He Sleeps In The Ruins - p.2
part one. PART TWO.
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Sam dreams of Dean and moments that never happened. They could’ve been - so genuine and perfect in his mind, fitting in neatly between actual memories - and that’s where Sam finds it hard to find the inconsistency. It’s all leaking sand in glass, seeping through holes he can’t fix and Sam can never seem to hold on.
Jensen never looks at him too long - Sam wonders if it’s that obvious, if it’s painted on his face. Like telling the difference between black and white.
But Jensen never says anything and soon, it becomes normal, like annoying habits that people pick up over their lives. Sam just hopes Jensen doesn’t hear him whispering to the shadows that move along the walls at night.
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“I’ve got an audition today.” Jensen’s chugging back what’s left of the orange juice from the carton; he wipes his lips with the back of his hands and throws the empty carton into the garbage can. Sam’s picking at the eggs on his plate, pushing them around to mix with the leftover ketchup. “Sorry to leave you like this.”
Sam shrugs and looks at Jensen. “It’s okay. I’ll just walk around or something.” He pushes his plate away and leans back in the chair.
“You sure?” Jensen’s rushing through the living room, kicking away papers and empty pizza boxes and clothes. “You’ve only been here for a week and I just feel weird leaving.” Jensen looks anxious and he wrings his hands together.
“Jensen, go,” Sam orders. “Stop worrying about me and worry about yourself for once.”
“You sure sure?”
Sam sighs.
Jensen smiles; he crouches on the floor, digging under the couch until he makes a victorious grunt and drags out his missing sneaker. He stands up after pulling on his shoe, brushing the non-existent wrinkles from his shirt. He holds his arms out and asks, “Okay?”
Sam nods, folding his arms across his chest. He stands by the door, holding out Jensen’s script. “Okay.”
“Sweet.” Jensen takes the script and pockets it, grinning. “See you later, Sam.”
“Good luck,” Sam whispers as Jensen closes the door. He’d only been there a week, but it feels like years.
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There’s something about the city that makes Sam feel awkward and out of place. He hasn’t looked at himself for days - no mirrors for miles - and when he catches his reflection in a shop window, distorted and skewed, he’s not himself. Not anywhere. There is nothing, nothing in his eyes; a ghost of something he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t fit with the slicked clean look that surrounds the city. All gold and glitter and bursting with that fleeting moment of fame and hope that falls on the skyscrapers like honey, running down the sides till it drips over everyone.
Sam must’ve missed it because he hates this city.
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Jensen phones around noon and he’s all excitement and rushed words. He got the part, he’s sure he did; he did so well, Sam should’ve seen it, his best performance yet and the casting director just loved him. Sam feels like he’s intruding and tries to drown out Jensen’s voice, but Jensen is right there and he can’t ignore him.
He feels like a nosy bystander, shifting his weight against the counter as Jensen goes on and on. He wants Jensen to stop because it’s making his head spin and it’s hard to think straight. He knows he shouldn’t be here, that he should leave because Jensen doesn’t deserve this.
He feels like Dean will be mad at him for abandoning his life. Their life. All too quickly.
Jensen stops to take a breath; “Let’s go out for drinks tonight.”
Sam stops digging his nail into the countertop. “Uh, sure.”
“Unless you don’t want to,” Jensen mumbles.
“No, no! It’s fine.” Of course it’s not fine - he’s out of place in this world and he just wants to start moving again and maybe, finally, he’ll out run the memories. “Of course I want to go.”
Sam can almost hear Jensen smile. “Great! I’ll be back in about half-an-hour to pick you up.”
Sam hangs up the phone and sighs.
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It’s like every other bar Sam lived in before Jensen. It’s full and he can almost hear the building breathe; the walls shake along with the offset bass and static. The people roll like thunder and they disappear into one another, edges distorting and fading.
“I got it, man, I got it,” Jensen repeats with a broad grin; he climbs into a booth and a waitress wanders over. “I did so fucking good.”
Sam just smiles as Jensen orders two beers and tips the waitress before hand. Jensen rests his arms on the table and leans forward.
“What?” Sam asks, laughing, after a few moments of Jensen staring with a dopey smile on his lips.
Jensen shakes his head and drums his knuckles on the table, nodding his head along with the music. “Nothing. Just a good day.”
Sam wonders how many of those Jensen has.
There’s a guy in the corner staring at them - Sam tries to ignore him, but he can feel the dark eyes on his back constantly. Jensen doesn’t seem to notice and Sam tries to let it slide, but the guy doesn’t look away. A suit kind of guy, even for the back-alley bar and the people with too much time on their hands and a taste for country and rock. Sunglasses indoors always makes Sam uneasy.
Sam wants to say something, but Jensen’s airy mood and the way he smiles at everything stops Sam from going any further than opening his mouth.
Then the guy is by their booth, pulling off his glasses and flashing a chemically bright smile at Jensen.
Jensen stops breathing mid-drink and almost chokes on his beer. He sets his bottle down, sputtering. “Paul? What are you doing here?”
Paul doesn’t stop smiling. “Just dropped by. I didn’t know you’d be here, Ackles.”
Jensen waves his hand and mumbles something under his breath before giving up and slumping back in his seat. Sam shoots Jensen a look that he doesn’t see.
Paul slides in beside Jensen and drapes his arm behind Jensen - Sam can feel the tension, the way Paul sits too close and how Jensen leans away. Sam twirls his beer bottle and purses his lips.
“Great audition today,” Paul whispers; his fingers grace the edge of Jensen’s shoulder. “If it were up to me, I would’ve given you the part right away, but Howard wants to look at everyone. Dynamite, kid.”
Jensen blushes. “Thanks.”
