He Sleeps In The Ruins - p.3
part one. part two. PART THREE.
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The next morning, Jensen holds onto Sam, pinning him down with his knees and keeping him stuck to the bed. Sam tries to roll away, but Jensen grunts and tugs him back, locking his fingers into Sam’s shirt.
“Jensen,” Sam groans. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Jensen shakes his head; places his hands on either side of Sam’s face and leans in close. “Tell me you forgive me.”
Sam bites his tongue. “Why?” Sam sees the moment of hurt in Jensen’s eyes before it disappears.
“Because. I need to know if you forgive me.”
Sam waits. “I forgive you.”
Jensen crushes their lips together, tongue sliding out to lick across Sam’s teeth. Sam moans, rolling his hips into Jensen’s; he runs his fingers along the edge of Jensen’s boxers, feels the muscles ripple at his touch. Jensen kisses Sam like he’s dying, gripping onto him tightly, and bites down hungrily on his lower lip.
Jensen pulls away; Sam groans.
“Say it again,” Jensen mutters; his eyes are glassy and he looks dead serious.
Sam licks his lips and rolls his hips up; he feels all the blood pump to his dick, where he aches and squirms, shifting under Jensen for sweet friction. “I forgive you, Jensen.” Runs his fingers along the side of Jensen’s face, thumb tracing the outline of Jensen’s slick-wet lips.
Jensen slides down Sam’s bare chest, leaving wet trails of open-mouthed kisses across his skin - he’s sweltering in the morning heat, the AC not having kicked in yet. The blankets are light and holding in the heat. He feels Jensen’s heart beat against his stomach.
“I forgive you,” Sam whispers; bucks when Jensen gently palms his hard cock through his boxers. “Jesus.” Sam feels the elastic of his underwear rub against him; Jensen’s fingernails trailing across his skin.
Sam can’t decide if he wants this or not; can’t decide if it’s time or if he’s letting go too quickly. Dean only seems days ago, not months or years. Jensen seems too soon; Sam’s not sure if he wants to move this quickly. But Jensen licks the under side, tongue dragging along the pulsating veins and tender skin, and Sam knows he wants it - he wants all of it and all of this.
Jensen pauses. “I’m sorry.” He moves away from Sam’s exposed cock, leaving a trail of cold spit on his thigh. “I’ve been moving too fast.”
Sam feels his cock twitch and throws his head into the side. “Please.”
“If it’s about Dean -” Jensen begins.
“Fuck it, Jensen!” Sam yells; he cranes his neck back, tries to release the pressure building up inside him by clawing at the sheets. “Just - fuck, please.”
Jensen looks perturbed. Sam reaches up, twists his fingers in Jensen’s hair and pulls his face close; he licks at Jensen’s lips. “Do it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I want it. I want this.”
Jensen positions himself between Sam’s legs, nails digging into the tight skin across Sam’s hips. Takes all of Sam in, sucks slowly, dragging his teeth along the shaft. Sam’s hips jerk up - he tightens his grip in Jensen’s hair, bites his bottom lip to keep from crying out.
“I want this, Jensen,” Sam whispers. Throws his head back when Jensen hums. “God, I want this.”
Sam closes his eyes; sees a dark hotel room. Dean on top of him, the scar above his right eye, the one he got just a week before it happened. When he opens his eyes, Jensen’s looking up at him, face slack, lips parted - pink and wet.
“Sam,” Jensen murmurs.
Sam comes all over his stomach, hard and messy; he arches up and sighs, hands curling into fists beside him.
Jensen licks at Sam’s stomach and that’s when Sam realizes.
Sam bolts out of bed - feels the shock rush through his veins - and digs around to find his shorts; Jensen says his name softly. Sam ignores him; shakes through to his fingers. Jensen calls out for him, but Sam runs to the bathroom, quickly locking himself inside. He leans against the door, hands braced on either side of the door frame, head hanging against his chest.
Jensen knocks on the door - startles Sam and he stumbles back against the shower.
“Sam!” Jensen calls through the door. “Dammit, Sam, I’m sorry.”
Sam shakes his head; reaches out for the walls so he doesn’t fall.
“Sam.” Jensen sounds desperate; a sad desperate. “Sam, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone that far.”
“Go away,” Sam whispers. He hides his face in his hands; sinks to the floor, legs sprawled out in front of him like a distorted rag doll. “Go away.”
“Sam, please. Open the door.”
“Shut up!” Sam screams, throwing a fist into the wall. “Just shut up and let me think!” He doesn’t know what there is to think about - just needs time, but knows there will never be enough. Too much, too much for him to handle and too much all at once.
Sam showers in freezing cold water. Feels disgusted with himself, but too tired to scrub himself raw. He washes his hair, shivering under the pounding of the water. The water softener’s been broken for the week; Sam kind of misses it.
He opens the door and Jensen sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bathroom - he’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt. He starts and rises when Sam walks out, towel wrapped around his waist. Sam pushes his wet hair from his eyes; stares at Jensen, feels small and empty.
“I’m sorry,” Sam mutters. “I’m just - I want this.” He puts his hand on Jensen’s shoulders. Jensen takes Sam’s hand in his and threads his fingers through Sam’s. “I’m just not -”
Jensen nods. Looks like he understands; looks like someone’s let him down. He doesn’t let go of Sam’s hands.
Sam moves closer to Jensen. Wraps his free hand around Jensen’s neck, pulling their faces together. “Help me clean out the car,” Sam says. “Help me have this.”
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“Where did you go that it got this dirty?”
Jensen’s picking at the grill, fingernails scraping off the dried mud in flakes. Sam leans against the brick wall and watches the cars drive past on the road. Jensen inspects the car, circling it, running his fingers across the matted ebony paint. Stares at like Dean did before; lost in something, face vacant and thinking.
“Places,” Sam answers. He flinches when Jensen crouches down near the front tires and picks at the old, browned speckles of blood on the rims.
“Well,” Jensen brushes his hands off on his shorts, “this might take a bit of work, but it’ll get done.” He looks over his shoulder, smiling wryly. “Inside or outside first?”
Sam thought he was ready; thinks about Dean’s bag in the trunk, how he hasn’t bothered to clean out the stains in the seats. The guns and knives Sam kept in the hidden compartment under the backseat. Pawned the rest off in some back alley to kids with caffeine eyes and too much adrenaline; he could still hear their cracking numbing laughter cut through the night as they ran off with their new toys (gun shots later that night that made everyone turn their heads when he was in the bar, police sirens and spun out teenagers playing cops and robbers in the trees with hunting knives). Knew Dean would be pissed, but he has no use for them.
