Fic: Close Your Eyes - Chapter Two - (Sam/Dean - NC17)
Back to Chapter One
CHAPTER TWO
Dean’s call came through to Sam’s work phone, a transfer from switchboard, Lorraine announcing Dean’s name with an irritable tone.
“We’re having a party,” Dean announced.
“Another one?”
“Lester likes parties.”
“I’m beginning to see that. But you don’t.” He leaned back in his chair, stared at the spreadsheet winking at him on his computer screen. He tapped his mouse button to minimise it, stared at his inbox instead, all those unread emails with their insinuating bold text.
“Sure I do. Fancy drinks and fancy canapés and making conversation with lots of people I don’t know. What’s not to like?”
Sam hesitated. He wasn’t sure if his brother was joking or not, but Dean seemed to expect a response so he said, “Right. Sure, Dean.”
“I’m a people person, Sammy, you know that.”
Sam smiled. He wondered where Dean was calling from. He glanced down at his phone, but it was just the switchboard number staring back at him. Dean was probably at home, that amazing, lavish mansion. Perhaps he was outside, staring down towards the lake and the boathouse. It was hot outside so he’d just be wearing jeans or board shorts, a t-shirt, barefoot perhaps. When they were kids he would always go barefoot, and Mom would yell at him, tell him that she wasn’t driving him to the ER when he stepped on glass. Perhaps he’d be wearing the amulet too, the gift that Sam had given him. Maybe he’d been sunbathing. Models had to look tan, right? And Dean really wasn’t the tanning bed type. He could be lying in the sun right now, wearing the amulet, the charm creating a small, white circle in the middle of his bare chest.
“Of course you are,” he said.
Dean laughed, the sound sending a whoosh of air down the phone line, making Sam’s ear tingle.
“Anyway, so you should come. In fact, Lester was very definite about that.”
“He was?”
“Of course, man. You’re my brother. Besides, he thinks you’re hot.”
“What?” Sam gasped. Dean laughed. Evilly. A dirty, throaty sort of chuckle that made Sam flush. “Dean, shut up.”
“Aw, man, don’t be like that. He’ll be pissed if you don’t come. It’s his birthday.”
“No it’s not. I know his birthday was in November. You had a party. Mom told me about it.”
“Okay, so it’s not his birthday, but he still wants you there. And I want you there. You will come, won’t you?”
Sam sighed. “God, yes, alright. I’ll come to your stupid party. When is it?”
“Saturday. Be there by 2pm. Bring your swim trunks. We’re using the pool.”
“You have a pool? I don’t remember a pool. Why didn’t I see the pool?”
“Of course we have a pool,” Dean said matter-of-factly and hung up.
Sam glared at the phone. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the tangles. He wanted to call Dean back, he had questions. Did he need to bring a gift? Maybe wine? No, that would be stupid. Lester had his own freaking vineyards; he’d named a wine after Dean for fuck’s sake. There was no way anything Sam could bring would meet those kinds of standards. So... some other sort of house warming present? He hadn’t brought anything last time, though he’d debated beforehand. But what the hell would they need? The glassware and tableware was probably all designer, all expensive, maybe even antique. Linens? Towels? A plant? He remembered the amazing conservatory, the freaking stained glass window.
Fuck. He had no idea. What the hell do you buy people who can literally buy anything they want?
He went to the gym after work, Dean’s direction about swim trunks ringing in his ears. He would be expected to change into the trunks, walk around practically naked, show himself off. Lester thinks you’re hot, Dean had said. He flushed at the thought, staring at his reflection in the gym mirror as he lifted weights, and worked the rowing machine. He couldn’t imagine Lester, urbane and eccentric with his sharp face and clever, thoughtful eyes, in swimwear. Then again, Lester had that charisma, that confidence, that assuredness to pull off anything. He wouldn’t care what he looked like. His appeal was all in the personality, all in the charm and the intelligence, the aura he projected. He could probably talk for half an hour on any topic at all and make it interesting. He was one of those guys.
He wondered how old Lester was. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to worry too much about appearances and he had one of those faces that could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five. He’d always been gay, according to Mom, but he’d never been married before. Dean was the first man he’d ever wanted enough to propose to. Apparently he’d said that at the wedding, the one Sam had missed while he was in France.
Sam was aching all over by the time he stepped into the locker room and under the shower. He stood there for a while, letting the hot spray ease his aching muscles. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a guy checking him out a couple of showers down. The guy raised an eyebrow, the invitation obvious in his eyes. Sam considered him; he was attractive, conventionally so, all toned perfection.
He followed the guy into one of the private shower stalls. He watched in silence as the guy sank to his knees in front of him and took Sam’s cock into his palm, holding it in his hand like he was assessing the weight, his expression avid and greedy. Sam closed his eyes and felt his arousal build. He shuddered when he felt the guy’s mouth close around the head and he reached out a hand to steady himself against the stall wall. He carefully cleared his mind and pictured his cock, big and fat and full as the guy steadily sucked, his hands clenched around Sam’s buttocks, knees slipping on the wet floor. The guy murmured something around his stuffed full mouth, the reverberation trickling up Sam’s spine. Sam placed one hand on the guy’s prickly head and urged him on. The guy groaned and took more, the fingers of one hand dipping below Sam’s buttocks to caress at his balls. Sam pressed his lips together to stifle his moan and shot, climaxing hard. The guy drew his head back, letting Sam’s release hit him full in the face, come spurting over his cheeks and lips and chin. Sam stared down at him and thought about how stupid he looked with his face covered in spunk.
