Fic: Sky in a Box (5/6)
Mar. 18th, 2007 10:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Sky in a Box (5/6)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2,852
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Wow, it's ridiculous how hard it was to write this chapter, like having a baby :P The writer's block and finals didn't help either. Nonetheless, it's finally here! Thanks tomooyoo and homees for the betas!
Summary: Sam and Dean attend Braxton University on the outskirts of London. An angsty first-time fic with an international twist, in which postgrad!Dean enthralls a naive, richbitch!Sam.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
“So why don’t you just go after the kid?” Cassie asks the next day, stirring cream into her mocha with a swizzle stick.
“I can’t, Cass,” Dean replies. He inhales his black coffee but it’s still too hot and he spits it back out.
“That’s disgusting,” she says. Dean smirks.
It’s late afternoon, Dean’s done with his classes, and Cassie’s here until Sunday so the two of them are strolling around downtown Braxton with caffeine-to-go and no destination in mind.
“Dean, it’s me. Just tell me what the hell’s going on already.”
“It’s complicated.”
“How? I mean, it’s obvious the kid likes you. I don’t think that hard-on smashed up against my back was entirely me, you know.”
Dean swallows prematurely and the coffee scalds his throat. He coughs, “Dude Cass, cut it out.”
But Cassie doesn’t cut it out, not for the next six blocks of window shopping and coffee-drinking. When they pass a newsstand with publications in racks, Dean exasperatedly snatches up a bright magazine and thrusts it at his friend.
“You wanna know why it won’t work? That’s why,” he says harshly, finger jabbing into the face of the smiling blonde on the cover. Cassie peers down curiously.
“2007’s Hottest Parties,” she reads the caption aloud, continuing, “Find out where the socialites go to get down. Okay.” Cassie looks up at Dean, who’s grimacing like he just sucked a lemon. “This tells me nothing.”
“That girl, Jessica Moore, is Sam’s girlfriend. Or fiancée. Or whatever.”
The man behind the newsstand grunts, “Hey, you gonna buy that?”
Cassie ignores him, saying “Wait… you’re serious?” Dean nods grimly.
“Hold this,” Cassie orders, handing Dean her mocha. She takes the magazine and flips through as the bearded man in the booth complains loudly.
“Here,” Dean says to the man, setting down the cups and fishing out a £2 coin. He hands it over and Cassie’s still flipping pages as Dean picks up the drinks and ushers her along.
“Jessica Moore at Martha Hammett’s birthday bash in a stunning number by up-and-coming designer Christopher Kane,” Cassie reads. “Hey, that’s a really great dress.”
Dean rolls his eyes.
“Hold on, stop walking so fast,” Cassie says. She quickly locates a green-painted bench and sits down, still skimming the article. Dean slumps in beside her.
Cassie flips the page. “Huh,” she says. Dean cranes his neck to look but she turns her back, blocking him.
“What?”
“—Nothing.” She flips the page.
“Nice try,” Dean snipes and sets the drinks down on the ground before lunging to swipe the publication.
Smiling up at him in full-color glory is a candid snapshot of Sam and Jess at some snazzy party. Leaning against a glass-top bar, Sam’s kissing Jess’s forehead, arms wrapped protectively around her as she dreamily smiles up at him. It’s the perfect picture of a happy celebrity couple, and it makes Dean want to claw his eyes out.
“They’re just rumors, Dean,” Cassie says, hunting around for her mocha.
“He’s kissing her, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t be such a baby, it’s just on the forehead. And besides, we kiss each other all the time, to throw people off. And celebrities need that even more than we do,” Cassie nods resolutely as she finds her mocha and warms her hands around the cup.
Dean stays quiet. He’s still staring at the picture. Cassie sighs and snatches the magazine back as Dean lets out a little hey. “Look at me Dean.”
Dean crosses his arms and slouches on the bench, taking up as much space as he can while he looks the other way.
Annoyed, Cassie reaches over and mercilessly tweaks Dean’s nipple through his shirts. “I said look at me.”
“Jesus Christ Cass,” he squeaks, embarrassedly meeting eyes with a passerby who goggles sympathetically. Dean turns around and gives Cassie his Full Attention, absentmindedly rubbing at his sore nipple.
Cassie says, “It isn’t just that, right?”
Dean looks at her, but his eyes are still stubbornly shuttered.
“It isn’t just that Sam’s famous and you don’t want to drag the kid kicking and screaming out of the closet and into to the arms of the British media. And it’s not that Sam’s dating some fabulously hot chick with a great rack. Nor is it that they’re probably betrothed and destined to have litters of photogenic babies.”
Dean chokes, “I fucking hate you.”
Cassie softens, and scoots closer. She says gingerly, “It’s because you actually care. Isn’t it, Dean?”
