Fic: Close Your Eyes - Chapter Seven - (Sam/Dean - NC17)
Back to Chapter Six
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mom insisted on taking him home with her for the first three days. He’d been signed off work for two weeks, though he had no intention of taking the full two weeks, and most people at Tandy & Greg would never expect him to. Work came first in his world and Sam wanted - needed - the distraction of work. But Mom had taken a week off to look after him, to nurse him and fuss over him so he had to leave with her. She helped him into his old bed in his old bedroom on the first day, deaf to his protests that there was really nothing wrong with him, that he felt just fine and he could manage just fine. Still, it was secretly kinda nice to be looked after again, to have her bringing him sandwiches and glasses of Gatorade in bed, so he didn’t protest that much.
The police came by on the first day. They’d found his car abandoned and wrecked off the PCH somewhere. A complete write-off, the insurance claim should be easy enough, they said. He smiled wanly at them and wondered about the classic Camaro Dean had been rebuilding for him. He wondered if his brother was still doing that, or if Dean had abandoned the project, now that he was packing up and moving away.
He made a pretty useless witness. He couldn’t even remember how many guys there’d been, never mind give any sort of physical description. Mom hovered by him as he answered the questions and ushered them out as soon as she could. After they’d gone, she sat down beside him, pulled him into her arms and kissed his forehead.
“You ever going to tell me what’s wrong, sweetie?” she asked gently. “You can tell me anything, you know. I’ll always love you, Sam. You’ll always be my special boy.”
The tears sprang to his eyes and he squeezed them tight shut, embarrassed and ashamed. He clung to her and let the tears roll down his face unchecked. Luckily, she didn’t press him anymore, just held him close and brushed his hair back off his face and kissed his cheeks as he silently wept.
Dean and Lester dropped by to visit on the second day. Lester was carrying a bunch of grapes and a couple of paperback novels.
“Dickens,” he announced, handing over Nicholas Nickleby and David Copperfield. “I always read Dickens when I was ill. It’s like a nice warm blanket.”
Sam thanked him and watched him munch through all the grapes as he talked to Mom about the arrangements for her and Greg’s engagement party. They’d hired some fancy gardens and were inviting 150 people: work friends and golf club friends and hospital friends and wine club friends and neighbours and ex co-workers, the list went on and on.
Dean barely took part in the conversation, not meeting Sam’s eyes and answering Mom’s questions with perfunctory, listless words as Lester talked enough for everybody. Sam watched his brother the entire time they were there. He looked tired and pale and Lester mentioned something about Dean not sleeping well, about them sleeping in separate bedrooms for the last few nights because Dean’s insomnia had been keeping him awake.
Good, Sam thought viciously, staring hard at his brother, silently urging him to look up, to look at him.
“Do you think Dean’s okay?” Mom asked after they’d left. “He didn’t look well. What do you think, honey? I think it must be the stress of the move. England’s a whole other country, and although I love Lester, sometimes I wonder if him and Dean,” she broke off, worried her lip, “I don’t know.”
“What?” Sam said, watching her avidly. He wanted to hear this, wanted Mom to say it: He’s not right for Dean. Dean shouldn’t be going to London with him. Dean belongs here, with his family.
She gave him a faint, fond smile. “I don’t know. You two boys. The heartbreak and worry you give me.”
Sam gave her his own weak smile in return, feeling the guilt knot up in his chest.
On the fourth day Mom drove him back to his place, installed him on the couch, and cleaned up while he watched reruns of CSI Miami. The place was sparkling by the time she left, kissing his cheek and begging him to call her tomorrow. As soon as she was gone, he called Craig.
“Dude, dude,” were Craig’s first words as Sam opened the door to him. “You look like crap. Those assholes really did a number on you.”
“Thanks.” He limped back to the couch. “Did you bring the good stuff?”
“Course. Don’t I always deliver?” Craig tossed him a white paper bag. Sam opened it, a smile breaking over his face when he saw the baggie of weed and blisters of Percocet. He popped a couple of the pills and tossed the bag back to Craig.
They smoked the first joint quickly. Half way through the second, Craig squinted at him and asked, “Should you be doing this? What meds are you on?”
“Now you ask. You’re the medical professional, you tell me.”
