Once a Nerd

Watching Dean chop it up with my mother is one of the more absurdist experiences of my life.

"I'm sorry, that's a

toupée.

Don't do yourself the disservice."

"Oh, please," She scoffs, as this is all in reference to a besotted colleague who's been making more frequent, increasingly forward advances. A professor in the mathematics department, last name Klements. They both attended a 'collaboration' retreat two weekends ago, and he's a big 'memory maker.' Many group photos and selfies were foisted on her, and Dean is scrutinizing one such memory on Mom's phone. He's not pulling his punches, either. I'm familiar with the professor in question, and it absolutely is a toupée.

"--at my age, that's hardly a dealbreaker."

"You mean

his

age. He's got what, twenty years on you? What's his endgame here? You'd be giving a eulogy before exchanging vows."

Mom snatches her phone from Dean's hand, embarrassed but coughing to cover a laugh.

"Three

years."

"Liver spots!"

"It's a

mole!"

Liver spots.

It's a lighthearted back and forth that none take too seriously. Since Dad's passing three winters ago, Mom's not dated, nor have we discussed whether she'd ever want to. I'm under no illusions about my parent's relationship, more a textbook demonstration on 'making it work' instead of the nuclear fantasy promised by misogynist propaganda in the fifties. In the late seventies, women were suspected to have their own conscious experience separate from the men they reluctantly married. A shock to us all. Their marriage wasn't passionate in the loud, obvious ways, but it was...admirable. Grinding through the same routines with the same person every day, even on days they disliked each other. Hated, maybe.

They definitely loved each other, but time changes the landscape of anything standing still against its perpetual flow. Before Dad died, I think their love was almost entirely platonic, though not to say it wasn't powerful. I'm sure there were days they made it work out of pure obligation, but I'm just as sure there were days they were grateful they picked each other to work with.

Not everyone has the capacity or energy for larger than life feelings. Not everyone's like Dean, and not every relationship is worth writing a story about. Meet, date, marriage, kid, work, die. Relationships like that are an ugly truth, which makes it at least worth a poem. What's poetry if not beautifying reality?

In any case, Dean's right. If Mom decides to date again, she's got her pick of fish. They throw themselves on the dock to suffocate at her feet, honestly.

She lifts herself from the armchair, huffy. "I'm getting some more coffee. Sammy, top off?"

"Yeah, I'll get it."

She swipes a kind, brief touch across the back of my hand as she passes, and I can't decide if I'm being babied or not. Normally, she'd offer at least once more. Dean, too. He isn't treating me like a newly diagnosed paraplegic as he would any other time we're together. Which tells me they're aware of my desire not to be catered to and overcompensating. Therefore, catering. Simple math. I'd sound deranged trying to address it, though. 'Uh, excuse me, you're supposed to be forcing me to accept your unsolicited help? Try again, thank you.'

Dean's slouched on the floor in front of the sofa, the end I'm occupying. With Mom gone from the room, I absentmindedly rake my nails across his scalp. I just can't bring myself to be blatantly affectionate with him in front of her, it's

weird as fuck.

He drops his head against the cushion, and his eyes are a darker shade when turned away from the biggest source of light in the room, Mom's prodigious tree. Gray, like choppy seas stuck in a bottle.

"How's Christmas?" He asks, his own unobtrusive way of verifying my wellbeing.

"Good."

"Yeah?" His gaze flickers over my face, pausing on my mouth.

"Mm, weird...? It's weird."

"Because your mom finds me witty and charming?"

"God, yes. That's so fucking weird, Dean."

He shrugs, "I can't just turn it off."

Liar. He can turn it off in a heartbeat. He can be cold, cruel, and unapproachable. I take guilty pleasure in being the sole recipient of his sincere softness, because while he might like and respect my mother, this is an intuitive facade. In fact, even when he's being genuine with others, there's always a noticeable tinge of disinterest. I snort softly, and Dean's brows reach for his hair. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm tracing the bone structure in his face. His eyes slip shut in quiet appreciation of the doting touch.

"Kiss me." He mumbles. "I miss you."

"How's that?"

"My lips miss your lips."

I try to be incredulous, "are you--"

--who the fuck am I kidding?

Perking an ear, I try to ascertain Mom's position. There's the distant jangle of glass bottles as the fridge opens. Either getting creamer out or replacing it on the shelf. Plenty of time. Leaning my face over his, I smooth my lips against his forehead. Then, the point of his nose. His eyes twitch under lid like he's immediately slipped into a daydream. Warmth. Firm bone and bendable cartilage under seamless, soft skin. Dean's scent diffuses in my head. It'd take a person of much stronger will to deny him this simple, sweet intimacy. To deny myself. His mouth parts with anticipation, tracking the nearness of mine with each breath that washes across his face. Verging on our best recreation of Tobey Maguire's iconic, upside down kiss with Kirsten Dunst--

"A--hem."

Cockblocked. Sort of. By my own flesh and blood. Like it would've killed her to loiter in the connecting hall for thirty more seconds.

You know, Tobey almost drowned filming that scene. So, there's probably something poetic about being interrupted. I snap back into place against the armrest with embarrassed, obvious color rising from my neck like mercury in a glass thermometer, like Elmer Fudd bested time and time again by Bugs. Dean's eyes crack open, but he doesn't pick his head off the cushion. He clicks his tongue, disgruntled. I'm sorry, he might be spending Christmas with us, but I'm not going to

kiss him about it.

Not in front of her.

Even if he were a normal man of socially acceptable age. PDA is uncomfortable as is, but I've never actually brought anyone home to the folks. Or, folk. Growing up, my parents weren't physically affectionate people. Not with me, not with each other. Hugs, kisses, back rubs, hand holding. Someone had to be hurt, dying, or celebrating a huge success to warrant such theatrics. Mom might be aware of my orientation, but she doesn't need a demonstration. Also, she taught Dean his fucking ABC's. Probably how to wipe his own ass, too. We shouldn't have that in common.

So, so weird.

It's five in the evening, Christmas Day. Dinner was actually a late lunch, though there was no shortage of options for our party of three. Gifts were exchanged not long after we arrived, shortly before noon. Five hours is enough time for my coming to terms with the

ludicrous

amount of money Mom managed to offload in less than two days. Dean got an Iphone 16 Pro, and I was shown to a fresh-off-the-assembly Palisade hidden in her two-car garage. A huge, red bow ran under the hood like we were shooting a Hyundai commercial. The shameless ones they run during Christmas and the Super Bowl, connecting some heartwarming backstory to beer, cars, vacuums, and Chipotle. Like consumerism is supposed to move you.

And it

works,

that's the bullshit.

I tried to refuse, but Mom aggressively took me by the hand and flipped it palmside up. She folded my fingers around the fob, and her expression declared: 'no son of mine is driving around in his own crime scene.'

I never knew how much Dad's policy paid out after he passed, but I did suspect Mom clung onto a bulk of that money. Of course there's a need for insurance in this economic climate, because most people can't shit out a lump sum should their house catch fire or their car become the innards of a pileup sandwich. Children left to fend for themselves, or a spouse who earns significantly less than the husband or wife they aligned with. Bills don't stop. But, you're suddenly being asked to equate a string of numbers with a person's life. Someone you loved. Their laugh, their preferences, their legs taking up too much space on your side of the bed exchanged for dollars and cents.

These days, that money isn't even a physical thing. A digitality decided upon by an adjuster who probably e-signed the approval while hungover and gnawing through a leftover BLT and

not giving a single fuck about another dead cancer patient, they're a dime a dozen.

I'd be a dick to try and dictate how she chooses to spend it, and frankly, I had no intention of ever getting back in that car. Not with a horrible memory looping in my rearview. With no shortage of discomfort, I accepted the gift. Dean, on the other hand, didn't seem even a little surprised when unboxing his new phone. He didn't argue beyond a dry, 'really?'

She was responsible for the prepaid he had on him yesterday, and apparently, we're all on a family plan now.

Murphy's Law in action:

anything that

can

get weirder

will

get weirder.

...can she access our texts now?

Would she...?

Oh, God.

He's spent the last hour fiddling with it. Redownloading pertinent apps, inputting the few contacts he has memorized, transferring pictures from mine to his en masse. I've no qualms handing my phone over for him to dig through. Dean is my biggest secret, after all. I leave the couch for that top off I said I'd get for myself, no one jumping to get it for me, and almost six feels like an appropriate time to say our goodbyes. I've already suffered through an unpleasant interrogation about my wellbeing. We ate, opened gifts, and discussed my mother's prospects. It was wholesome and festive and everything Christmas is supposed to be, and now I'm tired. I think I've been tired the entire time.

