Interlude #3: ...You keep talking.
- Brian’s POV.
You keep talking and talking until you’re sure he’s asleep.
You keep talking even longer than that, voice barely above a whisper at the end.
You talk about Justin, the night you met him, about the weather, about Gus, about everything and nothing, and you’re damn sure Dean misses all of it. Every single word you say. Which is probably the one and only reason all of that shit is spewing out of your mouth in the first place. He looks so still like this, lying there next to you, sleeping. It’s almost the absolute opposite of his usual personality. But of course, you know him for a few days, hours really. How would you know anything about him? About how he is? What makes him tick? But then again, the liveliness you’ve come to witness in him?
It fits.
Way better than this absolute stillness while he’s just sleeping. It’s just about disturbing when you compare this to the spirit and energy he presents while awake. Strange enough, you don’t mind him here, sleeping in your bed. Despite him laughing it off, it’s true what you told him. Few people slept in this bed that weren’t you. Justin, Mikey, just a handful of people, if that. It’s also true that you fucked countless tricks in here. None of which had the right to stay. To sleep in here. Never sleep.
Well, technically speaking, Dean isn't even that. A trick.
You never fucked him.
Not yet, anyway, your arrogant mind cuts in, and oh shit, you hope so, too. Truth is you kissed him more than once, made out in the backroom of Babylon like horny teenagers just some time ago, but you didn’t get to fuck him.
Like with Mikey.
Only Michael is your friend, your best friend. Dean isn't. Not even close. Dean is a little more than a stranger right now, at best, and still, he’s here, isn't he? Why’s that? Because, your brain cuts in once again, you asked him to. ‘Cause you want him. ‘Cause you want to know.
Yes. He has something upon him that draws people in. Makes them curious. Makes you curious, and that’s something not a lot of people can say about themselves--making Brian Kinney curious about them. Usually people bore you. And few have ever managed to hold your interest when it’s not about fucking. Probably a lot less than even people sleeping a night in your bed.
Justin is the exception to both of those rules. Ever since the very first night you met him. Fuck, it’s never boring with him. You never get sick of him, not really, and even the fucking isn't getting old. But he is your--fuck, he is your lover, you can admit as much to yourself. Dean? Isn't. Then why does he fascinate you so damn much? What’s his secret? He’s pretty, oh yeah, hot even, and yes, you admit you want to get in his pants. Desperately. Want to bury yourself to the hilt in that gorgeous, firm ass of his.
But it’s not that, or at least it’s not just that. If that was the case, hell, he wouldn’t make you curious about anything more than how he’d look out of his clothes. How his mouth would feel on your cock. How he’d sound while you’d rim him within an inch of his life, holding him right there on the brink. How he’d writhe under you when you’d talk dirty to him until he’d be begging for release.
Breathing in deep, you stamp down on that train of thought. Oh yeah, you can be a kinky bastard most of the time, but humping a guy that’s injured, on pain killers and therefore dead to the world? That would be awfully low even for you.
But that you’re not just interested in all of that? Assures you that the guy’s more than a potential fuck. A mystery, that’s what Dean is.
A real one. And that’s it, isn't it? The crux of it all.
Careful not to disturb him, you finally take an empty glass from his limp hands. There’s not much resistance as you peel fingers from the warm, smooth surface, your touch lingering longer than strictly necessary. Thing is, you can't make yourself care. To let go. Or feel guilty. Humping a passed out guy’s leg would be bad, but this? Nah. No apologies, no regrets. That’s always been you’re your motto, hasn’t it? This isn’t going to change anything.
The glass clanks softly as you put it down on the nightstand. Dean keeps on sleeping. Of course he does. It’s not surprising. One, he has got to be used to domestic background noises considering the brothers must sharing a room more times than not, if not always. And two, he looked about dead on his feet when he stumbled out of the bathroom--right before he passed out the first time. Not that you blame the guy. With what he’s been through, you’re impressed he was still standing up at all. Silently, you watch him breathe for a few moments: inhale, exhale, chest rising, chest falling, the hand resting there moving along.
It’s an incredibly soothing motion.
The ring on his finger--right hand, you noticed and you wondered--catches the faint light on every downward shift. The metal is cold under your finger when you reach out to touch him again, do so in spite of what happened the last time you did while he was asleep. You hold your breath for a moment, anxious of what might happen, but Dean sleeps on once more. You almost laugh at yourself, then. How stupid one can be sometimes. Maybe he shakes it off as not important, harmless. In the end, it doesn’t matter. You fully cover his hand with yours after that, fingers curling slightly around it.
