Once a Nerd Ch. 06

Editor's Note: Dean's...redemption arc? Maybe? He's doing his best, ya'll. No TW's necessary, I don't think, but this is mostly plot with a sprinkle of smut at the end. Same warnings as usual though, be aware of POV changes and lack of a beta [and my laziness to re-read back through]. Not sure how I feel about the direction I've taken this, but thank you to the people who keep commenting, it means the world.

The room is spinning.

My ears are inhabited by a high, shrill squeal that I can't hear through.

I'm...not nearly sober enough to process this, and Jamie knows it.

Come on, come on. Pull yourself together, Sam. Deny, deny, deny, like your life depends on it. There's no time to question anything: how she knows, why she's invited me out to bring it up like this, what her motives are. Focus, focus, focus, come on.

I fabricate an expression that's deeply offended, offended to my bones. "Why would you...ask me something like that? Of course not, no!"

She laughs. "Oh, come on, Sammy. You think I wouldn't notice?"

Jamie hooks her finger in the collar of my shirt and tugs, pulling it beneath my clavicle. Clear as day, there's an ugly, purpled bite that's only just started to yellow around the edges. I slap her hand away. "That's not from--"

"From Dean? It is though, isn't it?"

"...it's not." It sounds weak and difficult to believe even to my own ears.

Jamie clicks her tongue, peering at me like I'm a four-year-old she's just caught wrist-deep in the cookie jar. "Mr. White might've bought that little story on Friday, but I'm afraid I'm not so simple-minded. Dean was the one who closed and locked your door, and even drew the little privacy curtain. When you opened it for Christopher, well..." She places the manicured nail of her index finger on her bottom lip, tugging it downwards, away from her teeth. "...right here, it was awfully puffy and red, as if you'd just been passionately kissed."

I stare firmly ahead. "That's totally circumstantial, if even that."

"It is, you're right, but I think...you're an honest guy, Sam. So honest, it's to your detriment. If I were to spread a little rumor, who knows what might happen."

She said 'if', which means there's something she's hoping to get out of this. "What the hell do you want from me?"

She leans back in the booth, folding her slender, smooth legs at the knee and lifting her beer from the tabletop to polish it off. "Well, don't you think you're being a little greedy?"

"...excuse me?"

"You're hogging the whole pie, Sammy. I just want a little slice, and Dean's...too tasty to pass up. You get it, right?"

I'm going to throw up, without a doubt: whether it's right here at the table, in the gravel outside, or in the safety of my bathroom. Perhaps the reason she was able to sniff it out so fast when no one else had, was because she's prone to those same proclivities.

"I have no control over what Dean does or doesn't do." I grit, honestly.

"Mm, I'm not so sure. You've clearly got him on some sort of leash, because rumor has it that he's been completely celibate for the past few months, all for sake of his 'out-of-town girlfriend' that no one's ever met."

"That has nothing to do with me."

"Look, I just want the chance to shoot my shot, that's all. Cut him loose. Whatever you think is going on between the two of you, it isn't. To Dean, you're just another warm body he's managed to conquer, and he'll move onto the next in a heartbeat the second you close the door in his face. Come summer, he's gone. He'll go on to make a name for himself in college, then maybe we'll see him on the big screen every Sunday night come Fall."

Everything she's said is true. It's all in the same vein of what I've already been thinking to myself, but to hear it out loud, from a woman like her...

I can't breathe. Is this how everything ends for me? Outed by Jamie Rosenthal, because she wants to sleep with the same student I'm currently sleeping with? Because I was stupid and weak enough to sleep with a student in the first place? Saliva is building up in my mouth at a telltale right, the uncomfortable feeling of nausea is climbing my throat like a ladder. I turn to look at her, doing my damndest to pull it together.

"I'll say it again. I have absolutely no control over Dean, and I've never cared about who he's fucking. Whatever you choose to do, I suppose that's up to you."

She juts her bottom lip out in a faux pout. "Oh, come on, don't look at me like that. I really do like you, Sam, and I want to be friends. Unfortunately, we're definitely not each other's type." She laughs. "I don't want to see you lose your job either, I was just making a suggestion, that's all."

I withdraw my wallet from my back pocket and leave two twenties on the table.

"It's been great. Goodnight."