He gave up after everything he loved died.
“Outside,” Sam says. He moves towards the car. His hands shake and he tries to steady himself.
Jensen can see it; he starts to move towards Sam, guilt in his face.
Sam shakes his head. Laughs at himself. “I can do this.”
“I’ve got some Armor All in the apartment,” Jensen says. He sounds almost uncertain. Afraid to leave Sam alone. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” And he’s gone, disappearing around the corner of the building.
Sam’s left alone, staring at the Impala, hands shoved into his jean pockets. It’s hot out - something like ninety-five or more - and he can start to feel his skin sag from the overwhelming, hanging heat. The car cooks in the sun and every blood smear, every smudge mark, every splatter of dirt and rain becomes visible in the blinding light.
There are too many for Sam to remember where they were all from.
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All four doors are swung open. Jensen says it reeks - something like sweat and gunpowder, which he can’t understand. Sam can’t tell the difference.
They wash the outside with dish towels and orange-scented Vim. Sam’s cautious around the edges, making sure he takes his time and doesn’t scratch anything - new habit from watching Dean for years. He feels like Dean will tear a strip off of him if he doesn’t do a good job; something he can’t let go. Not yet.
“What did Dean do, anyway?” Jensen asks. By the back, working away at the tire. “Shit, this is practically pounded into the rims.”
Sam doesn’t say anything. Wipes down the hood emblem, dipping his fingers into the crevices and intricate details.
“Sam?” Jensen’s head appears over the top of the car.
“Nothing, really. We just drove places.”
Jensen squints into the sun. “Who was he?” he asks. “To you, anyway.”
Sam shrugs one shoulder and bites his lip. Doesn’t want to talk about, so he hides himself near the chrome siding and works at scraping the dirt clumps off. Wonders if Jensen’s sick of not knowing anything yet - of always telling Sam about himself - but doesn’t question it.
It takes them the entire afternoon to wash the outside of the car. It’s wet from the fresh pail of water and it beads on the hood and windows, evaporating almost instantly in the heat. The chrome blinds Sam when he looks at it the wrong way, when it catches the sun rays, and he can’t remember the last time he saw the Impala this clean.
Jensen gets called into the late shift at the store; gets ready in a rush, showering the grime off his skin in two minutes and eats and dresses at the same time. He doesn’t bother to tell Sam when he’ll get back. Gives Sam the chance to sneak back to the Impala, keys tucked safely in his pocket.
He crawls into the backseat and digs around in the foot wells for the terry cloth that holds what’s left of him. Night starts looming over the city and the drug dealers creep from their crack houses, lingering on the streets with shifty eyes. Sam knows they’d be willing to buy. He cleans the guns and knives with the tools he has left over; dips the blades of the knives he kept for himself in rubbing alcohol and wipes down the barrels of the guns the best he can.
Sam approaches the first guy and he doesn’t feel scared, like he knows he should; his heart beats in his throat and his hands twitch with excitement. The guy stares at him - cap pulled low over his eyes, jagged pink scar across his right cheek and skin a pasty white - and looks like he could take Sam out with one punch. He even raises his fists, holds them by his chest like he’s ready for whatever Sam gives or doesn’t give him.
“What d’you want, kid?” the guy snaps as a car rushes past, tires squealing.
Sam’s not intimated; knows he could just as easily out fight him. He’s sure he remembers how to block a knife attack with his bare arms.
He sells his last hunting knife and two magnum’s to the first one; the guy looks like he’s won the lottery, a tight grin stretching across his large lips. His friends pick up the rest, shoving rolls of cold cash with rubber hands into Sam’s open hands - they don’t bother to stop and count it. Sam walks home with hundreds of dollars of drug money and dumps it into a trash can outside the apartment.
Jensen gets home half-an-hour later. He looks shaken, face flushed and Sam asks what happened. Jensen tells him that there was a fight a couple blocks away from the apartment - two dealers and something about territory. One pulled out a curved hunting knife and gutted the other one right there on the street. The blood pooled into the sewage drains and Jensen was sure he saw a strip of intestines on the curb.
Sam almost smiles.
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Sam and Jensen wake up at noon and eat Lucky Charms from Jensen’s rarely used salad bowl. Saturday afternoons are slow and simple, like familiar roads. Sam likes them the best. Jensen doesn’t work, Sam doesn’t feel like he should constantly be doing something to distract from reality. Jensen curls up against Sam’s side, eyes fluttering closed as they watch old movies on whatever channels provide them. Jensen falls asleep and Sam doesn’t bother watching the end of the movie.
Sam lays Jensen out of the couch. Cleans up the mess around them and flushes the rest of the soggy Lucky Charms down the toilet. Jensen turns over on the couch when Sam shuffles through the living room to the kitchen, pulling the small blanket over his head. Sam watches Jensen for awhile.
The Lucky Charms leave a stale, bitter taste in his mouth.
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When Jensen wakes up later that day, they go to the beach. It’s almost a hundred above and Sam breathes heavily, tugging on his t-shirt. They drive with the air conditioner cranked and the windows open; the hanging warmth steals the cool breeze away instantly, but neither bother to roll up the windows. The beaches are packed, the entire place an array of bright colors, tanned flesh and randomly placed towels.
They walk past the kept part of the beach when the lifeguard isn’t looking and sneak off to where the wild grass grows and drift wood litters the edge of the soft, brown sand. Sam feels like a kid again and when Jensen laughs, Sam has to hide his face behind his hands.
Sam digs his toes in the sand and Jensen spells out their names near a large rotted tree branch. Draws hearts around it and Sam kicks sand at the back of his head. Jensen tackles him into the still ocean and it stings all the way up his back, but he laughs and takes in a mouthful of salty water.
Jensen drags him out of the water, sputtering and pushes his spiky hair back. Lies down beside him, resting his chin on his elbows and looks at Sam like he’s reading a book. Sam turns his head away, smiling.
“I’m glad I found you, Sam,” Jensen whispers. Twines his fingers into Sam’s and rests his head on his arm.
Sam pauses. Listens to the shrill whistle from the lifeguard and the rumble of laughter he can feel his spine. “I’m glad I found you, too.”
This time, he’s sure he means it.
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Monday rolls around and Jensen’s got a full shift at the record store during the day and the night hours at the gas station he’s worked for since he came to Los Angeles. All minimum wage and it barely pays the bills, but Jensen seems okay with it. Sam can’t imagine it - he’s so used to getting a card with some made up version of himself printed on the plastic, so used to relying on Dean for fraud and hustling pool and winning poker games. It bothers him a little, becoming accustomed to something life that.
