Big Bang '10 - One Hundred Percent Reason to Remember [iii. 10% luck]
Masterlist
Previous
When Dean walks through the door right after work, the first thing he does (after throwing the keys on the kitchen counter, shucking his coat and grabbing a beer) is boot up the computer in his home office.
It's an older model, but it runs fine (most of the time; getting the internet to work right was a process at first), and he'd recently purchased a brand-new flat screen monitor for it. The start-up messages flicker across the screen and he settles back into his nice, luxury desk chair, takes a long pull at his beer and toys with the slinky on his desk until the computer gets warmed up.
It takes a bit of time, but the first program to boot on start-up is MSN Messenger. It automatically signs him in and he waits until it's done calibrating whatever it's calibrating (MSN is always tedious to work, but he puts up with it) so he can see who's online.
If Salt83 is online.
They've been talking for about a year now, and it'd be a little creepier if it hadn't been so long. However, now that the trial period had passed, it was verging on hopeless. The first thing he did when he woke up in the morning (right after his shower, and that usually meant he was wearing nothing but a towel, which should have been more awkward than it was) was log into Messenger to see if Salt was online. Sometimes he was, sometimes he wasn't; guy kept weird hours wherever he worked. But regardless, Dean would drop a note to him to be retrieved when he signed in.
The first thing he did when he got home from work (now, for example), was boot up the computer and see if Salt was online. He rarely wasn't.
Dean had met Salt on chance on a forum somewhere; until about a year ago, Dean hadn't spent much time near a computer at all. Somehow, in the last year he'd grown to be some sort of nerd or something. And it was all Salt's fault, of course.
The speakers chimed, and a box popped up from the taskbar, announcing that Salt had logged on. Grinning, Dean clicked the banner and started typing.
As soon as the ding echoes in the bar, Sam lets the mop fall and bounces to the computer in the corner, a beaming grin already lightening up his face. Ellen shakes her head, amused, as Jo sighs. "And that's the last we'll see of Sam tonight, ladies and gentlemen," she states, starting to recollect glasses and empty plates.
It's quite early still, but the Roadhouse is almost empty: there are only a couple of college students sitting close to the counter, and one of them, a pretty blonde girl, has been staring at Sam since she stepped in. As to confirm her fears, the girl blinks, in confusion, and turns her big blue eyes on Jo. "Why? What's going on?" she asks. Jo takes pity on her and decides to tell her before she gets the wrong idea.
"When Dman79 is online, the rest of the world disappears, for Sam," she explains, and the girl looks even more confused.
"Who is Dman?"
"Sam's boyfriend!" exclaims Ash from the pool table where he's cleaning up the girl's friends.
"He's NOT!" Sam retorts, but he's blushing, and the expression on the girl's face turns from hopeful to resigned.
"Sorry, Jessica," Jo murmurs, and Jessica nods. "It's okay."
Sam looks at her and wants to say something, but then Dman is writing and all of Sam's attention is focused on the screen once again. He doesn't even notice when she leaves.
They are just friends, Dman and him, and they didn't exchange any relevant information about what they look like, how old they were or where they lived, even if, with a nickname like that, Sam was inclined to think Dman was a guy.
It freaked him out at first, how comfortable and familiar talking to Dman felt, like they've known each other for forever, like there was some sort of bond between them. Then time passed by, and it became... intimate, safe. Needed.
And Sam lived waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Despite his earlier anticipation, Dean is apprehensive now. The question he so desperately wants to ask is making the tips of his fingertips tingle with the need to type it out. He has no real idea what Salt's reaction will be - hell, he isn't even sure Salt is a guy. He's going mostly on how he speaks, and that doesn't say anything, really.
They've never seen each other's faces or heard each other's voices, and this anonymous, intimate thing is just that: intimate without having to be personal, even if it already is as personal as they can make it without actually knowing each other. It's a line they don't cross.
And he's about to cross it.
He takes a deep breath, cracks his knuckles and types out, 'Hey, I have an idea.' He waits two entire seconds before continuing. 'I think we should meet up sometime. It'd be fun. What'd you think?'
Dean hits the 'enter' button and waits.
Sam lets out an embarrassingly loud squeak, and both Jo and Ellen run up to him, worried.
"What's wrong?" Ellen asks, not really reassured by how pale Sam's face is and by the way his hands are shaking, clenched tightly in his lap.
"Dman, he-he wants to meet," Sam murmurs, turning wide, scared eyes on them.
Jo almost feels like laughing, because this is the problem, but then she thinks about it a little further and gets it, sort of.
"It's about time," Ash says, waving his hand dismissively. "You guys have been dancing around each other for a year, man. It's only natural."
Sam swallows, hard. "I-I guess, but...I can't! I mean, what if...and then..." He's babbling and can't seem to stop, so Ash forces a beer at him. Sam gulps down half of it before he starts to calm down.
He turns to look at his friends, unsure, but he only sees support and understanding. 'I don't know' he types. 'what if we spoil what we have?'
All of the air leaves Dean's lungs, and he has to breathe a moment, gulp down half of his beer before he can reply. It's mostly bravado; he already feels like this selfish need for something a little less anonymous has ruined the only good thing that's happened to him in a long time. 'What if we don't? We've known each other this long, I'm sure we'll get along just fine, if that's what you're worried about.'
Sam snorts bitterly, before typing his answer. 'That's not what I'm worried about.'
Before he can hit send, though, he thinks better and deletes the sentence. That would be getting too close to the truth and he can't risk freaking Dman out. After all, Sam thinks he's a guy, but he can't be sure. Besides, even if he is, who says he likes Sam the way Sam likes him?
Maybe he really wants a friend and that's all there is to it.
"Stop worrying, dude. Your little homo crush is most definitely reciprocated." Ash states, encouragingly, gaining a death-glare from both Ellen and Jo before punching Sam's shoulder.
Fuck it, Sam thinks, typing his answer and sending it before he has the time to change his mind. He does want to see Dman. He really does.
When the sound comes out of the speakers, tinny and small, Dean's looking away. He's pretending to be interested in something on the wall to his left, which is stupid because even if he was watching the screen with bated breath, there's no one here to witness it. He clears his throat, looks over at the Messenger screen, and stares. And stares. And makes the same sort of sound he'd make if he was watching a ball game and his team just scored.
This is good. This is amazing, and he can't even feel nervous about it.
'Awesome,' he types out, and then adds a little smiley face - which he rarely does, but hell, it's a special occasion. 'I'd suggest a place, but I don't even know where you live.'
Sam lets a small, shy smile appear on his face. Dman sounds genuinely happy and that's all that really matters to him.
'Nebraska' he types, but then Ellen pushes him on the side and adds, 'Maybe we can meet half way?'
"This way we know he's legal," she says, and Ash snickers. Jo rolls her eyes, but still feels sort of proud of this weird family of hers. They don't share the same blood, but that's not what family is about, is it?
"I'm coming with you," she states, determined, even before Dman has had the time to answer. "Wherever it is, however it goes, I'm coming with you."
Sam's grateful gaze warms her up inside, as Ash whoops out loud flailing his arms in the air. "Road trip!"
'Where in Nebraska?' Dean asks, aware that he's prying but too elated by the hopeful feeling working its way through him to care. 'I'm in Colorado Springs. Not that far no matter how you slice it. You pick the place and I'll be there.'