Dean’s pale. Not as pale as Justin, obviously, and you noticed it right from the start, but still pale enough, all right. Those lively, sparkling, green eyes, now hidden by a thin layer of just-as-pale skin, they stand out in his beautiful face. Sharp and taxing, or playful and sparkling. It suits him. And you’ve seen guys like him, too--models, strippers, whatever, boys with pretty faces and hot bodies, light curves and soft spots.
Dean doesn’t have that.
Dean has angles. A lot. And probably scars, too. Rough edges that make him him, in a way unique that leave others in the dust. Keep him from being interchangeable and going under in the sea of pretty boys and girls. It’s what makes him different, you think. An individual in every sense of the word. People may run into a brick wall trying to get close to him, to get to know him; nevertheless he possesses the power of drawing people in. Reminds you of someone, doesn’t it? Biting back a curse, you think that, yes, he reminds you of someone, of yourself, and that is another fucking reason you’re so fucking interested in him.
Oh and isn't that hilarious in and of itself? You snort quietly. Yeah. Talk about being narcissistic.
You allow yourself to touch Dean’s ring again, let your thumb rub over the firm metal-- back and forth, back and forth. It’s still cold, only slowly warming up to your ministration. It’s the only piece of jewelry he wears, that is, if you leave out the weird amulet, the one he doesn’t seem to take off. Ever. If he does, you never noticed. You wonder about that, too. About the why. The when. What they mean; to him or someone else. Something else. Not only the amulet, but the ring, too. It looks so out of place; there’s nothing feminine about Dean at all despite his pretty, big eyes and perfect lips. And yet at the same time, they fit him just as well.
You wonder when he’s started wearing both.
Years, of course, has to be, both pieces are thoroughly beaten up like the shell bracelet you own lying around somewhere. But was he still a kid, a teenager? Was it a present? Something he bought himself from the first money he earned himself? You want to know, and that doesn’t happen all that often either. And fuck, why do they do what they do, anyway? When did they start? How do they now about… all this? Why do they care? Dean--and Sam, too--caught your interest, and they won’t lose it for maybe a long time. You knew it the moment you remembered their names the morning after meeting them. Even after you fucked Justin into the mattress after the blond’s dream of Dean. Something.
You want to know about Dean, and not just because you’d like to bury your cock deep in his ass. It’s in spite of that. Shit, most of the guys that catch your eyes to nail them can't keep it longer than it takes for you to dispose of a used condom or three after.
Which probably says a lot about you. If you cared.
You don’t.
You know that he knows that you want him. Of course, you haven’t been all that subtle, and he isn’t stupid. You know as well that he doesn’t give a shit about it. One way or another. Otherwise you might have received a broken jaw back at Babylon along with a broken nose or your wish of him on his knees sucking your cock. Neither happened.
And he could have done it without breaking a sweat. The breaking his jaw part, of course. Smirking to yourself, you guess that even he would break a sweat sucking cock. Either that or he’s doing something really wrong. But the memory of a sharp blade against your throat is still vivid in your mind, and it gets rid of any fantasy your mind might indulge in fast enough to get anyone’s head spin. Then there was the fact that he and Sam took the two assholes out, out for trouble--for blood--and that kills about the rest of lingering thoughts.
That’s something else that has you interested in him, though. He saved Justin.
Okay, fine. Bullshit. They did, more or less, but still. It’s Dean you want to fuck. But that’s bullshit, too, since you wouldn’t say no to Sam, either. He’s a pretty kid, tall and strong, and fuck, that would be nice, but you know there’s not a snowball chance in hell for you there--or anyone else male. Plus, fucking with him would probably kill the chance you have of ever fucking Dean. Protective fucker that he is. Not that you mind, of course. You don’t even dare to about what could have happened to Justin back then, bringing unpleasant reminders of Dumpster Boy up all over again. Right now it makes your skin crawl and your stomach turn over a little too fast.
You bite your tongue to keep from calling him up here. To see--
To make sure he’s all right. Here.
It’s fucking pathetic. Yeah, yeah, you know that. You know that he’s here, that he’s okay. This time. Because of Dean and Sam, and you can't even begin to describe just how grateful you are toward the man next to you. Both of them. You can't put it into words, nor will you try, like ever, but it’s still true. The memory of Justin, lying on cold cement covered in blood is one that will haunt you till the day you die. Like a persistent ghost you just now realized existed. Something else you can't--won’t--put into words. This little incident brought it all back, in Technicolor and surround sound. A movie turned nightmare.
