Fanfic - SPN: IDKMUIMY - Ch.4 - I Mend and Break for You
Title: I Didn't Know Me Until I Met You
Author: eboniorchid
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Chapter 4: I Mend and Break for You
[032.Embarrassed]
Sam woke up sore, for the third day in a row, but when he listened for movement in the apartment he noticed that he was gloriously alone. That was always a plus. Rolling over to check his clock, he realized that it was pretty early considering that the market didn't open for another two and a half hours and he wasn't even sure he'd be trading today. He groaned, punching his pillow before setting his head down again, trying to go back to sleep. But, no, that was obviously not going to work. He wasn't actually sleepy, though his body ached and really just plain didn't want to ever have to move again. Ever.
Still, hadn't Dean said something about early morning coffee at Lucy's? Maybe if Sam dragged his black and blue ass out of bed he could go be grumpy with someone else. Usually, he was quite a morning person, but the night with Kane had kind of knocked the sun off of its cheery morning perch lately. The days were starting later and ending earlier and even when it was supposedly daytime, the blanket of bland gray clouds overhead made sure that it always felt like there was some kind of dome over the world, some kind of oppressive hard shell from which the creatures of Earth could not escape.
Gee, aren't we morose this morning.
Whatever. He had to get up and at least half-dressed if he was going to see if Dean was having coffee at the diner this morning. He punched his pillow again, but more out of spite than anything else, because he shifted on the bed, then, slipping his feet over the edge, and rose to start the day.
---
Sam had seen himself in the mirror when he was getting ready to go. He knew that he was pretty ugly right now, lip split in two places, knuckle-made cuts here and there, one eye still not quite able to open completely. But it was a whole different thing to see how people reacted to his brawler-made face when he stepped into the diner.
There wasn't a gasp or anything, no women ran screaming for the hills or covered their children's eyes, but there seemed to be a bit of a momentary hush and a few wide eyes turned to him before they were dashed away, likely in an effort to be respectful or to not embarrass the poor beaten or perhaps naturally disfigured boy.
Thankfully, though, he spotted Dean almost immediately, his back to the door, sitting in a booth by the window, but near the far corner of the room.
He tried not to be vain about this whole situation. Dean had probably seen plenty of roughed up boys in his life, some of them probably reflections of himself staring back at him from the mirror after a rough Hunt. Still, he knew the "what happened" conversation was bound to be awkward and could easily go very, very badly.
But he'd come to see Dean, right? He'd beat himself up all day if he chickened out now, especially when the only reason he looked like this was because he'd gotten tangled up in Dean's seductive web.
Sam strode down the aisle between the window-side booths and the lunch counter, slipping in across from Dean with what he hoped was a somewhat cheerful smile despite the state of his face. "Hey."
Dean looked up from his mug, the wide smile that had curled the edges of his lips falling into a shocked "O" as he finally saw Sam. "Fuck, Sam, what happened?"
"Nothing. I'm cool."
Dean's eyebrow angled upwards in a way that implied "yeah, right."
"Seriously. A … bar fight … got out of control, ya know? No big deal."
Dean's smile peaked back out of the shock for a second. "You were in a bar fight?"
"Well, I didn't want to be. I was just kind of in the wrong place at the wrong time, man."
"Huh. Never really figured you for a brawler, dude."
"I'm not. Like I said, wrong place, wrong time."
"Why don't I believe you?"
"Probably because you don't want to."
"Why wouldn't I want to believe you, Sam?"
"Because you already have preconceived notions about me and why I might be busted up like this."
"Preconceived notions? Listen, professor, I don't have any notions that came about either before or after conception." He smirked. "I'm just looking at the facts and, a) you don't seem the type to be in fights all that often, unless you count throwing very harsh words at someone to be a fight, and b) if you were planning to stage this imaginary brawl at Andie's across the street, I can assure you that it didn't happen, because I've definitely been there every night since Tuesday. So, why don't you just tell me what really happened? What's the big deal, Sam? You get your ass kicked by a Britney Spears impersonator?" His eyebrows were all scrunched together, but he took a swig of his coffee, waiting.
Yeah, Dean didn't know. He hadn't put two and two together. Or maybe it just wasn't as obvious to everyone else as it seemed to Sam. Maybe it was more like trying to put pi to the sixth power and the square root of eighty-three together, which Sam might know was somewhere between nine hundred and a thousand, but which Dean might just think was closer to, say, gibberish. He didn't really have a good story, though, beyond the accidental involvement in a bar fight, that would really explain this, so he'd just have to put up hard lines, say he wasn't going to talk about it. Family drama stayed in the fucking family.