Dean looks like he wants to say no, his shoulders tense and scowl gracing his face. But then, like curtains drawn back to reveal a bleak and wintry day, Dean breaks. The fight in him gives out as he leans forward, elbows on knees, and drops his face into his gloved hands. He wearily rubs for a bit before turning back to look at Cassie, eyes defeated.
“I’m just…” Dean bites out. “I’m not used to this, you know? It’s like… if I lose this, I’m fucked. I’m not used to that. There’s always been more, there’s always been the next thing. But Sam…”
Cassie listens, biting at the plastic lip of her mocha as she watches confident, swaggering Dean crumble before her.
“The odds are stacked too high against me, Cass. And for this, for Sam… I can’t have him, only to lose him halfway out. I just… I’d rather not play at all.”
Cassie studies Dean’s profile, watching his eyelashes flutter and drop. Dean toes his coffee, which still sits on the concrete ground.
Bending down to save it from Dean’s muddy shoes, Cassie says, “Drink up hon. Before it gets even colder.”
-----
On the fifth floor of Westborough Library, Sam is studying. No really, he is. He’s got his textbooks and references spread out before him, and a spiral-bound full of notes.
Sam’s stopped by so often this term, it’s pretty much become a second home.
He sighs and looks down, gazing at the stoic expression of Oliver Cromwell.
I bet you never had problems with pretty boys, did you? Sam thinks, before putting his head down into the pages. He winds up facing the window. He sees streaks of water ripple against the glass surface as rain blusters across it.
It’s a sopping day in late winter, and Sam revels in the bleak weather. There’s nothing worse than feeling like shit while the sun pours over you and smiling folks blow rainbows up your ass.
Sam hears somebody in a far-off aisle sneeze, and he smiles.
Not wanting to get back to work just yet, Sam sits up and cradles his chin, peering outside over the campus. The trickling parade of multi-colored umbrellas makes for a hypnotic view, and he indulges.
Sam apathetically registers the clunky noise of the lift, the familiar roll of sliding metal as somebody arrives. Déjà-vu washes over him, of all the times Dean had appeared out of those sliding doors, memories of schoolwork and smiles, Dean’s glasses and their shoes just touching… but Sam refuses to care.
It’s not him anyway, Sam thinks. A flashback of last week at the club— Dean’s mouth against dark, glossy lips— sneaks in. He made it perfectly clear that it would never be him.
Still, Sam can’t help the way his body betrays him, and his chest thuds as squeaking footsteps track across the floor.
Sam’s still facing the window, but he’s staring at the reflection; Sam fancies he can see the pulse beating beneath the thin skin of his neck.
The sound of wet soles on linoleum gets louder, almost irritatingly so, and when they finally approach his table Sam smells a waft of perfume.
The trainers squeak on by. Sam wrinkles his nose at the cloying scent of jasmine, and goes back to watching the weather manhandle the trees outside.
He must have been zoning out, because Sam jumps in his seat when he hears, “Hey.”
But the sound of wet footsteps are still trailing away… What the hell? Sam swallows, and reluctantly turns around.
“Dean,” he says uncertainly.
“Have you been here the whole time?” Dean asks.
“For about an hour, yeah.”
“I’ve been…” Dean jerks his thumb back, where Sam can see an open tome and a coffee gracing an empty table.
After a moment’s hesitation, Dean moves across the table and takes a seat. Sam can’t bring himself to encourage the interest that splashes through him, so he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
“Sam,” Dean starts, as Sam wonders, What happened to ‘Sammy’? “I’m sorry about last week.”
Dean leans forward, elbows on the table, and presses his lips against steepled fingers. Sam stares at them, entranced by the soft give of flesh and remembers how they felt, supple and moist against his mouth. Dean continues, “And about… before, too. I didn’t mean to uh… give you the wrong idea.”
Dean’s chewing on his nails now, the flash of teeth against blunt fingertips. Funny, Sam never took Dean for the nervous habit type.
“So, we square?” Dean prompts.
Sam blinks. “Yeah.”
Dean looks mollified, and gets up. Says something about needing to brainstorm for his final project, and Sam nods appropriately. But halfway back to his table, Dean suddenly stops, giving off restless energy that makes the back of Sam’s neck tingle.
“Hey,” Dean interjects belatedly. “I’m graduating this quarter. We should get together sometime before then.”
Sam slowly turns around and sees Dean rocking on his heels, hands in pockets and unsure.
Graduating. Not that he should be especially surprised, seeing as how Dean’s just a visiting student, but still…
“Yeah?” Dean prompts, wary from Sam’s silence.
“Yeah, sure. We’ll do lunch or something,” Sam replies as he thinks, Dean’s leaving.
