Once a Nerd Ch. 04

Editor's note: It absolutely pisses me off that my 'em' dashes switch over to double dashes when I upload this, ugh. Be aware of another POV switch: it's mostly Dean's, but Sam has a short POV at the very end. Not a huge spoiler, but Ms. Rosenthal is not good news, ya'll. Also, I'm sure it's obvious from the few mistakes in the previous chapters, but this is not beta-d, we die like men around here.

I've never flown before, because there was nowhere we needed to go that wasn't less than eight hours by car.

My old man does alright, enough to keep the lights on and food on the table, but 'vacations' never left the borders of Illinois. Our most recent trip to Chicago is as extravagant as it gets, and even then, it was bargain hunting, coupon clippings, and frugality in excess. Prying your wallet apart every twenty seconds to count the bills you've got left really sucks the fun out of a trip like that. On the bright side, watching my dad pinch pennies all my life has made me the fiscally responsible man I am today. Whatever I earn [through betting or odd jobs], I save whatever doesn't go towards gas and my personal groceries.

Whoops, got a little carried away. I've never flown before, and I bring that up because this is my first time navigating an airport. St. Louis Regional isn't the sprawling, chaotic hub airports are usually depicted to be, so it wasn't especially stressful. I parked in a modest lot a short walk away from the only terminal and dropped down on an empty bench offset from the curb, where deboarded travelers await cabs or a familiar face to fetch them. It's 7:15 pm, so as long as none of Sam's flights were delayed and nothing's gone awry while deboarding, he should be coming through those pneumatic doors any minute.

He's not gonna be happy, I already know that much.

In fact, he might actually flip his shit.

I warned my dad that I'd either be out late or won't come home, but I'll absolutely make it to school tomorrow, hell or high water. Sammy and I have shit to do, however. Sitting with my arms folded across my chest to stow some heat in the crisp bite of spring's evening, I earn some looks from passerbyers--namely, women. They flash smiles or simply study me from their periphery, and it isn't unusual attention. I nod my head politely, but nothing more than that. I can't have Sam catch me in the middle of curving a number. Twenty minutes later, he makes his appearance.

It's been, what, four days? My breath catches like it's been years. He's dressed comfortably for travel: snug, black joggers, white converse, and a loose-fitting, patterned, cable knit sweater. His glasses have been relocated to a perch on top of his head, and he's chatting on the phone. He looks...bright-eyed, refreshed, and happy. Whoever he's talking to, he's glad to be doing so. He's never smiled that way at me before, because he's unable to be at ease when I'm around. Once post-nut clarity hits, he associates my presence with anxiety, guilt, and regret. The person on the opposite end of the line, he's carefree with them.

Sammy has made me realize a lot of things about myself. I'm greedy, selfish, and immature [to name a few], because I want that carefree, comfortable disposition all to myself. He's barely five steps away, but he has no reason to look over his shoulder at the benches lining the brick. I seize this opportunity to do a little eavesdropping.

"--just have to catch a cab now. I forgot how cold it is here." He huffs, smiling a small thing into his collar. There's a pause, as the other person responds.

"Mm, I will. I really appreciate everything, you have no idea."

Pause.

"I'm...nervous, yeah, but more excited than anything."

Pause.

"Yesh, summer's too soon. There's a lot I'd need to do first."

Pause.

"I love you too, Mom. Be good, I'll see you again soon."

He hangs up with a little sigh, tucking his phone into his pocket. So, he was talking to his mom. I'm able to gather a few things from that brief snippet of one-sided conversation. His mom lives somewhere warm. She's helping him with something, and that something is happening soon, though not before or during the summer. It's something he's excited about, and it's most likely happening wherever his mom is located. The first thing that jumps to mind: relocation. It's just as I expected. Sammy's the kind of guy that will go to great extremes to escape an uncomfortable predicament, and that's exactly what I've put him in.

Oh, well. It's nothing I can't work around.

He goes to flag down one of the loitering cabbies, so I make my move. His face is turned towards the left, so I get the jump by coming from the right. His grip is loose around the handle of his small luggage, so I snatch it away. Inches from his ear, I murmur: "Oh, allow me."

He claps a hand over his mouth to stifle a shriek and whips around to look up at me. He's shocked, first and foremost. Then, his expression tightens with panic. Wide, terrified eyes snap to and fro, like we might be surrounded by everyone we've ever known. In a venomous hiss, he asks: "D-Dean, what...what the fuck are you doing here?!"

