Fic: Close Your Eyes - Chapter Four - (Sam/Dean - NC17)
Back to Chapter Three
*** PART TWO ***
CHAPTER FOUR
Mom kept all their old photograph albums in the sideboard in the living room. Sam piled the dusty tomes up on the floor and sat on the carpet to flick through them, letting his coffee get cold as he paged through the years.
Dean had not been an attractive baby, and as a four year old he didn’t get much better. Admittedly, the bowl haircut didn’t help, but he seemed curiously averse to the camera, staring angrily at whoever was taking the pictures every single time. It wasn’t until Sam was a toddler, an apparently happy, perma-smiley toddler with tangled dark curls that Dean seemed to learn how to smile. And then the two of them were all teeth and dimples and dungarees and mini plaid shirts and freckles in Dean’s case, lots of freckles.
Sam lingered over the pictures of their parents. Mom’s various hairstyles: Farah Fawcett to Victoria Principle to Joan Collins to a particularly scary do that combined Demi Moore and Martha Stewart at their worst. Dad’s fashions were unchanging, the same no-nonsense short haircut that Dean had copied and a succession of plaid shirts. He paused at one photograph: himself, about three years old and Dad. Dad’s big, warm smile, his chin resting on little Sammy’s head, amongst the brown curls, his big hand curled around Sam’s small one. Another picture: John and the boys, Lawrence, Summer, 1987: himself on Dad’s shoulders, his small hands in Dad’s hair, his smile blinding, Dad’s hands locked around his short legs in their brown corduroy dungarees to hold him in place, and Dean standing beside them, his face pressed into his father’s side and fingers snagged in Dad’s belt.
He lingered over one professional family portrait, the caption underneath reading Christmas 1989. He was six and Dean was nearly eleven, the two of them in matching Christmas sweaters and slacks. Dad in a tucked-in denim shirt, probably his idea of something fancy, and Mom in a massively shouldered-padded, magenta sweater dress, all four of them smiling genially at the camera. He remembered that picture sitting on top of the TV in their old house in Lawrence, and at some point, after he and Mom had left, someone had removed it.
The last picture in the last album was of Dean holding up his driver’s permit in one hand and Mom’s car keys in the other, looking immensely pleased with himself. Sam stared at the picture, remembering that day, the day Mom and Dad had told them that their marriage was over. This picture must’ve been taken earlier in the day, before everything fell apart.
He thumped the album closed, gazed around him at the photographs decorating Mom and Greg’s living room. The ones that had become part of the furniture, as Lester would say. His own and Dean’s high school graduation pictures; his formal college graduation picture; Mom and him at his college graduation, standing on the lush green lawns of Stanford University; Mom and Greg at his college graduation, dressed like they were attending a wedding; him and the rest of the Stanford Cardinals rowing crew in their red jerseys; and at the end of the mantelpiece, Dean and Lester’s wedding picture. He shuffled across the carpet on his knees, lifted the frame off the mantelpiece, and stared down at his brother’s and Lester’s smiling faces.
“Old photographs, what’s got you so nostalgic?”
He jumped, jerked his head around to see Mom come into the room and look around, her expression preoccupied. She didn’t wait for a response, just sighed and said, “Put them away when you’re done, Sam. And straighten up in here. They’ll be here soon.”
He got to his feet and carefully slotted all the albums away. All of them, except that last one, the one with the picture of sixteen year old Dean. He carried it up to his old bedroom and dropped it into his messenger bag, covering it up like it was something to be ashamed of. He sat on the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. He felt on edge, an unsettled, unhappy knot in his gut. He glanced at himself in the mirror, at his blue and white plaid shirt. He made a face at his reflection, huffed out an amused breath. Plaid, huh? Obviously, he at least had one thing in common with his father, but who knew fashion sense could be genetic. He tugged the shirt off and opened his closet.
Most of the clothes in there were too small or too old, stuff he hadn’t bothered bringing to his own apartment, but he flicked through them anyway. Jesus, so much plaid, it wasn’t even funny. He tugged open the t-shirt drawer on his dresser, pulled out his old Stanford Athletic shirt. It was a little tight, but it still fit. He eyed himself in the mirror in the inside of his closet door. Okay, so it was quite a lot tight, stretching and emphasising the muscles of his chest and shoulders. But that was good, right? That was hot. Maybe more hot for a night out at Dreamz kind of hot than dinner with the family kind of hot, but whatever, he looked good. Dean would notice.
He flicked his tongue over his lips, pouted at his reflection, then feeling self-conscious, he made a face at himself, wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. He heard the sound of the front door bell and hesitated, listened to the door open and close, the sound of voices. He smoothed down the front of his shirt and closed the closet.
Dean and Lester were standing in the living room, making conversation with Greg. Mom met him coming through from the kitchen and passed him a couple of glasses of wine. “For your brother and Lester. Can you take them, sweetheart?”
He took them from her, glad she didn’t notice his change of clothing. He stepped into the living room, feeling everybody’s eyes swing his way.
“Um, I got your wine,” he said lamely, holding out one glass to Lester and then to Dean. Dean was wearing the amulet, the charm glinting against his pale grey tee. His eyes met Sam’s for a fraction of a second and Sam felt his heart skip a beat. He turned and ducked back out into the hall and down to the kitchen. Mom looked up at him as he entered.
“Do you need some help?” he offered.
“No, that’s okay, Sam. You go talk - catch up. I got things covered here.”
