(no subject)
Title: You Never Had It So
Fandom: Supernatural
Category: Dean/ Sam, Wincest, graphic m/m
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Nothing specific
Summary: “…sometimes, Sam’s still the ten-year-old kid with the runny nose and hair in his eyes and you’re still the guy who looks after him.”
Author’s Notes: With much love and thanks and all that chick-flick stuff to thepurpleswitch who did beta duties and suggested the poem below for the title.
This is yet another attempt to battle my porn demons (*wipes sweat from brow*). You've been warned.
You pass a sign saying, “Austin 50.” Sam is reading aloud from a brochure he picked up at a truck stop: a guide to Texas hotels. He lists the more affordable options, gives a price range and distance from your current location. When you don’t answer, he reminds you of the time you got drunk and fell into the swimming pool of a hotel in Reno. You nearly drowned. The manager pulled you out, checked you were still breathing and told your father he had an idiot for a son. Dad said that if he caught you drinking again he would send you to military school.
You don’t ask Sam why he’s remembering Reno in Texas. Ten minutes ago he asked if you remembered the time he caught you getting a blowjob from a waitress behind a diner in Arkansas. You told him ‘no’ because there are some parts of your shared history that do not warrant nostalgia. Sam finds it amusing now, but at the time you were both horrified. He was thirteen and he still looked up to you. You liked to think you sheltered him.
You turn up Motorhead on the car stereo. Sam slumps in the passenger seat, knees against the dashboard. He’s too tall to be cramped into a car seat for long stretches of time. He says, “If we don’t stop at the next hotel, Dean, I swear, I’m sleeping on the side of the road.”
You pretend you can’t hear him over the music. “What?”
He makes a show of turning the music down. “Hotel, Dean. I need to sleep in a bed, okay?”
You don’t want to stop in Austin. You like the smaller towns, not the sprawling cities. The cash is running low and big towns are wary of credit card scams. You hustle better in small towns too. Maybe your charm works better on folks who don’t get out much, or maybe it’s because they don’t show old Paul Newman movies in small towns? Whatever it is, you don’t like your chances of cashing up in Austin. Cities are bad luck.
You reach the outskirts of Austin and Sam points out a “Vacancy” sign further up the road. You pull in because, sometimes, Sam’s still the ten-year-old kid with the runny nose and hair in his eyes and you’re still the guy who looks after him.
*
You remember the first time you saw Sam kiss a girl. He was sixteen, all limbs and bangs, and she was throwing herself at him, leaning into his personal space and touching his arm repeatedly. Sam didn’t have a clue. He backed off, like he was getting in her way. She was a smart girl, someone who knew when to be proper and when to seize an opportunity before it walked away. She threw caution to the wind and grabbed Sam by the elbow, kissed him before he knew what was happening. It took Sam five whole beats to kiss her back.
You were waiting in the car. You turned the lights on and they sprang apart. Later you asked Sam who the girl was and he said she was helping him catch up on math. He didn’t tell you her name. He said he wanted to go to college and moving from state to state was not helping his grade point average. You can’t remember if that was the first time he’d told you he had plans that didn’t include you and your father.
You sulked about it for days afterward and Sam accused you of being unsupportive. You told him you had to get used to the idea but the truth was, the kiss had gotten to you. You couldn’t admit it to yourself then but you hated the thought of other people touching him.
*
Sam throws his duffel on the bed nearest the window, takes the remote from the top of the TV and sinks into the room’s only chair. He channel surfs while you check messages on your cell. Someone called Jeannie says she’d love to catch up when you’re in town again. You ask Sam if Jeannie was the redhead in that bar in Wichita. Sam rolls his eyes. You stuff your cell into your hip pocket, and tell Sam you’re going out for beer.
When you get back, Sam’s watching television, drinking milk from the carton. You give him a beer and a packet of Cheetos and ask him what he’s watching. It’s a nature documentary: insects in the Sahara or something. You think you might have seen it but you can’t tell whether that’s because all insect documentaries look the same or because the hotels in these parts play the same movies.
You open a beer and take out your father’s journal. You’re not looking for anything specific but you hope to find something that will tell you why he left and where he’s gone. Sometimes reading his journal helps you understand him. Sometimes you’re looking for yourself amongst the newspaper clippings and notes, signs that he’s thinking about you when he’s thinking about revenge. You find phone numbers, a photo, an entry about your first time on a hunt. You wonder what it means.
“Do you remember when we watched Beyond Thunderdome?” Sam says, not looking away from the TV. “You wanted to be Mad Max. You made me pretend I was one of those kids, trying to find a way out of Bartertown.”
“Yeah.” You remember. You were always the hero and Sam the reluctant sidekick. Sam was six. He wanted to be He-Man.
“You tied me up,” Sam says.
You remember this too. You wonder if this is what Sam’s been getting at all along. You wanted him to pretend he’d been captured by Aunty Entity. You took your games too seriously. Your father taught you to be ever vigilant, to treat every situation as dangerous. You couldn’t let this go, even when you played make believe. You tied Sam up, told him he needed to be brave, to learn to withstand pain and discomfort. You left him like that, alone and frightened. He started to cry.
Sam didn’t have the security of knowing evil only existed in his imagination. He feared strange noises and shadows with good reason. You forgot this sometimes. You were an older brother but you were also a child.
You untied him and you told him you were sorry. You said you would play He-Man if he wanted. Sam refused and told you he’d never play pretend with you again.
On the TV a zebra disintegrates via the magic of insects and time-lapse photography. You say, “Jesus, Sam, isn’t there something better on?”
Sam doesn’t change the channel. “We have some weird history,” he says.
“It’s not so bad,” you say reflexively. You’ve defended your life to yourself so often it’s a habit.
“But you won’t talk about it.”
“I thought you wanted to sleep.” You pop the cap on another beer.
Sam channels surfs again, settles on Seinfeld. “You’re not ashamed, are you, Dean?”
“Of what?” He doesn’t say anything but he looks at you with intent, like you know exactly what he means. “No,” you say. “I mean - I don’t know. Fuck, Sam, what do you want me to say?”
“Anything’s better than nothing,” he says.
You count the days. Sam’s been back in your life for seven weeks, nearly two months. Suddenly he wants to talk.
