Once a Nerd Ch. 13

a/n: This is astronomically long, and please be warned, there is next to no smut in this chapter. I posted it in two parts elsewhere, but for Literotica specifically, I'm posting it all in one since Literotica is primarily for 'erotica.' This is literally 13k words of pure plot. Also, a new short series is coming out soon. It might just be one part, not even a series. We'll see.

Thank you for reading! Even if you hate Dean lmao

Jane got the goddamn jump on me.

I've been rendered speechless only a handful of times in my life. This easily makes the cut. I knew she had a key, but Sam said she rarely drops by unannounced. Even rarer, lets herself in. They maintain healthy boundaries. Which means this was premeditated. She's here because she knew I, or someone, would be here to confront. She also knows confrontation is necessary, because Sam would rather see his foot hacked off than break the news of our relationship to anyone--least of all her.

Clearing my throat, I stow my hands in my pockets to give them something to do. I was almost tempted to sweep a bow, adding to the lunacy of the situation.

"I--good...morning. What, uh, brings you here, Mrs. Powell?"

She smiles to herself, undaunted by eye-contact. From where she's sitting, we're facing each other. God, she's a tiny thing. It's more obvious up close. It seems like she's taking less than a cubic foot of space on the cushion, like she's sat for tea in a giant's parlor. I've glimpsed photos of Sam's father, and I can confidently say Jane poured every gene she had into the making of her son.

They're...so much alike, it's throwing me off.

"I came to have a conversation with you, and showing up like this seemed the only option. Come, sit."

She gestures broadly to the furniture, implying I'd better pick somewhere to plant my ass. I jump to do as she's asked, because she's holding the cards here. If Sam wakes before I can smooth this into something salvageable, I can kiss all that progress goodbye. He might leave the country, at this rate. Sitting on the couch adjacent from her, I hunch forward to lessen my height, bracing my forearms above my knees. Before I can churn out a few words, she rips them straight from my mouth:

"It's good to see you again, Dean."

Oh, shit.

For the life of me, I can't remember a time we've met, and it's written all over my face.

"You don't remember me." She doesn't sound surprised.

"I...can't say I do."

"I was your kindergarten teacher."

...seriously?

I stare at her, wide-eyed and fighting the urge to drop my mouth. To avoid an uncomfortable laugh, I clear my throat. "Small world."

"Mm. You know, it's a little funny." I'd bet my left nut it's not remotely funny. "When you joined my class, my son was just starting high school."

Of all the responses that jump to mind, not a single one is situationally appropriate:

1. "That is funny!"
2. "Do you keep those pictures on you, or...?"
3. "I was a devilish little bastard back then, too."
4. "It's crazy, a lot can change in fifteen years. Like, a lot."

Instead, I stick to bare minimum answers, at least until I can flesh out an opening. "...right."

"So, can you tell me what you're doing here?"

"Like, the state...?"

"In my son's apartment."

So, it's not going great. She's tough to read. Obviously, she's not happy or excited, but she seems willing to entertain an explanation. There might be nothing I can say that she'd find acceptable, but she's willing to hear it. I almost wish this was my apartment so I could offer her a drink, something to bide my time. I'm sure she wouldn't take kindly to my bumbling around the place like her name isn't the one titled on it, not right now. The only option is to be plain and honest.

"Sam was my English teacher last year. I had him in both semesters, two different classes. In January of this year, I..."

...have no idea how to say it. The truth of the matter is crass, and this is his mom. In the very, very beginning, it was about sex. I wanted to fuck him and did everything in my power to make it happen. The sex was so good, I couldn't let it go. I took advantage of his physical attraction to me every chance I got. It's not exactly a fairytale, and it feels wrong to objectify Sam to his mother's face.

"I...pursued him. For several weeks."

Her fine brows lift over the turquoise rim of her glasses. "Why?"

Cringing, I admit: "I was...attracted to him. I showed up at his house after a game."

It strikes me now. That was Sam's childhood home. Jane's home, the one she lived in with her now-deceased husband. The one she raised her only child in. I showed up on the same porch she used to collect newspapers from, refurbished when it began splintering, watched from a rocker as her toddling son stacked blocks. I fucked her now-grown son what feels like a hundred different times, in a hundred different ways, per room. Rooms she can probably recall every scuff on the floorboards, stains that'll never fully scrub out, tears in the pastel wallpaper, and chips off the molding.