Paul laughs; he leans in closer, his nose bumping against Jensen’s cheek and Sam sees Jensen’s fists clench on the table. Paul’s lips moves, but the words are lost in between the music and stomping feet; Jensen’s face falls and his eyes go wide. Sam catches the end of the sentence - with your pretty little mouth - before Paul moves away, grabbing his sun glasses.
Jensen nods numbly, eyes falling to his hands.
Paul stands up, putting his glasses back on - Sam jumps out and grabs onto his elbow. “Hey.”
Paul shakes Sam’s grip lose. “What d’you want, kid?” He looks annoyed, a little aggravated like Sam had interrupted something important.
“What’d you just say to him?” Sam takes a step closer; he can feel something heavy pumping through his veins and the world is humming around him.
“Sam,” Jensen warns, moving to the edge of the seat. “Sam, don’t.”
“That’s none of your business,” Paul snaps, pushing Sam back slightly.
Sam grits his teeth; “You’re a fucking pervert.” He pushes Paul, hard, and sends him stumbling into a table backwards; the supports snap and the table folds in on itself and Paul crumbles with it.
“Sam!” Jensen shouts; he jumps from the booth and pushes past the group of drunks lingering around the table. “Stay out of it.”
“Fuck you, kid,” Paul bites out, pushing himself from the floor to sit up. “I’m doing my fucking job.”
“By getting him to fuck you?” Sam accuses, shouting; his fists clench and unclench at his sides and he could throw them anywhere, as long as they made contact with the man in front of him.
Paul licks his lips and his eyes dance. “Sure, kid. Whatever it takes to get them into showbiz, they’ll do it.” He takes a step back, whispering, “Horny, desperate wannabes make me a living.”
Sam knees Paul in the stomach and he doubles over, wrapping his arms around himself. Sam kneels down and pulls back, Paul’s jaw square and tense and Sam’s so close, but Jensen yells, grabbing hold of Sam’s arm. Sam wrenches against Jensen, fighting to hit Paul anywhere; Jensen tugs him back, dragging him along the floor while the bar chants fight, fight, fight!
“Stay out of this,” Jensen hisses in Sam’s ear, pulling him to his feet.
Paul struggles to stand and falls back on his arms. “Got the pretty little cocksucker to save you this time, kid.” He flashes a shit-eating grin and shoves himself off the floor - no one reaches to help him steady himself.
Jensen’s fingers tighten around Sam’s arms.
“Too bad, Ackles,” Paul says loudly, brushing off his pants and straightening his jacket. “You could’ve been something.” Paul shoulders past them, hobbling along and clutching his abdomen. His sunglasses are left on the floor, snapped in half. Sam watches him go, grinding his teeth together and wrenching against Jensen’s hold.
Sam spins around when Jensen lets him go; he opens his mouth to say something but Jensen gives him a look that shuts him up; “Go.”
Sam walks out of the bar with his palms sweating and head bent to his chest.
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“You shouldn’t have done that.” Jensen slams the milk jug down on the counter and he’s pushing glasses around in the counter, glass clinking against wood. “Should have fucking left it alone.”
“He was an asshole, Jensen.” Sam’s face down on the couch, legs sprawled across the floor and armrest. “A fucking - God, what a fucking pervert.”
Sam hears Jensen sigh. “I know, but - Sam, that was my only chance.”
Sam raises his head and frowns. Jensen looks deflated and exhausted and too old for his age. “No. You’ve got thousands of chances.”
Jensen shrugs, pouring himself a glass of milk. “Paul’s the best, right now.”
“Fuck Paul,” Sam snaps, flipping over on the couch and covering his eyes with his arms. He feels his body pulsate and he knows he could do it all over again. “He deserves his broken sunglasses, the conceited asshole, and that punch I was gonna give him -”
“You shouldn’t have fought him, Sam!” Jensen yells and throws the glass on the floor, where it shatters and milk leaks into the cracks. “God, couldn’t you have left it alone?”
Sam jumps from the couch and stares at Jensen. “Left it alone? He told you the only way for you get the audition was to fuck him!”
Jensen sighs, running a hand over his face.
Sam frowns. Steps close and leans across the counter, staring intently at Jensen. “Would’ve you?”
“Hell no.” Jensen runs his hands along the counters, rapping his knuckles on the edges. “But who’s going to audition me now, let alone hire me? Paul runs everything.”
“I still did it,” Sam whispers. The clock ticks in the background and the silence is easy this time.
Jensen looks at Sam and smiles gently; almost like a thank-you.
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Jensen doesn’t seem to be mad - he takes Sam back to the twenty four hour diner that he first took Sam to. Sam wonders if it means something.
Jensen stares out the window, chin resting in his hand, and Sam doesn’t want to bother him, but he looks so much like Dean, Sam can’t look away. He starts talking about his ranch out in Texas and how his dad taught him to ride wild horses and rope cattle. He laughs when he talks about his scars and how he got bucked into a river when he was thirteen by an old stallion named Richard.
He talks about his brother and sister; his sister just graduated from high school, top of her class, and his brother was having his first kid. Jensen was excited to be an uncle - he said he’d never do any good being a parent. He would teach the kids everything wrong and they’d end up being behind everyone because Jensen never bothered to teach them how to tie their shoelaces right. All they would know is the difference between post-punk and punk, cause it’s all he knows himself.
Jensen stops, asks about Sam and Sam just shrugs. “Nothing to say,” he answers.
Jensen talks about his summer in Maine with his cousins until their coffee is cold and the clock on the wall moves sluggishly towards four in the morning. They drive home at the edge of dawn, listening to AM radio traffic reports and almost collapse on the stairs, even with all the coffee pumping through their veins. They laugh quietly and sleep on the stairs; they get shooed off to Jensen’s apartment when one of tenants leaves for work a couple hours later.