He knows he really shouldn't, but he feel self-satisfied as he hits the enter button, downs the rest of his beer and goes back into the kitchen to throw the bottle away. He's sure he can get time off work to go wherever he needs to; he hasn't outright talked to Missouri about Salt, but he's sure she'll understand. Might not know anything about cars (despite owning a garage, but he's never really felt the need to ask how that happened), but maybe she'll understand this.
Dean stands in the kitchen for a minute, considers his fridge and then gives in and calls for takeout again. Necessities taken care of, he bolts back into the room he's delegated as his office and checks for Sam's reply.
"I need a place... a nice place. But not too nice!" Sam stands and starts pacing.
"You also need a place with people," Ellen points out. "I really don't want you to meet a stranger in a secluded area, Sam."
"I've got it!" Ash exclaims. "What about Whiskey Creek Wood Fire Grill in North Platte? You love your steak, and if this guy's good for you he'll love it just the same."
"And it's very romantic," Jo adds, winking, "but not sappy."
Sam nods. "Sure." He doesn't really care about where they will be, he only cares about finally meeting him.
"How should we recognize each other?" Sam wonders, after he has typed the name of the steakhouse and sent it to Dman.
"Oh, I know! A flower!" Jo chirps, as Ash makes gagging sounds.
"Classy," Dean mutters to himself as he reads Sam's reply, and sends, 'Alright. I think I can make it to North Platte by dinner if I start tomorrow morning. Dinner sound good?' It belatedly occurs to him that he should ask how they're going to recognize each other, but Salt always thinks of things like that, so he's sure they'll be something. If he has to wear a giant sign with his screenname on it, he'll do it gladly.
He snickers to himself and starts thinking about what he's going to tell Missouri.
'Dinner sounds great. My best friend, who has seen too many movies, suggests we carry some sort of flower. You up for it or is it too gay for you?'
Sam chuckles softly, remember how much Dman hates everything that smells even faintly of chick flick moments. A weird excitement is running through his veins, and his anticipation is just as strong as the fear was. Not like he's not afraid anymore, but now at least he has taken his decision and that right there makes him feel better.
He has been dreaming about meeting Dman for so long it's probably going to feel weirdly like deja-vu when it finally happens.
Dean laughs out loud, because the flower would be the least gay part of this situation.
'Flower's cool. Don't expect me to get a specific kind, though. I'm not enough of a pansy to know the difference.' And he adds another little smiley face, and hell, if Salt doesn't now just how happy he is by how many ridiculous emotes he's using, he doesn't know what's going to convince him.
And then the panic sets in.
Abstractly, he'd considered these possibilities before he'd asked, but now he's wondering what will happen if Salt doesn't like him, if Salt's this super attractive guy (or girl, he's not that picky; Salt just gives off a guy-type vibe) that isn't going to find Dean the least bit interesting. He's mentally going through his closet, trying to figure out what he's going to wear, deciding that he has to wash the car if he's going to be meeting someone.
God, it's like he's some sort of chick or something. 'You are totally Meg Ryan,' he adds, just for good measure.
'You're a jerk,' Sam answers, snickering to himself. 'See you tomorrow.'
He logs off without even waiting for an answer, because he's too wired up and he's afraid he'll say something he's not supposed to.
It's only when he's sitting at the counter with a cold beer in his hand, deafened by Jo's excited babbling, that he realizes he didn't even ask Dman what his real name is.
Oh, well.
He'll find out tomorrow, anyway.
Whiskey Creek Wood Fire Grill is a bit more atmospheric than Dean would have liked. The tables are a light-colored wood that the name probably should have suggested, and the booths are upholstered with chocolate brown leather. Each table sits in it's own pool of light, cast down from the hanging light fixtures above. The effect should make the place look like an interrogation room, but it doesn't; rather, the light blends at the edges until the whole place has a sort of manic romantic glow about it.
Dean's already nervous, doesn't need this place's decor messing with the calm he's been trying to build up all day, but his calm and the new knot of nerves that bubbles up inside cancel each other out, until it becomes just a buzz underneath his skin. He can try to ignore it, but it doesn't really work that way.
Ah, well.
He's also pretty sure he looks like a complete idiot. He tries to shove the flower half-under the menu the waitress brings when he's seated, with only the petals still sticking out; it doesn't make him look any less gay. In fact, it probably just looks like he's trying to cover up the fact that he looks gay, which is kind of the truth, but still--
He needs a beer, right now. After a brief internal struggle about whether ordering one would be cheap and make Salt think less of him, he decides that if he doesn't at least have something, he's going to be so freaked out by the time Salt does arrive that he can't speak, so. Alcohol it is.
Dean keeps craning his neck to see the people coming through the door; he's situated himself next to it, not realizing that it makes it more difficult to spot and be spotted. But he's doing his best to hold it together every time the door swings open to let the cold night air in.
Jo is wearing a purple dress that barely covers her knees, and her hair is styled up. The light blue of her eyeshadow underlines her intense eyes, and she doesn't look like the tomboy Sam used to outrun in the yard when they were kids anymore.
She's a woman now, and if the way Ash's gaze softens every time it stops on her is any indication, Sam is not the only one who noticed. He's happy about it: Ash is a nerd, and a little rough around the edges, but he's kind and a good man. There's no doubt he'll treat Jo right.
Sam shifts nervously, feeling out of place with his new dark jeans and the white, ironed shirt. He tried to submit his mop of hair to a comb, water and hair gel, but didn't really succeed and now he looks like he's stuck his fingers in a light socket.
He fumbles with his leather belt, a gift from Ellen; it belonged to her dead husband, Jo's father, and Sam is proud of wearing it. Doesn't make him feel any less of a freaky sasquatch, though.
He licks his lower lip, shivering a little in the cold night breeze as he and Jo wait for Ash to park their van. After a few minutes, he finally hops towards them, wearing a black vest on a white wife-beater and looking like a drunk reject even if he's stone cold sober.
"Let's do this thing!" he exclaims, slamming his open palm against Sam's back with a resounding crack. Sam swallows and they step closer, not entering yet but surveying the area from outside, which is made easy by the large glass windows.
Jo points at a very old, fat bald man sitting in the back of the restaurant, and Sam groans while she snickers, just before Ash nudges him and forces Sam's head around to look at a barely sixteen girl with very short hair and a sweater too big for her.
"Guys, come on," Sam hisses through his teeth. "Be serious, will you?"
Jo opens her mouth as if she's about to say something, but then she just-stops. Her eyes go wide as she stares at something right behind Sam, so he turns slowly, half expecting for it to be another joke.
It's not.
It only takes a look for Sam to know that he's looking at Dman. If it wasn't for the black leather jacket he knows is Dman's favorite garment, or the flower almost smashed under the menu, it would be the anticipation and barely hidden excitement on the guy's face to clue him in.
"Fuck," Ash mutters. "Check that out! I'd go gay for that."
Jo nods, still in shock. "You and me both."
Sam's back stiffens, as he feels a suspicious sting in the corners of his eyes before he turns around and stomps away, as fast as he can, his fingers clenching so tight around the simple white daisy he was holding his knuckles go white. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"What the hell?!" Ash exclaims, breathless, once he and Jo reach him. "Why didn't you talk to him?!"