Craig shrugged, “My guess: you’ll be fine. You’d be surprised how much some people can take and you’re the size of a gorilla. Hey, can I take a look?” Before Sam had chance to protest, he was shuffling closer and grabbing for the hem of Sam’s tee. He pushed it up, exposing Sam’s bruised, rainbow-coloured chest and abs. “Whoa, looks painful.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Craig squinted, cocked his head. “It’s kinda hot. In a fucked-up way.”
Sam snorted and pushed him away. “Get off.”
“So, what happened? What the fuck were you doing at a breeder bar?”
“God, I don’t know. Getting drunk?”
Craig nodded, regarding him shrewdly. “This got something to do with your brother?” Sam blinked, felt that familiar hot twist in his gut at the mention of Dean. Evidently, Craig could see it on his face because he blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head. “Dude, that situation’s fucked-up.”
“You’re telling me.” They went quiet for a couple of beats before Sam prodded Craig in the thigh with his foot. “Hey. Would you do me a favour?”
Craig took a drag on the joint, exhaled before he said, “Depends what it is.”
“Come with me to my mom’s engagement party.”
Craig raised an eyebrow. “We all official now?”
“Christ, no. Just. I could do with the moral support.”
Craig kept looking at him, his gaze squinty but steady. “’Cause of Dean?”
“Who else?” Sam said bitterly.
“You want to make him jealous?”
“No, no, not that,” Sam said. “Well not just that. I - God, I want someone to be there. Who’s on my side.”
“And you’re asking me?” Craig raised both eyebrows this time.
He’d never given it much thought before, just how cut off he was from other people. He’d had a circle of friends in college, and Richard of course, his first real, hell, his only boyfriend, not that he kept in touch with any of them now, except via Facebook updates. He hadn’t seen his old high school best friend Chris for years; their lives were just so different. Then there was Stéphane, the guy he’d kinda dated in Paris, but he was half-way across the world and only communicated with these long, erotic emails, explicitly detailing how much he loved Sam’s dick and how much he missed it. And here in LA... well there was Craig, whom he guessed was a friend, or at least the nearest thing he had to a friend.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Okay,” Craig said. “Okay, I’ll come.”
Sam exhaled and leaned over to elbow him in the side, only wincing a little at the pull in his muscles. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
**
Craig was late picking him up. Sam was pacing through his apartment, absently straightening and rearranging things, trying to resist the urge to run his fingers through his hair or go change again. Mom had said elegant, so he’d put on a suit. It was the safest option.
The blare of the buzzer made him jump. He ran down the stairs and out into the street. Craig’s car was pulled up against the curb. He yanked open the passenger side door and scrambled inside.
“You’re late,” he said.
Craig shrugged. “Sorry, dude. Shift ran over. Shoot-out in a convenience store, three dead, five criticals. Fucking messy shit.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that counts as a good excuse.”
Craig snorted and pulled them out into the traffic.
“Your mom sure knows how to put on a fancy party,” he commented a couple of hours later as they strolled across the sun-soaked terrace crammed full of animated and well-dressed people. A waitress paused beside them, holding out a tray of champagne flutes. Craig snatched up a couple of glasses and handed one off to Sam. “There you go, don’t say I never get you anything.”
Sam took it from him and scanned the crowd, heart-rate bumping and tripping as he searched for his brother’s familiar profile. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d seen Dean, since that day at Mom’s place, and he felt nervous, anticipatory with just the thought of laying eyes on him. He squinted at the blazing hot sun. Most of the crowd was taking advantage of the shade provided by the big spreading canopies and trees which covered most of the stone-paved terrace. He could feel the trickle of sweat under his collar and the small of his back where his shirt was starting to stick to his skin. His suit jacket felt heavy and uncomfortable, and he thought longingly of the cargo shorts and polo shirt lying on his bed at home.
Despite the heat, the party seemed to be going very well. Waitresses in old-fashioned 50s dress were circulating with champagne and canapés, and a swing band was playing a doo-wop version of Under the Moon of Love, though the heat seemed to have put off most guests from any attempts at dancing.
He wandered towards the edge of the terrace to peer over the stonework wall, Craig at his elbow. It gave a perfect view of the gardens, which sloped steeply away from them on differing distinct levels, like a life-sized, tiered wedding cake. Long, winding stone paths snaked through the trees and shrubs eventually leading to the bottom tier which boasted the gardens’ showpiece: the biggest hedge maze in California.
