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Kevin could get used to Chicago.
He enjoys exploring different neighborhoods, especially Little Vietnam in Argyle. There’s a hole in the wall restaurant there that serves up Ga Xao La Que just like his mother used to make. Eating it temporarily quenches a burning sensation in his chest that never really goes away. Every time he visits, Mrs. Duong, the owner, quietly speaks in Vietnamese with him, which causes him to flex a dormant muscle in his brain. She updates him on the ongoing drama between Bingo ladies and the Bui Family feud—leaving no detail aside.
From a trip to Lakeview with Sam and Dean, Kevin had the opportunity to check off a few items on his list: visit Wrigley Field (not a necessity to go in, but worth seeing all the same), have breakfast at the Pick Me Up Cafe, meander through The Gallery Bookstore—lovingly disorganized and packed with books from floor to ceiling—and take a tour through the LGBTQ center that shares space with a gigantic Whole Foods.
After completing the list for Lakeview, Kevin spends his time in Pilsen. He attends a gala at the National Museum of Mexican Art with Sam and Dean on a Friday night. Sam introduces Kevin to several lawyers and lawyer-adjacent professionals, then Dean conducts an impromptu tour of the newest exhibit for Kevin and a small group of interested donors. Kevin doesn’t mind dressing up for the event. In fact, it’s a nice change of pace. He doesn’t quite feel forty years old, but in a suit he looks the part.
Armed with a SLR camera, Kevin collects pictures of Pilsen. He gathers up shots of the sky at sunset over Harrison Park, the brick walls that make up Benito Juarez High School, the trembling fluorescent lights inside the Steak and Egger at two in the morning, the greasy, messy insides of three body shops, the colorfully decorated windows of the Jumping Bean Cafe, and the perfect packages of tortillas people pick up from the El Milagro factory on Western.
In between Ubers, taxis, and walks, Kevin passes the time at Mrs. Martinez’s home. She reveals a small library in her guest room—an olive green bookcase stocked with an assortment of cookbooks and novels in both English and Spanish. Her husband collected books, she tells him, handing one to him. He curls up on a burgundy armchair in the same room and works through plays and poems written in Spanish. Whenever he has a question about a word or a particular passage, Mrs. Martinez puts on her bifocals, squints, reads back the line to him, and patiently clarifies.
When he’s not in the guest room, Kevin sits in the kitchen and listens to Mrs. Martinez’s Spanish radio programs. He watches her press piles of corn tortillas, grind chiles in a molcajete, strain tomatoes for mole sauce, fry mashed frijoles in bacon fat, and prepare frijoles to soak in a large lime-green bowl overnight. With her permission, he takes pictures of her hands at work, closeups of her various rings and gold bracelets contrasted by the creamy meat of an avocado.
On a Tuesday afternoon, he helps her peel off the little hulls of a bowl of chickpeas.
“Mijo,” she says, continuing in Spanish, “I’ll make you cocada today.”
Within the hour, he settles into the library with a glass of milk and a plate of freshly made coconut candy.
The next day, Kevin decides to venture over to the Field Museum for a look at the new exhibit of mummies. On the way over, his Uber driver, a former English teacher, waxes poetic about the murals in Pilsen, and comments on how lucky Kevin is to live there, so close to El Popocatepetl Tortilleria.
Kevin mulls their comment over while he observes remnants of burial chambers from 2400 BC.
The day after that, Kevin asks Sam for a ride to Hyde Park. Sam defers to Dean, the official driver, and after some unspoken bargaining, Dean relents. Because Dean has no interest in Hyde Park on this particular day, he allows Sam and Kevin to take the Impala—under strict conditions, of course.
Sam and Dean’s dynamic fascinates Kevin. One moment the two bicker over the most ridiculous things—like brothers—and the next moment they make up—like lovers. Dean keeps an eye on Sam at all times, and Sam keeps an eye on Dean at all times, even while at home. They both exist within each other’s shadows, in the small space between the seed of a chile and its velvety inside. When Sam isn’t looking, Dean is. When Dean isn’t looking, Sam is.
