Crush - Timestamp/Deleted Scene
I mentioned in a few comments that my original draft for Crush was about 20k longer than what I posted. A lot of this was just extra long waffle on my part, but there were a few scenes that I really didn't want to cut, (it's so hard!) but had to, because 80k and counting is just too damn long already ;-)
Anyway, I'm going to post some of them, so here we go with quite a lengthy scene where Sam goes to Portland for an academic conference, and misses Dean, and really... that's it, that's about all that happens.
As a warning, I very much doubt that this is going to be the only timestamp in this fic universe, so apologies already for the self-indulgence :D
February 2013
On Wednesday Dean drives him to the airport. His flight leaves at 6am, and it’s still dark when they leave the house. He’s due at a conference in Portland, one of the highlights of the Cultural Anthropological calendar, but the journey’s a bitch, he has layovers in Atlanta and Salt Lake City, and despite the stupidly early time his flight leaves, he’s still not going to arrive in Portland until late in the afternoon. He doesn’t know when the idea of a trip to the other side of the country got so daunting; in the old days they wouldn’t have thought twice, just slung their duffles into the trunk of the Impala and set off, taking turns to drive, stopping at shitty gas stations and crummy motel rooms for much-needed bunk (and sex) breaks.
He hangs around the newsstand (the only thing open, aside from Starbucks, at this time in the morning) and buys copies of The New Yorker, Time, The Economist, Vanity Fair and Men’s Health. From this position, he can see Dean clearly, slumped into one of the ultra-uncomfortable metal seats; hunched up in his battered leather jacket, eyes half-closed, legs stretched out in front of him. He stares at him for what feels like a long time; he considers giving it all up, calling it off and telling Dean that he’s changed his mind, that he’s not going after all, imagining them piling back into the Impala, Dean bitching about being woken early for nothing, as they drive back to the house.
It’s a tempting scenario, and the longer he stares at his brother, dozing in the airport lounge, the more he doesn’t want to fly to the other side of the country for a boring, waste-of-time conference. He and Dean haven’t been apart for more than a day since… well, he doesn’t want to think about that now, but it’s been a long time. And this is a legitimate worry: what the fuck are they supposed to do if Dean goes into one of his states? It’s not like there’s anyone else in the entire fucking world capable of bringing him out of it… it’s not like there’s anyone else who knows what to do. And if that were to happen, could Dean possibly hang on for the six hours it would take him to fly back from the other side of the country?
God, it's not something he's willing to risk. His breath hitches as the possible scenarios flit across his mind, he can’t believe he didn’t think of this sooner, he can’t believe he didn’t just tell Gina he couldn’t do it, that there was no way he could -
Shit. He rolls his fingers into a fist, tries to forcibly calm himself, to stop his stupid heart from beating so goddamn fast.
He strides back across the airport lounge towards his brother.
“Dean.” He kicks Dean’s outstretched foot with the toe of his boot. “Wake up.”
Dean blinks his eyes open, gives him a bleary, aggravated look.
“Dean. I’m not going anymore. Can we - just go back home?”
Dean stares at him in silence for a moment, grits his teeth. “Nuh-uh. No way, man. No fuckin’ way am I driving the both of us back home now. You got me up at the asscrack of dawn for -“
“I thought there might be traffic.”
“At five fuckin’ am?”
“I - I can’t, okay? Just - let’s go.”
But Dean makes no sign of moving, just glares up at him through narrowed, red-rimmed eyes. Sam sighs, folds into the seat, turns to look at him, widening his eyes and trying for his pleading face, the one Dean has never been able to resist.
“Don’t give me that look!” Dean snaps, elbowing him deliberately as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “You’re getting on that fuckin’ plane, and you’re going to fuckin’ Portland. Got it?”
“But -“
“No buts, Sammy.” Dean gets to his feet, yawns, stretches his hands above his head. “C’mon, they called your flight.”
“Dean.” He can hear the note of panic in his own voice and can’t believe that Dean’s not hearing it too. But Dean’s obviously decided to develop a sudden immunity to him, because he’s still standing there, that expectant glare on his face, waiting for him to move, as all the hideous scenarios run through Sam’s head, again and again: Dean in one of his states, Dean lost in there, while he’s on the other side of the country, listening to some lame-ass seminar about folkloric tropes in contemporary screenwriting…
“Sam. C’mon, quit freakin’ out already. I’ll be okay. We’re not joined at the hip, man. I managed on my own just fine when you went off to college -“
“Yeah, but that was before.”
“And I’ll manage again,” Dean concludes, ignoring him. He bends, grabs Sam’s duffle, throws it over his shoulder, casting a glance at the array of magazines still clutched in Sam’s hands. “You sure you got enough reading material there, sport?”
“No,” he returns sullenly.
Dean rolls his eyes, slaps him on the shoulder, hard. “C’mon, we’re going to catch that plane.”
In the face of Dean’s brand of epic stubbornness, Sam has to comply. He drops the magazines into his laptop bag and gets slowly to his feet. Dean stands, watches him, fists pushed into his jacket pockets, duffle on his shoulder. They walk slowly towards the departure gate; outside it’s still dark, no sign of dawn yet, lights from the runway, vehicles and aircraft gleaming pinpoint bright in the dark.
“So, you gonna miss me at all?” he asks, unable to stop the petulance from creeping into his voice. He feels like a child, he feels like he used to feel when he was eleven years old, when Dean would leave him on his own for the evening to go spend time with Cheryl Baker or Linda Hamilton or Carrie Davies or one of those other skanky, small town princesses he’d always get obsessed with.
“Dude, you’re gone for, like, three days.”
“Four,” he corrects, “I’m not back until Sunday. You gonna pick me up?”
“I’ll think about it.” He can hear the smirk in Dean’s voice, the fake magnanimous tone.
They stop by the gate, there doesn’t seem to be many people on his flight, weary looking passengers already shuffling past the stewardesses, boarding passes in hand. He shifts his bag on his shoulder, turns to look at Dean. “Well -“
“Sam! It’s four freakin’ days! Chill with the kicked puppy look.”
“Shut up.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “Seriously, dude, get over it. I know you’ll miss me, I’m one helluva missable guy, but you still have your hand and the five digits of pleasure.” He waggles his fingers with a perfected leer.
“God, you’re so gross.”
“Right.” Dean reaches out to squeeze his arm, his concession to airport based PDA’s. “Look, it’ll be okay. I know the drill. I won’t go into any crowded places, I’ll drive everywhere. I won’t even go to the freakin' grocery store.”
“You won’t need to; I’ve ordered a delivery for tomorrow.”
“Well, there you go. Listen, call me when you get there. You know how I feel about planes.” He gives a theatrical shudder and turns to go.
Sam can feel his mouth tug up into a smile as he watches Dean walk away: familiar, bow-legged stomp, jacket collar upturned, hands still bunched into his pockets. He feels for his boarding pass, smoothes it out between his fingers and moves into line.
Portland is cold. The temperature display on the roof of the main terminal reads 35 degrees when Sam steps outside and into the line for taxis. He turns up the collar of his jacket, the gesture instantly making him think of Dean. He feels in his pocket for his cell, switches it on, the screen coming to life slowly. He shouldn’t be surprised by the weather; it is February, after all.
He tries Dean’s cell, there’s no answer, so he leaves a message. Hi, uh, it’s me, man. I got there okay. How are things with you? Call me back when you get this. Succinct, just the way Dean likes it, definitely no chick-flick moments there. He sighs, shifts in the backseat of the taxi, he feels on-edge, itchy and unfocussed, and he knows he’s going to keep feeling like this until Dean calls him back, until he hears his brother’s voice again, until he knows that Dean’s okay, that everything’s okay.
His driver is sullen and aggressive, eager with the horn and quick with the insults, sullen when he accepts his fare and tip, skidding away from the sidewalk with a blare of his horn. He steps into the hotel lobby, walks up to the desk, taking a good look around him. The place is a million miles away from the crap-ass motels he and Dean used to stay in, and he can hear Dean’s voice in his head, a low impressed whistle: “Check this out, dude… you think they got room service?”
His room is pretty impressive; he almost stops cursing the college for stinging on the air fare when he sees the size of the bed. He takes his jacket off, hangs up his two suits, thinks about putting his underwear and t-shirts in the drawers. It was something they never used to do, so accustomed to living out of duffles, and it’s another way to remind himself that they’ve moved on from that life, that they have real person lives now.
He’s considering taking a shower when his cell rings. Dean calling…
Thank God.
“Hey.”
“So, you didn’t crash then?”
“No. I’m in the hotel, safe and sound.”
Dean almost sounds relieved, Sam feels a momentary stab of vindication, he’s obviously not the only one who’s been fretting and worrying all day, though his worries are due to a legitimate fear, while Dean’s are due to his freaky paranoia about flying.
“What’s the hotel like?”
“Pretty sweet. Shower looks awesome.”