Now, he's pissed.

I hit him with that panty-dropper smile, and his mouth drops in befuddlement--probably at all the audacity I never seem to run out of. "I missed you real bad, so I came to get you. What, afraid we're gonna run into Mr. Merchant from the Post Office? We're two hours from home, Sammy, relax."

I'm absolutely not above gaslighting.

He sputters, indignant. "That's...not..."

I take him by the hand and start tugging him across the pedestrian pathway, towards the lot. His hand is limp, clammy, and faintly trembling in the cage I've got it in. "Come on, we're parked over here."

The short walk towards my truck is tense. Behind me, his movements are stilted and jerky, as if he were a prey animal about to bolt at the slightest provocation. I'm sure his head is on a timed swivel, scanning the face of every person we pass to be sure it's not one we know. I understand his concern, but who are we going to bump into at almost eight in the evening, on a Tuesday, at St. Louis Regional? Crazier coincidences have happened, I guess. Once at the truck, I unlock it and secure his luggage underneath the bench in the back. By now, his silence is a little unnerving. Opening the passenger door for him, I turn.

He's staring into the interior of my truck like it's a blackhole that might reduce him down to nothing but atoms, like he'll die if he climbs in. I choke back a laugh.

"Should I help you in, too? I don't mind." I goad him.

He scowls at me, but climbs in after another moment's hesitation. I shut the door behind him and cut around the hood to the driver's side. He's still painfully quiet as I crank the old thing up to get the heat going. The silence is so loud, it's making my ears ring. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, wary of making any sudden movements.

"Sammy, hey--"

"Dean." My name has never sounded so cold from his mouth. "Have you...lost your goddamn mind?"

We're looking at one another directly now. His brows are pinched in the middle, and his jaw is tight from clenching his teeth. I make a show of looking thoughtful. "Mm, I might have, to tell ya' the truth."

"Why did you come here?"

"I told you already, I missed you."

He looks stricken, almost pained, at the repeated declaration. The tips of his ears and the high points of his cheeks grow a telltale pink. Sam buries his face in his hands, scrubbing with exasperation.

"This isn't okay, for a hundred different reasons. You're a student, an athlete! You've got classes and practice. You couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Leaning across the center console, I take him by the wrist and tug it away from his face. He cuts a reluctant, sharp look at me through his hair, and his eyes really are like a cat's green. They're supernaturally bright in the dark. "No, I couldn't fucking wait until tomorrow. I can't do this tomorrow. Do you know how hard it is for me, being in the same room as you, not being able to do anything? I can't touch you. I can't tell you how much I fuckin' missed you. I can't kiss you, fuck you. You won't look at me the way you're lookin' right now. Tomorrow's like a goddamn prison."

He must've held a breath at some point, because once I've said my piece, he slowly releases it. He looks totally baffled, no idea how to respond. I push further in his space, curling my hand at his nape and applying a gentle pressure into the sides of his throat with my fingertips. Our faces are close, and his eyes dart towards the windshield--terrified of onlookers.

"No one's looking, Sammy. Be good for me, open up, come on." I press these words into the corner of his mouth, and he makes a soft, pitiful sound that has my cock jumping like a trained poodle through a hoop. He does as he's told, and his lips wobble apart with a hesitant breath.

Softly, I push my tongue into his mouth and reacquaint myself with his flavor. He pushes his hands into his lap, attempting to smother his erection, or maybe keep me from seeing it. Despite all his reservations and complaints, he isn't shy about rubbing his tongue against my invading one. While it starts as something slow, it progresses into filth. Dropping my free hand into his lap, I grind the heel of my palm into the front of his joggers. His hips twitch and his back jumps from the seat. He clenches around my wrist like he means to stop me, but as always, he can't commit to a rejection. I bite bruises into his bottom lip, and he has me swallowing down desperate variations of my own name. "Dean--nngh!"

"You're such a slut, Sammy, you know that? I bet you'd cum just like this, if I keep going."

He makes a sound like a sob, squeezing the circulation out of my wrist.

Laughing, I press a quick kiss to his jaw. "Don't worry, we've got somewhere to be."