Dean—sharp like the blade hidden in his cane—often tugs at Sam’s hair, puts his arms around Sam’s shoulders, presses kisses against Sam’s cheek, and calls Sam “baby ” when he thinks Kevin isn’t looking or out of earshot.
Sam—softer now, in both body and spirit—often buttons Dean’s flannel shirts and smooths out the collar, slips his hands into Dean’s, makes sure Dean has plenty to eat, and calls Dean “handsome” whenever he thinks it’s necessary.
Their house smells like cinnamon, leather, and the warm beef broth Sam heats up for Dean as the nights turn colder.
In Hyde Park, Kevin invites Sam on a walk through the University of Chicago’s campus. Dressed in a charcoal gray wool coat and blue scarf, Sam agrees. It’s chilly out, and overcast, but the walk keeps them warm. They duck in and out of different buildings and Sam patiently waits for Kevin to capture pictures of gothic-style architectural features.
“Kevin,” Sam says, then speaks in Spanish. “Come with me.”
Sam grabs Kevin’s hand—an act of intimacy for Sam Winchester—and leads him all the way to the Seminary Co-op Bookstore.
There, in comfortable armchairs, they spend two hours conversing, reading, and trading quips about certain authors. Kevin reads a poem in Spanish out loud to Sam.
How the night heron sings
How it sings in the tree
Moon crosses the sky
With a boy by the hand.
Sam reads a poem in Spanish out loud to Kevin.
Little eagles I said
Where is my grave—
In my tail said the sun
On my throat said the moon
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two naked doves
One was the other
And both were none.
They smile at each other.
Kevin settles into his armchair. Sam leaves to find another few books. People come and go. Students request specific books from the clerks and go hunting for them in the stacks. Kevin thinks back to pickled wax peppers, dry soup with chiles, cold stuffed carrots, zucchini torte, shrimp fritters, and chiles rellenos. He thinks about fresh green chiles that must be roasted first, until they blister, then popped hot into a paper bag to steam. Canned chiles are less trouble, but why go that avenue when fresh tastes so much better?
An image seeps into Kevin’s mind, shoving away his pondering over meatballs Guanajuato style. Closing his eyes, Kevin sorts through excess static. This is not new, but it is unsettling. It’s like receiving a whisper, but having no control over the content. He's had this happen before, where telepathy bleeds into him. He struggles with any image, but the sound comes in crystal clear.
“Sam?”
“Hm.”
“Let your hair down."
“You told me to put it up an hour ago.”
“Yeah, but now let it down.”
“Does this please you, O Great One?”
“You know what would please me more?”
“Tell me.”
“You on your knees.”
“How is that not a surprise?”
“C’mon. You like it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You haven’t bitten my dick off—that’s pretty sure.”
Sam does like it. He’s always liked blowing Dean.
Oh, no.
Sam can’t remember a time when he didn’t like it. He just doesn’t like giving Dean more permission to be obnoxious.
“You sure it’s a good idea to do this long distance?”
“I asked you that an hour ago, Sam.”
“Yeah, okay. I just wanna try.”
“Kevin still with you?”
“Yeah.”
“So try.”
Sam pictures himself kneeling. He pictures Dean spreading his legs and leaning back, pride and excitement in his eyes. Such a look. Part of Sam always wants to smack it off him. But goddamn if his brother still isn’t handsome. Attractive. Gorgeous. His hair’s lighter, the crinkles around his eyes are just a little deeper, and his jawline is a touch softer. It’s everything Sam ever wanted for Dean.
Longevity. Happiness. Contentment.
The whispering sound of Dean unzipping his jeans causes Sam’s mouth to water. Fuck Pavlov.
There was the summer Sam turned sixteen and he couldn’t stop blowing Dean. Every time John so much as looked away, Sam needed to have his mouth on Dean’s cock. It still feels like that, after all these years. Sam wastes no time. He slips the tip of Dean’s cock…
Oh my god. What is happening.
