GOAT'S BALLS. BIG HAIRY ONES, TOO.
Seriously . . . if you haven't seen the movie? Most of this is going to leave you scratching your head and going, "Huh? Where did *that* come from?"
Blame it all on the writer's panic.
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3 /
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After the first week or two, Dean didn’t see much of Grant anymore. Dean was working to help start a community garden out in the Strawberry Mansion section of the city, and Grant had been assigned to work with a homeless shelter downtown, which he hated and complained about incessantly.
The guy was no more tolerable when Dean saw less of him, and so he found himself looking for reasons to leave the apartment.
It was easy to spend his free time out in the cool green quiet of the courtyard, shaded from the hot sun by the leafy trees. Sometimes Dean brought his studies with him, but more often, he liked just to watch the other residents of the complex going about their daily business. He really felt like he was part of a community, occasionally capturing a stray Frisbee or even being offered a hot dog from someone’s patio barbecue.
His upstairs neighbor was an elderly woman who lived alone, and always patted Dean’s hand and called him a nice boy when he carried in her groceries or offered to walk her dog, a staid little dachshund who liked best to snooze in the sun.
Somehow, Dean had already become known in the building as the go-to guy if someone needed help, so he wasn’t too surprised to hear a knock on the apartment door early one evening.
He was surprised though, to see who was standing on the other side.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean greeted him, a little uncertainly. “Need a hand with something?”
Sam bounced on his toes, nodding his head to the beat of the music pouring from the open apartment door behind him. “I’m moving furniture!” he shouted over the noise. “Come help me out?”
Dean glanced across the hall in bewilderment, wondering what on earth Sam might be moving that he couldn’t handle on his own, as big as he was and as strong as he looked. Still, Dean wasn’t about to turn down anyone who asked for his assistance, so he grabbed his keys and shut and locked the door behind him.
“C’mon in!” Sam bellowed as Dean loitered hesitantly in the doorway. “Want a beer?”
Dean shook his head, taking in his surroundings. Where the walls of the apartment he shared with Grant were a utilitarian off-white, windows covered with Venetian blinds and the rooms stocked with cast-off furniture scavenged from thrift stores, everything in Sam’s place was brightly colored and oddly decorated.
The living room walls were painted a bright lemon yellow, and in the middle of the room sat a long, black leather sofa. On the floor was a massive rug, zebra-striped in black and white, anchored by two oversized beanbag chairs upholstered in screaming purple suede. Throw pillows scattered around the room in various shades of green provided a welcome relief for the eyes, but Dean still found himself wincing, partly because of the volume on the stereo, which occupied a place of honor in the elaborate chrome entertainment center on one wall.
He crossed the room and poked at a few buttons, finally twisting a dial in a hopeless attempt to alter the sound levels.
Sam came out of the kitchen, two bottles of something in his big hands, and yelled conversationally, “Isn’t this awesome? I fucking love this band!” He shoved one of the bottles at Dean, who took it automatically, repressing the urge to cover his ears. Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him down the hall, saying loudly, “In here, you’ll see.”
Dean had thought the living room looked like a decorator’s portfolio had exploded, but he was totally unprepared for Sam’s bedroom.
For one thing, it was *red*.
The walls, the ceiling, even the floor had been painted a deep, candy-apple red that looked even darker against the shaggy white throw rugs and the massive bed, draped in light-colored linens, that dominated the space. There were odd, blank squares that looked like empty picture frames staggered randomly on one wall, and what should have been bookcases were filled with a strange assortment of bronze figurines, modern sculpture, and color photographs of city landmarks.
“What do you think?” Sam shouted, waving one arm around the room expansively.
Dean guessed that he was looking for an opinion on the décor, and hazarded, “Um . . . it’s very . . . cheerful?”
Sam grinned. “It’s supposed to be *seductive*,” he intoned, and leered outrageously. Dean choked down a startled laugh and covered his uncertainty by sipping at the bottle in his hand. “Good root beer,” he said weakly.
“I remembered you don’t drink,” Sam bawled across the room. “Hey, come here, Dean, help me shove the bed into this corner, the fucking thing’s driving me nuts ‘cause I keep rolling out of it.”
Dean goggled. “It’s huge! How can you fall out?” he demanded.
Sam winked. “Depends on how much company I have,” he boasted. Dean winced uncomfortably, just as the music changed, and Sam caught the expression. “Shut the door if the music’s too loud for you!” he suggested.
Desperately, Dean did just that, sagging back in blessed relief at the relative quiet. “My eardrums may never be the same,” he muttered, and set his soda on a nearby shelf before joining Sam near the bed. “How do you want to do this?”