No matter how nice Dean seemed or how good a fuck he was, they weren't on the same team and they weren't ever going to be.
"Whatever, Dean. If you don't want to believe it, that's fine, but I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"Seriously, what's the big deal? … Did you get mugged? On the way home? Damnit! I knew I shouldn't have let you walk home that late!"
"No, Dean, I didn't mugged. And seriously? I don't want to fucking talk about it. Period. So let it go." He knew his words came out harsh and maybe a bit too loud. He would have been embarrassed if the whole situation didn't just make him angry.
Dean's eyebrows rose, but he put his hands up in surrender, backing down. "Okay. Sure."
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, neither sure where to go from here. Dean was true to form, though, as the supposed extrovert of the pair, attempting to break the ice a bit again.
"So, uh … did your dad lock you in your room for the past few days after coming home late on Tuesday? He probably wasn't too happy about that bar fight either, was he? Or, uh … did you just not feel like drinking?"
"I just didn't feel like drinking. And I don't actually like the music there at all, but it's one of the few places around here that isn't chockfull of pretentious pricks."
"I hear ya. My first night here, I tried to get into this club downtown, and they said I was 'dressed like a ruffian'. What the fuck is that shit? It's a club. I was clean, clothed, and willing to pay their ridiculously high cover charge, but no, they wanted those slippery prep school types in hundred dollar slacks, driving their daddies' cars."
Sam blinked, amused, and looked down at his eighty dollar Ralph Lauren oxford button-down and equally pricey vintage Von Dutch designer jeans and wondered if he'd count as one of the 'slippery prep school types' that Dean was talking about.
Dean seemed to notice the movement, quickly putting more parameters on his apparently controversial labeling process. "I wasn't talking about you, though. I mean … I know you said Ivy League but … did you really go to prep school?"
"Dude, almost everyone in this damn town went to prep school. That's what Andover is known for, man."
"Oh, I wasn't meaning to-"
"It's okay. We're cool. I don't like most of the preps I know either and I'm supposed to be one of them, so I totally get why that stuff would rub you the wrong way. Don't worry. I swear, I'm not offended."
Dean nodded, warily at first, then more confidently when he saw that Sam was smiling and honestly not remotely offended. "Okay. Good. So, uh … did you just come for the chat? Or did you maybe want Melinda over there to bring you some coffee?"
Sam rolled his eyes, waving over the waitress, and ordered himself a full breakfast in addition to his coffee, making sure to get Dean a refill of definitely-not-fucking-decaff.
The coffee was surprisingly good, the food was quite edible, though likely to not be all that nutritious, and the company? Yeah, the company was amazing. Sam didn't even remember that he'd meant to be home in time for the opening bell of the Dow Jones Industrial. And Dean didn't seem keen to get anywhere either. They didn't even always have to talk, sometimes they just sat, drank coffee, watched passersby, occasionally giving each other a raised eyebrow or a half-nod when someone odd or intriguing walked into their view. It was all a little weird and yet totally not, which might have actually been why it seemed so weird.
They'd only met a few days ago, but they just kind of … worked … together.
It didn't feel mystical or anything. Sam wasn't getting any of the vibes that would tell him they were caught in some type of hex or had somehow stumbled into some sort of nymph affection trap or anything. Maybe it was just a testament to the self-imposed isolation of each of their lives that neither of them had enough social connections to make this … camaraderie … that they were falling into seem out of place.
Neither of them should want this … whatever it was. They shouldn't have gone beyond hello, shouldn't have made it out of the alley, shouldn't have sweat into the sheets of that motel room. They shouldn't have done any of that, but, once having done so, they sure as hell shouldn't have been talking over coffee for three hours like they really wanted to know each other, like they really wanted to be friends. Dean didn't know they were at war, that they were enemy combatants, that they were supposed to be destroying each other, so he could blame ignorance. But Sam knew the score, and yet, he just couldn't convince himself to turn back, to walk away.
Just as he was finishing what must have been his fifth cup of coffee, though, some new guy came in, definitely the type to hang out at Andies, cowboy boots, Stetson hat and all that. He seemed rough around the edges, dark hair a little long, plaid shirt a little faded, pale blue jeans a little worn, and he eyed Dean like he was a T-Bone steak with an "eat me" sign stuck on him. Dean noticed, a smirk on his lips, but didn't say anything, and Sam realized that this guy was way more the type Dean would probably go for usually. Dean was rough around the edges and Sam was a prep school type. Even if they weren't in the middle of a war, they probably wouldn't be good together.
Not that Sam was thinking about them being together in any kind of formal or informal sense. Not at all.
