dry. He falls back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. Listens to the crackle of the radio, the DJ reeling off sport’s scores and player stats in a loud monotone voice, until the world stops spinning.
He eats at a decrepit looking family restaurant down the street, where the waitress pops her gum in small bubbles and stares at him through thin bleached bangs while he orders. She saunters off, boyish hips and thin legs swaying under the faded black skirt. When she comes back with a large stack of pancakes, he tells her she got the wrong order. She looks angry.
“I never get my orders wrong, bud,” she corrects coldly, eyebrows furrowed in the wrinkles and creases in her forehead, and stomps away.
Sam eats the pancakes: they stick like glue in the back of his throat and the middle is uncooked and gooey. He swallows them down without anything to drink, feels unnaturally full and takes the check from the girl’s hand when she wanders over with a sour look on her weather-weary face. She seems happy to see him go and waves at him cheerily as he opens the door.
He stumbles back to his hotel room. Digs through his duffel bag and unwraps his laptop from worn t-shirts. He’s careful, opening it with ease: he pauses before turning it on, feeling a sudden sinking in his entire body.
“My fault,” he mutters to nothing as he types in Spirit Lake, Idaho into the search engine.
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She’s on his contact list and it seems like the only thing to do in hours of desperation and fear. Can’t keep running and running, he knows he’s going to fall behind soon. Chest tightens as the phone rings, an echoing deafness between the annoying dings. She picks up and it’s quiet - they’re probably all sitting around, on edge and wondering who, who could be phoning them, because, away from it all, Sam knows the world is still tail spinning into oblivion.
“Ellen.” He waits. “It’s Sam.”
“Sam!” Ellen breathes. He hears the sound of muffled confusion in the background. “Oh my God, Sam. What -”
Sam cuts her off. “Ellen, I need you to give me anything you can on Spirit Lake, Idaho.”
“What, why?” she sounds perturbed. “Oh, Sam. We’ve all been worried. What the hell is going on? Where are you?”
“Please, I just need you to give me what I’m asking for.” Sam drums his fingers on the desk. Thumbs through a stack of print outs that really lead him nowhere, but it’s something; better than staring at a blank wall and wondering where he went wrong.
“Where are you, Sam? We’ll come get you.” She sounds determined, stern; motherly.
He doesn’t have time for this. Gets frustrated and slams his fist on the table, rattling the supports and shifting the papers. “Ellen! Just - just get me the info, okay? That’s all I’m asking for. It’s,” he swallows around the hard lump in his throat, “important.”
“Sam,” Ellen whispers.
He hears Bobby in the background: let me talk to him. Jo, small and fiery: mom, what the hell is going on?
“Ellen, just do it.”
There is a heavy silence that makes Sam more uncomfortable. Ellen sighs, defeated. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” he bites out bitterly. And then, “I don’t want anyone coming after me.”
“What are you going to do with yourself, Sam?” She’s scared, he can tell. The way her voice pitches and he can almost see her holding back the tears. “Dean would’ve never let you get like this.”
Sam snaps a pencil in his fingers, splinters of painted wood flying across the room. He throws the broken pieces on the floor. “Dean’s dead. What should it matter?”
“Sam -”
“Don’t,” Sam spits angrily, clenching his teeth. “Don’t.”
Neither say anything, mulling over their words and their rage and worry and fear and guilt. Sam taps his foot against the wall as he waits.
“I’ll call you back later tonight, okay?” Ellen says.
“Fine,” Sam snaps. He takes the phone away from his ear and his thumb is resting over the end button when he hears:
“Take care of yourself, Sam. We’re all worried.”
Sam hangs up and throws his cell phone against the wall, burying his face in his hands.
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Part Five.
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They’re eating spicy Thai noodles in the back seat of Jensen’s jeep, bare-foot and stretched out on the worn upholstery. The windows are rolled down and the hanging humidity that’s been living in the city for the past week soaks through their shirts and leaves them sticky and lethargic.
“Do people always leave?” Sam asks when he finds the silence to be as heavy as the heat.
Jensen is staring at his feet that are propped against the window, wiggling his toes, his back curved into Sam’s side. “What do you mean?”
“You,” Sam says. “Do people always leave you?”
Jensen shrugs. Sam can feel him tense. “Sure. I’ve dated a few people and we’ve broken up.”
“That’s not what I mean, Jensen.”
Jensen sits up and turns to face Sam - his face is tight, indifferent and livid and sweat drips into his eyes. “Then what do you mean, huh?” Jensen demands furiously. “What do you mean, Sam?”
Sam looks back down to his noodles. They’re warm, the heat burning the tips of his fingers, but he won’t let go.
“What do -” Jensen stops. He sinks into the seat, folding his hands his lap. “Yeah. Yeah, people always leave.” Jensen looks out the window, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes.
Sam sets his noodles down. He reaches for Jensen, resting his hand on his elbow. “I won’t.”
Jensen doesn’t say anything. Lets his hands fall back to his lap.
“I promise,” Sam whispers in Jensen’s ear. He wraps his fingers in Jensen’s. “I promise I won’t.”
Jensen sighs. He’s staring down at their hands, running his thumb across Sam’s fingers. “Okay.”
The heat makes the Thai spices smell musty and thick, sinking into the seats and sticking to their skin. Sam likes the smell. It reminds him of something he could call home.
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Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, a searing jab of pain coursing through his head. He’s breathless in seconds, clutching onto the sides of his head. Jensen’s arms are still draped heavily around his hips.
“Sam?” Jensen asks groggily. He peeks from under the mess of pillows and blankets, eyes squinting into the dark.
Sam grits his teeth, shaking his head - a flickering flash, the colors distorted and image skewed. Sam bites off a scream, burying his face into his hands - stop, stop now!
He sees it again: a familiar face and someone screams in the distance. It’s dark, blurry and Sam can’t really see. He strains to make out the face, presses his fingers to his temples - a body, hanging by its wrists, struggling weakly against the restraints. A sign with etched trees and lake shores, hanging crooked on the wall, in faded black paint - half a name of a town, Spirt, somewhere in Idaho. Moves closer to the sign and the face flashes up again - blood smeared along his face, skin pale beneath the dirt and freckles.
Jensen.
Sam tries to clear his head, but he sees Jensen scream silently and it’s too much like that night, too much like Dean, and he can’t handle this. Not now. He tries to push away, tries to rid of the vision, but he doesn’t have that kind of control. Never has.
He wakes up on the floor, hands pushed to his sides, cold sweat dripping down his spine, matting his hair to his forehead. Jensen is looming over him, hand pressed to Sam’s neck.
“Jesus,” Jensen breathes and his eyes flutter closed. “You scared me, Sam.” Sam sees Jensen’s hands shake.
“I’m fine,” Sam mutters assuredly, sitting up. “No big deal.” And that’s when Sam sees the wet streaked down Jensen’s face, reflecting the dim cast of orange glow from the table lamp.
Jensen wipes at his eyes with the back of hand.
“Jensen?” Sam asks in a timid voice. “Jensen, I’m okay.”
“I was scared, Sam. You just started screaming and - and thrashing around.” Jensen waves his hands in front of him, eyes these dark green saucers. “I thought you were - I don’t know…”
Sam stares at him, but he doesn’t finish.
Jensen clears his throat and whispers, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Sam holds his hands out in front of him, pushing Jensen away; keeps him at a safe distance because now it’s settling in on him. He hasn’t had a vision in months and he finally remembers; they all come true. He looks at Jensen and his heart stops for a second - feels the undeniable resentment and guilt and panic deep in his gut. “Just go back to bed. I’m fine. I just need some water.”
“Okay.” Jensen says it like he doesn’t fully believe Sam and Sam doesn’t expect him to. “Just come back to bed soon.”
Sam shuts door quietly behind him; likes the sticky-slick feeling of his feet against the wood flooring. The living room is dark and daunting, intimidating when Sam can only see the outline of what he’s knows is there. He buries his head in his hands, rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm and waits for the after shocks to subside. Still feels the rush of palpable fear in his veins.
They all come true.
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Sam falls asleep on the beanbag chair, curled into a ball with his knees tucked into his chest. Jensen wakes him up before he goes to work. Kisses him softly and pushes his hair away from his eyes.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jensen whispers; he’s crouched beside Sam, their foreheads pressed together.
Sam nods, swallowing around the tight ball in his throat.
Jensen smiles and stands up. “Okay. I’ll call at lunch to check up. Get - get some rest, okay?”
When the door shuts, Sam slams his fists on the chair, feeling the tears pound at the back of his head. He wishes there was another way, but knows there isn’t.
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When Jensen comes home from work, Sam shoves him up against the wall and kisses him slow and sweet, all tongue and teeth, cradling Jensen’s head in his hand, cause he needs to feel. He shakes, fingers trembling as he runs them through Jensen’s short hair - rocks his hips forward and moans. Jensen makes a disgruntled noise; drops his things on the floor and his hands move awkwardly along Sam’s body, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“I can’t do this,” Sam mutters into Jensen’s lips when he pulls back.
“No.” Jensen’s hands fly out in front of him, fists twisting into Sam’s shirt. Bright eyes snap open and he looks terribly aware. “No, Sam. Please.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He unfolds Jensen’s fingers, peels them away from his shirt and steps back. He’s already made up his mind.
“Sam, don’t go!” Jensen pleads - he stumbles forward, his face painted with fury and despair, like he’s losing something bigger, something bigger than this. He stops. Looks at his hands. “I’m - I can’t be Dean for you. But I -”
“Dean’s dead,” Sam snaps - feels the blinding rage boil up in him, pricking at the back of his eyes and making his throat tight. “I just can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Sam.” Jensen voices cracks and his eyes are wet, leaking like a too-full glass. “Sam, God dammit, don’t leave me.”
Sam’s chest clenches and he bites back a cry of indignation. Pulls Jensen close, crushing their lips forcedly together, all teeth and tongue and this swift paced need to end it soon, before Sam lets it go too far. Tastes sweat and salt and mint; whimpers into Jensen’s mouth, “I have to.”
“No.” Jensen won’t let go of Sam. Clutches tightly to what he can reach, what he can grab and what’s real.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Sam feels the gun shift in the back of his jeans, cool metal hitting his skin uncomfortably. It reminds him: go. “I will if I stay.”
“You will if you go,” Jensen says quietly.
“I’ve made up my mind.”
Somewhere in him, Sam’s convinced that Jensen won’t stop him. Surprised when Jensen throws him against the wall and starts yelling so loudly, so quickly, Sam can’t understand him. Doesn’t expect the hard knuckles against his cheek, the sting in his eyes, and Jensen hitting him over and over and over. Even more stunned when Jensen crushes their lips together, his hands digging into either side of Sam’s bruised face.
“You said you wouldn’t,” Jensen hisses into Sam’s mouth. Their foreheads are pressed together and Jensen won’t let Sam look away. “I told - I told you people always leave and you said you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”
Jesus, Sam knows that. He knows he promised, knows people leave and that it always, always hurts Jensen, but. “I have to.”
Jensen holds on tightly to Sam. “I love you.”
Sam pushes away from Jensen. “God, Jensen. Don’t. Just - let me go.”
Sam has never felt so vulnerable, so painfully naked to the world, and he hopes that it won’t hurt as much as he expects it to. He remembers Indiana and the soft summer rain and he wants to be there again, where nothing can touch him - where it’s just miles and miles of empty space so vast and wide that they all get lost before they can find him. He’s safe there. Felt invincible not being able to touch edges.
