FUCK IT, THE END.
Aw, it's so cute how you think I'm kidding. Really, though . . . I've already written two more scenes today, but there's no time to beta them and get this posted before leaving work. The R2 train waits for no man!
Or pissed-off author, as the case may be.
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4 /
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Dean hardly saw Sam again, except briefly in passing, for almost a month, as he threw himself into his community work and even started spending time helping Grant with the accounting for the homeless shelter.
It was Liz who cornered Dean, finally, glaring at him with narrowed eyes and a pointy finger, jabbing him in the chest, right over the breastbone where it hurt the most. “What the hell have you *done* to him, motherfucker?” she hissed spitefully. “It’s like Sam’s a different person since he met you. All of the sudden, he doesn’t want to go out anymore, starts volunteering down at Meals On Wheels or whatever that place is. He even quit smoking for you, and you won’t even give him the time of day!”
Dean blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected attack from the petite and formerly pleasant girl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed.
“He’s throwing himself away on you, and you don’t even give a good goddamn!”
“I . . . I didn’t mean-“ he stumbled.
Liz rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she said cruelly. “Your kind never *means* anything. It’s easy for you to make Sam feel bad for the way he lives his life, but you won’t even try to live your own. You’re a useless cocktease, that’s what you are, and I hope your god strikes you down where you stand for fucking up Sam’s head the way you have!”
She flounced away, leaving Dean standing with his hands spread in mute and helpless appeal.
He wondered, though, if that was really why he hadn’t seen much of Sam lately. Dean had assumed that Sam would have shrugged off their heated discussion, but what if he hadn’t? What if Sam had taken his words to heart?
What if Sam really was trying to be a better man?
Dean turned around and let himself back into his apartment. He went to his knees blindly beside the sofa, praying earnestly for guidance.
An hour later, all he had to show for his desperation was stiff joints and a bad case of the sniffles from pressing his face into the musty old upholstery. He levered himself upright and shuffled across the room like an old man, going for the phone in the kitchen.
There was one person Dean could always count on when his soul was troubled, one man who would never let him down.
“Dad?”
When he ended the call, Dean felt emotionally drained, but more clearheaded than he’d felt for weeks. Confession really was good for the soul, he guessed, and smothered a laugh that turned into hard, gulping sobs before he could control it.
“Hey,” came Sam’s tentative voice. “Sorry to barge in, but the door was open . . . hey, Dean, are you okay?”
Dean turned his face away, wiping quickly at his streaming eyes and trying to wave off Sam’s concern. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he choked out. “I just . . . I was talking to my dad, that’s all.”
Instead of leaving, Sam came closer and laid a surprisingly gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Is everything okay at home?” he asked, seeming genuinely worried. “Is your dad sick or something?”
Dean shook his head, uselessly smearing tears across his hot face. “No-it’s not him, it’s me.”
Sam gasped, took Dean by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “My God, Dean-are you okay? Please, tell me what’s wrong, let me help.”
He was so earnest, his expression so heartsick, that before Dean knew what was happening, words were tumbling over his tongue. “I told him,” he whispered. “Oh, God help me, Sam, I told him about you and how I feel about you. And he didn’t care, he just wants me to be happy, he said. He’ll still love me no matter what.”
Sam stroked his cheek gently. “That’s great news,” he said softly. “So why are you so upset?”
Dean leaned forward, just a tiny bit, and rested his forehead against Sam’s collarbone. “I thought my father would hate me,” he confessed. “And he doesn’t. But God will. The Church will. There’s no place for me there any more, not if I can’t burn these feelings out of my soul.”
“Shh,” Sam soothed, gathering Dean into his arms. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay, I promise.”
Even as Dean’s arms came up to circle Sam’s waist, accepting the offered comfort, he choked out, “My entire life, I’ve wanted to be a priest, to help people-I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”
One of Sam’s big hands was in Dean’s hair, stroking and calming. “You can help people in lots of ways,” he said softly. “You could join another church if you wanted to, one that has a more tolerant policy. Or, hell, you could become a cop. Or a fireman. Or a doctor.”
Dean was weak, he knew it, holding to Sam’s strength like a lifeline, but even still wanting to lash out and hurt him as best he could. “Like you do?” he scoffed feebly. “Line cook by day, party animal by night?”
