Their Bruises On The Inside (Sam/Dean) NC17 (Part One)

[runedgirl]

Author name:runedgirl
Artist name: midnightsilvers
Genre: Wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean (with Sam/Jess, Sam/OMC, Sam/OFC, Dean/Cassie, Dean/OMC, Dean/OFC)
Rating: NC17
Word count: 21,200

Summary: Sam and Dean through the eyes of the people they meet while Sam is at Stanford – strangers, friends, lovers – as they make their way back to each other. Outsider pov for most of the story.

A/N: Thanks to my talented collaborator, midnightsilvers and her beautiful art, and to without_me for the much appreciated beta. And thanks as always to the mods for the great time that is spn_j2_bigbang!

Link to art: A03









She’s not the only one who notices him. Guys like that—who look like that, because she doesn’t have a clue what he’s like beneath pale freckled skin and pretty green eyes and the flash of white teeth when he smiles—guys like that don’t come into a bar like this every day. Roseanne catches her eye from the other end of the bar, quick eyebrow raise to say, you got this one? Roseanne never gives a damn about the people on the other side of the bar, no matter how much they flirt or flash tens and twenties before stuffing them into an empty glass. Roseanne’s got a man to go home to and he’s about to turn three, and no one else, including Johnny Handsome here, is worth the time she’d have to take away from him.

Roseanne nods in Sandy’s direction and smirks, a once-over to Johnny Handsome before she turns away because she may not be interested, but her vision is just fine.

“Help you?”

He smiles a greeting, orders a beer and a whiskey. The smile fades when Sandy moves away, and she watches out of the corner of her eye as she gets his drinks, wondering if it will return when she does. Being a bartender fits in well with her studies at the university, giving her lots of fodder for papers on personality traits and defense mechanisms and psychopathology while making a small dent in the tuition bills.

Sure enough, when she sets the drinks down and he raises his head, the grin is back, but she can see now it’s not entirely genuine. Most smiles at strangers aren’t, she thinks. What is there to be so happy about when you don’t have a clue who the other person is?

“Can I get you a menu?”

Johnny Handsome sighs, looks at his watch. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Sandy recognizes the combo. “Need some food to absorb the alcohol.”

He shrugs, takes a pull on his beer. “I guess. Mostly I was just trying to remember when I ate something.”

“Well, if you’re hungry, we’ve got a pretty big menu. Something for every appetite.”

It could be a come-on; it could be a menu description. Johnny Handsome takes it as something else, an invitation for an admission.

“Don’t really have much of that these days,” he says, and takes another drink.

Back away, back away, the rational voice in Sandy’s head says. She knows better than to get involved with this kind, spilling within two minutes that whatever tragedy he’s experienced has been enough to put him off food—but not drink. Still, up close those eyes are so green.

He’s staring at her when she finishes those mental calculations, like he’s trying to size her up too. “Uh, burger and fries, medium well. Lotsa onions.”

“A good way to keep everyone at arm’s length,” she notes, and his eyebrows go up.

“Or maybe I just like onions.”

He’s come alive a little, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“Point,” she concedes, and takes his menu. He doesn’t seem to be looking for a hookup, and it’s probably just as well. She’s got two exams to study for, and a guy this good-looking sitting at the bar alone has got to be trouble.

“Dean,” he says when she puts the burger and fries in front of him, onions piled high on the one lettuce leaf and thin slice of pale tomato on the top bun.

“Sandy. Enough onions?”

He nods, and this time when he looks at her there’s a spark of interest in his eyes.

“Enjoy. Let me know if you wanna borrow some gum after. Just, you know, in case.”

At that he smiles for real, though it’s tentative, more amusement than joy.

“At least it doesn’t give me gas,” he says, and it’s not what she was expecting. “Some people, they have onions, they get gassy, and then you’ve gotta ride in the car with ’em all day and it’s enough to make you puke if you don’t roll all the windows down.”

“Well, that’s disgusting.”

“Right?” He takes a big bite of his burger, juice running down his chin, and she wants to reach out and wipe it away, which should be her second warning signal. “It was disgusting.”

His smile fades and he goes back to his burger, and Sandy tries to talk herself out of doing anything but bringing him another round of drinks and the check, but every time she firms up her resolve she catches a glimpse of him contemplating his empty whiskey glass, pad of his finger tracing the lip around and around and around like he’s mesmerized by it. Something’s on his mind, that’s clear, and it’s not Sandy and it’s probably never going to be.