Right now, it wasn't even like Sam could compete in a contest of looks or sexual prowess, he was busted up and sore in every place that mattered. It wasn't like Dean couldn't totally go over and setup some fun for himself later. They'd only fucked once and it might have been good, but Dean didn't seem the type to settle down for anything, even amazing sex.
Not that Sam was thinking about them settling down together in any kind of formal or informal sense. Because that would just be fucking crazy.
Fuck. What was wrong with him? He really needed to stop obsessing about this random guy he'd only just met whose father he would need to kill sometime in the foreseeable future.
Rewind! He really needed … to stop obsessing … about this random guy he'd only just met … whose father he would need to kill … sometime in the foreseeable future.
Ha! Yeah, putting that together as a complete thought just proved how much he needed to get away from Dean as soon as possible, because, obviously, even without supernatural seduction capabilities, Dean was starting to get under his skin, and it was just way too difficult to reconcile wanting Dean with all the rest of his crazy life.
And, more than that, Sam figured that his presence was probably the only thing keeping Dean from getting up to chat with the cowboy in the corner anyway. So he got up, not even looking at Dean, and headed to the bathroom.
---
Sam splashed water over his face again, he didn't know how many times he'd repeated that motion, but somehow it seemed like the warmth of the water was slowly washing away the mud that seemed to have taken up residence in his mind. He had to focus. Get a grip on reality.
He looked up at himself in the mirror and saw flashes of torment from three nights before, even though his eyes were wide open.
He couldn't let this thing with Dean get to him, make him favor unimaginably bad decision-making over pragmatism. He needed to go, let Dean go. Hell, Dean was probably out their stashing the cowboy's number in his pocket right now. Sam should probably just make his peace with being a one-time fuck and leave Dean to the rest of his coffee.
But then the bathroom door swung open.
Dean came in strong, eyes sweeping, as if he imagined there was something in the empty air of the tiny one stall bathroom. When his eyes fell on Sam's wet face and drooping bangs, his eyes went softer, but still wary.
"You okay, Sam?"
"Yeah, I just … have a headache."
Dean crossed over to the sink, standing beside him, watching Sam look at himself numbly in the mirror. "I would to if someone busted my shit up like that."
"We're not talking about that, remember?"
"I remember."
"So what do you want?"
"Why'd you storm off like that? I mean … was I being an ass?"
He turned to Dean, wanting to make sure he knew this wasn't about him. It was, of course, but not because he was being an ass. "Dude. No. No way. I … it was probably just the headache that made it seem like I was storming off."
"Okay. I could believe that. It's a much better answer than getting caught in a bar fight, but still …"
"Seriously, it was just the headache."
Dean turned to face Sam. "Are you sure it didn't have anything to do with a certain cowboy that walked in about thirty seconds before you walked off?"
"What? No, of course not! No … just … no." Of course, his immediate and very strong denial sounded precisely like the poorest of lies.
Dean stepped in close, brushing his wet bangs back and over his ears. "I don't want him."
Sam scoffed. "Sure ya don't. And anyway it's none of my business who you do and don't want."
"No, it's not, but still. In case you were wondering, I don't want him."
Sam shrugged, looking down at Dean's lips, then back up at his eyes. "Okay. Fine by me."
"I do want you, though." Dean snaked his arms around Sam's waist, pulling him close, and gave his ass a playful squeeze.
He couldn't help the way he winced a little at the slide of Dean's arms around his abdomen or the noise, half-pained, half-surprised, that came out of his mouth when Dean grabbed his ass. Dean quirked his head a little, brows knitting together, and Sam tried to laugh it off, but it came out with a nervous quality. He was still way too sore from … but he wasn't going to think about that. He was with Dean and Dean wanted him … only … how could he? Right now, every eligible male in a twenty-mile radius looked cuter than Sam.
"Dean, we only fucked once. You don't have to treat me like your emo girlfriend having a bad hair day. I know I look like shit right now, so you don't have to lie to me. And if you were thinking to give me a pity fuck this weekend, you can just cross it off your busy calendar."
But then Dean's lips were on his, soft, but persistent. Dean was licking at the dark splits in his bottom lip, then moving his mouth to kiss over every scar he could see, every scar he could reach with his mouth when he stood on his tiptoes. Then he was back pressing his lips and tongue against Sam's and Sam relented, his mouth opening to the slick of Dean's tongue, and they kissed slow, nothing like the heat and speed of the alley, the motel, but still passionate in its own way.