Jamie doesn't stop me, simply bids me goodnight with a little wiggle of her fingers. I squeeze out of the booth, cross the main room towards the door, and leave Rodney's with my entire world on its head. I'm not piss drunk, but I'm not sober enough to drive. I do it anyway, because there's no one I can call. I'd rather not catch a cab and leave my car at a place like this, not with work in the morning. Maybe I'll die on the way home, we can only hope. My house is ten minutes away, and I spend the entirety of that time fighting back a panic attack.

Technically, I didn't admit to anything, but does that matter in the grand scheme? She sounded so...fucking confident.

I've never known regret as intimately as I do now. I want to blame Dean, but I can't bring myself to do it. It might not feel that way most of the time, but I'm in a position of authority over him. I'm in the wrong, no matter how you spin it. I should've put a stop to his antics as soon as they began, but I...I liked the attention, I guess. This town has nothing and no one in it for me except my father's ghost, so the slightest scrap of positive attention made me feel more alive than I had since his passing. Dean liked me enough to pursue me for months. He liked me enough to appear spontaneously at an airport two hours away to pick me up. He liked me enough to get me a gift for my birthday, the only one I received outside of my mother. He likes me enough to, apparently, not fuck anyone else, claiming a fake girlfriend.

Now, I find that I like him, too. I put myself in a position to let genuine feelings grow, despite knowing what the natural outcome would be, despite the potential consequences. Dean has his entire life ahead of him. He has plenty of chances to love, lose, and love again. I know I'm only thirty, but thirty is a tough age to have to admit you're so utterly alone. Liking him or not is moot in the grand scheme, because if Jamie lets a rumor slip or gathers some sort of hard evidence to present to the administration, it's over for me. I knew this could happen, and I did what I did anyway.

Dean, too. No matter how popular, athletic, and attractive he is, sleeping with a male teacher? He'll be right up there on the cross with me.

Maybe I should just resign early and move in with my mother in SoCal, get a head start on my life while I still can. If I do that, I'll be out of Jamie's way. I can only pray she leaves our reputations intact.

Tomorrow, I'll have to tell him.

--

Something's wrong.

Really, really wrong.

Sam looks...bad. He's hiding it well, acting as he normally would, but there are dark, sleepless circles under his eyes. His gaze, usually sharp and bright behind his glasses, is haunted and drawn. He also won't look me in the face. He had drinks with Ms. Rosenthal last night...

What the fuck happened?

Did they sleep together? Is he feeling guilty?

No, no, I shouldn't jump to conclusions. Look at where that got me last time. We need to talk, and I need to...be honest with him about the things I want. It doesn't look like I'll be able to wait until graduation, because Sammy is starting to feel more and more like sand slipping through my fingers. Tightening my fist won't keep him in it. Thankfully, he leaves a note on the corner of his desk for me to take at the end of class. Today's date is the only one written, and six is the time. I can work with that.

Those next six hours, they might as well have been fuckin' years. It's like your girlfriend hitting you with the 'we need to talk' text, then ghosting you for the rest of the day. Sammy hasn't said anything of the sort, but it's written all over him: his expression, posture, tone of voice. It's absolutely killing me to wait, but I can at least pretend to be a patient man. It's the least I can do. There's no practice on Tuesdays unless Celner is in the midst of a personal crisis, so I head straight for the gym. My body is a knotted mess of restless energy, muscles locked and tight, nerves jumping like popcorn kernels in a microwave.

The bar is the best therapy I'm going to get right now, so I try to press, squat, and row my head to some kind of clarity. I give it up at a quarter to six, shower, change, and make the trip to Sam's neighborhood. The sun is still a bright beacon hovering the horizon, so I make sure I'm not seen by passing cars when I pull off into the abandoned garage. Only when the sky darkens and there's a veil to creep through, do I finally venture from my hideyhole and jog the remaining distance to his porch. I'm...anxious, I think. It's an unfamiliar feeling, and I can't say I'm a big fan, but I know it's a BOGO in relationship-building.

The door is unlocked as it always is, and I announce my presence as I pass through it: "Sammy...?"

"Kitchen." He calls back, and he sounds...dead inside, fuck.

In the kitchen, Sam is sitting on his large island's countertop. He's not showered, nor changed out of his clothes from earlier in the day. He still has his lanyard around his neck, shoes on, for Christ's sake. Beside him, there's a half-empty glass of that same liquor he'd been drinking a few weeks ago. The decanter is a teaspoon away from being completely empty, so he's had more than one glass. He's got a carton of lo-mein from the one and only Chinese joint in town pressed against his chest, plucking at the noodles with a pair of chopsticks like he's having to force himself to eat them.