Sam falls asleep on the couch before Jensen leaves. Jensen can barely keep his eyes open either, but he shuffles out of the apartment and Sam watches him leave through narrowed, itching eyes.
Sam’s woken up by a pounding on the door that he thinks is part of his dream. He stumbles to the door and presses his face to the eye piece and sees the distorted outline of the tiny, bald landlord. He groans and opens the door.
The landlord, Arnold, looks up at him with pursed lips and black beady eyes. “Where’s Ackles?” His accent is thick and hard to understand; bad English and New York edge that makes Sam cringe.
“Work,” Sam answers.
Arnold glares at Sam like he said something particularly offensive. “That yo cah cloggin’ up mah parkin’ lot?”
Sam nods. He’s not certain if that was a good idea.
Arnold shifts his weight, resting his pudgy fingers on his thick waist. “Mah new tenan’s need a place to pahk their cah’s.”
Sam rubs his face and leans against the door. “Yeah, I’m working on it. Just give me a few more days and -”
Arnold snarls. “I given yo two weeks. No more time. I want i’gone tonight. Yo undastand?” Arnold jabs a gnarled, chubby finger into Sam’s ribs, turns on his heels and storms down the hall.
“Yeah. Sure,” Sam mutters before closing the door. He’s pretty sure the drug dealers he sold his knives to would be up for a car.
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He’s standing outside the car. He’s been staring at it for an hour and he’s positive the woman who is continually out on her balcony every five minutes knows that her begonia’s don’t need that much watering, even in California.
Somewhere, inside him, he knows he can get over whatever it is that’s holding him back. It begins with getting rid of the car, but. He can’t.
He sits down on the curb, the heated cement burning through his shorts. He stares at the car and hears the woman tip-toe back out onto her porch. Hears the trickle of water leak out of her rustic watering can onto her already drowning plants.
“Are you gonna stare at that thing all day?” the woman finally asks in a loud voice, making sure she is heard by the entire block.
Sam shrugs; rests his chin in his hand. “I might.”
“Arnold wants that thing gone,” the woman snips hotly.
“Arnold can go fuck himself,” Sam bit out and grinned when he heard the woman gasp in horror.
“Well, I never!” she protests and shuffles back into her apartment, slamming the sliding door shut. Sam waits - she doesn’t come back out.
He stares at the car for another hour before he begins to feel the heat in his bones. He doesn’t know where to start. Whether he should clean out the discarded coffee cups and scrap pieces of paper with directions and phone numbers that Sam can never remember who they belong to. It doesn’t feel right, cleaning out Dean’s car, washing down the dashboard, digging out the garbage between the seats, vacuuming the floorboard. Shouldn’t be here, not his place.
It becomes too - perfect. It smells like soap and the air tastes like chemical lemons inside. It’s not the same. It’s strange and different to Sam; he doesn’t want to be near it. He resists screaming through the entire thing, bites down so hard his jaw hurts and digs out the spare change from underneath the foot wells.
He puts up a for sale sign inside the windshield of the car. He looks away for five minutes and somebody from across the street has wandered over to make an offer. A car dealer from San Francisco - says he’s never seen a ’67 in this good of shape and he’s always dreamed of having one in his collection. Smiles genuinely at Sam when he says he’ll pay almost anything. Sam knows he has the kind of money that he can throw around and probably a wife that drinks during the day so she doesn’t have to think about how her husband buys old cars to park in their garage.
Sam almost gives it away for free, wanting the - the thing gone, but he knows that Jensen might need the extra cash one day. He gets thirty thousand for it - he would’ve gotten more, but there were too many miles on it. Sam doesn’t care; a detached sense of relief passes through him as the guy backs out of the parking lot, waving his hand out the window. The tires spin and squeal, leaving black marks on the road as the nameless man drive away with the last thing holding Sam to whatever Dean had left behind.
Sam always imagined it differently.
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When Jensen sees the check on the fridge the next morning, he swears loudly and drops the new carton of orange juice on the floor, sticky pulp juice spilling into the crevices.
“You got thirty thousand for the car in one day?” Jensen yells when Sam rushes into the kitchen. He’s holding the check tightly between his fingers, staring at it like if he blinks, it will disappear.
Sam shuffles his feet. “Yeah.”
Jensen doesn’t say anything. Just stares at Sam.
“I wanted it gone,” Sam says sheepishly, shrugging. “You can take half of it.”
“Oh God, I can’t -” Jensen shoves the check into Sam’s hands and backs away. He slips slightly in the orange juice. “It’s yours.”
“What the hell am I going to do with thirty thousand dollars, Jensen?” Sam laughs, waving the check in the air. “I was only going to get ten, but the guy refused to pay any less than thirty.”
Jensen chews on his bottom lip. “Sam, I just can’t,” he whispers.
“I’m writing half of it off to you and you’re cashing it. Pay off your bills, buy a new guitar, put some of it away - I don’t care what you do with it, just take it,” Sam says sternly. He puts the check back on the fridge, under the smiley face magnet.
“Fine,” Jensen finally agrees. Pushes off the counter he was leaning against and wraps his arms around Sam’s waist. They stand like that for awhile, Jensen’s face buried in Sam’s neck, hot breath snaking across Sam’s bare skin. Goose bumps rise up along his neck.
“You okay?” Jensen asks in a small voice. His voice trembles against Sam’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Sam mutters. “It was just something I needed to do.”
Every night, for the next week, he dreams about Dean and him driving down a never-ending road in the Impala and he wakes with sticky-warm tears stuck to his eyelashes.
After that, he rarely thinks about Dean.
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Jensen says he’s given up on his acting dream. He never out-rightly blames Sam, but Sam does. He says he’s been abandoning Chris and that he likes the way he feels when he plays. Likes the hot lights on his face. Reminds him that he’s real and he expects Sam to laugh, but Sam doesn’t.
Jensen calls Chris and they have a gig within ten minutes for that night. Sam helps Jensen clean the apartment and uncover Jensen’s guitar from the mess. Jensen wipes down the front of dust and plucks at the strings.
“I’m going to be famous someday, Sam,” Jensen whispers, his eyes glazed and lost. “I can feel it.”
The place is dingy and filled to the roof with hazy blue smoke. Sam coughs for five minutes before he gets used to the stale, musky scent and downs a cold beer that makes his teeth chatter. He sits at a table by himself, watching Jensen carry their things onto the stage. It feels familiar.