“Um, yeah, okay.” He poured himself a glass of wine, a big one, and looked up when he heard footsteps, surprised to see Dean standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Mom,” Dean said, looking past him at their mother, “is it alright if I step outside for a smoke?”
Mom made a face but she gave in, biting her lip as she watched Dean open the back door and head out into the yard. “I, uh, I might go join him,” Sam said, staring through the kitchen window where Dean was reaching into his jacket pocket for his packet of cigarettes.
“Sam,” Mom started to say, disapproval seeping into her voice.
“Mom, I’m twenty-four. Seriously. And you didn’t say anything about Dean,” he protested.
“Dean’s different,” she said quietly.
He stared at her hunched shoulders, at the way her fingers gripped the stirring spoon. He went to stand beside her, placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be good,” he said, smiling in that way that made his dimples show. “I promise.”
She rolled her eyes at him and batted his hands away. “Alright, go keep your brother company.”
He nodded and slipped outside. Dean looked up at the sound of the backdoor closing and watched him with a strange, guarded look as Sam strolled towards him. He hooked one leg over the picnic bench and sank down onto it, feeling the prickly, roughened wood through the seat of his jeans.
“I take it you wore that for my benefit,” Dean said, gesturing at his shirt with the end of his cigarette.
Sam grinned and tilted his head to one side. “You like it?”
“You should wear it with those new jeans. You’ll be beating the boys off with a stick.”
“Maybe I’m not interested in the boys, maybe there’s only one person I want to impress.”
Dean gave him a long look, but there was a flicker of amusement at the edge of his mouth, something he was trying and failing to suppress. “Right.”
He rested his elbows on the table, flattened his palms down against the wood. He’d gotten a palm full of splinters once from this table, years ago. They’d been so deeply embedded Mom had taken him to the emergency room to get them removed. They’d had to wait ages to be seen, and when they finally were seen, the asshole doctor on duty had told them that the emergency room was supposed to be for emergencies only. Mom had almost cried and he’d felt guilty.
“I haven’t been with anyone else since we... you know. If that’s what you’re implying. I can’t even think about anybody else.”
Dean arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “Is that right?” He sank down onto the bench opposite, crossed his arms on top of the table, cigarette smoke curling up into the air between them.
“Yeah, that’s right, Dean. I told you, you’re all I think about. I thought about you in bed last night, in the shower this morning. My dick’s seeing a lot of action, but it’s all self-inflicted. And you’re the only feature.”
“Jesus,” Dean said. He inhaled, held the smoke in for a moment before exhaling. “This is so fucked up.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah.” He looked around at the neatly cut grass, the shed at the bottom of the yard where Greg kept his tools and the lawn mower. Sam’s old bikes, his roller skates and other outdoors toys were still in that shed. He’d played with sprinklers here, had birthday parties and holiday parties. He’d thrown up in the rosebushes in the corner for the first time ever. This yard was part of his life. He’d grown up here. It seemed wrong that it didn’t hold any memories for Dean.
“So. Uh, when are you next in the city?” he asked.
“I’ve got a job. The one I told you about? The Details shoot. It’s on Wednesday, Thursday too,” Dean answered. “They’re putting us up in a hotel overnight.”
Sam’s stomach flipped over. He swallowed, trying to force down his excitement. “So we could-“
“Could what, Sam?” Dean was enjoying this, enjoying watching Sam beg for it. “What could we do?”
Sam leaned forward across the table, bringing their faces closer together. “I’d love to spell it out to you right now. Tell you exactly what I want to do to you: how I want to explore every inch of your body, worship every inch of your body. How I want to push my tongue inside you.” Dean snorted and ducked his head. He was blushing, Sam saw, the realisation making the heat flood into his belly and balls. He placed his hand over his brother’s wrist where it lay on top of the table. He ran his forefinger over the fine bones, the blue veins on the back of Dean’s hand. He could feel Dean tremble, see his pupils grow bigger, that pink tongue come out to wet his lips. “I want to kiss you so badly it hurts. I want to touch you and put my hands on you. I want to feel your gorgeous big cock in my mouth, feel you get huge and fat in my mouth.”
“Jesus, Sam. Here? Do you have to say that shit here?”
Sam chuckled evilly and licked his lips. “It’s the truth. I want to touch you all the time. I think about it all the time. Do you, Dean? Do you think about it?”
Dean slanted him a look, a quick flick of his eyelashes. “What do you think?” He licked his lips again, pulled his hand out of Sam’s grasp, rubbed it over his mouth and jaw. “God. We’re at Mom’s house.” He ground the cigarette out against the top of the table, dropped the butt onto the ground.
Sam sighed. “Yeah, I know, I just.” He broke off, shrugged helplessly. “Just wanted you to know. What you do to me, Dean.”
Dean forced out a half-laugh, half-groan and got up from the table. He glanced back towards the house before he adjusted his jeans, giving Sam a teasing look from under his eyelashes. Sam laughed and swung his leg over the bench, standing up. He circled the table, came to a halt in front of his brother. He glanced towards the house, quickly checking before he laid his hand on Dean’s forearm, wrapping his fingers around the muscle, staring down at the soft, golden hairs, the occasional freckle, the crease to his elbow glimmering with sweat. He stared at the amulet, lying against Dean’s chest, as ugly and kitschy as the day he’d bought it. Dean must’ve thought about him when he put it on that morning. Dean was wearing it for him.
He dragged his finger over Dean’s skin, over the soft, fine hairs on his arm. “Wednesday? Thursday then?”