"So, my son engaged in a sexual relationship with you."

Okay, well when she says it like that--

"Mrs. Powell," I squarely meet her eyes. "At no point did Sam initiate anything with me. In fact, I'm...a pretty big part of why he decided to enroll here. I accepted a scholarship to Fresno after finding out about it--without telling him. To be...closer."

"I see." She says tonelessly. In spite of their similar faces, she's nowhere near as easy to read as Sam. I have no concept of which direction this is going. "I'm not sure if you're hasty and stupid, or indomitable and decisive."

"The second one sounds nicer." I hedge a joke, hoping she'll accept the olive branch. Tragically, her expression stays flat. We're still in interrogation mode.

"What's your relationship with my son?"

This feels like the best opening I'll get, a 'one and only' chance. 'Dating' doesn't sound meaningful enough, 'lovers' is too impersonal, and 'boyfriend' is too juvenile. Digging deep, I search for the words written in my heart. I'm not eloquent or poetic, but self-expression isn't always pretty or neat:

"Sam matters more to me than anyone or anything. I'd split the ocean if he says he'd rather walk than fly. Wherever he wants to go, whatever he wants to do, I want to be with him for the rest of my life. I'll make the most of myself in any situation to be worth something to him. I love him."

Finally, Jane's face reflects faint surprise. She studies me for a prolonged beat. "What if I say this isn't something I can accept?"

My chest stutters painfully, and I can feel my brows caving.

She continues: "What if your relationship, your history, is a blight on his future? Knowing my son, I'm sure he's spent a lot of time worrying about yours, but have you thought about how this might affect him? No matter the age of those involved, relations between a teacher or professor and a student is generally frowned upon. If he's besmirched in professional circles, what would your response be? Love isn't meant to be selfish, Dean. Do you love him enough to remove yourself, or did you initiate this thinking you'd always get your way for the rest of your life?"

Mentally, I'm on my ass. She's delivered a knockout I was wholly unprepared for. My hands are threaded together where they hang between my knees, and my fingers lose more and more color throughout her rebuttal. I mean, she's...dead-on. Bullseye. Hole-in-One. I did think I'd get my way for the rest of our time together, forever, though I never attached a label like 'selfish' to that mentality. Determined, maybe. Having never been in love, it felt a natural part of it. Never give up. Remove every obstacle. Lay the road brick by brick until it takes me home.

Do I...love Sam enough to let him go? Even temporarily?

Is that something I'm capable of?

I am selfish. Sam's made me selfish. I want him all to myself, all the time. The idea, just the idea, of living our lives separately creates an inescapable, physical agony in me.

"I'd...wait."

"...wait?"

"If it's my age, I'd wait until I'm older. If it's his career, I'd wait until he's tenured. I understand the position I've put him in, so it's the least I could do."

She sighs: "Dean, you're still--"

"Stop."

It comes harsher than intended, but I'll lose my mind if she finishes that sentence.

"Hah, I'm...sorry, I don't mean to be rude. It's just--" Less than a laugh, more than a huff. Bitter. "It gets to be insulting after a while, you know? What, still so young? Does it mean I can't recognize when something matters? Does having a few more years ahead mean I'm not allowed to make important decisions now? Or, just decisions about a relationship, because they never actually last, right? How many years will it take before I'm not written off as hasty and stupid, huh?" Glancing up from where I'd dropped my head, Jane looks properly stunned.

"If that's what you want, give me a number. I'll be sure to call you first once I'm off the waitlist."

"Well," She chuckles, lowering her head. "I am glad we could have this conversation, Dean."

The way she says it implies it's over, and panic boomerangs between my ribs. She's already standing, gathering up her purse. Naturally, I follow suit, snapping to my feet with a little too much vigor. "Wait, I--" To keep her here, I rush out a series of inane questions. "How'd you know I'd be here? Or, that it was me? What if Sam was up instead? You're not--?"

Jane's halfway to the foyer, and she merely says: "Sam's a terrible liar."

Why?

Why is she leaving?

Did I speak too candidly?

She was asking candid questions.

Was it my tone? She won't waste her time on some hotheaded kid?

Did I fuck this up?