“You know,’ you say. “You can be a real girl sometimes.” You take your beer outside. You’re on the second floor of a four-up, four-down block that reminds you of every cheap hotel you’ve ever been in. You lean over the walkway railing, resting your beer on your arm. There are two girls swimming in the hotel pool, speaking a language you don’t recognise. They wave at you and you wave back. They’re blonde and pretty but you’re not in a social mood. You finish your beer, let yourself cool off a little, and go back inside.
Sam is in bed with the light off. You crawl into bed quietly, not wanting to disturb him. In the grey light you can see he still sleeps with his mouth open.
*
You were nineteen and Sam was fifteen when Pastor Jim insisted you have your own beds. You wondered if he suspected something because he also gave you separate rooms. You slept alone for four nights; on the fifth you woke with Sam in your bed.
You told yourself he came to you and that made you the stronger one. Years later you ask yourself what it took to make the first move, why you could never do it.
*
You get a mission in Austin, hunting a ghost in an apartment block in Sunset Valley. It’s not an especially dangerous gig but the spirit is devious spirit and the hunt takes longer than you anticipated. By the time you head wearily back to the Impala the night has turned into a red and yellow morning and you wind up searching the back seat for your sunglasses.
You sleep all day, wake up as the sun is going down. Sam reminds you you’re paying for a third night at the hotel and says you may as well get comfortable. He goes for takeout and returns with pizza and a newspaper.
He sits cross-legged on the bed, reading the classifieds. He talks about getting a job. “Austin’s not so bad,” he says. “And it would only be for a couple of weeks.”
“We have a job,” you tell him.
“Yeah?” he says. He gives you a look like he thinks you’re talking out of your ass. It’s a familiar look coming from him. “Well, the pay’s lousy.”
“Gotta love the hours, though.”
“I like sleeping at night,” Sam says.
“I find it hard to believe we’re related sometimes.” The truth is, you worry about money more with Sam around. Maybe it’s habit but it’s also incentive. You don’t want to lose him because you can’t afford a decent bed when he needs one.
You put your jacket on. There’s a bar with pool tables further down the road. You saw it on the way into town.
“Where are you going?” Sam asks.
”Hustling,” you say. “You want to come with?” Sam has an honest face. You could use him.
“No.” He doesn’t look up from the classifieds. Sam wants to earn an honest living, but in the mean time he’s stuck living off scams and con jobs. It eats him up sometimes.
*
You remember meeting with Sam’s guidance counsellor because Dad went to Connecticut on the trail of a werewolf and he asked you to go in his place. Before he left, he said, “Don’t say anything stupid,” and Sam looked at you like he was thinking the same thing.
Dad called the school and told them to expect you. The guidance counsellor gave you the twice-over anyway. She asked you how old you were.
You said, “Older than Sam,” and gave her your most charming smile. “But no wiser.”
She frowned, unimpressed. You looked at the ceiling.
She told you Sam was smart and sociable and everyone including the teachers liked him. She said Sam would go far if he had opportunities. Sam, apparently, enjoyed being involved in the school paper and the drama club. His teachers called him ‘dedicated’ and ‘thoughtful’ and ‘bright’ and offered to endorse his applications to college. They could have been describing a stranger. You didn’t know this Sam. You would never know this Sam.
Later Sam asked how it went.
“Your teachers think the sun shines out of your ass,” you said.
“Yeah?” He looked pleased.
“I told them you still wet the bed.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re twelve, Dean.”
When you were twelve, he was still short enough to look up to you.
*
You go out, come back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning, smelling like whisky and smoke and sex. The girl behind the bar kept you in drinks all night and let you fuck her on the hood of your car after closing. Something about girls and the Impala does it for you. The girl laughed at you when you told her, called you “kinky.” You laughed too and told her you had lots of kinky secrets but the car wasn’t one of them.
You try to be quiet as you navigate your way in the dark toward your bed, but you’re drunk and clumsy and you fall over trying to get your jeans off.
“How did it go?” Sam says. He doesn’t sound like he’s been sleeping at all.
“Great,” you say, as you kick the leg of your jeans off. You made enough to get you to the next town, the next job. You won’t have to sleep in the car tomorrow night, or the night after.
“Did you get her number?”
“Sure.” You don’t remember if she gave you her number or if you gave her yours. You don’t remember her name either. You fall backwards onto the bed and the heardboard bangs against the wall.
Sam turns the light on. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” You shield your eyes with your hand. You’re still wearing your jeans on one leg.
“You’re a mess, Dean,” Sam says. He gets out of bed, helps you with your jeans. You feel his fingers on the underside of your knee, sliding down your calf, lingering on your ankle.
You wait but he doesn’t let go. Your heart beats in your throat. You say, “Sam?”
He strokes your ankle - just once - like he’s testing you. “Do you remember when I left?” His voice is a whisper. You wonder what the point is when there’s no one around to hear.
“Yeah,” you say. “I remember.” You’ve spent four years trying to forget but there are times you can’t remember anything else.
Sam crawls up the bed slowly, takes his time like a cat settling into the warm spot by the fire. He lies beside you, his shoulder touching yours. “So why do you pretend you don’t?”
Because he left, because you got used to being on your own, because you don’t know how to talk about your feelings with anyone, not even Sam.
Because you don’t want to say anything stupid. You want to do right by Sam if it’s the last thing you do for him.
*
You remember how it ended, not how it started.
You remember Sam timed the announcement, waited until Dad was leaving on a hunting trip with Caleb. He didn’t want to leave you alone with Dad’s wrath. He said it was the least he owed you.
Your father’s mistake was that he told you everything he knew about darkness and evil and then left you on your own. He taught you to look out for each other but you also learned co-dependence. Sam was there when your father wasn’t. You relied on this when you could rely on nothing else.
You drank tequila - Sam's going away present. You dared him to drink the worm and he told you where you could shove the worm. You told him his razor sharp wit was wasted on Stanford.
“Seriously, Sammy,” you said. “I’m taking you to Vegas. We’ll rake it in.”
Sam fixed his eyes drunkenly on the tequila bottle. "You're jealous," he said. He slurred his word a little. You were both drunk but you were holding it better. And you were at least two shots ahead of him.
“Guys like me don't go to college,” you said. “And college is all the better for it.”
"Not true," he said. "If you wanted to, Dean - you're smart.…"
You’d heard it before, Sam always saying you could do better, be someone other than who you were. It got old fast but Sam said it like he was hoping one day it would come true. You gave him points for persistence.
