Once a Nerd Ch. 14

a/n: Not much to say about this one! Just hope you enjoy it, and as always, I appreciate anyone who takes the time to comment on my work. It fuels me to know someone likes it enough to verbally express it. Check my bio for chapter updates! There's no telling how long it'll take to be approved on here, could be anywhere from two days to twelve, but I'll at least let you know it's been posted for approval.

"Wanna order a pizza?"

In all my life, I've never heard a more profound, impactful string of words. Not in the pages of literary classics, nor in any movie. In the moment, it almost tops Sammy's heartfelt confession of love. It's like a solitary sunbeam piercing the dark, thick storm rolling through me. I had no idea what he'd say or do upon finding me at my worst, loitering in front of his door, though I expected his worst. Disappointment, depression, hostility. Declaring with finality, no room for argument:

"We're done. Don't come back."

Regardless, I couldn't bring myself to stay away. It was a labor of blood, sweat, and tears to restore Rishad's apartment to rights, but he was grateful enough to cart me back free of charge. I didn't mean to fall asleep, but the longer I sat, the more last night's mistakes and today's toil caught up to me. I'm pretty sure I scrubbed half a bottle's worth of Jose Cuervo out of his carpet. Exhaustion pounced as soon as my body stopped moving. Coming to, there's a familiar pair of trainers.

Shins, knees, thighs—

Sammy.

He's here.

He looks...happy to see me.

Relieved.

It's all I can do not to wrap around his legs from my place on the ground, begging forgiveness all over again. He didn't respond to any of my messages, though I'll later learn he turned his phone off before crashing out. I checked my phone obsessively for any kind of reply, but there was only the indication that he'd read them all in the morning. It's better than nothing, but that sentiment was barely cutting it. I've never been more miserable, dancing on pins and needles. Now, we're in front of each other again, and though his shoulders droop with exhaustion, his expression says: I'm so glad you're here.

I'm so fucking happy, I could—

...pass out again, actually. With the hefty, emotional burden lifted, there's nothing I want more than to surround myself with him and sleep. Real sleep, not unconsciousness in a cramped bathtub or a groggy doze on the ground. But, I'm hungry, and we have important things to discuss. Climbing to my feet, I can't recall a time I've been in such bad shape physically. My stomach's settled, but my joints rattle like a tin of loose bolts, My head throbs. Cupping the back of my neck, I dig my fingertips into the sides of it to dig out a kink.

Sam's watching me like he can relate all too well, and he looks almost as disheveled as I feel.

"Fuck yeah."

I'm not sure what to do with myself, nor what to say. Or, there's too much I want to do and say, but none of it feels situationally appropriate. There's this sense of needing to be delicate, careful. Sam's either unaware of my initial discomfort, or he's ignoring it. Maybe to give me time to gather my wits, he nods towards the bedroom: "Shower. Change. You're gross."

I take no offense, because he's right. There was no time or thought spared for any hygiene rituals before now. I'm in the same clothes I left in, and through everything that's happened, the material feels like it's adhered to my body through a sticky coating of sweat. My teeth didn't get brushed after this morning's unfortunate duet with Rishad. As desperately as I want to smother him, I only want to offer Sam my best. He deserves nothing but, especially now. I don't badger him into joining me, because if he wanted to, he would.

Maybe he still needs space.

Swearing under my breath, I set myself up for a long, thorough shower in his bathroom. Part of me wants to drag out my time under the scalding spray, while the other half wants to rip through it and return to his side. Even if it's just as a dog in waiting, cowering by his heel for the other shoe to drop. Sure, he made me leave, but that...can't be it, right? Withholding information might not be the greatest of offenses in a relationship, but it's a severe breach of trust. It's also making Sam out to be some sort of juvenile that can't even tie his own laces.

I'll always prefer having a watertight grip over potentially unfavorable circumstances, but it shouldn't be...necessary to function. Losing control shouldn't make me incapable of action.

"Do you understand how fucking unrealistic that is?" He interrupts sharply. "How insulting it is? I'm an adult, Dean. I'm older than you by more than a decade. I know you have this...need to solve everything, to try and make it all okay, but it's not always going to be okay. For some people, it'll never be fucking okay, and you'll run yourself into the ground trying to change that."

