Fic: Close Your Eyes - Chapter One - (Sam/Dean - NC17)
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PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
June 2007…
…two years later.
The first thing Sam thought as he pulled up beside no. 2013 was that he’d gotten the wrong address because this house… this wasn’t a house, this was a freaking mansion. Not that he could even see that much of it, just a hint of white walls through the tall, wrought-iron gates and thick trees lining a pebbled driveway as it swept its way up towards the front of the house.
He got out of the car and approached the gates. There was a security system fitted and a video camera that immediately zeroed in on him with a robotic, whirring sound. He pressed the buzzer.
“Yeah?” came the voice from the other end.
“Dean?”
There was a pause, a burst of static, then Dean’s voice again: “Sam? That you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You’re two hours late, I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Yeah, I, uh, there was this work thing, I couldn’t get away for ages. In the end I had to tell them it was a family emergency. Sorry about that.” He trailed off lamely, cleared his throat. “You gonna let me in?”
The line went quiet and Sam walked back to his car as the gates slowly started to open, as majestic and ponderous as a canal. He started the engine and drove through the gates and up the wide, sweeping driveway. Gravel stones sprayed out under his wheels as he pulled up alongside a red Mazarati. His dirty Prius looked like a poor relation next to the other cars: a silver 4x4 Mercedes, a dark green classic Porsche and the familiar black shine of his brother’s 67 Chevy Impala, their father’s old pride and joy.
He locked his car and walked towards the Impala, feet crunching on the small stones. He placed one hand on the warm metal trunk.
“Sam.”
He jerked his head up. Dean was standing on the stone flag steps that led up to the main entrance of the house. He was holding a wine glass in one hand, the other held up against his face to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun. Sam stared at him, feeling suddenly self-conscious, aware of the rumpled suit he’d put on that morning for the client meeting, of how his hair had plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat during the long drive. He felt grubby and scruffy and over-dressed; a direct contrast to Dean who looked like he’d just stepped off the set of an Abercrombie & Fitch commercial in his artfully distressed jeans and purposefully faded blue tee, his hair managing to attain that idealised form of bed-head that was nothing like Sam’s actual bed-head. The last time Sam had seen his brother, Dean had been wearing jeans with holes in the knees that hadn’t been put there on purpose, and a t-shirt that was faded through over-washing in an attempt to get out the black grease and engine oil that had always stained his clothes. But Dean wasn’t a mechanic anymore. He was a model now. He got paid to look good and wear nice clothes. Sam shouldn’t feel surprised by it.
Dean stepped down off the steps and Sam noticed for the first time that he was wearing the amulet Sam had given him the day before their father’s funeral. It was hanging around his neck, the brass charm winking in the bright sunlight. Sam stared at it then slowly lifted his eyes to his brother’s face. “I feel overdressed,” he said.
“No,” Dean said. “You’ll do.” He paused and took a swig of wine, contemplating Sam over the rim of the glass. “You going to come in, then?”
There was a note of challenge in his voice, the old, goading, big brother tone, and Sam felt himself relax a little, discomfort seeping away. This was still Dean, still his brother, no matter how different the surroundings, no matter how different Dean looked.
He followed Dean inside. They fell into step as they crossed the huge, marble-tiled hall, their footsteps echoing as if they’d just stepped into a church. He paused beside a stained glass window - seriously, a fucking stained glass window - and shook his head.
“Wow, Dean, this place is incredible.”
Dean was staring up at the window, an unreadable expression on his face. Slowly he turned his head, eyes meeting Sam’s. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said.
Sam huffed out a laugh and saw the answering crinkle in his brother’s eyes, the smile edging at the corner of his mouth.
“This,” Dean raised his glass, indicating the stained glass window, “this was imported from Italy. For real.” He turned on his heels, started to walk away again. “I’m sure Lester will tell you all about it. He usually does.”
Dean led him through a big, wooden door at the end of the hall, through a room that seemed to be a library, old-fashioned bookshelves filling every inch of wall-space that wasn’t a window. Sam stopped in the middle of the room and slowly turned around, eyes raking over the hundreds, no, thousands of books. There had to be some first editions, it was that sort of a library, the sort that only existed in costume dramas.
Dean slanted him a look. “Man, you’re like totally creaming your pants right now.”
Sam made a face. “You’re so gross.”
Dean laughed and strode towards the door on the other side of the room. “This way. Everybody’s in the conservatory. Don’t ask me, I think it’s a British thing.”