Dean's hand slid under the back of Sam's shirt and yanked at the tucked-in undershirt, to feel the skin of Sam's back. It felt like Dean's hands were a balm, warm, soothing, and sexy, against his back. Sam was caught up in the kiss, lips soft and full against the rough of his broken ones, tongues caressing lazily over each other. He didn't mind the slow slip of Dean's hand into the back of his boxers and his breath only hitched for a moment as Dean brushed over bruised skin. But when Dean's fingers skated down his crease to press against his battered entrance, Sam strummed tight with tension and heard himself make a sound too much like a gasp and a chocked sob. Dean immediately pulled back, regarding him with concern, his hand rising back up to settle against Sam's back again.
"Sam?"
Sam looked away and down before meeting Dean's eyes. "I'm fine. It's just … not today, okay?"
Dean's eyes grew a little wider, though, and his breath seemed a bit more shallow. "I didn't … I mean … when we … did I … did I hurt you?"
"No." He shook his head, voice as sincere as he could make it, because Dean had been amazing in bed, this had nothing to do with him. Well, it did, but not in the way Dean thought it did. "You didn't hurt me at all, Dean. You were … great."
But that only made Dean's eyes narrow with realization, which Sam decided, too late, just might actually be worse. "Someone else? Someone else hurt you like that?" His voice wasn't loud, but it had a frightening edge of determination to it. "Same guy that messed up your face? You know where to find him, Sam? 'Cause, uh … I'm itching to return the favor."
Sam didn't say anything, couldn't think of anything to say. He just looked at Dean, willing him to let this go. He could see the cold violence of the Hunter in Dean and, if he was honest, it scared him a bit. He could see why Winchester had garnered a kind of minor boogeyman flavor in the nonhuman world. But even so, Dean's anger had no place in this situation. It wouldn't help anything for Dean to want to smash up his assailant's face, especially since Kane would probably just want Dean to be another pretty … no. He shuddered.
"Sam, tell me where he is and I'll straighten this shit out right-the-fuck-now."
"It doesn't work like that, Dean."
"No? But you know the guy, though, don't you? You could give me the info. You just don't want to."
"It's not your fight, Dean."
"Well it sure as hell looks like you could've used some backup."
"Not from you."
Dean's eyebrows lifted and he stepped away, then. "Oh. Not from me. Okay. Sure. Is he your boyfriend or something?"
"God no!" Sam's mouth tasted sour and his stomach flipped just thinking about … just … no.
"Then why won't you let me help? Is he some bigwig around here? I mean, I can be discrete and all that. He'd never know it was me, or that it had anything to do with you. It could just look like a mugging gone bad or something."
Sam laughed, shaking his head. Dean was so quick to offer to use his Hunting skills for slightly more morally ambiguous situations. He couldn't help but wonder if his father had been wrong about Dean not being someone they could convince to join their side. If Dean was this pissed about someone roughing up a boy he hardly knew, wouldn't he understand Sam's desire to avenge his mother's death?
"When you said 'contract work', Dean, I didn't figure it was 'contract criminal work'."
"Oh, it's not, but …" He shrugged. "Sometimes people deserve to get what's coming to them."
"Yeah, they do. And, yeah, okay, he does. But I need to be the one to do it, Dean. Know what I mean?"
Dean nodded, then, slow. "Yeah, I do." His eyes holding a depth of understanding that made Sam wonder who was on Dean's kill list.
There was silence heavy in the air for a moment, before Sam spoke, soft, anxious, more sad than he'd like to admit. "I'm sorry, though … that we can't … ya know … I mean … I'll be sore for a while yet."
Dean looked up at him, his lips skewing up in near-amusement, then he wagged his eyebrow a bit. "There are still plenty of options available, Sam."
But the muffled bang of the door being pushed open, made Dean snap his mouth shut as the cowboy came in, giving them a hard stare. Dean hardly looked at him, turning back to Sam. "But we should probably get out of this bathroom.
---
Dean paid for his coffee, Sam for his coffee and meal, and in no time they were heading … somewhere … in Dean's car. Dean wouldn't tell him, but Dean being coy was kind of cute so Sam didn't mind much. When they pulled into the lot of Paramount 16 Cinemas, though, Sam was a bit confused, to say the least.
"I don't quite see how a movie theater can help with all those options you mentioned."
"We could see a movie."
"They don't have those kinds of movies here Dean." He was laughing when he said it, but Dean was giving him a look that said he should shut up and stop acting like a dork.
"Dude, I'm just talking about a regular movie. And come on, when was the last time you stuffed your face with multi-colored candy? We've had caffeine enough for today, tomorrow, and the day after that, but now we need sugar. Besides, I'm sure there's something playing that has enough explosions to keep things interesting. Come on, Sammy. It's candy ... and … explosions!" He pushed open his door and hopped out, Sam following suit on his side before turning to Dean over the hood of the car.
"So … is this a … date?"