Of everyone in the entire world: strangers, future employers, colleagues, friends, and family, Jane's opinion is the most important. She's a make-or-break link. Despite the changes in how he's approached our relationship, Sam is still plagued by guilt, insecurity, and moments of indecision. His mom is the only family he's got. Unlike my old man and I, they're close. They have a healthy, loving bond. If my being in his life threatens to disrupt that bond, or dissolve it altogether, Sam would be in shambles. He'd have even more reason to feel guilty, like he's committed some ultimate sin. But, she's leaving.

She isn't sticking around for a confrontation with her son. She's given no opinion or ultimatums, only 'what if' scenarios. There's been no resolution.

I throw the plea at her like trying to stick pasta to a wall: "Mrs. Powell, wait, please--"

Hand on the doorknob, she offers a placid smile. "I'll have a conversation with Sam in the near future. You've...certainly grown. Take care, Dean."

The door shuts softly on her coattails. She probably avoided slamming it so as not to wake Sam. She leaves me standing in his foyer, and regret is an aggressive bitterant spreading down the back of my throat.

I make fists of my hands, then release that tension to scrape across my head. "Fuck!"

I'm completely lost. Thrown for ten loops instead of the measly one. Sam didn't tell her about us, that's the only thing I'm sure of. If she wanted to speak to me, specifically, this was an impractical way of going about it. Sam could have been the first one up, or we both might have come out together. Was she really here for a conversation with me? Or, just confirmation?

There's so rarely a situation I can do nothing about. I'm wildly unprepared, struggling to cope. There was nothing I could say. Physical confrontation wasn't an option. There's no blackmail material that's going to get me out of this. There was always the possibility she'd feel some type of way about it, but I'd have a better chance of manipulating the outcome if I was able to approach her on my own terms. This is...

My armageddon. DEFCON fucking one.

What the fuck do I do now?

There's no telling when Sam will be up. I don't know how I'll act with any shred of normalcy around him. If I tell him about this, our break is completely shot. Our entire relationship, even. He needs to know, but I can picture his reaction so vividly. It terrifies me. He'll lose his fucking mind. Like, panic attack status. Pacing a path around the kitchen's island, in between the couches, I think like I've never thought before. I wrack every corner and cranny of my mind for a way through this. My own, personal choice that'll deal the least amount of damage.

By eleven, I've choked down some scrambled egg whites, turkey bacon, and three cups of black coffee. I've also decided I need to tell Sam as close to immediately as possible, because immediately would've been as soon as his mom left the apartment. If he hears it from me first, it won't seem like another episode of premeditated meddling. It wasn't, but keeping it a secret won't do me any favors. When he has that aforementioned conversation with Jane, she'll definitely let on about our meeting. However, it proves much, much easier said than done.

He'd sleep all day if I left him to it, so I leave his coffee to cool on the nightstand.

"Sammy..." I've crawled in behind him, slipping beneath the blankets so there's as little fabric as possible between his body and mine. He's wearing next to nothing, just a pair of loose shorts. Warm, fragrant, acutely endearing when dozy like this. His back inflates with slow breath against my chest, and I work my left knee between his firm, velvet thighs. I can feel his heart beating through his back, and it feels as if it's working to match the staccato of mine. Burying my face in the little cavity where neck and shoulder connect, his natural scent is strongest here. I'd bottle it if I could.

"Coffee?" He mumbles, and I'm not sure it isn't a parasomnia.

"Nightstand, baby." I answer anyway.

Give this up...?

Let him go?

No.

No fucking way.

Selfish--sure, and then some. These first two decades of life are supposed to be the formative years. Developing the cornerstones of a personality, all the things you love, hate, value, and can do without. Family, friends, lovers. Hobbies, passions, skills. By twenty, chances are you've got a pretty solid idea of who you are. That's not to say you've got it all figured out, or you won't change in one drastic way or another. But, you've made some pretty important discoveries about yourself. Before Sam, I think I was...stunted. Outside of Sam, that feeling persists.

Forgetful of the beginning, no clear ending, just ambling along because you're supposed to. Everything I did, I did because it came easy. It always worked out, went well, and so I kept at it for a superficial sense of satisfaction. Otherwise, there really was no reason to move forward. I had to live for something, even if it wasn't deep or meaningful. Even if there was no passion behind a success, or bone-rattling anticipation preceding it. Parties, hangouts, games, sex. Like a star shooting across the void, there was always only a temporary shot of dopamine to keep me sane.