Sam looks at them, his eyes watery and filled with shadows and regrets. "I couldn't. Guys, I couldn't. Have-have you seen him?!"
Jo blinks. "Yeah, Sam, we did. He's drop-dead gorgeous." Sam swallows.
"Exactly."
Jo looks confused, so Sam just sighs and lays against the cold metal of the van before explaining. "Girls that look like you don't understand. I keep thinking that if I gain ten pounds of muscle, or wear better clothes maybe it would make a difference, but... I know the truth. I'll never be good enough, not for someone like him."
Ash snorts. "I'm sorry, man, but that's bullshit. You're the smartest person that I know-after myself, of course."
Jo glares at him and then grabs Sam's arm. "You make everyone around you happy, Sam, and you have so much to offer. To say you don't because of how you look is just..."
"Is just total bullshit, as I said," Ash finishes, shrugging.
Sam narrows his eyes. "I didn't say I don't have a lot to offer, I said that people will never know because they don't see me. How many times has that happened to you, Jo?"
The girl falls silent, unable to answer, and Sam nods sadly to himself.
"So until that happens, until you're told time and time again that your place in life is in the background, don't tell me it's bullshit, because you don't know."
Ash clears his throat, awkwardly, but Sam just sighs again. "Let's go back home, okay? Please."
Dean waits. And waits. And waits, until it's past the time they arranged, past dinnertime, and there are three empty bottles on the table in front of him. The flower's even wilted.
Maybe something happened. That's the only reason he (or she) wouldn't be here, right? Something must have happened. Or maybe... maybe he wasn't ever really coming.
This was stupid. It was a stupid thing to ask, and now Dean's destroyed what they had in the hopes of finding something that could never be. He waits fifteen more minutes and then pays his bill. The waitress gives him a look which tells him that she's all too used to the feeling herself, but Dean can't bring himself to give her a second glance.
On his way out of the door, he catches sight of his reflection and stands for a minute, just looking. He doesn't think he's half bad, but he could be wrong. Maybe Salt, as previously anticipated, was a hot supermodel-type, took one look at Dean and fled. Maybe he was embarrassed to even be associating with someone so horrible.
Maybe he doesn't really know Salt at all. The internet is an anonymous place, a dangerous place. It's way too easy to pretend to be someone else.
The parking lot is lit by a single streetlamp, and Dean keeps his eyes glued to the pavement. It's only after the toe of his boot scuffs over something that he focuses in and looks down to find what it is.
It's a flower. The petals are smashed, stem broken. It's been run over by several different cars and stepped on by more than a few people, but it's still recognizable as a flower. Dean picks it up, looks at it closely for a second, and then drops it again, closes his eyes.
That's it, then. Salt was here, saw him, and left. Damn it.
It takes the remainder of the trip to the car for Dean to convince himself he's an idiot, halfway home for him to convince himself that he's a horrible person and that whoever Salt is, he doesn't deserve them.
When he finally does close his apartment door behind him, he immediately heads to the office. maybe it's habit by now, second-nature because he's done it so many times. Either way, he boots up the computer, waits until Messenger logs him in.
He didn't expect Salt to be on, really he didn't. Nevertheless, he clicks on the gray, faded-out username and hovers over the keyboard like he's going to type something, until he realizes that he has nothing to say. Nothing he can say, and fuck it.
There's a bottle of vodka in the fridge, calling to him, and by the time the sun rises it's mostly gone.
Ellen's mouth is a thin line as Sam stands in front of her. "Will you run that by me again?" she asks, her tone cold and a little pissed, and Sam looks up, surprised.
"Wasn't I clear enough?" he asks, but Ellen narrows her eyes.
"Oh, you were clear, Sam," she answers, slowly. "You were so clear that I don't know what's keeping me from punching you. Don't you realize how selfish you've been?!"
Her voice is low, but Sam is hit by it as if she was screaming. "You didn't see him, okay? You don't know how it felt to look at him and knowing-"
"Goddammit, Sam, will you stop thinking about how you felt and start thinking about him, uh? How do you think he felt, waiting for hours someone who never comes?!"
Sam swallows. He didn't stop long enough to figure that one out. He's too stubborn to admit it, though. "I did both of us a favor, Ellen. He will understand it, eventually."
Ellen tries to say something else, but Sam's not listening anymore. "Can you finish here?" he asks, and Jo nods, without even looking at him as he leaves the bar, slamming the door on his way out.
Ellen throws a glance at her, but they both can only shrug and keep doing their chores.
That afternoon, after Dean's downed a handful of painkillers to dull the throbbing in his head enough to even look at the screen, Dean goes in to the computer. He waits a minute, stares at the blinking line until it's driving him insane with the way it's mocking him.
And then he starts out, 'Hey. I didn't catch you last night in North Platte. Everything okay?' He hopes that feigning innocence will get Salt to answer him, out of pity if nothing else. He's still offline but Dean waits anyway, until he absolutely has to go back and lie down.
When he wakes again, he goes to check. And still nothing. Just his message, still sitting there, looking lonely. He remembers all of their previous conversations, how he was always the one to take initiative, and closes his eyes for a moment before adding to it, 'I think you were there. I think you saw me and left. Please answer.'
And then he waits some more, until he's done enough waiting that he's thoroughly sick with it and goes to find something else to do that doesn't involve alcohol, or computers, or anything to do with Salt.
There shouldn't be anyone left in the bar, but when the computer beeps, someone is still there. He stares at the screen, detached. So Dman is playing it cool, huh.
And yeah, he knows that it's probably better this way, for all the parts involved, because this situation smells danger and pain and heartbreak, but still. He can't bring himself to step away.
Maybe it's some sort of weird, sick curiosity, but he stays, sitting in front of the computer, waiting. Then, just as he's gotten tired and is thinking about just turning the damn machine off, the message appears. He reads it again and again, until he can almost imagine the guy they saw at the restaurant pronouncing those words, before taking a deep breath and typing an answer.
'What's it to you?'
He's forgotten that he left his speakers on. He's in the middle of some infomercial about laundry soap when the sound resonates through the computer speakers in the other room.
Dean almost, almost doesn't go to check it. He's almost lost faith that Salt would ever contact him again. But he does, still nursing the small amount of stupid, trampled hope in his chest.
But when he gets there, it flickers out.
His fingers hover over the keys for a moment, trying to disconnect enough to answer this politely. Hell, if Salt had actually answered him like that, he'd punch the guy in his face. It takes another few seconds for the reply to work its way out of the anger that Dean so badly wants to let loose on something.
'Not good enough for you? Couldn't even find it in you to say something to me, even after we've talked for so long? What the hell is your problem?' And, okay. Not exactly polite. But it's definitely better than the first, knee-jerk response.
His mouth twitches. The guy has guts. And pride. Despite not wanting to, he sort of likes him.
'What if it was the other way around, loverboy? What if it was me who's not good enough for you? What if I didn't have the courage to walk up to your gorgeous face and girlishly long lashes? What then?' He chuckles to himself.
Not really something he'd say, in a normal situation, but it's as they say: desperate times call for desperate measures.
Dean stares at the screen like it's suddenly grown two heads, fingers falling away from the keyboard reflexively. The thought has honestly never occurred to him.