Dean still waits expectantly, so Sam tries to manage a smile. Though unconvinced, Dean eventually returns to his desk.
Sam watches him go as he realizes, This time next month, Dean won’t even be on the same continent anymore.
That hurts.
Morosely, Sam goes back to looking out the window, but the rain’s nearly covered everything up. All he can see is his own reflection, bright halo of fluorescent lights behind him, but Sam doesn’t want to look at himself anymore. He shuts his eyes and puts his head down.
-----
Dean dreams.
He’s floating, two thousand feet above water. The ocean looks like wrinkled skin below him and it creeps, snail-slow over the Earth’s rind
He’s confined in the air. Although the sky is limitless around him, Dean can’t move past two strides in any direction. He tries his boundaries, but there’s an invisible ceiling, invisible walls, and no way out. He’s effectively bottled in an illusion of never-ending blue, of mocking freedom.
The sky is so deep, so open that Dean can’t breathe. He can’t hear, he can’t even speak or scream, though not from lack of trying. The world is still, and mute.
And then, everything ends. Or begins. Without warning, the world explodes into life… Salt on the breeze and the deafening squall of gulls. There’s chapped wind in his face and sun in his eyes, and gravity sneaks up on Dean. He doesn’t realize he’s falling, until he’s pierced the surface of the ocean.
-----
It was the weather. Eight days later, Sam blames his funk on the weather, because this morning his gloom had lifted with the morning sun. The dejection of last week— gone. Dried up, like the rain.
It probably doesn’t hurt that Sam’s meeting Dean for lunch today.
Last Wednesday: Sam had burst out of Trotter Hall, hell-bent on clearing the sickly, indoor moisture out of his lungs by sucking at the biting cold air. He’d inhaled deeply, relishing the freeze of bronchi and capillaries. When he’d descended down the stairs, Dean was waiting for him.
Dean said, “Let’s do lunch” and Sam had said “Yeah,” and now.
Sam’s meeting Dean for lunch. He’ll swing by the architecture building, pick the guy up and from there they’ll pick a place to eat.
Sam doesn’t know how he feels about this; doesn’t know if he should be glad they’re hanging out, or upset that this lunch is pretty much the equivalent of a Band-Aid meant to patch up any open wounds that still bleed sexual tension.
Whatever, Sam steels himself as he reaches Vitton Hall. He walks in, feet leading him upstairs. Turns a corner and sees Dean in the studio through the glass.
Dean’s working. Earphones in, strings of black cord trailing over cream-colored shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbow and Dean’s forearms are taut as he saws at a wooden dowel. There’s a sun glare glinting off the blade and it dances over Dean’s neck in a quivering spotlight.
Sam wonders if it’s warm there, that halo of light on Dean’s neck. It looks warm.
Dean breaks off the wood and fits it to the skeletal structure before him, a stick replica of steel and glass articulated in swooping arcs and the thrust of a central tower. Dean pinches the piece with two fingers, glue gun cocked at the ready, and Sam’s entranced by the slow pressure of Dean’s finger on the trigger. Clear, hot glue oozes out and Dean burns himself, hand jumping to his mouth.
Sam feels slightly dizzy when he realizes he’s been holding his breath (Dean’s lips puckered over reddening skin). Dean sucks at the injury, and when he takes it out, his finger’s slick with spit.
Nonetheless, Dean’s focused. He’s building the rungs of the makeshift tower with a frown on his forehead and lower lip worried between white teeth, and at that image, at Dean biting at his own mouth, Sam doesn’t feel ready enough. He doesn’t think he can handle this right now, but then Dean’s eyes inexorably look up, and rest on Sam.
Dean smiles. There are little crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Sam’s breath sticks in his throat and he coughs to dislodge it.
Dean tugs the cords of his earphones and mouths “Sammy.” He’s treading over to the door, eyes affectionate and Sam takes a step back.
Dean opens the door from the inside and leans out, saying, “What are you doing? Come inside, let me pack up.” Sam nods numbly and follows Dean in, who smells like damp air and little bit like sawdust.
They wind up at a popular diner just off campus, and Sam spends the hour or so timing his breathing to the chews of his food. Dean talks animatedly, Sam banters back on autopilot, but the whole time his chest is sinking below water.
By the time they part, Sam knows.
It took him the entire term to really piece it together, but now, Sam knows what he wants. He wants that easy smirk and those lucid green eyes all to himself, wants the name Sammy from Dean’s tongue to his own, wants to swallow the syllables off of Dean’s lips.
Ever cell in his body’s yearning, screaming for Dean; it’s unequivocal now, both upstairs and downstairs. Sam wants Dean.
However, he also knows that it’ll never happen.
They part for lunch.