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Sam can almost hear Dean the next night. He’s between the sheets, he’s on Jensen’s breath and Sam can hear him whisper while he drifts in and out of sleep. He shivers, cold running down his spine, and Jensen pulls him close; he buries his face in Jensen’s chest and prays, prays to fucking God that it will stop.
He feels Dean’s fingers on his back and he almost cries out, but Jensen’s lips are on his and he falls into it, like he fell into Dean and how it all worked in that way that it shouldn’t. Sam holds onto Jensen and he wonders if Jensen can feel his desperation of not falling too far.
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A month passes like they’re running full tilt towards something unexpected; Sam’s in the kitchen eating breakfast and Jensen wanders out, giving him a sleepy-morning grin, Sam knows he’s not leaving any time soon. Sam wonders if Jensen likes the company or just wants the presence of someone else in his house to fill up the vacant spaces; something’s keeping him there and he doesn’t know what it is.
Jensen sits down across from him at the table, setting down a bowl of Cheerios and a jug of milk in front of him. He’s still in his Dallas Cowboys t-shirt and sweatpants, hair sticking up at odd ends; he looks like he’s going to fall asleep in his cereal.
“No work today?” Sam asks.
Jensen shakes his head, scooping up a spoonful of cereal and sticks it in his mouth. “Finally.”
“Then why are you up?” He grabs the newspaper sitting in front of him and opens it up to the local news section. Something about celebrities and Paris Hilton and rehab and all these useless things, but it is Los Angeles.
Jensen looks up at Sam and gives him a it’s kind of obvious look. “‘Cause you’re here.”
Sam feels something tighten in his stomach and rise into the back of his throat, something exhilarating and it chews on the end of his nerves; he laughs it off and goes back to poking at his eggs, flipping mindlessly through the newspaper.
“What do you want to today?” Jensen says after he triumphantly pushes away his empty bowl and rests back in the chair.
Sam gives Jensen a questioning look.
“Well, you’ve been here for two weeks and I haven’t exactly got to hanging around with you yet.” Jensen chews on his nail, looking purposely distracted. “We have an entire city, plus some. We can do just about anything.”
Sam shrugs, folding the newspaper and pushing it back to the middle of the table, along with the stack of bills and letters. “I don’t know.”
Jensen stretches out his arms, raising them over his head and popping his elbows; he sighs happily. “Do you want to go to the ocean?” Jensen asks as he stands from the table, taking his bowl and Sam’s empty coffee cup to the sink.
Sam smiles and replies, “I’d like that.”
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It’s cold that day; a breeze blows off the ocean that takes Sam’s breath away and makes the tiny hairs on his bare arms stand up. Jensen jogs up beside him, pulling off his sunglasses.
“I always like it when it’s like this,” Jensen says breathlessly, looking around at the empty beach and the white curls of water slapping against the shore.
Sam looks at him - he remembers sunny days and weather hot enough to have your skin fall off and the way the beach was too crowded to even move. He liked those days. “What? It’s fucking cold.”
Jensen grins. “Exactly. So no one’s around.” And he takes off, stripping off his shirt and throwing it into the sand; he doesn’t stop until he’s just in his khakis, shoes and watch and glasses discarded haphazardly and he’s running past the waves, disappearing into the ocean with a graceful dive.
Sam blinks, stepping back slightly. “Oh,” he mutters to himself.
Jensen’s head pops up from the water, a black dot against the rolling waves. “You coming in or what?” he screams over the small roar, hands cupped around his mouth.
Sam shakes his head and he sees Jensen shrug before diving back in. Sam sits down in the sand, digging his fingers into the gritty pebbles - he likes the feeling of the sand between his fingers, getting underneath his nails. He watches Jensen fight the waves, running head long into water as it crashes down on him and thinks that maybe this is the only way Jensen fights the world.
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They wander down the boardwalk for the rest of the afternoon, Jensen drying his hair with his sweater and flicking cold drops of water at Sam. They eat greasy burgers and Jensen tells him about his home life and how he used to skateboard off the steps at his high school in Dallas. Jensen asks Sam what he used to do before - before meeting him, because he can’t make himself say Dean.
“University,” Sam says quietly. He twists the napkin in his fingers. “Pre-law at Stanford.”
Jensen’s eyebrows raise and he whistles through his teeth. “What made you leave that behind?”
Sam looks at Jensen and Jensen’s eyes go wide. He looks away, poking at his untouched fries.
“My girlfriend -” Sam swallows, “she died a few years ago. The entire place burned down.” Sam laughs dryly because it still, always feels like just yesterday. “That’s when -” He chokes on the word.
Jensen glances at Sam. “I’m sorry.” He looks back at his feet. “Sorry.”
Jensen pays for the food and they walk silently back to the bus stop. They huddle together, hands shoved into their pockets to keep in some heat. Sam feels the spray of ocean against his back - they stand too close to the water and he can still hear the waves lap lazily against the sand.
When the bus pulls up, Jensen reaches out and squeezes Sam’s shoulder for a moment. Sam sighs, climbing onto the bus, paying the fare. He sits down by the window and Jensen threads his fingers through Sam’s, holding on tightly. Sam falls asleep and doesn’t feel Jensen rest his head against his arm.
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Sam doesn’t realize he’s actually with Jensen until Jensen leans across his lap in the subway and kisses him lightly on the lips. He feels sick for the rest of the day; he escapes into a bathroom and screams into his hands because he knows what Dean would say.
Jensen doesn’t notice, so Sam pretends it’s okay until he isn’t aware of the nagging ache deep in his chest whenever he wakes up to Jensen beside him.
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Jensen gets a new job sometime during the middle of the next month, as spring is fading into summer - Jensen says it’s this transition that’s the worst in this city, when everyone gets irritable and anxious and the wind is warmer, but Sam doesn’t notice the difference.