My jaw works with renewed tension. Before Sam, this never would've been an issue. I didn't have this compelling need to manipulate every situation's outcome. There was nothing worth the effort. It's the first time in my life I'm terrified of losing something. Our relationship is so fragile, like I'm navigating an obstacle course with an egg cradled in my palms. That egg means more to me than my fucking life, and if I drop it, I—

...don't know. I really don't know what'll become of me. There's the age old adage: 'Time heals all wounds.' Whether it heals, or it's a pain that never dulls, I don't want to find out. I don't want to know.

I don't keep track of how much time I waste in the bathroom, but it's long enough for a grease-logged box to be waiting on the stovetop. Sam changed into his preferred loungewear while I bowed dramatically under the showerhead for that prolonged time, contemplating every angle at which I'd fucked up, and I wonder if all that exposed thigh is the latter half of my punishment. Averting my eyes, hands spasming in the deep pockets of my sweats, I keep a wide berth as I come the opposite way around the counter.

Christ, he makes me feel like a sinner. I can't even blame it on my age. I like to fuck as much as the next twentysomething with a functioning dick, but I've never been this consistently horny. I mean, it's hardly the right time, but he's so fuckable all the goddamn—

Clearing my throat, I start: "So..."

Sam looks up from his untouched plate. It doesn't feel right to eat until we hash out the Big Issue, and he seems of a similar mindset.

"...how'd it...go?"

He sighs quietly, smoothing a tangle of curls behind his ear. "Well, she wasn't thrilled, but I'm not disowned. I got a brief lecture on ethics, how much of a pushover I am. That was the worst of it."

The knot in my chest is beginning to loosen. "Does she—ah..." I'm not sure how to phrase it without sounding like an arrogant prick. "...does she hate me?"

Sam snorts, and his tiny grin detangles a few more threads. "You're not used to that, huh?"

"No, I'm fucking not." I scoff goodnaturedly, leaning against the counter. "I'm a prize."

Sam's smile softens, and my heart swoops. "Mm, you're...something like that. I don't think she dislikes you as much as she's concerned about the—" He flips his hand between us awkwardly. "If anything, she seemed...strangely impressed. Like, you getting your way was the natural outcome of things. I'm not sure if she meant it as a compliment towards you, or an affront towards me."

My shoulders sag with visible relief. "Hah, Sammy, I'm...fuck, I'm so sorry for—"

"Dean," Sam slides from the barstool, and his tone is both firm and gentle. His sudden approach, the distance closing between us, cuts my breath short. He only stops when there's less than six inches separating our chests, and he has to draw his face up to look into mine. My hands itch with the need to grab at him, but even now, it doesn't feel right to make the first move. Still, it's an actual fucking torture. I'm so used to taking liberties with him, thoughtless in my tactile nature. This close, I can smell last night's shampoo clinging to his hair. I can count the freckles scattering his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose.

"I forgive you, but don't do that shit again. It worked out this time, but I don't want to be blindsided like that. I know...we handle things differently. I get worked up, and I don't always do well under pressure. But, don't keep things from me. Don't do things behind my back."

When his fingertips slide across my jaw, there's no stopping that gratified breath from jetting through my teeth. He touched me first, so—

Like I've made grooves for myself there, my hands find the skin beneath his shirt. His narrow waist fits between my cupped grip like it's a body bespoke for just me. I crush him lightly to my chest, and the relief is staggering. There's weakness in my knees, a giddiness that makes me lightheaded. Dropping my head to press our brows together, I squeeze my eyes shut so he can't read them. The croak in my voice is humiliating enough:

"I'll never...disappoint you like this again. I was fucking sick with myself, Sam. Even if it's unrealistic, I only want to make you feel good, happy. I want...being with me to feel effortless and easy, even if it's not. I know it's not, and I know it bothers you. It's why...I want to make everything okay, and it terrifies me when I can't."

Sam tightens his arms around my neck, pushing up onto his toes, and it nearly does me in when he burns a kiss beneath my ear. "You don't have to work so hard to convince me anymore, Dean." He says quietly. "I should've put a stop to all this in the beginning, because it's too late now. You made me...love you, and as long as I'm allowed, I want to stay together."