**
He put on his swim trunks under his navy cargo shorts, just like they used to do when they were kids, and then spent ten minutes agonizing and rummaging through his closet to find the right shirt. In the end he settled on a plain cream polo. He pulled on some leather sandals and took five minutes trying to locate his shades.
He checked himself out in the mirror. He looked like an ad for the Gap, but it would do. He dragged his hand through his hair, trying to tousle it into some sort of style. He sighed in exasperation and went to find his car keys.
“You look nice, honey,” his mom told him when he stopped by her place to pick her up.
Greg wasn’t coming, he was working. Dean had called Sam that morning to ask if he could give Mom a ride and he’d agreed, wondering if it had been Dean or Lester’s idea to include their mother in the invitation. He’d probably guess at Lester, relations between Dean and Mom had always been strained. Though maybe that was different now, now that Dean was married and settled and living only an hour and a half away.
“Thanks, you too,” he said.
She was wearing a coral coloured sundress with a flower pattern along the hem. Her blond hair was piled into knot on top of her head and she had a fluttery, cream scarf knotted loosely around her neck. She looked right. She’d always had that enviable ability to fit in with places, that soft charm and elegance and easy American attractiveness that Dean had inherited.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him and reached up to push his hair back from his face as she’d always done when he was small. He caught up her hand, squeezed it lightly, making a face at her.
“Don’t. You know it’s pointless.”
She laughed and shook her head, turning to gather up her purse and shades.
This time the gates swung open automatically as they drew up. There were more cars out front, and Sam was relieved to see that not all of them were classics or luxury rides, but a few regular Toyotas and Fords squeezed amongst the Porsches, Mazaratis and BMWs. He watched his mother get out and smooth her hair back.
“These people,” she murmured, catching Sam’s eyes and smiling self-consciously. “Sometimes I still can’t believe that Dean, that this is his life.”
Sam nodded. He thought about the moment Dean had first told him he was getting married - to a guy. He’d sat on his bed in his tiny apartment in Paris and stared at the phone in his hand, mouth hanging open in shock. He’d thought about calling back, trying to point out in the most tactful way possible that Dad had only been dead four months, and possibly Dean wasn’t in the right frame of mind to make such a huge decision. Getting married to some super-rich, older guy he’d only known three months, moving away from the only home he’d ever known. He hadn’t of course in the end. He hadn’t dared. Besides, Dean would never have listened; he could be as stubborn and bull-headed as Dad when he wanted to be.
Knowing that didn’t stop the guilty feelings. He knew that he should’ve kept in touch better after Dad’s death, but he was in Paris and he had his own stuff going on. And then - well - there’d been the shame and embarrassment, remembering what had happened the last time they’d seen each other. Agonising over it, running it over and over in his mind when he wasn’t trying to actively repress it, unable to stop himself from wondering if Dean remembered and if Dean ever thought about it? If Dean secretly thought he was a pervert. Dean had always seemed normal on the phone, making stupid jokes about Sam’s love life while carefully side-stepping any questions about his own. It was Mom who’d told him about Dean’s money problems, about the mess Dad had left behind, and it was Mom who’d first told him about Lester.
Sam had meant to go visit, but flights were so expensive and he was an intern, he had no money to spare. Anyway, it wasn’t just about money. Dean was grieving, he was hurting, and that wasn’t something Sam could share or help him with. His father had always been such a distant figure to him, while Dean had loved Dad so much. Through Dad’s long, drawn-out sickness, he’d been there for every step, caring for him, doing everything for him. Sam had never thought about what Dean would do with his life after Dad died.
He should have known that Dean would land on his feet. Not just Lester, the billionaire who worshipped the ground he walked on, but the new career too. The modelling thing had come about almost by accident. An ad exec friend of Lester’s had been looking for someone just like Dean to advertise some fancy brand of golf clubs and he’d talked Dean into trying out - as a joke really, or so Dean had said. Apparently the results had blown everyone away and Dean was persuaded to get himself an agent and go after other jobs. By the time Sam finished his internship and returned to LA, Dean was living in the same state as him for the first time in years and he had a fabulous, new career and a filthy rich husband.
“At last, it’s my gorgeous in-laws!”
Sam turned around to see Lester approaching from one side of the house, his arms outstretched in greeting.
“Mary, you look beautiful, as always,” he said, bounding up to them and drawing Mary in to plant kisses on both cheeks. “What a gorgeous dress.” His eyes ran up and down her and he nodded. “I approve.”
“And Sam, of course. So handsome.” He took Sam’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “Such a beautiful family, you make me want to learn to paint. Actually! That makes me think, we should have a portrait done. You two and Dean. What do you think: a family portrait? I know just the place to put it. The library. I hate the art in there. Still lifes - so lifeless. Don’t you think?”
“I guess it depends on the artist,” Sam said.
Immediately, Lester’s attention was on him, swinging his way and pinpointing him to the spot. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it does. Still, that one - whatever it is in the library, a bowl of fruit - so prosaic, though the light is exceptionally good, but that’s not enough. I don’t like it anymore. It’s just part of the furniture now to me and art should never be that. A family portrait, though. The Winchesters grouped together - that would never get old. I keep telling Dean I want a portrait of him, but he doesn’t listen. He says it’s too much like work for him. But it isn’t the same. I want my own portrait of him. Something for me. I feel very strongly about it.”