A guy with dark blonde hair and wide blue eyes slides into the booth across from Sam a few minutes later. He stares at Sam for a second, his head tilted to the side before he nods, like Sam meets some sort of unknown standard, and reaches his hand across the table.
Sam stares at the hand.
“Hi, I’m Chris,” the man greets. His hand is still held out. “I’ve decided to finally introduce myself.”
Sam takes Chris’ hand: he’s still wary. “Sam.”
“I know.” Chris grins like a complete idiot, his smile lopsided and looking like he’s taken too many drugs. He eyes Sam skeptically for a minute before saying, “Well, I’ll talk to you later, bud.” Chris slides out of the booth, standing up and straightening out his shirt. He turns to look at Sam. “Hey, just be careful with him, okay?”
“What?” Sam asks.
“Just promise to be careful with Jen,” Chris says. He sighs, looking to the floor. “People leave him all the time - he just doesn’t need it anymore.”
Sam nods. “Okay.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Sure.”
A sad, grateful smile spreads on Chris’s lips. “Thanks, Sam,” he says, clapping Sam on the shoulder and walks away, blending into the crowd and Sam feels like he’s failing before he’s even tried.
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It’s not until he orders a large plate of fries with extra gravy that he sees the familiar face in the corner of the bar, staring at him. Sam glances over his shoulder: a suit kind of guy, mixed into the cowboy hats and mini skirts, with dark sunglasses.
The man smiles wickedly when he notices Sam looking at him. Raises his glass of dark amber liquor and nods curtly. Sam feels his stomach curl sickeningly and he looks back to the stage, where Jensen is tuning his guitar and looking thoroughly content under the blinding stage lights; gorgeous and lost to the world.
Sam pushes the plate of half-eaten fries away and keeps a vigilant eye on Jensen, occasionally checking that Paul was still standing at the bar. He loses sight of Paul when Jensen starts to play; his fingers run lightly across the strings and the entire place falls silent. Jensen’s face says it all.
Sam kind of forgets about Paul and sinks into the music, watching Jensen’s nimble fingers play soft chords as a warm-up. He doesn’t remember that there are people around him, that there is time and minutes and Paul so close, just within reach.
He just. Forgets.
An hour passes, Sam’s sure, before he sees Jensen pushing through the crowd, breathing out a quick thanks to people gripping his shoulder and pulling him in for rough handshakes and hugs, before spotting Sam sitting at the table and grins broadly. He wipes his cheeks with the backs of his hands and falls beside Sam, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder.
“Christ,” he laughs quietly.
Sam sighs, wrapping his arm around Jensen’s shoulders and pulls him close. His eyes dart around the bar. Can’t see Paul and he feels a little better; probably left.
Jensen’s head lifts up; their noises bump in the hazy darkness. “Want something to drink?” he asks: his eyes are a bright, vibrant green that shocks Sam a little.
“Sure.”
Jensen slides out of the booth; he’s stopped a few more times before he gets to the bar, nodding his thank-you’s and grinning like his face is broken. Sam watches him lean against the counter, talk with the bartender and - disappear.
Sam sits up straight in his chair. Cracks his knuckles against the table and leans forward, tries to find Jensen. Sees him in the corner, back of his head and then Paul. Paul towering above him, narrow eyes behind dark sunglasses, pushing Jensen’s hair back and Jensen pushing away. The hand - too close to Jensen, moving lower and Sam can see Jensen say no, sees Jensen turn away. Paul pulls him back, hand gripped tight on Jensen’s wrist. Open mouth, brushing the side of Jensen’s face and Jensen squirms, a look of panic on his face.
Sam flies out of his chair and.
“Sam!” Jensen yells. Pushed against the wall, his face fearful.
Paul’s on the floor, clutching his jaw and this time - this time, Sam’s on the floor with him, throwing his fists wherever he can. Favors the feel of flesh and sickening crunch of bone. He hears the protests, someone yelling loud for the police, and the music still plays.
Sam ignores them. All he can see is Paul, all he can see is Jensen and it skips in his head, like an old record, and all he sees is Paul. And Jensen. Paul on Jensen, not where he should be, and he can’t control what rises up in him, escapes through his fists, through his eyes, through his mouth. He knows he’s screaming, but he can’t understand himself.
“Sam!” Jensen yells again. Sam ignores him.
“Get off me, you psycho!” Paul screams, his cry mixed with the gurgle of blood and a shred of desperation.
He’s thrown off, hands flying out behind him and someone catches him, falling back into the bar; he slides to the floor when the person releases him and backs away. There are whispers around the bar, everyone staring. He breathes fast and rough, feels his lungs clench tightly in his chest. Tries to find his balance as they drag Paul away. Sam’s fingers shake.
“Sam.” Jensen kneels beside him. Cradles his bruised knuckles in his small hands and whispers quietly, “Oh, Sam.”
They take him to the back room, where the beer is stacked high in the open freezer and there’s bottles of hard liquor lining the walls. Mac - the bartender - brings Sam an ice pack wrapped in a towel and tells him to keep it on his knuckles until they go numb. Gives him some Advil with a glass of warm water, shoots Jensen an unreadable look and leaves.
Jensen starts to laugh. Quietly at first; then his body shakes, the smile on his face spreading and he drapes his arms around Sam’s shoulder and buries his face into Sam’s hair.
“Jesus, Sam,” he mutters. “I think you might need anger management.”
Sam chuckles. He can feel the cold seep through the towel into his fingers and shoot straight to his head, making the numbness raw and torn at the edges.
Mac comes back in a few minutes later, looking exhausted and mildly annoyed. Jensen looks up at him. Sam doesn’t know what he should do, so he pinches the fingers that have gone numb.
“The guy said he’s not going to press charges,” Mac says.
Jensen shifts in his seat, looks at Sam. “And?”
Mac sighs. “For you, Jen. Only for you, I would do this. I’m not saying anything. Nobody’s saying anything.” He raises his hands. “Don’t know, don’t tell.”
Jensen sighs, relieved. “Thanks a lot, Mac.”
Mac frowns. “Don’t be doing shit like this again, you hear?” He looks pointedly at Sam; Sam feels small and withered under his gaze. “Got it?”
Sam nods and looks at his feet.
“Good,” Mac says. “Get home. Take the ice pack with you.”
They go out the back door so no one will see them. Jensen’s holds Sam’s good hand in his and they sit in the back alley until the ice pack thaws and curves to the shape of Sam’s hand. Jensen tells him about his junior year in high school and when he realized he had a huge crush on the male intern teaching him English and how Sam kind of reminded Jensen of him.
