Spoilers: "Heart" for Supernatural, "Hearts + Minds" for Lost
Note: For emiliglia's birthday, because she said she wanted Sam and Boone!
He arrives late and has to drag a chair over to join the rest of the circle. He doesn’t turn it around when he sits down -- he’s caused enough of a disruption, earned enough hostile glares. The chair is too small but he gets a leg on either side of it, crosses his arms over the back and leans on them. Sitting and listening, that’s what he’s here for.
“She’d already lost too much blood and by the time the ambulance came...” the man, a heavyset, middle-aged Latino, whose nametag reads “Jorge,” stops in mid sentence, words choking in his throat as he dissolves into sobs. Everyone else nods in sympathy and the guy next to him, “Ted,” pats him on the arm and murmurs soothingly.
“Okay, Boone?” Ted, who’s clearly the counselor, indicates the handsome, young, dark-haired guy with the enormous blue eyes, next to Jorge. “Tell us about your loss.”
The guy looks naggingly familiar, maybe he’s an actor or something, and as Boone clears his throat and looks around the circle, Sam tries to place him. Boone holds his hands out, palms down, wiping them on his jeans. “My sister. Shannon.” His voice drops and he doesn’t continue until Ted prods him to go on. “We were on vacation. Hawaii,” his voice is stronger now, but thick with bitterness. “We were having a great time and then we -- I -- decided we needed to go to one of the smaller islands. So I chartered a small plane, no big deal, right? Except it crashed.”
A muted chorus of “Ohs” comes from the circle. Boone shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t it. I mean, yeah, the pilot died, but we both lived. But we were stranded in the middle of nowhere. I mean, it’s a small island, right? But we walked for hours and we couldn’t find anyone. And now night was falling. And we started to hear this noise, like gears grinding...” He swallows and even from across the room, Sam can see his eyes bright with unshed tears.
A chill runs up Sam’s spine and he’s not sure why. The group is hushed, leaning in to hear Boone’s story.
“At first I thought it had to be something mechanical and that meant we were saved, because it meant civilization. So we went towards it. And by the time we realized ...” his voice peters out again and Jorge squeezes his arm. “By the time we realized we should be running for our lives, it was too late. There was this really loud ‘whoosh,’ and then it grabbed her. I saw her feet leave the ground and then she screamed, this terrible, terrible scream... ”
”What was it?” Ted asks, breaking the spell.
“I have no idea,” Boone says, a tear spilling down his cheek now. “They told me later it had to be a wild animal. If you’d seen her body... what kind of animal could do that?” There’s a hysterical note in his voice.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Boone,” Ted says reasonably, as he’s surely been saying to everyone all evening, but the mood in the room has changed. The other men in the group exchange loaded glances or look down, away from Boone. Only Sam is staring straight at him, transfixed. He shifts in his chair and Boone glances over. He holds his gaze for a moment with those eerily intense blue eyes and then Sam realizes that Ted is addressing him.
"Welcome. What brings you here tonight?”
Sam nods at the rest of the group, who are giving him their full attention, eager for a tale more like their own everyday brushes with mortality. Sam lets out a short laugh. He’ll give them that version because he has no right to really be here at all, among people who have no idea what death is, or all the guises it comes in.
“Hey. I'm Sam. About a year ago... my girlfriend died. There was a fire in my apartment. I wasn’t home at the time and ... she didn’t get out. “
The sympathy in the room is palpable and Sam wonders if maybe this is a good thing after all. “So I dropped out of college. I just kind of ... drifted. Tried to do some things that made a difference. But it didn’t bring her back. And then, I finally met someone else. It was... a real connection, you know? I mean, I don’t know where it would have gone but we never had that chance. She was killed one night by a mugger. He shot her.” He takes in a shaky breath before going on. “In the heart.”
Murmurs of “Oh no,” echo in the circle of men. “At least I know... at least I know she didn’t suffer,” he finishes, proud that he got through it and ashamed that he’s here, peddling an edited version of the truth to make himself feel better. Like that will make it okay.
He dabs at his cheek with the back of his hand and then everyone else is standing up and exchanging awkward hugs. There’s a table with instant coffee and doughnuts but suddenly he just wants to get the fuck out of there.