Dean grunts irritably. Sam thinks of their moldy bathroom at home and smiles to himself. “You know, you could’ve come with me if you’d wanted, dude. Hung out in beautiful sunny Portland, been in the room every night to greet me in an appropriate manner when I came back from a hard day’s debating and networking.”
“Sunny Portland? Weather Channel says it’s thirty degrees over there.”
“You checked up on the weather? Ahh, how sweet.”
“Whatever, freak.” Sam hears him sit down, run his palm over his face in that familiar way, ring scraping, raspy, against his stubble. He feels a sudden pang low in his stomach, longing... lust... desire...
He swallows. “Dean, seriously, you’re okay, right?”
“Sam, for the last freakin’ time, will you chill out? I’m fine. I’m gonna be fine. You gotta learn to relax!”
“Yeah, right, sure. Cause it’s just that easy.” He sits on the edge of the bed, drops his head into one hand. “I can’t - Dean, it’s just - if anything happens -“
“It won’t! Nothing will happen. Just you, givin’ yourself a fuckin’ nervous breakdown if you keep worrying like this!” He pauses; Sam can hear him take a deep breath, calming himself, finding a relaxed tone again. He feels a stab of guilt, he knows he’s upsetting Dean, he knows that he’s overreacting but -
“Sammy, Jeez, I know you’re gonna miss me, dude, but you gotta learn to live without me for one freakin’ day.”
“Get over yourself; you know you’re as bad as me.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Dean. You were the one scanning the Weather Channel cause you couldn't stop thinking about me.”
Dean laughs, a deep throaty sound that sounds something like relief, it trickles down the line, into Sam’s ear, down his spine, into every cell of his body. “Ahh, what can I say? You got me there.”
“Yeah.”
There’s another pause, and Sam hears Dean get up, start moving around. He knows he should hang up, coast to coast calls are not cheap, but he doesn’t want to, he wants to hear this: Dean pottering around, clearing up after himself, making dinner, fixing Dougal’s bowl.
There’s the sound of the refrigerator slamming shut, Dean says, “You wanna have phone sex?”
“What? Dean.”
“Don’t be so prissy, it’s the best you’re gonna get for the next few days.”
“Hey, I might hook up with some hot, young PhD student.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffs Dean. “But call me if you do, cause you know I’d wanna hear all about it.”
“Whatever. Look, dude, I should, uh, I should go. There’s this dinner thing and I need to get changed.”
“Yeah, you probably stink, huh? Well, you call next time, cause I’m done worrying about your ass.”
“Yeah, sure, s’long as you promise not to get jealous when I tell you about the superhot PhD student.”
Dean snorts again, and the line goes dead. He clears the screen, tosses the phone onto the bed, time to check out the awesome shower.
He doesn’t really miss Dean, because that would be lame and pathetic. He manages to push the never-ending, nagging worry about Dean, the endless string of what-if scenarios his brain has been dredging up at the worst possible moments, to the back of his head for most of the time. In truth, he’s too busy to actively miss him. To his surprise, there are lots of people who want to talk to him, people who’ve read the articles he’s submitted to academic journals, the ones who know of his department's reputation. He wonders, and not for the first time, what they would all think if he ever admitted the truth: that his diploma from Stanford is faked, that his Masters from U-Penn is also faked, and that he’s not really Samuel Christopher Truman, born Houston, Texas, 17th July 1982.
He finds himself smiling ironically when an attractive PhD student called Lorna corners him on the first evening, claiming to have read one of his articles, and with a seemingly extensive list of questions about his arguments. They take a seat in the lounge area; talk their way through three rounds of Sidecars.
When he glances at his watch he finds it’s nearly midnight, he suddenly feels exhausted; he’s been up since four that morning after all. He hides a yawn, gives her a smile. She’s looking at him from under smudged eyelashes, her lips curved into a soft, pliable shape. The thing is… he could fuck her, she’s obviously interested, and he’s… well… she’s an attractive girl, smart too. She reminds him of the girls he used to go for, pre-Jess: brunette, intelligent, shy, but with an odd, seductive intensity that always responded to something in him, as if they could see something that Dad and Dean couldn’t, could see that he was just more than Sam Winchester, hunter-in-training.
The funny thing was… his taste changed after he met Jess, he’d find himself staring after tall, leggy blonds instead of book-loving, shy brunettes, as if she’d altered his concept of what he found attractive, opening him up to a whole new world of possibilities. After Jess, he never looked twice at blondes, it was too painful, and every girl (all four of them) he hooked up with after she died confirmed to the old fantasy.
And then, of course, after that, after them, after everything, there was Dean.
He doesn’t think he’s turned gay since he and Dean became more than just brothers, though what the hell they are now, he still doesn't know. They’re still brothers, they’re always going to be brothers, that’s never going to change, but they’re so much more than that now. And it’s not like he can introduce Dean to people as his brother these days, not when he finds it hard to keep his hands to himself… which, yeah... that's never going to work, but what other label is there? He hates the word lover, and partner just makes him think of cop shows, so usually, he finds himself introducing Dean with fumbled words like: “And this is my, uh, this is Dean,” as if that should say everything, the word, the name, encompassing all and everything Dean is to him.
When pushed, when it’s absolutely necessary to define Dean to other people then he does concede to “boyfriend”, though the word seems devastatingly flimsy for something that is all and everything to him, for someone who is both literally and metaphorically his soul-mate. It was the same when he was with Jess, the word “girlfriend” not beginning to cover what he felt for her, with Dean there’s the added weight of family, of home, of brother, of Dean.
“You want another?” She circles the glass with one of her fingers, picking up the twist of orange peel with neatly clipped nails.
“I, uh, it’s nearly midnight,” he says. His voice sounds lame even to him. “I’m kinda beat.”
“Yeah, sure, you’ve come a long way. We can always - catch up tomorrow?”
“Yeah, okay.” He smiles at her, a genuine (relieved) smile. God, he really is exhausted and the program’s pretty relentless for the next day. She smiles back, dips her head, reaches to retrieve her purse from somewhere under the seat.
They walk towards the elevator together, wait in the sumptuous lobby for it to make its 32-floored descent. Sam stares at them both in the mirror opposite, he looks absurdly tall next to her, she barely comes up to his shoulder.
She angles her face to look up at him, laughs awkwardly, “I’ll, uh, wear my extra high heels tomorrow, shall I?”
“Yeah,” he nods, gives her another self-conscious smile, unsure if that constituted something like an invitation or not, God, he sucks at flirting these days.
She probably assumes he’s single, because she is interested, even he can see that. And he’s not wearing a wedding ring, didn’t once mention a girlfriend, didn’t mention a boyfriend either, so it’s hardly surprising that she’s come to the conclusion that he’s available.
At last, the elevator arrives; they step inside, giving each other awkward, loaded looks. She talks about the program for tomorrow, who she's looking forward to seeing, meeting, hearing, as the elevator ascends to her floor. She says goodnight at her floor and he watches her walk down the hall towards her room as the elevator doors slide shut. She’s got a nice walk, rounded hips swinging, hair loose and long against her bare shoulders, definitely hot, he can hear Dean now: low appreciative whistle, egging him on like the devil on his shoulder: Whatcha doin’ Sammy? She’s hot for you man...
The thought is pleasant, and he lets himself imagine it: bending her over the bed, naked rounded ass cheeks presenting for him, breasts swinging free for him to cup, black hair tumbling over her face, brushing the duvet... His cock gives an interested twitch, and when he gets inside his room, he sits on the edge of the bed and unzips his pants. He wraps one hand around it, feels himself harden, growing in his fist. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine her. It feels kinda strange, like an experiment. He's not used to jerking off to anything but Dean, though, usually, Dean is the one doing the jerking off for him, (his brother has some talented hands, talented enough to make masturbation a pretty redundant past-time), all of which means that here and now, it's kinda hard to focus on something, someone who isn't Dean-shaped.
He tries to imagine pushing into her, parting her thighs and pushing inside - the soft sticky heat of her enveloping his cock - but there's something off about it. The last time he slept with a woman was almost five years ago, a threesome with Dean and a gorgeous, willing barmaid a couple of months after Dean got out of hell, done for Dean's benefit of course. He's not even sure if he's capable of pleasing a girl anymore, if he can remember how it works, being with Dean so often and so overwhelmingly has rubbed out so much of what came before.
He sighs, and takes his hand away from his cock, strips off and changes into the old sweats and ragged t-shirt he sleeps in. He climbs into bed and sets the alarm on his phone. He can jerk off tomorrow.
Dean wakes him up the next day, his phone trilling loud and irritating by his ear. He reaches for it with a groan.
“Rise and shine, Sammy!”
“Fuck off.”
Dean, however, is not to be deterred, instead he cackles happily at Sam’s groans. Sam hears the radio in the background, a clank of something and a man’s deep growling voice. Dean must be at the garage already. Oh yeah… time difference. Duh. He’s definitely not yet awake.
“Thought your lazy ass would still be in bed,” says Dean. “What happen? You hook up last night?”
