Once a Nerd Ch. 12 - Sex Stories

Once a Nerd Ch. 12

... ofecstasy goes a long way, doesn't it, Sammy?"

It'sprecisely bullshit like that to drain the common sense out of my ears, liquefying my insides. Only Dean can pull off such a stupid line and an expression thatshould be fucking stupid. It'd look stupid on anyone else. What sets him apart is that otherworldly confidence. He embodies everything he says, and almost everything he says comes off as a subtle threat. Whatever he's threatening, he's more than capable of seeing it through. I slam back the sangria, hoping the rush of dopamine and opioids will sober me up.

"Just—try the fucking pie, please."

"You're not gonna feed it to me?"

"Sorry, I left the highchair back home, you big-ass baby."

"Touché." He grumbles, sliding the plate in front of me.

I'm sitting at my counter's bartop, and Dean slots himself in the bubble of my personal space like it's his natural place in the world. His forearm rests across the top of the barstool's back, and he leans into me like one side of a bracket. His heat radiates into my left side, his scent stronger than the rewarmed pumpkin six inches from my nose. Everything about him is pervasive and overwhelming. Resting my temple against his chest, we swap tidbits of our day between bites. Dean's slice is gone, sans a scattering of crumbs, before I make it a quarter of the way through mine.

"That wasso goddamn good."

He leaves my side for another serving, and it depresses me to realize this is the only Thanksgiving he's had ...

... today. Not just today, but what of previous holidays? He's never known his mother, and his father's a blue-collar man through and through—more than a hundred hours logged biweekly. The man barely knows how to fry an egg, according to Dean. Did he spend his holidays at Jacob's house? Or, did he and his father gather around sauce-stained, paper boxes of lo-mein and General Tso's? I'm ashamed not to know these things.

"You really liked it?"

"Sam, would I lie to you?"

"Yes, you'd definitely fucking do that."

Dean decides to skip the microwave, tucking into his second slice cold. "I—" He coughs, either swallowing wrong or startled by the accusation. "Baby, I wouldnever." He finishes in a rasp.

"Mm."

We carry our evening into the living room, and against my better judgment, I allow Dean control over the remote. He finds the most obscure of B-horrors, a cinematic offense dubbedThanksKilling. It presents as cheap as it actually is, produced on a budget of less than five thousand dollars, and the plot's as intentionally bad as the name implies. The antagonist is a wise-cracking, homicidal turkey. Dean doesn't outright laugh, but he snorts at key moments and keeps this small, amused grin. For a while, I'm content with the place between his legs, my cheek pillowed just above his stomach.

I keep an eye cracked on the screen, but I'm much more focused on the way his abdominals flinch when he finds something funny enough to react. Dean's so...handsy. His fingertips dig ...