Sam sipped his champagne and scanned the crowd again, his heart skipping a beat when he finally spotted Dean, standing beside Lester and another guy, holding a glass of champagne and watching Lester talk. Even from this distance, Sam could see how bored and uncomfortable his brother looked, the smile rigid on his face, his eyes jumping from Lester to the other guy to the various groups of expensively dressed guests to - there. Sam’s stomach flipped over as their gazes collided. He swallowed hard and felt the sweat break and pop. Dean was looking back at him - at him and Craig. They stared at each other for what felt like a long time then Lester said something, laying a hand on Dean’s arm to bring him back into the conversation and Sam let out a long breath when Dean finally looked away.
“That’s him, isn’t it? The one you were just making googly eyes at?”
“Yes,” Sam said. “That’s him.”
Craig took a sip of his drink. “Honestly, dude, I thought he’d be hotter. He looks way hotter in his modelling pictures stuff, and in those pictures on your computer. Sure, he’s pretty, and I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, but from the way you’re freaking pining over him-“
“Shut up,” Sam hissed through gritted teeth. “And c’mere.”
Craig raised an eyebrow but he didn’t protest when Sam stepped in closer and dropped his hand to Craig’s shoulder in an intimate gesture. He leaned in like he was about to impart a secret. After all, if Dean was looking for something here then Sam wasn’t going to disappoint him. He wasn’t above making his brother jealous. Dean deserved a bit of his own treatment.
Craig gave him a frank, amused look. “Oh no. This isn’t at all about making him jealous.”
“Shut up, Craig,” Sam repeated. He licked his lips, flicked a quick glance towards Dean. He was talking to Lester and the other guy, not looking their way. Sam almost jumped when he felt Craig’s hand on his hip, fingers curling against the scratchy material of his dress pants. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
Craig just smirked and hooked the hand holding the champagne flute up and around the back of Sam’s neck. “Giving him something to be jealous about.”
Sam opened his mouth, about to say something else when Craig surged up on his tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips. Sam went still but he didn’t resist, it would give the game away if he resisted. When Craig was done, he tipped his head back and narrowed his eyes a little.
“Give me some warning next time.”
Craig just chuckled. “He was totally watching.” He pulled back, slapped Sam on the ass. “Now go on. You should go talk to him.”
Sam scowled at him and glanced over to where Dean was standing with Lester and the other guy. Except... Dean wasn’t there anymore. Just Lester and the guy deep in conversation like Dean had never even been there. “Shit. Where’d he go?”
Craig jerked his head towards the pathway that threaded through the rockery, descending downwards to the garden’s next tier. “That way.”
Sam pushed his glass of champagne into Craig’s hand and set off after his brother.
He walked quickly, following the narrow stone path as it wound downwards, soon taking him out of sight of the party. Thick trees flanked him on either side, providing an interspersed canopy over his head. Big, flowering plants grew twisted and curled between the trees in no visible order. Whoever had planned this place had evidently had eccentric taste in shrubbery and garden design. Sam knew next to nothing about plants, but even he could tell that the plant-life around him was a real geographical hotchpotch: plane trees and palm trees, English oak trees and cacti, blindingly colourful tropical flowers and plain Dutch tulips.
Sam paused when he came to a break in the path, a small alcove with a wooden bench perched just in front of a viewing platform. He peered down onto the lower levels, seeing the entire hedge maze for the first time. From above it looked neat and precise, all criss-crossed patterns and ninety degree angles with the occasional stone statue and topiary animal. He stared down at it, and noticed a familiar figure enter the maze: Dean.
He whirled around and set off after him. He entered the maze, hearing his dress shoes crunch ostentatiously on the stones. The hedges reared up on either side of him, tall and imposing, the scent of vegetation heavy in the thick, hot air. He turned a corner and came to a halt. Dean was standing at an intersection where four paths met in a crossroads. Huge topiary animals were holding vigil on each side of the square and a stone sundial sat squat and ugly dead centre. Dean was leaning against it, hip cocked, smoking a cigarette and obviously waiting for Sam.
Dean gestured around him with his lit cigarette. “Doesn’t it remind you of the Overlook Hotel?”
Sam followed where he was looking and nodded. “Guess so. I like it.”
Dean blew out a stream of smoke. “Me too.”
He turned his back on Sam and strolled off down one of the paths. Sam watched him for a couple of beats before he followed.