His initial reaction is to tell Salt that he's a fucking idiot. He's actually halfway through the sentence before his anger drains away and he erases it, starts again. 'Then I'd tell you that it doesn't matter what you look like, because I know you. And I'd tell you to stop being such a damn coward.'
Dean sends it, almost unaware that he's holding his breath for an answer. Somehow, everything rests on this for reasons Dean can't name. The clock on the wall ticks by seconds agonizingly slowly.
He stares at the answer. Maybe...
Nah. Really?
He ponders about it for a split second before cracking his knuckles and typing back. 'Okay, then, you giant girl. Listen, and listen good, because this is a one shot deal. Full house or nothing.'
He is about to put rien ne va plus, but that's too much even for him. His plan has so many holes that if he stops to think about it he will just abort the whole thing; luckily, he's not much the thinking type.
Besides, he will have help. Or at least so he hopes.
Dean watches as the words come up on the screen, five or six different sends that don't make much sense at first. But after reading them, he almost dares to be hopeful, jots down the necessary information and nods to himself.
He really, really hopes this works. Because if it doesn't, he's going to be much, much worse off than before.
The computer kept ringing, again and again, and Sam has turned the sound off, because how is he supposed to ignore it if it bugs him like that? A little voice in his head reminds him that he could simply turn off the computer, but Sam silences it immediately, despite how reasonable it is.
No matter how hard he tries not to think about it, though, his mind keeps going back to the desperate, demanding call repeating itself on his screen at least 50 times.
'Where are you?'
'Answer me.'
'Please, talk to me, Salt.'
'It's gonna be okay, please, just give me a chance.'
Every single word Dman types is like a bullet through Sam's heart. Ellen was right, he's being selfish and hurting someone who hasn't done anything wrong; Dman doesn't deserve for Sam to act like this, but Sam is the one who knows better, for once.
He has let Dman take control, every step of the way, but this time... this time it's on him. "You will thank me some day," he mutters to the stranger behind the screen.
Dean sighs, shuts the slider over the keyboard on his phone, and tries not to look at it too often. Under the table, his leg is jumping, nervous in a way he wasn't the other night in North Platte. He hopes something happens soon, that either Sam answers or the plan falls through. Something, anything would be better than this.
Unable to resist, he opens the keyboard again and types the words out with just his thumb, 'C'mon, Salt. Please?' And it's exactly like the thirty or so messages he's sent before, but he hopes, like he's hoped every time, that this time something happens.
"If this guy writes another sappy line, I'm going to throw the computer out of the window," Ash comments, staring at the screen , and Sam gasps, pushing him on the side.
"Get away, you freak! That's personal!" he states, crossing his arms and glaring at Ash, but the man just shrugs.
"If it was personal, it wouldn't be popping on a shared computer, Sam," Ash retorts. "Besides, you obviously don't care about this guy, so what's the harm in mocking him a little?"
"I-you know that it's not like that," Sam says, without looking at him.
Ash arches an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Because I thought that leaving his sorry ass wondering for hours about what was wrong with him meant you didn't care."
Sam cringes inwardly at Ash's words. It's so true.
Again, there's no answer. Dean's almost done with this, almost tired of playing this game that consists mainly of him pushing until he can't anymore and getting nothing in return. He's about to just head home and deal with the consequences (if there are any) later.
'Please?' He types out, just that, and doesn't even know if he should hope or not.
Sam sees the umpteenth message pop up, and decides he has had enough and turns the computer off. "I can't do this," he murmurs, so low that it's probably not meant for anyone else, but Ash hears him and steps closer.
"Do what?" he inquires.
"This!" Sam exclaims, his arms wide open to embrace the whole room, the computer, his failure. "Dman, the internet, running away from the fucking best thing of my life. All of it."
He deflates and lowers his head, letting his long bangs fall in front of his face to hide his eyes. Ash's gaze softens.
"What's the problem here, Sam? I mean, the real one?" he asks, his voice more serious than Sam has ever heard. "I know you well enough to be able to say you're not a coward."
Sam sighs and approaches the counter, noticing for the first time how packed the bar is tonight. "Maybe I am," he answers. "Maybe I'm not as strong as you thought. As I thought. Dman makes me feel things I've never felt before, he makes me want to be a better man just because I know he has faith in me and I would do anything not to disappoint him."
He swallows. "That's why I can't meet him. I couldn't take a forced smile, a condescending expression and a few minutes of awkward, uncomfortable conversation before he walks away from my life."
His fists are clenched, and his jaw is trembling when Sam lifts his eyes on Ash. "You understand, don't you?" he inquires, and Ash's eyes go wide.
"Holy shit, Samantha, you're in love with him."
Sam gasps loudly and takes a step back, hurriedly, tripping on a chair in his haste to shaking his head and flailing his long arms. "Wha-no! I-of course not, what are you talking about?!" He laughs, but his laughter sounds almost hysterical and Ash flinches.
Dean hears his cue even from halfway across the crowded bar; he hears it, and it makes him send up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever lies above. The thrill that runs up his spine has a life of his own, and he shivers, anticipation and elation and the hope that this goes the way he knows it will.
He stands up, winds his way around chairs and booths and finds himself leaning on the bar. Salt (Sam? Is that what Ash called him?) is just beyond, still locked in his conversation with Ash, and he listens, waits for his chance to jump in.
"Sam..." Ash starts, but Sam lifts a hand, effectively stopping him.
"No, Ash. Just-no. Please. You've seen him, you know that there's no way this is ever going to work. Drop it." And with these words, he steps behind the counter to help Jo serve a few patrons.
Apparently, Ash doesn't know the meaning of drop it, because he follows him and grabs Sam's shoulder, forcing him to turn. "You're beautiful, Sam. In your own way, which might be different from Dman's, but you are."
Sam chuckles, bitterly. "Well, I don't know about that."
"I do," Dean says, and even though it's loud in the bar, he knows Sam heard him from the way he stiffens.
Sam's heart skips a beat, because it can't be, but somehow he knows it is even before he turns. That voice, a voice Sam has never heard before but he could recognize amongst a thousand, simply because of the way it washes over him, almost shielding him from harm, keeping him safe.
That voice makes him feel safe and he thinks, not for the first time, how stupid he has been for not taking a chance.
Apparently Dman has decided to do so himself, as usual. Sam would be confused as for how the guy found him, but the shit-eating grin on Ash's face tells him everything he needs to know, so he slowly turns.
He doesn't look up, he just stares at Dman's big hands on the counter. "Hey," he murmurs, his cheeks already burning.
Dean smiles, because he can't not when faced with this. He immediately loves the blush creeping up from Sam's neck, wonders if he blushes like that all over and knows that he wants to know, more than he's possibly ever wanted anything.
There'll be time for that. There'll be time for everything, because now that Dean has Sam in his sights, he's not letting him go.
"You're everything I thought you'd be," he says, not even caring how stupid it sounds, because it's true.
Uriel is waving his hand dismissively even before it's obvious what the outcome is going to be. "Dean was professionally successful, here, and human nature forces humans to go after security and money. It's clear what Sam was looking for."
Castiel blinks. "You don't really believe that."
"Of course I do!" Uriel snaps, before recovering his usual composure. He's going to make sure that Dean is no role model, next time.