He tears out of the room, not stopping until he’s out on the steps of the old church. He feels like he might throw up, so he stops, leaning over the stone railing. He jumps when a hand brushes his sleeve. “You okay, man?”
Boone is standing a step above him, giving him that “am I going to have to carry you home?” look he thought only Dean could. And, like Dean, even standing a full step above him, he’s still about a head shorter.
“Yeah, just...I think that’s the first time I talked about it to anyone. Besides my brother.”
Boone nods and crosses his arms. “I know. It doesn’t really get easier.” He stops, but there’s clearly something else on his mind. “I’m sure they all thought I was crazy back there. I’ve heard it all already. Trauma. Stress. Lack of food and water. I was just hallucinating, right? I didn’t see what I think I saw.”
Sam can sense where this is going. He had a feeling ever since Boone opened his mouth. Maybe this is why he came here tonight, not for him, but to help someone else out. “People don’t always understand,” is all he says, nodding for Boone to continue.
“I know. I just ... I think maybe I did lose my mind. But you’re the first person who didn’t look at me like I did.”
”I’ve seen some pretty crazy things,” Sam says, rubbing the rough stone under his fingertips. “Things that can’t just be explained. You don’t seem crazy to me.”
Boone smiles for the first time. “Well, you’re the only one.” He actually laughs, before turning serious again. “Sam, I’m glad you came here tonight. It’s been ... it’s been rough.”
“Yeah, well, I’m lucky. I have my brother still. I mean, he’s not a talker, but he gets it, you know? But hey, if you want to talk... maybe I can help you figure it out? I mean, I did a lot of looking into things like, well... with my own losses.”
“You’d do that?” Boone regards him uncertainly, hope starting to dawn. “Listen. I have everything back at my apartment. All the files and reports.”
Sam grins. “You have no idea how familiar I am with that kind of thing. Sure, why not?”
Boone leads him to his car, a silver Porsche, which only confirms Sam’s suspicions that Boone’s led as different a life from his as possible. Boone drives fast and just a little recklessly, reminding him, again, of Dean. But for the music on the radio -- nothing older than the ‘80s -- he might think he was with Dean.
The 10 freeway is nearly deserted and in no time they’re in Santa Monica. Boone lives in a condo on the top floor and as he flips on the lights, Sam is dazzled by the sheer size of it. Shit, it’s a penthouse. He doesn’t think he’s ever been anywhere as ritzy, except maybe the loft of that architect guy, the one who had no clue that his partner’s death was due to a decade-old pact with a demon.
Displays of wealth always made Sam uncomfortable, maybe because he suspected that the means to getting that wealth involved some kind of deal with the devil. But then again, evil didn’t discriminate.
But Boone seemed at home here, in this vast, soulless, white-on-white expanse of an apartment. But when he grabbed two beers from the elaborately stocked subzero refrigerator, Sam thought even Dean might approve.
“Everything’s in here,” Boone said, leading Sam to a room that was, oddly enough, padlocked. He undid the lock and turned on the light. Sam had to gasp at the sight of a pretty tall, blonde girl, grinning into the sun.
“That was Shan,” Boone says softly, pointing to the enormous, framed photo. “She was really beautiful, wasn’t she?”
When Sam doesn’t answer, right away, Boone looks at him strangely. “Did you know her? ”
”No. No, I didn’t. For a minute there, she reminded me of my girlfriend. Jess. The one who died in the fire.”
Boone nods, and turns back to stare at the dead blonde girl. “It’s not fair.” And then he sighs and turns to a file cabinet. Out comes folders: newspaper clippings of similar deaths, the coroner’s report, photos of the scene. Boone sits grimly, silently by as Sam goes over the files. Lastly, he hands him the autopsy photos. The girl had nearly been torn to shreds. Sam covers his mouth. He doesn’t think it’s a werewolf, but the wounds are too similar not to bring up images of Madison’s victims.
“It does look like an animal,” is all he says. “But not any I’ve ever seen.”
“Such an ugly way for a pretty girl to die,” Boone says bitterly. He drains off the last of his beer and leans over the desk, brushing past Sam to stab a finger at the top photo. “I keep that photo of her up on the wall but this is the one I see in my head all the time.”
