Blue Memories

Lying Stars

Jensen/Sam (RPS/SPN crossover), R - pre-Supernatural/Stanford era


To say it's a shock would be an understatement of epic proportions. Sam feels like his heart stops beating in his chest (can actually feel it stutter, fail, before it picks up rhythm again, stronger, more determined than before), feels as if he needs to turn tail and run for the hills.

He doesn't, of course. Instead he mechanically steps further into the seedy L.A. bar (he just decided to drive up here to get together with a couple friends, he's a day early, just looked for a place to wind down, why the fuck is this happening?), his eyes fusioned to the side of Dean's face. Sam watches the way his strong jaw moves as he talks to some guy, lips curling in a smile and then fastening around the neck of a beer bottle. His hair's longer than Sam remembers ever seeing it, but everything else about his brother looks so achingly familiar, so close he wants to reach out and touch, reassure himself this is not just wishful thinking.

Sam wants to step up to Dean, but the last moment he veers off course, decides it best to settle back in a quiet booth and watch. They haven't parted on the best of terms and Sam hasn't heard from Dean in too long a time to feel like he can casually walk up to him. Dean would say it was him who hadn't heard from Sam in too long, and as he settles down, eyes still on his brother, Sam has to smile. Dean's voice is as strong as it ever was inside his head. Can't shake something like that, even if he wanted. Which he doesn't. Dean's more home to him than any place they ever stayed at.

A waitress puts down a beer in front of him and Sam gives her a half-smile even though he hardly looks at her. He's pretty sure she gives him a weirded-out look, but there's absolutely nothing in this world and the dimensions beyond he cares less about.

Dean's there, right in front of him, with his back to Sam, and Sam can't stop studying the lines of his brother's body, following them with his eyes as if the intent behind his look was another one entirely. He notices Dean doesn't look as strong as he used to, not as graceful, and he wonders if maybe Dean was wounded. Anger wells up in him at the thought, guilt too: Dean might have been wounded and Sam wasn't there to pick up the pieces, wasn't there to bitch back at Dean when he was a jerk because of the pain, wasn't there to do housing duties so Dean can heal.

Sam wasn't there because he left for Stanford and better things. Safety when he knows there's no safety out there, but the dream of it too strong in him to deny.

It takes Dean half a beer to notice he's being watched, and that only because his buddy finally motions to Sam's booth with a suspicious look, saying something to Dean to cause him to turn around. Sam thinks it's unusual for Dean not to notice Sam's look in his back immediately, wonders about this even as he meets green eyes for the first time in ever, an electric jolt running through his body. Still, he thinks, keep still. Don't move. He tries not to freak out, or, failing that, not to let his inner turmoil show on his face.

Dean looks at Sam quietly, intently, then he starts to walk over to where Sam sits, and Sam realises with a jolt this isn't Dean.

Dean walks differently, more carelessly. This guy, he walks as if every step counts. The way he looks at Sam as he approaches doesn't speak of recognition and the mask of fake arrogance that Sam knows so well how to look through. His face only tells a story of a little self-consciousness and a lot drunk curiosity, and Sam once more feels the urge to turn tail and run for the hills. His hopes - fears - hopes shot to hell.

The guy-like-Dean settles in the place opposite Sam with a small smile, inclining his beer bottle in greeting before taking a swig. Sam does the same, not because he's returning the greeting but because he feels desperate, needs something to hold on to, and the bottle's neck is the closest thing. Still he can't avert his eyes, even though his staring is probably going to creep out guy-like-Dean soon. He searches the familiar face for similiarities. No, he reminds himself, gotta be differences, or else this'll be even more screwed to hell than it already is. Whatever this is, because this stranger's staring back at Sam in confusion, and Sam really, really tries not to freak out.

"You all right, buddy?"

"Yeah," Sam grits out too quickly, his voice rough. He counts the freckles on guy-like-Dean's nose - more pronounced - watches the way guy-like-Dean isn't comfortable holding his gaze, dropping his eyes as he fiddles with the bottle in his fingers.

"I'm Jensen," the guy finally says, looking up again. He offers another small smile, a diminished version of earlier. Sam's gaze drops to guy-like-Dean's - Jensen's, Jensen's – lips to study the differences between their smiles. They sit in silence for a moment until Jensen clears his throat. His tongue comes out to lick at his lips, quick moistening movement that has nothing of Dean's deliberateness.

The thought shakes Sam out of his own world and throws him back into reality.