He felt Sam’s body move in a shrug, chest rumbling beneath Dean’s cheek as he spoke. “Well, somebody has to cook meals for the bar rats,” Sam chuckled. “And, you know, I haven’t really been doing the whole bar scene lately.”
Dean lifted his head and eyed Sam closely. “Yeah, Liz mentioned that,” he said slowly. “Sam . . . I just . . . this means giving up my entire life as I know it. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
Sam smiled broadly and traced his fingers along Dean’s jaw. “Let’s just start slow,” he suggested, and bent his head. Dean could have avoided the kiss if he’d tried, but he was overwhelmed with sudden shyness and could only stand waiting, holding his breath as Sam’s lips settled gently on his.
It was heartbreaking in its tenderness, almost unthinkable that someone as physically massive as Sam was could kiss as delicately as the brush of a butterfly’s wings, but he did, cupping Dean’s face in one hand and lightly teasing his mouth open, sharing breath and soul and *want*, as clearly as if he’d spoken.
When he pulled back, it was to rest his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “Wow,” Sam said quietly.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “But Sam, I just-“
Sam pressed the fingers of one hand to Dean’s lips. “Dean,” he said helplessly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend that I understand how difficult this is for you. When I came out, my mom and stepfather threw me out of the house and told me never to come back. But I made a life and a new family for myself, and until you, it was enough.”
Dean snorted, but kept silent.
“Hey, I happened to *like* my shallow, pathetic life,” Sam said, grinning. “You were the first person who ever challenged me to find more than what I already had-and I liked that about you. And I like the way I’m living my life, now. Sure, it’s a lot different, and I can’t promise that I’ll never have another beer or say that I’m suddenly going to start singing in the church choir or anything crazy like that, but I’m thinking of maybe going back to school and seeing what else I can do besides cook for a living.”
Dean gave Sam the fish eye.
Sam cupped his hand to Dean’s cheek and whispered his name. “I just want to be with you,” he said quietly. “If that means that I have to, I don’t know, live in a *hovel* in some Third World country without running water or electricity, I’ll do it. I can’t deny that I’ll probably bitch and moan about the living conditions, but if it means being with you, I’m willing to make some sacrifices.”
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, summoning his courage. “It’s . . . all my life, I’ve been told this is *wrong*,” he said, more than a little desperately. “What if *you’re* wrong? What if we’re meant to fight this temptation, not to give in to it?”
It was Sam’s turn to snort disdainfully. “That is the oldest argument in the world for the existence of evil,” he said firmly. “That it exists so that we can fight against it. Come on, Dean, think about it. God made me this way; he made *you* this way. Why would he do that if it was bad?”
Dean relaxed into Sam’s embrace and chuckled brokenly. “You sound like my dad. He always says that the Church is made up of men, and men can be wrong.”
“Yeah, he’s right,” Sam whispered. “You know what your problem is, Dean? You want the heavens to open up and to see it written in the clouds, that God forgives you for this and wants you to be happy. You think His grace should be announced by billboards and bulletins, and what if it’s not? What if all the grace there’s going to be is you, and me, standing here while I tell you that I love you?”
He rested his forehead against Dean’s and snickered. “And you know enough about me to know that’s not something I tell everyone-or anyone. So, yeah, love, I think that’s pretty miraculous, right there. So if you don’t feel right now like this means something, then fine. Go ahead and walk away, and I won’t stop you. I swear it.”
“Sam,” Dean gulped. “You can’t mean-love? You’ve known me for a month!”
“So what?” Sam asked levelly. “My parents knew each other for two weeks before they got married. Then my dad-he was a Marine-he was killed in Grenada and my mom found out she was pregnant with me. She raised me alone until I was fourteen, and then she met my stepdad, and just because I think he’s an asshole doesn’t mean they don’t love each other, or that she didn’t love my dad.”
Dean sighed, unable to think of anything further to say, and reached up to pull Sam’s mouth down to meet his.
He knew that this wasn’t going to be easy, and he wasn’t entirely certain that he could trust this newly minted edition of Sam, but people could change, Dean knew that. You just had to give them the chances they needed.