Once I'm back in the driver's seat, Sammy takes a moment to collect himself. He catches his breath, smudges the flush from his cheeks, and flips me off. "You're an asshole." He grumbles.

"So I've been told."

"...where the hell do we have to be? Besides home?" He asks, once my comment registers.

"Dinner."

"...excuse me?"

Of course I made reservations, who do you think you're dealing with? I picked the place out yesterday after some rudimentary, online research of what St. Louis has to offer. I tried to avoid anything overtly romantic, so as not to have Sam pissing his pants over it, but nothing too casual either. It's a little brick-faced, two-story joint downtown, the type of place I know he'll like. Bookshelves are built into some of the walls, and there's a small, crackling hearth encompassed by big armchairs--real cozy shit. There's a string-lit patio, weather permitting, and the food and drinks are reviewed well. It's the type of 'real date' I've been dying to take him on, and we can only do so in a different city.

We find parking minutes before the reservation time, and Sam looks terrified at the prospect of getting out of the truck.

"Hey." I call his attention, and he looks over, visibly rattled. I point to the glove box.

"Would you open that for me? It's the black box, yeah."

He looks at the velvet case curiously before handing it over.

"Okay, now your left hand."

"...what?"

"Your hand, Sammy."

He frowns, suspicious, but lays his hand in my upturned palm as asked. I open the case, and inside is what I'd gotten him for his birthday, the birthday he tried to withhold from me. It's a watch. The band is leather, cattail brown with visible stitching. The casing, hands, and sub-dials are gold, and the face is a matte ivory velvet. Its original worth is a little over a thousand, but it's a hand-me-down. I got it off my old man's buddy for under half the original cost, practically robbed the sweet guy. Then, it was just polishing her up and replacing the battery. Sam wears a watch to class every day, so I know it's something he'd be willing to use.

I push his sleeve up and strap it around his wrist, tightening it to the point it won't spin around with idle movement. He startles, blinking down at it like he's never seen a watch before.

"Dean, what the hell is--?"

I look him in the eye, and I can't keep the severity out of my voice: "I want to do shit like this for you. When it's your fucking birthday, I want you to let me tell you 'happy birthday' and give you things. This is your present."

He cuts his eyes away at the mention of his birthday, shifting in the passenger's seat. "I...I don't expect...these sorts of things."

"I want you to."

Sam says nothing, but I can tell it's starting to get to him. Instead of a sledgehammer, I'll chip away at him with a chisel and hammer. I'd do it with a fuckin' spork if I have to. I know it's uncomfortable for him, but I'll keep plugging away until he's used to it. I've never had to try so hard, emotionally, at anything in my life, and it's...strangely refreshing. Rewarding, too. I convince him to depart from the truck by threatening to drag him out of it, and we make a brisk walk to the restaurant, one block down. Sam glances over his shoulder like the feds are on his ass, but once he admits to himself that we're not going to bump into a familiar face, he begins to relax.

It's a date, a real goddamn date. I pull out his chair for him, despite his vaguely disgusted look. We order an appetizer [oh la la], and Sam is feeling comfortable enough to have, not one, but two cocktails. I decline, pretending I'm a DD and not underage. We discuss his trip, and the more he drinks, the more his lips loosen. His mom lives in SoCal and teaches at UC, Riverside. She's a professor in the Engineering Department. However, he's not drunk enough to spill anything about a move or the exact reasons he went to visit, even with me needling for it. Which means: he's hiding something, for sure. Of course, he isn't obligated to tell me those sorts of things, but I still want desperately to know what they are.

Despite the unease of his potential secrets, I'm finally getting a taste of his comfort. He laughs more than he ever has, and after we finish our meal, he plops down in one of those armchairs by the hearth to finish his drink. He looks up at me, grins, and says: "I really like this place."

The way my heart stuttered over the next few beats, I thought I might've been stroking out. We return to the car, and so help me God, Sammy's actually leaning into me as we walk. He allows me to drape my arm around his shoulder, gently squeezing against his throat, in motherfucking public. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm so smart. This was such a good idea, holy shit. The return home is a two hour trip, and you'd think that might drag along.

Less than twenty minutes in, Sam nods off with his temple snuggled against the window. His legs are curled up beneath him, and his hands are in a limp prayer in his lap. His sleeve is still pushed up, and the gold of the watch catches on the truck's interior lighting. His breathing is too quiet to hear over the roar of an engine, but his chest lifts steady and his warm breath fogs the glass.