He quits the waiting job at the small restaurant and moves onto a record store, where he feels at home in band t-shirts and albums line the walls from floor to ceiling. He works the night shifts, so Sam is usually asleep before Jensen came home. Sometimes, Sam hears him walking in when he is between sleep and consciousness - goes for his guitar and plays until Sam can’t remember the rest and he wakes up to sunlight and Jensen curled around him.
Sam stays up one night, listens to Jensen play. His eyes itch and his body aches, but he sits up in the bed he still feels all wrong in (he’s used to metal springs in the back of his knees and thin pillows of hotel rooms; the warmth of Jensen’s breathe on his neck while he wakes and the blankets wrapped around his shoulders isn’t right) and listens to the soft riffs float through the empty apartment, tangling against the sounds of the clock in the hallway and traffic outside the open window. Sam hears Jensen shift, hears him sing rough and low, but can’t make out the words.
Sam waits until Jensen is in bed, head disappearing into the pillows, to turn over and run his hands over Jensen’s chest once he had fallen asleep; Sam always touched Dean when he was sleeping, where it was his and Dean’s and even then, Dean wouldn’t know. Jensen’s hand automatically reaches out and threads his fingers through Sam’s.
It always makes Sam suck in his breath, bury his face into Jensen’s shoulders, because he still feels it shouldn’t be this way, that Dean is going to come back and Sam knows that he’s made a mistake; Dean won’t forgive him. Not this time.
“Do you think you’re going to make it?” Sam asks, curving into Jensen’s side, so he doesn’t have to think. “Like, as an actor or whatever.”
Jensen rubs circles with his thumb across Sam’s palm. “I could be the rising star tomorrow and living on the street the day after. This world moves too fast to ever really know.”
Maybe it makes sense, but life moves slowly for Sam - lethargic and familiar, following the same routine like he could form it into something different if he ever felt the need for change, but it’s too risky to. Everything blurs after all this time, even months and months later, and Sam’s wondering how he’s doing because he can’t find the courage to bring it back to the surface.
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Sitting out on the apartment balcony, watching the city wake up with a cup of coffee and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Sam nestled somewhere between out of place and home. Jensen comes out, resting his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I just talked to my landlord,” Jensen says when he sits down across from Sam, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands.
Sam sighs, setting down his own cup. “Are you in trouble for keeping me?” Sam doesn’t know if he’s teasing or if he’s serious.
Jensen shakes his head and sighs deeply. He runs his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “You’ve gotta get rid of the car.”
Sam stops smiling and whips his head to look at Jensen. His heart pounds heavily against his chest, rising up into his throat. “I - I can’t.”
“We got a new tenant and he said he was being lenient to let you keep it in the lot this long, but now they need the extra space,” Jensen explains - he doesn’t look at Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam shakes his head; he runs his hands through his hair and murmurs, “I can’t get rid of it.”
“Sam,” Jensen whispers, reaching out for Sam’s leg.
“I can’t,” Sam snaps, pushing Jensen’s hand away. “It was Dean’s and it’s the last thing I have and I - I can’t.”
Jensen chews on his bottom lip before going back into the apartment. Sam sits with his head in his hands, staring at the balcony floor. He waits for Jensen to come back out, to say something to make Sam stop hating him, but he doesn’t. When he finally goes inside, Jensen’s gone and there’s a note on the table listing the names of car dealers that would be willing to take the Impala.
Sam rips up the note and throws it out before heading back to the balcony; he keeps his eye on the car for the entire day until Jensen gets home and tells him to come inside.
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The landlord comes to the apartment a few days later; he notices that the Impala is not out of the parking lot and the tenants are moving in next week and he wants that fucking car gone before he really gives Jensen something to complain about.
“Please, Sam.”
They’re eating supper - Vietnamese take-out where everything is spicy and it lingers in Sam for hours later - and Jensen’s doing his best to make Sam feel remorseful.
“I’m thinking about it,” Sam says before taking a sip of his beer.
Jensen throws his food down and it’s the first time Sam’s ever seen Jensen get even remotely upset. Sam doesn’t understand. “You can’t think about it! Sam, that car has to go.”
“I just can’t give it up! It’s the last thing I have of him!” Sam screams and he feels the tight ball rise in his throat. He slumps back in his seat, plate of curry chicken and noodles in his lap.
Jensen’s jaw clenches and he looks ready to hit something, eyes dancing dangerously; he leans close to Sam. “Get over him or get out, I swear to God.”
And Sam starts to understand when the door slams shut, shaking the weird pictures in the hall.
He wanders around the apartment, cleaning up the discarded plates and moving the take out from the cardboard containers to the mismatched Tupperware in Jensen’s cupboards. His fridge is stocked high with left-overs and old take-out; Sam stares at the walls in the kitchen, listening to the second hand on the clock tick until he doesn’t notice in anymore.
Jensen comes back later and Sam expects him to smell like smoke and alcohol (Dean always did: whenever they fought, he would run off and Sam would believe it was the last time, that he was left alone, until Dean stumbled back, liquor on his breath and collapse onto the bed beside Sam and Sam always, always forgave him), but he smells of car fumes and soap. Pulls Sam close, burying his face in his shoulder.
Sam’s startled and he hesitantly wraps his arms around Jensen’s waist.
“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say - I didn’t mean it like that,” Jensen mumbles. He draws back, rubbing his face. Looks up at Sam with swollen eyes. “I’ll help you clean it out. If you want.”
Sam stares blankly at Jensen before nodding; Jensen smiles sadly. Wraps his fingers in Sam’s and squeezes. “Okay,” Sam breathes. He nods and Jensen rests his head against Sam’s shoulder. “Okay,” Sam repeats, louder.