The conservatory was a huge, airy, stone-flagged greenhouse of a room, tacked onto the back of the house, and filled with enough foliage to give the impression of eating outside in a forest glade. There were pots of enormous towering plants, vines and creepers entwined through the glass panels and smaller pots of bright-coloured shrubs ranged across the floor at strategic intervals. He followed Dean, his dress shoes ringing out comically loud on the stone flags, feeling even more self-conscious of his crumpled office-wear, to a small clearing amongst the plants where a large, round, wrought-iron table was sagging under the remains of an extremely big lunch. There were half-eaten bowls of tropical fruit salads and enough pies and cakes and desserts to make him feel diabetic by association.
Two men and a woman were sitting around the table, voices and laughter ringing out, glass chinking as wine-goblets were topped up.
“You’re back,” said one of the guys, tilting his head back, eyes piercing as they landed first on Dean and then on Sam with frank, open contemplation. “So, this is the brother.”
“Uh, yeah, hi,” said Sam, glancing between Dean who was serenely taking another sip of wine, and the three others, all staring at him in that same open fascination, “I’m Sam. Sorry I’m so late, there was this meeting.”
“Spare us the details!” cried the guy, rising to his feet and beckoning at Sam to take the seat beside him. “Sit down.”
“Oh, right, yeah, thanks.” He gave the guy a brief smile and slid into the seat indicated, seeing Dean slip into a seat on the other side of the table.
“Wine?” enquired the guy - Lester - Sam thought, that’s Lester. He recognised him from photos he’d seen in magazines and online, and from the wedding pictures of course, from the one sitting on Mom’s mantelpiece. So, that was him, that was Dean’s billionaire husband, the famous Lester, not that he’d bothered to introduce himself. He probably thought it wasn’t necessary. “No, wait, no wine! You’re driving of course. Definitely no wine!”
“Dude, c’mon, he can have one glass,” said Dean with a lazy half-smile, heavy-lidded gaze flicking Lester’s way.
Lester hesitated as his gaze met Dean’s. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, a twitch of his mouth. He looked almost unsteady for a moment, shaken, then he laughed abruptly, snatched up the bottle from the ice bucket and retrieved a glass for Sam.
“Well, I suppose he could have just one. After all, this is the Winchester vintage. It would be… fitting.”
“The what?” asked Sam.
“The Winchester vintage,” said Lester. He poured a generous glug into Sam’s glass and passed him the bottle. “From my own estates.”
“Seriously?” Sam’s jaw dropped as he surveyed the glinting, golden liquid. “You named a wine vintage after us?”
“After me,” corrected Dean. “Drink up, Sammy.” He tilted his own glass Sam’s way.
Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother, but he took a tentative sip. It was… nice. Hell, it was really nice. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he could tell that this was good quality. He tilted the bottle Lester had handed him, better to read the label, and saw the watercolour picture of a vine, and the elegant lettering: Winchester Estates. Holy shit.
<
“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Lester in a confiding sort of tone. “I directed the blending myself.”
“Yes, it’s, uh, it’s really nice.”
On the other side of the table, Dean was idly staring out one of the windows into the gardens outside, twisting the stem of his glass between his fingertips, his platinum wedding band glinting in the soft afternoon sunlight that drifted and filtered through the glass panes. Sam forced his attention away from his brother and took the opportunity to watch his new brother-in-law. Lester wasn’t handsome, his face too angular, nose too long and aquiline, his eyes maybe a little beady as they darted between his guests. He was tall, maybe even an inch or so taller than Dean, with fine-boned hands that gestured expansively when he talked. His eyes were a cool grey colour, his hair a faded shade that was somewhere between dark blond and light brown, some grey coming in around the temples. The most attractive thing about him was his voice, rich and deep, an almost purr with that cultured British accent that fit into the lush, elegant, masterpiece theatre setting. He was holding the conversation again, jumping from subject to subject with deft confidence and intelligence.
He’s charismatic, Sam thought, and he could see the attraction now, an attraction that hadn’t been at all obvious in photographs. But now after meeting him in person, he could see what Dean might have seen in this guy, why he’d been persuaded to say yes, (apart from the obvious reason of course).
“I have to say, you don’t look very much alike,” said the woman, speaking up for the first time once the conversation had lulled, Lester shutting up long enough to take another serving of English trifle. Her voice was rich and musical, and like her male companion, like Lester, like Dean even, she looked like she’d just stepped out of an aspirational lifestyle magazine.
“That’s because we’re not really brothers,” Dean said. “He was abandoned on our doorstop. My Mom took him in ‘cause she felt sorry for him.”