“Yeah, I’ll text you.”
“Okay.” He sighed and turned away from Dean. “We should go back in.”
He tried not to look at Dean too much over dinner, tried to eat and make conversation and be normal, his brain continuously reminding him to act normal, be normal. He ate sparingly and Dean seemed to eat even less, his gaze flicking around everyone, distracted and restless. He got up twice between courses to go outside for a smoke, and Sam let him go, deciding it was probably best for both their sanities for him not to follow every time.
It was over coffees that Mom gave the news, the reason for their family lunch. Sam knew already, she and Greg had told him the night before.
“Greg and I, we’ve got an announcement to make,” she said as she finished pouring the coffee.
“You’re pregnant,” Dean said, “well, congratulations, Mom.”
“Oh no, no. I’m a little too old for that, honey. No. Umm.” She glanced towards Greg who gave a subtle nod and reached over to take her hand. “We’re getting married.”
“Congratulations, Mom,” Sam said. He got up from the table, rounded it to press a kiss to her cheek. She turned her head to receive it, patted the side of his face, smiling at him.
“Thanks, baby.”
“Well, that is wonderful news!” exclaimed Lester, getting to his feet and stretching out his hand to Greg. “You have my warmest congratulations. Although, I was under the impression you were already married.”
“No, not officially,” Mom said.
“Dad never granted her a divorce,” Dean said, looking at his husband as he retook his seat. “He refused.” He turned back to Mom. “You know, you could’ve fought him, gotten it pushed through anyway. You didn’t have to wait for him to buy the farm before you made it all,” he drew out the word, “official.”
Mom’s expression fell a little but she seemed to recover, a brittle steeliness sink into her features, the set to her eyes narrow in on her oldest son. “I know. I know that, Dean. I just wanted to do things properly.” She glanced sideways at Greg, squeezed his hand, wanting to draw him into the conversation. “We weren’t even sure that we wanted to do it. After all, we’ve been together for thirteen years. Living in sin for thirteen years,” she added with a nervous laugh. “And we’ve managed just fine.”
“It was my decision,” Greg put in. “I asked her and she said yes.”
“Well, I think it’s wonderful news,” said Lester, “and I wish you’d given me notice, Mary, I would’ve brought some champagne. You must let me provide the champagne for the wedding. No - wait! I insist. It would give me great pleasure. I could provide from my own estates, though of course, it won’t officially be champagne. Not when the French are so tedious about the terminology being employed just right - so absurd. But we did experiment, quite successfully I think, with a sparkling white last year. I could supply the red and white too, free of charge of course - family rates. The Winchester vintage perhaps? Though actually, on second thoughts, that might not be appropriate.”
Dean snorted. “Maybe not,” he said, reaching over to pat his husband’s hand.
Lester took his hand, curled their fingers together. Sam stared down at their entwined hands, at the platinum wedding band on his brother’s finger, at Lester’s long clever fingers entangled with Dean’s.
“Mary,” Lester said, lifting Dean’s hand and bringing it to his lips. “I only hope that you and Greg will be as happy as Dean and I have been so far.”
Yeah, whatever, Sam thought desperately. He stared across the table at his brother, but Dean was steadfastly not looking at him, all his attention on Lester.
“Of course you will be great together. You’re already great together and after thirteen years, I’m pretty sure you don’t need any luck or best wishes, but I will give them to you anyway. Here,” Lester raised his glass, glanced around the table, “a toast, I think. To Mary and Greg.” They all raised their glasses, leaned across the table to clink together. Sam kept staring at his brother, but Dean met his eyes only briefly, before looking immediately away. “Now, when’s the wedding going to be?”
**
GOT OFF SHOOT EARLY. AT FOUR SEASONS, WILSHIRE BLVD. COME JOIN ME. ROOM 611.
Sam snapped his phone shut and drew his hand across the back of his mouth. He glanced at his watch. 12.03pm. The Four Seasons was a couple of miles away, he’d have to take a cab. A nooner. He was taking a nooner. He bit his lip on the ridiculous giggle that surged up to the back of his throat. He’d have to tell Dave something - not about the nooner, that wouldn’t go down well. But an appointment. A meeting. He’d call Jamie at AIA; ask him. The guy owed him. Hell, the whole freaking company owed him, he hadn’t taken a real lunch break in, well, ever.
He control-alt-deleted and locked his computer screen. He got to his feet and snatched up his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He rode the elevator down to the first floor with his hands in fists. He was going to see Dean again. He really shouldn’t be feeling this nervous about it.
He flagged down the first taxi he saw and climbed inside, telling the driver to get him to the Four Seasons as soon as he could. He dialled Dave’s extension from his phone and told him he was heading over to AIA for a meeting. Dave barely listened to him, just murmured, “Yeah, okay, whatever, Sam. Catch you, later,” and hung up.
He snapped his phone shut with a sigh of relief then reopened it again to shoot off a quick text to Dean. ON MY WAY. His palms felt clammy. He wiped them on his pants, peered out the window at the slow-moving traffic. The taxi finally drew up outside the hotel and he paid and got out. He was sweating; he could feel it trickle down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, tickling the small of his back. He strode into the hotel lobby, grateful for the waft of deliciously cool air-conditioning.
An elevator arrived just as he pressed the call button and a group of businessmen stepped out, clutching identical shiny white brochures under their arms. One of them (cute, dark-eyed, dark-eyed) met Sam’s eyes as he waited for them to get out of the way. The guy’s mouth flicked up at the corner and he gave Sam a quick, unsubtle once-over before smirking and turning to rejoin his friends. Sam watched his ass as he walked away; he was cute, sure, but Dean was better.