He's taken off his leather jacket, and she tries not to look at his bare arms, the fine blond hairs and subtle curves of muscle there. He’s got an unusual necklace that gleams gold against his black tee shirt and a beaded bracelet on one wrist. She goes back like a fly to honey, shaking her head at her own bad decisions—but she’s not even twenty-two, and isn’t that what she’s supposed to be doing now anyway?

“Another?” she asks. It’s late now, bar emptying out, so she leans in a little, watches his gaze pull to her cleavage. He licks his lips.

“Nah, think I’ve had enough. You busy after your shift?”

It’s so predictable, it should make her want to laugh. Timeworn signals, sent and received, rinse and repeat. Nothing different about this one other than the length of his sooty lashes, the way he bites the fullness of his lower lip when he asks.

“That depends. You wanna borrow that mouthwash we talked about?”

She’s surprised when he laughs at that, and fuck if he isn’t about a thousand times more attractive when he’s smiling for real, if that’s even possible.

Her place is a block away, and there isn’t much need or time for small talk—sometimes with a stranger you’re just taking a chance on ruining it before you get what either of you is after. He might turn out to love the things she hates or hate the things she loves or just be an asshole, albeit a beautiful one, and Sandy would rather not take that chance. Dean must be on the same page; he walks quietly beside her, only commenting when they’re at her doorstep that it’s a nice place. It’s not, really, but she appreciates the gesture.

It’s only September, but at two a.m. the air is crisp and too cold for her liking, so the warmth of her cozy apartment feels good as they step inside.

“My roommates are asleep,” she tells him, because bringing a stranger home is stupid enough, but bringing a stranger home to an apartment where you’ll be all alone is a level of stupid she’s not interested in.

He nods and whispers “I’ll be quiet,” but the look on his face says he understood the warning for what it was.

He keeps his promise, mostly, but she’d be lying if she said that she did. Dean is every bit as gorgeous under that leather jacket and black tee shirt and jeans, lean and muscled and surprisingly scarred, and it just makes him more mysterious. He can’t be much older than she is, but his body tells a story of a different kind of life; she wonders if he was in a gang or fought in a war, and then she loses that train of thought and most other trains too when he parts her thighs and uses those plush lips and eager tongue to make quiet an impossibility.

He doesn’t ask to fuck her, just gets her off and then strokes himself lazily, lying back and putting his body on offer if she wants it.

“Let me,” she whispers, and he puts his hands above his head and stretches out, shameless display and it makes her want to taste him all over, all those freckles and all that pale skin crisscrossed with marks of some barely survived battles. She wants to make him come apart like she just did, so she uses her mouth on his throat and shoulders, her tongue on the points of his nipples. He’s silent until she goes down on him in earnest, using every trick she’s learned works on most guys, finding the rhythm of suck and stroke and twist that makes him finally start panting. His hips judder when he comes, and she lets him cream his own belly, droplets sticky in the fine hair there.

“You wanna stay the night?” she asks, thinking she might be up for a round two—to her surprise, because it’s goddamn three a.m. and she has those papers to write tomorrow.

“Nah,” he answers. “Gotta get on the road, got a job to get to. If you don’t mind, though, I’d be grateful for a quick shower. Promise I won’t use up all the hot water.”

She gives him a towel and is surprised by her own disappointment. Not like she had visions of anything beyond one night, but maybe more than one time.

His hair is sticking up in wild spikes when he comes out, making him look boyish and younger than he did before. She watches as he pulls on his jeans and tee shirt and runs his fingers through it, impromptu styling it a little in her mirror.

“Mind if I borrow a little of this?”

“My hair gel?”

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, but he’s smiling.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

She watches as he coaxes his hair up in the middle. He regards himself in the mirror briefly, then sighs like he’s disappointed with what he sees. Which makes zero sense.

Sandy pulls on an oversized tee shirt and comes to stand behind him. He looks sad, suddenly, and she puts her arms around him in comfort, not desire.

“You in school?” he asks, his hand brushing over the Intro Psych book on the dresser. “College?”

“Unfortunately.”

She’s surprised when he seems genuinely interested. He turns around to face her, hands on her elbows like he’s keeping her at arm’s length. “Why ‘unfortunately’? You don’t like it?”

Sandy was not expecting questions, especially after Dean had already gotten laid and was clearly not angling for another go.

“I like it well enough, I guess, but, you know, it’s a lot. A lot of work. On top of, you know, work work.”

Dean nods, like he hadn’t thought of that. “It makes it a lot harder, working at the bar and going to school, I guess. How many hours do you have to work? Have you always worked, the whole time you’ve been in school?”

He’s suddenly more animated than he was a few hours ago, never mind it’s three thirty a.m.

“Yeah, unfortunately. Do you, uh, want a cup of coffee?”

Dean says yes. He pages through her textbooks while she brews half a pot and puts a few glazed donuts she’d grabbed the day before from the bakery down the block on a plate. Dean smiles to see them, eats one like it isn’t stale, and licks the glaze from his lips as he asks her how many hours she works and how many hours she has classes and what would be different if she didn’t put in twenty-five hours a week at the bar.

Sandy’s fairly certain they’re not talking about her anymore.

She answers all his questions, surprised by both his naivete when it comes to higher education and his empathy for something he clearly knows very little about.

“Thanks,” he says as he’s leaving, shrugging on the oversized leather jacket. “Sorry for picking your brain in the middle of the night. I just… I guess I never took the time to find out too much about… all this.”

He waves his hand to encompass her apartment, her books on the table, her life.

“Probably should’ve asked more questions,” he says.

“To who?”

It’s the wrong question. The openness on his face shutters, and he turns toward the door. “No one in particular,” he lies, and then he remembers to be a gentleman, turning back to her and kissing her on the cheek. “Thanks again, for the donuts and the coffee and…”

She’s sure he’s gonna say the sex and she’s gonna have to laugh, but he just smiles like he knows what she’s thinking. “And being patient with all my dumbass questions.”

He doesn’t insult her with an “I’ll look you up when I’m in town again,” but he does turn around one last time before leaving.

“Good luck with gettin’ through. You will, you know. You’ve gotten this far. Think you’ll be a good shrink.”

She microwaves the rest of the coffee to dunk the last donut as she starts on the first paper.



It’s only the second date, so she’s a little surprised that Sam is comfortable enough with her to leave her alone in his dorm room while he takes care of “something important, be right back.”

The thought crosses her mind that maybe he’s just not that into her, avoiding an awkward conversation by leaving and not coming back, assuming she’ll get the message eventually and go home. Then again, Sam doesn’t seem like a coward.

She laughs at herself at that thought, because really, what does she know about him? They’d shared an outlet at the Starbucks on south campus one day last week, struck up a conversation about climate change, and ended up sitting on a bench as the sun went down, making out and then exchanging phone numbers and agreeing to get together again.

Julia wasn’t even sure he’d call. He was nice enough, and way more than cute enough, but there was a melancholy to Sam Winchester that she wasn’t sure she could lift with a kiss or even a roll in the sheets. Still, she’d been happy when the number she’d optimistically entered in her contacts announced “Sam W” was calling. Their suite was full of not only her roommates but three of their partners, so she’d offered to come to his place. It’s sparse but neat, Sam’s books stacked on the desk and the plain blue quilt pulled up neatly on his bed. Sam himself was as adorable as when he’d apologized for tangling their charger cords at Starbucks, shaggy too-long hair in his eyes and long, lean body in baggy jeans and a purple shirt with a whippet on it.

They were just deciding where to go for dinner when Sam’s phone buzzed. The look on his face when he saw the message initially made her think he’d gotten some terrible news, but then he leaped up from the chair and put on his sneakers and rushed out, saying he’d be right back. No explanation, but he didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked excited; more animated than she’d seen him yet.

Twenty minutes go by, and Julia has resisted the temptation to look in Sam’s bureau drawers, but only just barely. She spent a good five minutes examining the photos stuck in the side of the mirror, one of a dad with two little kids, one of whom might or might not be Sam, and one of a young Sam with another young man, equally attractive, the two of them laughing at the camera.

She nearly drops that photo trying to put it back when the door opens, ready to apologize for snooping, but instead she just freezes and stares. It’s not Sam. It’s the young man from the photo she’s holding in her hand.

He looks as shocked to see her as she is to see him.

“Oh, uh, sorry, I…” he stammers, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone else is there. “I was looking for—is this Sam’s room?”

“Uh-huh.”

He looks relieved, lets out a breath, and scrubs his hand through his hair.

“You’re the guy in the photo,” she says before she can think better of it.

She holds it out to him, and he takes a step toward her and looks down. He must think it’s odd that she was standing there with it in her hand, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he breaks into a smile that seems to warm the entire room. When he looks up, his face is suffused with gratitude, like Julia did something wonderful.



“Are you, uh, a friend of his?” he asks.