-----
Sam wakes up the next day. He’s on the couch, the doorbell’s ringing impatiently, and he groggily picks himself up. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, gross.
Sam answers the door but before it’s even completely open, Jess cries, “Samuel Winters, where have you been? I’ve been calling since last night!”
Sam’s leaning against the edge of the doorway, allowing Jess to look him over. God, he looks like shit— hair flattened on one side, dark circles under unfocused eyes, and he smells of sleep and day-old rain.
Sam scrubs his eyes. “What time is it?” he asks.
“It’s two o’clock,” Jess says cautiously. Sam still looks confused. “Friday. Hon, what happened?”
Sam struggles visibly, rubbing his face in attempts of pressing memories into his skull, before backing up to let Jess inside. He shuts the door behind her and says, “I had lunch with Dean yesterday.”
She perches herself on the couch, tense. “And?”
“And nothing,” Sam swallows thickly. “He’s graduating this term.”
Sam sounds like shit too, voice snagging on every consonant, a film of sleep coating the vowels.
“Oh,” Jess says worriedly. “That’s too bad. But…” She watches Sam fumble with the lock. “Did something happen?”
Sam frowns as he makes his way over to her. He drops into the loveseat and the cushions suck him in. It’s strange to see such Sam’s height so utterly thwarted.
He says, “It’s not a big deal, Jess.”
Bullshit, and they both know it. She replies, “That bad huh?”
Sam heaves a noisy sigh. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He pauses. “Think about what you want for brunch.”
Jess watches him disappear down the hallway and the sound of running water soon courses through the pipes. She settles into the sofa, hugging a pillow to her chest.
An unrelenting thought gnaws at the back of Jess’ mind— as much as it sickens her, all she can think is, This is my chance.
Back | Next
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author:
aeroport_artRating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2,852
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Wow, it's ridiculous how hard it was to write this chapter, like having a baby :P The writer's block and finals didn't help either. Nonetheless, it's finally here! Thanks to
mooyoo and homees for the betas!Summary: Sam and Dean attend Braxton University on the outskirts of London. An angsty first-time fic with an international twist, in which postgrad!Dean enthralls a naive, richbitch!Sam.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
“So why don’t you just go after the kid?” Cassie asks the next day, stirring cream into her mocha with a swizzle stick.
“I can’t, Cass,” Dean replies. He inhales his black coffee but it’s still too hot and he spits it back out.
“That’s disgusting,” she says. Dean smirks.
It’s late afternoon, Dean’s done with his classes, and Cassie’s here until Sunday so the two of them are strolling around downtown Braxton with caffeine-to-go and no destination in mind.
“Dean, it’s me. Just tell me what the hell’s going on already.”
“It’s complicated.”
“How? I mean, it’s obvious the kid likes you. I don’t think that hard-on smashed up against my back was entirely me, you know.”
Dean swallows prematurely and the coffee scalds his throat. He coughs, “Dude Cass, cut it out.”
But Cassie doesn’t cut it out, not for the next six blocks of window shopping and coffee-drinking. When they pass a newsstand with publications in racks, Dean exasperatedly snatches up a bright magazine and thrusts it at his friend.
“You wanna know why it won’t work? That’s why,” he says harshly, finger jabbing into the face of the smiling blonde on the cover. Cassie peers down curiously.
“2007’s Hottest Parties,” she reads the caption aloud, continuing, “Find out where the socialites go to get down. Okay.” Cassie looks up at Dean, who’s grimacing like he just sucked a lemon. “This tells me nothing.”
“That girl, Jessica Moore, is Sam’s girlfriend. Or fiancée. Or whatever.”
The man behind the newsstand grunts, “Hey, you gonna buy that?”
Cassie ignores him, saying “Wait… you’re serious?” Dean nods grimly.
“Hold this,” Cassie orders, handing Dean her mocha. She takes the magazine and flips through as the bearded man in the booth complains loudly.
“Here,” Dean says to the man, setting down the cups and fishing out a £2 coin. He hands it over and Cassie’s still flipping pages as Dean picks up the drinks and ushers her along.
“Jessica Moore at Martha Hammett’s birthday bash in a stunning number by up-and-coming designer Christopher Kane,” Cassie reads. “Hey, that’s a really great dress.”
Dean rolls his eyes.
“Hold on, stop walking so fast,” Cassie says. She quickly locates a green-painted bench and sits down, still skimming the article. Dean slumps in beside her.
Cassie flips the page. “Huh,” she says. Dean cranes his neck to look but she turns her back, blocking him.
“What?”
“—Nothing.” She flips the page.
“Nice try,” Dean snipes and sets the drinks down on the ground before lunging to swipe the publication.