You remember Justin saying that the run-in with that asshole back in that alley was nothing--no a big deal, Brian, really, don’t fucking freak out on me--but the bruises on his arm speak a different language. You jump a little, bed rippling beneath you as you hear that sound again. It’s a memory--the sound of wood hitting flesh and bone, but it’s real to you all the same. It once was. And sometimes it’s still real enough to make you sick to your stomach. You press your forehead against Dean’s shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut against the low light as you drag in a shaky breath.
Breathing him. Rubbing your nose against the rough fabric of his shirt. He twitches a bit, snuffling and sort of screwing up his nose, somewhat wriggling around. And thankfully he keeps on sleeping. You don’t want to explain what exactly it is you’re doing. ‘Cause honestly? You don’t know. There are bright dots dancing behind your eyes reminding you of just how tight your squeezing them shut, hard bone of a shoulder digging into your forehead. There’s something burning your eyes from the inside, something that’s causing your throat to close up a little, and you’ll be fucking calling bullshit if someone dares to call it fucking tears.
You don’t do crying.
And how fun-freaking-tastic pathetic is that?
Letting out a self mocking chortle, you somewhat straighten up. That blood back in your bathroom? Gave you flashbacks to the night of the bashing, and you wanted to curl into a ball and hide under your freaking blanket until it all went away. Dean and Sam? They didn’t even blink. Not really. Like it’s normal to them and maybe, maybe it is. That thought alone makes your stomach roll a little more. A smoke. That’s exactly what you need right now. Licking dry lips, it’s possible that Dean’s right and you really are the coward here. Ah, hell, of course you’re somewhat of a coward. Only for a lot of different reasons, apparently.
You stupidly watch him breathe again. Watch him sleep.
It’s hypnotic, and watching Justin sleep is one of your late-night kinks these days.
It has nothing to do with sex, however. Most of the time it’s to reassure yourself that he’s back. That creamy white skin against your dark sheets, lithe body pressed against yours; that he’s here in your bed, with you, not with the... With Him. It’s... comforting. That first dawn waking up beside him after so long, you couldn’t believe that it was real. He was back. For the longest time you’d just stared at him, nervous out of your fucking mind that he’d just been a dream. Vanishing into thin air the moment you touched him. Just something your hangover-ish mind had made up.
But then he’d rolled toward you, right hand hitting your bare chest, and you knew he was real. Sometimes, Christ, sometimes you want to wrap yourself around him and keep him safe. Just to make sure he’s there, protected and warm. You need him there, with you. Never wanted to, of course, never wanted to need anything or anyone, but it happened and yeah. Shit, you really are turning into a lesbian. Or the drugs are turning you into one.
Stuff makes you fucking sappy.
Or maybe you really do need a smoke. Or a drink.
You’re not sure if Justin knows you’re watching him. If he does, he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. But Justin is observant, more so than a lot, hell, most people you know, and he’s always been onto you. So, yeah. He probably knows. Little shit can almost always read you. Sometimes better than you could yourself, which should scare the fuck out of you. Which, frankly, it does. Most of the time. The rest of the days, well, it’s soothing. Calming. To have someone know you that well that he can--that he knows--ah fuck. Shit.
Better not think about it now.
You raise your head a little, just enough to catch sight of Dean’s calm face.
It’s only when you turn your head to the side, trying to locate the pack of cigarettes you’re sure you left around here somewhere, that you become aware of his presence. The fact that you’re no longer alone. Standing at the top of the stairs leading to your bedroom, it’s definitely not Justin. You can tell that much. No, it’s Sam. He looks like a--no, no, no, Kinney, ghost’s not the right word, not anymore. It’s just that he’s covered in shadows, the faint light from downstairs making it impossible to read the expression on his face. Not from over here. The right thing to do would be moving away, quit touching him, not lying this close. And yet you can’t make yourself move, let go, get away.
He’s got to have a better view of you from where he stands. He can’t not. So in turn, he should be able to see. Where your hands are, the look on your face, something, but he doesn’t say a word. Or react in any way. From the little that you can make out, he just stands and stares. A little uncomfortable under his gaze--and what the fuck is that about? You don’t fucking do uncomfortable. You force yourself not to squirm. It’s a feeling like doing something forbidden, wrong. Tarnishing him somehow. Which is absolute nonsense, but there it is. Right here in the back of your head, whispering.
And fuck me if you haven’t felt that way for a very long time. Not when it came to this. To touching someone. To sex. Fucking. Maybe it’s because Sam’s Dean’s little brother or shit. You don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right.
