aeroport_art | Fic: Sky in a Box (6/6)

Title: Sky in a Box (6/6)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author:

aeroport_art
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 19,813 (2,887 this chapter)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: So sorry to make y'all wait, but projects and events and graduation (yay!) hindered my progress. But I've made it through, as has this fic, so I just wanna thank everybody for being patient with me :) Although you might not feel so benevolent by the end... (let's just say there's an epilogue in the works). Finally, especial thanks to

jewels667,

krazykipper, and

britomart_is for beta-ing this chapter! *muah*

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
Part 5

3 weeks later

Oh no, Ohgodohgod please no—

Sam bursts through double doors, panting hard as he scans the room frantically—the auditorium is cluttered with folding chairs jostled helter-skelter and abandoned programs litter the floor but otherwise, the room’s devoid of life.

Fuck! Sam curses inwardly. He morosely runs his eyes over the ghost town before him as he catches his breath, carding a hand through damp hair before he resignedly makes his way towards the nearest chair. Bloody photo shoots always go overtime. A loud screech of metal on linoleum resounds when Sam flops into the chair.

Far up on stage, a man straightens up from behind the podium. “Can I help you?” he calls out.

Quickly recovering from his surprise, Sam bounds out of his chair and strides forward. “Yeah, I just missed the ceremony. Where’d everybody go?” he asks.

The man points to the exit behind him with a mic-wielding hand. “Reception’s out back,” he says.

Sam’s halfway out the door before he can finish saying “thanks.”

-----

There’s an itch on Dean’s leg. He scratches it, digging blunt fingernails through polyester robe, through the fabric of his denims, but the spot just tickles that much more. He gives up, exasperated, and turns his attention back to the podium.

Dean counts eight more graduates before it’s his turn to walk. Sam still hasn’t shown.

Damn it, Sammy, Dean thinks. The kid said he would come, bright smiles and heartfelt promises, and Dean had been genuinely pleased. Nobody back home could get overseas for the mid-March date, so Dean had been looking forward to having somebody who mattered to him at his graduation.

But, well. So much for that.

“Dean Winchester,” the announcer reads aloud and Dean snaps out of his reverie, stands up to the whoops and catcalls of his fellow classmates and saunters up as he takes the diploma with a big smile. When a girl in the audience yells out “I love you!” the crowd lets loose a collective chuckle. Dean feels his neck and ears warm, but still, he takes a moment to scan the rows of people.

No Sam.

Dean steps down and returns to his seat.

By the time the last name’s been called, Dean’s stopped searching the audience. When the ceremony’s well and over, Dean stuffs his disappointment down and files out the back doors alongside his studiomates.

Get over it, damnit, Dean tells himself. He can’t let something so trivial get him down. So what if he never sees Sam again? What’d he been expecting anyway?

Dean squares his shoulders with spackled-in resolve and steps out into the light.

Outside, the weather’s good; spring is in the air and the sun grows in confidence by day. In the courtyard there’s a smattering of cherrywoods that sprinkle white petals like snow, catching in drifts along the edge of the lawn.

Terrence appears at Dean’s side and hands him a plastic glass of champagne. “All they’ve got is the bubbly shite,” Terrence apologizes. “But hey, booze is booze.”

Dean shrugs agreeably and they butt their plastic cups together.

“To getting more than three hours of sleep a night,” Dean offers.

“To never laying eyes on Brian’s ass crack in studio anymore!” Terrence adds. The two laugh loudly before downing their drinks. The fizz travels up Dean’s sinuses in a huge rush and he sneezes.

“Bless you,” a female voice sounds.

Dean’s rubbing the tickle in his nose away when he looks up to find Jessica Moore standing in front of him. His eyes slide behind her.

“He’s not here,” Jess says.

“I wasn’t—“ Dean replies automatically, but she simply raises a manicured eyebrow and Dean shuts up.