“Really?” asked the woman
“No, not really,” said Dean with a big, disarming smile. Sam repressed the urge to laugh, eyes catching Dean’s. Dean got up from the table. “Sam, you want to take a walk?”
Sam exhaled with relief, nodded, “Okay, okay.”
Dean came round the table towards Sam, dropped one hand briefly to Lester’s shoulder, giving it a faint squeeze. Lester tilted his head back, hand going up to curl around Dean’s wrist. “See you later.”
Dean took him on a different route, through a couple of rooms with high ceilings, oil paintings and antique furniture worthy of the freaking Whitehouse. One of the rooms even had a grand piano on a dais. Dean paused beside it, placed his hand on the lid.
“Lester wants me to learn how to play. He plays, you know? He’s really good.”
“I didn’t know,” Sam said. “But then, I don’t think I know much about him at all.”
Dean glanced at him, a flicker in his eyes as he nodded. “Don’t worry; you’ll get to know him. He’s very keen on getting to know you. You won’t be able to escape.” He pivoted on his heels, heading towards a huge pair of French windows looking out onto a rolling, landscaped lawn. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”
The sun was hot and bright after the chilled quiet of the house. Sam paused in the middle of the lawn and looked back over his shoulder at the house rising up behind him, enormous and imposing.
“Seriously, Dean, this place is amazing. How old is it?”
Dean shrugged. “It’s not that old, or so Lester always says. His family place in England is eighteenth century apparently. This was built in the twenties for some huge silent movie star, but I don’t know much about it. You’ll have to ask him. He’ll totally love you if you start asking him questions about the house. He’s obsessed with the house.” He made a face, but it was a fond, indulgent sort of an expression that Sam remembered from when Dean used to talk about Dad. “C’mon, if we head down this way, I can show you the lake.”
There was a lake, and a boathouse. They had a boathouse, a private boathouse with actual real boats in it and their own lake to sail them on, all in this exclusive corner of California. Sam knew that Lester was rich, extremely rich, he’d read the profiles in Forbes and Fortune and the LA Times, seen his name in the Forbes 400, along with the eight figure estimation of his total wealth. Hell, Sam had even gone out and bought five copies of The Advocate when the interview with Lester had come out eighteen months ago, with the hilarious tagline: "California's sexiest gay millionaire is off the market!" Despite the cheesy headline, the interview had been very interesting, with Lester talking extensively about his recent marriage, Dean’s modelling career, his newest business venture, and the $2m donation he’d made in his and Dean’s names to one of the city’s AIDS hospices. There were pictures too, of both Dean and Lester. Sam had gotten used to seeing his brother's face in magazines and even on the occasional bilboard, (that Mont Blanc campaign had been pretty big for about a month) but reading Lester talking so matter-of-factly about Dean as "the person I'd been waiting for all my life" was just - well - it was just freaking weird.
“He likes people to think that he made it all himself,” Dean said conversationally, the words pulling Sam out of his thoughts. He blinked and watched Dean come to a halt under one of the low hanging willow trees. He grabbed at a branch, tugged it down. He peeled off the leaves, methodical and destructive. “The money, I mean. But his mom’s family made a killing in margarine between the wars. Lester got all of it when his grandfather died, though he’s made more since, a lot more. Mergers, acquisitions, investments, hedge funds, God, I don’t know. None of it makes any sense to me. You understand it, right, Sammy? You’re the economics genius in the family.” He paused, shrugged, “Apart from Lester of course.”
They went quiet for a moment, the silence dragging a little. Dean cleared his throat, waved a hand at him. “Dude, seriously. Take off that damn jacket. You’re making me feel uncomfortable just looking at you.” Sam sighed but he shucked off his dark suit jacket gratefully, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt and rolling them up his forearms. He hooked the jacket over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows at his brother. “That’s better,” Dean said. He was watching Sam again, gaze running up and down his body in the same frank, open contemplation as Lester and his friends. “You look different. You finally grew up I guess. My little brother, all grown up.”
Sam felt himself blush. “You look different too,” he said truthfully.
Dean gave a faint smile. “It’s money. I have money now, so much money. I can buy whatever I want whenever I want. It’s weird.”
Not your money, Lester’s money, Sam thought, though that wasn’t entirely fair. He had no idea what sort of money Dean made as a male model, but it was probably a hell of a lot more than he used to make as a mechanic. He remembered Mom saying how Dad had died with debts and barely any life insurance. Dean had been forced to sell the house in Lawrence, their childhood home, to cover the medical bills and that still hadn’t been enough. The billionaire husband and amazing new career had happened at exactly the right time.