They fell into step. Dean was still smoking, his head bowed, not looking at Sam. He finished his cigarette, tossed the smoking butt onto the pebbled stones. He paused, cocked his head to one side and looked up at Sam.
“Did you bring that guy here to make me jealous?” he said.
“Did it work?”
Dean shrugged, his mouth twisted. “Maybe.”
“Good. Now you know what it’s like for me. Seeing you with him.”
Dean nodded a couple of times. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Are you,” Sam hesitated, licked his lips, tried again, “are you still planning on leaving?”
Dean didn’t look at him but just answered, “Yes.”
Sam felt his heart sink and he swallowed hard. He moved closer to Dean, laid his hand on his shoulder. Dean looked up at him; his eyes were wide and unguarded, looking straight at Sam. “Don’t,” Sam pleaded. Please, don’t. Don’t leave with him. Leave with me.”
“What?”
“Come to New York with me. I’ve been thinking about it, Dean, and I’ve been,” he took another breath, sunk his fingers tighter into the muscle of Dean’s shoulder, into the fabric of his linen shirt, “I spoke to Van der Horst. You know, the CEO at Tandy & Grey, that South African dude Lester knows. I’ve been working things out. I’m transferring to the New York office, there’s a position there for me. He’s agreed to help push it through - make it happen quickly. Even if you won’t come with me, I think I’m still gonna go. I can’t stay here anymore, not when everything here makes me think of you.”
“Sammy-“
“Please. Listen to me. I’ve been thinking about it and we could both go. We could both go and live there together. In New York. You could go to college, or you could keep modelling. I wouldn’t mind. You could do anything you wanted, and we would be together. Just us, Dean.”
Dean was staring at him, his lips a little parted and Sam could see it - the flicker in his eyes - the glimmer. Dean was listening to him, he was really listening. Sam lowered his voice, his most persuasive tone. “You’d like it in New York. We could be anyone there. No one would know. Mom and Greg, well, they’re here, and they wouldn’t think anything of it if we shared an apartment. I could earn enough to keep us, Dean. And you could go to college, just like you were planning to in London. And we’d be together. Every night we’d come home and it would just be us. Our apartment, our place. Just you and me.” Dean bowed his head and Sam felt his stomach sink. “Dean?” he murmured.
Dean wrenched out of his grasp and took a couple of steps away from him. Sam stretched out his hand as if to snatch him back.
“Please. Just think about it. Just - remember that weekend? Remember being together, waking up together, going to bed together. That could be us all the time.”
“No, Sam.”
“What?”
“Just. Just hear what you’re saying, man. We’re brothers. You’re my brother. This isn’t some big romance, it’s-“
“It’s what?” Sam interrupted. He dropped his hand to his side, screwed it up into a fist. “Tell me what this is, Dean! ‘Cause I really want to know! I know how I feel about you. I’m in love with you for fuck’s sake! I’m crazy about you. I love you - like a brother, like family, yes. But, God, so much more than that! I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I’ve been with a lot of guys and I even gave two craps about a couple of them. But me and you - this is. This is something else.” He swallowed and bowed his head, voice getting softer, letting the longing creep in. “No one else will ever love you like I love you and no one else will ever get you like I do.”
Dean was weakening, he could see it. His iron willpower or epic stubbornness or stupid fucking perversity - whatever the hell it was that was keeping him from Sam was weakening. He looked vulnerable, the layers falling away. His eyes shining as he stared back at Sam.
“I know you, Dean. I know why you won’t leave him. But you don’t see it, you don’t see it yourself. You wanted me and you wanted out of your marriage enough to sleep with me, your own brother.” He saw Dean flinch, saw his eyes flutter closed, his hand tremble. “But you won’t take the final step and leave him. That makes no fucking sense. You must see that.”
He took a step closer to Dean, the pebbles crunched under his feet. Dean’s eyes fluttered open again. He swallowed, his gaze darted to Sam’s outstretched hand and then back to Sam’s face. “You think you know me?” he whispered.
“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Sam said, defiance creeping into his tone. “I do, Dean.” His eyes locked on Dean’s face, willing him to see it - see the truth.