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Part Four.
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The next morning, Jensen holds onto Sam, pinning him down with his knees and keeping him stuck to the bed. Sam tries to roll away, but Jensen grunts and tugs him back, locking his fingers into Sam’s shirt.
“Jensen,” Sam groans. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Jensen shakes his head; places his hands on either side of Sam’s face and leans in close. “Tell me you forgive me.”
Sam bites his tongue. “Why?” Sam sees the moment of hurt in Jensen’s eyes before it disappears.
“Because. I need to know if you forgive me.”
Sam waits. “I forgive you.”
Jensen crushes their lips together, tongue sliding out to lick across Sam’s teeth. Sam moans, rolling his hips into Jensen’s; he runs his fingers along the edge of Jensen’s boxers, feels the muscles ripple at his touch. Jensen kisses Sam like he’s dying, gripping onto him tightly, and bites down hungrily on his lower lip.
Jensen pulls away; Sam groans.
“Say it again,” Jensen mutters; his eyes are glassy and he looks dead serious.
Sam licks his lips and rolls his hips up; he feels all the blood pump to his dick, where he aches and squirms, shifting under Jensen for sweet friction. “I forgive you, Jensen.” Runs his fingers along the side of Jensen’s face, thumb tracing the outline of Jensen’s slick-wet lips.
Jensen slides down Sam’s bare chest, leaving wet trails of open-mouthed kisses across his skin - he’s sweltering in the morning heat, the AC not having kicked in yet. The blankets are light and holding in the heat. He feels Jensen’s heart beat against his stomach.
“I forgive you,” Sam whispers; bucks when Jensen gently palms his hard cock through his boxers. “Jesus.” Sam feels the elastic of his underwear rub against him; Jensen’s fingernails trailing across his skin.
Sam can’t decide if he wants this or not; can’t decide if it’s time or if he’s letting go too quickly. Dean only seems days ago, not months or years. Jensen seems too soon; Sam’s not sure if he wants to move this quickly. But Jensen licks the under side, tongue dragging along the pulsating veins and tender skin, and Sam knows he wants it - he wants all of it and all of this.
Jensen pauses. “I’m sorry.” He moves away from Sam’s exposed cock, leaving a trail of cold spit on his thigh. “I’ve been moving too fast.”
Sam feels his cock twitch and throws his head into the side. “Please.”
“If it’s about Dean -” Jensen begins.
“Fuck it, Jensen!” Sam yells; he cranes his neck back, tries to release the pressure building up inside him by clawing at the sheets. “Just - fuck, please.”
Jensen looks perturbed. Sam reaches up, twists his fingers in Jensen’s hair and pulls his face close; he licks at Jensen’s lips. “Do it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I want it. I want this.”
Jensen positions himself between Sam’s legs, nails digging into the tight skin across Sam’s hips. Takes all of Sam in, sucks slowly, dragging his teeth along the shaft. Sam’s hips jerk up - he tightens his grip in Jensen’s hair, bites his bottom lip to keep from crying out.
“I want this, Jensen,” Sam whispers. Throws his head back when Jensen hums. “God, I want this.”
Sam closes his eyes; sees a dark hotel room. Dean on top of him, the scar above his right eye, the one he got just a week before it happened. When he opens his eyes, Jensen’s looking up at him, face slack, lips parted - pink and wet.
“Sam,” Jensen murmurs.
Sam comes all over his stomach, hard and messy; he arches up and sighs, hands curling into fists beside him.
Jensen licks at Sam’s stomach and that’s when Sam realizes.
Sam bolts out of bed - feels the shock rush through his veins - and digs around to find his shorts; Jensen says his name softly. Sam ignores him; shakes through to his fingers. Jensen calls out for him, but Sam runs to the bathroom, quickly locking himself inside. He leans against the door, hands braced on either side of the door frame, head hanging against his chest.
Jensen knocks on the door - startles Sam and he stumbles back against the shower.
“Sam!” Jensen calls through the door. “Dammit, Sam, I’m sorry.”
Sam shakes his head; reaches out for the walls so he doesn’t fall.
“Sam.” Jensen sounds desperate; a sad desperate. “Sam, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone that far.”
“Go away,” Sam whispers. He hides his face in his hands; sinks to the floor, legs sprawled out in front of him like a distorted rag doll. “Go away.”
“Sam, please. Open the door.”
“Shut up!” Sam screams, throwing a fist into the wall. “Just shut up and let me think!” He doesn’t know what there is to think about - just needs time, but knows there will never be enough. Too much, too much for him to handle and too much all at once.
Sam showers in freezing cold water. Feels disgusted with himself, but too tired to scrub himself raw. He washes his hair, shivering under the pounding of the water. The water softener’s been broken for the week; Sam kind of misses it.
He opens the door and Jensen sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bathroom - he’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt. He starts and rises when Sam walks out, towel wrapped around his waist. Sam pushes his wet hair from his eyes; stares at Jensen, feels small and empty.
“I’m sorry,” Sam mutters. “I’m just - I want this.” He puts his hand on Jensen’s shoulders. Jensen takes Sam’s hand in his and threads his fingers through Sam’s. “I’m just not -”
Jensen nods. Looks like he understands; looks like someone’s let him down. He doesn’t let go of Sam’s hands.
Sam moves closer to Jensen. Wraps his free hand around Jensen’s neck, pulling their faces together. “Help me clean out the car,” Sam says. “Help me have this.”
| |
“Where did you go that it got this dirty?”
Jensen’s picking at the grill, fingernails scraping off the dried mud in flakes. Sam leans against the brick wall and watches the cars drive past on the road. Jensen inspects the car, circling it, running his fingers across the matted ebony paint. Stares at like Dean did before; lost in something, face vacant and thinking.
“Places,” Sam answers. He flinches when Jensen crouches down near the front tires and picks at the old, browned speckles of blood on the rims.
“Well,” Jensen brushes his hands off on his shorts, “this might take a bit of work, but it’ll get done.” He looks over his shoulder, smiling wryly. “Inside or outside first?”
Sam thought he was ready; thinks about Dean’s bag in the trunk, how he hasn’t bothered to clean out the stains in the seats. The guns and knives Sam kept in the hidden compartment under the backseat. Pawned the rest off in some back alley to kids with caffeine eyes and too much adrenaline; he could still hear their cracking numbing laughter cut through the night as they ran off with their new toys (gun shots later that night that made everyone turn their heads when he was in the bar, police sirens and spun out teenagers playing cops and robbers in the trees with hunting knives). Knew Dean would be pissed, but he has no use for them.