His heart was beating fast as he made his way down the corridor to room 611. He rapped on the door, ran his hands through his hair again. The door opened, and Dean was standing there, barefoot and wearing a white cotton bathrobe.
“That was quick,” Dean said.
“I couldn’t wait.” He pushed into the room, the door thudded shut behind him, and then his hands were on Dean, unknotting his robe and sliding it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor in whoosh of heavy fabric, and Dean was standing in front of him completely naked. Sam placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders and walked him backwards to the bed. Dean sank down onto the edge of the mattress, tipped his head back.
“I got myself ready for you,” he said.
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam groaned. He planted his palm in the middle of his brother’s chest and forced him backwards.
Afterwards, they both lay on their sides in the bed, facing each other. It felt intimate, like a scene from a French movie, the sheets tangled and their hair dishevelled, red creases in Dean’s cheek and temple from the pillowcase.
“You didn’t tell me how the shoot went. You were done early,” Sam said.
Dean blinked lazily, said, “Not done. It hasn’t even gotten started. There were issues with the location. They’re gonna reschedule.”
“Oh, well, lucky for me, I guess.”
“Lucky for you.” He fell silent again and Sam kissed his temple, the corner of his eye. Dean smiled softly and closed his eyes.
“I could stay here forever,” Sam said.
“Mmm. That would be nice but you should probably get going.”
Sam drew back and made a face. “I don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to,” Dean mocked. “You’re such a brat.”
“Shut up,” Sam retorted automatically.
Dean laughed and prodded him in the shoulder. “Go on. Get up. Go back to work.”
Sam groaned again but he rolled over and swung his legs to the floor. He got to his feet, looking around him at his discarded and crumpled clothing. He bent down to pick up his shirt and held it up, regarding it ruefully. “Shit.”
“You should’ve thought about that before you were throwing me down on the bed and ravaging me,” Dean said smugly. Sam turned around to glare at him; he’d propped himself up into a sitting position, sprawled over their pillows. He was naked and sweaty, his chest and cheeks pink, his cock lying flaccid and spent over one thigh. He looked debauched and Sam wanted nothing more than to jump back on the bed and do it all over again.
They made out against the closed door of the room after they were both dressed, the cliché of illicit lovers about to part. He was late, he’d already taken two hours, but he didn’t care. He rocked Dean against the door, his hands bracketing Dean’s head, one knee between his parted legs.
“Sam, Sam, c’mon…” Dean breathed between kisses. “C’mon, we gotta - you gotta.”
Sam detached his mouth from his brother’s throat and blinked hazily at him. “When? When can I see you again?”
Dean groaned and caressed Sam’s cheek. “I dunno. There might be a weekend.”
“A weekend?”
“Mmm, yeah. He’s going away. New York, for the weekend. He wants me to go with him, I usually go with him-“
“Don’t, don’t go. God, Dean, the entire weekend. Just think. We wouldn’t have to leave the bed.”
Dean chuckled, the sound soft and low, buzzing between them. “Yeah. I know. I was thinkin’ about it.”
“When?”
“Couple of weeks.”
Sam groaned. He dragged his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, kissed his left eyebrow, his temple. “You have to. Please. You can’t just talk about this and not follow through.”
“Sammy, I always follow through.” He pushed Sam’s hair back from his face, kissed the edge of his jaw. “I’ll figure it out, okay?”
Sam nodded, kissed him again. “Yeah, okay.”
**
Sam couldn’t concentrate on Friday, his stomach churned and his body felt jittery and the sushi he’d gotten for lunch stuck in his throat when he tried to eat it. He forced himself through his to do list with the kind of discipline his old coxswain would’ve been proud of. He left work early and headed for the gym, looking to burn off some nervous tension. He did 90 minutes on the rowing machine and steadfastly thought of nothing except the metres and kilometres ticking away on the machine’s digital display, working his body backwards and forwards, savouring the burn in his quads and biceps.
Dean arrived at his apartment just after seven, carrying a bag of groceries and looking extremely pleased with himself. He pushed past Sam at the door and strolled into the kitchen like he belonged there. Sam shut the door behind him and followed, pleased to see his brother acting so at home in his apartment. He paused at the kitchen door and watched Dean take groceries out the bag: green beans, potatoes, garlic, dried pasta, an enormous bunch of fresh basil, pecorino cheese, and a bottle of what looked like the infamous Winchester vintage.
“Hi, Dean. Yeah, it’s nice to see you too,” he said conversationally
Dean glanced at him over his shoulder, not halting in his unpacking. He folded up the bag when he was done, placed it neatly by the refrigerator.
“Do you have a pan for boiling pasta?” he said.
Sam blinked at him then he crouched down and opened the cupboard by the stove. He took out his biggest saucepan and held it up to his brother, craning his head back to look up at him. “This do?”
“That would be perfect,” Dean said, taking it from him.
Sam watched him from his crouching position then snagged his hand in the back pocket of Dean’s jeans. “Hey.”
Dean looked down at him. “See something you like there, Sammy?”
“Damn fucking right.” He splayed his fingers over the curve of his brother’s ass, dragged his forefinger over the crease to tease between his thighs. “Wanna suck you, Dean, wanna open you up with my tongue.”