Jess flicks her eyes over to Terrence, who straightens up visibly. “I’m sorry, can I borrow Dean for a moment?” she asks.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Terrence replies, flustered. When Dean snickers it earns him a venomous glare before Terrence leaves to join their old classmates.

Jess places a hand on Dean’s elbow and guides him over to the corner of the courtyard, under the shade of a softly snowing tree. Dean automatically throws his back against the cool bark, arms crossed over his chest.

Jess hesitates, and this makes Dean nervous. He bites at the quick of his thumbnail.

“It’s about Sam,” she begins. God, it makes her sick to do this, but she knows she must. “I need to know how you feel about him.”

“What?” Dean asks, shifting his weight and crossing his ankles.

Jess toys with the ends of her hair, fretting. Ever since Sam found out Dean was graduating, he’d been nothing but sullen and moody, and it’s so out of character that even his blithe friends had begun to notice. By this point, at wit’s end, Jess will do anything to get Sam back— including confronting the source of the problem.

Jess replies, “You heard me. Do you fancy him, or just in for a quick shag? Or are you playing him?”

Dean’s eyes widen at her words. What— how? “What’s Sam been saying?”

“—Because if you’re just playing him,” Jess continues, her voice breaking a bit at the end. She clears her throat. “I can’t forgive you if you are.”

Dean watches in alarm as Jess slumps in on herself, blonde hair obscuring her face. Unsettled, Dean repeats, “What did he say to you?”

“He didn’t have to say anything. I’ve been his best friend for years, he reads like a book. It isn’t rocket science to know…” Jess takes a breath, ignores the queasiness in her stomach. “That he’s completely in love with you.”

Dean blinks slowly and tightens his arms. He says, “What about you and… I thought you guys were dating.”

“Oh, that? It’s just a rumour that we never bothered to correct. Made things easier.” She mirrors Dean’s stance, arms crossed defensively over her chest, and prompts him— ”So?”

Well… shit, Dean thinks as the information slowly sinks in. As he lets himself believe Jess’ words, a burgeoning warmth spreads from his chest and outwards. A smile emerges, magnetic. “I…” Dean starts as he steps forward. He rests a hand on Jess’ bicep to ease her standoffish stance, placating, then throws a cursory look around before he quietly tells her.

He tells her, tells Jess that her best friend Sammy drives him crazy; funny farm, need-to-be-committed crazy, but it’s the hushed reverence and ill-contained excitement coloring his voice that tells Jess all she needs, tells her more than she really wants to know.

Dean keeps talking, lips close to her ear lest others overhear. But Jess isn’t listening anymore, not really.

There, done, she thinks to herself. Although Jess knows she’s giving up on the one thing that she’s wanted her entire life (Sam), she finally feels at peace again. If telling Dean what he needs to hear will chase the husk of Sam away and bring back the bravado of her best friend’s laugh, it’ll be worth it.

Jess puts a hand on Dean’s chest to push him away as suddenly, somebody cuts in and shoves Dean up against the cherrywood trunk.

Dean utters a noise before it’s muffled, words choked in his throat.

Jess takes a step backwards, watching in disbelief as her gentle, easygoing Sam pins Dean to the tree, fists balled in his shirt and jaw clenching, their faces close, too close—

Jess takes a step backwards. Then another, and another, and soon she’s gone.

-----

When Sam leaves the empty, echoing auditorium to go outside, he’s immediately embraced by the stark contrast of life and laughter, by the celebratory noises coming from the throng of folks in the little courtyard. Shaking the dissonance off, he makes his way into the crowd in search of Dean. The space is not so big; he shouldn’t have any trouble.

However, after mingling for several minutes and making small talk with a few casual friends, he’s starting to wonder if Dean’s there at all.

What the hell? he thinks, making another surreptitious loop through the crowd. He suddenly spies a shocking green beanie and recognizes the face of Dean’s friend, who he’s seen a few times before. He walks over.

“Hey, excuse me. Do you know where Dean is?” Sam asks the lanky blonde as the small group of graduates around him pause and stare.