Smiling up at him in full-color glory is a candid snapshot of Sam and Jess at some snazzy party. Leaning against a glass-top bar, Sam’s kissing Jess’s forehead, arms wrapped protectively around her as she dreamily smiles up at him. It’s the perfect picture of a happy celebrity couple, and it makes Dean want to claw his eyes out.
“They’re just rumors, Dean,” Cassie says, hunting around for her mocha.
“He’s kissing her, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t be such a baby, it’s just on the forehead. And besides, we kiss each other all the time, to throw people off. And celebrities need that even more than we do,” Cassie nods resolutely as she finds her mocha and warms her hands around the cup.
Dean stays quiet. He’s still staring at the picture. Cassie sighs and snatches the magazine back as Dean lets out a little hey. “Look at me Dean.”
Dean crosses his arms and slouches on the bench, taking up as much space as he can while he looks the other way.
Annoyed, Cassie reaches over and mercilessly tweaks Dean’s nipple through his shirts. “I said look at me.”
“Jesus Christ Cass,” he squeaks, embarrassedly meeting eyes with a passerby who goggles sympathetically. Dean turns around and gives Cassie his Full Attention, absentmindedly rubbing at his sore nipple.
Cassie says, “It isn’t just that, right?”
Dean looks at her, but his eyes are still stubbornly shuttered.
“It isn’t just that Sam’s famous and you don’t want to drag the kid kicking and screaming out of the closet and into to the arms of the British media. And it’s not that Sam’s dating some fabulously hot chick with a great rack. Nor is it that they’re probably betrothed and destined to have litters of photogenic babies.”
Dean chokes, “I fucking hate you.”
Cassie softens, and scoots closer. She says gingerly, “It’s because you actually care. Isn’t it, Dean?”
Dean looks like he wants to say no, his shoulders tense and scowl gracing his face. But then, like curtains drawn back to reveal a bleak and wintry day, Dean breaks. The fight in him gives out as he leans forward, elbows on knees, and drops his face into his gloved hands. He wearily rubs for a bit before turning back to look at Cassie, eyes defeated.
“I’m just…” Dean bites out. “I’m not used to this, you know? It’s like… if I lose this, I’m fucked. I’m not used to that. There’s always been more, there’s always been the next thing. But Sam…”
Cassie listens, biting at the plastic lip of her mocha as she watches confident, swaggering Dean crumble before her.
“The odds are stacked too high against me, Cass. And for this, for Sam… I can’t have him, only to lose him halfway out. I just… I’d rather not play at all.”
Cassie studies Dean’s profile, watching his eyelashes flutter and drop. Dean toes his coffee, which still sits on the concrete ground.
Bending down to save it from Dean’s muddy shoes, Cassie says, “Drink up hon. Before it gets even colder.”
-----
On the fifth floor of Westborough Library, Sam is studying. No really, he is. He’s got his textbooks and references spread out before him, and a spiral-bound full of notes.
Sam’s stopped by so often this term, it’s pretty much become a second home.
He sighs and looks down, gazing at the stoic expression of Oliver Cromwell.
I bet you never had problems with pretty boys, did you? Sam thinks, before putting his head down into the pages. He winds up facing the window. He sees streaks of water ripple against the glass surface as rain blusters across it.
It’s a sopping day in late winter, and Sam revels in the bleak weather. There’s nothing worse than feeling like shit while the sun pours over you and smiling folks blow rainbows up your ass.
Sam hears somebody in a far-off aisle sneeze, and he smiles.
Not wanting to get back to work just yet, Sam sits up and cradles his chin, peering outside over the campus. The trickling parade of multi-colored umbrellas makes for a hypnotic view, and he indulges.
Sam apathetically registers the clunky noise of the lift, the familiar roll of sliding metal as somebody arrives. Déjà-vu washes over him, of all the times Dean had appeared out of those sliding doors, memories of schoolwork and smiles, Dean’s glasses and their shoes just touching… but Sam refuses to care.
It’s not him anyway, Sam thinks. A flashback of last week at the club— Dean’s mouth against dark, glossy lips— sneaks in. He made it perfectly clear that it would never be him.
Still, Sam can’t help the way his body betrays him, and his chest thuds as squeaking footsteps track across the floor.
Sam’s still facing the window, but he’s staring at the reflection; Sam fancies he can see the pulse beating beneath the thin skin of his neck.
The sound of wet soles on linoleum gets louder, almost irritatingly so, and when they finally approach his table Sam smells a waft of perfume.
The trainers squeak on by. Sam wrinkles his nose at the cloying scent of jasmine, and goes back to watching the weather manhandle the trees outside.
He must have been zoning out, because Sam jumps in his seat when he hears, “Hey.”
