(no subject)
Title: The Long Road (title by twinsarein , thanks bb!)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 2,062
Synopsis: dramaqueen469 requested "some angsty Stanford-era Sam-wants-to-move-in-with-Jess-so-has-to-break-up-with-Dean fic." I banged this baby out in two hours. Totally unbeta'd, etc. I did re-read and edit, but it's 2am, and I'm completely exhausted, so I'll probably be embarrassed and have to take it down tomorrow, in the light of day. :S
Sam realizes he’s in love with Jessica when, one night curled up around her on his bed in the dorm, he says it into her hair. She’s sleeping, but the words echo in his ears, solemn and soft and sure. His eyes are closed to the reading lamp still turned on, and her body is warm against his, nestled tight into the curve of him. He shifts closer to her, tucks his face into the curled hair at the back of her head, and wishes desperately that they could inhabit the same body. He wants to unzip her and climb inside.
~*~
He says it next when she’s awake. It’s one of those picture-perfect scenes from the brochure; a sunny day, a verdant lawn rolling out toward the college building in one direction, toward picturesque statues and burbling fountains in the other. They’re on a blanket under a tree. Jess is reading some nasty romance novel, and Sam’s been bugging her about it for fifteen solid minutes. She refuses to be annoyed by him. Every time he snipes about a “flowering womanhood” and “quivering loins,” she smiles beatifically and tells him he’s cute.
Sam takes a bite of his all-American Grannysmith apple and says, “Are they at the part where Studly McManly throws her passionately onto the bed and ravishes her lush womanly form, or is the fiery female lead still rejecting his ardent advances, even though she knows that, beneath his buffed and tanned exterior, he’s really a just damaged hero desperately in need of love?”
Jess rolls her eyes. “If you must know, Stella Murray is on a girls-night-out with her pals. They’re talking about how horrible men are, and how much they’d like to be without them. After this, I suspect they’ll go home, put on facial masks, and watch Sex and the City.”
Sam makes a gagging face and mimes puking his apple all over the blanket. Jess laughs until her eyes water. Sam says, as she hiccups to a stop, “I love you.”
Her eyes go wide and her choking stops. “What?”
Sam feels himself flush what must be a horrible shade of crimson, and mumbles, “Um, I, um, love you.”
Jess drops the book and launches herself at him. Thus begins the happiest period of Sam’s life.
~*~
Sam talks to Dean on the phone three nights later. They don’t say much.
Dean grunts, “We’re fine here. Dad pulled a muscle or something yesterday, but that’s about it,” and Sam mutters, “That’s good,” in response.
They’re thinking the same thing.
“So,” Dean finally says. “You busy next week? Any bigass tests or something?”
“No,” Sam says, without thinking better of it. “But you shouldn’t come up.”
“Oh,” Dean says. “Okay.” There’s long silence. Sam tries to think of something to say, and swallows thick saliva instead. “Why?” Dean asks.
“I’m. Uh. Moving.”
“You are?” The note of incredulity is palpable. “Since when do you have the money?”
“I have a, uh, I have a roommate.”
“You’ve got a roommate now. I know this, because we had to put a chair under the door to keep him out last time I was up.”
Sam feels a little spasm of hot pleasure go through him. His dick perks up at memories of that last visit. “He’s a loser,” Sam replies, and then kicks himself again. There goes that alibi. “It’s someone else.”
Honestly, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. All he knows is that Dean can’t meet Jess. Just can’t.
“Shacking up already, eh, Sammy?” Dean says. His voice says wink nudge loud and clear. Because little Sammy wouldn’t go that far with someone. Not ever. Too uptight. Too careful. Too focussed, too scared.
“Actually, yeah,” Sam says. Clears his throat. “Yeah, I am.”
There’s quiet from the other end of the line. It goes on for so long, Sam gets a little panicky. Dean didn’t have a heart attack, or slip and stab himself in the jugular or something, did he?
“Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. His voice is low and rough. “That’s, well. That’s. Who…?”
“You don’t know her,” Sam says quickly, which is stupid. Of course Dean doesn’t know her. “Her name’s Jessica. She’s really… nice.”
Fuck. She’s nice? Nice?
“I mean, I really like her, she’s…” God. It’s getting worse.
“Oh,” Dean says, so quick and flat that Sam’s heart sinks. That’s not a good tone of voice. “Where’d you meet her?”
“Political History.” It comes out sounding like a question, like Sam’s asking permission. Damnit.
“Sam,” Dean says. “I. I’m.” Stops. Sam listens to him inhale, exhale, and can’t do much more himself. “I’m happy for you.” It’s clipped. Untrue.