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Part Three.
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Sam dreams of Dean and moments that never happened. They could’ve been - so genuine and perfect in his mind, fitting in neatly between actual memories - and that’s where Sam finds it hard to find the inconsistency. It’s all leaking sand in glass, seeping through holes he can’t fix and Sam can never seem to hold on.
Jensen never looks at him too long - Sam wonders if it’s that obvious, if it’s painted on his face. Like telling the difference between black and white.
But Jensen never says anything and soon, it becomes normal, like annoying habits that people pick up over their lives. Sam just hopes Jensen doesn’t hear him whispering to the shadows that move along the walls at night.
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“I’ve got an audition today.” Jensen’s chugging back what’s left of the orange juice from the carton; he wipes his lips with the back of his hands and throws the empty carton into the garbage can. Sam’s picking at the eggs on his plate, pushing them around to mix with the leftover ketchup. “Sorry to leave you like this.”
Sam shrugs and looks at Jensen. “It’s okay. I’ll just walk around or something.” He pushes his plate away and leans back in the chair.
“You sure?” Jensen’s rushing through the living room, kicking away papers and empty pizza boxes and clothes. “You’ve only been here for a week and I just feel weird leaving.” Jensen looks anxious and he wrings his hands together.
“Jensen, go,” Sam orders. “Stop worrying about me and worry about yourself for once.”
“You sure sure?”
Sam sighs.
Jensen smiles; he crouches on the floor, digging under the couch until he makes a victorious grunt and drags out his missing sneaker. He stands up after pulling on his shoe, brushing the non-existent wrinkles from his shirt. He holds his arms out and asks, “Okay?”
Sam nods, folding his arms across his chest. He stands by the door, holding out Jensen’s script. “Okay.”
“Sweet.” Jensen takes the script and pockets it, grinning. “See you later, Sam.”
“Good luck,” Sam whispers as Jensen closes the door. He’d only been there a week, but it feels like years.
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There’s something about the city that makes Sam feel awkward and out of place. He hasn’t looked at himself for days - no mirrors for miles - and when he catches his reflection in a shop window, distorted and skewed, he’s not himself. Not anywhere. There is nothing, nothing in his eyes; a ghost of something he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t fit with the slicked clean look that surrounds the city. All gold and glitter and bursting with that fleeting moment of fame and hope that falls on the skyscrapers like honey, running down the sides till it drips over everyone.
Sam must’ve missed it because he hates this city.
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Jensen phones around noon and he’s all excitement and rushed words. He got the part, he’s sure he did; he did so well, Sam should’ve seen it, his best performance yet and the casting director just loved him. Sam feels like he’s intruding and tries to drown out Jensen’s voice, but Jensen is right there and he can’t ignore him.
He feels like a nosy bystander, shifting his weight against the counter as Jensen goes on and on. He wants Jensen to stop because it’s making his head spin and it’s hard to think straight. He knows he shouldn’t be here, that he should leave because Jensen doesn’t deserve this.
He feels like Dean will be mad at him for abandoning his life. Their life. All too quickly.
Jensen stops to take a breath; “Let’s go out for drinks tonight.”
Sam stops digging his nail into the countertop. “Uh, sure.”
“Unless you don’t want to,” Jensen mumbles.
“No, no! It’s fine.” Of course it’s not fine - he’s out of place in this world and he just wants to start moving again and maybe, finally, he’ll out run the memories. “Of course I want to go.”
Sam can almost hear Jensen smile. “Great! I’ll be back in about half-an-hour to pick you up.”
Sam hangs up the phone and sighs.
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It’s like every other bar Sam lived in before Jensen. It’s full and he can almost hear the building breathe; the walls shake along with the offset bass and static. The people roll like thunder and they disappear into one another, edges distorting and fading.
“I got it, man, I got it,” Jensen repeats with a broad grin; he climbs into a booth and a waitress wanders over. “I did so fucking good.”
Sam just smiles as Jensen orders two beers and tips the waitress before hand. Jensen rests his arms on the table and leans forward.
“What?” Sam asks, laughing, after a few moments of Jensen staring with a dopey smile on his lips.
Jensen shakes his head and drums his knuckles on the table, nodding his head along with the music. “Nothing. Just a good day.”
Sam wonders how many of those Jensen has.
There’s a guy in the corner staring at them - Sam tries to ignore him, but he can feel the dark eyes on his back constantly. Jensen doesn’t seem to notice and Sam tries to let it slide, but the guy doesn’t look away. A suit kind of guy, even for the back-alley bar and the people with too much time on their hands and a taste for country and rock. Sunglasses indoors always makes Sam uneasy.
Sam wants to say something, but Jensen’s airy mood and the way he smiles at everything stops Sam from going any further than opening his mouth.
Then the guy is by their booth, pulling off his glasses and flashing a chemically bright smile at Jensen.
Jensen stops breathing mid-drink and almost chokes on his beer. He sets his bottle down, sputtering. “Paul? What are you doing here?”
Paul doesn’t stop smiling. “Just dropped by. I didn’t know you’d be here, Ackles.”
Jensen waves his hand and mumbles something under his breath before giving up and slumping back in his seat. Sam shoots Jensen a look that he doesn’t see.
Paul slides in beside Jensen and drapes his arm behind Jensen - Sam can feel the tension, the way Paul sits too close and how Jensen leans away. Sam twirls his beer bottle and purses his lips.
“Great audition today,” Paul whispers; his fingers grace the edge of Jensen’s shoulder. “If it were up to me, I would’ve given you the part right away, but Howard wants to look at everyone. Dynamite, kid.”
Jensen blushes. “Thanks.”