…into his mouth. A salty-sweet taste slips over Sam’s tongue. He puckers his lips around the crown and applies soft pressure there. Dean groans and immediately pulls on Sam’s hair—like he always has. It sends tingles down Sam’s spine—like it always has. Sam takes another inch in, fully knowing how impatient Dean gets. He often expects Sam to go from zero to deepthroat in two seconds. But Sam likes to savor the sensation of Dean’s cock in his mouth. It makes for a better experience.
There has to be a way to quickly excuse himself from these thoughts and the visuals—the very explicit and real visuals. Opening his eyes does nothing to the connection.
“Goddamn,” Dean moans, the second Sam sinks further down. “Fuck.”
“Does it feel okay?”
“It’s strange but yeah… fucking amazing.”
Sam adds more spit and begins working Dean’s cock. He takes the shaft into his mouth until he reaches the base. Tawny hairs tickle his nose, but he pushes past that and focuses on relaxing his throat, opening his mouth just a touch. Dean moans and stretches out on the couch. He occupies time and space—real, he’s real—and that’s how Sam wants him.
“Take it,” Dean growls. He thrusts his hips up. “Fucking take it, Sammy.”
These are the orders Sam doesn’t mind taking.
Sam sucks Dean in one steady, pressurized pull. He relishes every twitch, every spurt of precome, and every impatient groan from above. Bloated, heavy, and flushed, Dean’s cock presses against the tender inside of Sam’s cheek. It makes a crude indent, but Sam likes it all the same. He slurps and blows, bobbing up and down, and makes sure Dean can hear every single act.
His brother shouts out something in Latin, which almost causes Sam to laugh, because usually, it’s him shouting in Latin. But Dean does a good job with the pronunciation, so Sam will let it slide without mention later on.
This is too much.
Faster now, Sam swallows up Dean, desperate and aching. He gets off on Dean getting off. Is that weird? Do all partnerships work this way? Maybe they do. Maybe the good ones do. But why’s there always an undercurrent of grief? How does he paddle away from that and stay more connected in the moment?
“Close,” Dean warns and tugs at Sam’s hair. “Stop thinking, Professor.”
“I feel like… someone’s listening.”
“I can’t… think… now…”
Dean’s right. He needs to stop thinking. Focus. How many people have to tell themselves to focus on giving a blow job to their brother? It’s a little more than absurd and it would make Sam laugh if his mouth wasn’t stuffed full with said brother’s cock. Diabolically, Sam hums and moans. He takes in the taste of Dean on his tongue and the scent of him all around—it’s all intoxicating. He’ll drag this out for as long as he can.
Popping off for air, Sam offers up a smirk and a challenge. He licks a long stripe under Dean’s cock, starting at the root and going all the way to the peach pink tip. Then, he smiles and shrugs before swallowing Dean up again. Sam concentrates on the color red. He chooses a dark shade at first, then, every second after, the shade brightens and intensifies. He applies the energy to Dean, who soaks it up with every heaving breath. Dean’s right leg bucks and he tosses his head back. At a blistering pace, Sam sucks him down and up, down and up, down and…
“Sammy!”
Come floods Sam’s mouth. Dean’s orgasm tears right through him and into Sam. Spurt after spurt of come hits the back of Sam’s throat and tongue. He basks in every sensation—his eyes watering because Dean pulls his hair, the inability to draw in a full breath, and the bitter taste filling his mouth.
“Fuck. Holy shit.”
“I-I can taste you. That’s… kind of weird.”
“Sam, I think you blew my brains out.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how blown do you feel?”
“Eleven.”
“Shit.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I’m in the bookstore, remember?”
“Aw, Sammy’s got a stiffy in public.”
“Dammit. I’m far from the bathroom.”
“Yeah? I’m still comfy in the afterglow.”
“Good for you.”
“Come home.”
“We will, soon as I can handle walking.”
“Give me a real blow job when you get here.”
“Did you wash the dishes like I asked you?”