Dean's smile was dazzling though his tone was filled with mock horror. "Of course not. I don't do dates."
Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12
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Author: eboniorchid
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Chapter 4: I Mend and Break for You
[032.Embarrassed]
Sam woke up sore, for the third day in a row, but when he listened for movement in the apartment he noticed that he was gloriously alone. That was always a plus. Rolling over to check his clock, he realized that it was pretty early considering that the market didn't open for another two and a half hours and he wasn't even sure he'd be trading today. He groaned, punching his pillow before setting his head down again, trying to go back to sleep. But, no, that was obviously not going to work. He wasn't actually sleepy, though his body ached and really just plain didn't want to ever have to move again. Ever.
Still, hadn't Dean said something about early morning coffee at Lucy's? Maybe if Sam dragged his black and blue ass out of bed he could go be grumpy with someone else. Usually, he was quite a morning person, but the night with Kane had kind of knocked the sun off of its cheery morning perch lately. The days were starting later and ending earlier and even when it was supposedly daytime, the blanket of bland gray clouds overhead made sure that it always felt like there was some kind of dome over the world, some kind of oppressive hard shell from which the creatures of Earth could not escape.
Gee, aren't we morose this morning.
Whatever. He had to get up and at least half-dressed if he was going to see if Dean was having coffee at the diner this morning. He punched his pillow again, but more out of spite than anything else, because he shifted on the bed, then, slipping his feet over the edge, and rose to start the day.
---
Sam had seen himself in the mirror when he was getting ready to go. He knew that he was pretty ugly right now, lip split in two places, knuckle-made cuts here and there, one eye still not quite able to open completely. But it was a whole different thing to see how people reacted to his brawler-made face when he stepped into the diner.
There wasn't a gasp or anything, no women ran screaming for the hills or covered their children's eyes, but there seemed to be a bit of a momentary hush and a few wide eyes turned to him before they were dashed away, likely in an effort to be respectful or to not embarrass the poor beaten or perhaps naturally disfigured boy.
Thankfully, though, he spotted Dean almost immediately, his back to the door, sitting in a booth by the window, but near the far corner of the room.
He tried not to be vain about this whole situation. Dean had probably seen plenty of roughed up boys in his life, some of them probably reflections of himself staring back at him from the mirror after a rough Hunt. Still, he knew the "what happened" conversation was bound to be awkward and could easily go very, very badly.
But he'd come to see Dean, right? He'd beat himself up all day if he chickened out now, especially when the only reason he looked like this was because he'd gotten tangled up in Dean's seductive web.
Sam strode down the aisle between the window-side booths and the lunch counter, slipping in across from Dean with what he hoped was a somewhat cheerful smile despite the state of his face. "Hey."
Dean looked up from his mug, the wide smile that had curled the edges of his lips falling into a shocked "O" as he finally saw Sam. "Fuck, Sam, what happened?"
"Nothing. I'm cool."
Dean's eyebrow angled upwards in a way that implied "yeah, right."
"Seriously. A … bar fight … got out of control, ya know? No big deal."
Dean's smile peaked back out of the shock for a second. "You were in a bar fight?"
"Well, I didn't want to be. I was just kind of in the wrong place at the wrong time, man."
"Huh. Never really figured you for a brawler, dude."
"I'm not. Like I said, wrong place, wrong time."
"Why don't I believe you?"
"Probably because you don't want to."
"Why wouldn't I want to believe you, Sam?"
"Because you already have preconceived notions about me and why I might be busted up like this."
"Preconceived notions? Listen, professor, I don't have any notions that came about either before or after conception." He smirked. "I'm just looking at the facts and, a) you don't seem the type to be in fights all that often, unless you count throwing very harsh words at someone to be a fight, and b) if you were planning to stage this imaginary brawl at Andie's across the street, I can assure you that it didn't happen, because I've definitely been there every night since Tuesday. So, why don't you just tell me what really happened? What's the big deal, Sam? You get your ass kicked by a Britney Spears impersonator?" His eyebrows were all scrunched together, but he took a swig of his coffee, waiting.
Yeah, Dean didn't know. He hadn't put two and two together. Or maybe it just wasn't as obvious to everyone else as it seemed to Sam. Maybe it was more like trying to put pi to the sixth power and the square root of eighty-three together, which Sam might know was somewhere between nine hundred and a thousand, but which Dean might just think was closer to, say, gibberish. He didn't really have a good story, though, beyond the accidental involvement in a bar fight, that would really explain this, so he'd just have to put up hard lines, say he wasn't going to talk about it. Family drama stayed in the fucking family.
No matter how nice Dean seemed or how good a fuck he was, they weren't on the same team and they weren't ever going to be.