He lifts his head as I come around the island, and his eyes are...blank, exhausted.

"Sam, what the hell is going on?" I pull the pint of noodles away from him, and he doesn't put up a fuss about it. Instead, he goes for the tumbler, maybe to give his hands something to do. I slide it out of his reach, and that at least earns me a weak glare. I call his name again, more firmly.

He digs his knuckles into his eye-sockets, then drops his hands into a limp pile in his lap. "I'm ending this, Dean. That's all I wanted to tell you."

...

Excuse the entire fuck out of me?

Fury ignites in the depths of my chest, and I'm too slow to stamp it out.

"The fuck you are!" I snap, totally disbelieving.

"What, without a reason? Is it that easy for you, Sammy? Is this because of--"

Sam sighs, and it's such a weary sound, like he's not got a lick of energy to fight with. "I shouldn't have to give you a reason. I just...want to stop. I shouldn't have let any of this happen in the first place."

I know I shouldn't. I really, really shouldn't, but the accusations are flying from my mouth before I can reel them back: "Is this because of Ms. fuckin' Rosenthal? What, you like her? Did you sleep with that bitch last night?"

This, more than anything, breathes life into Sam. His eyes blow open. He looks at me like I'm the stupidest bastard who's ever drawn breath, before breaking out in hysterical, incredulous laughter. "Oh my fucking God, are you...actually stupid? Is that what had you so twisted up on Saturday? You think Ms. Rosenthal is interested in me?"

"Why the fuck wouldn't I think that?! You went out with her last night!"

Sam scowls fiercely, and to my complete shock, shoves against my chest with all his strength. I stumble back a step, as I'm in no way expecting him to physically push me away. "Fuck you, Dean! You--! She doesn't want me, you stupid bastard! She wants you, you!"

"What...what the fuck are you talking about? I mean, I know the bitch is handsy, but--"

In a much quieter, colder voice, he says: "She invited me out last night to tell me that she knows."

"...knows what?"

"That you and I are having sex."

My brain hits the personification of a record scratching in the midst of a crowded, coke party.

My body tightens up, adrenaline flooding all systems. I'm looking at Sam like he's just blown a hole through my chest, and there are no 'first instincts' to rely on. It's a full reboot, lasting maybe thirty seconds. You could hear a mouse sneeze in the next room over.

When thought does return, naturally, my first instinct is anger. I immediately reel that shit in, opting for a deep breath and rationale instead. I know, hold your applause. Getting pissed won't help anything.

"How...could she possibly know that?"

Ms. Rosenthal has been on campus for all of a week and a half. Sam and I barely interact at school, no more than any other student and teacher. I've only approached him twice, last Friday and yesterday morning. It's not like she walked in on me breaking him over his desk, we were just talking. We don't communicate in any other way, and I take great pains to not be seen coming and going from his house.

Sam reclines back against the elevated bar top, folding his arms across his chest. "As far as I know, she doesn't have any hard proof. Whatever...hints we were dropping, she made a highly, highly educated guess. She saw you, too, on Friday. She saw you close and lock my classroom door, and when I opened it for Mr. White, she said..."

He frowns, touching his fingertips to his lips. "...it looked like I'd just been kissed."

That sneaky, fucking bitch. The pieces snap together in my mind as Sam talks, and I become aware of the holes. She invited him out, just the two of them, to bring this up. She's after something.

"Did she threaten you with it? For what?"

Sam, again, spares me a look like he's exhausted with my smooth-brained antics. "Of course she did. I already told you, I'm in her way." He gestures to me, dropping his hand through the air, and swings his eyes. "You're the prime cut around here, Dean. She thinks I'm monopolizing you, some shit like that. Once I end whatever we've got going on, you'll resume your body-hopping ways. So, congratulations, you won't have to go to nearly as much trouble this time around."

Temper, temper, control it.

"So, let me make sure I've got this right. Rosenthal is threatening to report you if, what, I don't fuck her?"