“Maybe he’s afraid you’ll put a copy up in the attic to stop him from aging,” Sam said.
Lester gave him a frank look and cocked his head. “You’re witty and clever. I always imagined you would be. Stanford graduate - the clever part is obvious. But so often the witty part doesn’t go with it. I’m so pleased to have that confirmed.”
Sam blinked at him. “Uh, okay. Thanks, I guess.”
“We should go. It’s this way.” Lester spun around and set off back where he came. He waved a hand in the air to beckon them on. “C’mon. Dean will be very pleased you’re here!”
“Do you think he was serious about the family portrait thing?” Sam asked as they followed Lester.
“Knowing Lester. Yes, I do.”
“Oh God,” Sam groaned.
She laughed and patted his arm. “Sweetheart, c’mon. I’d love a picture of you two boys together. And I think I have the perfect spot for it. Above the hearth in the living room.”
“As long as it doesn’t become part of the furniture, Mom, art should never be that,” he said with a smirk.
She gave him a look. “Honey, don’t be cruel.”
“Hey, I’m not cruel, I’m witty and clever. It’s been confirmed.”
“Sam.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll be good. Best behaviour, I promise.”
Lester was waiting for them at the corner of the house. They could hear splashing sounds, calls and shouts, some music. Sam felt a buzz of excitement, that vacation sensation of dashing out into a swimming pool and dive-bombing into the water after a long day cooped up in the car. “C’mon. This way,” Lester called out, beckoning them to follow him around the side of the house.
The pool was large, a big, no-nonsense rectangle of Spanish tiles in blue and white. There were sun loungers framing two sides, most of them occupied by guests in various states of dress, some in swimwear, some in shorts and tees, even a couple of uncomfortable looking men in suits. There was a covered patio area in the same blue and white tile linking the house to the pool area. Big potted palms stood in ceramic pots, along with a few tables and chairs, all under a white canopy, the entire set-up reminding Sam of a European style cafe-bar. There was even an actual bar, set up on one side of the pool with a bartender on duty serving drinks. The French windows were open, leading inside to a part of the house Sam hadn’t seen on his previous visit. The soft sound of music was drifting through from the house, When I Saw You, by The Ronettes. Not the kind of music he associated with Dean, but the kind that definitely fit in with the lush, elegant surroundings.
“Everybody!” called out Lester in his clear, ringing voice. “The Winchesters have arrived!”
Sam felt several interested pairs of eyes swing their way, giving them an assessing once-over.
“And where’s Dean?” cried Lester. “Where’s my other half?”
“Right here.” Dean stepped out the French windows as if awaiting his cue. Lester held out his arm and Dean drew closer, walking into the embrace. He slung his arm around Lester and leaned in to whisper something into Lester’s ear. Lester threw his head back and laughed, giving Dean a fond, doting look. Dean smiled, lifted his gaze from his husband to look towards Sam. Their eyes met and Sam felt himself swallow, his breathing hitch for a fraction of a second. Dean was wearing swim shorts and flip-flops and nothing else. His body was sleek and slim and toned, every muscle perfectly cut, his skin lightly tanned, a small trail of golden hair running from his navel to dip below the waistband of his shorts. He pulled his arm away from Lester whose attention immediately switched somewhere else, and walked towards Mary and Sam.
“Has he offered you a drink?” he asked.
“We just got here,” Mary said, leaning in to kiss him. “How are you, honey? You look good.”
Dean nodded. He raised his free hand to scrape across his jaw, looking a little uncomfortable. “I’m fine. Just - parties. You know how it is. You want beer, Sam? Wine for you, Mom?”
“Yeah, dude, that would be fine,” Sam said. “You need a hand with that?”
Dean slanted him a look. “I think I got it.” He turned to head back inside the house, flip-flops slapping against his soles as he walked.
“It’s Mary, isn’t it?” Sam turned his attention to a newcomer as a suave looking man in a linen shirt and black swim trunks approached them, holding a glass of wine in one hand and holding out the other to Mom. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me from the wedding, but I remember you. I’m Philip; I’ve worked with Lester on some of his various projects.” He waved an airy hand as if to demonstrate some of these projects. “You work at the Westerbury Museum don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” said Mom. “Do you know it?”
“Very well.”
Her face immediately lit up and Sam stood for a couple of moments listening to them talk, pretending to be interested in the conversation. He glanced back towards the house, towards the French windows where Dean had disappeared. He gave Mom’s arm a squeeze and turned to head into the house after Dean.
It seemed dark inside after the blinding white sunshine and Sam blinked a couple of times, letting his eyes get used to the light. He was in a kitchen, a really big kitchen with an island in the middle of it, a clean and shiny stovetop and blue and terracotta tiling built into the island. There were a couple of high barstools, gleaming pots and pans hanging from the ceiling above the island and a row of cookery books neatly stacked between two heavy, glass bookends. There was a black Aga range in one corner of the room and a deep, copper butler’s sink with a huge draining board. There were numerous cupboards with Spanish-style wood doors and a row of worktops built from the same terracotta tile as the enormous island. It was the kind of kitchen Sam had only ever seen on aspirational home-makeover shows.