You poured more tequila for both of you, held your glass up. "To Stanford," you said. You chinked the bottom of your glass against his. “My little brother’s going to college.” Sam rested his chin on his arms, looked at the table. “I’m proud of you, Sammy.”
Sam pushed out his lower lip, frowned like you’d insulted him. You didn’t care. It was true.
Later you crawled under the covers together. You didn’t invite him; he came the way he always did, sure of his welcome.
He lined himself along your body, wrapped arms and legs, his chest to your back. He slid his leg between yours, separating your knees.
”What if you came with me?” he said. You felt him breathing against your ear. He was hard already; eighteen and constantly aroused. You’d learned control and the tequila dulled your senses but Sam’s erection nudged your ass and suddenly you were right there with him, a drop of wetness soaking through your boxers and sticking to your skin.
“What would I do in Stanford, Sam?” you said wearily. You’d had this conversation too. You didn’t want it now. You wanted his hand on your dick - a quick jerk-off before you slept, curling up with Sam for the last time.
“You could stay with me,” Sam said hopefully. “We’d get jobs - live like normal people.”
You turned around, turning into him. You felt warm breath on your lips, Sam’s mouth so close to yours you could taste him. You could have closed the gap, surprised him with a kiss, only you didn’t. You never did. You kissed girls, not Sam.
“You want that?” you said. “Nine to five job, house in the ‘burbs?”
“Is it so bad?” he said. “To have a home?”
“It’s not forever, Sam.” You didn’t believe it but it felt like the right thing to say.
He shifted his hips, his erection brushing yours. Your body responded reflexively, arching into him, rubbing yourself against him. You wanted him, this, whatever it was. You wanted Sam to stop talking because you’d lost already. Nothing left to say, nothing but nostalgia to keep you going.
“Remember when you tied me up?” he said.
“Yeah.”
His lips brushed your cheekbone. “I want you to do it again.”
You didn’t understand. You thought maybe he was joking. You couldn’t make out his expression in the dark.
He let go of you and edged out of the bed. He had rope in his duffel, the nylon braided kind you buy from boating stores. You were in Utah and you hadn’t been to the coast in years. You didn’t know where Sam had found rope but he’d obviously come prepared.
The knowledge made you weak. You took the rope from him. “You really want this?”
He lay down next to you again, raised his arms above his head. “Yeah,” he said.
Your father taught you how to throw a punch, fire a gun, tie a knot. You can tie a bowline, an alpine butterfly, a rolling hitch. You used a square knot on Sam, twice around the wrists and down through the middle. You tied him to the wooden slats on the headboard, his eyes on you the whole time.
“Okay?” you asked when you were done.
He shifted his wrists against the rope, gauging his movement. “Tighter,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded, and you re-tied the knot so that the rope dug into the skin below the heel of his hands. He balled his hands into fists and flexed them a couple of times. “It’s good,” he said. He was still looking at you.
You placed your palm on his crotch, felt him through his boxers. He shifted when you touched him, angling himself into your hand. He was impatient, but you wanted to take it slow, knowing it might never be like this again.
You slid his boxers over his hips, down his legs. He was naked and stretched out before you, yours to do with as you pleased. You felt powerful, dangerously so, like you could take this too far. You checked yourself. This was Sam, not a random woman you met in a bar or diner. You were doing this to Sam.
You slid fingers up the insides of his thighs, parting his legs. He bent his knees, opened himself up.
He said, “Touch me, Dean - please,” and he sounded thirteen not eighteen. A warning flashed in your head; this is not what normal people do. And you wondered if you should have said something. You know you thought about it as your hand brushed the front of your boxers and your body hardened guiltily in response. You could have stopped yourself then. Sometimes you wish you had.
Sam clenched and unclenched his fists, like he was letting tension out through his hands. You touched him, started at the tip, one finger trailing wetness down the length of Sam’s cock, all the way to the base and underneath until you came to rest at his opening. You pushed inside. He made a short, gasping sound, like he’d been stuck with a needle, the pain over before he had time to think about it. You didn’t do this with anyone but you knew you needed lubricant; something more than spit and pre-come, because this was Sam and you knew he didn’t do this with anyone either.
You knew how to improvise. You carried Vaseline with you wherever you went, kept it with your toothbrush and your razor. You fetched it from the bathroom, taking a moment to look in the mirror, like you were expecting someone else to look back. Your reflection caught you off guard. You’d never seen yourself look vulnerable.
You spread Vaseline over your hands and knelt between Sam’s legs. You worked a finger around his ass until you were satisfied he was ready and then you slipped it inside him, waited a beat, and then inserted another. Your other hand held him down as he tried to bring his knees together. You noticed the skin on his hip was clear and soft, easy to bruise. You slipped a third finger in and flexed, stretching him open.
You lowered your boxers around your thighs, the waistband halfway down your ass. You lined your cock up to his entrance, kept him open as you edged inside him, his muscles clenching around you. He stretched his legs wider, breathing shallow as he forced himself through the pain. You wanted to take it slow but you let momentum carry you forward, pushing in deeper than you thought you could go. His body arched upwards and he cried out - a short, sharp sound that faded to a whimper. His hands were balled into fists, knuckles white as he pulled hard on the ropes.
You were deep inside him now, no going back. You waited, holding on to the moment, the room falling away until there was just you and Sam and the bed. You could have held him like this forever.
“Keep going,” Sam said. He sucked in air through clenched teeth, his jaw jutting defiantly.
You moved again tentatively, placing your hands either side of Sam, and taking the weight in your shoulders. His ass was tight; the friction incredible. You had no idea it could be like that.
You built a pace, back and forth, not too slow, not too fast. You pulled all the way out and pushed in again hard. He flinched, but he kept his eyes on you, unblinking, like he was daring you. You let go, fucked him, no holding back.
He was quiet at first, his lips pressed together, concentrating on his breathing. Then he closed his eyes, his body slackening in a wave starting at his shoulders and working its way to his knees. He said your name. “Dean, Dean, Dean…” like an anthem.
You took his cock in your hand, worked it in your fist, trying to match the movement of your hips. You were offbeat and rough but he was with you anyway, twisting his hips, grinding against you. “Harder,” he told you. “I can take it.”