Paul laughs; he leans in closer, his nose bumping against Jensen’s cheek and Sam sees Jensen’s fists clench on the table. Paul’s lips moves, but the words are lost in between the music and stomping feet; Jensen’s face falls and his eyes go wide. Sam catches the end of the sentence - with your pretty little mouth - before Paul moves away, grabbing his sun glasses.
Jensen nods numbly, eyes falling to his hands.
Paul stands up, putting his glasses back on - Sam jumps out and grabs onto his elbow. “Hey.”
Paul shakes Sam’s grip lose. “What d’you want, kid?” He looks annoyed, a little aggravated like Sam had interrupted something important.
“What’d you just say to him?” Sam takes a step closer; he can feel something heavy pumping through his veins and the world is humming around him.
“Sam,” Jensen warns, moving to the edge of the seat. “Sam, don’t.”
“That’s none of your business,” Paul snaps, pushing Sam back slightly.
Sam grits his teeth; “You’re a fucking pervert.” He pushes Paul, hard, and sends him stumbling into a table backwards; the supports snap and the table folds in on itself and Paul crumbles with it.
“Sam!” Jensen shouts; he jumps from the booth and pushes past the group of drunks lingering around the table. “Stay out of it.”
“Fuck you, kid,” Paul bites out, pushing himself from the floor to sit up. “I’m doing my fucking job.”
“By getting him to fuck you?” Sam accuses, shouting; his fists clench and unclench at his sides and he could throw them anywhere, as long as they made contact with the man in front of him.
Paul licks his lips and his eyes dance. “Sure, kid. Whatever it takes to get them into showbiz, they’ll do it.” He takes a step back, whispering, “Horny, desperate wannabes make me a living.”
Sam knees Paul in the stomach and he doubles over, wrapping his arms around himself. Sam kneels down and pulls back, Paul’s jaw square and tense and Sam’s so close, but Jensen yells, grabbing hold of Sam’s arm. Sam wrenches against Jensen, fighting to hit Paul anywhere; Jensen tugs him back, dragging him along the floor while the bar chants fight, fight, fight!
“Stay out of this,” Jensen hisses in Sam’s ear, pulling him to his feet.
Paul struggles to stand and falls back on his arms. “Got the pretty little cocksucker to save you this time, kid.” He flashes a shit-eating grin and shoves himself off the floor - no one reaches to help him steady himself.
Jensen’s fingers tighten around Sam’s arms.
“Too bad, Ackles,” Paul says loudly, brushing off his pants and straightening his jacket. “You could’ve been something.” Paul shoulders past them, hobbling along and clutching his abdomen. His sunglasses are left on the floor, snapped in half. Sam watches him go, grinding his teeth together and wrenching against Jensen’s hold.
Sam spins around when Jensen lets him go; he opens his mouth to say something but Jensen gives him a look that shuts him up; “Go.”
Sam walks out of the bar with his palms sweating and head bent to his chest.
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“You shouldn’t have done that.” Jensen slams the milk jug down on the counter and he’s pushing glasses around in the counter, glass clinking against wood. “Should have fucking left it alone.”
“He was an asshole, Jensen.” Sam’s face down on the couch, legs sprawled across the floor and armrest. “A fucking - God, what a fucking pervert.”
Sam hears Jensen sigh. “I know, but - Sam, that was my only chance.”
Sam raises his head and frowns. Jensen looks deflated and exhausted and too old for his age. “No. You’ve got thousands of chances.”
Jensen shrugs, pouring himself a glass of milk. “Paul’s the best, right now.”
“Fuck Paul,” Sam snaps, flipping over on the couch and covering his eyes with his arms. He feels his body pulsate and he knows he could do it all over again. “He deserves his broken sunglasses, the conceited asshole, and that punch I was gonna give him -”
“You shouldn’t have fought him, Sam!” Jensen yells and throws the glass on the floor, where it shatters and milk leaks into the cracks. “God, couldn’t you have left it alone?”
Sam jumps from the couch and stares at Jensen. “Left it alone? He told you the only way for you get the audition was to fuck him!”
Jensen sighs, running a hand over his face.
Sam frowns. Steps close and leans across the counter, staring intently at Jensen. “Would’ve you?”
“Hell no.” Jensen runs his hands along the counters, rapping his knuckles on the edges. “But who’s going to audition me now, let alone hire me? Paul runs everything.”
“I still did it,” Sam whispers. The clock ticks in the background and the silence is easy this time.
Jensen looks at Sam and smiles gently; almost like a thank-you.
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Jensen doesn’t seem to be mad - he takes Sam back to the twenty four hour diner that he first took Sam to. Sam wonders if it means something.
Jensen stares out the window, chin resting in his hand, and Sam doesn’t want to bother him, but he looks so much like Dean, Sam can’t look away. He starts talking about his ranch out in Texas and how his dad taught him to ride wild horses and rope cattle. He laughs when he talks about his scars and how he got bucked into a river when he was thirteen by an old stallion named Richard.
He talks about his brother and sister; his sister just graduated from high school, top of her class, and his brother was having his first kid. Jensen was excited to be an uncle - he said he’d never do any good being a parent. He would teach the kids everything wrong and they’d end up being behind everyone because Jensen never bothered to teach them how to tie their shoelaces right. All they would know is the difference between post-punk and punk, cause it’s all he knows himself.
Jensen stops, asks about Sam and Sam just shrugs. “Nothing to say,” he answers.
Jensen talks about his summer in Maine with his cousins until their coffee is cold and the clock on the wall moves sluggishly towards four in the morning. They drive home at the edge of dawn, listening to AM radio traffic reports and almost collapse on the stairs, even with all the coffee pumping through their veins. They laugh quietly and sleep on the stairs; they get shooed off to Jensen’s apartment when one of tenants leaves for work a couple hours later.