"Whatever, Dean. If you don't want to believe it, that's fine, but I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"Seriously, what's the big deal? … Did you get mugged? On the way home? Damnit! I knew I shouldn't have let you walk home that late!"
"No, Dean, I didn't mugged. And seriously? I don't want to fucking talk about it. Period. So let it go." He knew his words came out harsh and maybe a bit too loud. He would have been embarrassed if the whole situation didn't just make him angry.
Dean's eyebrows rose, but he put his hands up in surrender, backing down. "Okay. Sure."
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, neither sure where to go from here. Dean was true to form, though, as the supposed extrovert of the pair, attempting to break the ice a bit again.
"So, uh … did your dad lock you in your room for the past few days after coming home late on Tuesday? He probably wasn't too happy about that bar fight either, was he? Or, uh … did you just not feel like drinking?"
"I just didn't feel like drinking. And I don't actually like the music there at all, but it's one of the few places around here that isn't chockfull of pretentious pricks."
"I hear ya. My first night here, I tried to get into this club downtown, and they said I was 'dressed like a ruffian'. What the fuck is that shit? It's a club. I was clean, clothed, and willing to pay their ridiculously high cover charge, but no, they wanted those slippery prep school types in hundred dollar slacks, driving their daddies' cars."
Sam blinked, amused, and looked down at his eighty dollar Ralph Lauren oxford button-down and equally pricey vintage Von Dutch designer jeans and wondered if he'd count as one of the 'slippery prep school types' that Dean was talking about.
Dean seemed to notice the movement, quickly putting more parameters on his apparently controversial labeling process. "I wasn't talking about you, though. I mean … I know you said Ivy League but … did you really go to prep school?"
"Dude, almost everyone in this damn town went to prep school. That's what Andover is known for, man."
"Oh, I wasn't meaning to-"
"It's okay. We're cool. I don't like most of the preps I know either and I'm supposed to be one of them, so I totally get why that stuff would rub you the wrong way. Don't worry. I swear, I'm not offended."
Dean nodded, warily at first, then more confidently when he saw that Sam was smiling and honestly not remotely offended. "Okay. Good. So, uh … did you just come for the chat? Or did you maybe want Melinda over there to bring you some coffee?"
Sam rolled his eyes, waving over the waitress, and ordered himself a full breakfast in addition to his coffee, making sure to get Dean a refill of definitely-not-fucking-decaff.
The coffee was surprisingly good, the food was quite edible, though likely to not be all that nutritious, and the company? Yeah, the company was amazing. Sam didn't even remember that he'd meant to be home in time for the opening bell of the Dow Jones Industrial. And Dean didn't seem keen to get anywhere either. They didn't even always have to talk, sometimes they just sat, drank coffee, watched passersby, occasionally giving each other a raised eyebrow or a half-nod when someone odd or intriguing walked into their view. It was all a little weird and yet totally not, which might have actually been why it seemed so weird.
They'd only met a few days ago, but they just kind of … worked … together.
It didn't feel mystical or anything. Sam wasn't getting any of the vibes that would tell him they were caught in some type of hex or had somehow stumbled into some sort of nymph affection trap or anything. Maybe it was just a testament to the self-imposed isolation of each of their lives that neither of them had enough social connections to make this … camaraderie … that they were falling into seem out of place.
Neither of them should want this … whatever it was. They shouldn't have gone beyond hello, shouldn't have made it out of the alley, shouldn't have sweat into the sheets of that motel room. They shouldn't have done any of that, but, once having done so, they sure as hell shouldn't have been talking over coffee for three hours like they really wanted to know each other, like they really wanted to be friends. Dean didn't know they were at war, that they were enemy combatants, that they were supposed to be destroying each other, so he could blame ignorance. But Sam knew the score, and yet, he just couldn't convince himself to turn back, to walk away.
Just as he was finishing what must have been his fifth cup of coffee, though, some new guy came in, definitely the type to hang out at Andies, cowboy boots, Stetson hat and all that. He seemed rough around the edges, dark hair a little long, plaid shirt a little faded, pale blue jeans a little worn, and he eyed Dean like he was a T-Bone steak with an "eat me" sign stuck on him. Dean noticed, a smirk on his lips, but didn't say anything, and Sam realized that this guy was way more the type Dean would probably go for usually. Dean was rough around the edges and Sam was a prep school type. Even if they weren't in the middle of a war, they probably wouldn't be good together.
Not that Sam was thinking about them being together in any kind of formal or informal sense. Not at all.
Right now, it wasn't even like Sam could compete in a contest of looks or sexual prowess, he was busted up and sore in every place that mattered. It wasn't like Dean couldn't totally go over and setup some fun for himself later. They'd only fucked once and it might have been good, but Dean didn't seem the type to settle down for anything, even amazing sex.