Sam pushed Dean down against the mattress and landed on top of him, grinning. “I’m flexible,” he smirked. “In more ways than one, if you get my meaning.”
Dean just stared. This was *not happening*. It couldn’t be.
Sam ground down against him, one hard, muscled thigh between Dean’s legs, one big hand gripping his hip. “Been wanting this since I first saw you,” he whispered roughly. “Come on, I know how bad you want it. God, I knew you’d feel this good.”
Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing, what he was feeling . . . the heat of Sam’s body, the weight of his words. He felt compelled to admit, “I’ve never actually . . . done anything like this before.”
“It’s no big deal,” Sam said hoarsely as he bent his head and licked Dean’s throat, probably meaning reassurance but falling far short. “Sex is a lot like pizza . . . even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.”
Dean shoved him away, hard. “You have *got* to be kidding me,” he snarled. “Something this important-something that I can never recapture-my first time! You can cheapen that, equate it to a three-dollar slice of *pizza*?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You make it sound like prostitution.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that prostitutes get paid better for their services,” he said bitterly, and pushed off the bed to get to his feet. “Is sex *all* you think about? Isn’t there room in that big head of yours for anything except your vanity, and your drinking, and your next conquest? Don’t you ever want something *more* out of life?”
“Hey!” Sam protested in injured tones. “I’m deep! I have *layers*!”
Dean snorted. “So does *cotton candy*,” he pointed out scornfully. “I don’t *get* you, Sam. You think that all have you have to be is beautiful and flirtatious, and everyone will love you just for that. It’s just . . . there’s more to life than that. There’s more to *love* than just that.”
Sam sagged back against the bed, looking puzzled.
Dean turned his head away and took a deep breath. “You’re smart, Sam,” he said fervently. “And you’re funny, and I think, from what I’ve seen that you could be a good person. But you’re wasting your gifts, wasting your *self*, on this shallow, hedonistic life that you’ve chosen. And the worst part of it is that *you* believe that’s all there is to you!”
Sam’s mouth was hanging open. He swallowed visibly and sat up straight, clearly working up some righteous fury. “Who the *hell* do you think you are, coming in here and judging me?” he demanded. “You’re a big fucking fake, Dean, with all your prayers and your do-gooding, mouthing every goddamned word the Church tells you to believe while meanwhile, you’re watching me work out in the quad with your fucking tongue hanging out.”
Dean flinched and closed his eyes. “You’re right,” he said softly, almost inaudibly. “I *do* watch you, with lust in my heart. And I do penance for it every day. This is the cross God has given me to bear, the test I have to pass, and-“
Sam flung a pillow across the room. “God!” he exclaimed, like a curse. “Your God, your Church-you know, they don’t give you a fucking gold star just because you deny yourself a little fun. You just get told that you have to keep on denying every part of you, everything that’s *you*, until you’re nothing but a good little Catholic robot with a white collar around your neck, like a damned leash, choking out everything that’s independent or enjoyable in the least!”
“It’s not like that!” Dean shouted back. “Random pleasure, passing lusts-they’re not worth my immortal soul, Sam! You’re asking me to give up my entire *life*, everything I’ve ever known or worked for or believed in, just so that you can put another notch on your bedpost!”
Sam blinked. “I don’t *have* bedposts.”
Dean thumped his forehead against the closed bedroom door and sighed. “It’s an expression,” he said dully. “But I guess it’s just another measure of how naïve and foolish I really am, huh?”
He turned and leaned back against the door of Sam’s room. “It’s like some kind of movie, right?” he asked, rhetorically. “Small-town, back-country boy with a calling to the priesthood, seduced by the Devil? Happens all the time . . . beautiful woman, innocent boy. The twist is that this Devil’s in the shape of a man.”
Sam lay back on his elbows and just stared.
Dean sighed again. “Congratulations, Sam, you got me to spill my biggest secret. I’m queer, okay? And everything in my life, every belief I’ve been raised with, tells me that it’s a sin, one of the biggest, and that if I can’t change the way I feel, I need to at least keep my mouth shut about it. I’ve done the best I can to deny it, pretend I don’t feel that way-because I can’t act on it, I can’t even speak of it in Confession. Not only will I not be ordained if anyone finds out, not in today’s Church, not after all the scandals of the last few years-I’ll be defrocked and maybe even excommunicated. They won’t even take the chance.”
He moved to leave the room, paused for a moment to say over his shoulder, “If you really are a minion of Satan sent to tempt me, then your work here is done. I have so much doubt in my heart that there’s no room left for lust, so just make it easy on both of us and give it up, okay?”
“But-“ Sam began.
Dean lifted one hand and cut him off. “Don’t,” he said, and he couldn’t help his voice breaking a little. “We’re just . . . we’re from totally different worlds. And there’s no way for those worlds to collide.”