“So, how’s the modelling going?” he asked. “I guess it must be really different to working in a garage.”
“Yeah, it’s different alright,” Dean said. He was staring down at the branch gripped in his fingers. He peeled off a handful of leaves; let them fall through his spread fingers, fluttering slowly to the ground. “It’s going great, I guess. I’m getting plenty of work. I’m probably working even more now than I used to. At least it seems that way.” He broke off and frowned, making a face as he shredded another hanging branch.
“I saw that perfume campaign, that was pretty huge,” Sam said.
“Fragrance. For guys it’s called fragrance,” Dean glanced over at him, mouth crooked up into a small smirk. “Though, God knows why, just makes it sound even more gay. And before you say something, I’m allowed to say that - I’m married to a guy.”
Sam shook his head, about to protest, but Dean was smiling back at him, unashamed and unrepentant, so Sam decided it was probably easier to let it go. “So, what else have you done?” he asked.
“Oh, all kinds of shit,” Dean said with a shrug. “Cars, watches, kitchens - which was pretty weird - uh, luggage, ski equipment, golf clubs, jewellery, apparently I have good hands and wrists. I actually did this shoot where they had me working on an engine, all greased up with lots of fancy angles of my hands on the engine. It was for this designer jewellery brand so I was wearing this huge friggin’ ring and this chunky watch. The photographer was impressed by what a natural I was with the engine. ‘Course I didn’t tell them that there’s no goddamn way any mechanic who knows anything about his job would be working on an engine wearing crap like that. But whatever. Fashion, man.” He rolled his eyes, chuffed out a breath. “Car was awesome, though, a vintage Jag XKE. Fucking gorgeous. I’d totally get one if it didn’t feel like I was cheating on my baby.”
Sam snorted and shot him a look; Dean was still smiling, looking pleased with himself. “So, what’re you doing next? What’s your next gig?”
“Fashion spread for Details. Me and four other guys, various brands, designer and high street.” He made a face. “It’s in, like, this used scrap yard in Van Nuys. Very derilicte.”
Sam laughed. “Seriously?”
“Yup. But, you know. I can’t complain. The money’s good - for what it is.” He huffed out a breath, shooting Sam a look from the corner of his eyes. “There was this one shoot, for this gay charity calendar. Jesus, I still have nightmares about it. Me in these tiny Speedos and a goddamn cowboy hat for freaking hours on this freezing cold set. By the time they were done, man, my nipples could cut glass.”
“Poor Dean, the things you have to go through.”
“Damn straight.”
“But, you like it, right? You’re enjoying it?”
Dean didn’t say anything for a long moment. Sam watched him unlock his fingers around from the branch. It sprung back into place, the tree shaking, blossom and pollen and leaves falling and scattering, landing on Dean’s shoulders and hair. He ran a hand irritably through his hair, flicked away the debris.
“Dean?”
Dean sighed, scrunched up his face. “Jesus, I don’t know. I mean, it’s so freaking weird, the whole thing. And I just - I just keep thinking about what Dad would say, if he knew what I was doing for a living.” He glanced quickly at Sam, his mouth twisting into a wry, self-deprecating shape.
“Don’t,” Sam said with a frown. “Dean, don’t think like that. You know Dad would be happy that you’re happy.”
“Yeah, but a male model, Sammy? He didn’t raise me for that. You know what he used to say about having a trade, about working with your hands being the only real, honest work for a guy.” Dean shook his head, pushed out a breath. He pressed his lips together, looked away from Sam, back towards the house.
Sam stared at him, surprised by Dean’s words. His brother had always been so closed off to him. They’d never really talked about anything, not him and Dean. The nearest they’d ever gotten was that one time, the night before Dad’s funeral, the disastrous visit when Sam had lost his mind and done that thing he never thought about, the one he’d tried so hard to repress over the past two years. But then again, who else did Dean have to talk to about Dad? Dean lived in California now, hundreds of miles away from his old life and the old friends who had known their father. Lester had never met Dad, and Mom, well, that was never going to happen. There was only Sam. This was something he and Dean could share. The thought made him feel warm inside and he wanted to say something, put in words what he’d always believed: Dad had loved Dean, Dad might’ve been contrary and stubborn and a fucking ornery bastard, but he had loved Dean. He would really only care about Dean’s happiness.
But before he could say any of that, Dean spoke up again, “C’mon, we should go back. He’ll be wondering where I am.”