This doesn’t happen. It just doesn’t. Only that it does now, and you want to scamper away and hide. You aren’t even touching him in an inappropriate way, nor are you naked. Not even close. Weird enough, that’s just how you feel. Naked. Exposed. Crazy. And even though you can’t really see his face, his eyes on you are burning on skin. If he’s really looking at you or if that’s your imagination, you have no clue.
It’s only when he steps further into the room, the light not protecting him from your eyes any longer, that you notice it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s not even your hands on the body next to you that got his attention. No. His dark eyes are shining, and they are focused on one thing and one thing alone: Dean. Dean’s face, probably. You look away then, eyes finding the place where your hand still holds his, and you don’t feel so... guilty for touching him anymore, the way Sam looks at his brother.
Like there’s nothing in the world as important to him. Like he’s precious. Such a soft look in his eyes, a look that doesn’t speak of affection or devotion or love. No. A look that screams all those things. Maybe it’s the reason it all feels so wrong. It’s a most private look no one should overlook. Tender.
And Sam. Hell. The kid is so open sometimes, eyes revealing such strong emotions without a single sign of reserve--so much like Justin that it’s creeping you out. The way he talked about the time Dean had been on his death bed, so to speak? Of a ‘broken’ heart of all things... it hurt, enough for wanting to tell him to stop. Just... stop. It brought back memories. And not good, happy ones at that. Hospitals and blood and a scarf and nothing you want to think about now. Ever. Just hearing Sam tell that story was enough to feel cold.
It’s so clear what the kid must have gone through during those days. The whole story is all kinds of fucked up, even by Brian Kinney standards of fucked-up-ness. Okay, so you knew that Dean meant a lot to Sam, not only since that fucking story. The way he stared at the man’s unconscious form lying motionless in your bed from where he sat with Justin. It was so obvious, out there for all to see.
You’d give your right hand--well, no, maybe your left--to have anyone, someone, your family, look at you like this. Like they cared. Like you were important. Like it mattered. You mattered. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Now, now you couldn’t care less. You don’t give a shit. Not really. Only when you do, and that’s even more fucked up. Just back then, when you were still a kid, it would have meant the world. ‘Back then’ being the key words in that.
Now your old man is dead, and your mother? Well, she might as well be, given the way she’s putting away the wine or whatever she converted to now. Aside from her religion, naturally.
“It finally pulled him under.” Sam’s whispered words bring you back to the present after a long minute ticks by. You put on your usual mask, not sure what he’s seeing right now, and smirk.
“Looks like it.”
“Good thing. Doesn’t get much sleep these nights.” He sounds tired, oh-so-tired himself. Almost as bad as his brother looks.
So he does what he would do if it were Justin standing there, exhausted and tired and strung out. “You should go to bed. You look almost as bad as your big brother.”
Sam half-heartedly glares at you. “Thanks. But we need to finish this before more people get hurt. Or killed, meaning: still got work to do.”
“No you don’t.”
If he’d been anyone else, your sure you’d have them spluttering by now. Sam barely frowns. “I don’t?”
“Nope. You’ve got to go to sleep, that’s what you’ve got to do.”
Frown turning into a slight smile, a shake of his head. Yet, it doesn’t look like it will take a lot to convince him. “Says who?”
“Me.”
Sam makes a sound that’s somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. “Fine, Dean,” he sighs. And sighs like it’s the most unreasonable thing someone ever asked of him. Like the perfect, annoying little brother. The smirk on your face widens, to the point where it hurts your cheeks. And know what? You can actually see--hear?--Dean saying exactly those words to Sam. “Mind if I take a shower, then?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“Thanks,” he says, turning and making his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t walk in. No, he pauses in the open doorway, turning back just enough for you to get a glimpse at the calculating twinkle in his eyes. Uh-huh. He’s an open book most of the time, okay, but right at this moment, you have no fucking clue what he’s thinking.
“You know,” he starts to say, slowly and awed like it occurred to him jut now, “you and him?” For a second his eyes flicker to the sleeping man next to you, but you don’t need that sign to know whom he’s talking about. “You might have been pretty good... friends. In a different life, I mean,” he goes on. The way he hesitates on the word ‘friends’ makes you think he wanted to say something else. You have an idea what it might have been. Maybe. “But I sincerely pity everyone who would have crossed your path. Then.”
You can't help but laugh, a short, but sincere bark of laughter, suddenly intent on avoiding Sam’s dark eyes again all the same. He’s right. Or he could be. When you look back up a few seconds later to tell Sam that he’s over thinking things like a certain blond drama princess you know and to fucking get out of here already, he’s already gone. Door closed. Huh. Might have been staring longer than a few seconds at Dean, then.