“Sam.”
He spun around. Dean was standing in the doorway that led out into the passage, watching Sam with an unreadable expression on his face. He stepped into the room, carrying a couple of dusty bottles of wine in his hands.
“I had to go down to the cellar,” he said, holding up the bottles. “In case you were wondering where I’d gotten to.” He moved to one of the worktops, pulled open a drawer to take out a corkscrew.
“You have a wine cellar,” Sam murmured. “Of course you have a wine cellar.”
Dean gave him a look over one shoulder, hands deftly working the corkscrew into the bottle. “Of course we do. We have our own vineyards too. I’ve seen them, they’re very impressive.”
“Where are they?”
“Oh, up north somewhere. Don’t ask me. I just like drinking the stuff. All that crap about vintages and terroirs and grape varieties bores the shit out of me.” He pulled out the cork with a satisfying pop. “There,” he said. He opened a cupboard, took out an enormous wine goblet and filled it with a generous measure, the wine glug-glugging as he poured. “I’m gonna take this out to Mom. Beers are in the sink,” he jerked his head towards the enormous copper sink, “get me one.”
“Okay,” Sam said and watched him flip-flop out the room into the dazzling sunlight. He crossed to the massive, deep-set sink. It was full of ice, bottles of beer placed into it at strategic intervals. He pulled two out. The glass was freezing and wet. His fingers sank into the moisture, cold droplets soaking his skin. There was a bottle opener sitting on the draining board next to a wooden chopping board covered in segments of lime. He uncapped the bottles and jammed wedges of lime into the necks. He leaned his ass back against the side and took a long, satisfying pull on his beer. He’d almost drunk half of it by the time Dean reappeared, holding a couple of empty glasses in his hands.
“I thought you had a bartender out there,” Sam commented as Dean placed the glasses on one side. “Isn’t he supposed to collect glasses?”
Dean shrugged. “Old habits, I guess.”
“Here.” Sam held out the other beer to his brother.
“Thanks, man.” Dean leaned in to clink the necks together. He took a long pull, lips wrapping around the rim, eyes on Sam. He lowered the beer, gave him a long look. “You look good, Sammy. I’m not sure if I said that last time. But I meant to tell you. I mean, you grew up good. Tall.”
Sam felt his face heat up. He bowed his head, raised his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks. You, um, you too. You grew up good too. You look good.”
“Oh. Well, that’s my job.” He gave a wide, fake smile.
“I guess it is,” Sam said.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Dean said, “about your tragic transport situation.”
“Dean.”
Dean ignored him, carried on like he hadn’t spoken. “And I reckon, I can help you out. I’ve been working on this project. It’s this fucking gorgeous Cadillac Coupe de Ville, 64 model. Just beautiful. It needs a lot of work though, and I’ve been having some trouble tracking down the parts, so I’ve kinda hit a wall with it right now. So, yeah, anyway, the guy who hooked me up with her in the first place, he gets other classics in from time to time. I’m gonna ask him to keep his eye out for you.”
“You really don’t have to,” Sam said.
“Dude, no. I want to, and,” he broke off for a second, gave a sheepish sort of a shrug, “I like it. It’s a way to pass the time. We all have our hobbies, right?”
Sam eyed him. Dean was picking at the label on his beer bottle, his expression a little guarded. “Okay,” he said.
Dean glanced up through his eyelashes, his mouth stretching outwards, lines crinkling around his eyes, one of those full-wattage grins that took years off him. “Yeah? You’re gonna let me hook you up with a sweet ride?”
“Oh God, please don’t put it like that,” Sam groaned, but he was grinning back, unable to resist when Dean smiled like that.
Dean laughed and stepped up beside him at the sink to elbow him playfully. This close, Sam was suddenly aware of how much taller he was than Dean. Dean was obviously aware of it too as he tilted his head to one side and made a face at Sam. “Fucking Sasquatch.”
“Jealous, much?” Sam said and shoulder-checked him.
Dean made an annoyed sound and jostled him back. He reached into the sink of ice, snatched up a couple of cubes and tipped them down the front of Sam’s shirt.
“Aw, fuck! You asshole!” Sam cried out, stepping away from his brother and shaking his shirt. The ice cubes slid down his body and slopped onto the floor, most of their icy consistency already melted into water. “Jesus, Dean!”
Dean was grinning delightedly at him, his eyes lit up. “You gotta take it off now, man.” He grabbed for the hem of Sam’s shirt and gave it a tug.
“Get off!” Sam snapped, trying to peel his brother’s hands away, one hand curling around Dean’s wrist.
“Make me,” Dean said, arching up an eyebrow and looking unbearably smug as he fisted his fingers in Sam’s shirt.
“Okay then,” Sam retorted and shoved his brother with one shoulder. Dean immediately shoved back, and sprang to get one arm around Sam’s neck, yanking him down into a headlock, the move taking Sam back fifteen years: his eight year old self tussling with his big brother after Dean had stolen his transformer or favourite legoman. “Geroff! Get off me!” he protested.
“Aw, Sammy, still ain’t gonna win!” Dean panted, laughing hysterically as he peeled Sam’s shirt up his back, rucking it up so it caught under his armpits.