I probably turned to look at him every two minutes, the entire way. I can't help it. I can't stop. I just want to look, and look, and look. My mind feels both blank and full to bursting with thought simultaneously. It never occurs to me to turn on the radio, not once, and before I know it, I'm breaching Sam's neighborhood. It's 11:30. I kill the headlights and pull off into the dilapidated, abandoned garage. It's pushed back a ways from the neighborhood's main road, and it's not necessarily all that busy of a road to begin with. Still, I cut the engine too, and the ensuing silence is almost painful. The sudden stillness is enough to rouse Sam from his nap, which is probably for the best. I might've been content to sit and watch him until he awoke organically, however long that took.

He tugs away from the window and blinks the vestiges of dreams from his eyes, clearing the thickness from his voice. It's too dark to properly see, but his eyes find mine through that veil. "Dean...?"

"Mmhm."

"Did we...make it back?"

"Yeah, this is where I usually leave my truck, few minutes from your house."

"Oh." He murmurs. He's still looking at me, which is unusual for him. He's always quick to break eye-contact. Not just with me, but with anyone. He shifts in his seat, and the sound of his clothes rustling across the leather does something to me. I flinch, as he's reached across the console and fisted a small, warm hand in the sleeve of my shirt. I couldn't see it coming.

"Sammy...?"

"Dean, I--" He starts, a little breathless. "...I want you."

It's...the first time he's said such a thing, without me physically wrangling it from his body. Listen, remember when I was talking about the big-dick-club? To go from soft to completely hard in the span of a few seconds, it's like there's a drain in my dick, siphoning off all my body's blood, all the blood I need for functionality. My cock fills out so fast, I forget how to breathe. I can't think. My head is full of cotton, and my vision spots. Honestly, it can't be healthy, but here we are.

"...you sure?" I struggle to say, because he has to be. He has to be completely, totally sure before I lay hands on him. He gets the implication, thankfully. If he says 'yes', I won't be able to stop.

"I want...I want you in my mouth, please--hah!"

I snatch him by the wrist, pulling him halfway across the console. "Get out of the fucking truck, right now."

He heaves out of the passenger seat like the truck's on fire, slamming the door behind him. I must've blacked out, because I have absolutely no recollection of climbing out, rounding the hood, or initially getting a hold of Sam. When I come to, he's on the hood with his thighs split wide around my hips. I'm tongue-deep in his esophagus, shoving my hands down the back of his joggers and beneath his sweater. He's returning this kiss more ferociously than any other, as he's usually content with my plunder and dominance of his mouth. No, no, this time he's fighting back for all he's worth. He pulls my bottom lip between his teeth and sucks on my tongue in the same way he'd suck my cock, a push and pull motion that kicks my imagination into hyperdrive. He's shoving his hips forward with a keen desperation, grinding our tension together until we're left sticky in the confines of our clothes.

His eagerness is feeding my innate aggression, and I snatch him by a wraith of curls at the back of his head. Dragging my teeth down the shell of his ear, I warn him: "I'm gonna fuck you up, Sammy."

"I want it, Dean, please, please, please--!" He sobs, clutching my shirt. His eyes are hazy, half-lidded, and glittered with tears. Whatever's gotten into him, he's completely drunk on it. I know he's not literally drunk, not off two cocktails and an hour and a half of sleep. It's something else, something that bakes off of him like the sun bakes off fresh asphalt. He's burning with need, and it's driving me fucking insane.

I spin him around on the hood so his back is facing me. "Lay down."

He complies with haste, laying on his back and draping his head halfway over the curvature of the truck's hood. I tear out of both my jacket and shirt, before ripping my jeans down to the middle of my thighs. The cool, nighttime air wafting over my blood-hot cock shoots a tickle up my spine--the freedom, fuck, it feels so good. I look down, and the sight that greets me has goosebumps lifting all over my body. Sammy doesn't have to be told. He's looking up at me, his eyes reflecting off of whatever light they can catch, and his mouth is wide and ready--tongue out.

"You know exactly what to do, huh, baby?"

I hook my thumbs to the insides of his cheeks, spreading them out. He's drooling, already, and it leaks out around my thumbs, dribbling towards his hairline. Christ a-fucking-live.