“I can’t,” Jensen cries. “I can’t let you go.”
Sam has his hand on the door, sweat making the knob slick and difficult to keep his balance. His knees tremble and he knows he could sink into the floor. He can’t say anything, doesn’t know what there is to say, so he just stares at Jensen like Jensen will be able to read his mind, sort out the mess and make sense of this. Because Sam can’t.
“It’s - I can’t explain it, Jensen. I just have to.”
“Do you want to?” Jensen demands. He’s in and out, different expressions and different ways that he looks at Sam during this. “Do you want to go, Sam?”
“No.” The door half open, foot in the hall and he’s ready to run if he has to.
Jensen runs his fingers under Sam’s shirt, brushes the pads of his thumbs across the rough hip bones. Sam shudders; pushes Jensen’s hands away because he can’t. Jensen’s insistent - pushes Sam’s hand away from the door and kicks it closed. Tears Sam’s shirt off and presses their bodies flush together.
Sam tries to talk, wants to say I have to, but it’s all lost. Feels Jensen’s heart beat against his chest, something stupidly real, and he knows. He knows better. Jensen shakes against him - Sam can feel all of him - and it frightens him. Scares him to know that Jensen wants this as much as he does.
“You won’t go,” Jensen mutters into Sam’s lips. Hands in his hair, eyes wide and pleading. “You won’t.”
Not right away.
Sam crushes their lips together, fingernails digging into Jensen’s back, pulling him close; keeping him there. Jensen’s screaming and Sam feels it shudder down through his body. Jensen slams him back against the wall, bites down on Sam’s lip and whimpers.
“Don’t,” Sam pleads. “Don’t do this.”
Sam slides to the floor, back still pressed against the wall, sweat sticking to the paint; Jensen drops with him, and he twists himself into Sam, fingers trembling and jumping across Sam’s bare skin.
Sam wraps his fingers around Jensen’s wrists. Stops him. Hands cupping Sam’s jaw, thumbs pressing against the corners of his lips. Jensen doesn’t look at him; stares at his shaking hands. His body is slack, shoulders curling forward, and he falls into Sam’s open arms. Nails drag skin in rough, pink scars across his shoulders. Sting rushing through his nerves.
Sam doesn’t deserve this.
“I need you. Sam.”
Jensen looks like he’s given up, body limp and heavy. Sam rips Jensen’s shirt off and expects to see scars, remembers every single one so clearly in his head, but he still doesn’t understand. Not Dean, not Dean. Soft skin, pale and cold. Hands rest on Jensen’s arms; he doesn’t know what to do now.
Jensen leans forward, their foreheads pressed together. “You won’t.”
Sam’s scared of this. It was only one person - Dean was too familiar, too uncomplicated and there. Jensen is different; he doesn’t fit into what Dean was anymore, doesn’t fill out all the blank spaces like Sam used to make him.
Gentle, fingers sliding across his skin. Shivers under their touch. Jensen’s silent: the zipper clacks like thunder in the empty room, echoing in Sam’s head. They breathe in time, light and quick, struggling for something they can’t reach. He’s achingly hard and when Jensen cups him, he arches up, moaning deep in his throat.
Sam throws his head back when Jensen’s lowers himself onto his throbbing cock, feels something explode inside of him and fireworks behind his eyes. Jensen’s knees dig into Sam’s hips and it hurts, hurts so bad that Sam wants to scream, but he doesn’t say a thing. Throws his arms around Jensen’s shoulders and kisses his bare chest.
Jensen bites his lip, riding down with an overflowing need that shoots through his nerves. Sam feels it, sees it, likes the way it tastes when he kisses Jensen hard and fast and angry. He wants it to be over, even before it’s started, because he knows that he won’t be able to leave. Not now. Not with Jensen like this, so naked and open and so - Sam. Jensen doesn’t look him in the eye, keeps his eyes shut tight, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, when Sam makes Jensen look at him. He whimpers, head bent to his chest, fingers digging into Sam’s shoulders as he rolls his hips and pushes down, bated breath escaping past his lips in a trembling oh.