“Brian?”
You don’t jump at his voice, oh no, but you are a bit surprised that you didn’t hear him coming up. The bed dips under his weight, his eyes taking in your hands. Your face. Dean. You smile at him, then, turning a bit so you can make out the blue in his eyes despite the darkness. “What?”
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s peachy, Sunshine. Just... peachy.”
“Yeah, except for when it’s not,” he states, voice a little rough from the lack of sleep himself. You love the sound of his voice. Not in bed, or no, of course you do, but not just then. You love the breath of your name on his lips when you enter him, love the way he talks dirty to you over the phone when you’re bored to fucking death by the morons at work, or he just talks about school. The way it carries on when he talk about something he loves. His art, his mom and sister. You. There’s a special kindness in his voice, his words. Like when you’ve had a particularly shitty day and he tries to take care of you, and for once you’re not being an asshole about it, but letting him. For a while.
It’s almost like he’s trying to talk a skittish horse out of running away. Or a lion from biting his head off, which you guess, you can be. Sometimes even both and at the same time. When you stay silent, not knowing what to say, ‘cause yes, he’s right, he smiles. Reaches out to you like he always does. Pink lips curled into a soft smile, he brushes a strand of hair out of your eyes, back of his fingers brushing your scratchy cheeks. You almost laugh. Oh yeah, it’s been some time since you shaved, bite me. You want to brush him off, tell him to cut it out, but you don’t. You’re just going to half lie, half sit here and take it. Just for now.
Take his comfort, the... love he so freely offers you in a gesture, a look or the words. Having you wonder how he can do that so openly since the day you met him. It wasn’t love that first few days--make that nights--can’t be, but after some time it might have turned out that way for him. And you wonder. More so now that he knows both of your history and how spectacularly it went wrong. The real kicker, and that almost startles you out of the bed, is when you suddenly realize something. You actually do have that. That Look. The one Sam bestows upon his brother. Fuck. Justin looks at you like that, like you’re important and with so much love in his eyes that you sometimes fear you’re going to choke on it.
A different kind of love, obviously, but just as intense and deep. Honest. No tricks nor traps. No mirrors. He looks at you like that right now, and all at once it gets just that little bit harder to breathe.
Justin doesn’t appear to notice, for he asks, “How is he?”
Breathing a lot easier, you want to say, all because of you. But you have to clear your throat first--twice--until you get the words out. Around that fist-sized lump that somehow got stuck in your throat, and by then you had enough time to talk yourself out of it. So you don’t. Instead you go for the obvious: “Finally sleeping, as little Sammy just stated.” Your voice is anything but normal, yet you force yourself not to turn away from those inquiring eyes.
After a long second, Justin snickers. And let’s you off the hook. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” he whispers, soft eyes moving to Dean’s sleeping face. “I have a feeling that’s just for him.” Your eyes, too, automatically return to your sleeping guest. Justin moves his hand on top of yours; the one still covering Dean’s. You stay like that for a long, silent moment as the shower’s turning on in the background. The sound of rushing water is almost soothing in the otherwise overly quiet space, reminding you how late it really is and that you’re actually tired tonight.
Justin pulls you out of the trance, saying, “Think he might come around?”
“I... don’t know.”
And when did you actually start to give a shit about that? Somewhere between him saving Sunshine and turning you down. That bothers you, doesn’t it? Fucking bullshit. But the alternative is probably worse: you actually do give a shit. And that’s almost worse than a wounded ego. Not that you’re going to tell Justin that. You give him one of your patented tongue-in-cheek smirks. “Hopefully. I wouldn’t mind getting my hand on this one, you know?” you say, brushing sinful lips with your finger.
He shoves you a bit, but he’s laughing as well. “I bet. Now cut that crap your talking and tell me how and where we’ll sleep tonight. I guess you’ll leave them your precious bed.” It’s not a question, and you know he’s once again on to you. Shit. Still, he manages to look so sure yet so innocent, you want to kiss that smug grin off his face. And that’s what you do.
Pull him down until you can ravage that lips of his, twirling your tongue around the inside of his mouth. When you let go, you’re both a little winded. “What do you think, Sunshine? Sleeping on the floor, under the bright Pittsburgh night sky?” you suggest, seductively wriggling your brows. Justin gives his head a quick shake, eyes rolling so hard that you feel dizzy just watching him. Still, he is smiling.
“You’re an ass, Brian, but you’re an honest one,” he states, leaning in to kiss you again.
What’s to say to that?
-- TBC