“Mmmm.” Dean made a face like he was pretending to think, half-closing his eyes, a smirk playing across his mouth. He opened his eyes again, shook his head. “Nope, not now. Now, I’m going to cook. I’ve had nothing to eat all day, fucking castings. Now, get up. I want you to crush some garlic.”
They made some pasta dish with green beans, potatoes and pesto. Dean tutted and grumbled over the state of Sam’s kitchen and his lack of a pestle and mortar, something apparently every kitchen should have. Sam tried to imagine the old Dean, the one who’d eaten burgers for dinner five times a week making a fuss over a freaking pestle and mortar. Dad wouldn’t have even known what one was.
“I think I might have a jar of pesto in the fridge,” he started to say but Dean gave him a pitying look so he closed his mouth and went back to chopping up basil.
Despite Sam’s tragically under-equipped kitchen, the food was delicious. They ate at the coffee table in the living room, sitting close together on the floor, their knees and elbows brushing.
“Hmmm,” Sam moaned, sucking a long strand of linguine into his mouth and smiling at his brother. “You’re really fucking good at this, Dean.”
Dean grinned smugly. “I try.”
“I’m gonna stink of garlic.”
“Hell, me too,” said Dean with a shrug. He leaned over to refill their wine glasses. “I can’t eat like this most of the time. My weight hits 170 and my agent’s on my back. He’s, like, got these freaking laser eyes,” he gestured with his fingers, “like, he can take one look at me, just one up and down, and he can tell straight away. Oh my God, he’s gained two pounds! And then it’s all: no carbs for a week, Dean.” He made a face, took a sip of his wine. “It sucks.”
He made a sympathetic face. “Yeah, I can imagine. But you look great. Really great.”
“You say that, but this gig, man. It’s not good for the old self-esteem. You wouldn’t believe the shit these casting directors say to me. There are these dudes, way younger than me. Like, twenty two, twenty three, younger than you even, and they’ve had shit done. Freaking Botox. In fact, this one guy said to me a couple of weeks ago: we’re looking for something younger, something fresher.” He endowed the word with the contempt it deserved. “It’s such bullshit. I’m twenty-eight and I’m being sent for these mature type of gigs - which is fine by me, whatever. But, Jesus.”
“Why’d you do it then? Just give it up if you hate it so much.”
“I don’t hate it,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like I’m slinging burgers or mopping up piss for minimum wage. I’m lucky. I get paid a lot of money for standing around and posing.”
“Money’s not everything.”
“Says somebody who’s always had plenty of it.”
“But you have money now,” Sam insisted. “It’s not like it used to be. You could do anything, Dean, I mean it. You could go back to school. Finish college. You did, what? Three semesters-“
“Two and a half,” Dean interrupted, “and I’m pretty sure the half doesn’t count.”
“Whatever. You could go back to college. The cost isn’t an issue. You could study engineering, aeronautics or mechanical engineering. You’d love that and you’d be so good at it.”
“You sound like Lester.” Dean took another long sip of his drink, raised his eyebrows as he placed the glass back on the coffee table. “He’s always talking at me about fulfilling my potential.”
“Oh,” Sam said. He cleared his throat, thoughts racing. He watched Dean finish his glass then refill it once more before leaning back against the couch and regarding Sam with a look in his eyes that made Sam’s chest feel tight.
“He’s smart, I get it. He’s really fuckin’ smart, and he likes hanging out with smart people. Like you. I could never understand the sort of shit you do. Economics, markets, stocks, funds. It means nothing to me. And I know what they all think - all his friends. I can see it in their faces. At least, with the modelling, I can pay my own way. I’m not just his trophy husband.”
Sam hesitated, surprised by the vehemence in Dean’s words. “Dean,” he said, but Dean held up his hand, said quickly, “Don’t. Forget it, Sam. I don’t want to talk about it. What I want is a smoke.” Sam pressed his lips shut and watched Dean shake a cigarette out of the packet lying on the table. Dean looked up at him as he lit up. “How about you get some more booze?”
They shared another cigarette and beers after the wine was gone. They were still on the floor; Dean slumped against the side of the couch and Sam’s head in his lap, Dean’s hand ruffling through his hair. It felt easy and nice and weirdly domestic, and Sam couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and happy.
He stared up at the underside of his brother’s chin, at the fine bones and tendons of his throat. He was wearing the amulet again, the charm hidden under his shirt. Sam hooked one finger underneath the cord and pulled it out, letting the charm swing on the end of the cord.
“I like it when you wear this,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Yeah. It’s like you’re thinking of me. Like, it’s proof that I mean something to you.”
“You do mean something to me,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “I only got one brother, man.”
“No,” said Sam. He frowned, dropped his hand, the charm fell back into its usual spot against Dean’s chest. “It’s more than that.” He pushed himself up, blinking and ignoring the mini head-rush. Dean was watching him, clear-eyed and intent.
“Sammy,” he whispered. He cupped the side of Sam’s face with his hand. “C’mere.”
They kissed lazily, just an edge of intensity. Sam drew back and exhaled, felt the warm air collect and evaporate in the small, intimate space between their lips. He kissed Dean again. This time Dean groaned into the kiss, lifted his hand to cradle the back of Sam’s head, knotting his fingers in his hair. When Sam pulled away again, Dean was flushed and dark-eyed.