“I guess so. We were on a date, sorta, but he got a text and ran out, so I’m…” Julie laughs, feeling her cheeks heat. “I was waiting for him to come back, but maybe he changed his mind and I haven’t realized I’ve been stood up yet.”

The guy laughs and shakes his head. “Sammy? No way. He’d never do that. Me, I’ve pulled stunts like that, but Sam? Nah, he’s a gentleman.”

“Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

“You could say that. What don’t I know about that kid? Anyway, I gotta go, but can you give him this?”

He holds out a manila envelope, thick with whatever’s inside.

“Sure—who should I say it’s from?”

The guy smiles again, but it’s a lot sadder this time. A lot like the smile she’s seen on Sam. “He’ll know. Probably wanna kick my ass, but I’ll be long gone by then.”

She takes the envelope, and he turns to go.

“He’s a good guy. The best. So just—don’t break his heart, okay? And tell him not to work too hard. He’ll be back in no time, promise.”

Julia wants to say it’s way too soon to think about broken hearts, that Sam Winchester is a stranger, that she has no idea if they’ll even make it to date number three, because right now number two isn’t looking too promising. But this guy is earnest, looking like he needs the reassurance. “I know he is. And I won’t.”

He nods, and then he’s gone. Julia doesn’t look in the envelope—it’s taped up way too much to open, and she wouldn’t do that anyway. She tucks the photo carefully back into the mirror. Sam comes back five minutes later, looking harried and frustrated. He looks surprised to see her there; it doesn’t bode too well that he’s forgotten.

“Shit, Julia, so sorry! I got a message to go somewhere, and I thought—but there wasn’t anyone, anything there. False alarm, I guess. I don’t know. Sorry.”

He seems genuinely upset, both about the false alarm and about forgetting he had a date in his dorm room.

“A guy stopped by while you were out.”

Sam stops in his tracks—literally. “What? What did he look like?”

“Tall, leather jacket, green eyes. Hot.”

Sam whirls around and runs out into the hall, looking one way and then the other. “How long ago did he leave? What did he say?”

“He said you were a good guy and I shouldn’t break your heart and that you shouldn’t work too hard. And he left this for you.”

She holds out the envelope, and Sam grabs it so fast it nearly falls to the floor. He rips one end open and peers inside, reaches in, and pulls out twenty-dollar bills. A lot of them.

“Whoa.” Is Sam some kind of drug dealer? That’s got to be thousands of dollars, easy.

Sam swears, then collapses on the bed like the money is too heavy for him to hold up. “That fucking asshole.”

“He said you’d wanna kick his ass.”

“Yeah well, he’s right. Comes all the way here and then doesn’t wanna fucking see me? What the fuck?”

Julia glances at the photo, then back at a distraught Sam. “So is he, like, an ex?”

“What? No! No, he’s—he’s my brother.”

She wants to say, “Neither of you is acting like you’re brothers and I’m not sure I even believe you,” but it’s really none of her business.

“I should probably go,” she offers, and he doesn’t try to dissuade her.

There’s no date number three, but Julia sorta thinks she dodged a bullet on that one.




He’s had three drinks, which is more than he usually has in less than an hour, so at first he thinks he’s being pranked when the guy with the green eyes and made-to-suck-cock lips buys him the fourth. So much so that he looks to his left and then to his right, trying to identify who the real recipient might be.

“You don’t want it?” the gorgeous guy asks, and Martin turns back, blinking and trying to find some measure of cool, calm, and collected. It’s Tuesday night, and he usually comes to this bar to fantasize about hooking up but mostly hang out with his friends.

It’s a gay bar, but it’s really just like all the other bars close to campus, mostly students and nothing all that exciting going on. There aren’t even any back rooms. Martin had never been to a gay bar before he came to college, and he’s sure there are some in bigger cities that are more like the fanfiction he’s read, but this one is no more provocative than the neighborhood bar back in Winston Corner.

“Oh no, I do, thanks. That’s—that’s really nice of you.”

Up close, the guy is even more striking. He’s got freckles, making him look boyish, almost innocent, but his swagger and the leather jacket he’s wearing tell a different story. He’s like some storybook mix of innocent kid and bad boy, and Martin is not usually the kind of guy who wants to jump someone’s bones the second he lays eyes on them, but wow.

“Dean,” the guy says, settling on the seat beside him.

“Martin, nice to meet you.”

Dean cocks his head and smiles. “Martin, that’s a… you’re a student here, right?”