“Asshole!” Sam protested, but he was laughing, enjoying the feel of his brother so close. He made a grab for Dean, got one arm around his naked back, yanked hard so Dean lost his balance, falling into his body. Dean went still and Sam looked down. His brother’s face was really close, cheeks red with exertion, artfully tousled hair messed up at one side, a shimmer of sweat pooled in his throat, just above his collarbone. He was grinning, his eyes a little wild as he stared up at Sam.
“Little bitch,” he murmured, his breath puffing against Sam’s throat.
“Midget,” Sam said, his mouth curling up into a grin.
“Oh, so that’s where you are!”
Dean froze then pulled away from Sam. He whirled around, raised one hand to smooth down his hair. Lester was standing in the French windows, eying them with a distracted look.
“We were just-“ Dean started to say.
“Come out! Both of you! You should come take a dip. I’m even thinking of chancing it! It’s such a gorgeous day. Of course the weather is always gorgeous here,” Lester said, speaking over Dean. He held out his hand, wiggled his fingers. Sam watched his brother cross the kitchen, take hold of Lester’s hand. Lester raised it to his lips, kissed Dean’s knuckles and Sam saw his brother’s shoulders relax, saw him smile up at his husband. Lester tossed an arm around Dean and led him out into the sunshine.
Sam let out a long, hot breath. He peered down at his shirt and the wet stains where the ice had soaked him. It was rumpled, pushed up above his belly button. He caught hold of the hem, intending to smooth it down again. But then he hesitated, gave a shrug, and in one quick motion, yanked it up and over his head. He ruffled his hair back in place, drew the back of his hand over his mouth. He folded up the shirt, stuffed as much as he could get into the back pocket of his shorts. He picked up what was left of his own beer and followed Dean outside.
He watched Dean, watched him stand beside Lester like a good husband, watched him get drinks and make conversation, moving amongst their guests like a good host. He found this version of his brother endlessly fascinating, trying to reconcile him with the Dean that had worked at the garage with Dad; the Dean whose weekly highlight had been dollar shots at Tony’s Bar; the Dean who’d dated Annette Copley, prom queen, for two years straight out of high school; the Dean who’d tried to teach him poker the one summer he’d spent in California; the Dean who’d mopped up Dad’s vomit and wiped his ass and refused to cry when they lowered his coffin into the grave. Sometimes he felt there was more he didn’t know about Dean than he actually did know. They were brothers and shared the same parents and the same last name, but they had nothing else in common. Dean was a mystery to him and he wanted more than anything to get to know him, to really know him, to understand who the real Dean Winchester was.
“Sam Winchester, I’m Doug Freeman.” Sam switched his attention reluctantly away from his brother to the handsome, blond-haired man standing in front of him, holding out his hand.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” he said, taking the hand.
“Likewise,” said Freeman, giving him a long, very obvious once-over. His gaze lingered around Sam’s bare chest then slowly tracked back up to his face. “Lester tells me that you work for Tandy & Grey.”
“Uh, yeah, yeah, I do.”
“So, do you have any tips for a guy thinking about switching funds? What looks good at the moment?” The last said with a salacious curl of his lip that was obviously not just talking about credit ratings.
Sam smiled uncomfortably and brought his hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, I’m sorry but I work in the insurance division, retail insurance, mainly. I don’t really know much about the funds side of things.”
“Insurance, huh? Well, insurance is important. To tell the truth, I haven’t considered insurance much. But it’s a steady market. Maybe you could make a good case for it?” He tilted his head, his eyes going heavy-lidded. “Here, have my card.” He produced a business card from the pocket of his fancy linen pants. He slid it down into the front pocket of Sam’s shorts, gave the pocket a couple of taps with his finger, his hand lingering over the bare skin just above Sam’s waistband. Sam stared down at the guy’s hand, at the chunky Rolex on his wrist, the gold signet ring on his little finger. “Give me a call sometime. I’m not in the city very often, but I’m sure we could have a good time together.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, keeping his voice steady.
The guy gave him one last, long look before he turned away.
Doug Freeman’s wasn’t the only card Sam got that afternoon. In fact he was surprised by just how many people seemed to know what he did and who he worked for. A few of them had real questions and got into real conversations about work, and Sam found himself relaxing and talking back, happy to talk about something he knew. Of course, there were a couple more guys like Doug Freeman, guys who slipped him their cards and asked him to give them a call. One of them even mentioned a notorious bathhouse in Beverley Hills, boasting that he had the platinum membership and he’d be delighted to give Sam a private tour whenever he wanted.
Then there were the people who wanted to know about Dean. “He’s such a mystery, your brother...” and “we were all so shocked when Lester told us the news,” and “of course when we met him, we could see precisely what Lester saw in him.” That last one said by a catty-voiced woman who hadn’t realised who Sam was. Sam bit his lip, swallowed down what he really wanted to say and gave a perfunctory response, a fake smile stretching his face rigid, his hand permanently shaped around a glass, because you had to drink at these sorts of shindigs, it was the only way to get through them. And so now, hours later, after beer and wine, and at some point, mojitos and pisco sours, he was drunk, had no clue where Mom was, or Dean, or even Lester. And he’d somehow managed to lose his shirt.