He gave up after everything he loved died.
“Outside,” Sam says. He moves towards the car. His hands shake and he tries to steady himself.
Jensen can see it; he starts to move towards Sam, guilt in his face.
Sam shakes his head. Laughs at himself. “I can do this.”
“I’ve got some Armor All in the apartment,” Jensen says. He sounds almost uncertain. Afraid to leave Sam alone. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” And he’s gone, disappearing around the corner of the building.
Sam’s left alone, staring at the Impala, hands shoved into his jean pockets. It’s hot out - something like ninety-five or more - and he can start to feel his skin sag from the overwhelming, hanging heat. The car cooks in the sun and every blood smear, every smudge mark, every splatter of dirt and rain becomes visible in the blinding light.
There are too many for Sam to remember where they were all from.
| |
All four doors are swung open. Jensen says it reeks - something like sweat and gunpowder, which he can’t understand. Sam can’t tell the difference.
They wash the outside with dish towels and orange-scented Vim. Sam’s cautious around the edges, making sure he takes his time and doesn’t scratch anything - new habit from watching Dean for years. He feels like Dean will tear a strip off of him if he doesn’t do a good job; something he can’t let go. Not yet.
“What did Dean do, anyway?” Jensen asks. By the back, working away at the tire. “Shit, this is practically pounded into the rims.”
Sam doesn’t say anything. Wipes down the hood emblem, dipping his fingers into the crevices and intricate details.
“Sam?” Jensen’s head appears over the top of the car.
“Nothing, really. We just drove places.”
Jensen squints into the sun. “Who was he?” he asks. “To you, anyway.”
Sam shrugs one shoulder and bites his lip. Doesn’t want to talk about, so he hides himself near the chrome siding and works at scraping the dirt clumps off. Wonders if Jensen’s sick of not knowing anything yet - of always telling Sam about himself - but doesn’t question it.
It takes them the entire afternoon to wash the outside of the car. It’s wet from the fresh pail of water and it beads on the hood and windows, evaporating almost instantly in the heat. The chrome blinds Sam when he looks at it the wrong way, when it catches the sun rays, and he can’t remember the last time he saw the Impala this clean.
Jensen gets called into the late shift at the store; gets ready in a rush, showering the grime off his skin in two minutes and eats and dresses at the same time. He doesn’t bother to tell Sam when he’ll get back. Gives Sam the chance to sneak back to the Impala, keys tucked safely in his pocket.
He crawls into the backseat and digs around in the foot wells for the terry cloth that holds what’s left of him. Night starts looming over the city and the drug dealers creep from their crack houses, lingering on the streets with shifty eyes. Sam knows they’d be willing to buy. He cleans the guns and knives with the tools he has left over; dips the blades of the knives he kept for himself in rubbing alcohol and wipes down the barrels of the guns the best he can.
Sam approaches the first guy and he doesn’t feel scared, like he knows he should; his heart beats in his throat and his hands twitch with excitement. The guy stares at him - cap pulled low over his eyes, jagged pink scar across his right cheek and skin a pasty white - and looks like he could take Sam out with one punch. He even raises his fists, holds them by his chest like he’s ready for whatever Sam gives or doesn’t give him.
“What d’you want, kid?” the guy snaps as a car rushes past, tires squealing.
Sam’s not intimated; knows he could just as easily out fight him. He’s sure he remembers how to block a knife attack with his bare arms.
He sells his last hunting knife and two magnum’s to the first one; the guy looks like he’s won the lottery, a tight grin stretching across his large lips. His friends pick up the rest, shoving rolls of cold cash with rubber hands into Sam’s open hands - they don’t bother to stop and count it. Sam walks home with hundreds of dollars of drug money and dumps it into a trash can outside the apartment.
Jensen gets home half-an-hour later. He looks shaken, face flushed and Sam asks what happened. Jensen tells him that there was a fight a couple blocks away from the apartment - two dealers and something about territory. One pulled out a curved hunting knife and gutted the other one right there on the street. The blood pooled into the sewage drains and Jensen was sure he saw a strip of intestines on the curb.
Sam almost smiles.
| |
Sam and Jensen wake up at noon and eat Lucky Charms from Jensen’s rarely used salad bowl. Saturday afternoons are slow and simple, like familiar roads. Sam likes them the best. Jensen doesn’t work, Sam doesn’t feel like he should constantly be doing something to distract from reality. Jensen curls up against Sam’s side, eyes fluttering closed as they watch old movies on whatever channels provide them. Jensen falls asleep and Sam doesn’t bother watching the end of the movie.
Sam lays Jensen out of the couch. Cleans up the mess around them and flushes the rest of the soggy Lucky Charms down the toilet. Jensen turns over on the couch when Sam shuffles through the living room to the kitchen, pulling the small blanket over his head. Sam watches Jensen for awhile.
The Lucky Charms leave a stale, bitter taste in his mouth.
| |
When Jensen wakes up later that day, they go to the beach. It’s almost a hundred above and Sam breathes heavily, tugging on his t-shirt. They drive with the air conditioner cranked and the windows open; the hanging warmth steals the cool breeze away instantly, but neither bother to roll up the windows. The beaches are packed, the entire place an array of bright colors, tanned flesh and randomly placed towels.
They walk past the kept part of the beach when the lifeguard isn’t looking and sneak off to where the wild grass grows and drift wood litters the edge of the soft, brown sand. Sam feels like a kid again and when Jensen laughs, Sam has to hide his face behind his hands.
Sam digs his toes in the sand and Jensen spells out their names near a large rotted tree branch. Draws hearts around it and Sam kicks sand at the back of his head. Jensen tackles him into the still ocean and it stings all the way up his back, but he laughs and takes in a mouthful of salty water.
Jensen drags him out of the water, sputtering and pushes his spiky hair back. Lies down beside him, resting his chin on his elbows and looks at Sam like he’s reading a book. Sam turns his head away, smiling.
“I’m glad I found you, Sam,” Jensen whispers. Twines his fingers into Sam’s and rests his head on his arm.
Sam pauses. Listens to the shrill whistle from the lifeguard and the rumble of laughter he can feel his spine. “I’m glad I found you, too.”
This time, he’s sure he means it.
| |
Monday rolls around and Jensen’s got a full shift at the record store during the day and the night hours at the gas station he’s worked for since he came to Los Angeles. All minimum wage and it barely pays the bills, but Jensen seems okay with it. Sam can’t imagine it - he’s so used to getting a card with some made up version of himself printed on the plastic, so used to relying on Dean for fraud and hustling pool and winning poker games. It bothers him a little, becoming accustomed to something life that.