You backed onto your knees, slipping your hands under his ass and lifting his hips. You found your position and slammed into him, again and again. You punished him for leaving you, for letting you do this one time before disappearing in the morning. You wanted him to remember you when he walked to the bus stop, when he sat down, when he lay alone in his college bed. You wanted him to miss you so much he couldn’t sleep.
“Is this the way you want it, Sammy?” you said. “Like this?”
“Yes,” he said. “Fuck, yes.”
He told you he loved you. Or maybe it was the other way around. Years later and this part is messed up in your head. You came first. Sam came shortly after, pulling so hard on the headboard, the wooden slats came out of their fittings. You fell against him, buried your face in his neck and said things you couldn’t remember the next day let alone years later. He put his still-tied wrists around your neck and held on, his face in your hair.
You can’t remember how long you lay like that. You know you broke away first, reaching for the towel beside the bed. You wrapped it around your waist.
Sam held up his hands. “Some help here?”
You untied him. His wrists were red, indented from the rope. You couldn’t take your eyes off them. “You should put something on that,” you said, always the big brother; you couldn’t help yourself.
He wiped himself with a t-shirt, discarded it on the floor afterwards and searched for a towel. He found one in the bathroom, claimed a shower while he was there. You were too spent to argue.
The room smelled like sweat and sex. You picked up both your boxers and threw them in the laundry bag. You looked at the sheets on the bed and for an elastic moment contemplated keeping them. You wondered if that made you obsessed or sentimental, if there was a difference.
Sam came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, his wet hair sticking to his face in curls. His wrists were ringed with red.
You went into the bathroom after him, stopped yourself at the door, your hand on the jamb. You didn’t like to think about things between you if you didn’t have to - you were used to a world that defied explanation - but you didn’t want to him to leave without giving you an answer, something to think about when you tried to make sense of this years later. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
Sam climbed into bed, rubbed Vaseline on his wrists. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, it fucking matters. You’re going tomorrow - I don’t know when I’ll see you again - and this is how you say goodbye?” You looked up at the ceiling, saw the water stains in the plaster and thought about every hotel room you’d stayed in since you left Lawrence. “You scare me sometimes, Sammy.”
He nodded, looked at his hands. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, I guess we’re even.”
“Sam…” You waited for him to look at you, to meet your eyes. “Sam?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I wanted you to remember how you let me go.”
You didn’t understand. He didn’t elaborate. You went into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.
*
Years later it makes even less sense.
You can hear him breathing, so close. He’s here beside you again, and for the first time in years you believe everything could be the way it used to be. If Sam would only say he’s not leaving this time and that this isn’t temporary. Then maybe you’d give in, line your body up against his the way he’s inviting you to.
Instead you say, “What do you want from me, Sam?”
“Do you wonder how I can tell what you’ve been doing tonight, Dean?”
“Law of averages?”
“You smell like her,” he says. “But mostly you smell like you, like you always did when we were in bed together. Sometimes when I was with Jess, I could smell you and I realised it was me. I smell like you - same goddamned scent.”
You feel his hand on your hip, resting, his thumb brushing the waist of your boxers. You let the sensation tempt you while you entertain thoughts of arching into his hand, grinding yourself against him, and alleviating that itch you’ve let fester all these years. Instead you move out of his reach, shifting to the edge of the bed, so that your hand dangles over the side. It’s a low bed; you can touch the floor if you stretch your fingers. “Normal people don’t do this, Sam,” you say.
He snorts. “When have you ever cared about being normal?”
“I don’t - but you do.”
Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed. You hear him blow air out through his nose, followed by the sound of your belt buckle hitting the bathroom door as he kicks your jeans out of the way.
He goes back to his bed. “We’re a lot more alike than you think,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A car drives by outside; its headlights pan the room. Sam’s bed creaks as he turns on his side. “I don’t need you to save me.”
*
In the morning Sam wakes you, nudging your nose with coffee in a paper cup. “Dean?” he says. “Dean, we’ve got to go.”
You take the coffee from him. “What time is it?”
“Time to check out or pay for another day.”
“Fuck.”
You dress, foregoing a shower and shave in favour of stuffing your few belongings into a duffel while Sam returns the keys.
You’re waiting by the Impala when Sam returns. He holds out his hand. “I’ll drive.”
Your first response it to resist but you’re hung-over and barely awake, and you know there are times when it’s best not to argue with your kid brother - this might be one of them. Sam says something about getting on the road before the manager checks the name on your credit card and you drive away, Sam spinning the tires a little as he pulls out into traffic.
You pull into the first truck stop outside of town so you can buy a road map. You spread it over your knees, plan a route to Alabama that avoids the weekend traffic.
You’re eating Cheetos in lieu of breakfast. Sam complains about the lack of fruit and vegetables in your diets.
“I should have got Doritos,” you say. Sam looks at you and frowns. You pop another Cheeto in your mouth. “Corn.”
“Do you remember Mrs. Dartworth?” Sam asks. “She gave us oats for breakfast. We’d never had them before. We broke out in hives.”
“That woman was nuts,” you say. You’d never had an allergic reaction before. Neither had Sam. You accused Mrs Dartworth of trying to kill you. “She told Pastor Jim we’d been playing in the weeds behind the church.”
“Yeah.” Sam laughs. You overtake an RV towing a boat. You follow it with your eyes as you pass. The name on the boat reads, ‘Mellissa.’ “Then she felt guilty so she bought us ice cream.”
You remember how easily she bought your silence. “We should have held out for pizza.”
Sam smiles, his eyes on the traffic in front. He leans his elbow on the window and hums along with the stereo. It’s Metallica doing “Whisky in the Jar” and it’s not really hummable, but Sam’s trying and you appreciate it.
You check the map and tell Sam to take the next exit. He nods, glances at you quickly, like he’s checking up on you. You remember you used to like the way he looked at you, how he watched you sometimes when he thought you weren’t looking.
“Cheeto?” you say, holding up the bag.
“I’m good,” he says.
It feels permanent and you wish it didn’t. You play tough but you can’t keep doing this, getting used to him so he can leave you behind. You know you’ll do right by him, keep doing right by him, but you’re made of glass not stone; one day you’ll break, tie him to the bed, and let him go all over again.
End.
Good
Report card B, commodity, food
long in the fridge unspoiled.
Antonym & origin of evil, grade
of kisser in the kissed
mouth's mind. The news
I'm leaving, you decide
what kind, what for,
assign the qualifier:
pretty, very, no.
You never had it so.