“Sammy, we don’t know each other. Not really,” Dean said sadly. “And this - what this is. It’s an obsession, man. You’ll get over it and then you’ll be okay. You just want me ‘cause I’m - ‘cause it’s a taboo and it’s exciting and ‘cause you can’t have me. But you gotta see: I’m married and I’m not just going to give up on that. I told you that. You got to understand that. You’ll find someone else, man, you just-“
“Like Dad got over Mom you mean? Like how Dad found someone else?” he snapped.
Dean hesitated; something flickered over his face, his expression hardened. “Don’t. Don’t talk about him.”
“Why not? Why the fuck not, Dean? ‘Cause from where I’m standing he’s got a real fucking lot to answer for! He screwed you up bad.”
“Sam-“
“People get divorced!” he cried. “It’s 2007 for Christ’s sake! One in two marriages ends in divorce! It happens all the fucking time! Just ‘cause Dad had some big-“ he broke off, blew out a breath. “You don’t know, Dean. He never told you about it, did he? But Mom talked to me, she told me. And I know, I remember. You’ve got these fucking rose-tinted memories but I remember how it was. You think they were happy together? You think it was all sunshine and roses between them. You think it was just her, all her fault. Fuck, Dean, she never would’ve looked twice at Greg if Dad hadn’t made her so fucking miserable!”
Dean’s expression had gone as hard as stone, his eyes flinty cold as they stared back at Sam. Sam’s heart sank; he could feel all his hopes, all his arguments, all his convincing speeches, all his carefully laid plans crumble away.
“Are you done?” Dean said and his voice was all ice.
He felt a spark of defiance ignite in his gut. He shook his head, hardened his own expression. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Well, tough, ‘cause I ain’t listening to this.” Dean spun around, stones crunching under his feet as he made to stomp away.
“No! Don’t you walk away from me!” Sam sprang after him, grabbed for his arm, yanked him back.
Dean whirled around, fist flying. Sam stumbled when he felt it connect with his jaw, the pain ripping through his head and twisting cruel and hard, down through his body. He cradled his face and peered at Dean through his spread fingers.
Dean’s fist was still clenched and he was staring back at Sam, white-faced, his lip caught between his teeth, a look of disbelief on his face.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, taking a step forward.
Sam stepped backwards, stumbling a little when he felt the stones slip under his shoes. He flailed his arms, trying to regain his balance, fell backwards and felt the leafy jab of the hedge through his suit jacket and against his palms. He dug his fingers into the prickly branches, pushed himself upright.
“I didn’t mean to do that, I didn’t mean to hit you,” Dean mumbled. He looked agonized, curled up fist dangling uselessly by his side. Sam watched him swallow, watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “God, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He pushed out a hard, pained breath. “God, Sam, I was gonna be with him for the rest of my life. When I said those words, I meant it all. I didn’t want to. I don’t want to do what Mom did to Dad.”
Sam blinked at him, swirled his tongue tentatively around his aching, shell-shocked mouth. “Dean, you already have. You promised you’d be faithful too.” His voice sounded hollow, his tongue thick and strange, like he was talking through a mouth of novocaine.
Dean bowed his head, let out a strangled, bitter laugh. “Yeah, I know. I fucking know that.”
“And what’s so bad about it? Mom, she’s happy. She loves Greg. He loves her. They’re good together. Sometimes people make mistakes. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”
“This is some fucking mistake.”
Sam sighed. His jaw throbbed, his fingers were aching too, he’d forgotten to bandage them up that morning, and they ached with a dull, resonating pain. His whole body felt exhausted, the heat thrumming like a live thing, oppressive and thick. “Just give it up, Dean,” he said quietly. “Please. Just - stop thinking you owe him. Stop trying to make him happy and think of yourself for once. He’s not Dad. You don’t owe him and going to London with him isn’t going to make everything better. You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”
Dean raised his head and looked at him. His eyes were gleaming like sparklers, watery with unshed tears. “Easy for you to say.”
“Why can’t it be easy for you too?” He swallowed again, his throat hurt and he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. His jaw ached so much. “Okay, if you won’t do it for yourself then do it for me. For your little brother. Divorce him. Come to New York. Be with me. Make me happy. I need you too, Dean.” He shuffled forward until he was standing directly in front of his bother.
“I’m sorry about your face,” Dean said. “Your handsome face.” He smiled sadly and lifted his hand, stroked his fingertips gently over the blossoming bruise on Sam’s jaw. Sam winced and caught hold of the hand. He pulled it away from his face, laced their fingers together.