But the sound of wet footsteps are still trailing away… What the hell? Sam swallows, and reluctantly turns around.
“Dean,” he says uncertainly.
“Have you been here the whole time?” Dean asks.
“For about an hour, yeah.”
“I’ve been…” Dean jerks his thumb back, where Sam can see an open tome and a coffee gracing an empty table.
After a moment’s hesitation, Dean moves across the table and takes a seat. Sam can’t bring himself to encourage the interest that splashes through him, so he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
“Sam,” Dean starts, as Sam wonders, What happened to ‘Sammy’? “I’m sorry about last week.”
Dean leans forward, elbows on the table, and presses his lips against steepled fingers. Sam stares at them, entranced by the soft give of flesh and remembers how they felt, supple and moist against his mouth. Dean continues, “And about… before, too. I didn’t mean to uh… give you the wrong idea.”
Dean’s chewing on his nails now, the flash of teeth against blunt fingertips. Funny, Sam never took Dean for the nervous habit type.
“So, we square?” Dean prompts.
Sam blinks. “Yeah.”
Dean looks mollified, and gets up. Says something about needing to brainstorm for his final project, and Sam nods appropriately. But halfway back to his table, Dean suddenly stops, giving off restless energy that makes the back of Sam’s neck tingle.
“Hey,” Dean interjects belatedly. “I’m graduating this quarter. We should get together sometime before then.”
Sam slowly turns around and sees Dean rocking on his heels, hands in pockets and unsure.
Graduating. Not that he should be especially surprised, seeing as how Dean’s just a visiting student, but still…
“Yeah?” Dean prompts, wary from Sam’s silence.
“Yeah, sure. We’ll do lunch or something,” Sam replies as he thinks, Dean’s leaving.
Dean still waits expectantly, so Sam tries to manage a smile. Though unconvinced, Dean eventually returns to his desk.
Sam watches him go as he realizes, This time next month, Dean won’t even be on the same continent anymore.
That hurts.
Morosely, Sam goes back to looking out the window, but the rain’s nearly covered everything up. All he can see is his own reflection, bright halo of fluorescent lights behind him, but Sam doesn’t want to look at himself anymore. He shuts his eyes and puts his head down.
-----
Dean dreams.
He’s floating, two thousand feet above water. The ocean looks like wrinkled skin below him and it creeps, snail-slow over the Earth’s rind
He’s confined in the air. Although the sky is limitless around him, Dean can’t move past two strides in any direction. He tries his boundaries, but there’s an invisible ceiling, invisible walls, and no way out. He’s effectively bottled in an illusion of never-ending blue, of mocking freedom.
The sky is so deep, so open that Dean can’t breathe. He can’t hear, he can’t even speak or scream, though not from lack of trying. The world is still, and mute.
And then, everything ends. Or begins. Without warning, the world explodes into life… Salt on the breeze and the deafening squall of gulls. There’s chapped wind in his face and sun in his eyes, and gravity sneaks up on Dean. He doesn’t realize he’s falling, until he’s pierced the surface of the ocean.
-----
It was the weather. Eight days later, Sam blames his funk on the weather, because this morning his gloom had lifted with the morning sun. The dejection of last week— gone. Dried up, like the rain.
It probably doesn’t hurt that Sam’s meeting Dean for lunch today.
Last Wednesday: Sam had burst out of Trotter Hall, hell-bent on clearing the sickly, indoor moisture out of his lungs by sucking at the biting cold air. He’d inhaled deeply, relishing the freeze of bronchi and capillaries. When he’d descended down the stairs, Dean was waiting for him.
Dean said, “Let’s do lunch” and Sam had said “Yeah,” and now.
Sam’s meeting Dean for lunch. He’ll swing by the architecture building, pick the guy up and from there they’ll pick a place to eat.
Sam doesn’t know how he feels about this; doesn’t know if he should be glad they’re hanging out, or upset that this lunch is pretty much the equivalent of a Band-Aid meant to patch up any open wounds that still bleed sexual tension.
Whatever, Sam steels himself as he reaches Vitton Hall. He walks in, feet leading him upstairs. Turns a corner and sees Dean in the studio through the glass.
Dean’s working. Earphones in, strings of black cord trailing over cream-colored shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbow and Dean’s forearms are taut as he saws at a wooden dowel. There’s a sun glare glinting off the blade and it dances over Dean’s neck in a quivering spotlight.
Sam wonders if it’s warm there, that halo of light on Dean’s neck. It looks warm.
Dean breaks off the wood and fits it to the skeletal structure before him, a stick replica of steel and glass articulated in swooping arcs and the thrust of a central tower. Dean pinches the piece with two fingers, glue gun cocked at the ready, and Sam’s entranced by the slow pressure of Dean’s finger on the trigger. Clear, hot glue oozes out and Dean burns himself, hand jumping to his mouth.