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Sam can almost hear Dean the next night. He’s between the sheets, he’s on Jensen’s breath and Sam can hear him whisper while he drifts in and out of sleep. He shivers, cold running down his spine, and Jensen pulls him close; he buries his face in Jensen’s chest and prays, prays to fucking God that it will stop.
He feels Dean’s fingers on his back and he almost cries out, but Jensen’s lips are on his and he falls into it, like he fell into Dean and how it all worked in that way that it shouldn’t. Sam holds onto Jensen and he wonders if Jensen can feel his desperation of not falling too far.
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A month passes like they’re running full tilt towards something unexpected; Sam’s in the kitchen eating breakfast and Jensen wanders out, giving him a sleepy-morning grin, Sam knows he’s not leaving any time soon. Sam wonders if Jensen likes the company or just wants the presence of someone else in his house to fill up the vacant spaces; something’s keeping him there and he doesn’t know what it is.
Jensen sits down across from him at the table, setting down a bowl of Cheerios and a jug of milk in front of him. He’s still in his Dallas Cowboys t-shirt and sweatpants, hair sticking up at odd ends; he looks like he’s going to fall asleep in his cereal.
“No work today?” Sam asks.
Jensen shakes his head, scooping up a spoonful of cereal and sticks it in his mouth. “Finally.”
“Then why are you up?” He grabs the newspaper sitting in front of him and opens it up to the local news section. Something about celebrities and Paris Hilton and rehab and all these useless things, but it is Los Angeles.
Jensen looks up at Sam and gives him a it’s kind of obvious look. “‘Cause you’re here.”
Sam feels something tighten in his stomach and rise into the back of his throat, something exhilarating and it chews on the end of his nerves; he laughs it off and goes back to poking at his eggs, flipping mindlessly through the newspaper.
“What do you want to today?” Jensen says after he triumphantly pushes away his empty bowl and rests back in the chair.
Sam gives Jensen a questioning look.
“Well, you’ve been here for two weeks and I haven’t exactly got to hanging around with you yet.” Jensen chews on his nail, looking purposely distracted. “We have an entire city, plus some. We can do just about anything.”
Sam shrugs, folding the newspaper and pushing it back to the middle of the table, along with the stack of bills and letters. “I don’t know.”
Jensen stretches out his arms, raising them over his head and popping his elbows; he sighs happily. “Do you want to go to the ocean?” Jensen asks as he stands from the table, taking his bowl and Sam’s empty coffee cup to the sink.
Sam smiles and replies, “I’d like that.”
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It’s cold that day; a breeze blows off the ocean that takes Sam’s breath away and makes the tiny hairs on his bare arms stand up. Jensen jogs up beside him, pulling off his sunglasses.
“I always like it when it’s like this,” Jensen says breathlessly, looking around at the empty beach and the white curls of water slapping against the shore.
Sam looks at him - he remembers sunny days and weather hot enough to have your skin fall off and the way the beach was too crowded to even move. He liked those days. “What? It’s fucking cold.”
Jensen grins. “Exactly. So no one’s around.” And he takes off, stripping off his shirt and throwing it into the sand; he doesn’t stop until he’s just in his khakis, shoes and watch and glasses discarded haphazardly and he’s running past the waves, disappearing into the ocean with a graceful dive.
Sam blinks, stepping back slightly. “Oh,” he mutters to himself.
Jensen’s head pops up from the water, a black dot against the rolling waves. “You coming in or what?” he screams over the small roar, hands cupped around his mouth.
Sam shakes his head and he sees Jensen shrug before diving back in. Sam sits down in the sand, digging his fingers into the gritty pebbles - he likes the feeling of the sand between his fingers, getting underneath his nails. He watches Jensen fight the waves, running head long into water as it crashes down on him and thinks that maybe this is the only way Jensen fights the world.
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They wander down the boardwalk for the rest of the afternoon, Jensen drying his hair with his sweater and flicking cold drops of water at Sam. They eat greasy burgers and Jensen tells him about his home life and how he used to skateboard off the steps at his high school in Dallas. Jensen asks Sam what he used to do before - before meeting him, because he can’t make himself say Dean.
“University,” Sam says quietly. He twists the napkin in his fingers. “Pre-law at Stanford.”
Jensen’s eyebrows raise and he whistles through his teeth. “What made you leave that behind?”
Sam looks at Jensen and Jensen’s eyes go wide. He looks away, poking at his untouched fries.
“My girlfriend -” Sam swallows, “she died a few years ago. The entire place burned down.” Sam laughs dryly because it still, always feels like just yesterday. “That’s when -” He chokes on the word.
Jensen glances at Sam. “I’m sorry.” He looks back at his feet. “Sorry.”
Jensen pays for the food and they walk silently back to the bus stop. They huddle together, hands shoved into their pockets to keep in some heat. Sam feels the spray of ocean against his back - they stand too close to the water and he can still hear the waves lap lazily against the sand.
When the bus pulls up, Jensen reaches out and squeezes Sam’s shoulder for a moment. Sam sighs, climbing onto the bus, paying the fare. He sits down by the window and Jensen threads his fingers through Sam’s, holding on tightly. Sam falls asleep and doesn’t feel Jensen rest his head against his arm.
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Sam doesn’t realize he’s actually with Jensen until Jensen leans across his lap in the subway and kisses him lightly on the lips. He feels sick for the rest of the day; he escapes into a bathroom and screams into his hands because he knows what Dean would say.
Jensen doesn’t notice, so Sam pretends it’s okay until he isn’t aware of the nagging ache deep in his chest whenever he wakes up to Jensen beside him.
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Jensen gets a new job sometime during the middle of the next month, as spring is fading into summer - Jensen says it’s this transition that’s the worst in this city, when everyone gets irritable and anxious and the wind is warmer, but Sam doesn’t notice the difference.