I don't think I can go back to that.

Being with Sam makes me feel alive. Being without him, despite the warm-blooded body I'd keep operating, would kill me.

Squirming up towards the headboard, Sam makes as few movements as possible in an attempt to reach his coffee. He's not even properly opened his eyes. Once he gets it, he sits up against the pillow only enough to sip from it without spilling. Reversely, I slide further down so I can wrap around his midsection, digging my face against his hip bone. When his fingertips materialize at my scalp, it's almost enough to put my dreadful circumstances out of mind.

"What time did you get up?" He asks around a yawn.

Let's call this: Missed Opportunity #1.

Or, exhibit 'a' of Dean's a giant fucking pussy.

"Eight."

Sam puffs a humored breath. "Why didn't you wake me? We're missing out on all the deals. Isn't there a fifty gallon drum of whey with your name on it somewhere?"

"Shit, you're right." I sink a soft bite into the meat of his hip. His skin jumps against my teeth. "I'll have to milk fifty gallons worth out of you instead."

"Dean--" He sighs. "I almost think you mean stupid shit like that."

"I don't not mean it. How's your ass?"

"Hurts."

"Want me to ice it?"

"I..." He's embarrassed. "That's...not necessary."

"Want me to fuck it?"

Hand to any God that exists, I only said it because I wholeheartedly believed he'd brush me off or bluntly refuse. My eyes almost pop out of my head when, after a few seconds, there's a soft, shy: "...yeah."

This is how, twenty minutes later, I remember that thing I was supposed to tell Sam immediately while stretching out his tight, silk guts. This--is absolutely not good. Not only did I not tell him immediately, I gave into the natural rerouting of valuable blood from brain to cock. Rationality slurped right down the drain with it. But, it's not like I can stop now. His ass, purpled and splotchy with broken vessels, is squished up against my groin. Thighs spread wide enough to test the flexibility of his hips, back sloped like an artist's practiced flick of a brush. He's clenching around me deliberately, grinding back for as much depth as possible.

Eyes shiny, brows drawn like it's all he can do to endure. Looking at me over the knot of a pale, freckled shoulder: "Dean, feels...good--!"

I mean, that's just not fair.

"It can feel even better though, right, Sammy?"

"Hngh! Shit, hah--!"

Throughout the day, there are countless Missed Opportunities/exhibits of my cowardice. We left the apartment at a quarter to one. Sam, of all people, suggested including the gym as part of our outing, though it's less of a gym, more of a medspa. One of those highfalutin facilities with floor to ceiling windows instead of walls, exposed brick, and spigoted jars brimmed with infused. Jane added him to her membership, which includes guest privileges. I know he suggested it for my sake, a middleground activity, and if that doesn't make me feel like--

...the biggest piece of shit.

The guilt is ripping a hole through my stomach, and it only intensifies when Sam finishes changing into his workout clothes. I've never seen him in workout clothes, and it's like having my own medicine fisted down my throat. Loose, cotton shorts that hem way too many inches above the knee. Billowy, plain T-shirt tucked haphazardly at the waistband. White sneakers, no glasses. He's in the midst of putting his hair up when he comes around the locker, yet another wonder I've never seen in the flesh. He's so effortlessly gorgeous, and I can barely enjoy it.

Or, I'm enjoying it so much, I feel worse for it.

"You ready?"

"Yup." It's strangled to my own ears, and Sam eyes me.

"You okay?"

Missed Opportunity #2.

"Better than ever."

If I was working out by myself, on my own time, I'd sooner die before climbing aboard a treadmill. I lift hard enough for it to count as cardio. Sam, however, likes to prewarm with a fifteen minute run. I can't miss that. It's all new to me, as I've never seen him in an athletic environment. I want to know the in's and out's of all his routines and preferences. Like an infatuated puppy, I saddle into the machine next to his. This time, his side-eye is both affectionate and exasperated.

"You hate running." He accuses.

"Who said that?" I frown, like I've no idea what he's talking about. Three times a week, every week, he hears something along the lines of: "Stupid-ass cardio today. I swear to God, I'd rather jump feet first into a goddamn woodchipper--"