Not that Sam was thinking about them settling down together in any kind of formal or informal sense. Because that would just be fucking crazy.
Fuck. What was wrong with him? He really needed to stop obsessing about this random guy he'd only just met whose father he would need to kill sometime in the foreseeable future.
Rewind! He really needed … to stop obsessing … about this random guy he'd only just met … whose father he would need to kill … sometime in the foreseeable future.
Ha! Yeah, putting that together as a complete thought just proved how much he needed to get away from Dean as soon as possible, because, obviously, even without supernatural seduction capabilities, Dean was starting to get under his skin, and it was just way too difficult to reconcile wanting Dean with all the rest of his crazy life.
And, more than that, Sam figured that his presence was probably the only thing keeping Dean from getting up to chat with the cowboy in the corner anyway. So he got up, not even looking at Dean, and headed to the bathroom.
---
Sam splashed water over his face again, he didn't know how many times he'd repeated that motion, but somehow it seemed like the warmth of the water was slowly washing away the mud that seemed to have taken up residence in his mind. He had to focus. Get a grip on reality.
He looked up at himself in the mirror and saw flashes of torment from three nights before, even though his eyes were wide open.
He couldn't let this thing with Dean get to him, make him favor unimaginably bad decision-making over pragmatism. He needed to go, let Dean go. Hell, Dean was probably out their stashing the cowboy's number in his pocket right now. Sam should probably just make his peace with being a one-time fuck and leave Dean to the rest of his coffee.
But then the bathroom door swung open.
Dean came in strong, eyes sweeping, as if he imagined there was something in the empty air of the tiny one stall bathroom. When his eyes fell on Sam's wet face and drooping bangs, his eyes went softer, but still wary.
"You okay, Sam?"
"Yeah, I just … have a headache."
Dean crossed over to the sink, standing beside him, watching Sam look at himself numbly in the mirror. "I would to if someone busted my shit up like that."
"We're not talking about that, remember?"
"I remember."
"So what do you want?"
"Why'd you storm off like that? I mean … was I being an ass?"
He turned to Dean, wanting to make sure he knew this wasn't about him. It was, of course, but not because he was being an ass. "Dude. No. No way. I … it was probably just the headache that made it seem like I was storming off."
"Okay. I could believe that. It's a much better answer than getting caught in a bar fight, but still …"
"Seriously, it was just the headache."
Dean turned to face Sam. "Are you sure it didn't have anything to do with a certain cowboy that walked in about thirty seconds before you walked off?"
"What? No, of course not! No … just … no." Of course, his immediate and very strong denial sounded precisely like the poorest of lies.
Dean stepped in close, brushing his wet bangs back and over his ears. "I don't want him."
Sam scoffed. "Sure ya don't. And anyway it's none of my business who you do and don't want."
"No, it's not, but still. In case you were wondering, I don't want him."
Sam shrugged, looking down at Dean's lips, then back up at his eyes. "Okay. Fine by me."
"I do want you, though." Dean snaked his arms around Sam's waist, pulling him close, and gave his ass a playful squeeze.
He couldn't help the way he winced a little at the slide of Dean's arms around his abdomen or the noise, half-pained, half-surprised, that came out of his mouth when Dean grabbed his ass. Dean quirked his head a little, brows knitting together, and Sam tried to laugh it off, but it came out with a nervous quality. He was still way too sore from … but he wasn't going to think about that. He was with Dean and Dean wanted him … only … how could he? Right now, every eligible male in a twenty-mile radius looked cuter than Sam.
"Dean, we only fucked once. You don't have to treat me like your emo girlfriend having a bad hair day. I know I look like shit right now, so you don't have to lie to me. And if you were thinking to give me a pity fuck this weekend, you can just cross it off your busy calendar."
But then Dean's lips were on his, soft, but persistent. Dean was licking at the dark splits in his bottom lip, then moving his mouth to kiss over every scar he could see, every scar he could reach with his mouth when he stood on his tiptoes. Then he was back pressing his lips and tongue against Sam's and Sam relented, his mouth opening to the slick of Dean's tongue, and they kissed slow, nothing like the heat and speed of the alley, the motel, but still passionate in its own way.
Dean's hand slid under the back of Sam's shirt and yanked at the tucked-in undershirt, to feel the skin of Sam's back. It felt like Dean's hands were a balm, warm, soothing, and sexy, against his back. Sam was caught up in the kiss, lips soft and full against the rough of his broken ones, tongues caressing lazily over each other. He didn't mind the slow slip of Dean's hand into the back of his boxers and his breath only hitched for a moment as Dean brushed over bruised skin. But when Dean's fingers skated down his crease to press against his battered entrance, Sam strummed tight with tension and heard himself make a sound too much like a gasp and a chocked sob. Dean immediately pulled back, regarding him with concern, his hand rising back up to settle against Sam's back again.