Sam feels slightly dizzy when he realizes he’s been holding his breath (Dean’s lips puckered over reddening skin). Dean sucks at the injury, and when he takes it out, his finger’s slick with spit.
Nonetheless, Dean’s focused. He’s building the rungs of the makeshift tower with a frown on his forehead and lower lip worried between white teeth, and at that image, at Dean biting at his own mouth, Sam doesn’t feel ready enough. He doesn’t think he can handle this right now, but then Dean’s eyes inexorably look up, and rest on Sam.
Dean smiles. There are little crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Sam’s breath sticks in his throat and he coughs to dislodge it.
Dean tugs the cords of his earphones and mouths “Sammy.” He’s treading over to the door, eyes affectionate and Sam takes a step back.
Dean opens the door from the inside and leans out, saying, “What are you doing? Come inside, let me pack up.” Sam nods numbly and follows Dean in, who smells like damp air and little bit like sawdust.
They wind up at a popular diner just off campus, and Sam spends the hour or so timing his breathing to the chews of his food. Dean talks animatedly, Sam banters back on autopilot, but the whole time his chest is sinking below water.
By the time they part, Sam knows.
It took him the entire term to really piece it together, but now, Sam knows what he wants. He wants that easy smirk and those lucid green eyes all to himself, wants the name Sammy from Dean’s tongue to his own, wants to swallow the syllables off of Dean’s lips.
Ever cell in his body’s yearning, screaming for Dean; it’s unequivocal now, both upstairs and downstairs. Sam wants Dean.
However, he also knows that it’ll never happen.
They part for lunch.
-----
Sam wakes up the next day. He’s on the couch, the doorbell’s ringing impatiently, and he groggily picks himself up. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, gross.
Sam answers the door but before it’s even completely open, Jess cries, “Samuel Winters, where have you been? I’ve been calling since last night!”
Sam’s leaning against the edge of the doorway, allowing Jess to look him over. God, he looks like shit— hair flattened on one side, dark circles under unfocused eyes, and he smells of sleep and day-old rain.
Sam scrubs his eyes. “What time is it?” he asks.
“It’s two o’clock,” Jess says cautiously. Sam still looks confused. “Friday. Hon, what happened?”
Sam struggles visibly, rubbing his face in attempts of pressing memories into his skull, before backing up to let Jess inside. He shuts the door behind her and says, “I had lunch with Dean yesterday.”
She perches herself on the couch, tense. “And?”
“And nothing,” Sam swallows thickly. “He’s graduating this term.”
Sam sounds like shit too, voice snagging on every consonant, a film of sleep coating the vowels.
“Oh,” Jess says worriedly. “That’s too bad. But…” She watches Sam fumble with the lock. “Did something happen?”
Sam frowns as he makes his way over to her. He drops into the loveseat and the cushions suck him in. It’s strange to see such Sam’s height so utterly thwarted.
He says, “It’s not a big deal, Jess.”
Bullshit, and they both know it. She replies, “That bad huh?”
Sam heaves a noisy sigh. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He pauses. “Think about what you want for brunch.”
Jess watches him disappear down the hallway and the sound of running water soon courses through the pipes. She settles into the sofa, hugging a pillow to her chest.
An unrelenting thought gnaws at the back of Jess’ mind— as much as it sickens her, all she can think is, This is my chance.
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no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:05 am (UTC)My favorite line was “Drink up hon. Before it gets even colder.” Just seemed like advice about Sam instead of the coffee.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:37 am (UTC)Hello there. I friended you recently (I hope you don't mind) - I love this foray into Sam and Dean. Your description is beautiful and you have me utterly sucked in to this story. In addition to that, I'm a bit of a Europhile and Dean being an architecture student makes me nostalgic for my days as one. I'm looking forward to more chapters of this, it's very sexy and real. Oh, and I'm very new to LJ, so I hope I'm doing this right...
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Date: 2007-03-19 07:46 am (UTC)Yaaay I'm glad I'm not the only one grooving on the architecture aspect. It's so much fun to think about and write *__* Thanks for reading hon!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:39 am (UTC)Expert writing as always, my dear. <3
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:18 am (UTC)1. Gah! The only reason I'm not voting to shove Jess off the nearest tall building is cause I think I read in one of the previous chapters that you like happy endings. At least, I hope it was in your journal and not someone elses... Meh - shove her off the nearest tall building anyway. :P
2. That kiss with Sam and Dean in the studio was just HOT. I've read explicit hardcore porn that wasn't as hot as that. Truly. We needs more!
3. Sam's "I'm so HOT!" just cracked me up. And I'd have paid money to see that Dean/Cassie/Sam dance, btw. *cough* Also hot.