“If it makes you feel better this hand’s throbbing like a bitch.” Dean raised his other hand and winced, giving Sam a rueful smile.
“It doesn’t,” Sam said. “But you can make it all better if you say yes.”
Dean chuffed out a breath and bowed his head again. He glanced up at Sam through his eyelashes, looking almost amused. “You’re a cheesy, cold-hearted bastard, Sam Winchester.”
“I’m in love with you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life. Divorce him. Come with me to New York. Please, Dean. Let yourself be happy for once.”
Dean pushed out a breath and twisted his hand out of Sam’s grasp. He dragged it through his hair, down across his face. Then he raised his head and looked Sam in the eyes.
“Okay,” he said. “You win. I’ll come with you.”
**
The party had wound down some by the time they made their way back through the maze and up the steep pathways to the terrace. The band was playing Superstition, and a few couples, Mom and Greg amongst them, were dancing. Dean led the way to an empty table in a secluded corner of the terrace and took a seat. Sam dropped down onto a chair beside him and turned to watch the crowd. He spotted Craig first, talking to a guy Sam recognised from Dean and Lester’s party a couple of months ago, the one who’d promised him an exclusive invitation to the hottest bathhouse in the state of California. It was the kind of offer Craig wouldn’t be able to turn down, and sure enough, Craig and the guy were leaving now, heading towards the parking lot with their fingers brushing.
“I think your date just dumped you,” Dean said.
“He wasn’t my date. Not really.”
“Oh.” Dean took his packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and shook one out onto the table. He picked it up with his bruised hand, wincing a little as he brought it to his mouth. “You want one?” he asked, cigarette waggling up and down between his lips as he spoke.
“No,” Sam said. “I’m good.” In truth, his jaw ached, his busted lip was quietly throbbing away. Smoking was one of the last things he felt like doing.
Dean lit up and tossed his Zippo onto the table. He took a drag, using his undamaged left hand, eying Sam. “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. You can make it up to me.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth crooked up a little and he took another drag on his cigarette. “Okay.”
“Oh, so you’ve finally returned.”
Sam twisted his head to one side to see Lester loom over Dean, one hand resting proprietarily on his shoulder. He pulled out the chair beside Dean and sank down into it.
“So, where have you two been?”
Sam licked his bruised lips, glanced at Dean. Dean’s expression was blank, his shoulders tensed, his fingers gripped around his cigarette.
“We went to check out the maze,” Sam said at last. “We got lost.”
Lester chuckled, took a sip on the glass of wine he was holding. “Really? How amusing.” He looked at Sam, then paused, eyebrows rising. “What happened? You accidently stumble into a fight somewhere in that maze?”
Sam raised his hand self-consciously to his face, winced as his fingers touched his painfully tender jaw. Lester glanced at Dean and paused again, gaze travelling down to Dean’s right hand where it lay stiffly on the table, to his guilty, bruised knuckles.
“So there was a fight,” he said. “Interesting.”
“Yes, it was uh, it was my fault,” Sam said in a rush.
He felt Dean give him a look, but he daren’t turn and look at him. He could feel the tension and anxiety radiating off of Dean, his hand shaking a little as he raised the cigarette to his lips. Sam swallowed and looked back at Lester. He was looking between the two of them with that beady, scrutinizing stare and Sam felt like he was in the boat all over again, Lester rummaging around in his head and seeing everything, figuring it all out.
“Yeah, we - uh, it was. We were fighting about - about Mom and Dad and-“
“Sam,” Dean interrupted. Sam hesitated, licked his lips, darted his brother a look again. Dean was looking directly at Lester, Lester returning the stare. “I have to talk to you. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Sounds ominous,” said Lester, “but go on, my love. I’m all ears.”
Vaguely, in the background, Sam heard the music change, Save the Last Dance for Me, one of his mom’s favourite songs. He cast a glance towards the dance floor. Sure enough, Greg was holding her close, spinning the two of them in gentle, quick circles. Her mouth was open and she was saying something to him, laughing and smiling, her face pink with heat and happiness.
Beside him, Dean’s face was pale. Sam stared down at the table top, at the cigarette smoking between Dean’s trembling fingers, at Dean’s bruised right hand spread-eagled across the table, palm-side down.
“Yeah,” said Dean, and his voice was faint. “I’ve been having an affair.”