“Look at me, Jensen,” Sam mutters. He runs his hands desperately down Jensen’s face, fingers cupping his jaw and tries to make him look. “Please. Look at me.”
“Will you think of him?” Jensen pants. Eyes flicker up for only a second before they’re closed again. “Will you think of Dean when you look at me?”
Sam winces when Jensen slams down, knees locking and leaving evident bruises on his hips. “No.”
Jensen presses his lips against Sam’s neck, tongue darting out to lick at the sweat-slicked skin. “It’s why you’re leaving, right? Because of him.” Forehead falls against Sam’s collarbone as he quickens, holds his breath longer, hips snapping, finger nails dragging across Sam’s bare neck. Sam doesn’t know what to do with his hands - wraps them around Jensen’s back, threads his fingers through the short, coarse hair. Finds it all awkward and uncomfortable as Jensen grinds against him; it’s right, though.
He throws his head back against the wall when Jensen slams down, shoving him over the edge and Sam can never get used to coming so fast and hard like this.
Jensen pushes himself away from Sam, wrapping a tight fist around his own blood-red cock before Sam can reach for him; comes in two short strokes and spills messy across his fist and stomach. Finally breathes; uneven and panting. Looks up at Sam - scared. It reads like words in novel across his face: he knows he’ll regret it.
Sam lunges towards Jensen, taking his face in his hands and kisses Jensen softly, gently. Cradles him in his arms and holds him close; wants everything to be stupidly real again. Jensen pushes at Sam, yells into his mouth and fights, fights against Sam.
“You are nothing like him,” Sam whispers in Jensen’s ear. “Nothing.”
| |
Sam wakes early. Jensen stirs when he rolls out of bed; mumbles something in his sleep and turns over, throwing the blankets over his head to block the morning light threading through the curtains.
Sam walks down to the café at the end of the block and picks up two black coffees and two blueberry muffins. The city smells like exhaust and cheap perfume; it grows on you after awhile.
“Jensen?” he calls when he steps into the apartment, setting the bag of muffins on the kitchen table. He carries the coffees with him, pausing in the hallway. “Jensen? I’m back.”
Steps into the bedroom. Empty bed, pillows and blankets, thrown to the floor. Sam feels his heart beat quicken - something wrong and he knows, instantly, leaving was a mistake. Glances around the room: broken glass near the window and droplets of blood on the hard wood floor, smeared hand print near the splintered frame. Sam drops the coffees and screams loud enough that the woman living next door pounds on the wall.
| |
Sam tears apart the apartment looking for the key to Jensen’s jeep. Leaves the place with the coffee on the floor and the lights on; neighbors from down the hall yell at him as he jogs past their rooms.
My fault. He knows.
He takes the interstate out of the city. Eerily calm, surrounded by the smell of old Thai noodles and Jensen, air conditioning chilling him to the bone. He takes the first right he can once he’s out of the city and drives.
And all he can think about is what Arnold will say when he sees Jensen’s abandoned apartment, blood and coffee staining the white-wash walls.
| |
He’s been in this place before. This place where everything is simple in its own complicated way; simple when you learn how it all works and it just never makes sense anymore. But you don’t question it because it’s there and you take whatever you can, just cause you need it as badly as the next person.
He sleeps restlessly; awake every hour and stares at the ceiling like he’ll find something there. Stops wondering, stops thinking. Just stops. Stops for whatever reason that kept him moving for so long and he doesn’t have to know anymore.