“Thanks,” Sam breathes. “Yeah. We’re, uh. Happy. Together. We’re happy.” Honestly, he should probably ask Jess about this moving-in-together thing. Sometime soon. Before Dean shows up to help him pack couches. Oh, God. He wouldn’t, would he? “So, yeah. Not a good time to come up, probably.” He tries to laugh, but it’s definitely not an amused noise that saws out of his mouth.
Dean snorts. Says, chafed like sandpaper, “I hate hauling couches, anyway. Done enough of that shit in my life.”
Okay, good. Good. Dean won’t come up. He’ll stay with Dad, he’ll think about Sam with his girlfriend. Jess, whom he’s never met. He’ll think of her and Sam, and he’ll figure out that Sam doesn’t want him to come by, ever. Because he’ll mess it up. Somehow, he’ll figure out a way to mess it up.
Sam gets hit with a sucker punch of guilt so hard he has to take a deep breath to keep from crying out. “I,” he starts. “Give my love to Dad, all right?”
Dean makes a “hmm?” of disbelief, and then says, “Yeah, okay.” There’s a terse silence. Then, “Sam?”
Sam digs his fingernails into the bedspread under his thighs, and says, “Yes?”
Silence. Dean breathing, slow and rough. Then, “What are you wearing right now?”
The breath goes out of Sam in an explosive rush. “Nothing much,” he whispers. “My pyjama bottoms.”
“You wanna take them off?”
“What’ll you give me?” Sam answers. His heart pounds against his ribs, fluttering so hard it hurts.
“What do you want?” Dean’s voice has dropped lower. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, and Dad’s sleeping in the next room. Maybe he’s in the Impala, parked somewhere, and doesn’t want to disturb the silent sanctity.
“I want your mouth,” Sam says. His belly flops over and does a sideways twirl. “I want you to kiss me.”
Dean groans. “Baby,” he murmurs. “I would if I could.”
Sam has to concentrate on nothing but staying conscious for a minute, thinking about Dean kissing him. His hand slides down the front of his pyjama pants. “I like it when you bite my tongue.”
“Mhm,” Dean says. Sam hears a fumbling, zipper going down. “I love your tongue. I love your lips. Open your pants up.”
Sam yanks with shaking fingers at the tie at his waist. “Okay, yeah.”
“Put your hand inside.”
Sam grits his teeth when his fingertips brush his cock. “Oh, God.”
“Are you touching yourself?”
Sam skirts his fingers up and down the length of himself. “Yes.”
“Feel good?”
Sam curls his hand around his cock through his underwear. Has to drop his head back for a second and gasp. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah.”
“Put your finger on the tip. Just one finger.”
Sam obeys, pushing his underwear down, halfway down his thighs. Brushes his thumb over the slit, pushing his foreskin back and rubbing the flare of crown. He sucks in air through his teeth. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Same thing,” Dean murmurs. “Just rubbing, right now. Licked my finger, and I’m just rubbing all over the head.”
Sam bucks. “Dean…”
“I know. Jack yourself off. Let me hear you do it. Make lots of noise for me.”
So Sam does. He pants and whimpers and moans and curses into the phone, talks to himself, and talks dirty to Dean. Dean calls him baby, Sam calls Dean a fucker.
When they come, telling each other they’re about to do it, growling to each other how fucking good it feels, how close they are, oh God here it comes, I’m coming, oh God I’m coming all over myself, fuck, oh God, fuck, yes, Jesus I’m coming I’m coming, Sam feels everything leave him. Every bitter thought and worry and sliver of hatred. He floats perfectly in a haze of love and orgasm, above and to the left of his body, looking down on it with the phone clenched in one hand, feet set wide apart on the mattress. He watches himself say, “Dean, I love you.”
And hears Dean reply, “I know, baby.”
He looks out over the dorms, the winking of lights and the warm hum of steeping life all through the warren of beds and communal showers and classrooms. He sees Jess walking down the hallway. She’s carrying a box of donuts. She’s smiling, humming to herself. She’s coming to see him.
Sam slams back into his body, and sits straight upright, feet thunking onto the floor. Yanks his pants back up, cinches the tie so tight he can’t breathe for a second. “Dean,” he says. “I have to go, all right?”
“So soon?” Dean says. Laughs, maybe self-deprecatingly, Sam doesn’t have time to figure it out. “No round two?”
“Listen, I don’t think you should call me anymore.”