Dean figured that maybe, just maybe, his life was worth that kind of a chance.
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FUCK IT ALL, THE END . . . FOR NOW!
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Or pissed-off author, as the case may be.
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4 /
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Dean hardly saw Sam again, except briefly in passing, for almost a month, as he threw himself into his community work and even started spending time helping Grant with the accounting for the homeless shelter.
It was Liz who cornered Dean, finally, glaring at him with narrowed eyes and a pointy finger, jabbing him in the chest, right over the breastbone where it hurt the most. “What the hell have you *done* to him, motherfucker?” she hissed spitefully. “It’s like Sam’s a different person since he met you. All of the sudden, he doesn’t want to go out anymore, starts volunteering down at Meals On Wheels or whatever that place is. He even quit smoking for you, and you won’t even give him the time of day!”
Dean blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected attack from the petite and formerly pleasant girl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed.
“He’s throwing himself away on you, and you don’t even give a good goddamn!”
“I . . . I didn’t mean-“ he stumbled.
Liz rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she said cruelly. “Your kind never *means* anything. It’s easy for you to make Sam feel bad for the way he lives his life, but you won’t even try to live your own. You’re a useless cocktease, that’s what you are, and I hope your god strikes you down where you stand for fucking up Sam’s head the way you have!”
She flounced away, leaving Dean standing with his hands spread in mute and helpless appeal.
He wondered, though, if that was really why he hadn’t seen much of Sam lately. Dean had assumed that Sam would have shrugged off their heated discussion, but what if he hadn’t? What if Sam had taken his words to heart?
What if Sam really was trying to be a better man?
Dean turned around and let himself back into his apartment. He went to his knees blindly beside the sofa, praying earnestly for guidance.
An hour later, all he had to show for his desperation was stiff joints and a bad case of the sniffles from pressing his face into the musty old upholstery. He levered himself upright and shuffled across the room like an old man, going for the phone in the kitchen.
There was one person Dean could always count on when his soul was troubled, one man who would never let him down.
“Dad?”
When he ended the call, Dean felt emotionally drained, but more clearheaded than he’d felt for weeks. Confession really was good for the soul, he guessed, and smothered a laugh that turned into hard, gulping sobs before he could control it.
“Hey,” came Sam’s tentative voice. “Sorry to barge in, but the door was open . . . hey, Dean, are you okay?”
Dean turned his face away, wiping quickly at his streaming eyes and trying to wave off Sam’s concern. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he choked out. “I just . . . I was talking to my dad, that’s all.”
Instead of leaving, Sam came closer and laid a surprisingly gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Is everything okay at home?” he asked, seeming genuinely worried. “Is your dad sick or something?”
Dean shook his head, uselessly smearing tears across his hot face. “No-it’s not him, it’s me.”
Sam gasped, took Dean by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “My God, Dean-are you okay? Please, tell me what’s wrong, let me help.”
He was so earnest, his expression so heartsick, that before Dean knew what was happening, words were tumbling over his tongue. “I told him,” he whispered. “Oh, God help me, Sam, I told him about you and how I feel about you. And he didn’t care, he just wants me to be happy, he said. He’ll still love me no matter what.”
Sam stroked his cheek gently. “That’s great news,” he said softly. “So why are you so upset?”
Dean leaned forward, just a tiny bit, and rested his forehead against Sam’s collarbone. “I thought my father would hate me,” he confessed. “And he doesn’t. But God will. The Church will. There’s no place for me there any more, not if I can’t burn these feelings out of my soul.”
“Shh,” Sam soothed, gathering Dean into his arms. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay, I promise.”
Even as Dean’s arms came up to circle Sam’s waist, accepting the offered comfort, he choked out, “My entire life, I’ve wanted to be a priest, to help people-I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”
One of Sam’s big hands was in Dean’s hair, stroking and calming. “You can help people in lots of ways,” he said softly. “You could join another church if you wanted to, one that has a more tolerant policy. Or, hell, you could become a cop. Or a fireman. Or a doctor.”
Dean was weak, he knew it, holding to Sam’s strength like a lifeline, but even still wanting to lash out and hurt him as best he could. “Like you do?” he scoffed feebly. “Line cook by day, party animal by night?”