“Oh no, the connection’s got static…”
“Fine. Whatever. I guess I can rejoin civilization now.”
“We can 69 it.”
“Don’t. Don’t make me laugh.”
“It’s not a joke!”
Kevin picks up a book—any book—and places it firmly over his lap.
What. The. Hell. Was. That.
Slapping on a smile, Kevin nods in Sam’s direction when he comes—swings back.
“You’re smiling again,” Sam comments. “How often does that happen nowadays?”
Kevin nervously laughs. “Pretty often, I think.”
“Are you having a good time on your visit?”
“Oh—a great time, yeah. Great.”
“Good. Dean thinks you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored. I’m just… savoring it.”
“I can understand that.”
Kevin’s mind races at the speed of an Amazon truck. He did not just listen in on Sam and Dean psychically having sex. He didn’t because he did not. No. Nope.
But why?
“Sam?”
“Hmm?” Sam takes off his glasses. He insists—to Dean—that he only needs them when the print is too small in certain books. Here, in the co-op, Sam’s worn them the entire time.
“Uh—” Kevin scratches his head. “Have you had any, um, problems with your… abilities?”
Sam’s brow furrows. “No, not that I can recall.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I—we—Dean and I—thought about doing something different just to see if it triggered something negative, like another stroke. But we wanted to do it with you nearby in case something happened. But uh, we decided to do it... later.”
The Seminary Co-op is a minute away from the University of Chicago Hospital.
So they planned this.
A series of questions barrage Kevin. Is Sam worried? Has he actually been having difficulties? Why else would they try to trigger anything?
Sam coughs, clearing his throat. He keeps his voice quiet. “My migraines are back.”
A beat passes.
“Right after se—you use it?”
“Sometimes,” Sam murmurs, looking away. “Not always. I’ll have one that lasts hours and nothing touches it. We’re not so sure what that means and I… I actually want to know. But on my terms.”
Kevin sits up in his chair. “What does Dean have to say?”
There’s the undercurrent of grief from before.
“He wants me to see a doctor right away, get tests done. But I’m not Sam Winchester if I’m not stubborn about something. Bull-headed,” Sam says with a small laugh, “that’s what my Dad called me.”
Any mention of John Winchester doesn’t come at a small price. Kevin knows that. He locks eyes with Sam for a moment. The sound of Kevin’s phone ringing breaks their visual communication.
Kevin debates answering it or letting it go. If he’s honest, he’d like to place his phone down and run away from this conversation right now and hide in Little Vietnam where nothing can reach him. A sharp stab in his chest hits heavy. This is the same feeling he had when he learned when his mother…
Sam and Dean Winchester won’t live forever.
One day, Kevin will be completely on his own.
He’d like to take Sam up the Red Line and to the Argyle stop. Hand in hand, he’d walk Sam over to the Little Vietnam Restaurant and introduce him to Mrs. Duong. He would translate what she would say, which would be all about Sam’s height. Then, he’d have Sam sit, and order him a bowl of Pho Nam and a plate of Com Chien. He wants Sam to soak up the sights, sounds, and tastes of Vietnamese culture. From the staticky TV in the corner that plays nonstop Vietnamese news, to the decorations on the walls, to the latest developments about the Bui Family Feud—it’s all part of it. And Kevin feels the most connected to it in this hole-in-the-wall restaurant on Bryn Mawr Avenue in Chicago.
The voice on the phone knocks him back into reality.
“Yeah, we’re still here,” Kevin says, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s fine. We’re in the back. Okay.”
He hangs up and tucks his phone into his coat pocket. He shakes his head, sighs, and looks at Sam. They’ll go to Little Vietnam for dinner. Kevin’s going to insist.
“Well, the timing is weird, but Sam.”
Kevin stands up and looks over his shoulder. He waves when he spots the right person at the right time. Dr. Aaron Kennedy, Vascular Neurologist at the University of Chicago Hospital, walks over.
“Uh, Sam.” It’s Kevin’s turn to clear his throat. “This is my boyfriend.”