He remembers Lorna and smiles. “Kinda.”
“Kinda?” Dean sounds surprised. “Really? Was she hot? No, wait a minute, was it a dude? Did you fuck another guy? Cause if you did, man, I wanna know everything.”
Sam hears a door close, the background noise fades away; Dean must've shut himself in the office.
"You busy?” he asks.
"Hell, yeah, you know it," answers Dean. "We're backed up."
"You work too hard."
"Blah, blah, enough about that. Tell me about this chick or dude you kinda hooked up with last night.”
“It was a girl and she was… nice, smart, pretty.”
“Pretty, huh? Fuckable?”
“Yeah.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I guess I was just too tired.”
“Lame. Sometimes I can’t believe that we’re related. Hey, maybe you were adopted?”
Sam snorts, twists onto his back, cradling the phone against his ear. “I used to think that, you know - that I was adopted, or that there was an accidental baby-swap at the hospital when I was born. All those times when I was a kid and Dad and I used to fight, I’d get to imagining that there was a normal family somewhere who had a kid who was frustrated that he couldn’t go around shootin’ things all the time.”
Dean says nothing for a moment, then huffs out a small ironic laugh. “Look on the bright side, if you were adopted it would kinda make things convenient between us.”
“Definitely less illegal.”
“But less hot.”
“Dean…”
“Just tellin’ it how it is, man.”
“You’re fucked-up, you know that?”
“Hell yeah, one kinky fucker, that’s me. But you love me anyway, so what’s that make you?”
“Jesus, I’m not gonna touch that one.” He can almost hear Dean’s smile down the other end of the line, stirring something warm and epic inside him. Dean’s quiet, just breathing softly and Sam wants him so much, wants to be with him, to touch him, that same pang of longing he felt yesterday on the phone, the one that made him want to close his eyes and wish himself back there.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean’s voice breaks into the silence and he stirs himself awake again, back to reality, back to Portland, the fucking conference, three more days and two more nights before he can go home again.
“Yeah, course, don’t sweat it, dude.” He tries for a fake brightness, but it’s pointless, Dean always sees through him. “It’s just - God, okay, maybe not altogether okay, but…” he breaks off, licks his lips, tries again, “Last night, after I came back from talkin’ to that chick, I tried to jerk off thinking about her.”
“Yeah?” Predictably, Dean perks up at that revelation. “And?”
“And, well. Didn’t work out so good.”
“What? The junk not workin’? Well, happens to us all, man, getting older and all that jazz…”
“What? No! No, not that!” Sam rolls his eyes; hears Dean’s snigger, “Shut up, I’m tryin’ to tell you something. S’fuckin’ your fault anyway.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah, cause she was hot, Dean, just my sort of girl too: brunette and fuckin’ smart -“
“Nice rack?”
“Oh yeah, nice rack, good legs too. And I had this whole fantasy going in my head when I got back here, picturing how it would be: me pushin’ her down onto the bed on all fours, and she’s completely naked, thighs parted and ass in the air ready for me, and I’m climbing onto the bed behind her, still fully clothed, ‘cept my zipper’s down and my cock’s out, hard and ready. I’d grab her, pull her into my lap, force her onto my cock - no prep, just, you know, force her to take it, and she’d be all wet and beggin’ for it…”
“Jesus, Sam,” breathes Dean, “you sure you’re not up for this phone sex shit because I’m poppin’ one hell of a boner here?”
“Yeah?” He’s suddenly aware of his own cock, getting stiffer with each short, breathy pant he can hear coming from the other end of the line. “You’ve got your cock out, haven’t you, Dean?” he says with amusement, though the thought’s ridiculously hot, picturing Dean in that small office, perched on the edge of the cluttered desk, boiler suit pushed down to his waist, greasy black fingers wrapped around his erection.
“Hmmfph,” murmurs Dean, “just tell me more about this fantasy of yours.”
“There isn’t any more, that was it.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you, Dean. I was having this fantasy about her - like I was just describing - but it didn’t work. It did nothing for me. It was like… nothing. Sorry.”
“Sorry? Sam, I’m sittin’ here with my dick in my hand, waiting for some freakin’ stimulation!”
“Well, I’m sure you can improvise,” Sam answers cattily.
“Not the same. When you describe this shit - it’s all…” Dean breaks off for a moment, sounding slightly embarrassed, “well, it’s really hot is what it is. Your fuckin’ voice was made for dirty talk. It’s a crying shame you don’t do it more often. Cause that’s some shit I could get behind. Like, literally.”
“I’m sure.”
There’s a pause again, Dean exhales heavily into the silence. “Look, I get what you’re trying to say here, I do. I know how your brain works, and listen, I know that things with me - that it’s all different now, but if you’re thinking that I’m gonna be upset, or any bullshit like that’s stoppin’ you from nailing this chick - from fucking her like you just described - then think again, because I’m not gonna be jealous, no way. If it’s that - if it’s me - that’s causin’ the fuckin’ equipment malfunction, or whatever, then dude, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s all in your head, Sam, I wouldn’t be jealous like that.”
Maybe I want you to be… the thought runs unbidden through his mind, rolling and wrapping over the sound of his brother’s voice.
Dean trails off and the silence hangs heavy between them.
He sighs irritably, says, “No, that’s… that’s cool, Dean. I know you feel different to me.”
“It’s not that I feel different -“
“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Sam cuts him off, brittle and frustrated. “Cause I know it’s hard that you can’t ever with anyone else… that it’s just me for you, and that’s it. And I know you feel guilty about that, like you’re stifling me or something, but I realized last night that I don’t want anyone else, I just want you. And my dick - well it obviously feels the same way.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment. Sam bites his lip tentatively, “Dean?”
“God, you really know how to kill a guy’s hard on.”
“Dean -“
“Yeah, I know. Sammy, you know that if - even if - I could with others, with chicks, then I still wouldn’t. If that’s what you wanted from this, uh, this thing.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re wantin’ to go steady?”
“Fuck off.”
Sam laughs, he feels lighter, some dead weight in his chest lifting at Dean’s rambling words.
“It’s all kinda moot anyway, cause I can’t. And that’s that,” says Dean flatly.
Sam passes a hand over his face, pushes back his hair, it feels nasty, greasy and wiry, he seriously needs a shower. “Look, I gotta go. This thing starts at 8.30 and I gotta get up.”
“Yeah, okay.”
The line goes quiet for a moment, Sam can hear Dean breathing, he wants to say something to him but he’s not sure what it is exactly, so he just hangs up.
On the last night when Lorna corners him, suggesting a nightcap, she’s already drunk, swaying on huge high heels.
She grins at him, bends one of her legs, “See, I wore my highest heels.”
“So you did,” he answers with a smile. She grins back at him, wraps her fingers tighter around her highball glass.
“There’s, uh, there’s nothing going to happen here, is there?” she says after a loaded moment, waving one hand expressively between their two bodies.
He ducks his head, mouth crooking uncomfortably. “Let’s sit down.”
She follows him to a spare couple of couches, sinking into the thick leather cushions with a woeful expression. “I shouldn’t have said that, pretend I didn’t say that.”
He gives her a quick, reassuring smile, “Look, I’m, uh, I’m kinda with someone.”
“Figured.” She nods, hair falling half across her face. “This someone… that wouldn’t happen to be a male someone, would it?”
He huffs out a laugh, awkward smile dimpling the corners of his mouth. “Uh, yeah. Actually, yeah.”
“I knew it.” She sucks up the rest of her drink with her mini black straw, placing the glass back on the table with deliberate, inebriated carefulness. “Is he, your boyfriend, have you been together a long time?”
“Yeah.”
“And you - you love him?”
He nods, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“Do you have a picture?” He pauses for a second, taken aback. Noticing his surprise, she shifts, obviously embarrassed, “Sorry, I - that was probably me being presumptuous, you don’t have to show me anything. Sometimes I’m just too curious for my own good.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he says slowly. He reaches in his pocket for his wallet; he wants to show her Dean’s picture, there’s a part of him - the young twelve year old part of him - who still sees Dean as the Coolest Person in the World, someone who’s still in awe of his big brother. He flips it open to the see-thru picture section, angling it her way.
The photo of Dean is recent, the twin to the one Dean has in his wallet, and isn’t that just adorable of us Sammy… Sam was the one to insist they have them taken: each of them posing on the front steps of the porch with Dougal.
Lorna stares at Dean’s picture for a good few moments. “I can see why you guys’ve been together a long time; you make a cute couple.” Sam shrugs, embarrassed under her slightly glazed stare. “It’s a shame about the scar on his face though, ‘cause, you know, without it, he’d be really hot.”
He flinches. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t notice the scar anymore, and hates it when people do - the look they get on their faces: pity, discomfort, fear, suspicion - Dean professes not to notice, makes comments about scars being manly, that chicks dig them, but Sam can see through it, knows that it's just another level of bullshit in the many levels of bullshit that make up Dean’s brittle armor.