Sam falls asleep on the couch before Jensen leaves. Jensen can barely keep his eyes open either, but he shuffles out of the apartment and Sam watches him leave through narrowed, itching eyes.
Sam’s woken up by a pounding on the door that he thinks is part of his dream. He stumbles to the door and presses his face to the eye piece and sees the distorted outline of the tiny, bald landlord. He groans and opens the door.
The landlord, Arnold, looks up at him with pursed lips and black beady eyes. “Where’s Ackles?” His accent is thick and hard to understand; bad English and New York edge that makes Sam cringe.
“Work,” Sam answers.
Arnold glares at Sam like he said something particularly offensive. “That yo cah cloggin’ up mah parkin’ lot?”
Sam nods. He’s not certain if that was a good idea.
Arnold shifts his weight, resting his pudgy fingers on his thick waist. “Mah new tenan’s need a place to pahk their cah’s.”
Sam rubs his face and leans against the door. “Yeah, I’m working on it. Just give me a few more days and -”
Arnold snarls. “I given yo two weeks. No more time. I want i’gone tonight. Yo undastand?” Arnold jabs a gnarled, chubby finger into Sam’s ribs, turns on his heels and storms down the hall.
“Yeah. Sure,” Sam mutters before closing the door. He’s pretty sure the drug dealers he sold his knives to would be up for a car.
| |
He’s standing outside the car. He’s been staring at it for an hour and he’s positive the woman who is continually out on her balcony every five minutes knows that her begonia’s don’t need that much watering, even in California.
Somewhere, inside him, he knows he can get over whatever it is that’s holding him back. It begins with getting rid of the car, but. He can’t.
He sits down on the curb, the heated cement burning through his shorts. He stares at the car and hears the woman tip-toe back out onto her porch. Hears the trickle of water leak out of her rustic watering can onto her already drowning plants.
“Are you gonna stare at that thing all day?” the woman finally asks in a loud voice, making sure she is heard by the entire block.
Sam shrugs; rests his chin in his hand. “I might.”
“Arnold wants that thing gone,” the woman snips hotly.
“Arnold can go fuck himself,” Sam bit out and grinned when he heard the woman gasp in horror.
“Well, I never!” she protests and shuffles back into her apartment, slamming the sliding door shut. Sam waits - she doesn’t come back out.
He stares at the car for another hour before he begins to feel the heat in his bones. He doesn’t know where to start. Whether he should clean out the discarded coffee cups and scrap pieces of paper with directions and phone numbers that Sam can never remember who they belong to. It doesn’t feel right, cleaning out Dean’s car, washing down the dashboard, digging out the garbage between the seats, vacuuming the floorboard. Shouldn’t be here, not his place.
It becomes too - perfect. It smells like soap and the air tastes like chemical lemons inside. It’s not the same. It’s strange and different to Sam; he doesn’t want to be near it. He resists screaming through the entire thing, bites down so hard his jaw hurts and digs out the spare change from underneath the foot wells.
He puts up a for sale sign inside the windshield of the car. He looks away for five minutes and somebody from across the street has wandered over to make an offer. A car dealer from San Francisco - says he’s never seen a ’67 in this good of shape and he’s always dreamed of having one in his collection. Smiles genuinely at Sam when he says he’ll pay almost anything. Sam knows he has the kind of money that he can throw around and probably a wife that drinks during the day so she doesn’t have to think about how her husband buys old cars to park in their garage.
Sam almost gives it away for free, wanting the - the thing gone, but he knows that Jensen might need the extra cash one day. He gets thirty thousand for it - he would’ve gotten more, but there were too many miles on it. Sam doesn’t care; a detached sense of relief passes through him as the guy backs out of the parking lot, waving his hand out the window. The tires spin and squeal, leaving black marks on the road as the nameless man drive away with the last thing holding Sam to whatever Dean had left behind.
Sam always imagined it differently.
| |
When Jensen sees the check on the fridge the next morning, he swears loudly and drops the new carton of orange juice on the floor, sticky pulp juice spilling into the crevices.
“You got thirty thousand for the car in one day?” Jensen yells when Sam rushes into the kitchen. He’s holding the check tightly between his fingers, staring at it like if he blinks, it will disappear.
Sam shuffles his feet. “Yeah.”
Jensen doesn’t say anything. Just stares at Sam.
“I wanted it gone,” Sam says sheepishly, shrugging. “You can take half of it.”
“Oh God, I can’t -” Jensen shoves the check into Sam’s hands and backs away. He slips slightly in the orange juice. “It’s yours.”
“What the hell am I going to do with thirty thousand dollars, Jensen?” Sam laughs, waving the check in the air. “I was only going to get ten, but the guy refused to pay any less than thirty.”
Jensen chews on his bottom lip. “Sam, I just can’t,” he whispers.
“I’m writing half of it off to you and you’re cashing it. Pay off your bills, buy a new guitar, put some of it away - I don’t care what you do with it, just take it,” Sam says sternly. He puts the check back on the fridge, under the smiley face magnet.
“Fine,” Jensen finally agrees. Pushes off the counter he was leaning against and wraps his arms around Sam’s waist. They stand like that for awhile, Jensen’s face buried in Sam’s neck, hot breath snaking across Sam’s bare skin. Goose bumps rise up along his neck.
“You okay?” Jensen asks in a small voice. His voice trembles against Sam’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Sam mutters. “It was just something I needed to do.”
Every night, for the next week, he dreams about Dean and him driving down a never-ending road in the Impala and he wakes with sticky-warm tears stuck to his eyelashes.
After that, he rarely thinks about Dean.
| |
Jensen says he’s given up on his acting dream. He never out-rightly blames Sam, but Sam does. He says he’s been abandoning Chris and that he likes the way he feels when he plays. Likes the hot lights on his face. Reminds him that he’s real and he expects Sam to laugh, but Sam doesn’t.
Jensen calls Chris and they have a gig within ten minutes for that night. Sam helps Jensen clean the apartment and uncover Jensen’s guitar from the mess. Jensen wipes down the front of dust and plucks at the strings.
“I’m going to be famous someday, Sam,” Jensen whispers, his eyes glazed and lost. “I can feel it.”
The place is dingy and filled to the roof with hazy blue smoke. Sam coughs for five minutes before he gets used to the stale, musky scent and downs a cold beer that makes his teeth chatter. He sits at a table by himself, watching Jensen carry their things onto the stage. It feels familiar.