They fucked on the couch. Dean climbed into Sam’s lap and rode him; knees wedged either side of Sam’s hips and hands braced on Sam’s shoulders. Sam stared up into his brother’s face, watched the amulet thud against his chest, saw the smudged glitter of his wet eyelashes against the hollow of his eye sockets when he fluttered his eyes shut, the plush pink swell of his lip as he bit down. He curled his fist around Dean’s fat, swollen cock and squeezed the blood-red head as Dean shuddered and bit his fingers into Sam’s shoulders.
They came almost simultaneously, Sam then Dean, Dean’s release spattering Sam’s belly. Dean threw his arms around him and pushed Sam’s face into his sweaty chest like he was comforting a distressed child. His body was trembling and Sam could hear and feel the vibrations of his brother’s heart, frantic and thudding, where his ear pressed into Dean’s skin. They rested like that for a full minute, Dean’s hands haphazard as they stroked through his hair and soothed over his back.
“You want to get off me?” Sam said at last, voice muffled against Dean’s chest.
Dean lifted himself up, let Sam’s cock slide out of him. The end of the condom, thick and slimy with jizz and lube, slapped wetly against Sam’s thigh. Sam got up and strolled to the bathroom to get rid of it. When he got back to the living room, holding a couple of beers, Dean was crouching over his CD collection, flicking through the CDs. He stood up when Sam came in, one CD held aloft.
“What you got there?” Sam said, passing him a beer.
Dean took the beer with his free hand and held out the CD to Sam.
“Bowie? Really?”
“Definitely,” Dean said with a grin. “Go on, put it on.”
“Okay.” He slid the copy of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars into the CD tray of his old stereo system. Dean fell down onto the couch, lifted his feet onto the coffee table. He was still naked but he looked entirely at home. He smiled at Sam and patted the couch cushion beside him.
Sam sank into the space beside him and let Dean pull him in. Dean nuzzled at the side of his face, and Sam could feel his brother’s smile as the slow crescendo intro to Five Years built. “News guy wept and told us, earth was really dying; cried so much his face was wet, I knew he was not lying…” Dean sang softly.
“Just how did you get into David Bowie?” Sam asked.
When he and Mom had left, when Dean was sixteen, Dean had liked Metallica and Guns ‘n’ Roses and Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath. His favourite item of clothing had been his vintage Iron Maiden shirt. He’d probably known at least a couple of Bowie songs, but Dean had been a cock-rock guy just like Dad.
“Just this guy I knew,” said Dean with enough of an air of mystery to make Sam take notice.
“What guy?”
Dean slanted him a look. “Just a guy.” His mouth twitched like he was enjoying himself. “The first guy I fucked actually.”
“Well now you have to tell me.”
Dean licked his lips. He was enjoying himself, Sam thought, fucking tease.
“It was the year after you and Mom left, so I guess I was, like, seventeen. I met him at this club I’d heard about that had a reputation for being gay friendly and I was. Well, I was trying to figure things out,” he broke off for a second, licked his lips, making a self-deprecating moue with his mouth. “I mean, I already knew I was attracted to guys - some guys. But I was trying to figure out if it was just this crazy blip or if it was something more. If I was, God, I don’t know, suddenly turning gay.”
Sam watched him speak; he could tell that Dean was underplaying it here. He could remember how it felt to figure out you might not be like your friends. He could remember feeling like there was something wrong with him because he wasn’t feeling what his friends described when he looked at girls, not even when he looked at his own girlfriend, Hazel. They’d started dating junior year of high school and it had lasted all through senior year. They’d even made promises to stay together after they’d gone to separate colleges: him to Stanford and her to Washington State.
Of course, after he’d started at college, after he’d met Bryan and gone along to those GSA mixers, he’d given up any pretence of being straight. He’d finished the relationship with Hazel over the phone. He could still remember it, the day before the Thanksgiving break. Everybody in his dorm had been carrying their bags out to their cars, whooping and laughing and calling out to each other in holiday mode while he tried to break up with his girlfriend on his floor’s payphone. He’d had to repeat everything twice to her, practically shouting the news down the phone line as he tried to be heard over the noise. “I think we need to break up! I don’t think it’s working out! I’m really sorry!” He’d told her it was the long distance thing and she’d seemed to buy that excuse. They’d seen each other over the Christmas break and he could remember watching her sit on his bed with tears rolling down her cheeks as he returned her copies of Gormenghast and Tess of the d’Urbervilles and season two of Buffy. He’d never told her his real reason for the breakup and he still hoped (pointlessly probably) that she’d never discovered the truth.
Of course when he’d finally plucked up the courage to tell Mom the truth, she’d been amazing. But she’d still cried, telling him that she hated knowing there would always be people out there who would judge and hate him for something he couldn’t help. He’d been lucky, both Mom and Greg had been supportive and understanding, Dean hadn’t had that.
“Don’t,” Dean said.
Sam blinked. “Uh, what?”
“I can see it in your face. You’re all poor Dean, all on his own, struggling with his sexuality. It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it? ‘Cause I know what it was like, Dean. And I had it easy. I mean, Mom was great. So was Greg.”
Could you say the same about Dad? he silently thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. Dean was looking at him through narrowed eyes like he was hearing the unspoken words, the unsaid slur on his beloved father. Sam cleared his throat, quickly changed the subject: “So, what about this guy, then? What did he do? How did you meet him?”
“He was a professor at the university. And I told you, I met him at a club. He was older than me. Like, a lot older. Early thirties I think.”
“Jesus, Dean.”