“Oh, hi,” the guy responds. “That’s funny, he’s with Jessica Moore. You know, your, uh…”

What the hell’s he doing with Jess? Sam wonders. He hadn’t been under the impression that the two were friends, and the notion doesn’t sit well with him. He asks, “You know where?”

“I left ‘em back there,” Dean’s friend vaguely gestures towards the perimeter of the lawn and Sam thanks him politely.

Once he knows what he’s looking for, it isn’t hard to spot Jess with her shining, waist-length hair in the sea of blue-garbed graduates and older parents. But just as he’s about to call her name, he spots Dean.

Well, no wonder he couldn’t find the guy. Tall as he is, Dean’s obscured by Jess as he slouches low against the trunk of a cherrywood. Little white petals dot his dark hair and Sam’s about to go over and make fun of him when—

Dean leans forward and touches Jess on the arm. He moves in close, mouth hovering over her ear and that’s when Sam catches a glimpse of Dean’s face… eyes bright and a heat-soaked smile like daybreak, even from this distance.

Dean hasn’t smiled at Sam like that for months.

Jess bows her head, beautiful hair spilling over Dean’s bicep as he lifts a sure hand and places it on her bare arm, leaning ever closer as he whispers into her ear. Jess sinks in, palm delicate on his chest.

What the fuck? Sam snaps as fierce possessiveness launches out of left field and crunches into his chest. Before he can stop to think, Sam’s stormed over and bunched up fistfuls of Dean’s robe, crinkling polyester into permanent creases as he shoves the older man up against the tree.

Dean’s eyes are startling green, his mouth agape with shock. Beneath his fists, Sam feels a sharp inhalation.

“Sa—“

Sam doesn’t want to hear it, so he shuts Dean up with a hard kiss. Pushes insistently at Dean’s body until there’s no space and no air, just tight pressure, muscle against muscle and bones in soft spots — but under his mouth, Dean doesn’t move.

Shit, Sam’s mind catches up as he launches himself backwards. Dean’s fist instantly curls in Sam’s shirtfront and he flinches, anticipating the blow, but when nothing follows he disentangles himself from Dean’s grasp and jerks away.

He’d look up to meet Dean’s gaze but he won’t, he can’t—

And so, he flees.

-----

Dean’s back at his own flat, staring at his cell phone screen.

You’d think that after an entire term of befriending someone, you’d have gotten the guy’s number. You’d think so, wouldn’t you?

Dean curses and tucks his phone back into his pocket, jockeying to fit it alongside keys and a pack of gum when the thing suddenly vibrates with a loud, buzzing ring tone. He jumps and pulls the phone out again.

“Hello?”

A voice on the line, polite with a heavy Yorkshire accent, briefly introduces himself. Conversation follows for a minute or two, details and questions passed back and forth.

After he hangs up the phone, Dean pauses for a moment, letting the news filter down to a pleasant warmth in his chest. Then he relaxes, pads over to the fridge and reaches for a cold beer with a broad grin on his face.

-----

Sam’s moping. He’s watching a classic horror marathon on the telly, the Blob in the midst of ingesting everything in sight, with a pint of Cherry Garcia and the mobile resolutely turned off.

Jess has been calling him for hours, leaving plaintive messages riddled with pleas for him to call her back.

Well fuck that. Behind my fucking back, he seethes. God damnit, she knew Sam had a thing for Dean, must have known, despite it not having been said aloud.

He growls and digs out a frozen cherry with his spoon, popping it into his mouth. Maybe he should’ve claimed Dean better, black Sharpie on smooth forehead reading Property of Samuel J. Winters.

Onscreen, the Blob predatorily eyes a bus just as the doorbell unexpectedly rings behind him. Sam ignores it and sucks vanilla off his spoon. But then comes the pounding—insistent thumps on wood that shake the walls and shove annoyance down Sam’s throat until he has no choice but to concede. When the film cuts to a commercial break, he curses and gets up, storming towards the door.