I don't like the way he says it, as though his ability to be with me hinges on permission. What's worse, I know my permission is lumped into that. He's pessimistic enough to still believe there exists a possibility where I'll outgrow him, leave him. He'd let it happen, too. It's the bolded difference in our nature, the way we love. Selfless versus selfish. While Sam would sacrifice himself for my sake, as he perceives it, I'd sacrifice anything to keep him in my life. That's a conversation for another time.

"I love you." It's a desperate sigh against his temple, and he flattens himself against me.

I'm expecting an 'I love you too' or a muffled, embarrassed noise. The ground feels like it skips out from under my feet when he instead says:

"Wanna fuck?"

Heat flushes through me, from the top of my ears to the tip of my toes. It's so wildly out of character for him to verbally initiate anything, and if he does, he pinches the words out like they hurt to say. I was also prepared to endure a night of merited celibacy. On my side of the fence, only an asshole would think of suggesting sex at a time like this. Even if said asshole exists in a perpetual state of rut. Sam, however, is under no such restrictions. I'm almost too floored to respond.

"I—what...about...the pizza?"

I couldn't give a singular fuck about that pizza, as any appetite for food is vanished. Something about this feels like a dastardly trap, an offering of my hindbrain's greatest desire despite doing nothing to deserve it. It's a set of steel jaws I can't help but climb into, because the bait is irresistible. My hands are suddenly twitchy, resisting the urge to squeeze with too much strength. Sam pulls back enough to meet my gaze, and his eyes are unnervingly serious.

"You don't want to?" Soft, vulnerable.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" I breathe the incredulous question, stooping down. I get to...touch him, kiss him, fuck hi—

"Mmph—?"

Sam claps his palm to my face, pushing me back from where I'd been about to bite my way into his mouth. He smiles, and it's sharp enough to have me nervous all over again. "I want a shower too, actually. Wait for me on the bed."

Wait for him...on the bed...?

Who is this?

What's gotten into him?

I think I'm more fucked than I realized, but I can do nothing more than dumbly agree.

With the implication of sex, abandoning my clothes is a next step that makes sense. However, I've never waited on Sam in this state. We usually strip down in the heat of the moment. Laid out on his bed while the shower drones through the door, the cool air of his room lifting goosebumps across my bare skin, it's both erotic and uncomfortable. I'm feeling subservient in a way I've never experienced, and I'm not sure if I like it. Maybe Sam's testing me by withholding whatever form of control he can. If that's the case, I should endure.

Famous last words, really.

When he emerges from the bathroom an eternity later, thirty minutes or more, there's a theatrical waft of steam that rolls into the ceiling. Blood rushes to inflate my cock with enough speed to give me whiplash, spots fuzzing across my eyes. I'm lightheaded at the sight of him, because without being asked or begged, he's in my goddamn jersey. I only brought it to wash. Bulldog's garish red has never looked so good, and it never will again once Sam slides out of it. When my blood redistributes enough to support a sudden movement, I snap up, but Sam—

"Lay down." Dear God, he even jerks an index finger towards the floor.

Biting back a frustrated sound, I do. His authoritative tone is doing unspeakable things to me, and it's difficult to keep still. More than difficult, it's almost impossible. 'Sexy' feels too juvenile, but it's the only word coming to mind. He's so fucking sexy, it's crippling. He doesn't even seem real at times. It's a body you'd be pressed to find even in porn, proportioned in a way that's downright mythical. The slip of a speckled shoulder, shapely thighs descending from the long, bright hem. The jersey's big enough to make his torso look boxy, but if I bunched the extra fabric in my fist at the small of his back, his tight waist would appear like a rabbit from a hat.

I can't even put it into words. With Sam, it always feels like the first time. There's no less excitement or hunger than that first night, whether it's a quickie or an overnight affair. He's a lifelong hyperfixation.

When his knees dent the mattress, my heart jackknifes against my ribs. When he climbs on top of me, it all but stops cold. My hands lift without me realizing, because with Sam this close, it's instinct to touch, grab, hold, squeeze—

"Don't touch me, Dean."

"Why the fuck not?!" It bursts from my mouth before I can bite it off.

Sam stares me down, unrepentant. His hand is like a brand pressed to my sternum. "Because you're not allowed. If you touch me, or do anything at all without permission, we're done."