“Uh, nothing, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
There’s another awkward moment of silence. Sam swallows back the rising hostility, thoughts running through his head: it’s not her fault, she’s never even met Dean, he’s being too defensive, Dean would make fun of him if he saw him "defending his honor" in this way... but he’s still feeling anger, resentment against her. Who’s she to make these sorts of judgments?
He nods, slides the wallet back into his pocket. She's making movements to go, getting up from her chair. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Sam."
He looks up at her, forces out a smile, "Yeah, you too. If you like, you can email me your outline, I'd be happy to do a peer review."
"Thanks, that'd be, um, great," she nods uncomfortably, one more toothy drunken smile and she's gone, weaving back towards the bar.
He watches her back for a moment, a couple of nights ago, he’d tried to fantasize about that: the sway of her hips, the dip of her shoulder blades, the long, glossy dark hair and naked curve of her back, the fantasy he’d tried to outline to Dean on the phone the next day. It makes him feel embarrassed now, the way he tried and failed, his dick responding to some sort of Dean only conditioning, as if his brother had put him under a spell. And now, even now, watching her walk away, he can feel something close to arousal, some part of his brain that still finds this attractive. But it’s weak, so faint compared to what he feels when he’s touching Dean, when he feels like he’s almost being driven out his own body, his desire for Dean so overwhelming, so terrifying and so absolute that he feels as if he’s losing himself in it, but at the same time, feeling more true to himself, more true to whoever the hell Sam Winchester is supposed to be at those moments than he’s ever done in his entire life.
There are a lot of people outside the Arrivals gate, a mixture of joyfully reuniting families, businessmen checking things on their BlackBerrys, and drivers holding placards with phonetically spelled names. No Dean. Sam pushes through them all, duffle slung across one shoulder and laptop bag banging against his hip. A thrill goes through him when he spots Dean, standing by the closed, empty HERTZ desk, and reading what Sam can recognize, even from this distance, as an Obits column. He lowers his newspaper when he sees Sam, gaze lingering over him in a way that makes the thrill deepen, low and delicious in Sam’s stomach.
"Hey, man," he says and Sam can tell that he’s trying hard not to smile. Sam doesn’t even bother trying; he can feel the stupidly wide grin adorning his face, pushing creases into the corners of his mouth. Dean rolls his eyes, crams his newspaper into his pocket. "Lameass," he says fondly.
Outside is warm, the temperature gauge reading 74’, a gloriously welcome change after the freezing sleet of Portland. In the airport parking lot, the Impala sits between a beat up old Ford truck and a brand new, already dirty Audi. She looks impossibly shiny, the late afternoon sun glinting off her polished curves.
"You gave her a wax?" he asks, running one hand admiringly down the hood.
"I did."
"Dude, how bored were you without me?"
"I do not have to be bored to take care of my best girl," retorts Dean, sounding offended by the insinuation.
"But seriously, you were bored without me, right? C'mon, you can admit it, Dean."
Dean rolls his eyes again, "I don't know what fantasy land you're living in, Sam."
He dozes on the ride back home, cheek pressed against the window, hum and thrum of the engine vibrating familiar and deep through his skull. He wakes up as Dean bumps the car down the dirt track leading to the house. The place looks better than he remembers, deceptively welcoming and cheerful in the faint sunlight, mold, damp and cracks obscured by a momentary, picture-perfect image. The ivy's been cut back, and there are new tiles on the roof, absurdly bright-colored next to the old ones.
"You were bored without me," he says, darting Dean a triumphant look.
Dean shrugs defensively, kills the engine. "Shit needed doin'."
"Dean." He darts out a hand, stilling him, braceleting Dean's wrist with his fingers. "Dean," he says again.
Dean turns his head slowly. His face is still, eyelashes fluttering, lips parted. Sam stares at him, tugs him closer, free hand wrapping around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Dean practically melts into him, leaning into the passenger side, hands coming out to cup Sam's face as they kiss, long, sloppy, incoherent kisses. Dean pulls away, and his pupils are dilated, his mouth slick, a pink flush to his cheeks. "C'mon," he says, "inside, now."
He climbs out the car, Sam following, catching up with him and wrapping his arms around him from behind. He lowers his face into Dean's neck, licks at the underside of his chin, he inhales Dean's scent deep, savoring his closeness and pressing his cock up against Dean's ass, God, he wants him... wants him right now. Dean's breathing hitches as he fumbles the door open; they fall up the stairs, tripping on the unvarnished wood, elbows and legs knocking together, uncoordinated and hasty.
“You didn’t - that hot chick?” Dean asks as Sam pushes him onto the bed, straddling his thighs and tugging at his shirt.
“No,” he says. “You know I didn’t.” Dean nods, smiles briefly, grabs at Sam's hands, pulling them away from where his fingers are fumbling with Dean's shirt, trying to yank it open.
"Sam," says Dean, and Sam stills.
Dean's holding his hands by the wrist; he turns them over, palms-upwards, lowers his head. He licks a hot line up Sam's palm, Sam shivers, every cell in his body taught and thrumming, focused on the small, pink bud of Dean’s tongue as it works into the grooves and lines of his palm. Dean runs his tongue up the thick, blue vein, pausing by the crease of his wrist. He turns Sam’s hand over, presses his lips, dry and soft, against the ugly long scar, the soul scar. Sam feels it jump under the kiss, a prickling, itching sensation under his skin. He watches it darken in fascinated horror, the mottled look melting away, becoming smoother, a searing brand.
He twists his hand out of Dean’s grasp. "Don't," he mumbles, "Dean, not - not that."
Dean stares him with lidded eyes, turns his own hand over, the gesture a weird sort of slow motion, revealing his matching scar: it’s changed color too, gone darker, smoother, the edges beginning to blaze, a matching burning brand. It's the same as when he's speaking the ritual, as when Dean's lost, when his soul flies away, but Dean’s right here, every essential part of him where it’s supposed to be. It does this sometimes, when they’re like this, when the two of them are like this - too close - as if it can feel them, as if it wants to control them. And Sam hates it, resents it, but he can’t deny that it does something to them, makes it more intense, more extreme.
“Sam,” Dean breathes.
He swallows, meets Dean’s steady, intense gaze, “Yeah?”
“I wanna, it’s my turn, dude.”
“Oh, yeah, okay, God, yeah, Dean.”
Dean’s mouth quirks, he lowers his face again, kisses him on the mouth, quick, furious, promising. “Close your eyes,” he says. “I’m gonna take you to heaven and back.”
He can hear the smirk in his brother’s voice, in the cheesy promise, and he feels his own mouth twitch in response, the snort of laughter threatening, but it’s quickly cut off, all hilarity replaced by hair-raising expectation as he feels the slide of the silk blindfold over his eyes, the sensation of Dean’s breath against his cheek.
Afterwards, he lies next to Dean. They don’t tend to lie tangled together or entwined as lovers always do on TV, sheets draped over them carefully - covering the woman from neck to toe (unless it’s one of those kinda movies) and leaving the man’s appealingly buff chest bare. He and Dean lie separate, two distinct lumps under the sheets in their huge, emperor-sized bed. He turns on his side to look at Dean, he knows he’s not asleep; his breathing is not heavy enough, chest not rising and falling deeply enough. He reaches out with his hand, the scar's gone back to normal, color the usual purple stain, texture rough once more. He doesn't look at it; he can no longer feel it now anyway; instead, he smoothes soft fingertips down the tight muscles of Dean’s arm, tracing the silver-white (normal) faded scars. Dean’s eyes flutter open, he turns his head to look at Sam.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he says truthfully. "Yeah, that was, uh, intense."
Dean raises his eyebrows, smirks. "Yeah. So it should've been, I've been thinkin' about that, planning for the past few nights."
Sam smiles, the knowledge that Dean was thinking about the two of them, that he was planning this - the blindfold, the restraints - for the past few days is unaccountably hot. Dean doesn't get to top, to be the one so overwhelmingly in control, that often, but when he does... oh boy... it makes Sam wonder why they don't do it that way more often.
"It was worth it," he says, hand coming out to slap Dean's thigh. "You know I get all tingly when you take control like that."
Dean laughs out loud, nudges him with his elbow, "Dork."
"Back atcha."
They smile at each other for a second, before Dean grunts, looks away, embarrassment tinging his face pink.
He was only away for four nights, but it's almost as if he's come back from a four month sabbatical, he missed Dean. He really and truly missed him, four freaking days, and it's like he's a fourth grader being sent away on his first week at camp. Jesus, he's pathetic, any minute now Dean's going to make some comment about them growing vaginas, or something equally unfunny and mildly offensive. Surprisingly, Dean doesn't say anything, instead, he grabs Sam's hand.
Sam jumps, "What?"
Dean turns it over, traces one finger over the scar, eyes fixed intently on the movement.
"Why do they do that sometimes?"
He swallows, says, "I don't know, I have no idea why sometimes it's - there's nothin' and other times, it's like just before."