The silence from the other end is so staggering, it’s a physical presence. “Fuck that,” Dean explodes. “Sam, I am not leaving you to the wolves just because you’ve got some fucked up idea about how the world is--”
“Dean, I love Jess,” he blurts out. “I love her. I’m going to move in with her, and we’re-- we’re going to be happy. We’re going to be normal and happy.” He doesn’t say, You’d fuck that all up. He doesn’t say, We can’t do this anymore. He doesn’t say, You’re the reason my life is so wrong and messed up.
But Dean hears everything unsaid. He’s always been able to read Sam’s mind. It takes a second, but eventually he says, “I get it. Don’t call, don’t write, don’t visit?”
Sam winces. “Pretty much,” he says softly. He can hear Jess’ footfalls in the hallway, now. Panic bites his gut. “I have to go. I’ll be okay, I promise.”
“Sam…”
“I promise, Dean. But I’m done. I’m done with all of this. I can’t do any of this bullshit anymore.”
Jess knocks on the door. Calls, “Sam?”
“I’ve got to go,” Sam hisses. “See you around sometime.” And he hangs up. Stares at the phone in his hand for a second, because he can’t believe that just happened. He told Dean to go away. He told Dean he was done, over with. All over with. Somewhere out there, Dean’s probably staring at the phone in his hand and trying to decide whether to drive straight to Stanford and beat the crap out of Sam, or to dig in the trunk for a semi-auto and stick the muzzle in his own mouth. Sam keeps staring at the phone, feeling mounting horror growing.
“Sam?” Jess calls again.
“One sec,” he answers. His voice trembles, so he clears his throat. “Coming, hold on.”
And a minute later, Jess is there, kissing the corner of his mouth and handing him the donuts. “Chocolate-glazed,” she says, grinning.
“Jess,” Sam says. He winds his arms around her. “What do you think about moving in together?”
~*~
Of course, almost-perfect happiness never lasts. Dean finds an excuse to show up, eventually. And Jess… Jess is safe in Sam’s mind. A blonde woman-child held perfect and smiling forever in an untouchable corner of his head. Sometimes, when he thinks of her, he wonders how he can keep living. Why he hasn’t leapt of a bridge yet. Cowardice, bravery? Did he love her too much, or not enough?
Sam thinks about these things, agonizes and cries and wants to die. So much time passes, smeared onto a canvas of misery with the paint of longing. Sam wonders if he will ever be a whole person again.
Dean waits on the edge of his awareness, just waits. Patient and angry, loving and frustrated. It takes a while, but eventually, Sam knows which way to turn.
~FIN
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 2,062
Synopsis: dramaqueen469 requested "some angsty Stanford-era Sam-wants-to-move-in-with-Jess-so-has-to-break-up-with-Dean fic." I banged this baby out in two hours. Totally unbeta'd, etc. I did re-read and edit, but it's 2am, and I'm completely exhausted, so I'll probably be embarrassed and have to take it down tomorrow, in the light of day. :S
Sam realizes he’s in love with Jessica when, one night curled up around her on his bed in the dorm, he says it into her hair. She’s sleeping, but the words echo in his ears, solemn and soft and sure. His eyes are closed to the reading lamp still turned on, and her body is warm against his, nestled tight into the curve of him. He shifts closer to her, tucks his face into the curled hair at the back of her head, and wishes desperately that they could inhabit the same body. He wants to unzip her and climb inside.
~*~
He says it next when she’s awake. It’s one of those picture-perfect scenes from the brochure; a sunny day, a verdant lawn rolling out toward the college building in one direction, toward picturesque statues and burbling fountains in the other. They’re on a blanket under a tree. Jess is reading some nasty romance novel, and Sam’s been bugging her about it for fifteen solid minutes. She refuses to be annoyed by him. Every time he snipes about a “flowering womanhood” and “quivering loins,” she smiles beatifically and tells him he’s cute.
Sam takes a bite of his all-American Grannysmith apple and says, “Are they at the part where Studly McManly throws her passionately onto the bed and ravishes her lush womanly form, or is the fiery female lead still rejecting his ardent advances, even though she knows that, beneath his buffed and tanned exterior, he’s really a just damaged hero desperately in need of love?”
Jess rolls her eyes. “If you must know, Stella Murray is on a girls-night-out with her pals. They’re talking about how horrible men are, and how much they’d like to be without them. After this, I suspect they’ll go home, put on facial masks, and watch Sex and the City.”
Sam makes a gagging face and mimes puking his apple all over the blanket. Jess laughs until her eyes water. Sam says, as she hiccups to a stop, “I love you.”
Her eyes go wide and her choking stops. “What?”
Sam feels himself flush what must be a horrible shade of crimson, and mumbles, “Um, I, um, love you.”
Jess drops the book and launches herself at him. Thus begins the happiest period of Sam’s life.