Hilary Sideris
Fandom: Supernatural
Category: Dean/ Sam, Wincest, graphic m/m
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Nothing specific
Summary: “…sometimes, Sam’s still the ten-year-old kid with the runny nose and hair in his eyes and you’re still the guy who looks after him.”
Author’s Notes: With much love and thanks and all that chick-flick stuff to thepurpleswitch who did beta duties and suggested the poem below for the title.
This is yet another attempt to battle my porn demons (*wipes sweat from brow*). You've been warned.
You pass a sign saying, “Austin 50.” Sam is reading aloud from a brochure he picked up at a truck stop: a guide to Texas hotels. He lists the more affordable options, gives a price range and distance from your current location. When you don’t answer, he reminds you of the time you got drunk and fell into the swimming pool of a hotel in Reno. You nearly drowned. The manager pulled you out, checked you were still breathing and told your father he had an idiot for a son. Dad said that if he caught you drinking again he would send you to military school.
You don’t ask Sam why he’s remembering Reno in Texas. Ten minutes ago he asked if you remembered the time he caught you getting a blowjob from a waitress behind a diner in Arkansas. You told him ‘no’ because there are some parts of your shared history that do not warrant nostalgia. Sam finds it amusing now, but at the time you were both horrified. He was thirteen and he still looked up to you. You liked to think you sheltered him.
You turn up Motorhead on the car stereo. Sam slumps in the passenger seat, knees against the dashboard. He’s too tall to be cramped into a car seat for long stretches of time. He says, “If we don’t stop at the next hotel, Dean, I swear, I’m sleeping on the side of the road.”
You pretend you can’t hear him over the music. “What?”
He makes a show of turning the music down. “Hotel, Dean. I need to sleep in a bed, okay?”
You don’t want to stop in Austin. You like the smaller towns, not the sprawling cities. The cash is running low and big towns are wary of credit card scams. You hustle better in small towns too. Maybe your charm works better on folks who don’t get out much, or maybe it’s because they don’t show old Paul Newman movies in small towns? Whatever it is, you don’t like your chances of cashing up in Austin. Cities are bad luck.
You reach the outskirts of Austin and Sam points out a “Vacancy” sign further up the road. You pull in because, sometimes, Sam’s still the ten-year-old kid with the runny nose and hair in his eyes and you’re still the guy who looks after him.
*
You remember the first time you saw Sam kiss a girl. He was sixteen, all limbs and bangs, and she was throwing herself at him, leaning into his personal space and touching his arm repeatedly. Sam didn’t have a clue. He backed off, like he was getting in her way. She was a smart girl, someone who knew when to be proper and when to seize an opportunity before it walked away. She threw caution to the wind and grabbed Sam by the elbow, kissed him before he knew what was happening. It took Sam five whole beats to kiss her back.
You were waiting in the car. You turned the lights on and they sprang apart. Later you asked Sam who the girl was and he said she was helping him catch up on math. He didn’t tell you her name. He said he wanted to go to college and moving from state to state was not helping his grade point average. You can’t remember if that was the first time he’d told you he had plans that didn’t include you and your father.
You sulked about it for days afterward and Sam accused you of being unsupportive. You told him you had to get used to the idea but the truth was, the kiss had gotten to you. You couldn’t admit it to yourself then but you hated the thought of other people touching him.
*
Sam throws his duffel on the bed nearest the window, takes the remote from the top of the TV and sinks into the room’s only chair. He channel surfs while you check messages on your cell. Someone called Jeannie says she’d love to catch up when you’re in town again. You ask Sam if Jeannie was the redhead in that bar in Wichita. Sam rolls his eyes. You stuff your cell into your hip pocket, and tell Sam you’re going out for beer.
When you get back, Sam’s watching television, drinking milk from the carton. You give him a beer and a packet of Cheetos and ask him what he’s watching. It’s a nature documentary: insects in the Sahara or something. You think you might have seen it but you can’t tell whether that’s because all insect documentaries look the same or because the hotels in these parts play the same movies.
You open a beer and take out your father’s journal. You’re not looking for anything specific but you hope to find something that will tell you why he left and where he’s gone. Sometimes reading his journal helps you understand him. Sometimes you’re looking for yourself amongst the newspaper clippings and notes, signs that he’s thinking about you when he’s thinking about revenge. You find phone numbers, a photo, an entry about your first time on a hunt. You wonder what it means.
“Do you remember when we watched Beyond Thunderdome?” Sam says, not looking away from the TV. “You wanted to be Mad Max. You made me pretend I was one of those kids, trying to find a way out of Bartertown.”
“Yeah.” You remember. You were always the hero and Sam the reluctant sidekick. Sam was six. He wanted to be He-Man.
“You tied me up,” Sam says.
You remember this too. You wonder if this is what Sam’s been getting at all along. You wanted him to pretend he’d been captured by Aunty Entity. You took your games too seriously. Your father taught you to be ever vigilant, to treat every situation as dangerous. You couldn’t let this go, even when you played make believe. You tied Sam up, told him he needed to be brave, to learn to withstand pain and discomfort. You left him like that, alone and frightened. He started to cry.
Sam didn’t have the security of knowing evil only existed in his imagination. He feared strange noises and shadows with good reason. You forgot this sometimes. You were an older brother but you were also a child.
You untied him and you told him you were sorry. You said you would play He-Man if he wanted. Sam refused and told you he’d never play pretend with you again.
On the TV a zebra disintegrates via the magic of insects and time-lapse photography. You say, “Jesus, Sam, isn’t there something better on?”
Sam doesn’t change the channel. “We have some weird history,” he says.
“It’s not so bad,” you say reflexively. You’ve defended your life to yourself so often it’s a habit.
“But you won’t talk about it.”
“I thought you wanted to sleep.” You pop the cap on another beer.
Sam channels surfs again, settles on Seinfeld. “You’re not ashamed, are you, Dean?”
“Of what?” He doesn’t say anything but he looks at you with intent, like you know exactly what he means. “No,” you say. “I mean - I don’t know. Fuck, Sam, what do you want me to say?”
“Anything’s better than nothing,” he says.
You count the days. Sam’s been back in your life for seven weeks, nearly two months. Suddenly he wants to talk.