"...done?"

"Yes."

I don't think Sam would trash our entire relationship over my disobedience in bed, so I can only assume he means there will be no more sex tonight. I stare back, searching his face for markers of seriousness. He won't be reasoned with, stony like I've never seen. No sex at all is obviously the worst case, but not being allowed to touch...? Kiss? Participate? It's an exercise of will I never dreamed I'd be dealing with. Pushing a long, slow breath through my nose, I force myself to relax into the bedding. To keep my hands from wandering, I twist them in the blanket.

"Fine."

Finally, his face softens. Pleased by my willingness to try, but also flush with arousal. Where he's sitting on top of me, I can feel everything. Between his legs, it's warm, silklike, and slippery where he's undoubtedly done the labor of stretching himself. He's already tenting the front of my jersey, a wet blot seeping through the material. I squeeze the blanket harder. He's not even done anything yet, and I'm already struggling. When he bends forward, tabling himself over me without letting our chests touch, I can do nothing but watch raptly as his face approaches mine.

Tensing, I anticipate a kiss. The closer he gets, the stiffer I become. His breath is warm and minty from a recent scrubbing. I want to fill his small, clean mouth with my tongue. I want to kiss him until he's blue in the face, beating on my chest for breath. Our lips are close enough to graze, and that minute contact tingles throughout my entire face. Eagerness is felt through my whole body, keeping me strung. But, if I pick my head up to close the distance, that'll count as acting without permission. I didn't realize how heavy my breath had gotten, but I'm all but panting into his mouth. When he licks a quick stripe across my lower lip, I flinch violently.

"Sam, come on—" I breathe, desperation cracking my voice like weeds through a sidewalk.

The kiss never comes, and I'm frustrated enough to almost sob aloud.

Instead, he replaces his hands on my chest, scraping gentle paths with short, neat nails. His lips connect with my jaw, sliding upwards towards my ear. It's all so painfully slow and docile. All the while, my cock is nestled in the slit of his naked ass where he's bent over me. Just enough sensation to drive me up the fucking wall. It feels like the veins wrapping my dick are about to pop, and the joints in my fingers are starting to ache from how tightly they're balled in the blankets.

He sucks my earlobe between his teeth, and the application of hot, wet suction has a scathing hiss whooshing through my teeth. Sam completely works over the left side of my throat at that turtle's pace: biting, sucking, licking, kissing. So focused on keeping still, I almost stroke out when his soft murmur spills through my ear:

"Good job, Dean. I'm so proud of you."

The impact is like a cannonball ripping a hole through my gut, something sudden and powerful. A shock of feverish heat that consumes, a temperature that'd shut down organs if it doesn't subside. The strong reaction could be due to a number of things. Tapping into a previously undisturbed Mother Complex, as maybe I've been starved for praise all this time and didn't know it. Or, maybe it's the call back to our morally dubious roots, and Sam's singlehandedly manifested a wicked fetish in my subconscious. Maybe it's just Sam, and he can say or do anything. I'd react the same because it's him.

In any case, it doesn't soothe me.

His low, sweet praise doesn't stir up an eagerness to behave or obey.

The chains I've imagined to restrict myself, hands and feet fettered in place, feel like they're snapping one link at a time. Words can only go so far, and even expressing myself to him daily with the utmost sincerity, Sam will never understand the depth of my desire. There are times, like right now, when I want him so badly, it's agony. But, there's never a time I want him any less. Were it data points on a line chart, my baseline would start at the tippy top of the y-axis. There are no downtrends, and when it peaks, the line disappears into some unseen space atop the chart that can't be quantified.

While I understand what he's trying to accomplish here, and I'm doing my best to concede to it, we're on looseleaf ice. So fucking thin, it can't possibly bear more weight than this. My jersey? This...dominance he's adopted? He's ascended yet another level, too provocative to measure. I scare myself in the ways I want him, frankly, and while I don't want Sam to be afraid of me, he should at least be aware. He should know the lines, too. There's one thought I'm clinging to with both hands, bone-white knuckles and shredded callouses. He mentioned permission, which means there should come a point he'll give it. He has to, or I'll fuck this whole thing to hell—