~*~
Sam talks to Dean on the phone three nights later. They don’t say much.
Dean grunts, “We’re fine here. Dad pulled a muscle or something yesterday, but that’s about it,” and Sam mutters, “That’s good,” in response.
They’re thinking the same thing.
“So,” Dean finally says. “You busy next week? Any bigass tests or something?”
“No,” Sam says, without thinking better of it. “But you shouldn’t come up.”
“Oh,” Dean says. “Okay.” There’s long silence. Sam tries to think of something to say, and swallows thick saliva instead. “Why?” Dean asks.
“I’m. Uh. Moving.”
“You are?” The note of incredulity is palpable. “Since when do you have the money?”
“I have a, uh, I have a roommate.”
“You’ve got a roommate now. I know this, because we had to put a chair under the door to keep him out last time I was up.”
Sam feels a little spasm of hot pleasure go through him. His dick perks up at memories of that last visit. “He’s a loser,” Sam replies, and then kicks himself again. There goes that alibi. “It’s someone else.”
Honestly, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. All he knows is that Dean can’t meet Jess. Just can’t.
“Shacking up already, eh, Sammy?” Dean says. His voice says wink nudge loud and clear. Because little Sammy wouldn’t go that far with someone. Not ever. Too uptight. Too careful. Too focussed, too scared.
“Actually, yeah,” Sam says. Clears his throat. “Yeah, I am.”
There’s quiet from the other end of the line. It goes on for so long, Sam gets a little panicky. Dean didn’t have a heart attack, or slip and stab himself in the jugular or something, did he?
“Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. His voice is low and rough. “That’s, well. That’s. Who…?”
“You don’t know her,” Sam says quickly, which is stupid. Of course Dean doesn’t know her. “Her name’s Jessica. She’s really… nice.”
Fuck. She’s nice? Nice?
“I mean, I really like her, she’s…” God. It’s getting worse.
“Oh,” Dean says, so quick and flat that Sam’s heart sinks. That’s not a good tone of voice. “Where’d you meet her?”
“Political History.” It comes out sounding like a question, like Sam’s asking permission. Damnit.
“Sam,” Dean says. “I. I’m.” Stops. Sam listens to him inhale, exhale, and can’t do much more himself. “I’m happy for you.” It’s clipped. Untrue.
“Thanks,” Sam breathes. “Yeah. We’re, uh. Happy. Together. We’re happy.” Honestly, he should probably ask Jess about this moving-in-together thing. Sometime soon. Before Dean shows up to help him pack couches. Oh, God. He wouldn’t, would he? “So, yeah. Not a good time to come up, probably.” He tries to laugh, but it’s definitely not an amused noise that saws out of his mouth.
Dean snorts. Says, chafed like sandpaper, “I hate hauling couches, anyway. Done enough of that shit in my life.”
Okay, good. Good. Dean won’t come up. He’ll stay with Dad, he’ll think about Sam with his girlfriend. Jess, whom he’s never met. He’ll think of her and Sam, and he’ll figure out that Sam doesn’t want him to come by, ever. Because he’ll mess it up. Somehow, he’ll figure out a way to mess it up.
Sam gets hit with a sucker punch of guilt so hard he has to take a deep breath to keep from crying out. “I,” he starts. “Give my love to Dad, all right?”
Dean makes a “hmm?” of disbelief, and then says, “Yeah, okay.” There’s a terse silence. Then, “Sam?”
Sam digs his fingernails into the bedspread under his thighs, and says, “Yes?”
Silence. Dean breathing, slow and rough. Then, “What are you wearing right now?”
The breath goes out of Sam in an explosive rush. “Nothing much,” he whispers. “My pyjama bottoms.”
“You wanna take them off?”
“What’ll you give me?” Sam answers. His heart pounds against his ribs, fluttering so hard it hurts.
“What do you want?” Dean’s voice has dropped lower. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, and Dad’s sleeping in the next room. Maybe he’s in the Impala, parked somewhere, and doesn’t want to disturb the silent sanctity.
“I want your mouth,” Sam says. His belly flops over and does a sideways twirl. “I want you to kiss me.”
Dean groans. “Baby,” he murmurs. “I would if I could.”
Sam has to concentrate on nothing but staying conscious for a minute, thinking about Dean kissing him. His hand slides down the front of his pyjama pants. “I like it when you bite my tongue.”
“Mhm,” Dean says. Sam hears a fumbling, zipper going down. “I love your tongue. I love your lips. Open your pants up.”
Sam yanks with shaking fingers at the tie at his waist. “Okay, yeah.”
“Put your hand inside.”
Sam grits his teeth when his fingertips brush his cock. “Oh, God.”