“You know,’ you say. “You can be a real girl sometimes.” You take your beer outside. You’re on the second floor of a four-up, four-down block that reminds you of every cheap hotel you’ve ever been in. You lean over the walkway railing, resting your beer on your arm. There are two girls swimming in the hotel pool, speaking a language you don’t recognise. They wave at you and you wave back. They’re blonde and pretty but you’re not in a social mood. You finish your beer, let yourself cool off a little, and go back inside.
Sam is in bed with the light off. You crawl into bed quietly, not wanting to disturb him. In the grey light you can see he still sleeps with his mouth open.
*
You were nineteen and Sam was fifteen when Pastor Jim insisted you have your own beds. You wondered if he suspected something because he also gave you separate rooms. You slept alone for four nights; on the fifth you woke with Sam in your bed.
You told yourself he came to you and that made you the stronger one. Years later you ask yourself what it took to make the first move, why you could never do it.
*
You get a mission in Austin, hunting a ghost in an apartment block in Sunset Valley. It’s not an especially dangerous gig but the spirit is devious spirit and the hunt takes longer than you anticipated. By the time you head wearily back to the Impala the night has turned into a red and yellow morning and you wind up searching the back seat for your sunglasses.
You sleep all day, wake up as the sun is going down. Sam reminds you you’re paying for a third night at the hotel and says you may as well get comfortable. He goes for takeout and returns with pizza and a newspaper.
He sits cross-legged on the bed, reading the classifieds. He talks about getting a job. “Austin’s not so bad,” he says. “And it would only be for a couple of weeks.”
“We have a job,” you tell him.
“Yeah?” he says. He gives you a look like he thinks you’re talking out of your ass. It’s a familiar look coming from him. “Well, the pay’s lousy.”
“Gotta love the hours, though.”
“I like sleeping at night,” Sam says.
“I find it hard to believe we’re related sometimes.” The truth is, you worry about money more with Sam around. Maybe it’s habit but it’s also incentive. You don’t want to lose him because you can’t afford a decent bed when he needs one.
You put your jacket on. There’s a bar with pool tables further down the road. You saw it on the way into town.
“Where are you going?” Sam asks.
”Hustling,” you say. “You want to come with?” Sam has an honest face. You could use him.
“No.” He doesn’t look up from the classifieds. Sam wants to earn an honest living, but in the mean time he’s stuck living off scams and con jobs. It eats him up sometimes.
*
You remember meeting with Sam’s guidance counsellor because Dad went to Connecticut on the trail of a werewolf and he asked you to go in his place. Before he left, he said, “Don’t say anything stupid,” and Sam looked at you like he was thinking the same thing.
Dad called the school and told them to expect you. The guidance counsellor gave you the twice-over anyway. She asked you how old you were.
You said, “Older than Sam,” and gave her your most charming smile. “But no wiser.”
She frowned, unimpressed. You looked at the ceiling.
She told you Sam was smart and sociable and everyone including the teachers liked him. She said Sam would go far if he had opportunities. Sam, apparently, enjoyed being involved in the school paper and the drama club. His teachers called him ‘dedicated’ and ‘thoughtful’ and ‘bright’ and offered to endorse his applications to college. They could have been describing a stranger. You didn’t know this Sam. You would never know this Sam.
Later Sam asked how it went.
“Your teachers think the sun shines out of your ass,” you said.
“Yeah?” He looked pleased.
“I told them you still wet the bed.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re twelve, Dean.”
When you were twelve, he was still short enough to look up to you.
*
You go out, come back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning, smelling like whisky and smoke and sex. The girl behind the bar kept you in drinks all night and let you fuck her on the hood of your car after closing. Something about girls and the Impala does it for you. The girl laughed at you when you told her, called you “kinky.” You laughed too and told her you had lots of kinky secrets but the car wasn’t one of them.
You try to be quiet as you navigate your way in the dark toward your bed, but you’re drunk and clumsy and you fall over trying to get your jeans off.
“How did it go?” Sam says. He doesn’t sound like he’s been sleeping at all.
“Great,” you say, as you kick the leg of your jeans off. You made enough to get you to the next town, the next job. You won’t have to sleep in the car tomorrow night, or the night after.
“Did you get her number?”
“Sure.” You don’t remember if she gave you her number or if you gave her yours. You don’t remember her name either. You fall backwards onto the bed and the heardboard bangs against the wall.
Sam turns the light on. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” You shield your eyes with your hand. You’re still wearing your jeans on one leg.
“You’re a mess, Dean,” Sam says. He gets out of bed, helps you with your jeans. You feel his fingers on the underside of your knee, sliding down your calf, lingering on your ankle.
You wait but he doesn’t let go. Your heart beats in your throat. You say, “Sam?”
He strokes your ankle - just once - like he’s testing you. “Do you remember when I left?” His voice is a whisper. You wonder what the point is when there’s no one around to hear.
“Yeah,” you say. “I remember.” You’ve spent four years trying to forget but there are times you can’t remember anything else.
Sam crawls up the bed slowly, takes his time like a cat settling into the warm spot by the fire. He lies beside you, his shoulder touching yours. “So why do you pretend you don’t?”
Because he left, because you got used to being on your own, because you don’t know how to talk about your feelings with anyone, not even Sam.
Because you don’t want to say anything stupid. You want to do right by Sam if it’s the last thing you do for him.
*
You remember how it ended, not how it started.
You remember Sam timed the announcement, waited until Dad was leaving on a hunting trip with Caleb. He didn’t want to leave you alone with Dad’s wrath. He said it was the least he owed you.
Your father’s mistake was that he told you everything he knew about darkness and evil and then left you on your own. He taught you to look out for each other but you also learned co-dependence. Sam was there when your father wasn’t. You relied on this when you could rely on nothing else.
You drank tequila - Sam's going away present. You dared him to drink the worm and he told you where you could shove the worm. You told him his razor sharp wit was wasted on Stanford.
“Seriously, Sammy,” you said. “I’m taking you to Vegas. We’ll rake it in.”
Sam fixed his eyes drunkenly on the tequila bottle. "You're jealous," he said. He slurred his word a little. You were both drunk but you were holding it better. And you were at least two shots ahead of him.
“Guys like me don't go to college,” you said. “And college is all the better for it.”
"Not true," he said. "If you wanted to, Dean - you're smart.…"
You’d heard it before, Sam always saying you could do better, be someone other than who you were. It got old fast but Sam said it like he was hoping one day it would come true. You gave him points for persistence.