“He knew a few things, man. The stuff he taught me.” He gave Sam a significant look, the smirk starting to creep back onto his face, the guarded look falling away. “His collection of sex toys was almost as impressive as yours.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
“He used to get hung up on the age thing sometimes and then on other occasions.” He snickered, arched an eyebrow. “He had this thing about calling me “little boy” or “baby boy” when we were fucking.” Sam made a face and Dean gave a dirty chuckle. “Oh yeah. It was kinda hot in this weird, freaky way. I don’t know, it wasn’t like I had anything to compare it against. And he taught me some important shit - like safe sex, he was militant about wearing a condom. He hooked up with other guys you see, and I was still hooking up with chicks. I was, like, seventeen, I wasn’t looking for a freaking boyfriend. I just wanted to figure things out.”
“And did you? Figure things out?”
“Well, I figured out that I like dick.”
“And that didn’t freak you out any?”
“Yeah, course it did. But I got over it. I think in some ways it was alright ‘cause I knew I still liked girls. I wasn’t, like, completely one hundred percent gay. I could deal with the idea of just being this dude who was sometimes attracted to other dudes. I mean, it’s just sex, right? No big.” He broke off again and shrugged. “Anyway, after things finished with Rhys, that was when me and Annette got serious. And I wasn’t going to cheat on her.”
Sam nodded, watching his brother’s face as he spoke. He’d met Annette when he’d visited Dean and Dad the summer before he’d started high school. She was very beautiful and he hadn’t liked her much, though to be fair to her, he hadn’t exactly been predisposed to like her. He hadn’t wanted to go to Kansas, but Mom and Greg were going on a cruise and Dad apparently wanted to see him. He’d been fourteen and moody and confused and he’d resented every day of the two weeks he’d spent in Lawrence. Dad and Dean were working a lot and when Dean wasn’t working Annette was always there, reducing Sam to the role of sulky, teenage third wheel. It was so weird to think that Dean had already been experimenting with guys even back then, that he’d already been in a relationship with a guy twice his age. Sam had never really known his brother at all.
“So, how many other guys have you been with? In total?”
Dean frowned. “I don’t know, man. Not many. Not like you.”
He ignored that dig, and persevered. “Ten? Twenty? Fifty? How many, Dean?”
“I don’t know. I guess between ten and twenty.”
“Really. I thought it’d be more than that.”
“Sam, I lived in Kansas. With Dad. I wasn’t travelling around Europe, nailing every guy that looked at me twice.”
“Nailing?”
“Shut up. God, you’re annoying.” Dean sighed, threw his arm up over his head, over the back of the couch, fingers drumming against the wall. “It was different for me. You want to ask me how many chicks I’ve been with - then, yeah, that’s probably a lot more. But guys. It wasn’t like I could bring a guy back with me, not with Dad there. And he didn’t like me staying out all night. He was cool with me bringing chicks home.”
Of course. Sam bit his lip, glanced at his brother. Dean’s expression had closed off, that crease between his eyebrows and the tightening around his mouth. He was beginning to recognise that look, the one that crept over Dean’s face whenever the subject of Dad came up.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Dean turned his head, looked at him. “For God’s sake, Sam.”
“What? Can’t I say that? I want to, Dean. I mean it. I am. I’m sorry that you had to deal with all that on your own. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you, that-“
“What could you have done?” Dean interrupted tiredly. “You were a kid. You had your own life - on the other side of the freakin’ country! Anyway, it was no big deal. He was my dad. I was just being a good son. You’d do the same thing for Mom.”
He hesitated, searching his brother’s face. Dean was always so keen to push his own values onto other people, to believe that everyone would act like he would. Would he do the same for Mom? Dad had been sick for such a long time; Dean had spent nearly five years dealing with Dad’s cancer. Every time they’d thought he’d had it beaten, it had come back just a few months later. Dean was twenty when Dad first got sick, not that Sam or Mom had known at the time. But Dean had dropped out of college, broken up with Annette, given up his own future to take care of Dad and earn enough to keep them. Dean had been Dad’s primary, his only carer. He’d done everything for him. He’d put his life on hold for him.
Sam couldn’t imagine ever doing the same for Mom, and he couldn’t imagine Mom ever expecting it from him. She would never want him to destroy his prospects and his future just to nurse her to an inevitable death. But Dean and Dad were different. Sam used to envy them their relationship, their closeness, Dad’s pride in Dean, and Dean’s devotion to Dad. But he could see things clearer now: there’d been a twisted kind of obsessive, self-sacrificing selfishness in Dean and Dad’s relationship. They’d loved each other intensely and they’d expected everything from each other. Sam could never see Dad fathoming the concept of “if you love someone set them free”. For Dad, love was family and loyalty and devoting your life to other person whether or not it was for your own good. It was the main reason why he’d never forgiven Mom for walking out on their marriage.
“I don’t know that I would,” he said. Dean gave him a surprised look, and Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to say anything against the man, but it’s kinda selfish, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?” Dean said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.
“Nothing, God, nothing, Dean. Just talking crap as usual. Listen, let’s not talk about this. I can think of much better things to do with our mouths.”
Dean stared back at him for a beat, then he smiled, reached out to caress the side of Sam’s face. “Yeah, we do.”
**
Dean fell asleep after the fourth or fifth time, Sam was beginning to lose count. Sam sat on the old wing-backed chair in the corner of his bedroom and watched his brother sleep. The day was fading away, six pm already, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds and washing over Dean’s naked body in long, shadowy stripes. Sam sighed and rolled his head against the back of the chair, his cheek against the prickly upholstery. He felt heavy and tired. He’d lost track of how long he’d been awake, but he still didn’t want to sleep. If he slept, everything would happen too quickly. This time - this precious time - would fall away too quickly and Dean would be gone, back to his husband and his amazing house in the hills.