He left Sam lying there, and walked out.
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Blame it all on the writer's panic.
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3 /
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After the first week or two, Dean didn’t see much of Grant anymore. Dean was working to help start a community garden out in the Strawberry Mansion section of the city, and Grant had been assigned to work with a homeless shelter downtown, which he hated and complained about incessantly.
The guy was no more tolerable when Dean saw less of him, and so he found himself looking for reasons to leave the apartment.
It was easy to spend his free time out in the cool green quiet of the courtyard, shaded from the hot sun by the leafy trees. Sometimes Dean brought his studies with him, but more often, he liked just to watch the other residents of the complex going about their daily business. He really felt like he was part of a community, occasionally capturing a stray Frisbee or even being offered a hot dog from someone’s patio barbecue.
His upstairs neighbor was an elderly woman who lived alone, and always patted Dean’s hand and called him a nice boy when he carried in her groceries or offered to walk her dog, a staid little dachshund who liked best to snooze in the sun.
Somehow, Dean had already become known in the building as the go-to guy if someone needed help, so he wasn’t too surprised to hear a knock on the apartment door early one evening.
He was surprised though, to see who was standing on the other side.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean greeted him, a little uncertainly. “Need a hand with something?”
Sam bounced on his toes, nodding his head to the beat of the music pouring from the open apartment door behind him. “I’m moving furniture!” he shouted over the noise. “Come help me out?”
Dean glanced across the hall in bewilderment, wondering what on earth Sam might be moving that he couldn’t handle on his own, as big as he was and as strong as he looked. Still, Dean wasn’t about to turn down anyone who asked for his assistance, so he grabbed his keys and shut and locked the door behind him.
“C’mon in!” Sam bellowed as Dean loitered hesitantly in the doorway. “Want a beer?”
Dean shook his head, taking in his surroundings. Where the walls of the apartment he shared with Grant were a utilitarian off-white, windows covered with Venetian blinds and the rooms stocked with cast-off furniture scavenged from thrift stores, everything in Sam’s place was brightly colored and oddly decorated.
The living room walls were painted a bright lemon yellow, and in the middle of the room sat a long, black leather sofa. On the floor was a massive rug, zebra-striped in black and white, anchored by two oversized beanbag chairs upholstered in screaming purple suede. Throw pillows scattered around the room in various shades of green provided a welcome relief for the eyes, but Dean still found himself wincing, partly because of the volume on the stereo, which occupied a place of honor in the elaborate chrome entertainment center on one wall.
He crossed the room and poked at a few buttons, finally twisting a dial in a hopeless attempt to alter the sound levels.
Sam came out of the kitchen, two bottles of something in his big hands, and yelled conversationally, “Isn’t this awesome? I fucking love this band!” He shoved one of the bottles at Dean, who took it automatically, repressing the urge to cover his ears. Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him down the hall, saying loudly, “In here, you’ll see.”
Dean had thought the living room looked like a decorator’s portfolio had exploded, but he was totally unprepared for Sam’s bedroom.
For one thing, it was *red*.
The walls, the ceiling, even the floor had been painted a deep, candy-apple red that looked even darker against the shaggy white throw rugs and the massive bed, draped in light-colored linens, that dominated the space. There were odd, blank squares that looked like empty picture frames staggered randomly on one wall, and what should have been bookcases were filled with a strange assortment of bronze figurines, modern sculpture, and color photographs of city landmarks.
“What do you think?” Sam shouted, waving one arm around the room expansively.
Dean guessed that he was looking for an opinion on the décor, and hazarded, “Um . . . it’s very . . . cheerful?”
Sam grinned. “It’s supposed to be *seductive*,” he intoned, and leered outrageously. Dean choked down a startled laugh and covered his uncertainty by sipping at the bottle in his hand. “Good root beer,” he said weakly.
“I remembered you don’t drink,” Sam bawled across the room. “Hey, come here, Dean, help me shove the bed into this corner, the fucking thing’s driving me nuts ‘cause I keep rolling out of it.”
Dean goggled. “It’s huge! How can you fall out?” he demanded.
Sam winked. “Depends on how much company I have,” he boasted. Dean winced uncomfortably, just as the music changed, and Sam caught the expression. “Shut the door if the music’s too loud for you!” he suggested.
Desperately, Dean did just that, sagging back in blessed relief at the relative quiet. “My eardrums may never be the same,” he muttered, and set his soda on a nearby shelf before joining Sam near the bed. “How do you want to do this?”
Sam pushed Dean down against the mattress and landed on top of him, grinning. “I’m flexible,” he smirked. “In more ways than one, if you get my meaning.”