A guy with dark blonde hair and wide blue eyes slides into the booth across from Sam a few minutes later. He stares at Sam for a second, his head tilted to the side before he nods, like Sam meets some sort of unknown standard, and reaches his hand across the table.
Sam stares at the hand.
“Hi, I’m Chris,” the man greets. His hand is still held out. “I’ve decided to finally introduce myself.”
Sam takes Chris’ hand: he’s still wary. “Sam.”
“I know.” Chris grins like a complete idiot, his smile lopsided and looking like he’s taken too many drugs. He eyes Sam skeptically for a minute before saying, “Well, I’ll talk to you later, bud.” Chris slides out of the booth, standing up and straightening out his shirt. He turns to look at Sam. “Hey, just be careful with him, okay?”
“What?” Sam asks.
“Just promise to be careful with Jen,” Chris says. He sighs, looking to the floor. “People leave him all the time - he just doesn’t need it anymore.”
Sam nods. “Okay.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Sure.”
A sad, grateful smile spreads on Chris’s lips. “Thanks, Sam,” he says, clapping Sam on the shoulder and walks away, blending into the crowd and Sam feels like he’s failing before he’s even tried.
| |
It’s not until he orders a large plate of fries with extra gravy that he sees the familiar face in the corner of the bar, staring at him. Sam glances over his shoulder: a suit kind of guy, mixed into the cowboy hats and mini skirts, with dark sunglasses.
The man smiles wickedly when he notices Sam looking at him. Raises his glass of dark amber liquor and nods curtly. Sam feels his stomach curl sickeningly and he looks back to the stage, where Jensen is tuning his guitar and looking thoroughly content under the blinding stage lights; gorgeous and lost to the world.
Sam pushes the plate of half-eaten fries away and keeps a vigilant eye on Jensen, occasionally checking that Paul was still standing at the bar. He loses sight of Paul when Jensen starts to play; his fingers run lightly across the strings and the entire place falls silent. Jensen’s face says it all.
Sam kind of forgets about Paul and sinks into the music, watching Jensen’s nimble fingers play soft chords as a warm-up. He doesn’t remember that there are people around him, that there is time and minutes and Paul so close, just within reach.
He just. Forgets.
An hour passes, Sam’s sure, before he sees Jensen pushing through the crowd, breathing out a quick thanks to people gripping his shoulder and pulling him in for rough handshakes and hugs, before spotting Sam sitting at the table and grins broadly. He wipes his cheeks with the backs of his hands and falls beside Sam, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder.
“Christ,” he laughs quietly.
Sam sighs, wrapping his arm around Jensen’s shoulders and pulls him close. His eyes dart around the bar. Can’t see Paul and he feels a little better; probably left.
Jensen’s head lifts up; their noises bump in the hazy darkness. “Want something to drink?” he asks: his eyes are a bright, vibrant green that shocks Sam a little.
“Sure.”
Jensen slides out of the booth; he’s stopped a few more times before he gets to the bar, nodding his thank-you’s and grinning like his face is broken. Sam watches him lean against the counter, talk with the bartender and - disappear.
Sam sits up straight in his chair. Cracks his knuckles against the table and leans forward, tries to find Jensen. Sees him in the corner, back of his head and then Paul. Paul towering above him, narrow eyes behind dark sunglasses, pushing Jensen’s hair back and Jensen pushing away. The hand - too close to Jensen, moving lower and Sam can see Jensen say no, sees Jensen turn away. Paul pulls him back, hand gripped tight on Jensen’s wrist. Open mouth, brushing the side of Jensen’s face and Jensen squirms, a look of panic on his face.
Sam flies out of his chair and.
“Sam!” Jensen yells. Pushed against the wall, his face fearful.
Paul’s on the floor, clutching his jaw and this time - this time, Sam’s on the floor with him, throwing his fists wherever he can. Favors the feel of flesh and sickening crunch of bone. He hears the protests, someone yelling loud for the police, and the music still plays.
Sam ignores them. All he can see is Paul, all he can see is Jensen and it skips in his head, like an old record, and all he sees is Paul. And Jensen. Paul on Jensen, not where he should be, and he can’t control what rises up in him, escapes through his fists, through his eyes, through his mouth. He knows he’s screaming, but he can’t understand himself.
“Sam!” Jensen yells again. Sam ignores him.
“Get off me, you psycho!” Paul screams, his cry mixed with the gurgle of blood and a shred of desperation.
He’s thrown off, hands flying out behind him and someone catches him, falling back into the bar; he slides to the floor when the person releases him and backs away. There are whispers around the bar, everyone staring. He breathes fast and rough, feels his lungs clench tightly in his chest. Tries to find his balance as they drag Paul away. Sam’s fingers shake.
“Sam.” Jensen kneels beside him. Cradles his bruised knuckles in his small hands and whispers quietly, “Oh, Sam.”
They take him to the back room, where the beer is stacked high in the open freezer and there’s bottles of hard liquor lining the walls. Mac - the bartender - brings Sam an ice pack wrapped in a towel and tells him to keep it on his knuckles until they go numb. Gives him some Advil with a glass of warm water, shoots Jensen an unreadable look and leaves.
Jensen starts to laugh. Quietly at first; then his body shakes, the smile on his face spreading and he drapes his arms around Sam’s shoulder and buries his face into Sam’s hair.
“Jesus, Sam,” he mutters. “I think you might need anger management.”
Sam chuckles. He can feel the cold seep through the towel into his fingers and shoot straight to his head, making the numbness raw and torn at the edges.
Mac comes back in a few minutes later, looking exhausted and mildly annoyed. Jensen looks up at him. Sam doesn’t know what he should do, so he pinches the fingers that have gone numb.
“The guy said he’s not going to press charges,” Mac says.
Jensen shifts in his seat, looks at Sam. “And?”
Mac sighs. “For you, Jen. Only for you, I would do this. I’m not saying anything. Nobody’s saying anything.” He raises his hands. “Don’t know, don’t tell.”
Jensen sighs, relieved. “Thanks a lot, Mac.”
Mac frowns. “Don’t be doing shit like this again, you hear?” He looks pointedly at Sam; Sam feels small and withered under his gaze. “Got it?”
Sam nods and looks at his feet.
“Good,” Mac says. “Get home. Take the ice pack with you.”
They go out the back door so no one will see them. Jensen’s holds Sam’s good hand in his and they sit in the back alley until the ice pack thaws and curves to the shape of Sam’s hand. Jensen tells him about his junior year in high school and when he realized he had a huge crush on the male intern teaching him English and how Sam kind of reminded Jensen of him.
| |
Part Four.