“Are you touching yourself?”
Sam skirts his fingers up and down the length of himself. “Yes.”
“Feel good?”
Sam curls his hand around his cock through his underwear. Has to drop his head back for a second and gasp. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah.”
“Put your finger on the tip. Just one finger.”
Sam obeys, pushing his underwear down, halfway down his thighs. Brushes his thumb over the slit, pushing his foreskin back and rubbing the flare of crown. He sucks in air through his teeth. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Same thing,” Dean murmurs. “Just rubbing, right now. Licked my finger, and I’m just rubbing all over the head.”
Sam bucks. “Dean…”
“I know. Jack yourself off. Let me hear you do it. Make lots of noise for me.”
So Sam does. He pants and whimpers and moans and curses into the phone, talks to himself, and talks dirty to Dean. Dean calls him baby, Sam calls Dean a fucker.
When they come, telling each other they’re about to do it, growling to each other how fucking good it feels, how close they are, oh God here it comes, I’m coming, oh God I’m coming all over myself, fuck, oh God, fuck, yes, Jesus I’m coming I’m coming, Sam feels everything leave him. Every bitter thought and worry and sliver of hatred. He floats perfectly in a haze of love and orgasm, above and to the left of his body, looking down on it with the phone clenched in one hand, feet set wide apart on the mattress. He watches himself say, “Dean, I love you.”
And hears Dean reply, “I know, baby.”
He looks out over the dorms, the winking of lights and the warm hum of steeping life all through the warren of beds and communal showers and classrooms. He sees Jess walking down the hallway. She’s carrying a box of donuts. She’s smiling, humming to herself. She’s coming to see him.
Sam slams back into his body, and sits straight upright, feet thunking onto the floor. Yanks his pants back up, cinches the tie so tight he can’t breathe for a second. “Dean,” he says. “I have to go, all right?”
“So soon?” Dean says. Laughs, maybe self-deprecatingly, Sam doesn’t have time to figure it out. “No round two?”
“Listen, I don’t think you should call me anymore.”
The silence from the other end is so staggering, it’s a physical presence. “Fuck that,” Dean explodes. “Sam, I am not leaving you to the wolves just because you’ve got some fucked up idea about how the world is--”
“Dean, I love Jess,” he blurts out. “I love her. I’m going to move in with her, and we’re-- we’re going to be happy. We’re going to be normal and happy.” He doesn’t say, You’d fuck that all up. He doesn’t say, We can’t do this anymore. He doesn’t say, You’re the reason my life is so wrong and messed up.
But Dean hears everything unsaid. He’s always been able to read Sam’s mind. It takes a second, but eventually he says, “I get it. Don’t call, don’t write, don’t visit?”
Sam winces. “Pretty much,” he says softly. He can hear Jess’ footfalls in the hallway, now. Panic bites his gut. “I have to go. I’ll be okay, I promise.”
“Sam…”
“I promise, Dean. But I’m done. I’m done with all of this. I can’t do any of this bullshit anymore.”
Jess knocks on the door. Calls, “Sam?”
“I’ve got to go,” Sam hisses. “See you around sometime.” And he hangs up. Stares at the phone in his hand for a second, because he can’t believe that just happened. He told Dean to go away. He told Dean he was done, over with. All over with. Somewhere out there, Dean’s probably staring at the phone in his hand and trying to decide whether to drive straight to Stanford and beat the crap out of Sam, or to dig in the trunk for a semi-auto and stick the muzzle in his own mouth. Sam keeps staring at the phone, feeling mounting horror growing.
“Sam?” Jess calls again.
“One sec,” he answers. His voice trembles, so he clears his throat. “Coming, hold on.”
And a minute later, Jess is there, kissing the corner of his mouth and handing him the donuts. “Chocolate-glazed,” she says, grinning.
“Jess,” Sam says. He winds his arms around her. “What do you think about moving in together?”
~*~
Of course, almost-perfect happiness never lasts. Dean finds an excuse to show up, eventually. And Jess… Jess is safe in Sam’s mind. A blonde woman-child held perfect and smiling forever in an untouchable corner of his head. Sometimes, when he thinks of her, he wonders how he can keep living. Why he hasn’t leapt of a bridge yet. Cowardice, bravery? Did he love her too much, or not enough?
Sam thinks about these things, agonizes and cries and wants to die. So much time passes, smeared onto a canvas of misery with the paint of longing. Sam wonders if he will ever be a whole person again.
Dean waits on the edge of his awareness, just waits. Patient and angry, loving and frustrated. It takes a while, but eventually, Sam knows which way to turn.
~FIN