4. Can't wait for the next chapter! I'm kind of wishing I'd waited until you'd posted it all before I started reading now. *hates waiting*
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:34 am (UTC)And it was great, wonderful. And they still haven't gotten each other. I want a happy ending!
I want kisses and love and slow sex on Sunday mornings.
And I don't much like Jess right now.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:50 am (UTC)Happy ending is coming, don't worry :3 Thanks for following!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 08:01 am (UTC)Can't wait for 6/6!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 08:36 am (UTC)Thanks for following along *_*
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 08:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 08:43 am (UTC)Yup, one more plotty chapter to go, with an epilogue planned :3 Thanks for reading!
Amazing
Date: 2007-03-19 08:45 am (UTC)Thank you so much to share this amazing story with us.
I really wants to know what happen and why Sam waked up in the same clothes on the couch?
Did something happen with Dean? Sex? Fight? Or did he searched all the night a way to be with Dean?
I'm really impatient to read the next part but a little sad because it will be the last chapter!
I'm totally in love with this verse and this boy!
The part with Dean's dream is really great!
And i love how Dean wants to spend more time with Sam before his departure!
Really great job!
Looking forward the next part.
Re: Amazing
Date: 2007-03-19 09:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 09:33 am (UTC)...
*makes grabby hands at Jess' throat*
Man it's been a long time since I've commented on SPN Fics, which I somehow thinks proves just how much this thing has sucked me in. And GOD. *headdesk* Way to make me impatient.
Dean tugs the cords of his earphones and mouths “Sammy.” He’s treading over to the door, eyes affectionate and Sam takes a step back.
~Squeeble, he called him Sammy again, even though he was only mouthing it :P Same thing. x)
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 02:46 pm (UTC)*gives you cakes*
:DDDDDD
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:06 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading hon!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 03:11 pm (UTC)Fuck. *Fuck*
I adore this fic *so hard.*
and that kiss! the first kiss!!!!!! omfg-ohshitohshitohshit.
and the angst. dude. feels like ouch.
*cannot wait for more*
you have created the boys so wonderfully!
~Tangible Magic~
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 03:19 pm (UTC)At the end, my little heart was breaking for Jess. Because seriously the girl does not stand a chance against the OTP. The OTP will win out against all. Right? RIGHT?
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:08 pm (UTC)Oh, Jess, the poor thing. Not a chance in hell. *pets her*
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 05:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 06:09 pm (UTC)Sorry my writing makes you cry ;_; Hee.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 07:51 pm (UTC)The pacing in this story is spot-on--You're really moving the plot along, but there's just enough narrative allowed for the boys' personal reflection, as well.
Sometimes I feel like fanfiction in general gets too bogged down in angst (not that I don't adore it).
I'll be holding my breath for your final installment!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 11:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-20 12:17 am (UTC)Cassie was clever enough to give Dean a hint about the rumor of Jess/Sam being together. I was kind of hoping that he'd be clever enough to really hear it. Damn.
Stupid Sam, being too shy!
I still want to kick Jess. After all of this, seeing how sad (and GAY) Sam is, stil can only think of herself.
I hope the come to their senses by the end of the next chapter.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-20 12:44 am (UTC)Thanks for following along, hon!
sky chap 5
Date: 2007-03-20 01:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-20 03:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-20 04:12 am (UTC)I'm glad you're liking it!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-20 05:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-20 05:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-20 08:18 am (UTC)Ok, please, please, PLEASE don't make me wait this long for the NEXT chapter... The cracks in my heart turned into caverns while reading this.
THE ANGST!!!! *runs around, flailing arms*
“Jessica Moore at Martha Hammett’s birthday bash in a stunning number by up-and-coming designer Christopher Kane,” Cassie reads.
*teeehehehe*
*feels heart sinking just that little bit lower, remembering this chapter* WAAAH!!!!!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-27 04:31 am (UTC)AWESOME! I can't wait for the last part! \o/ ♥
no subject
Date: 2007-03-28 07:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-27 01:07 pm (UTC)One little Brit thing though, we don't have £2 notes. The smallest note we have is the £5 note. We have £1 and £2 coins instead.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-28 03:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-14 12:42 pm (UTC)you know i could like die tommorrow (touch wood)praying its not before i get to finish harry potter 7, but you know...pretty please??
no subject
Date: 2007-04-15 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-27 11:30 pm (UTC)Will there be a last chapter?
Please?
I adore this story so much, and I need an ending.
I don't know... is there something I can do to make the last chapter appear?
Can I help in some way? I'll do anything. Bribe perhaps?
no subject
Date: 2007-05-27 11:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2007-05-30 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-30 04:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
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