"I guess it doesn't matter. Makes it fuckin' hot though." He releases Sam's hand, darting him a glance from beneath lowered lashes.
Sam represses a shiver. "Yeah."
Back to Crush masterpost here
Anyway, I'm going to post some of them, so here we go with quite a lengthy scene where Sam goes to Portland for an academic conference, and misses Dean, and really... that's it, that's about all that happens.
As a warning, I very much doubt that this is going to be the only timestamp in this fic universe, so apologies already for the self-indulgence :D
February 2013
On Wednesday Dean drives him to the airport. His flight leaves at 6am, and it’s still dark when they leave the house. He’s due at a conference in Portland, one of the highlights of the Cultural Anthropological calendar, but the journey’s a bitch, he has layovers in Atlanta and Salt Lake City, and despite the stupidly early time his flight leaves, he’s still not going to arrive in Portland until late in the afternoon. He doesn’t know when the idea of a trip to the other side of the country got so daunting; in the old days they wouldn’t have thought twice, just slung their duffles into the trunk of the Impala and set off, taking turns to drive, stopping at shitty gas stations and crummy motel rooms for much-needed bunk (and sex) breaks.
He hangs around the newsstand (the only thing open, aside from Starbucks, at this time in the morning) and buys copies of The New Yorker, Time, The Economist, Vanity Fair and Men’s Health. From this position, he can see Dean clearly, slumped into one of the ultra-uncomfortable metal seats; hunched up in his battered leather jacket, eyes half-closed, legs stretched out in front of him. He stares at him for what feels like a long time; he considers giving it all up, calling it off and telling Dean that he’s changed his mind, that he’s not going after all, imagining them piling back into the Impala, Dean bitching about being woken early for nothing, as they drive back to the house.
It’s a tempting scenario, and the longer he stares at his brother, dozing in the airport lounge, the more he doesn’t want to fly to the other side of the country for a boring, waste-of-time conference. He and Dean haven’t been apart for more than a day since… well, he doesn’t want to think about that now, but it’s been a long time. And this is a legitimate worry: what the fuck are they supposed to do if Dean goes into one of his states? It’s not like there’s anyone else in the entire fucking world capable of bringing him out of it… it’s not like there’s anyone else who knows what to do. And if that were to happen, could Dean possibly hang on for the six hours it would take him to fly back from the other side of the country?
God, it's not something he's willing to risk. His breath hitches as the possible scenarios flit across his mind, he can’t believe he didn’t think of this sooner, he can’t believe he didn’t just tell Gina he couldn’t do it, that there was no way he could -
Shit. He rolls his fingers into a fist, tries to forcibly calm himself, to stop his stupid heart from beating so goddamn fast.
He strides back across the airport lounge towards his brother.
“Dean.” He kicks Dean’s outstretched foot with the toe of his boot. “Wake up.”
Dean blinks his eyes open, gives him a bleary, aggravated look.
“Dean. I’m not going anymore. Can we - just go back home?”
Dean stares at him in silence for a moment, grits his teeth. “Nuh-uh. No way, man. No fuckin’ way am I driving the both of us back home now. You got me up at the asscrack of dawn for -“
“I thought there might be traffic.”
“At five fuckin’ am?”
“I - I can’t, okay? Just - let’s go.”
But Dean makes no sign of moving, just glares up at him through narrowed, red-rimmed eyes. Sam sighs, folds into the seat, turns to look at him, widening his eyes and trying for his pleading face, the one Dean has never been able to resist.
“Don’t give me that look!” Dean snaps, elbowing him deliberately as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “You’re getting on that fuckin’ plane, and you’re going to fuckin’ Portland. Got it?”
“But -“
“No buts, Sammy.” Dean gets to his feet, yawns, stretches his hands above his head. “C’mon, they called your flight.”
“Dean.” He can hear the note of panic in his own voice and can’t believe that Dean’s not hearing it too. But Dean’s obviously decided to develop a sudden immunity to him, because he’s still standing there, that expectant glare on his face, waiting for him to move, as all the hideous scenarios run through Sam’s head, again and again: Dean in one of his states, Dean lost in there, while he’s on the other side of the country, listening to some lame-ass seminar about folkloric tropes in contemporary screenwriting…
“Sam. C’mon, quit freakin’ out already. I’ll be okay. We’re not joined at the hip, man. I managed on my own just fine when you went off to college -“
“Yeah, but that was before.”
“And I’ll manage again,” Dean concludes, ignoring him. He bends, grabs Sam’s duffle, throws it over his shoulder, casting a glance at the array of magazines still clutched in Sam’s hands. “You sure you got enough reading material there, sport?”
“No,” he returns sullenly.
Dean rolls his eyes, slaps him on the shoulder, hard. “C’mon, we’re going to catch that plane.”
In the face of Dean’s brand of epic stubbornness, Sam has to comply. He drops the magazines into his laptop bag and gets slowly to his feet. Dean stands, watches him, fists pushed into his jacket pockets, duffle on his shoulder. They walk slowly towards the departure gate; outside it’s still dark, no sign of dawn yet, lights from the runway, vehicles and aircraft gleaming pinpoint bright in the dark.
“So, you gonna miss me at all?” he asks, unable to stop the petulance from creeping into his voice. He feels like a child, he feels like he used to feel when he was eleven years old, when Dean would leave him on his own for the evening to go spend time with Cheryl Baker or Linda Hamilton or Carrie Davies or one of those other skanky, small town princesses he’d always get obsessed with.
“Dude, you’re gone for, like, three days.”
“Four,” he corrects, “I’m not back until Sunday. You gonna pick me up?”
“I’ll think about it.” He can hear the smirk in Dean’s voice, the fake magnanimous tone.
They stop by the gate, there doesn’t seem to be many people on his flight, weary looking passengers already shuffling past the stewardesses, boarding passes in hand. He shifts his bag on his shoulder, turns to look at Dean. “Well -“
“Sam! It’s four freakin’ days! Chill with the kicked puppy look.”
“Shut up.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “Seriously, dude, get over it. I know you’ll miss me, I’m one helluva missable guy, but you still have your hand and the five digits of pleasure.” He waggles his fingers with a perfected leer.
“God, you’re so gross.”
“Right.” Dean reaches out to squeeze his arm, his concession to airport based PDA’s. “Look, it’ll be okay. I know the drill. I won’t go into any crowded places, I’ll drive everywhere. I won’t even go to the freakin' grocery store.”
“You won’t need to; I’ve ordered a delivery for tomorrow.”
“Well, there you go. Listen, call me when you get there. You know how I feel about planes.” He gives a theatrical shudder and turns to go.
Sam can feel his mouth tug up into a smile as he watches Dean walk away: familiar, bow-legged stomp, jacket collar upturned, hands still bunched into his pockets. He feels for his boarding pass, smoothes it out between his fingers and moves into line.
Portland is cold. The temperature display on the roof of the main terminal reads 35 degrees when Sam steps outside and into the line for taxis. He turns up the collar of his jacket, the gesture instantly making him think of Dean. He feels in his pocket for his cell, switches it on, the screen coming to life slowly. He shouldn’t be surprised by the weather; it is February, after all.
He tries Dean’s cell, there’s no answer, so he leaves a message. Hi, uh, it’s me, man. I got there okay. How are things with you? Call me back when you get this. Succinct, just the way Dean likes it, definitely no chick-flick moments there. He sighs, shifts in the backseat of the taxi, he feels on-edge, itchy and unfocussed, and he knows he’s going to keep feeling like this until Dean calls him back, until he hears his brother’s voice again, until he knows that Dean’s okay, that everything’s okay.
His driver is sullen and aggressive, eager with the horn and quick with the insults, sullen when he accepts his fare and tip, skidding away from the sidewalk with a blare of his horn. He steps into the hotel lobby, walks up to the desk, taking a good look around him. The place is a million miles away from the crap-ass motels he and Dean used to stay in, and he can hear Dean’s voice in his head, a low impressed whistle: “Check this out, dude… you think they got room service?”
His room is pretty impressive; he almost stops cursing the college for stinging on the air fare when he sees the size of the bed. He takes his jacket off, hangs up his two suits, thinks about putting his underwear and t-shirts in the drawers. It was something they never used to do, so accustomed to living out of duffles, and it’s another way to remind himself that they’ve moved on from that life, that they have real person lives now.
He’s considering taking a shower when his cell rings. Dean calling…
Thank God.
“Hey.”
“So, you didn’t crash then?”
“No. I’m in the hotel, safe and sound.”
Dean almost sounds relieved, Sam feels a momentary stab of vindication, he’s obviously not the only one who’s been fretting and worrying all day, though his worries are due to a legitimate fear, while Dean’s are due to his freaky paranoia about flying.
“What’s the hotel like?”
“Pretty sweet. Shower looks awesome.”
Dean grunts irritably. Sam thinks of their moldy bathroom at home and smiles to himself. “You know, you could’ve come with me if you’d wanted, dude. Hung out in beautiful sunny Portland, been in the room every night to greet me in an appropriate manner when I came back from a hard day’s debating and networking.”
“Sunny Portland? Weather Channel says it’s thirty degrees over there.”
“You checked up on the weather? Ahh, how sweet.”
“Whatever, freak.” Sam hears him sit down, run his palm over his face in that familiar way, ring scraping, raspy, against his stubble. He feels a sudden pang low in his stomach, longing... lust... desire...
He swallows. “Dean, seriously, you’re okay, right?”
“Sam, for the last freakin’ time, will you chill out? I’m fine. I’m gonna be fine. You gotta learn to relax!”
“Yeah, right, sure. Cause it’s just that easy.” He sits on the edge of the bed, drops his head into one hand. “I can’t - Dean, it’s just - if anything happens -“
“It won’t! Nothing will happen. Just you, givin’ yourself a fuckin’ nervous breakdown if you keep worrying like this!” He pauses; Sam can hear him take a deep breath, calming himself, finding a relaxed tone again. He feels a stab of guilt, he knows he’s upsetting Dean, he knows that he’s overreacting but -
“Sammy, Jeez, I know you’re gonna miss me, dude, but you gotta learn to live without me for one freakin’ day.”
“Get over yourself; you know you’re as bad as me.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Dean. You were the one scanning the Weather Channel cause you couldn't stop thinking about me.”
Dean laughs, a deep throaty sound that sounds something like relief, it trickles down the line, into Sam’s ear, down his spine, into every cell of his body. “Ahh, what can I say? You got me there.”
“Yeah.”
There’s another pause, and Sam hears Dean get up, start moving around. He knows he should hang up, coast to coast calls are not cheap, but he doesn’t want to, he wants to hear this: Dean pottering around, clearing up after himself, making dinner, fixing Dougal’s bowl.
There’s the sound of the refrigerator slamming shut, Dean says, “You wanna have phone sex?”
“What? Dean.”
“Don’t be so prissy, it’s the best you’re gonna get for the next few days.”
“Hey, I might hook up with some hot, young PhD student.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffs Dean. “But call me if you do, cause you know I’d wanna hear all about it.”
“Whatever. Look, dude, I should, uh, I should go. There’s this dinner thing and I need to get changed.”
“Yeah, you probably stink, huh? Well, you call next time, cause I’m done worrying about your ass.”
“Yeah, sure, s’long as you promise not to get jealous when I tell you about the superhot PhD student.”
Dean snorts again, and the line goes dead. He clears the screen, tosses the phone onto the bed, time to check out the awesome shower.
He doesn’t really miss Dean, because that would be lame and pathetic. He manages to push the never-ending, nagging worry about Dean, the endless string of what-if scenarios his brain has been dredging up at the worst possible moments, to the back of his head for most of the time. In truth, he’s too busy to actively miss him. To his surprise, there are lots of people who want to talk to him, people who’ve read the articles he’s submitted to academic journals, the ones who know of his department's reputation. He wonders, and not for the first time, what they would all think if he ever admitted the truth: that his diploma from Stanford is faked, that his Masters from U-Penn is also faked, and that he’s not really Samuel Christopher Truman, born Houston, Texas, 17th July 1982.
He finds himself smiling ironically when an attractive PhD student called Lorna corners him on the first evening, claiming to have read one of his articles, and with a seemingly extensive list of questions about his arguments. They take a seat in the lounge area; talk their way through three rounds of Sidecars.
When he glances at his watch he finds it’s nearly midnight, he suddenly feels exhausted; he’s been up since four that morning after all. He hides a yawn, gives her a smile. She’s looking at him from under smudged eyelashes, her lips curved into a soft, pliable shape. The thing is… he could fuck her, she’s obviously interested, and he’s… well… she’s an attractive girl, smart too. She reminds him of the girls he used to go for, pre-Jess: brunette, intelligent, shy, but with an odd, seductive intensity that always responded to something in him, as if they could see something that Dad and Dean couldn’t, could see that he was just more than Sam Winchester, hunter-in-training.
The funny thing was… his taste changed after he met Jess, he’d find himself staring after tall, leggy blonds instead of book-loving, shy brunettes, as if she’d altered his concept of what he found attractive, opening him up to a whole new world of possibilities. After Jess, he never looked twice at blondes, it was too painful, and every girl (all four of them) he hooked up with after she died confirmed to the old fantasy.
And then, of course, after that, after them, after everything, there was Dean.
He doesn’t think he’s turned gay since he and Dean became more than just brothers, though what the hell they are now, he still doesn't know. They’re still brothers, they’re always going to be brothers, that’s never going to change, but they’re so much more than that now. And it’s not like he can introduce Dean to people as his brother these days, not when he finds it hard to keep his hands to himself… which, yeah... that's never going to work, but what other label is there? He hates the word lover, and partner just makes him think of cop shows, so usually, he finds himself introducing Dean with fumbled words like: “And this is my, uh, this is Dean,” as if that should say everything, the word, the name, encompassing all and everything Dean is to him.
When pushed, when it’s absolutely necessary to define Dean to other people then he does concede to “boyfriend”, though the word seems devastatingly flimsy for something that is all and everything to him, for someone who is both literally and metaphorically his soul-mate. It was the same when he was with Jess, the word “girlfriend” not beginning to cover what he felt for her, with Dean there’s the added weight of family, of home, of brother, of Dean.
“You want another?” She circles the glass with one of her fingers, picking up the twist of orange peel with neatly clipped nails.
“I, uh, it’s nearly midnight,” he says. His voice sounds lame even to him. “I’m kinda beat.”
“Yeah, sure, you’ve come a long way. We can always - catch up tomorrow?”
“Yeah, okay.” He smiles at her, a genuine (relieved) smile. God, he really is exhausted and the program’s pretty relentless for the next day. She smiles back, dips her head, reaches to retrieve her purse from somewhere under the seat.
They walk towards the elevator together, wait in the sumptuous lobby for it to make its 32-floored descent. Sam stares at them both in the mirror opposite, he looks absurdly tall next to her, she barely comes up to his shoulder.
She angles her face to look up at him, laughs awkwardly, “I’ll, uh, wear my extra high heels tomorrow, shall I?”
“Yeah,” he nods, gives her another self-conscious smile, unsure if that constituted something like an invitation or not, God, he sucks at flirting these days.
She probably assumes he’s single, because she is interested, even he can see that. And he’s not wearing a wedding ring, didn’t once mention a girlfriend, didn’t mention a boyfriend either, so it’s hardly surprising that she’s come to the conclusion that he’s available.
At last, the elevator arrives; they step inside, giving each other awkward, loaded looks. She talks about the program for tomorrow, who she's looking forward to seeing, meeting, hearing, as the elevator ascends to her floor. She says goodnight at her floor and he watches her walk down the hall towards her room as the elevator doors slide shut. She’s got a nice walk, rounded hips swinging, hair loose and long against her bare shoulders, definitely hot, he can hear Dean now: low appreciative whistle, egging him on like the devil on his shoulder: Whatcha doin’ Sammy? She’s hot for you man...
The thought is pleasant, and he lets himself imagine it: bending her over the bed, naked rounded ass cheeks presenting for him, breasts swinging free for him to cup, black hair tumbling over her face, brushing the duvet... His cock gives an interested twitch, and when he gets inside his room, he sits on the edge of the bed and unzips his pants. He wraps one hand around it, feels himself harden, growing in his fist. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine her. It feels kinda strange, like an experiment. He's not used to jerking off to anything but Dean, though, usually, Dean is the one doing the jerking off for him, (his brother has some talented hands, talented enough to make masturbation a pretty redundant past-time), all of which means that here and now, it's kinda hard to focus on something, someone who isn't Dean-shaped.
He tries to imagine pushing into her, parting her thighs and pushing inside - the soft sticky heat of her enveloping his cock - but there's something off about it. The last time he slept with a woman was almost five years ago, a threesome with Dean and a gorgeous, willing barmaid a couple of months after Dean got out of hell, done for Dean's benefit of course. He's not even sure if he's capable of pleasing a girl anymore, if he can remember how it works, being with Dean so often and so overwhelmingly has rubbed out so much of what came before.
He sighs, and takes his hand away from his cock, strips off and changes into the old sweats and ragged t-shirt he sleeps in. He climbs into bed and sets the alarm on his phone. He can jerk off tomorrow.
Dean wakes him up the next day, his phone trilling loud and irritating by his ear. He reaches for it with a groan.
“Rise and shine, Sammy!”
“Fuck off.”
Dean, however, is not to be deterred, instead he cackles happily at Sam’s groans. Sam hears the radio in the background, a clank of something and a man’s deep growling voice. Dean must be at the garage already. Oh yeah… time difference. Duh. He’s definitely not yet awake.
“Thought your lazy ass would still be in bed,” says Dean. “What happen? You hook up last night?”
He remembers Lorna and smiles. “Kinda.”