"That's the long and short of it. Listen, please." Sam stresses the plea, looking me squarely in the eye. "Sleep with her, don't sleep with her, it makes no difference to me. Do exactly as you want to do, Dean, just as you always have. These...are nothing more than the natural consequences of my own actions. She doesn't have to have evidence, she just has to bring it up as a concern to the administration. This is...on me, completely, so whatever she chooses to do--"

"Stop." I can't keep listening to where he's taking this. I'm so pissed, I can barely see straight. With him, with myself, and with that conniving bitch, Rosenthal. "Sammy, can you be honest with me, for once?"

"I am being honest, what--"

"Do you like me?"

He stares at me, gobsmacked. Finally, finally, there's some color in his pretty cheekbones, some brightness in his speckled eyes. His red, chapped mouth opens and closes helplessly, and his thin fingers clench wrinkles into the hem of his shirt. He drops his head after a moment, using those dark, springy curls like a veil.

"What...does that have to do with anything?"

"Because I like you. I like you so much, it actually drives me insane. I know you better than you think I do, and I know you're a huge pussy. This whole shit with Ms. Rosenthal, this is the perfect excuse for you, isn't it? You couldn't bring yourself to cut me off on your own, so now she's doing it for you. You couldn't do it because you like me, you want me around, even if it makes you feel like shit."

There's a subtle tremble in his shoulders, and his hands are bone-white against the material of his shirt.

"Does it make you uncomfortable? It makes you feel like shit? You still think you're taking advantage of me, doing something wrong? I don't give a good goddamn, and I'll be sure to help you get over it, because you're all mine now. There's no 'until graduation' or 'until summer' in my mind, there's no finish line. So, you can admit it. Tell me you like me, for once."

"I..." His voice cracks, and it's a sharp noise that bounces off his cabinetry. He lifts his head, and his expression drops my heart out of my ass. He looks devastated, helpless, but resigned: a wobbly, pained smile and eyes glassy with a threat of tears. "Yeah, I like you. But, what good is that going to do me now, Dean? If she...brings this up to the administration, I'll most likely lose my job. Not just that, but getting fired for sleeping with a student? I'll never be able to teach again."

With his admittance, I feel like it's safe to approach him again. I slot myself between his warm, firm thighs and draw him into a tight hug, resting my ear over where his heart rattles. With this initiation of physical intimacy, Sam breaks.

He winds his arms around my neck, squeezing tightly, and cries into my hair. There's a strange mixture of feelings whipping through me. I'm thrilled, goddamn stoked, at his willingness to admit some affection for me, his willingness to rely on me for emotional support.

I'm also seething with a powerful rage at the fact that he was reduced to a state of needing emotional support in the first place. If I could make it so, he'd never cry again unless it was on my cock. I know that's not realistic, people cry, but fuck. His sadness feels like it's punching holes out of me, it hurts so bad to feel his body shaking like this against mine.

"Sammy, hey. Can you look at me, please?"

It takes him several minutes to do so, and I grant him all the time he needs. When he finally withdraws enough for eye-contact, I grit my teeth at the sight of his face. Red-rimmed eyes, runny nose, trembling mouth, he's like a little kid.

"Do you remember what I said the first night I came here?"

He shakes his head and actually chuckles. "You said a lot of stupid shit that night..."

"I did, but I also said I'd sooner break a snitch's leg than let you lose your job."

"Dean, no, you can't--"

"Relax, relax, I won't break any legs, but I meant that, Sam. I won't let you lose your job, no rumors will spread, and nothing is getting reported to anyone."

"How...? How can you promise something like that?"

I let a little bit of that rage slide into my expression, and he flinches back. "Well, I might not break her leg, but she'll wish I had. I know you don't trust me yet, but I'm literally begging you, let me handle this. I won't sleep with her, I won't break her leg, but I'll have this cleaned up by next week."

"What...are you going to do, then?"

"You'll see. I won't come back here until it's done, and whatever you see this week, I want you to ignore it."

Sam looks totally flabbergasted, like he can't believe what he's hearing. I guess it does sound a little too good to be true, but even he doesn't know what I'm capable of. I'm not trying to make myself sound like some sort of Billy Badass or John Wick roleplayer, I just know myself. I can be a real piece of shit, should push come to shove, and I'm absolutely not above manipulation or ruining a life. I run a little low on empathy sometimes, I can admit that.

Ms. Rosenthal has no concept of my personality. I know exactly what she thinks about me, and it's what I'm sure everyone is quick to assume: