Unintentionally, I made Dean's modest wish come true.
After popping the plug out of my sore, sensitive ass, it was the barest of bare minimum clean-up efforts. Wiping the excess moisture from my lower body, halfheartedly scrubbing the mess from the sheet, I collapsed in bed with heavy-hung lids, forgetting to end the call. Dean was performing his own lacking clean-up, so it was quiet on the other side of the phone save for some soft scuffling. Without bothering to check the logs, I know he didn't end it either. Come morning, my phone was dead. The neglected device never made it to the charger.
Spent as I was, late as I was up, I didn't expect to wake any later than eleven. There's persistent knocking at the front door as early as nine. Coming to consciousness and recognizing the sound for what it is, I groan. It's Sunday, and Mom's fond of overpriced brunch. She has a key, but she respects my privacy enough to not let herself in. Bless her.
Heaving out of bed, I alert her in a crackling, barely-awake shout: "—coming!"
Stuffing myself into a T-shirt and cotton shorts from the night before, I drag my feet through the apartment. Like anyone, I appreciate those lazy minutes rotting in bed after first rousing. It's a brutal thing to have to be up and about seconds after opening my eyes, especially on a Sunday. Unlocking the door, vision still a little fuzzed, I swing it open: "Mom, it's only—"
Instead of my mother's dolled-up face, I'm talking to a chest.
Dean's chest.
He's...wearing the necklace I gifted him.
Nothing in the world could've zapped my brain with clarity or cleared the sleepy cobwebs from my body faster: not a bump of cocaine, not 300mgs of concentrated caffeine in a can, not even my deceased father playing Ghost of Christmas Past. My heart thunders, and I flinch back. Whipping my face up, he's grinning down at me like his presence is neither strange nor unannounced. Then, he's coming closer, and his arms are scoops around my ribs. He lifts me so my feet are floating useless above the floor, steps into my apartment like he's every right to do so, and kicks the door closed behind him. I have no choice but to cling at his shoulders, otherwise I'd be hung in his grip like harpooned prey.
"Surprise." He murmurs against my throat, and it's terrifying how immediately my body's willing to just...melt for him. Fight it, Sam, fight it! I set to wriggling in his arms, knocking my fist against his shoulder, but he doesn't take the hint.
"Nngh, Dean! What—what the fuck are you doing here?! Put me down, you big bastard!"
"Mmm, I will, just a second. Your hair's gotten longer, I like it."
That's all it takes for me to give in to him. In my case, absence most certainly makes the heart grow fonder. Sighing, I tighten my arms around his neck and bring my legs up to do the same at his waist, crushing my thighs around his hips. He's strong enough to support me, and fuck, that's...hot. His hands relocate to my ass for a better grip, hefting me up with a little bounce, and that's even hotter. Criminally so. He showered this morning. While his hair is soft and dry where it teases my cheek, it smells strongly of his preferred brand of shampoo. His skin is plush and clean atop hard muscle, and I reacquaint myself with his heady, masculine scent. It's going straight to my head.
"Why do you know where I live?" I grumble against his clavicle.
"You know where I live, it's only fair."
"That's not an answer, and I technically don't. I know you're in the dorms, not which room specifically."
He clenches around my ass, to the point I can feel each finger individually. I'm surprised he's not left permanent fingerprints all over my body by now, with how tightly he grabs and squeezes. "It'd be easy to find out though."
"You have assignments to do—"
"I brought my shit."
Sure enough, he's got a backpack slung across his shoulder. I pull back to look at him, and he responds in kind. "And you're actually going to do it? Here? With me?"
He sniffs, feigning offense. "What are you implying, Sammy? I won't be able to pry you off my cock long enough to get any work done?"
"That's—! You! You're the one!" I defend ineloquently, sputtering.
"Here's what I'm thinking." He starts, as if I'd not said anything at all. "We fuck real quick. Go out for breakfast, because I know I just woke you up. Come back, fuck again. Then, you can help me with my assignments, like the good ol' days. Then, we fuck some more."
"That's...ninety percent fucking."
"Nah, I've got at least twenty percent worth of work to do. Besides, you complainin'? You were so horny last night, you were out of your fuckin' mind. Blue balls looks so good on you."