Martin nods, shifting in his chair. Why can’t he have a more badass name? He should have made something up. “Not the coolest name, I know. I grew my hair long in protest over the whitest, most conventional name my parents could’ve given me.”

“I like it,” Dean says, and he reaches out and brushes a strand out of Martin’s face, tucks it behind his ear.

It’s gentle, unexpectedly affectionate from this stranger that Martin doesn’t even know. So this is how it can happen, just like on TV or in fanfic, he thinks, stomach flipping with excitement. His dick stirs just from that fleeting touch, the warmth of Dean’s fingers brushing against his ear while Dean’s big green eyes catch his.

“You go here too?” Martin asks, clearing his throat to get the words out.

Dean laughs. “Definitely not. Just passin’ through, thought I’d grab a beer. Maybe somethin’ else.”

It’s a fairly blatant come-on, and Martin can feel himself blush. So much for looking even the tiniest bit cool. “Great, yeah, I mean, I’d be into that, definitely.”

“You have nice eyes,” Dean says, still gazing into them. “So many colors. It’s kinda rare, did you know that? Not that many people have that kind of eyes.”

Martin has no idea, but he’s glad for them if it’s going to make a guy who looks like Dean stare at him like that. “You wanna, um, come back to, uh, my place?”

Dean laughs, but it’s not dismissive. It sounds more delighted. “Not used to the pickup lines, are you?”

Martin blushes more, but Dean seems to find that appealing too.

“C’mon, college boy, let’s settle up and follow your own pickup line.”

Martin’s pleasantly buzzed, getting warmer by the second as he notices the envious stares that follow them out the front door. This guy picked me, he thinks, incredulously. He wishes Dean would do something wild like hold his hand, put his arm around him. Wild because the guy beside him is a stranger, not even another student. Martin feels reckless and a little foolish, and it’s the best feeling he’s had in a long time.

His little third-floor flat is just his, and it’s not much but at least it’s private. Martin has never brought home a stranger, but there’s something about Dean that makes Martin want to trust him. Martin hopes it’s not just those lips.

“Want a beer?” he says, because Dean hasn’t swept him into his arms or anything. He’s going through Martin’s bookshelf instead, running his fingers over the titles.

“So, what are you majoring in?”

Small talk was not what Martin was expecting, but he goes with it, answers all of Dean’s questions about being prelaw and what his favorite courses are and whether he has to work at all. Dean nods when Martin says no, his parents are paying the bills despite his long-hair rebellion.

“I also got a tattoo,” he confesses, feeling too much like a coddled little boy and wondering why this bad boy in the leather jacket is even interested in him.

“Rebel,” Dean teases, and his voice is soft but his eyes are faraway.

“You wanna see it?” Martin asks, and he feels like he’s pushing now, like he’s losing Dean’s interest before they’ve even gotten started.

“Sure,” Dean says, and Martin takes off his shirt, shows off the half sleeve he’s proud of.

“Nice. Artistic.”

“You wanna get comfortable too?”

Martin’s not sure where his cheesy dialogue is coming from—maybe the four drinks—but Dean doesn’t seem to hold it against him. He shrugs, slipping out of his jacket and then pulling his shirt over his head. Bare-chested, he’s even more breathtaking, muscular and pale-skinned, freckles dusted over his shoulders. He’s wearing some kind of necklace, a bronze, horned figure.

“Oh, that’s cool.” Martin’s reaching for it before he thinks about it, and suddenly Dean’s hand is wrapped around his wrist, stopping him.

“Don’t.”



Shit, he’s fucked it up now.

“Ohmygod I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked first,” Martin mumbles, wondering how he can be messing up so bad. It’s not like he’s never had a date before—he’s even had hookups, and they’ve never gone south quite this badly.

Dean bites his lip; he’s looking away, at nothing, over Martin’s shoulder. “It’s okay, sorry, I just—can we, can we just not talk? If you wanna.” He gestures to their pants, leaves the question unsaid.

A wave of relief washes over Martin because yes sir, he absolutely does want to, and he’s fucking it up with every word, so he’s more than happy to just shut up about it.

Part Two

Comments

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

Fascinating intro, and outsider POV? Love it!

[runedgirl.livejournal.com]

I love outsider POV too, so this was alot of fun to write! Glad you're enjoying it too :)

[tranquilityhope.livejournal.com]

Stanford Era, angsting boys and outsider POV — it's like my top three favourite Wincest tropes served on a platter!
Love your writing. Have read The Ghost of Somebody at His Side three times!
Thank you for this fic. I love it already! :)