“Kinda?” Dean sounds surprised. “Really? Was she hot? No, wait a minute, was it a dude? Did you fuck another guy? Cause if you did, man, I wanna know everything.”
Sam hears a door close, the background noise fades away; Dean must've shut himself in the office.
"You busy?” he asks.
"Hell, yeah, you know it," answers Dean. "We're backed up."
"You work too hard."
"Blah, blah, enough about that. Tell me about this chick or dude you kinda hooked up with last night.”
“It was a girl and she was… nice, smart, pretty.”
“Pretty, huh? Fuckable?”
“Yeah.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I guess I was just too tired.”
“Lame. Sometimes I can’t believe that we’re related. Hey, maybe you were adopted?”
Sam snorts, twists onto his back, cradling the phone against his ear. “I used to think that, you know - that I was adopted, or that there was an accidental baby-swap at the hospital when I was born. All those times when I was a kid and Dad and I used to fight, I’d get to imagining that there was a normal family somewhere who had a kid who was frustrated that he couldn’t go around shootin’ things all the time.”
Dean says nothing for a moment, then huffs out a small ironic laugh. “Look on the bright side, if you were adopted it would kinda make things convenient between us.”
“Definitely less illegal.”
“But less hot.”
“Dean…”
“Just tellin’ it how it is, man.”
“You’re fucked-up, you know that?”
“Hell yeah, one kinky fucker, that’s me. But you love me anyway, so what’s that make you?”
“Jesus, I’m not gonna touch that one.” He can almost hear Dean’s smile down the other end of the line, stirring something warm and epic inside him. Dean’s quiet, just breathing softly and Sam wants him so much, wants to be with him, to touch him, that same pang of longing he felt yesterday on the phone, the one that made him want to close his eyes and wish himself back there.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean’s voice breaks into the silence and he stirs himself awake again, back to reality, back to Portland, the fucking conference, three more days and two more nights before he can go home again.
“Yeah, course, don’t sweat it, dude.” He tries for a fake brightness, but it’s pointless, Dean always sees through him. “It’s just - God, okay, maybe not altogether okay, but…” he breaks off, licks his lips, tries again, “Last night, after I came back from talkin’ to that chick, I tried to jerk off thinking about her.”
“Yeah?” Predictably, Dean perks up at that revelation. “And?”
“And, well. Didn’t work out so good.”
“What? The junk not workin’? Well, happens to us all, man, getting older and all that jazz…”
“What? No! No, not that!” Sam rolls his eyes; hears Dean’s snigger, “Shut up, I’m tryin’ to tell you something. S’fuckin’ your fault anyway.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah, cause she was hot, Dean, just my sort of girl too: brunette and fuckin’ smart -“
“Nice rack?”
“Oh yeah, nice rack, good legs too. And I had this whole fantasy going in my head when I got back here, picturing how it would be: me pushin’ her down onto the bed on all fours, and she’s completely naked, thighs parted and ass in the air ready for me, and I’m climbing onto the bed behind her, still fully clothed, ‘cept my zipper’s down and my cock’s out, hard and ready. I’d grab her, pull her into my lap, force her onto my cock - no prep, just, you know, force her to take it, and she’d be all wet and beggin’ for it…”
“Jesus, Sam,” breathes Dean, “you sure you’re not up for this phone sex shit because I’m poppin’ one hell of a boner here?”
“Yeah?” He’s suddenly aware of his own cock, getting stiffer with each short, breathy pant he can hear coming from the other end of the line. “You’ve got your cock out, haven’t you, Dean?” he says with amusement, though the thought’s ridiculously hot, picturing Dean in that small office, perched on the edge of the cluttered desk, boiler suit pushed down to his waist, greasy black fingers wrapped around his erection.
“Hmmfph,” murmurs Dean, “just tell me more about this fantasy of yours.”
“There isn’t any more, that was it.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you, Dean. I was having this fantasy about her - like I was just describing - but it didn’t work. It did nothing for me. It was like… nothing. Sorry.”
“Sorry? Sam, I’m sittin’ here with my dick in my hand, waiting for some freakin’ stimulation!”
“Well, I’m sure you can improvise,” Sam answers cattily.
“Not the same. When you describe this shit - it’s all…” Dean breaks off for a moment, sounding slightly embarrassed, “well, it’s really hot is what it is. Your fuckin’ voice was made for dirty talk. It’s a crying shame you don’t do it more often. Cause that’s some shit I could get behind. Like, literally.”
“I’m sure.”
There’s a pause again, Dean exhales heavily into the silence. “Look, I get what you’re trying to say here, I do. I know how your brain works, and listen, I know that things with me - that it’s all different now, but if you’re thinking that I’m gonna be upset, or any bullshit like that’s stoppin’ you from nailing this chick - from fucking her like you just described - then think again, because I’m not gonna be jealous, no way. If it’s that - if it’s me - that’s causin’ the fuckin’ equipment malfunction, or whatever, then dude, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s all in your head, Sam, I wouldn’t be jealous like that.”
Maybe I want you to be… the thought runs unbidden through his mind, rolling and wrapping over the sound of his brother’s voice.
Dean trails off and the silence hangs heavy between them.
He sighs irritably, says, “No, that’s… that’s cool, Dean. I know you feel different to me.”
“It’s not that I feel different -“
“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Sam cuts him off, brittle and frustrated. “Cause I know it’s hard that you can’t ever with anyone else… that it’s just me for you, and that’s it. And I know you feel guilty about that, like you’re stifling me or something, but I realized last night that I don’t want anyone else, I just want you. And my dick - well it obviously feels the same way.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment. Sam bites his lip tentatively, “Dean?”
“God, you really know how to kill a guy’s hard on.”
“Dean -“
“Yeah, I know. Sammy, you know that if - even if - I could with others, with chicks, then I still wouldn’t. If that’s what you wanted from this, uh, this thing.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re wantin’ to go steady?”
“Fuck off.”
Sam laughs, he feels lighter, some dead weight in his chest lifting at Dean’s rambling words.
“It’s all kinda moot anyway, cause I can’t. And that’s that,” says Dean flatly.
Sam passes a hand over his face, pushes back his hair, it feels nasty, greasy and wiry, he seriously needs a shower. “Look, I gotta go. This thing starts at 8.30 and I gotta get up.”
“Yeah, okay.”
The line goes quiet for a moment, Sam can hear Dean breathing, he wants to say something to him but he’s not sure what it is exactly, so he just hangs up.
On the last night when Lorna corners him, suggesting a nightcap, she’s already drunk, swaying on huge high heels.
She grins at him, bends one of her legs, “See, I wore my highest heels.”
“So you did,” he answers with a smile. She grins back at him, wraps her fingers tighter around her highball glass.
“There’s, uh, there’s nothing going to happen here, is there?” she says after a loaded moment, waving one hand expressively between their two bodies.
He ducks his head, mouth crooking uncomfortably. “Let’s sit down.”
She follows him to a spare couple of couches, sinking into the thick leather cushions with a woeful expression. “I shouldn’t have said that, pretend I didn’t say that.”
He gives her a quick, reassuring smile, “Look, I’m, uh, I’m kinda with someone.”
“Figured.” She nods, hair falling half across her face. “This someone… that wouldn’t happen to be a male someone, would it?”
He huffs out a laugh, awkward smile dimpling the corners of his mouth. “Uh, yeah. Actually, yeah.”
“I knew it.” She sucks up the rest of her drink with her mini black straw, placing the glass back on the table with deliberate, inebriated carefulness. “Is he, your boyfriend, have you been together a long time?”
“Yeah.”
“And you - you love him?”
He nods, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“Do you have a picture?” He pauses for a second, taken aback. Noticing his surprise, she shifts, obviously embarrassed, “Sorry, I - that was probably me being presumptuous, you don’t have to show me anything. Sometimes I’m just too curious for my own good.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he says slowly. He reaches in his pocket for his wallet; he wants to show her Dean’s picture, there’s a part of him - the young twelve year old part of him - who still sees Dean as the Coolest Person in the World, someone who’s still in awe of his big brother. He flips it open to the see-thru picture section, angling it her way.
The photo of Dean is recent, the twin to the one Dean has in his wallet, and isn’t that just adorable of us Sammy… Sam was the one to insist they have them taken: each of them posing on the front steps of the porch with Dougal.
Lorna stares at Dean’s picture for a good few moments. “I can see why you guys’ve been together a long time; you make a cute couple.” Sam shrugs, embarrassed under her slightly glazed stare. “It’s a shame about the scar on his face though, ‘cause, you know, without it, he’d be really hot.”
He flinches. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t notice the scar anymore, and hates it when people do - the look they get on their faces: pity, discomfort, fear, suspicion - Dean professes not to notice, makes comments about scars being manly, that chicks dig them, but Sam can see through it, knows that it's just another level of bullshit in the many levels of bullshit that make up Dean’s brittle armor.