Most of the guests seemed to have left; the few remaining had retreated indoors. Outside, the lights around the canopy that bordered the pool were lit up, twinkling off the still water and making the place look like an advertisement for a luxury Palm Springs vacation resort. The bartender had done his job and cleared up outside, and there were only three people left in the pool, lounging around in the shallow end, their voices low and playful, the faint ripple of the water as someone moved. Sam listened in, recognizing Dean’s voice from among the rest. He stepped through the French windows and padded towards the edge of the water, until he was standing over his brother.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
Dean tipped his head back. His face was in shadow, ethereal and pale in the light, the whites of his eyes gleaming. “Sammy,” he said. His voice was deep, a little slurred with drink. He pushed his hand out the water with a soft flurry, grabbed hold of Sam’s ankle with wet, slippery fingers. “C’mon in. Join us.”
The other two people (a woman and a guy) turned their heads to peer up at Sam, staring at him with the same frank, open contemplation all these people seemed to share. He ignored them and squatted down, elbows on his knees, his eyes on Dean and only Dean.
“Is it warm in there?”
Dean grinned at him, ran his forefinger over Sam’s ankle bone in a way that made Sam shiver. “It’s perfect.”
He grinned back and placed his half-drunk glass beside the others. “Okay.” He kicked off his sandals, unfastened his watch and fumbled with the drawstring to his cargo shorts. He let them slide down his legs and pool around his ankles until he was just wearing his swim trunks. Dean made a pleased, approving sound and pulled his hand back under the water as Sam kicked his shorts away. He took a couple of steps towards the deep end and executed a perfect dive into the pool.
The water felt glorious around him, and he pushed himself into it, ducking his head again and savouring the sensation of weightlessness. He drifted for a few seconds then yelped when he felt someone’s hand close around his arm and yank hard. He floundered, pushed his head out the water to see Dean grinning at him, his hair plastered to his skull, drops of water rolling down his face.
“Do you remember that year we went on vacation in Nevada? Dad taught you to swim in the motel pool?” Dean said.
Sam blinked. “I don’t know. Was that when you got those red armbands?”
“No, dumbass, those armbands were yours! I could already swim perfectly.”
“Whatever.”
Dean laughed and dunked him. Sam floundered under water, seeing a flash of white limbs. He made a grab - a leg - Dean’s leg. He tugged hard, felt Dean’s balance give way, forcing him to let go of Sam. Sam surfaced, spluttering for air, blinking the water out of his eyes. Dean was standing a few paces away, laughing and coughing and watching him. He flipped the bird at Sam then spun and swam back towards the shallow end. He reached for his drink and turned around to sip it, leaning back against the side the pool. The water was lapping at his chest, just below his nipples, and he was watching Sam with studied intensity, a challenging quirk to his eyebrow. The two other people had gone. It was only the two of them in the pool, only the two of them out here. Sam swam slowly towards his brother.
Dean held his drink out to him. Sam took it, said, “I think I’m drunk.”
“I think you are too.”
“Where’s Mom?”
Dean snorted a laugh. “Dude, she left ages ago.”
“Really? Fuck.”
Dean flicked some water at him, laughed again. “You are wasted. Maybe you shouldn’t be in here.”
“You’d save me, wouldn’t you? If I drowned?” He tilted his head, widened his eyes into his most pathetic, pleading look.
“I’d consider it,” Dean said generously.
Sam sighed and leaned back against the side of the pool, tilting his head back over the edge. “Today was intense,” he said.
“You should be in my shoes.”
Sam rolled his head his brother’s way, regarded him lazily. “I guess. Everybody was asking me about you. They all want to know about you.”
Dean’s mouth thinned, he placed his glass back on the side. “I bet they do.”
“Why’d you marry him?” Sam asked. The question was out before he could stop it, and he pushed his mouth closed afterwards, silently berating his stupid, tired, drunken mind. Dean was looking at him, a wry twist to his mouth.
“Surely everybody knows why a guy like me marries a billionaire.”
Sam rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound. “Yeah, people who don’t know you. You’re my brother, I know you better and I don’t believe you’d marry someone for money.”
Dean bowed his head, said quietly, “Good to know.”
They went quiet. The world was spinning gently. The stars way up high were blinking and he couldn’t see the moon, maybe there wasn’t a moon tonight. He lowered his gaze slowly, over the dark grey sky, to the canopy flapping gently in the soft breeze, to the water lapping against the other side of the pool, the reflected white string of lights rippling across the surface.
“So, you have a good time today, man? I saw Doug Freeman give you his card,” Dean said, breaking the silence.
“A lot of people gave me their cards. I think most of them wanted to get in my pants.”
“I think you’re right.”
Sam lifted his head, looked at his brother. Dean’s expression was soft and thoughtful, his eyes locked on some point at the other end of the pool, a small muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw.
“How am I gonna get home, Dean? I don’t think I can drive. I thought Mom was gonna drive me, but you say she’s left.”
“You can stay,” Dean said, abruptly turning his attention back to his brother. “C’mon. I’ll show you to a room. We got plenty of them.”
They sneaked up the back stairs, hearing the low murmur of voices coming from the living room. “You gonna go join them after?” Sam stage-whispered. Dean had his arm around him, holding him up as they navigated the stairs.
“God, no. I’m fuckin’ beat,” Dean said as they rounded a twist in the staircase. “Jesus, Sam, how much do you weigh?”
“I dunno, like 210. I can bench 300 pounds,” he said proudly, stopping to look his brother in the face.
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“Yeah, course,” he said, pouting. “Aren’t you?”