We'll see what you will have to offer then, you pompous bastard, he thinks, rubbing his hands together.
Next
Previous
When Dean walks through the door right after work, the first thing he does (after throwing the keys on the kitchen counter, shucking his coat and grabbing a beer) is boot up the computer in his home office.
It's an older model, but it runs fine (most of the time; getting the internet to work right was a process at first), and he'd recently purchased a brand-new flat screen monitor for it. The start-up messages flicker across the screen and he settles back into his nice, luxury desk chair, takes a long pull at his beer and toys with the slinky on his desk until the computer gets warmed up.
It takes a bit of time, but the first program to boot on start-up is MSN Messenger. It automatically signs him in and he waits until it's done calibrating whatever it's calibrating (MSN is always tedious to work, but he puts up with it) so he can see who's online.
If Salt83 is online.
They've been talking for about a year now, and it'd be a little creepier if it hadn't been so long. However, now that the trial period had passed, it was verging on hopeless. The first thing he did when he woke up in the morning (right after his shower, and that usually meant he was wearing nothing but a towel, which should have been more awkward than it was) was log into Messenger to see if Salt was online. Sometimes he was, sometimes he wasn't; guy kept weird hours wherever he worked. But regardless, Dean would drop a note to him to be retrieved when he signed in.
The first thing he did when he got home from work (now, for example), was boot up the computer and see if Salt was online. He rarely wasn't.
Dean had met Salt on chance on a forum somewhere; until about a year ago, Dean hadn't spent much time near a computer at all. Somehow, in the last year he'd grown to be some sort of nerd or something. And it was all Salt's fault, of course.
The speakers chimed, and a box popped up from the taskbar, announcing that Salt had logged on. Grinning, Dean clicked the banner and started typing.
As soon as the ding echoes in the bar, Sam lets the mop fall and bounces to the computer in the corner, a beaming grin already lightening up his face. Ellen shakes her head, amused, as Jo sighs. "And that's the last we'll see of Sam tonight, ladies and gentlemen," she states, starting to recollect glasses and empty plates.
It's quite early still, but the Roadhouse is almost empty: there are only a couple of college students sitting close to the counter, and one of them, a pretty blonde girl, has been staring at Sam since she stepped in. As to confirm her fears, the girl blinks, in confusion, and turns her big blue eyes on Jo. "Why? What's going on?" she asks. Jo takes pity on her and decides to tell her before she gets the wrong idea.
"When Dman79 is online, the rest of the world disappears, for Sam," she explains, and the girl looks even more confused.
"Who is Dman?"
"Sam's boyfriend!" exclaims Ash from the pool table where he's cleaning up the girl's friends.
"He's NOT!" Sam retorts, but he's blushing, and the expression on the girl's face turns from hopeful to resigned.
"Sorry, Jessica," Jo murmurs, and Jessica nods. "It's okay."
Sam looks at her and wants to say something, but then Dman is writing and all of Sam's attention is focused on the screen once again. He doesn't even notice when she leaves.
They are just friends, Dman and him, and they didn't exchange any relevant information about what they look like, how old they were or where they lived, even if, with a nickname like that, Sam was inclined to think Dman was a guy.
It freaked him out at first, how comfortable and familiar talking to Dman felt, like they've known each other for forever, like there was some sort of bond between them. Then time passed by, and it became... intimate, safe. Needed.
And Sam lived waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Despite his earlier anticipation, Dean is apprehensive now. The question he so desperately wants to ask is making the tips of his fingertips tingle with the need to type it out. He has no real idea what Salt's reaction will be - hell, he isn't even sure Salt is a guy. He's going mostly on how he speaks, and that doesn't say anything, really.
They've never seen each other's faces or heard each other's voices, and this anonymous, intimate thing is just that: intimate without having to be personal, even if it already is as personal as they can make it without actually knowing each other. It's a line they don't cross.
And he's about to cross it.
He takes a deep breath, cracks his knuckles and types out, 'Hey, I have an idea.' He waits two entire seconds before continuing. 'I think we should meet up sometime. It'd be fun. What'd you think?'
Dean hits the 'enter' button and waits.
Sam lets out an embarrassingly loud squeak, and both Jo and Ellen run up to him, worried.
"What's wrong?" Ellen asks, not really reassured by how pale Sam's face is and by the way his hands are shaking, clenched tightly in his lap.
"Dman, he-he wants to meet," Sam murmurs, turning wide, scared eyes on them.
Jo almost feels like laughing, because this is the problem, but then she thinks about it a little further and gets it, sort of.
"It's about time," Ash says, waving his hand dismissively. "You guys have been dancing around each other for a year, man. It's only natural."
Sam swallows, hard. "I-I guess, but...I can't! I mean, what if...and then..." He's babbling and can't seem to stop, so Ash forces a beer at him. Sam gulps down half of it before he starts to calm down.
He turns to look at his friends, unsure, but he only sees support and understanding. 'I don't know' he types. 'what if we spoil what we have?'
All of the air leaves Dean's lungs, and he has to breathe a moment, gulp down half of his beer before he can reply. It's mostly bravado; he already feels like this selfish need for something a little less anonymous has ruined the only good thing that's happened to him in a long time. 'What if we don't? We've known each other this long, I'm sure we'll get along just fine, if that's what you're worried about.'
Sam snorts bitterly, before typing his answer. 'That's not what I'm worried about.'
Before he can hit send, though, he thinks better and deletes the sentence. That would be getting too close to the truth and he can't risk freaking Dman out. After all, Sam thinks he's a guy, but he can't be sure. Besides, even if he is, who says he likes Sam the way Sam likes him?
Maybe he really wants a friend and that's all there is to it.
"Stop worrying, dude. Your little homo crush is most definitely reciprocated." Ash states, encouragingly, gaining a death-glare from both Ellen and Jo before punching Sam's shoulder.
Fuck it, Sam thinks, typing his answer and sending it before he has the time to change his mind. He does want to see Dman. He really does.
When the sound comes out of the speakers, tinny and small, Dean's looking away. He's pretending to be interested in something on the wall to his left, which is stupid because even if he was watching the screen with bated breath, there's no one here to witness it. He clears his throat, looks over at the Messenger screen, and stares. And stares. And makes the same sort of sound he'd make if he was watching a ball game and his team just scored.
This is good. This is amazing, and he can't even feel nervous about it.
'Awesome,' he types out, and then adds a little smiley face - which he rarely does, but hell, it's a special occasion. 'I'd suggest a place, but I don't even know where you live.'
Sam lets a small, shy smile appear on his face. Dman sounds genuinely happy and that's all that really matters to him.
'Nebraska' he types, but then Ellen pushes him on the side and adds, 'Maybe we can meet half way?'
"This way we know he's legal," she says, and Ash snickers. Jo rolls her eyes, but still feels sort of proud of this weird family of hers. They don't share the same blood, but that's not what family is about, is it?
"I'm coming with you," she states, determined, even before Dman has had the time to answer. "Wherever it is, however it goes, I'm coming with you."
Sam's grateful gaze warms her up inside, as Ash whoops out loud flailing his arms in the air. "Road trip!"
'Where in Nebraska?' Dean asks, aware that he's prying but too elated by the hopeful feeling working its way through him to care. 'I'm in Colorado Springs. Not that far no matter how you slice it. You pick the place and I'll be there.'