You poured more tequila for both of you, held your glass up. "To Stanford," you said. You chinked the bottom of your glass against his. “My little brother’s going to college.” Sam rested his chin on his arms, looked at the table. “I’m proud of you, Sammy.”
Sam pushed out his lower lip, frowned like you’d insulted him. You didn’t care. It was true.
Later you crawled under the covers together. You didn’t invite him; he came the way he always did, sure of his welcome.
He lined himself along your body, wrapped arms and legs, his chest to your back. He slid his leg between yours, separating your knees.
”What if you came with me?” he said. You felt him breathing against your ear. He was hard already; eighteen and constantly aroused. You’d learned control and the tequila dulled your senses but Sam’s erection nudged your ass and suddenly you were right there with him, a drop of wetness soaking through your boxers and sticking to your skin.
“What would I do in Stanford, Sam?” you said wearily. You’d had this conversation too. You didn’t want it now. You wanted his hand on your dick - a quick jerk-off before you slept, curling up with Sam for the last time.
“You could stay with me,” Sam said hopefully. “We’d get jobs - live like normal people.”
You turned around, turning into him. You felt warm breath on your lips, Sam’s mouth so close to yours you could taste him. You could have closed the gap, surprised him with a kiss, only you didn’t. You never did. You kissed girls, not Sam.
“You want that?” you said. “Nine to five job, house in the ‘burbs?”
“Is it so bad?” he said. “To have a home?”
“It’s not forever, Sam.” You didn’t believe it but it felt like the right thing to say.
He shifted his hips, his erection brushing yours. Your body responded reflexively, arching into him, rubbing yourself against him. You wanted him, this, whatever it was. You wanted Sam to stop talking because you’d lost already. Nothing left to say, nothing but nostalgia to keep you going.
“Remember when you tied me up?” he said.
“Yeah.”
His lips brushed your cheekbone. “I want you to do it again.”
You didn’t understand. You thought maybe he was joking. You couldn’t make out his expression in the dark.
He let go of you and edged out of the bed. He had rope in his duffel, the nylon braided kind you buy from boating stores. You were in Utah and you hadn’t been to the coast in years. You didn’t know where Sam had found rope but he’d obviously come prepared.
The knowledge made you weak. You took the rope from him. “You really want this?”
He lay down next to you again, raised his arms above his head. “Yeah,” he said.
Your father taught you how to throw a punch, fire a gun, tie a knot. You can tie a bowline, an alpine butterfly, a rolling hitch. You used a square knot on Sam, twice around the wrists and down through the middle. You tied him to the wooden slats on the headboard, his eyes on you the whole time.
“Okay?” you asked when you were done.
He shifted his wrists against the rope, gauging his movement. “Tighter,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded, and you re-tied the knot so that the rope dug into the skin below the heel of his hands. He balled his hands into fists and flexed them a couple of times. “It’s good,” he said. He was still looking at you.
You placed your palm on his crotch, felt him through his boxers. He shifted when you touched him, angling himself into your hand. He was impatient, but you wanted to take it slow, knowing it might never be like this again.
You slid his boxers over his hips, down his legs. He was naked and stretched out before you, yours to do with as you pleased. You felt powerful, dangerously so, like you could take this too far. You checked yourself. This was Sam, not a random woman you met in a bar or diner. You were doing this to Sam.
You slid fingers up the insides of his thighs, parting his legs. He bent his knees, opened himself up.
He said, “Touch me, Dean - please,” and he sounded thirteen not eighteen. A warning flashed in your head; this is not what normal people do. And you wondered if you should have said something. You know you thought about it as your hand brushed the front of your boxers and your body hardened guiltily in response. You could have stopped yourself then. Sometimes you wish you had.
Sam clenched and unclenched his fists, like he was letting tension out through his hands. You touched him, started at the tip, one finger trailing wetness down the length of Sam’s cock, all the way to the base and underneath until you came to rest at his opening. You pushed inside. He made a short, gasping sound, like he’d been stuck with a needle, the pain over before he had time to think about it. You didn’t do this with anyone but you knew you needed lubricant; something more than spit and pre-come, because this was Sam and you knew he didn’t do this with anyone either.
You knew how to improvise. You carried Vaseline with you wherever you went, kept it with your toothbrush and your razor. You fetched it from the bathroom, taking a moment to look in the mirror, like you were expecting someone else to look back. Your reflection caught you off guard. You’d never seen yourself look vulnerable.
You spread Vaseline over your hands and knelt between Sam’s legs. You worked a finger around his ass until you were satisfied he was ready and then you slipped it inside him, waited a beat, and then inserted another. Your other hand held him down as he tried to bring his knees together. You noticed the skin on his hip was clear and soft, easy to bruise. You slipped a third finger in and flexed, stretching him open.
You lowered your boxers around your thighs, the waistband halfway down your ass. You lined your cock up to his entrance, kept him open as you edged inside him, his muscles clenching around you. He stretched his legs wider, breathing shallow as he forced himself through the pain. You wanted to take it slow but you let momentum carry you forward, pushing in deeper than you thought you could go. His body arched upwards and he cried out - a short, sharp sound that faded to a whimper. His hands were balled into fists, knuckles white as he pulled hard on the ropes.
You were deep inside him now, no going back. You waited, holding on to the moment, the room falling away until there was just you and Sam and the bed. You could have held him like this forever.
“Keep going,” Sam said. He sucked in air through clenched teeth, his jaw jutting defiantly.
You moved again tentatively, placing your hands either side of Sam, and taking the weight in your shoulders. His ass was tight; the friction incredible. You had no idea it could be like that.
You built a pace, back and forth, not too slow, not too fast. You pulled all the way out and pushed in again hard. He flinched, but he kept his eyes on you, unblinking, like he was daring you. You let go, fucked him, no holding back.
He was quiet at first, his lips pressed together, concentrating on his breathing. Then he closed his eyes, his body slackening in a wave starting at his shoulders and working its way to his knees. He said your name. “Dean, Dean, Dean…” like an anthem.
You took his cock in your hand, worked it in your fist, trying to match the movement of your hips. You were offbeat and rough but he was with you anyway, twisting his hips, grinding against you. “Harder,” he told you. “I can take it.”