It's all too true for me to convincingly defend against. I
was
out of my mind, not that I expected him to catch me in the middle of it. "I can't be absent tomorrow, Dean, seriously."
"God, I didn't come to bust your kneecaps open."
"No, no, just break my spine in three places."
He gets that endearing, cheeky smile, peppering soft kisses to the underside of my jaw. "I'll be more than happy to push your wheelchair around for the rest of my life, baby."
"...put me down."
Huffing like I've asked for some great, burdensome task, he does. I'm horrified to find I'm already missing the attention, the blatant babying. A thirty-year old man shouldn't want to be scooped up and carried around like a child, but it felt so, so good being held against him after all this time. I'm left to wonder which one of us is taking this separation the hardest. To create some distance, I retreat to the kitchen with the excuse of making coffee. Dean drops his bag on one of the living room's armchairs, and he's swinging his head about like there's secrets and wonders to be found in the corners of my apartment.
"Can I look around?"
"You mean snoop? Knock yourself out."
Once he's out of sight, down the hall, I let myself hunch against the counter. I can't get my heart to slow, nor the warmth to leave my face. My hands are shaking. I feel just like a kid with a deep-seated crush, that constant tickle of giddiness. It's uncomfortable to feel this way, but I can control it no more than I can alter the sun's path across the sky. It's stupid, as we've spent a lot of intimate time together. He's made an unsightly mess out of me more times than I can count, yet I'm here almost panicking. His showing up might be unexpected, but I didn't think I'd have such a severe reaction when the time came. I'm...nervous, like there's a goddamn tiger loose in my home. Worse, a beast I
want
to be eaten by.
I want him to make a move, because I'm too fucking scared to do it.
"Nice place."
I jump, biting off a startled sound.
He wasn't gone long enough for me to even think about collecting myself. I can't bring myself to turn, to look at him, because he'll
know.
He'll see it all over my face. Shit, he reads me too well, I'm probably advertising it in neon across my back.
I hear him huff something that might be a laugh, though not because anything's funny. It's more incredulous, like he can't believe what he's seeing. Blood roars in my ears like I'm standing under a waterfall, and I feel the vibration of his steps more than hear them. When his chest makes firm, flush contact with my back, a terrible, horrible noise comes out of me: weak and breathless. His hands come around to grip the edge of the counter, and he leans forward, pressing me against it. He's wearing jeans, but the stiffness of his cock makes itself known against my lower back. I arch into it without meaning to.
His nose and mouth rest at the nest of curls behind my ear, and he drags them down the slope of my jaw. For how flushed I am, it must feel like a fever against his lips.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were scared of me. But, that's not it, huh?"
His left hand comes up to smooth over my brow, flattening my fringe across my scalp and away from my face. The pressure forces my head against his breast, and the sudden eye-contact nearly kills me. Just like over FaceTime less than twelve hours ago, his pupils have spread like ink, swallowing up most color from his eyes. It's a nonverbal threat.
"You know what you look like right now, Sam?"
His body's like a brick wall against mine. The pressure is smothering, yet intoxicating. It feels both secure and dangerous. I'm so tightly strung. I can't relax. I'm not sure what he's seeing in my face, but I'm humiliated for him to have seen it at all. Blood is sizzling in my cheeks, my brows are pinched. Even now, I can't respond, so my mouth wobbles mutely in a line. If eyes are windows to the soul, I don't want to imagine what's reflected in mine now—probably how deeply he's fucked me up. He tells me anyway, and my ears actually burn.
"Like you're fuckin'
starving
for it. Has anyone else seen this face on you, Sammy? They'd know exactly what you want. With how you're acting right now, it's hard to believe you've gone this long without a flesh and blood cock stuffing your holes."
I have no idea what possesses me to say it, but I snap a scowl at him: "Who says I haven't?"
Behind me, close as we are, I'm very aware of any softness and fluidity zapping out of him. He's suddenly stonelike and statue-still. His eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth drops around a baffled laugh. My chest clenches with fear. "I guess we've got all day to figure it out, huh?"
Oh, shit.
"D-Dean, wait, I didn't—!"