He buries his face into the thin pillow and he doesn’t do a thing. He doesn’t scream or cry or think. He wishes he could forget, wants to erase time and go back to Indiana, go back to the summer rain and he wants to feel nothing. He wants it to be easy again.
| |
Sam wakes up at noon and, for a minute, he forgets. Thinks he’s back where he’s meant to be, back on the road and it seems okay. Then. It rushes back to him and it feels like someone has sucked him dry. He falls back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. Listens to the crackle of the radio, the DJ reeling off sport’s scores and player stats in a loud monotone voice, until the world stops spinning.
He eats at a decrepit looking family restaurant down the street, where the waitress pops her gum in small bubbles and stares at him through thin bleached bangs while he orders. She saunters off, boyish hips and thin legs swaying under the faded black skirt. When she comes back with a large stack of pancakes, he tells her she got the wrong order. She looks angry.
“I never get my orders wrong, bud,” she corrects coldly, eyebrows furrowed in the wrinkles and creases in her forehead, and stomps away.
Sam eats the pancakes: they stick like glue in the back of his throat and the middle is uncooked and gooey. He swallows them down without anything to drink, feels unnaturally full and takes the check from the girl’s hand when she wanders over with a sour look on her weather-weary face. She seems happy to see him go and waves at him cheerily as he opens the door.
He stumbles back to his hotel room. Digs through his duffel bag and unwraps his laptop from worn t-shirts. He’s careful, opening it with ease: he pauses before turning it on, feeling a sudden sinking in his entire body.
“My fault,” he mutters to nothing as he types in Spirit Lake, Idaho into the search engine.
| |
She’s on his contact list and it seems like the only thing to do in hours of desperation and fear. Can’t keep running and running, he knows he’s going to fall behind soon. Chest tightens as the phone rings, an echoing deafness between the annoying dings. She picks up and it’s quiet - they’re probably all sitting around, on edge and wondering who, who could be phoning them, because, away from it all, Sam knows the world is still tail spinning into oblivion.
“Ellen.” He waits. “It’s Sam.”
“Sam!” Ellen breathes. He hears the sound of muffled confusion in the background. “Oh my God, Sam. What -”
Sam cuts her off. “Ellen, I need you to give me anything you can on Spirit Lake, Idaho.”
“What, why?” she sounds perturbed. “Oh, Sam. We’ve all been worried. What the hell is going on? Where are you?”
“Please, I just need you to give me what I’m asking for.” Sam drums his fingers on the desk. Thumbs through a stack of print outs that really lead him nowhere, but it’s something; better than staring at a blank wall and wondering where he went wrong.
“Where are you, Sam? We’ll come get you.” She sounds determined, stern; motherly.
He doesn’t have time for this. Gets frustrated and slams his fist on the table, rattling the supports and shifting the papers. “Ellen! Just - just get me the info, okay? That’s all I’m asking for. It’s,” he swallows around the hard lump in his throat, “important.”
“Sam,” Ellen whispers.
He hears Bobby in the background: let me talk to him. Jo, small and fiery: mom, what the hell is going on?
“Ellen, just do it.”
There is a heavy silence that makes Sam more uncomfortable. Ellen sighs, defeated. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” he bites out bitterly. And then, “I don’t want anyone coming after me.”
“What are you going to do with yourself, Sam?” She’s scared, he can tell. The way her voice pitches and he can almost see her holding back the tears. “Dean would’ve never let you get like this.”
Sam snaps a pencil in his fingers, splinters of painted wood flying across the room. He throws the broken pieces on the floor. “Dean’s dead. What should it matter?”
“Sam -”
“Don’t,” Sam spits angrily, clenching his teeth. “Don’t.”
Neither say anything, mulling over their words and their rage and worry and fear and guilt. Sam taps his foot against the wall as he waits.
“I’ll call you back later tonight, okay?” Ellen says.
“Fine,” Sam snaps. He takes the phone away from his ear and his thumb is resting over the end button when he hears:
“Take care of yourself, Sam. We’re all worried.”
Sam hangs up and throws his cell phone against the wall, burying his face in his hands.
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Part Five.