Dean chuckled and squeezed Sam’s arm where he was holding onto him. “Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I’m really impressed with how big and strong you are.”
They made it to the guest room (one of the guest rooms, there seemed to be several mysterious closed doors along the long corridor), only colliding with the wall twice. Sam slumped against his brother, letting him take his weight, laying his head gratefully on Dean’s shoulder as Dean got the door open and guided them inside. He nuzzled his face into the nice soft place between Dean’s shoulder and neck and breathed in the scent of his skin. Dean felt so nice, and he smelled good - of chlorine and sun block - clean, fresh smells that reminded him of vacations and motel swimming pools and helping his brother cut the grass and wash the car on the weekends. Dad used to give them five dollars afterwards to spend on candy and comic books, he’d forgotten about that.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean said, manoeuvring him towards the bed.
“You - you’re the only who calls me that,” Sam slurred. He raised his head from Dean’s shoulder, tried to look him in the eyes. “No one else calls me that. Mom calls me Sam, and Greg calls me Sam. Everyone calls me Sam, not Sammy. Only you. I like it.”
“Man, you’re gonna be so freakin’ embarrassed in the morning,” Dean muttered. He guided Sam down onto the bed. He straightened up, about to leave.
“No, no, Dean, wait.” Sam lunged for his brother’s arm, pulled him back. He grabbed for Dean’s face, cupped his cheeks, feeling the scrape of his brother’s five o’clock shadow under his fingers. “Dean,” he said, his voice imploring.
Dean’s eyes were wide, startled. He placed one hand over Sam’s where it covered his face, attempting to pry his fingers away. “Sam, what-“
“You gotta tell me,” Sam insisted, “you gotta. The truth, Dean. Are you happy? With him - with Lester? Is that what you really want? Are you happy?”
He saw Dean hesitate, his eyes flutter half-closed. A fleeting look swept across his face before he took a breath and curled his hands around Sam’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face. “You’re wasted,” he said quietly.
“That’s not an answer! Please, you gotta tell me. Are you - you’re happy, right? All this,” he made a sweeping motion with his hand, clunking his wrist against the headboard, “does it make you happy?”
Dean blew out a breath, opened his eyes to meet Sam’s intense gaze. “Yes. Yes, I’m happy. Yes, I’m happy with Lester. He loves me, I love him. We’re both happy. Now, will you go to sleep? I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Sam slumped down into the mattress. The world was still spinning and he could feel Dean’s eyes on him, feel him watching him, a prickle against the side of his face. He groaned and wriggled onto his front, burying his face into the pillow. It felt soft and cool against his cheek and he squeezed his eyes shut, one hand going to twist in the comforter.
He heard Dean let out a breath. Then quietly, after a few more beats, he heard Dean’s footsteps retreat and the door close gently behind him.
**
He was happy (and relieved) to find the next morning that Dean had given him a room with an en suite bathroom. He was less happy to find that he’d slept in an enormous wet spot all night after falling asleep in his wet trunks. He left them in a heap on the bathroom floor and slumped against the sink to peer into the mirror at his reflection. His eyes were red and sore from the chlorine and alcohol, his hair looked like some creatures had nested in it overnight and his skin had that sickly grey tinge of the very hung-over. At least a shower would fix one of those things. Maybe some coffee and dark glasses could handle the rest.
Someone had brought his clothes up from the pool overnight, even his shirt, which he’d pretty much given up for lost. There was a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet above the sink and he gratefully helped himself, feeling about ten times better once he’d cleaned the fur off his teeth and refreshed his breath.
He showered and dressed and stripped the bed. Then he sat on the edge of the mattress for a few moments wondering what the time was. He wasn’t sure what had happened to his watch and he’d never been able to tell the time from the position of the sun in the sky. Eventually, with a weary sigh, he pushed himself up off the bed and left the room, hoping valiantly that he hadn’t made too much of an ass of himself the previous night.
Lester was in the kitchen, sitting on a stool at the enormous island, a cup of coffee, plate of toast, and about twenty different newspapers spread out in front of him. There was no sign of Dean.
“Well, hello there,” Lester greeted him, raising his head from the paper and smiling cheerfully. “I expect you’ll be wanting a cup of coffee?”
“Um, yes, yes. That would be great. Thanks,” Sam mumbled.
Lester smiled and slid off his stool. “Take a seat, take a seat. Can I fix you anything else? Toast? Eggs? Cereal? I think we have several boxes in one of the cupboards somewhere,” he waved an arm around, “not sure where, I never eat the stuff myself. Strictly a toast and marmalade man. We have the best marmalade. I have it imported from Scotland. I’m very particular about breakfast food.” He strode towards the coffee machine in the corner of the room and lifted the pot. “How’d you like it? Black? Sugar? Milk?”
“Uh, milk, with two sugars,” Sam answered, leaning against the island and peering at the stack of newspapers. “Thank you.”
“Milk with two sugars,” Lester repeated, fixing the coffee. He noticed where Sam was looking and waved another hand. “Help yourself! I never get around to reading all of them anyway, but I do love the news.”
Sam noticed Le Monde and pulled it out, flicking it open. “You speak French?” he asked.
“Naturellement,” Lester replied with a strong English inflection. “Not as well as you of course.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Sam said with a polite smile.