"Sam?"
Sam looked away and down before meeting Dean's eyes. "I'm fine. It's just … not today, okay?"
Dean's eyes grew a little wider, though, and his breath seemed a bit more shallow. "I didn't … I mean … when we … did I … did I hurt you?"
"No." He shook his head, voice as sincere as he could make it, because Dean had been amazing in bed, this had nothing to do with him. Well, it did, but not in the way Dean thought it did. "You didn't hurt me at all, Dean. You were … great."
But that only made Dean's eyes narrow with realization, which Sam decided, too late, just might actually be worse. "Someone else? Someone else hurt you like that?" His voice wasn't loud, but it had a frightening edge of determination to it. "Same guy that messed up your face? You know where to find him, Sam? 'Cause, uh … I'm itching to return the favor."
Sam didn't say anything, couldn't think of anything to say. He just looked at Dean, willing him to let this go. He could see the cold violence of the Hunter in Dean and, if he was honest, it scared him a bit. He could see why Winchester had garnered a kind of minor boogeyman flavor in the nonhuman world. But even so, Dean's anger had no place in this situation. It wouldn't help anything for Dean to want to smash up his assailant's face, especially since Kane would probably just want Dean to be another pretty … no. He shuddered.
"Sam, tell me where he is and I'll straighten this shit out right-the-fuck-now."
"It doesn't work like that, Dean."
"No? But you know the guy, though, don't you? You could give me the info. You just don't want to."
"It's not your fight, Dean."
"Well it sure as hell looks like you could've used some backup."
"Not from you."
Dean's eyebrows lifted and he stepped away, then. "Oh. Not from me. Okay. Sure. Is he your boyfriend or something?"
"God no!" Sam's mouth tasted sour and his stomach flipped just thinking about … just … no.
"Then why won't you let me help? Is he some bigwig around here? I mean, I can be discrete and all that. He'd never know it was me, or that it had anything to do with you. It could just look like a mugging gone bad or something."
Sam laughed, shaking his head. Dean was so quick to offer to use his Hunting skills for slightly more morally ambiguous situations. He couldn't help but wonder if his father had been wrong about Dean not being someone they could convince to join their side. If Dean was this pissed about someone roughing up a boy he hardly knew, wouldn't he understand Sam's desire to avenge his mother's death?
"When you said 'contract work', Dean, I didn't figure it was 'contract criminal work'."
"Oh, it's not, but …" He shrugged. "Sometimes people deserve to get what's coming to them."
"Yeah, they do. And, yeah, okay, he does. But I need to be the one to do it, Dean. Know what I mean?"
Dean nodded, then, slow. "Yeah, I do." His eyes holding a depth of understanding that made Sam wonder who was on Dean's kill list.
There was silence heavy in the air for a moment, before Sam spoke, soft, anxious, more sad than he'd like to admit. "I'm sorry, though … that we can't … ya know … I mean … I'll be sore for a while yet."
Dean looked up at him, his lips skewing up in near-amusement, then he wagged his eyebrow a bit. "There are still plenty of options available, Sam."
But the muffled bang of the door being pushed open, made Dean snap his mouth shut as the cowboy came in, giving them a hard stare. Dean hardly looked at him, turning back to Sam. "But we should probably get out of this bathroom.
---
Dean paid for his coffee, Sam for his coffee and meal, and in no time they were heading … somewhere … in Dean's car. Dean wouldn't tell him, but Dean being coy was kind of cute so Sam didn't mind much. When they pulled into the lot of Paramount 16 Cinemas, though, Sam was a bit confused, to say the least.
"I don't quite see how a movie theater can help with all those options you mentioned."
"We could see a movie."
"They don't have those kinds of movies here Dean." He was laughing when he said it, but Dean was giving him a look that said he should shut up and stop acting like a dork.
"Dude, I'm just talking about a regular movie. And come on, when was the last time you stuffed your face with multi-colored candy? We've had caffeine enough for today, tomorrow, and the day after that, but now we need sugar. Besides, I'm sure there's something playing that has enough explosions to keep things interesting. Come on, Sammy. It's candy ... and … explosions!" He pushed open his door and hopped out, Sam following suit on his side before turning to Dean over the hood of the car.
"So … is this a … date?"
Dean's smile was dazzling though his tone was filled with mock horror. "Of course not. I don't do dates."
Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12
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