**
Dean met Lester while Sam was doing his internship in Paris, only a month after Dad’s funeral. Lester walked into the garage in Lawrence with his broken, vintage Porsche and begged Dean to fix it. Dean, ever appreciative of a quality ride and the vast amounts of cash Lester had been willing to spend to get the car fixed in as short a time as possible, had worked through the night to get the job finished. When Lester turned up the next day at 7am, he was bursting with gratitude. And other feelings.
“He called me the following day,” Dean told Sam with a lazy smile. “Told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me. It was kinda a head-fuck.”
“I was bewitched,” Lester put in. “I’d never seen anything more exquisite. I’m talking about the car of course, though Dean was okay looking too I suppose.”
“Yeah, whatever, he was totally my bitch,” Dean confided, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He tipped his head back to look at Sam. His eyes were bright, patches of pink across his cheekbones. The light through the windows was playing in his hair, riffling at the dark gold threaded through with the light brown. There was still pollen in his hair and on his shoulders, a small fragment of a blossom caught between the neck of his t-shirt and his skin.
“I suppose I was,” said Lester matter-of-factly.
Dean made a face at him. “You know it.” He turned back to Sam. “He’s one smooth-talking bastard. And you know me, man, I can’t say no to that kinda flattery.”
“Lucky for me,” said Lester. He got up from his seat, moved around the back of the couch to rest one hand on Dean’s shoulder. His forefinger brushed against the nape of Dean’s neck, through the soft stubble in slow, caressing movements. “I’ve got that call. You know that call.”
“Oh, that call,” Dean said. “Okay.”
Lester turned his attention to Sam, smiled apologetically. “Yes. Sorry. Business calls.” He waved his hand, the other still resting proprietarily on Dean’s shoulder, stroking the side of his face. “It was really good meeting you, Sam. You need to come back.” He looked down at Dean. “My love, you need to make sure your brother comes back. He’s far too attractive to not come back.”
Dean laughed, a sharp, amused, cutting sound. “Of course he is. And yes, he will come back. Right, Sammy?”
Sam could feel the blush high on his cheeks, the blatant scrutiny from Lester and Dean making his skin prickle. “Yeah, of course. I mean, we’re family.”
“Right,” said Dean, “so we are.”
Dean walked him out to the front drive, their shoes crunching on the gravel as they approached Sam’s car.
“Dude, what is this? A Prius? A freaking Prius?”
“Shut up, Dean, some of us actually give a crap about the environment,” he protested. “This does fifty miles to the gallon, what kind of mileage do you get? You ever think about how many trees you kill when you get in that thing?” He jerked his head towards Dad’s old Chevy Impala.
“Actually no, no I don’t. I’ve never once thought about that. What I do think about is classic 60s design, 385 horsepower and just how damn awesome I look when I drive it.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
“Hey, don’t be a hater, man, it doesn’t look good on you.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.” Dean raised an eyebrow, smirking as he met Sam’s eyes.
Sam felt the breath catch in his chest, his skin tingle. A second passed, then another, and another. The tension swelled. Sam watched Dean swallow, tracked the bob of his Adam’s apple, his eyes catching on the leather cord around his neck.
“You’re wearing it,” he said.
Dean blinked, didn’t say anything.
“The - necklace.”
“Amulet,” Dean corrected, his voice a little hoarse. “Necklaces are for chicks.”
Sam smiled. “Of course.” He reached out, hesitant and uncertain, brushed a fingertip against the brass charm. He could feel the heat of his brother’s skin underneath. The metal felt warm, it was so close to Dean’s body, taking on Dean’s own warmth. “But you wore it.”
“I wear it a lot,” Dean said.
“Really?” He lifted his eyes from the charm, stared into his brother’s face. The moment held, it felt like years before Dean answered, feeling the word out, shaping his mouth around it like he was savouring it.
“Yes.”
“Even when you and Lester are-“
“Dude, no!” Dean protested and laughed. The moment - whatever it was - dissolved. Sam took a tiny step back, relieved and disappointed, certain that he had missed something.
“Oh. Well, that’s probably wise. I mean, if it hits you in the face when you’re about to...” He was blushing again, he could feel it, and feel Dean’s eyes on him, seeing him blush. Any moment now, Dean was going to call him on it. But Dean didn’t. Instead he shook his head, shoved him in the shoulder, all big brother manliness. “Go on. You should go. Long drive back to the city.”
**
“You should’ve seen it. It was like something out of a freaking lifestyle magazine. Like a Great Gatsby fantasy come to life,” Sam said.