He rose from the chair with an enormous effort, padded to the dresser and rummaged around until he located his camera. He turned it on, hearing it whirl to life with a burrrr-click. He tiptoed around the bed, taking pictures, clicking the shutter quickly and greedily. Dean was really photogenic, not that Sam should be surprised by that, being really photogenic was why Dean got all those modelling gigs after all. But there was something really special about Dean sleeping; he looked young and vulnerable, soft and untouchable. Sam stared at his brother through the lens. He’s smart, he’s really smart, and he likes hanging out with smart people. Sam thought about the look on his brother’s face when he’d said those words, the matter-of-fact, self-deprecating twist of his mouth when he’d talked about his job, about his husband, about how Lester’s smart friends saw him.
The brother Sam had known all those years ago would never have ended up as a male model, as some rich guy’s trophy husband. That Dean had wanted... God, Sam had no idea what Dean had wanted: to be a race car driver? He’d always liked cars and so many of Sam’s memories of him had been connected with cars, from the small matchbox toy cars they’d played with as kids to the big real-life versions Dean had fawned over as a teenager. But was that really Dean, or was that Dad’s version of Dean? Just like the music Dean used to listen to, the same music Dad had loved. Dad had never owned a Bowie record, but this Dean knew every word to every track on Ziggy Stardust.
Dean wasn’t the same person he’d been in high school, the confident big brother Sam had known and envied. Dean was this completely new person with real fears and self-doubts, and Sam wanted more than everything to crawl inside his head and get to know him, to understand him, to make him feel good about himself.
“Hey, whatcha doin’?” He snapped his head from the camera. Dean was blinking blearily at him, propping himself up clumsily on one elbow, staring at the camera in Sam’s hand. He arched an eyebrow. “Takin’ pictures while I’m asleep. Kinda creepy, man.” His voice was slurred with sleep, rich and thick and a little hoarse, going straight to Sam’s cock.
Sam smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. But in my defence, you have no idea how good you look lying there.”
“You want me to pose for you then you gotta pay for it. I ain’t gettin’ outta this bed for less than a million dollars.”
“You don’t have to get out of bed, you’re doing fine right there.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, pink-cheeked and sleep-tousled. Sam snapped a couple more pictures and Dean groaned, stretched out his hand. “Give that here.”
Sam sank to the edge of the bed and handed over the camera. Dean snapped a couple of pictures and Sam ducked his head, trying to avoid the camera. Dean got to his knees, leaned forward, coaxing, “C’mon, Sammy, turn around. Smile at the camera.”
“Dean.” He tried to push his brother away, but Dean laughed, said, “Nah, dude. This is your turn. Only fair.” He took another couple of pictures then lowered the camera, flicking through the pictures he’d taken. “You look good," he said. His tongue was between his teeth and he looked thoughtful.
“What?” Sam said.
“Nothing. Just. You ever think about this? You - my little brother.” His eyes were wide, hazy, his eyelashes fringed with sleep. “I think about you. And sometimes, there’s like this - this disconnect. I’m thinking about you and I’m thinking about this little kid. Do you remember that rollercoaster Dad took us on when you were, like, five or six? You sobbed all the way round, begging Dad to let you off. He was so pissed with you afterwards for ruining it.”
“No, I don’t remember that,” Sam said truthfully.
Dean chuckled. “I can still remember it. We got back on it again, me and Dad, and you stood and watched us, right there in front of the rollercoaster, all red-eyed and furious, this scowl on your face. You were so damn angry with Dad. Standing there, just scowling at us, looking like that freaky kid from The Omen.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“No, man, I swear to God. I’m not making this up. It was so fuckin’ cute. And that was you - this little scowly kid that I remember and then you’re,” he broke off, smoothed his hand over Sam’s shoulder, down his arm, “look at you, Sam. You’re fucking incredible. So gorgeous. My little brother. I look at these dudes on these modelling shoots and they’re all pretty or buff or whatever, but they’re nothing compared to you. You could do that job. Seriously, Sammy, you could.”
“Shut up.” But he was blushing again, flush rising up his chest and neck, pleased and embarrassed and enjoying it.
“Aww, am I embarrassing you?” Dean pushed his tongue into his cheek, curled his hand up around the back of Sam’s neck. “C’mere, pose for me.”
“No, no way,” Sam protested, batting his hand away. But Dean was tenacious, pulling him in and tumbling him down into the mattress. And it wasn’t like Sam was protesting too hard when Dean wanted to pull him down onto the bed and roll on top of him. Dean rolled them until Sam was on his back and Dean looming over him. He framed Sam’s face with his elbows, stared down at him, fingers carding through his hair where it spilled over the pillow.
“Do you feel bad, Sammy?”
“What?”
Dean brushed his thumb over the arch of Sam’s eyebrow. “Do you feel like a sinner? What we’re doing is wrong, you know. It’s really wrong. Don’t you feel that?”
Sam hesitated; a beat went past, then another. Dean’s expression was ironic, a brittle uncertainty under the wry curl of his lip.
“Dean, I.” He swallowed, searched for the truth. “I just like being with you.”
Dean pushed out a breath, rolled off him and onto his back. He flung his arm over his face and said quietly, “Yeah, I like being with you too.”
Forward to Chapter Five