He quits the waiting job at the small restaurant and moves onto a record store, where he feels at home in band t-shirts and albums line the walls from floor to ceiling. He works the night shifts, so Sam is usually asleep before Jensen came home. Sometimes, Sam hears him walking in when he is between sleep and consciousness - goes for his guitar and plays until Sam can’t remember the rest and he wakes up to sunlight and Jensen curled around him.
Sam stays up one night, listens to Jensen play. His eyes itch and his body aches, but he sits up in the bed he still feels all wrong in (he’s used to metal springs in the back of his knees and thin pillows of hotel rooms; the warmth of Jensen’s breathe on his neck while he wakes and the blankets wrapped around his shoulders isn’t right) and listens to the soft riffs float through the empty apartment, tangling against the sounds of the clock in the hallway and traffic outside the open window. Sam hears Jensen shift, hears him sing rough and low, but can’t make out the words.
Sam waits until Jensen is in bed, head disappearing into the pillows, to turn over and run his hands over Jensen’s chest once he had fallen asleep; Sam always touched Dean when he was sleeping, where it was his and Dean’s and even then, Dean wouldn’t know. Jensen’s hand automatically reaches out and threads his fingers through Sam’s.
It always makes Sam suck in his breath, bury his face into Jensen’s shoulders, because he still feels it shouldn’t be this way, that Dean is going to come back and Sam knows that he’s made a mistake; Dean won’t forgive him. Not this time.
“Do you think you’re going to make it?” Sam asks, curving into Jensen’s side, so he doesn’t have to think. “Like, as an actor or whatever.”
Jensen rubs circles with his thumb across Sam’s palm. “I could be the rising star tomorrow and living on the street the day after. This world moves too fast to ever really know.”
Maybe it makes sense, but life moves slowly for Sam - lethargic and familiar, following the same routine like he could form it into something different if he ever felt the need for change, but it’s too risky to. Everything blurs after all this time, even months and months later, and Sam’s wondering how he’s doing because he can’t find the courage to bring it back to the surface.
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Sitting out on the apartment balcony, watching the city wake up with a cup of coffee and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Sam nestled somewhere between out of place and home. Jensen comes out, resting his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I just talked to my landlord,” Jensen says when he sits down across from Sam, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands.
Sam sighs, setting down his own cup. “Are you in trouble for keeping me?” Sam doesn’t know if he’s teasing or if he’s serious.
Jensen shakes his head and sighs deeply. He runs his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “You’ve gotta get rid of the car.”
Sam stops smiling and whips his head to look at Jensen. His heart pounds heavily against his chest, rising up into his throat. “I - I can’t.”
“We got a new tenant and he said he was being lenient to let you keep it in the lot this long, but now they need the extra space,” Jensen explains - he doesn’t look at Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam shakes his head; he runs his hands through his hair and murmurs, “I can’t get rid of it.”
“Sam,” Jensen whispers, reaching out for Sam’s leg.
“I can’t,” Sam snaps, pushing Jensen’s hand away. “It was Dean’s and it’s the last thing I have and I - I can’t.”
Jensen chews on his bottom lip before going back into the apartment. Sam sits with his head in his hands, staring at the balcony floor. He waits for Jensen to come back out, to say something to make Sam stop hating him, but he doesn’t. When he finally goes inside, Jensen’s gone and there’s a note on the table listing the names of car dealers that would be willing to take the Impala.
Sam rips up the note and throws it out before heading back to the balcony; he keeps his eye on the car for the entire day until Jensen gets home and tells him to come inside.
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The landlord comes to the apartment a few days later; he notices that the Impala is not out of the parking lot and the tenants are moving in next week and he wants that fucking car gone before he really gives Jensen something to complain about.
“Please, Sam.”
They’re eating supper - Vietnamese take-out where everything is spicy and it lingers in Sam for hours later - and Jensen’s doing his best to make Sam feel remorseful.
“I’m thinking about it,” Sam says before taking a sip of his beer.
Jensen throws his food down and it’s the first time Sam’s ever seen Jensen get even remotely upset. Sam doesn’t understand. “You can’t think about it! Sam, that car has to go.”
“I just can’t give it up! It’s the last thing I have of him!” Sam screams and he feels the tight ball rise in his throat. He slumps back in his seat, plate of curry chicken and noodles in his lap.
Jensen’s jaw clenches and he looks ready to hit something, eyes dancing dangerously; he leans close to Sam. “Get over him or get out, I swear to God.”
And Sam starts to understand when the door slams shut, shaking the weird pictures in the hall.
He wanders around the apartment, cleaning up the discarded plates and moving the take out from the cardboard containers to the mismatched Tupperware in Jensen’s cupboards. His fridge is stocked high with left-overs and old take-out; Sam stares at the walls in the kitchen, listening to the second hand on the clock tick until he doesn’t notice in anymore.
Jensen comes back later and Sam expects him to smell like smoke and alcohol (Dean always did: whenever they fought, he would run off and Sam would believe it was the last time, that he was left alone, until Dean stumbled back, liquor on his breath and collapse onto the bed beside Sam and Sam always, always forgave him), but he smells of car fumes and soap. Pulls Sam close, burying his face in his shoulder.
Sam’s startled and he hesitantly wraps his arms around Jensen’s waist.
“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say - I didn’t mean it like that,” Jensen mumbles. He draws back, rubbing his face. Looks up at Sam with swollen eyes. “I’ll help you clean it out. If you want.”
Sam stares blankly at Jensen before nodding; Jensen smiles sadly. Wraps his fingers in Sam’s and squeezes. “Okay,” Sam breathes. He nods and Jensen rests his head against Sam’s shoulder. “Okay,” Sam repeats, louder.
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Part Three.