“Hmm, what?” Craig raised his head lazily from the pillow, took a drag on the joint smoking between his fingers.
Sam dug his foot into Craig’s bare calf, toenails scratching against his leg hair. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure I have. Your brother, who’s a male model. And his husband, who’s a billionaire. And their huge friggin’ mansion in the hills.” He took a drag on the joint, held the smoke in before slowly releasing it in a flat white stream. He blinked, eyes red and watery. “So, he’s hot, right? Your brother? Gotta be hot if he’s a male model. I’ve fucked a few male models.”
“Yeah, right, sure you have,” Sam scoffed. He pried the joint out from between Craig’s fingers and regarded him through a stream of smoke.
He’d met Craig about six months ago on a night out at Dreamz. He’d taken him home and they’d kept each other awake all night in a blaze of sex and pot. A couple of weeks later it had happened again, and then again. Now it was a regular no-strings-attached-sex-only thing. Sam wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, and if he was, it wouldn’t be someone like Craig. Not that Craig didn’t have some redeeming qualities. He gave amazing head for one thing, and he was kinda attractive in a scrawny, squinty way with dirty blond hair, watery blue eyes and permanent scruff on his chin. He was also a trained and surprisingly professional EMT which had been revealed one night about three months ago when he’d saved the life of some stupid, underage kid OD’ing on crystal. Sam had watched Craig treat him, feeling both shocked and oddly aroused by Craig’s professional expertise.
“Not much going on up here,” Craig continued, pressing his finger against the side of his head. “You know, that cliché’s true.”
“What?”
“Male models. They’re all kinda dumb. At least the ones I’ve fucked.”
“Dean’s not like that. He’s smart,” Sam said. He took a deep suck on the joint, felt the smoke crowd into his lungs. His eyes were watering and he blinked, then blinked again to get Craig’s face back into focus. “And he’s hot. Hottest person I’ve ever met.”
“Really?” Craig nodded thoughtfully. “You think that about your own brother?”
“Why not? It’s true,” Sam said defensively. He leaned over Craig’s body to grind out the joint in the ashtray on his nightstand. He turned back to Craig. “If you met him, you’d see what I mean.”
“If you say so.” Craig slid languorously down the mattress until his face was hovering over Sam’s stomach. He grinned lazily, eyes all red and gaze out of focus. He dipped his head and dragged his tongue over the line of Sam’s abs, down to his navel. Sam shivered and dropped his hand onto the top of Craig’s head.
“Go on, suck me. Do it.”
Craig raised his head, licked his lips ostentatiously. “Say please, Sam.”
“Please. Oh please, I beg of you, Craig, please suck my dick.”
Craig chuckled, the breath puffing against Sam’s thickening dick. “Whatever you say.”
**
The white rose landed on top of the pile of shareholder reports with a soft thud. Sam jumped and snapped his head up, blinking in shock when he saw his brother standing in front of his desk, looking down at him.
“Hey, Sammy.”
“Dean? What the hell are you doing here?”
Dean chuckled, raised an eyebrow. “Nice way to greet your brother, man.”
“I’m at work,” Sam said, confused, sitting up in his seat and looking around.
As usual, all his co-workers were engrossed with their own work, babbling into their headsets or riveted to their computer screens. A few interested looks were flicked their way, but most looked away again, already distracted, moving onto something else.
Sam returned his attention to Dean and almost did a double-take when he took in the entirety of his brother. “Uh, why are you dressed like that?”
His brother was wearing a suit that was obviously shockingly expensive, perfectly tailored to his body. The pants, jacket and vest a deep navy pinstripe, the shirt a sharp, dazzling white against Dean’s tanned throat, his tie a skinny, dark burgundy silk. There was a pale cream boutonniere pinned to his lapel and his hair was smoothed down into a softer, more formal look. He was closely shaven, with none of his usual stubble. He looked very clean-cut and elegant and even more remote and removed from the old Dean than the version Sam had recently seen at that amazing mansion in the hills.
“We’re attending a wedding,” Dean said.
“We? Is Lester with you?”
“Yup. He went to catch up with someone. Some South African dude, Joe Van der something.”
“Mr Van der Horst?” Sam repeated. “He’s the boss. Like the boss here, Dean. Does Lester know him?”
“I guess. They went to Cambridge together apparently.” He leaned against Sam’s desk, parking his ass on one corner. He squinted at Sam’s computer screen. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a spreadsheet.”
Dean gave him a look. “Well, yes, I can see that. But of what?”
“Movements in the negative reserves against the profit and loss account.”
“Come again?”