He yanks it open, hinges quivering from the force.

“Goddammit Jess, just—“

Dean’s fist is poised mid-knock. Sam freezes.

“How did you… you don’t even have my phone number,” Sam says, brow furrowed in confusion. As Dean lets his hand fall, Sam leans against the doorframe, effectively blocking the entryway. “What are you doing here?”

“Jess said you’ve been holed up for days. She’s worried…” Dean trails off as Sam’s eyes darken perceptibly. “What’s going on with you?”

What’s going on? Sam nearly laughs aloud at that, as images of Dean and Jess together, laughing and smiling and (god) kissing together, storm his consciousness.

In the silence, Dean carefully steps closer but Sam stands his ground. Dean’s so close, his head’s tipped up just to meet Sam’s gaze.

“Sammy,” Dean says, almost warningly. It sounds like a dare, and Sam was never one to back down.

“You want to know what’s going on? Well let me enlighten you,” he starts bitterly as Dean’s eyes widen. Sam continues, “There’s this guy who’s been hitting on me all term, but he’s a fucking arse about it and I never know what the hell he’s thinking. Changes his mind about what he wants at the drop of a hat and lately, his preference isn’t me but my best friend—“ Dean splutters but Sam barrels on— “What’s going on is I’m kind of fucked. Kind of really fucked because I still want the guy. I still fucking want him, but he’s graduated, he’ll be gone and I’ll never see him again, but still— even now— all I really want to do is just...”

Sam falters, emotions breaking across his face. Dean stares at him, breathing through his mouth with dry lips.

There’s an eyelash on Dean’s cheek, Sam notices detachedly. His gaze inexorably slides down to Dean’s open mouth, but then he mentally shakes himself and asks in a clipped tone, “What are you doing here anyway? I figured you’d be halfway to California by now.”

“Sam—“

“That or, I don’t know, spending your last moments with Jess, since you two seem to hit it off better than we ever did.”

Dean grunts and has the audacity to look impatient, opening his mouth to perhaps explain himself, to delineate the merits of a Jess and Dean union and fuck if that doesn’t make Sam all the angrier. He bends closer, vulnerability eclipsed by fury-colored words. “Don’t even say it Dean, I don’t need to hear it. Tell Jess I hope she’s happy. I hope you’re both happy—“

“Sam, shut the fuck up,” Dean says quietly, hands reaching up to tangle in Sam’s overgrown hair and yanking the taller man down. Their mouths are suddenly too close, mere millimeters, and if Sam keeps talking his words will get lost between Dean’s full, parted lips. Sam shuts it and swallows hard.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean states, then licks at the hard line of Sam’s lips.

Sam murmurs back a decidedly witty, cutting remark, but it gets absorbed in the space between Dean’s teeth. He feels Dean smile against his mouth, quick swipes of porcelain against his own lips but hell Sam isn’t something to laugh at, so he does what any guy with a pair would do— roughs up Dean’s shirtfront with clenched fists, and drags the man into his loft.

King of the hill, Sam vaguely thinks as he forces his tongue in deeper, bearing down until the door’s slammed shut and his weight’s on top, bearing down until he’s winning. Between Sam and the front door, Dean (and his mouthneckass) is his.

“God, Sammy—” Dean pants, hips rolling involuntarily beneath Sam’s.

“Yeah,” Sam bites against Dean’s throat.

Though heady as Sam’s weight, Sam’s body is as it attempts to weld Dean into the door, Dean’s the older one. He’s got rights as the elder, and he assumes them as he wrenches out from beneath Sam’s big, encompassing hands to slam the younger man against the unrelenting slab of wood.

“Dean—“ Sam lightly gasps as Dean drops to his knees. Dean’s hair is soft but prickly beneath Sam’s clutching hands. “Dean— “

And really, it all goes downhill from there. Not that either of the boys are complaining. No, between the sun in their eyes and the skin against skin, neither Sam, nor Dean, will have anything to complain about for a very long time.

Fin.

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