He knows he really shouldn't, but he feel self-satisfied as he hits the enter button, downs the rest of his beer and goes back into the kitchen to throw the bottle away. He's sure he can get time off work to go wherever he needs to; he hasn't outright talked to Missouri about Salt, but he's sure she'll understand. Might not know anything about cars (despite owning a garage, but he's never really felt the need to ask how that happened), but maybe she'll understand this.
Dean stands in the kitchen for a minute, considers his fridge and then gives in and calls for takeout again. Necessities taken care of, he bolts back into the room he's delegated as his office and checks for Sam's reply.
"I need a place... a nice place. But not too nice!" Sam stands and starts pacing.
"You also need a place with people," Ellen points out. "I really don't want you to meet a stranger in a secluded area, Sam."
"I've got it!" Ash exclaims. "What about Whiskey Creek Wood Fire Grill in North Platte? You love your steak, and if this guy's good for you he'll love it just the same."
"And it's very romantic," Jo adds, winking, "but not sappy."
Sam nods. "Sure." He doesn't really care about where they will be, he only cares about finally meeting him.
"How should we recognize each other?" Sam wonders, after he has typed the name of the steakhouse and sent it to Dman.
"Oh, I know! A flower!" Jo chirps, as Ash makes gagging sounds.
"Classy," Dean mutters to himself as he reads Sam's reply, and sends, 'Alright. I think I can make it to North Platte by dinner if I start tomorrow morning. Dinner sound good?' It belatedly occurs to him that he should ask how they're going to recognize each other, but Salt always thinks of things like that, so he's sure they'll be something. If he has to wear a giant sign with his screenname on it, he'll do it gladly.
He snickers to himself and starts thinking about what he's going to tell Missouri.
'Dinner sounds great. My best friend, who has seen too many movies, suggests we carry some sort of flower. You up for it or is it too gay for you?'
Sam chuckles softly, remember how much Dman hates everything that smells even faintly of chick flick moments. A weird excitement is running through his veins, and his anticipation is just as strong as the fear was. Not like he's not afraid anymore, but now at least he has taken his decision and that right there makes him feel better.
He has been dreaming about meeting Dman for so long it's probably going to feel weirdly like deja-vu when it finally happens.
Dean laughs out loud, because the flower would be the least gay part of this situation.
'Flower's cool. Don't expect me to get a specific kind, though. I'm not enough of a pansy to know the difference.' And he adds another little smiley face, and hell, if Salt doesn't now just how happy he is by how many ridiculous emotes he's using, he doesn't know what's going to convince him.
And then the panic sets in.
Abstractly, he'd considered these possibilities before he'd asked, but now he's wondering what will happen if Salt doesn't like him, if Salt's this super attractive guy (or girl, he's not that picky; Salt just gives off a guy-type vibe) that isn't going to find Dean the least bit interesting. He's mentally going through his closet, trying to figure out what he's going to wear, deciding that he has to wash the car if he's going to be meeting someone.
God, it's like he's some sort of chick or something. 'You are totally Meg Ryan,' he adds, just for good measure.
'You're a jerk,' Sam answers, snickering to himself. 'See you tomorrow.'
He logs off without even waiting for an answer, because he's too wired up and he's afraid he'll say something he's not supposed to.
It's only when he's sitting at the counter with a cold beer in his hand, deafened by Jo's excited babbling, that he realizes he didn't even ask Dman what his real name is.
Oh, well.
He'll find out tomorrow, anyway.
Whiskey Creek Wood Fire Grill is a bit more atmospheric than Dean would have liked. The tables are a light-colored wood that the name probably should have suggested, and the booths are upholstered with chocolate brown leather. Each table sits in it's own pool of light, cast down from the hanging light fixtures above. The effect should make the place look like an interrogation room, but it doesn't; rather, the light blends at the edges until the whole place has a sort of manic romantic glow about it.
Dean's already nervous, doesn't need this place's decor messing with the calm he's been trying to build up all day, but his calm and the new knot of nerves that bubbles up inside cancel each other out, until it becomes just a buzz underneath his skin. He can try to ignore it, but it doesn't really work that way.
Ah, well.
He's also pretty sure he looks like a complete idiot. He tries to shove the flower half-under the menu the waitress brings when he's seated, with only the petals still sticking out; it doesn't make him look any less gay. In fact, it probably just looks like he's trying to cover up the fact that he looks gay, which is kind of the truth, but still--
He needs a beer, right now. After a brief internal struggle about whether ordering one would be cheap and make Salt think less of him, he decides that if he doesn't at least have something, he's going to be so freaked out by the time Salt does arrive that he can't speak, so. Alcohol it is.
Dean keeps craning his neck to see the people coming through the door; he's situated himself next to it, not realizing that it makes it more difficult to spot and be spotted. But he's doing his best to hold it together every time the door swings open to let the cold night air in.
Jo is wearing a purple dress that barely covers her knees, and her hair is styled up. The light blue of her eyeshadow underlines her intense eyes, and she doesn't look like the tomboy Sam used to outrun in the yard when they were kids anymore.
She's a woman now, and if the way Ash's gaze softens every time it stops on her is any indication, Sam is not the only one who noticed. He's happy about it: Ash is a nerd, and a little rough around the edges, but he's kind and a good man. There's no doubt he'll treat Jo right.
Sam shifts nervously, feeling out of place with his new dark jeans and the white, ironed shirt. He tried to submit his mop of hair to a comb, water and hair gel, but didn't really succeed and now he looks like he's stuck his fingers in a light socket.
He fumbles with his leather belt, a gift from Ellen; it belonged to her dead husband, Jo's father, and Sam is proud of wearing it. Doesn't make him feel any less of a freaky sasquatch, though.
He licks his lower lip, shivering a little in the cold night breeze as he and Jo wait for Ash to park their van. After a few minutes, he finally hops towards them, wearing a black vest on a white wife-beater and looking like a drunk reject even if he's stone cold sober.
"Let's do this thing!" he exclaims, slamming his open palm against Sam's back with a resounding crack. Sam swallows and they step closer, not entering yet but surveying the area from outside, which is made easy by the large glass windows.
Jo points at a very old, fat bald man sitting in the back of the restaurant, and Sam groans while she snickers, just before Ash nudges him and forces Sam's head around to look at a barely sixteen girl with very short hair and a sweater too big for her.
"Guys, come on," Sam hisses through his teeth. "Be serious, will you?"
Jo opens her mouth as if she's about to say something, but then she just-stops. Her eyes go wide as she stares at something right behind Sam, so he turns slowly, half expecting for it to be another joke.
It's not.
It only takes a look for Sam to know that he's looking at Dman. If it wasn't for the black leather jacket he knows is Dman's favorite garment, or the flower almost smashed under the menu, it would be the anticipation and barely hidden excitement on the guy's face to clue him in.
"Fuck," Ash mutters. "Check that out! I'd go gay for that."
Jo nods, still in shock. "You and me both."
Sam's back stiffens, as he feels a suspicious sting in the corners of his eyes before he turns around and stomps away, as fast as he can, his fingers clenching so tight around the simple white daisy he was holding his knuckles go white. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"What the hell?!" Ash exclaims, breathless, once he and Jo reach him. "Why didn't you talk to him?!"