I want Dean's brand of omniscience.

I want to bask in his just

knowing

what to do. What to say. We had a rough go of it in the beginning, but he's easing back into himself. Uncertainty doesn't suit him, even coming from a good place. This break won't last forever, and I'm not sure who's dreading the separation more. Sure, I miss him terribly when we're apart, but I've been...discreet about it, I think. I'm adept at compartmentalizing.

Now?

I'm

scared.

I'm scared to be without him. I'm scared to be alone in the places I'd normally navigate comfortably and thoughtlessly. I'm scared to sleep by myself. I'm scared of the people I see almost daily, even if it's just what they'll think of me.

And he's too much of a fucking sacrificant to be honest with. If I told him any of that, he'd drop everything. He'd make life so much harder for himself to make mine the littlest bit easier, and I wish I could hate him for that. We all have our crosses to bear, and pretending not to be traumatized is my latest trinity of cedar, cypress, and pine. I'll just have to stitch together a safety blanket of all the moments we've got left, blocks of memory I can pull over my head when I forget how to breathe.

Finishing the coffee I didn't actually want, just a habit drink, Dean's already making all the moves of a courteous guest preparing to announce their departure. Standing, offering to assist with any last minute cleanup, gathering the rest of our less expensive gifts. See? All-fucking-knowing. Mom can read between the lines, doling out hugs and farewells as we walk our things to the trunk of the car. There's a jarring, mechanical churn as the garage door slides upward on the track, and I realize I don't actually want to--

"Want me to drive, Sammy?"

He's worked the fob from where my fingers had whitened around it, massaging a thumb against my damp palm. Looking at him, processing the question, I scrape the inside of my cheek between my teeth to keep from hyperventilating. I'm not okay. I can't do this. I can't do this by myself. I can't, can't,

can't--

"Yeah, please."

Dean drives us home in the new midsize SUV I'm too guilty to be excited about, and sensing this, he makes no comment on the vehicle. He laces our hands together on the center console and sticks to safe, superficial topics. On the short drive, I decide I need...intervention? Therapy, guided meditation, hypnotism,

something.

My feelings are a matted snarl in my head, and while I can sit here and label them all, I'm helpless on detangling and filing them to their proper place. Even if we last forever, death do us part, Dean can't be physically present at my side around the clock.

I know that, but I'm choking myself with nerves thinking of his inevitable return to Fresno. For most, winter break is almost a month between semesters, students returning early to mid January.

Dean has to go back in a week and a half. It's the off season for collegiate football, but there's still weekly conditioning until sort-of official practices in late March. There's also the issue of

he brutally assaulted a guy.

He wasn't charged, but no way word doesn't make it back somehow. God, what if they kick him off the team...?

What if, what if, what if.

I can't enjoy the present. I can't even be comforted by it. There's a wall of anxiety between us, and I can't ask him to break it down. Fake it 'til you make it. Or, until an explosive, emotional breakdown. And those tend to come on at the worst, most inopportune times, like in the middle of the sex I swore up and down I'm totally ready for. I am! I

am.

It's not the act that shoves me over the cliff with both hands.

Two days after Christmas, Dean surrenders to my continued appeals for physical intimacy. It's the only way I can bring myself to reach out, and he's

so good about it.

Slow, tender, every touch burning with affection. So fucking patient, but so much more sure of himself. His sweet, soft words caramelize against my skin, sugar browned to syrup. I can't count how many times he asks if I'm okay, if it feels good, and I am. And it does! It

does.

That's the problem. It has nothing to do with Dean being very obviously a man. Bigger than me, stronger than me,

fucking me.

I'm not scared of him or nauseated by the contact.

His forearms are scooped under my upper back, hands gripping me by the shoulders. He's planted his face in my throat, mouth working relentlessly. 'I love you, I love you, Sam,

fuck'

between hot, scraping kisses. His hips put a delicious stretch in my thighs where they've split to accommodate his mass. His cock gouges a hard, rhythmic path to my stomach and grates against my prostate along the way. My body's become a pressure cooker: hormones, endorphins, adrenaline, and repressed emotion colliding violently under the swell of orgasm. Blurring together in my mind:

feels good/so close/I love him/leaving/he's leaving--

He's

leaving.