Lester shrugged. “Oh, I know enough to get by.” He came forward with the coffee and placed it onto the side beside Sam’s elbow. He reached over and pulled La Tribune out from the pile. “Here’s another. Take them, read them, enjoy.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat? We have a waffle iron. It’s an ingenious contraption but unfortunately, I’m completely hopeless with it. Dean is the master. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind rustling you up some waffles. I promise you that they do taste delicious. A little whipped cream, some strawberries, raspberries - you’ll be set for the day.”
“No, no, that’s fine. Coffee is fine,” Sam assured him. “Um, where is Dean? Is he awake?”
“Taking his morning constitutional.”
Sam blinked at him. “Uh, his what?”
“His morning swim. One hundred lengths of the pool. Every morning, no matter the weather. Of course, the weather is generally cooperative here, not like back at home. Though, I have to say in his defence I have seen him go out there in the rain. He’s very dedicated.”
“Dean does 100 laps every morning?”
“He does indeed. Like I said, he’s very dedicated, and very fit. I’ve always appreciated a swimmer’s body. In fact, the very first boy I had sexual relations with, he was a swimmer. There’s a certain fluidity to the way they move. The muscles, very tight, very compact. And the smell, I do think there’s something arousing about the smell of chlorine on skin...”
Sam suddenly remembered pressing his face into his brother’s neck, sniffing at his skin, at that smell of chlorine. He picked up his coffee, trying to hide the blush flooding into his cheeks. He slid off his stool and crossed the kitchen to the French windows, hearing Lester talking in the background, still extolling the virtues of a swimmer’s body. He could see the pool clearly through the window and Dean was indeed taking his morning constitutional, ploughing through the water in rhythmical, even strokes, executing a perfect tumble turn at each end as he glided onwards.
“He’s remarkable, isn’t he?” said Lester.
Sam flinched, darted a sideways glance at Lester who was standing beside him, his gaze open and admiring as he watched Dean.
“I never thought he’d say yes to me. Not in a million years. It’s funny. Everybody thinks he was the lucky one, that I was doing him a favour.” He flicked his eyes to Sam, smiled softly, conspiratorially. “They have no idea. I’m the lucky one. Sometimes I think of all the things that had to happen for him to say yes to me. So many coincidences, so many little things that could’ve gone the other way. I was going to go to another garage on that day - a bigger one. I wasn’t sure, some little place like that, I was sure they’d rip me off. See me coming so to speak. Then my broker called and I got distracted. I pulled up on the forecourt to take the call, and then he came out of the shop. I remember this so vividly, what he was wearing, how he looked. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Porsche, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Love at first sight, I suppose you’d call it. He took pity on me I think, my clumsy attempts at flirting. He flirted back, I remember that. But it was half-hearted, like he was going through the motions, and I could see so clearly: there was a part of him that was broken. I wanted more than anything to fix that.” He splayed one hand over his chest then said thoughtfully, “I would’ve liked to have known your father.”
Sam swallowed, the corner of his mouth twisted as he met Lester’s gaze. “I’m not sure he would’ve approved of you. No offence.”
“Oh, none taken. And yes, I’m sure you’re right. But - still. He was very important to Dean.”
“He was.”
“Like you are.”
“Me?” Sam blinked at him. He frowned. “Really? You think that-“
“Oh, it was one of the first things we talked about,” Lester cut in. “When I told him about what I did, about how much I travelled, how I’d just come back from Paris where I’d been overseeing a new acquisition. I was bragging shamelessly of course. But he stopped me at that point, all smiling and proud, and said his little brother worked in Paris, for Tandy & Grey, the big credit ratings agency, and had I heard of them?” He chuckled affectionately.
“I never realised he knew who I worked for back then,” Sam said, surprised.
Lester raised his eyebrows. “Of course he knew. Like I said, you’re very important to him.”
Sam swallowed. He could feel the smile threatening to break out across his face, the warm aching sensation in his chest. “He’s important to me too.”
“I know,” said Lester serenely.
Dean came to a halt at one end of the pool. He braced his hands on the edge and pushed himself out with one easy, graceful movement. He knelt on the side, pushed the goggles off his eyes and up into his hair, making his hair stand up everywhere. He strolled towards one of the sun loungers and gathered up a towel, wiping it across his face then drawing it down across his chest and belly, down his thighs and calves and then back again along each arm. He sank down onto the edge of the lounger to pull on his flip-flops, then snapped off the goggles and tossed them onto the lounger, running the towel through his dripping hair.
“It’s a shame that relations between Dean and your mother are so strained,” Lester said.
Sam blinked, forced his attention away from Dean and back to Lester. He tried to recall what the other guy had said. “Uh, what?”
“Forgive me if I’m stepping over a line here, Dean can be a bit prickly on the subject, but his relationship with Mary does seem strained to me. Has it always been like that?”
“Dean and Mom? Yeah. I guess so. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven her for cheating on Dad.”
“These situations are tricky,” said Lester with a sigh. He turned around, padded back towards the island counter. “Of course, my own parents - I think my father’s on his fourth or maybe fifth wife? And my mother’s on her third, though apparently their marriage is on the rocks according to my darling sister. Families, hey?”
“Right,” Sam said, nodding. “Families.” He forced himself to look away from Dean and turned back to Lester. “Actually, um, if it isn’t too much trouble, I would like to try some of that toast and marmalade?”
Forward to Chapter Three