Sam laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s very boring.”
Dean nodded. “Yeah, sounds like.” He lifted his head, looked around him with frank curiosity. “So, this is where you work. This is you. It’s very-“
“Corporate?” Sam completed, raising his eyebrows as he caught his brother’s eye. “Snooty? Stuffy? Dull?”
Dean grinned, bumped his elbow against Sam’s side. “If you say so. But, hey, you’re an executive, Sammy, my little brother. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside, picturing you here, climbing the corporate ladder.” His eyes met Sam’s again, and Sam felt his cheeks heat up, a warm and fuzzy feeling flutter awake in his belly.
“You’re such an idiot,” he said fondly. From the corner of his eye he saw Lester and Mr Van der Horst approaching them. Lester’s suit was pale and he was wearing an elegant boutonniere that matched Dean’s. He looked like a strange cross between a character from an Oscar Wilde play and an ice cream salesman. He was deep in conversation with Mr Van der Horst, the two of them chortling (there was no other word for it) together, obviously sharing some private joke. Around him he could see his co-workers’ heads pop up, gazes running interestedly over the boss and his visitor. Evidently, by the looks on some people’s faces, Lester’s identity hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“There you are,” Lester said to Dean. Dean slid off the desk and Sam got to his feet, glancing surreptitiously at the big boss. He was pretty sure Van der Horst had no clue who the hell he was. “Joe, this is my husband, Dean.” Lester placed his hand on Dean’s arm as Dean leaned over to shake Van der Horst’s hand. “And this is Sam, his brother. He graduated top of his class at Stanford. His GPA was extremely impressive. He speaks fluent French too, you know, he’s a really talented boy, our Sam.”
“Really?” Mr Van der Horst said. Sam cringed, darted a pleading look towards his brother, but Dean’s expression was carefully impassive.
“He’s a rower,” Lester continued, “of course you can see that with those arms.” He dropped his hand onto Sam’s arm and squeezed his bicep. “Mmmm. How many years were you part of the crew for the Cardinals, Sam?”
“Uh, um, three years,” Sam said, dropping his gaze to where Lester’s hand was wrapped around his bicep. He glanced at Dean again; Dean was looking amused, biting his lip as he followed the conversation. “Joe was a Blue,” Lester continued, “he was in the boat race. 82 and 83, wasn’t it?” He finally pulled his hand away from Sam with one last friendly grope of his arm.
“It was,” Mr Van der Horst said, looking pleased. “Fancy you remembering that.”
“Joe, how could I forget? We lost both years, of course, I remember that too.”
Mr Van der Horst groaned. “Don’t remind me.” He turned his attention to Sam, looking interested. “You rowed for Stanford? That’s very impressive.”
Sam shrugged, blushed. “Uh, yeah, I was just part of the team, an alternate really. I never made a regular place.”
“Don’t be modest, Sam!” Lester said. Sam huffed out an awkward smile, feeling the blush rise higher. Mr Van der Horst was still watching him.
“You work in David Cross’s team? I think I’ve seen you about.”
“Yeah, yes, I do.”
“And it’s Sam? Sam Winchester?” He held out his hand. Sam took it, gave it a firm shake, giving him his best smile. “Well, it’s nice to meet you formally.”
“I hate to break this little reunion up,” Dean said, “but we should get going. We don’t want to miss the ceremony after all.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” said Van der Horst. “I’ll walk you both out.”
“Sam, until next time,” Lester announced grandly.
Dean nodded at Sam, smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, before he turned and followed Lester and Van der Horst across the office.
Sam let out a long, pained breath and sank down into his office chair. Lester and Van der Horst were deep in conversation again, Dean slightly behind them, his head bowed. Sam watched them step through the glass doors and into the elevator lobby. The rose Dean had dropped on his desk was still lying on top of the page of print-outs. He picked it up, twisting the stem in his fingers. He sniffed, catching the faint scent, and raised his eyes. The three of them were standing in front of the elevators, Lester and Van der Horst talking avidly, Dean a few paces behind. As Sam watched he saw his brother turn his head, look through the glass doors, across the office, towards Sam. Sam stared back, wishing he could make out Dean’s expression more clearly. He watched Dean turn away to shake Van der Horst’s hand, then he stepped inside the elevator alongside Lester.
**
Sam squinted at the horizon, focussing on the tiny speck of a flag flapping in the distance. There, he was supposed to get the ball there. He could do it. This time he would do it. Positive mental attitude: that was all he needed. The ball was going to land right where it was supposed to, in the middle of the green. Easy. He made a couple of practice swings, lined himself up, and took the shot. The small, white ball soared up into the air, whipped by the wind. He squinted, following it, heart rising hopefully. It started to drop - way too soon. His heart sank and he watched it plop down into a large patch of rough well short of where it should be.