“I know,” said Lester calmly.
Dean licked his lips, said, “With Sam.”
Sam felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, his insides plunge and splatter against the stone flags underneath them. He stared at the side of Dean’s face, at his profile. The pulse throbbed in his throat and wrist, on his tender jaw.
Lester wasn’t saying anything and Sam wondered if he was just as shocked as Sam felt. Distantly, the lyrics of the song drifted over to him, made absurdly loud in the resonating silence, …but don’t forget who’s taking you home and in whose arms you’re gonna be...” He wondered what would happen if he were to lead Dean up there, the two of them dancing together, Dean in his arms. They’d never danced together, maybe that would be something they could do in New York.
“You’re acting very calm about this,” Dean said.
Sam forced his gaze up from the table top and onto Lester’s face. Lester did look calm, eerily, stonily calm. He shrugged, took a sip on his glass of wine. He lowered the glass to the table, toyed with the stem. “I feel calm.”
“You’re not. Aren’t you shocked?” Sam said.
Lester swivelled his gaze to Sam. He narrowed his eyes on him and Sam felt his pulse throb, the blood beat in his head. “I always knew that there was something... extraordinary between the two of you. Something that had to be purged.”
“It’s not,” Sam said, “it’s not purged.” He swallowed, glanced at Dean. Dean looked back at him, his eyes wide. The cigarette was smoking between his two fingers, forgotten, a long trail of ash dangling precariously. “It will never be purged.”
He watched Dean swallow, saw the mesmerizing up and down motion of his Adam’s apple and felt the absurd urge to lean over and lick it, drag his tongue up the tendons of Dean’s throat and bite down. Dean stared back at him, the cigarette smoked, and in the background, the music changed again: In Dreams by Roy Orbison, another of Mom’s favourite songs. A candy-coloured clown they call a sandman; tiptoes to my room every night...
“I take it this means that London is off the cards,” Lester said.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Dean.
“Are you?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t want this to happen.”
“I bet you didn’t.” Lester’s lip curled up a little. “I’ve been dumped before. Guys who found other guys they liked more, guys who decided they wanted to have a go at that being straight thing. But this. I’ve never been dumped for incest.”
Sam flinched. The cigarette fell out of Dean’s fingers, tumbled to the ground, ash scattering. Dean ignored it. “I’m really fucking sorry,” he said again, his voice cracking over the words.
Lester snorted, shook his head. “Of course, the really pathetic thing is that you are. I know you are. And I knew it would always end like this. Oh not like this,” he gestured between the two of them, “even I, well-renowned as I am for my powers of forecasting, did not see this coming. But you and me, my love. Everyone said it. They all warned me. So, where are you running away to? You can’t stay here of course, not with your mother.” He shook his head. “Poor Mary. Poor, poor Mary.”
A spike of panic struck Sam’s chest. “You won’t tell her?”
Lester gave him a disgusted look. “Of course not. I have a lot of respect for your poor mother. More than you have, evidently. I won’t be the one to break her heart.”
“Thank you,” he said. He could hear the song building, the words blaring in the awkward silence. In dreams I walk with you; in dreams I talk to you; in dreams you’re mine, all of the time… He could remember Sunday mornings spent lingering over breakfast when they were kids, the only day of the week all four of them sat down to breakfast together, Mom playing her favourite cassettes on the tinny cassette-radio machine in the kitchen. He and Dean probably knew all the words to this song.
On the dance floor, Mom and Greg and all the other couples were swaying together, oblivious to the drama unfolding at their table, the music playing on without them. The three of them were sitting around the table at near perfect intervals, grouped as neatly as an equilateral triangle; it couldn’t have been staged more perfectly. The eternal triangle, he thought. He felt suddenly like laughing, hysterical and unguarded and euphoric. Dean had done it. They’d both really done it. There was no going back now.
He bit his lip, glanced surreptitiously at Lester; this man whose heart they had just broken. He was sipping at his wine, his eyes half-closed as he swallowed, his hand a little shaky as he lowered the glass. He already looked older, his face ravaged, eyes pained. Sam swallowed and looked away from him, gaze drifting inexorably to his brother. Dean was watching the dancers, mouthing the words to the music, his lips shaping automatically, thoughtlessly around the syllables and consonants.
It only happens in my dreams. Only in dreams, in beautiful dreams.
THE END