The dam bursts. A trite analogy, but trite for a reason. Plugging pinholes in a fractured dam is dumb and pointless. My eyes scald and spill over. Dense, excited breaths turn into hyperventilation. Immediately sensing the change, Dean jerks away, swearing: "holy shit! Sammy, what--?!"

Acting out of pure, stupid instinct, I latch around him. Locking my ankles at his lower back, snapping my arms around his neck, I cling with all the strength I've got. I cling like I'll fall back on a bed of spikes and die if we're separated. I can feel the shock and confusion hardlined in him as he sits up, because I'm having what amounts to an active panic attack while keeping myself impaled on his dick.

"Sam, h--hey...? What's...? Let me--"

"No!"

Dean sputters, "Sam, come on, I can't--!"

He's trying to jimmy his hands between us, attempting to unwind my limbs from him without causing harm. "Let me at least..." He grunts, "--pull out, please!"

This is where it gets a little...slapstick.

Somehow, I find the energy to squeeze even tighter. Understandably, Dean would rather not initiate a heart to heart while balls deep. Assuming the sex itself has triggered me into hysterics, removing the appendage responsible is a logical first step. But, it's not the sex. It's not his dick. That's all been great. Really, really great. So great, I can't bear to see it end. Keeping him at arm's length emotionally, I need this physical closeness. The panicked, primitive part of my brain swears it's a matter of life and death.

From an outside perspective, it might look like Dean is wrestling one of the facehuggers that lurches out from a xenomorph's egg. Small, but tenacious and unusually strong relative to their size. He's struggling to pry me off without thrusting his hips or leaving a bruise, and we end up tumbling across the bed.

"For the love of fucking Go--! Shit!"

Off the side, landing hard against the floor. Gravity plunges all my weight downward, and Dean's cock finds another inch and a half to fill. His erection flagged a bit since becoming aware of my distress, but he's endowed enough for that not to make a difference. Something hits

just right,

and holy shit, I'm actually cumming. Gasping, already short of breath, I seize through a powerful wallop of pleasure ignited in my gut. Amazingly, as the flood of feel-good chemicals recedes, I feel better. Less insane. Biology is funny.

"Did you just...?" Dean gapes up at me in disbelief. Glancing down, indeed, there's a damning splatter of cum glistening on his chest.

"...sorry."

Realizing whatever the fuck

that was

is mostly passed, he sags into the floor and drops his head. "Get off my dick and talk. Now."

We both cringe and groan through the process of disconnecting, and Dean directs me to sit on the edge of the bed. Stern, irritated, but more concerned than anything. He takes a knee between mine, cradles me by the ribs, and bluntly asks, "what the fuck was that?"

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I work to gather the brittle, crumpled litter of my thoughts into a cushion I can fall back on. After that performance, he won't accept anything less than the truth. My chest aches from those sharp, punctuated breaths I ripped out earlier. My eyelids feel like sandpaper scouring my corneas. I'm exhausted from the attack and subsequent climax. I don't have the vigor to be anything other than honest.

"I want a haircut. And a therapist."

Resting his brow against the inside of my knee, he sighs deeply, "okay."

--

Parking Sam's shiny, new Palisade in the shade of a California laurel, there's a modest and homey one-story in front of us. Sun-dried brick, robin's egg shutters, and a cobblestone pathway instead of ho-hum cement. Potted flowers, an unassuming sign hanging in the glass door. Sam turns to me with eyes thinning in accusation.

"Did you call my fucking mom?"

"How else was I supposed to get you a next day appointment?!" I defend.

Everyone and their fuckin' sister owes Jane Powell a favor, to be sure she's got a therapist in her back pocket. And, she did. Before this early afternoon appointment, we stopped by a highfalutin salon that refers to its work as

transformation

and

artistry.

In Sam's case, those standards were met ten times over. His visible bruising is mostly faded, and with a fresh cut? In public, the rubbernecking is out of control, though he's too stuck in his head to notice. Isn't there scripture about plucking your own eyes out if they're prone to wandering?

Godless sinners.

As it was almost touching his shoulders, he'd been keeping it tied up. The length wasn't a fashion choice, just a lack of prioritization. He'd been busier since tackling our first semester on the coast, and being a 'small town' teacher before that, there was more pressure to uphold that frumpy, 'definitely a man' aesthetic. He gets frustrated with the front pieces snagging in his glasses or obscuring his vision, but now, I think he wants to avoid feminizing himself. For obvious reasons I'm really, really trying not to dwell on.