"Sam," he mumbles finally while his gaze travels up until he's back to staring at the guy's face again. He notes the absence of all the small scars on Dean's face that Sam thinks only he sees, because he knows the history of every single cut because he's been there.

Not anymore, a voice in the back of his head says, sounding suspiciously like Dean in an annoyed huff, and Sam lets his eyes drop again, this time fully away from Jensen's face.

"I thought you were someone I know."

"But I'm not," Jensen says, confusion mingling with something unidentifiable, and Sam laughs hollowly.

"No. No, you're not."

"So..." Jensen trails off, causing Sam to glance back at him. He seems to be blushing. Sam can't for the life of him remember when he saw Dean blush the last time, and he doesn't know anymore how he could mistake Jensen for his brother in the first place. Wishful thinking after all. "You still wanna talk to me?"

There's no mistaking Jensen's meaning, even though he rushes through the words as his nerves show. It's kind of endearing, really; because if Sam maybe never quite acknowledged his brother's gorgeousness before, meeting Jensen sure as hell throws this fact in his face. Sam needs to drown half the bottle before he feels ready to answer, eyes never wavering from Jensen's.

"No," he says. "I don't wanna talk to you."

Jensen's eyes widen as he listens to Sam's voice, huskier than before, but he doesn't question Sam. Sam doesn't even know himself why he's willing to take Jensen up on his offer, just that he's feeling reckless tonight and this guy looks like his brother, for God's sake, but it doesn't matter now, he's not Dean, he's not Dean, so it's okay.

Or as okay as it gets in the Winchester world, anyway.

Sam gets up with, leaving his beer on the table, and makes his way to the bathroom, not even looking if Jensen follows.

Jensen does. Sam feels a thrill run up his spine when he takes up a stall and Jensen comes in behind him, crowding Sam against the side as he closes the door behind them. Their eyes are locked, burning into one another, and this close up Jensen's eyes seem impossibly huge and impossibly green.

With surprise Sam notices he doesn't know if his brother's eyes ever seemed this green, and then he pushes all thought of Dean from his mind as Jensen backs him up against the wall. Sam's eyes fall shut of their own volition as he feels Jensen's hand fisting in the front of his shirt, the other hand finding its way underneath it and onto Sam's skin. Jensen presses into him with his full body and then he leans in, claims Sam's mouth with his, his tongue sliding against Sam's without effort. As naturally as they'd been doing this forever.

Sam's eyes fly open at this thought, because it hits too close to home. He doesn't want to think of Dean while doing this, doesn't examine the fact that this thought welled up in the first place. Leaning into Jensen feels too good and it would just be too fucked up even for Sam any other way than this, with his eyes closed and thinking, remembering. There's nothing about Dean in Jensen, and the way he reacts to Sam's body makes Sam think this kind of thing is something he doesn't do often. There's something in his manner - something in the way Jensen looks back at Sam - that speaks of desire for Sam. Sam can't pinpoint it exactly and then Jensen's hand unbuttons his jeans and all thought is lost as Jensen's hand closes around Sam's cock.

The end comes quickly after that, and Sam regains his senses, panting, to Jensen tenderly nuzzling his neck. The gesture feels out of place in this bathroom, stinking and dirty as a random bar's bathroom ought to be, but Sam doesn't have it in him to mind. He enjoys the attention for a moment before he notices the insistent erection pressing against his thigh and that Jensen is doing nothing about.

"Jen-" Sam murmurs, swallowing the last syllable down. "You want me to-?"


It's over for Jensen just as quickly as it was for Sam, his eyes glued to Sam's. It's fascinating to see Jensen come undone and watch how emotions play over his face, as expressive as it was guarded before. As Jensen comes all over Sam's hand and down the front of his own trousers, an obscene moan stealing from his throat, Sam can't help himself; a chuckle forces its way out of the slump in his throat. (He ignores the hysterical edge to it.) Jensen leans against him, unable to support his own weight as he tries to regain his breath against Sam's collarbone. He tenses when, Sam figures, his laughter registers with Jensen, but he doesn't turn away from Sam like he expects. Instead Jensen joined him, deep laughter escaping Jensen's throat. Which is even funnier, causing them to laugh harder.

Yeah, this is just a usual day in the office for Sam Winchester, pre-law student at Stanford and ex-hunter. Ordinarily crazy.

As they slowly quiet down, Jensen drawing back to look at Sam, Sam just doesn't know if it's the good kind of ordinary crazy this time, or the bad kind. Things could go either way, he supposes as he steadily looks back Jensen, who turns to clean up and right himself. But somehow this doesn't feel so weird after all.

Except where it is, of course.

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