He felt Sam’s body move in a shrug, chest rumbling beneath Dean’s cheek as he spoke. “Well, somebody has to cook meals for the bar rats,” Sam chuckled. “And, you know, I haven’t really been doing the whole bar scene lately.”
Dean lifted his head and eyed Sam closely. “Yeah, Liz mentioned that,” he said slowly. “Sam . . . I just . . . this means giving up my entire life as I know it. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
Sam smiled broadly and traced his fingers along Dean’s jaw. “Let’s just start slow,” he suggested, and bent his head. Dean could have avoided the kiss if he’d tried, but he was overwhelmed with sudden shyness and could only stand waiting, holding his breath as Sam’s lips settled gently on his.
It was heartbreaking in its tenderness, almost unthinkable that someone as physically massive as Sam was could kiss as delicately as the brush of a butterfly’s wings, but he did, cupping Dean’s face in one hand and lightly teasing his mouth open, sharing breath and soul and *want*, as clearly as if he’d spoken.
When he pulled back, it was to rest his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “Wow,” Sam said quietly.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “But Sam, I just-“
Sam pressed the fingers of one hand to Dean’s lips. “Dean,” he said helplessly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend that I understand how difficult this is for you. When I came out, my mom and stepfather threw me out of the house and told me never to come back. But I made a life and a new family for myself, and until you, it was enough.”
Dean snorted, but kept silent.
“Hey, I happened to *like* my shallow, pathetic life,” Sam said, grinning. “You were the first person who ever challenged me to find more than what I already had-and I liked that about you. And I like the way I’m living my life, now. Sure, it’s a lot different, and I can’t promise that I’ll never have another beer or say that I’m suddenly going to start singing in the church choir or anything crazy like that, but I’m thinking of maybe going back to school and seeing what else I can do besides cook for a living.”
Dean gave Sam the fish eye.
Sam cupped his hand to Dean’s cheek and whispered his name. “I just want to be with you,” he said quietly. “If that means that I have to, I don’t know, live in a *hovel* in some Third World country without running water or electricity, I’ll do it. I can’t deny that I’ll probably bitch and moan about the living conditions, but if it means being with you, I’m willing to make some sacrifices.”
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, summoning his courage. “It’s . . . all my life, I’ve been told this is *wrong*,” he said, more than a little desperately. “What if *you’re* wrong? What if we’re meant to fight this temptation, not to give in to it?”
It was Sam’s turn to snort disdainfully. “That is the oldest argument in the world for the existence of evil,” he said firmly. “That it exists so that we can fight against it. Come on, Dean, think about it. God made me this way; he made *you* this way. Why would he do that if it was bad?”
Dean relaxed into Sam’s embrace and chuckled brokenly. “You sound like my dad. He always says that the Church is made up of men, and men can be wrong.”
“Yeah, he’s right,” Sam whispered. “You know what your problem is, Dean? You want the heavens to open up and to see it written in the clouds, that God forgives you for this and wants you to be happy. You think His grace should be announced by billboards and bulletins, and what if it’s not? What if all the grace there’s going to be is you, and me, standing here while I tell you that I love you?”
He rested his forehead against Dean’s and snickered. “And you know enough about me to know that’s not something I tell everyone-or anyone. So, yeah, love, I think that’s pretty miraculous, right there. So if you don’t feel right now like this means something, then fine. Go ahead and walk away, and I won’t stop you. I swear it.”
“Sam,” Dean gulped. “You can’t mean-love? You’ve known me for a month!”
“So what?” Sam asked levelly. “My parents knew each other for two weeks before they got married. Then my dad-he was a Marine-he was killed in Grenada and my mom found out she was pregnant with me. She raised me alone until I was fourteen, and then she met my stepdad, and just because I think he’s an asshole doesn’t mean they don’t love each other, or that she didn’t love my dad.”
Dean sighed, unable to think of anything further to say, and reached up to pull Sam’s mouth down to meet his.
He knew that this wasn’t going to be easy, and he wasn’t entirely certain that he could trust this newly minted edition of Sam, but people could change, Dean knew that. You just had to give them the chances they needed.
Dean figured that maybe, just maybe, his life was worth that kind of a chance.
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FUCK IT ALL, THE END . . . FOR NOW!
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