“Bad luck,” Greg said sympathetically.
Sam snorted and gave his stepfather a look. “Don’t sound surprised. You know how much I suck at this game.”
Greg chuckled and came forward to place his own ball on the tee. “I don’t know. I’m the eternal optimist, Sam. I keep hoping I’ll make a golfer of you one day.”
Sam struck the ground with his club and scowled. “You won’t. It’s a stupid game.”
Greg gave him a look - one of those unimpressed, fatherly looks - and straightened up. He rolled his shoulders a couple of times, then without a practice swing, he took the shot. It was neat, precise, the ball soaring into the air and landing onto the green.
Sam sighed again and moved to grab hold of the caddy. “We should bet on how much I’ll lose by this time.”
Greg clapped him on the shoulder and dropped his club into the caddy. They set off in the direction of Sam’s ball, the caddy bouncing and jostling as Sam tugged it through the grass.
“Next time we should invite your brother. I know your mom would be very happy for the three of us to hang out,” Greg said.
“Dean? Playing golf?” Sam frowned, he couldn’t really see it.
“Oh yes, apparently he’s quite good. That first shoot he did was for some brand of clubs. He got quite into it after that. And Lester plays of course. In fact, I think they’re both members of one of those fancy clubs, one of those where half the members are celebrities. Perhaps I should suggest a four to them? What do you think?”
“Great, more people to watch me make a total ass of myself,” Sam grumbled.
Greg chuckled and gave him a fond look. “You set too high expectations for yourself, Sam. I’m always telling you that. You can do this, I know you can do it.”
It was one of Greg’s catchphrases. You can do it, Sam, I know you can do it. Said to him when he was fourteen and struggling with his trig homework, said to him when he was seventeen and about to take the SAT’s, said to him before he interviewed for the job at Tandy & Grey. And Greg had been right, every time.
He could remember the first time he’d met Greg. Mom had moved out of the house in Lawrence a week after that awful day she and Dad told him and Dean about the breakup. She’d moved in with Greg and Sam had gone with her. He couldn’t remember anymore whether he’d ever been given a choice at the time. Probably not, eleven year olds don’t usually get to decide their own futures. Besides, given the choice, he would have always chosen to go with Mom. He’d always been Mom’s little boy in the same way that Dean had been Dad’s model son. Their family had always divided neatly that way.
He remembered Mom pulling her car up outside a nice house with a perfect lawn (at lot nicer than their own). Greg had come out of the house to greet them, wearing just his socks. Sam had stared through the passenger window down at Greg’s feet, watching his white sports socks get wet as he stood on the damp tarmac. He’d sat in the car and watched Mom and Greg intently, fascinated to see his mom interact with this guy who wasn’t Dad. Greg had kissed Mom on the cheek then he’d come forward and knocked on the passenger window and waved at Sam, grinning widely. Sam had clicked off his seatbelt and gotten out of the car. Greg had introduced himself to Sam, holding out his hand and they’d shaken, like real grown-ups.
Over dinner, Greg had told Sam what he did for a living, using the long, complicated, medical terminology that scientists use. His speciality was haematology, specifically, the treatment of non-Hodgkin lymphomas. Blood cancers, he’d told Sam with a grin. He was moving to California because he’d gotten a great new job in a private hospital out there. “We’re going to cure cancer. Well, one of the blood cancers at least,” he’d announced with a smile. After dinner, they’d watched TV together while Mom unpacked, and Sam had found himself opening up, talking about his favourite classes in school, about his collection of fossils and meteorites, about his fascination with space and planets, and how he and his best friend, Aiden, were building a model space rocket in Physics Club. Greg had listened carefully, interjecting and suggesting improvements to the design, and Sam had thought about his father, about how Dad only ever talked about cars or football or softball, about how Dad never even knew he was a member of the Physics Club.
“Aha! Here it is!”
Sam pulled himself out of his memories and turned to look at his stepfather. Greg was straightening up, his foot hovering over Sam’s golf ball.
“Are you ready?” Greg asked.
Sam sighed manfully and pulled a club out of the caddy. “I suppose so.”
“That’s my boy,” Greg said. He stepped away. “Remember: you can do this, Sam.”
“I can do this,” Sam repeated. He walked over towards the ball and lined up the shot.
Forward to Chapter Two