Sam looks at them, his eyes watery and filled with shadows and regrets. "I couldn't. Guys, I couldn't. Have-have you seen him?!"
Jo blinks. "Yeah, Sam, we did. He's drop-dead gorgeous." Sam swallows.
"Exactly."
Jo looks confused, so Sam just sighs and lays against the cold metal of the van before explaining. "Girls that look like you don't understand. I keep thinking that if I gain ten pounds of muscle, or wear better clothes maybe it would make a difference, but... I know the truth. I'll never be good enough, not for someone like him."
Ash snorts. "I'm sorry, man, but that's bullshit. You're the smartest person that I know-after myself, of course."
Jo glares at him and then grabs Sam's arm. "You make everyone around you happy, Sam, and you have so much to offer. To say you don't because of how you look is just..."
"Is just total bullshit, as I said," Ash finishes, shrugging.
Sam narrows his eyes. "I didn't say I don't have a lot to offer, I said that people will never know because they don't see me. How many times has that happened to you, Jo?"
The girl falls silent, unable to answer, and Sam nods sadly to himself.
"So until that happens, until you're told time and time again that your place in life is in the background, don't tell me it's bullshit, because you don't know."
Ash clears his throat, awkwardly, but Sam just sighs again. "Let's go back home, okay? Please."
Dean waits. And waits. And waits, until it's past the time they arranged, past dinnertime, and there are three empty bottles on the table in front of him. The flower's even wilted.
Maybe something happened. That's the only reason he (or she) wouldn't be here, right? Something must have happened. Or maybe... maybe he wasn't ever really coming.
This was stupid. It was a stupid thing to ask, and now Dean's destroyed what they had in the hopes of finding something that could never be. He waits fifteen more minutes and then pays his bill. The waitress gives him a look which tells him that she's all too used to the feeling herself, but Dean can't bring himself to give her a second glance.
On his way out of the door, he catches sight of his reflection and stands for a minute, just looking. He doesn't think he's half bad, but he could be wrong. Maybe Salt, as previously anticipated, was a hot supermodel-type, took one look at Dean and fled. Maybe he was embarrassed to even be associating with someone so horrible.
Maybe he doesn't really know Salt at all. The internet is an anonymous place, a dangerous place. It's way too easy to pretend to be someone else.
The parking lot is lit by a single streetlamp, and Dean keeps his eyes glued to the pavement. It's only after the toe of his boot scuffs over something that he focuses in and looks down to find what it is.
It's a flower. The petals are smashed, stem broken. It's been run over by several different cars and stepped on by more than a few people, but it's still recognizable as a flower. Dean picks it up, looks at it closely for a second, and then drops it again, closes his eyes.
That's it, then. Salt was here, saw him, and left. Damn it.
It takes the remainder of the trip to the car for Dean to convince himself he's an idiot, halfway home for him to convince himself that he's a horrible person and that whoever Salt is, he doesn't deserve them.
When he finally does close his apartment door behind him, he immediately heads to the office. maybe it's habit by now, second-nature because he's done it so many times. Either way, he boots up the computer, waits until Messenger logs him in.
He didn't expect Salt to be on, really he didn't. Nevertheless, he clicks on the gray, faded-out username and hovers over the keyboard like he's going to type something, until he realizes that he has nothing to say. Nothing he can say, and fuck it.
There's a bottle of vodka in the fridge, calling to him, and by the time the sun rises it's mostly gone.
Ellen's mouth is a thin line as Sam stands in front of her. "Will you run that by me again?" she asks, her tone cold and a little pissed, and Sam looks up, surprised.
"Wasn't I clear enough?" he asks, but Ellen narrows her eyes.
"Oh, you were clear, Sam," she answers, slowly. "You were so clear that I don't know what's keeping me from punching you. Don't you realize how selfish you've been?!"
Her voice is low, but Sam is hit by it as if she was screaming. "You didn't see him, okay? You don't know how it felt to look at him and knowing-"
"Goddammit, Sam, will you stop thinking about how you felt and start thinking about him, uh? How do you think he felt, waiting for hours someone who never comes?!"
Sam swallows. He didn't stop long enough to figure that one out. He's too stubborn to admit it, though. "I did both of us a favor, Ellen. He will understand it, eventually."
Ellen tries to say something else, but Sam's not listening anymore. "Can you finish here?" he asks, and Jo nods, without even looking at him as he leaves the bar, slamming the door on his way out.
Ellen throws a glance at her, but they both can only shrug and keep doing their chores.
That afternoon, after Dean's downed a handful of painkillers to dull the throbbing in his head enough to even look at the screen, Dean goes in to the computer. He waits a minute, stares at the blinking line until it's driving him insane with the way it's mocking him.
And then he starts out, 'Hey. I didn't catch you last night in North Platte. Everything okay?' He hopes that feigning innocence will get Salt to answer him, out of pity if nothing else. He's still offline but Dean waits anyway, until he absolutely has to go back and lie down.
When he wakes again, he goes to check. And still nothing. Just his message, still sitting there, looking lonely. He remembers all of their previous conversations, how he was always the one to take initiative, and closes his eyes for a moment before adding to it, 'I think you were there. I think you saw me and left. Please answer.'
And then he waits some more, until he's done enough waiting that he's thoroughly sick with it and goes to find something else to do that doesn't involve alcohol, or computers, or anything to do with Salt.
There shouldn't be anyone left in the bar, but when the computer beeps, someone is still there. He stares at the screen, detached. So Dman is playing it cool, huh.
And yeah, he knows that it's probably better this way, for all the parts involved, because this situation smells danger and pain and heartbreak, but still. He can't bring himself to step away.
Maybe it's some sort of weird, sick curiosity, but he stays, sitting in front of the computer, waiting. Then, just as he's gotten tired and is thinking about just turning the damn machine off, the message appears. He reads it again and again, until he can almost imagine the guy they saw at the restaurant pronouncing those words, before taking a deep breath and typing an answer.
'What's it to you?'
He's forgotten that he left his speakers on. He's in the middle of some infomercial about laundry soap when the sound resonates through the computer speakers in the other room.
Dean almost, almost doesn't go to check it. He's almost lost faith that Salt would ever contact him again. But he does, still nursing the small amount of stupid, trampled hope in his chest.
But when he gets there, it flickers out.
His fingers hover over the keys for a moment, trying to disconnect enough to answer this politely. Hell, if Salt had actually answered him like that, he'd punch the guy in his face. It takes another few seconds for the reply to work its way out of the anger that Dean so badly wants to let loose on something.
'Not good enough for you? Couldn't even find it in you to say something to me, even after we've talked for so long? What the hell is your problem?' And, okay. Not exactly polite. But it's definitely better than the first, knee-jerk response.
His mouth twitches. The guy has guts. And pride. Despite not wanting to, he sort of likes him.
'What if it was the other way around, loverboy? What if it was me who's not good enough for you? What if I didn't have the courage to walk up to your gorgeous face and girlishly long lashes? What then?' He chuckles to himself.
Not really something he'd say, in a normal situation, but it's as they say: desperate times call for desperate measures.
Dean stares at the screen like it's suddenly grown two heads, fingers falling away from the keyboard reflexively. The thought has honestly never occurred to him.