Dean just stared. This was *not happening*. It couldn’t be.
Sam ground down against him, one hard, muscled thigh between Dean’s legs, one big hand gripping his hip. “Been wanting this since I first saw you,” he whispered roughly. “Come on, I know how bad you want it. God, I knew you’d feel this good.”
Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing, what he was feeling . . . the heat of Sam’s body, the weight of his words. He felt compelled to admit, “I’ve never actually . . . done anything like this before.”
“It’s no big deal,” Sam said hoarsely as he bent his head and licked Dean’s throat, probably meaning reassurance but falling far short. “Sex is a lot like pizza . . . even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.”
Dean shoved him away, hard. “You have *got* to be kidding me,” he snarled. “Something this important-something that I can never recapture-my first time! You can cheapen that, equate it to a three-dollar slice of *pizza*?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You make it sound like prostitution.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that prostitutes get paid better for their services,” he said bitterly, and pushed off the bed to get to his feet. “Is sex *all* you think about? Isn’t there room in that big head of yours for anything except your vanity, and your drinking, and your next conquest? Don’t you ever want something *more* out of life?”
“Hey!” Sam protested in injured tones. “I’m deep! I have *layers*!”
Dean snorted. “So does *cotton candy*,” he pointed out scornfully. “I don’t *get* you, Sam. You think that all have you have to be is beautiful and flirtatious, and everyone will love you just for that. It’s just . . . there’s more to life than that. There’s more to *love* than just that.”
Sam sagged back against the bed, looking puzzled.
Dean turned his head away and took a deep breath. “You’re smart, Sam,” he said fervently. “And you’re funny, and I think, from what I’ve seen that you could be a good person. But you’re wasting your gifts, wasting your *self*, on this shallow, hedonistic life that you’ve chosen. And the worst part of it is that *you* believe that’s all there is to you!”
Sam’s mouth was hanging open. He swallowed visibly and sat up straight, clearly working up some righteous fury. “Who the *hell* do you think you are, coming in here and judging me?” he demanded. “You’re a big fucking fake, Dean, with all your prayers and your do-gooding, mouthing every goddamned word the Church tells you to believe while meanwhile, you’re watching me work out in the quad with your fucking tongue hanging out.”
Dean flinched and closed his eyes. “You’re right,” he said softly, almost inaudibly. “I *do* watch you, with lust in my heart. And I do penance for it every day. This is the cross God has given me to bear, the test I have to pass, and-“
Sam flung a pillow across the room. “God!” he exclaimed, like a curse. “Your God, your Church-you know, they don’t give you a fucking gold star just because you deny yourself a little fun. You just get told that you have to keep on denying every part of you, everything that’s *you*, until you’re nothing but a good little Catholic robot with a white collar around your neck, like a damned leash, choking out everything that’s independent or enjoyable in the least!”
“It’s not like that!” Dean shouted back. “Random pleasure, passing lusts-they’re not worth my immortal soul, Sam! You’re asking me to give up my entire *life*, everything I’ve ever known or worked for or believed in, just so that you can put another notch on your bedpost!”
Sam blinked. “I don’t *have* bedposts.”
Dean thumped his forehead against the closed bedroom door and sighed. “It’s an expression,” he said dully. “But I guess it’s just another measure of how naïve and foolish I really am, huh?”
He turned and leaned back against the door of Sam’s room. “It’s like some kind of movie, right?” he asked, rhetorically. “Small-town, back-country boy with a calling to the priesthood, seduced by the Devil? Happens all the time . . . beautiful woman, innocent boy. The twist is that this Devil’s in the shape of a man.”
Sam lay back on his elbows and just stared.
Dean sighed again. “Congratulations, Sam, you got me to spill my biggest secret. I’m queer, okay? And everything in my life, every belief I’ve been raised with, tells me that it’s a sin, one of the biggest, and that if I can’t change the way I feel, I need to at least keep my mouth shut about it. I’ve done the best I can to deny it, pretend I don’t feel that way-because I can’t act on it, I can’t even speak of it in Confession. Not only will I not be ordained if anyone finds out, not in today’s Church, not after all the scandals of the last few years-I’ll be defrocked and maybe even excommunicated. They won’t even take the chance.”
He moved to leave the room, paused for a moment to say over his shoulder, “If you really are a minion of Satan sent to tempt me, then your work here is done. I have so much doubt in my heart that there’s no room left for lust, so just make it easy on both of us and give it up, okay?”
“But-“ Sam began.
Dean lifted one hand and cut him off. “Don’t,” he said, and he couldn’t help his voice breaking a little. “We’re just . . . we’re from totally different worlds. And there’s no way for those worlds to collide.”
He left Sam lying there, and walked out.
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