You backed onto your knees, slipping your hands under his ass and lifting his hips. You found your position and slammed into him, again and again. You punished him for leaving you, for letting you do this one time before disappearing in the morning. You wanted him to remember you when he walked to the bus stop, when he sat down, when he lay alone in his college bed. You wanted him to miss you so much he couldn’t sleep.
“Is this the way you want it, Sammy?” you said. “Like this?”
“Yes,” he said. “Fuck, yes.”
He told you he loved you. Or maybe it was the other way around. Years later and this part is messed up in your head. You came first. Sam came shortly after, pulling so hard on the headboard, the wooden slats came out of their fittings. You fell against him, buried your face in his neck and said things you couldn’t remember the next day let alone years later. He put his still-tied wrists around your neck and held on, his face in your hair.
You can’t remember how long you lay like that. You know you broke away first, reaching for the towel beside the bed. You wrapped it around your waist.
Sam held up his hands. “Some help here?”
You untied him. His wrists were red, indented from the rope. You couldn’t take your eyes off them. “You should put something on that,” you said, always the big brother; you couldn’t help yourself.
He wiped himself with a t-shirt, discarded it on the floor afterwards and searched for a towel. He found one in the bathroom, claimed a shower while he was there. You were too spent to argue.
The room smelled like sweat and sex. You picked up both your boxers and threw them in the laundry bag. You looked at the sheets on the bed and for an elastic moment contemplated keeping them. You wondered if that made you obsessed or sentimental, if there was a difference.
Sam came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, his wet hair sticking to his face in curls. His wrists were ringed with red.
You went into the bathroom after him, stopped yourself at the door, your hand on the jamb. You didn’t like to think about things between you if you didn’t have to - you were used to a world that defied explanation - but you didn’t want to him to leave without giving you an answer, something to think about when you tried to make sense of this years later. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
Sam climbed into bed, rubbed Vaseline on his wrists. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, it fucking matters. You’re going tomorrow - I don’t know when I’ll see you again - and this is how you say goodbye?” You looked up at the ceiling, saw the water stains in the plaster and thought about every hotel room you’d stayed in since you left Lawrence. “You scare me sometimes, Sammy.”
He nodded, looked at his hands. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, I guess we’re even.”
“Sam…” You waited for him to look at you, to meet your eyes. “Sam?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I wanted you to remember how you let me go.”
You didn’t understand. He didn’t elaborate. You went into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.
*
Years later it makes even less sense.
You can hear him breathing, so close. He’s here beside you again, and for the first time in years you believe everything could be the way it used to be. If Sam would only say he’s not leaving this time and that this isn’t temporary. Then maybe you’d give in, line your body up against his the way he’s inviting you to.
Instead you say, “What do you want from me, Sam?”
“Do you wonder how I can tell what you’ve been doing tonight, Dean?”
“Law of averages?”
“You smell like her,” he says. “But mostly you smell like you, like you always did when we were in bed together. Sometimes when I was with Jess, I could smell you and I realised it was me. I smell like you - same goddamned scent.”
You feel his hand on your hip, resting, his thumb brushing the waist of your boxers. You let the sensation tempt you while you entertain thoughts of arching into his hand, grinding yourself against him, and alleviating that itch you’ve let fester all these years. Instead you move out of his reach, shifting to the edge of the bed, so that your hand dangles over the side. It’s a low bed; you can touch the floor if you stretch your fingers. “Normal people don’t do this, Sam,” you say.
He snorts. “When have you ever cared about being normal?”
“I don’t - but you do.”
Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed. You hear him blow air out through his nose, followed by the sound of your belt buckle hitting the bathroom door as he kicks your jeans out of the way.
He goes back to his bed. “We’re a lot more alike than you think,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A car drives by outside; its headlights pan the room. Sam’s bed creaks as he turns on his side. “I don’t need you to save me.”
*
In the morning Sam wakes you, nudging your nose with coffee in a paper cup. “Dean?” he says. “Dean, we’ve got to go.”
You take the coffee from him. “What time is it?”
“Time to check out or pay for another day.”
“Fuck.”
You dress, foregoing a shower and shave in favour of stuffing your few belongings into a duffel while Sam returns the keys.
You’re waiting by the Impala when Sam returns. He holds out his hand. “I’ll drive.”
Your first response it to resist but you’re hung-over and barely awake, and you know there are times when it’s best not to argue with your kid brother - this might be one of them. Sam says something about getting on the road before the manager checks the name on your credit card and you drive away, Sam spinning the tires a little as he pulls out into traffic.
You pull into the first truck stop outside of town so you can buy a road map. You spread it over your knees, plan a route to Alabama that avoids the weekend traffic.
You’re eating Cheetos in lieu of breakfast. Sam complains about the lack of fruit and vegetables in your diets.
“I should have got Doritos,” you say. Sam looks at you and frowns. You pop another Cheeto in your mouth. “Corn.”
“Do you remember Mrs. Dartworth?” Sam asks. “She gave us oats for breakfast. We’d never had them before. We broke out in hives.”
“That woman was nuts,” you say. You’d never had an allergic reaction before. Neither had Sam. You accused Mrs Dartworth of trying to kill you. “She told Pastor Jim we’d been playing in the weeds behind the church.”
“Yeah.” Sam laughs. You overtake an RV towing a boat. You follow it with your eyes as you pass. The name on the boat reads, ‘Mellissa.’ “Then she felt guilty so she bought us ice cream.”
You remember how easily she bought your silence. “We should have held out for pizza.”
Sam smiles, his eyes on the traffic in front. He leans his elbow on the window and hums along with the stereo. It’s Metallica doing “Whisky in the Jar” and it’s not really hummable, but Sam’s trying and you appreciate it.
You check the map and tell Sam to take the next exit. He nods, glances at you quickly, like he’s checking up on you. You remember you used to like the way he looked at you, how he watched you sometimes when he thought you weren’t looking.
“Cheeto?” you say, holding up the bag.
“I’m good,” he says.
It feels permanent and you wish it didn’t. You play tough but you can’t keep doing this, getting used to him so he can leave you behind. You know you’ll do right by him, keep doing right by him, but you’re made of glass not stone; one day you’ll break, tie him to the bed, and let him go all over again.
End.
Good
Report card B, commodity, food
long in the fridge unspoiled.
Antonym & origin of evil, grade
of kisser in the kissed
mouth's mind. The news
I'm leaving, you decide
what kind, what for,
assign the qualifier:
pretty, very, no.
You never had it so.
Hilary Sideris