His initial reaction is to tell Salt that he's a fucking idiot. He's actually halfway through the sentence before his anger drains away and he erases it, starts again. 'Then I'd tell you that it doesn't matter what you look like, because I know you. And I'd tell you to stop being such a damn coward.'
Dean sends it, almost unaware that he's holding his breath for an answer. Somehow, everything rests on this for reasons Dean can't name. The clock on the wall ticks by seconds agonizingly slowly.
He stares at the answer. Maybe...
Nah. Really?
He ponders about it for a split second before cracking his knuckles and typing back. 'Okay, then, you giant girl. Listen, and listen good, because this is a one shot deal. Full house or nothing.'
He is about to put rien ne va plus, but that's too much even for him. His plan has so many holes that if he stops to think about it he will just abort the whole thing; luckily, he's not much the thinking type.
Besides, he will have help. Or at least so he hopes.
Dean watches as the words come up on the screen, five or six different sends that don't make much sense at first. But after reading them, he almost dares to be hopeful, jots down the necessary information and nods to himself.
He really, really hopes this works. Because if it doesn't, he's going to be much, much worse off than before.
The computer kept ringing, again and again, and Sam has turned the sound off, because how is he supposed to ignore it if it bugs him like that? A little voice in his head reminds him that he could simply turn off the computer, but Sam silences it immediately, despite how reasonable it is.
No matter how hard he tries not to think about it, though, his mind keeps going back to the desperate, demanding call repeating itself on his screen at least 50 times.
'Where are you?'
'Answer me.'
'Please, talk to me, Salt.'
'It's gonna be okay, please, just give me a chance.'
Every single word Dman types is like a bullet through Sam's heart. Ellen was right, he's being selfish and hurting someone who hasn't done anything wrong; Dman doesn't deserve for Sam to act like this, but Sam is the one who knows better, for once.
He has let Dman take control, every step of the way, but this time... this time it's on him. "You will thank me some day," he mutters to the stranger behind the screen.
Dean sighs, shuts the slider over the keyboard on his phone, and tries not to look at it too often. Under the table, his leg is jumping, nervous in a way he wasn't the other night in North Platte. He hopes something happens soon, that either Sam answers or the plan falls through. Something, anything would be better than this.
Unable to resist, he opens the keyboard again and types the words out with just his thumb, 'C'mon, Salt. Please?' And it's exactly like the thirty or so messages he's sent before, but he hopes, like he's hoped every time, that this time something happens.
"If this guy writes another sappy line, I'm going to throw the computer out of the window," Ash comments, staring at the screen , and Sam gasps, pushing him on the side.
"Get away, you freak! That's personal!" he states, crossing his arms and glaring at Ash, but the man just shrugs.
"If it was personal, it wouldn't be popping on a shared computer, Sam," Ash retorts. "Besides, you obviously don't care about this guy, so what's the harm in mocking him a little?"
"I-you know that it's not like that," Sam says, without looking at him.
Ash arches an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Because I thought that leaving his sorry ass wondering for hours about what was wrong with him meant you didn't care."
Sam cringes inwardly at Ash's words. It's so true.
Again, there's no answer. Dean's almost done with this, almost tired of playing this game that consists mainly of him pushing until he can't anymore and getting nothing in return. He's about to just head home and deal with the consequences (if there are any) later.
'Please?' He types out, just that, and doesn't even know if he should hope or not.
Sam sees the umpteenth message pop up, and decides he has had enough and turns the computer off. "I can't do this," he murmurs, so low that it's probably not meant for anyone else, but Ash hears him and steps closer.
"Do what?" he inquires.
"This!" Sam exclaims, his arms wide open to embrace the whole room, the computer, his failure. "Dman, the internet, running away from the fucking best thing of my life. All of it."
He deflates and lowers his head, letting his long bangs fall in front of his face to hide his eyes. Ash's gaze softens.
"What's the problem here, Sam? I mean, the real one?" he asks, his voice more serious than Sam has ever heard. "I know you well enough to be able to say you're not a coward."
Sam sighs and approaches the counter, noticing for the first time how packed the bar is tonight. "Maybe I am," he answers. "Maybe I'm not as strong as you thought. As I thought. Dman makes me feel things I've never felt before, he makes me want to be a better man just because I know he has faith in me and I would do anything not to disappoint him."
He swallows. "That's why I can't meet him. I couldn't take a forced smile, a condescending expression and a few minutes of awkward, uncomfortable conversation before he walks away from my life."
His fists are clenched, and his jaw is trembling when Sam lifts his eyes on Ash. "You understand, don't you?" he inquires, and Ash's eyes go wide.
"Holy shit, Samantha, you're in love with him."
Sam gasps loudly and takes a step back, hurriedly, tripping on a chair in his haste to shaking his head and flailing his long arms. "Wha-no! I-of course not, what are you talking about?!" He laughs, but his laughter sounds almost hysterical and Ash flinches.
Dean hears his cue even from halfway across the crowded bar; he hears it, and it makes him send up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever lies above. The thrill that runs up his spine has a life of his own, and he shivers, anticipation and elation and the hope that this goes the way he knows it will.
He stands up, winds his way around chairs and booths and finds himself leaning on the bar. Salt (Sam? Is that what Ash called him?) is just beyond, still locked in his conversation with Ash, and he listens, waits for his chance to jump in.
"Sam..." Ash starts, but Sam lifts a hand, effectively stopping him.
"No, Ash. Just-no. Please. You've seen him, you know that there's no way this is ever going to work. Drop it." And with these words, he steps behind the counter to help Jo serve a few patrons.
Apparently, Ash doesn't know the meaning of drop it, because he follows him and grabs Sam's shoulder, forcing him to turn. "You're beautiful, Sam. In your own way, which might be different from Dman's, but you are."
Sam chuckles, bitterly. "Well, I don't know about that."
"I do," Dean says, and even though it's loud in the bar, he knows Sam heard him from the way he stiffens.
Sam's heart skips a beat, because it can't be, but somehow he knows it is even before he turns. That voice, a voice Sam has never heard before but he could recognize amongst a thousand, simply because of the way it washes over him, almost shielding him from harm, keeping him safe.
That voice makes him feel safe and he thinks, not for the first time, how stupid he has been for not taking a chance.
Apparently Dman has decided to do so himself, as usual. Sam would be confused as for how the guy found him, but the shit-eating grin on Ash's face tells him everything he needs to know, so he slowly turns.
He doesn't look up, he just stares at Dman's big hands on the counter. "Hey," he murmurs, his cheeks already burning.
Dean smiles, because he can't not when faced with this. He immediately loves the blush creeping up from Sam's neck, wonders if he blushes like that all over and knows that he wants to know, more than he's possibly ever wanted anything.
There'll be time for that. There'll be time for everything, because now that Dean has Sam in his sights, he's not letting him go.
"You're everything I thought you'd be," he says, not even caring how stupid it sounds, because it's true.
Uriel is waving his hand dismissively even before it's obvious what the outcome is going to be. "Dean was professionally successful, here, and human nature forces humans to go after security and money. It's clear what Sam was looking for."
Castiel blinks. "You don't really believe that."
"Of course I do!" Uriel snaps, before recovering his usual composure. He's going to make sure that Dean is no role model, next time.
We'll see what you will have to offer then, you pompous bastard, he thinks, rubbing his hands together.
Next