“Uh, nothing, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
There’s another awkward moment of silence. Sam swallows back the rising hostility, thoughts running through his head: it’s not her fault, she’s never even met Dean, he’s being too defensive, Dean would make fun of him if he saw him "defending his honor" in this way... but he’s still feeling anger, resentment against her. Who’s she to make these sorts of judgments?
He nods, slides the wallet back into his pocket. She's making movements to go, getting up from her chair. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Sam."
He looks up at her, forces out a smile, "Yeah, you too. If you like, you can email me your outline, I'd be happy to do a peer review."
"Thanks, that'd be, um, great," she nods uncomfortably, one more toothy drunken smile and she's gone, weaving back towards the bar.
He watches her back for a moment, a couple of nights ago, he’d tried to fantasize about that: the sway of her hips, the dip of her shoulder blades, the long, glossy dark hair and naked curve of her back, the fantasy he’d tried to outline to Dean on the phone the next day. It makes him feel embarrassed now, the way he tried and failed, his dick responding to some sort of Dean only conditioning, as if his brother had put him under a spell. And now, even now, watching her walk away, he can feel something close to arousal, some part of his brain that still finds this attractive. But it’s weak, so faint compared to what he feels when he’s touching Dean, when he feels like he’s almost being driven out his own body, his desire for Dean so overwhelming, so terrifying and so absolute that he feels as if he’s losing himself in it, but at the same time, feeling more true to himself, more true to whoever the hell Sam Winchester is supposed to be at those moments than he’s ever done in his entire life.
There are a lot of people outside the Arrivals gate, a mixture of joyfully reuniting families, businessmen checking things on their BlackBerrys, and drivers holding placards with phonetically spelled names. No Dean. Sam pushes through them all, duffle slung across one shoulder and laptop bag banging against his hip. A thrill goes through him when he spots Dean, standing by the closed, empty HERTZ desk, and reading what Sam can recognize, even from this distance, as an Obits column. He lowers his newspaper when he sees Sam, gaze lingering over him in a way that makes the thrill deepen, low and delicious in Sam’s stomach.
"Hey, man," he says and Sam can tell that he’s trying hard not to smile. Sam doesn’t even bother trying; he can feel the stupidly wide grin adorning his face, pushing creases into the corners of his mouth. Dean rolls his eyes, crams his newspaper into his pocket. "Lameass," he says fondly.
Outside is warm, the temperature gauge reading 74’, a gloriously welcome change after the freezing sleet of Portland. In the airport parking lot, the Impala sits between a beat up old Ford truck and a brand new, already dirty Audi. She looks impossibly shiny, the late afternoon sun glinting off her polished curves.
"You gave her a wax?" he asks, running one hand admiringly down the hood.
"I did."
"Dude, how bored were you without me?"
"I do not have to be bored to take care of my best girl," retorts Dean, sounding offended by the insinuation.
"But seriously, you were bored without me, right? C'mon, you can admit it, Dean."
Dean rolls his eyes again, "I don't know what fantasy land you're living in, Sam."
He dozes on the ride back home, cheek pressed against the window, hum and thrum of the engine vibrating familiar and deep through his skull. He wakes up as Dean bumps the car down the dirt track leading to the house. The place looks better than he remembers, deceptively welcoming and cheerful in the faint sunlight, mold, damp and cracks obscured by a momentary, picture-perfect image. The ivy's been cut back, and there are new tiles on the roof, absurdly bright-colored next to the old ones.
"You were bored without me," he says, darting Dean a triumphant look.
Dean shrugs defensively, kills the engine. "Shit needed doin'."
"Dean." He darts out a hand, stilling him, braceleting Dean's wrist with his fingers. "Dean," he says again.
Dean turns his head slowly. His face is still, eyelashes fluttering, lips parted. Sam stares at him, tugs him closer, free hand wrapping around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Dean practically melts into him, leaning into the passenger side, hands coming out to cup Sam's face as they kiss, long, sloppy, incoherent kisses. Dean pulls away, and his pupils are dilated, his mouth slick, a pink flush to his cheeks. "C'mon," he says, "inside, now."
He climbs out the car, Sam following, catching up with him and wrapping his arms around him from behind. He lowers his face into Dean's neck, licks at the underside of his chin, he inhales Dean's scent deep, savoring his closeness and pressing his cock up against Dean's ass, God, he wants him... wants him right now. Dean's breathing hitches as he fumbles the door open; they fall up the stairs, tripping on the unvarnished wood, elbows and legs knocking together, uncoordinated and hasty.
“You didn’t - that hot chick?” Dean asks as Sam pushes him onto the bed, straddling his thighs and tugging at his shirt.
“No,” he says. “You know I didn’t.” Dean nods, smiles briefly, grabs at Sam's hands, pulling them away from where his fingers are fumbling with Dean's shirt, trying to yank it open.
"Sam," says Dean, and Sam stills.
Dean's holding his hands by the wrist; he turns them over, palms-upwards, lowers his head. He licks a hot line up Sam's palm, Sam shivers, every cell in his body taught and thrumming, focused on the small, pink bud of Dean’s tongue as it works into the grooves and lines of his palm. Dean runs his tongue up the thick, blue vein, pausing by the crease of his wrist. He turns Sam’s hand over, presses his lips, dry and soft, against the ugly long scar, the soul scar. Sam feels it jump under the kiss, a prickling, itching sensation under his skin. He watches it darken in fascinated horror, the mottled look melting away, becoming smoother, a searing brand.
He twists his hand out of Dean’s grasp. "Don't," he mumbles, "Dean, not - not that."
Dean stares him with lidded eyes, turns his own hand over, the gesture a weird sort of slow motion, revealing his matching scar: it’s changed color too, gone darker, smoother, the edges beginning to blaze, a matching burning brand. It's the same as when he's speaking the ritual, as when Dean's lost, when his soul flies away, but Dean’s right here, every essential part of him where it’s supposed to be. It does this sometimes, when they’re like this, when the two of them are like this - too close - as if it can feel them, as if it wants to control them. And Sam hates it, resents it, but he can’t deny that it does something to them, makes it more intense, more extreme.
“Sam,” Dean breathes.
He swallows, meets Dean’s steady, intense gaze, “Yeah?”
“I wanna, it’s my turn, dude.”
“Oh, yeah, okay, God, yeah, Dean.”
Dean’s mouth quirks, he lowers his face again, kisses him on the mouth, quick, furious, promising. “Close your eyes,” he says. “I’m gonna take you to heaven and back.”
He can hear the smirk in his brother’s voice, in the cheesy promise, and he feels his own mouth twitch in response, the snort of laughter threatening, but it’s quickly cut off, all hilarity replaced by hair-raising expectation as he feels the slide of the silk blindfold over his eyes, the sensation of Dean’s breath against his cheek.
Afterwards, he lies next to Dean. They don’t tend to lie tangled together or entwined as lovers always do on TV, sheets draped over them carefully - covering the woman from neck to toe (unless it’s one of those kinda movies) and leaving the man’s appealingly buff chest bare. He and Dean lie separate, two distinct lumps under the sheets in their huge, emperor-sized bed. He turns on his side to look at Dean, he knows he’s not asleep; his breathing is not heavy enough, chest not rising and falling deeply enough. He reaches out with his hand, the scar's gone back to normal, color the usual purple stain, texture rough once more. He doesn't look at it; he can no longer feel it now anyway; instead, he smoothes soft fingertips down the tight muscles of Dean’s arm, tracing the silver-white (normal) faded scars. Dean’s eyes flutter open, he turns his head to look at Sam.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he says truthfully. "Yeah, that was, uh, intense."
Dean raises his eyebrows, smirks. "Yeah. So it should've been, I've been thinkin' about that, planning for the past few nights."
Sam smiles, the knowledge that Dean was thinking about the two of them, that he was planning this - the blindfold, the restraints - for the past few days is unaccountably hot. Dean doesn't get to top, to be the one so overwhelmingly in control, that often, but when he does... oh boy... it makes Sam wonder why they don't do it that way more often.
"It was worth it," he says, hand coming out to slap Dean's thigh. "You know I get all tingly when you take control like that."
Dean laughs out loud, nudges him with his elbow, "Dork."
"Back atcha."
They smile at each other for a second, before Dean grunts, looks away, embarrassment tinging his face pink.
He was only away for four nights, but it's almost as if he's come back from a four month sabbatical, he missed Dean. He really and truly missed him, four freaking days, and it's like he's a fourth grader being sent away on his first week at camp. Jesus, he's pathetic, any minute now Dean's going to make some comment about them growing vaginas, or something equally unfunny and mildly offensive. Surprisingly, Dean doesn't say anything, instead, he grabs Sam's hand.
Sam jumps, "What?"
Dean turns it over, traces one finger over the scar, eyes fixed intently on the movement.
"Why do they do that sometimes?"
He swallows, says, "I don't know, I have no idea why sometimes it's - there's nothin' and other times, it's like just before."
"I guess it doesn't matter. Makes it fuckin' hot though." He releases Sam's hand, darting him a glance from beneath lowered lashes.
Sam represses a shiver. "Yeah."
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