“It’s hard to hang onto the good memories,” Sam says, turning to face him. He’s misjudged how close Boone is because when he turns, their lips brush. Sam doesn’t move. He knows now who Boone reminds him of, with his small, dark frame and intense eyes, even if they are the wrong color. He leans into the kiss that’s happening by mistake, and he closes his eyes and sees Madison. Her mouth is open and eager and her breath is warm. Not dead. I didn’t kill her.
The scrape of stubble against his upper lip brings him back to here and whom he’s kissing. But instead of pulling back, he leans into it, hands fisting in Boone’s shirt. He can’t explain the connection here, but it’s strong and it’s more than just grief.
Boone ends the kiss too soon, but when he says Sam’s name, his voice husky, Sam feels a thrill that he’s not mistaken, that this isn’t just about plugging someone living into the void left by the dead.
Boone drops to his knees and parts Sam’s legs. Sam wants to say, “No, you don’t have to,” like this is only a debt of gratitude when Boone unzips his jeans and takes him deep into his mouth. Sam bites his lip, trying not to groan, and then he realizes there’s no need to be quiet. He doesn’t stifle a growl when Boone cups his balls with his free hand; all he can think of is that he’s alive and that this is what life is, his heart pounding, his cock pulsing hard with each slow drag and swipe of Boone’s tongue.
He grips the sides of the chair and that’s not good enough and now he has to touch Boone, has to clutch at his hair and caress his cheek as it hollows and and refills with each swallow. He hates to do it, but he signals him to stop. “Bedroom?” he gasps out.
Boone stops and, with a last, long lick that makes Sam’s knees shake, nods. “C’mere,” he says, taking Sam’s hand in his. Sam kicks off his boots and steps out of his jeans, leaving them behind, and follows Boone to the bedroom.
The room is huge, with a wall of windows that must overlook the ocean but are pure black at night. The bed is like a platform and they tumble onto it together. Boone lifts Sam’s shirt off first and then Sam is undressing Boone and again, he’s reminded of Madison, because next to Sam, Boone seems so slight and fragile and Sam is overwhelmed with the urge to hold him and make sure he’s never touched by anything bad again.
Sam ends up on his back and he’s content to let Boone lead, to let him straddle his chest and stroke himself in front of Sam. Sam obligingly opens his mouth and Boone inches forward, until Sam can reach his cock and take it in.
Those blue eyes blaze down at him as he runs his tongue around the tip in a circle, feeling the thrill of each movement of tongue and teeth as Boone’s eyes grow wider and his breath comes faster.
Boone feeds it to him slowly, inch by inch and the slowness of it makes his own cock ache. Sam grips Boone’s hip in one gigantic-looking paw, his other hand trailing up Boone’s body, raking down his torso, the two of them locking eyes as Boone rocks into Sam’s willing mouth. “Yeah, yeah,” Boone is panting. He leans over, reaching into the night stand drawer, breaking contact just for a second, to get a bottle of lube, which he squirts into the palm of his hand with a sly grin. Sam gasps in approval as Boone reaches behind him, his fist closing around Sam’s cock, fingers sliding slickly up and down, squeezing in time as he begins to fuck Sam’s mouth in earnest. Sweat is glistening on his chest and his eyes look wild and bright.
“Sam, yeah, oh my God, Sam.” At least Sam thinks he said his name, but Boone’s voice reaches a higher pitch as he gets nearer and nearer the edge and maybe what he said was “Shan.”
But it doesn’t matter as Boone’s body stills and his voice catches and then he comes in two successive waves, hot and bitter on Sam’s tongue. Sam swallows, keeps swallowing around Boone’ softening cock, holding Boone’s wracked body until he stops shaking.
Boone slides out of Sam’s mouth and bends down for a kiss. Sam grabs him by the hair, pulling him closer, swiping his tongue over the roof of Boone’s mouth, under his tongue, making sure Boone tastes himself.
Boone groans, shivering a little as he reaches again for Sam’s cock and God, he’s hard. Boone starts up again slow, teasing Sam with a touch as slow as the heated slide of his tongue, but Sam moans impatiently until Boone speeds up.
Sam’s head falls back and he can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest and abdomen, practically see his own heart thudding through his ribcage. Just another minute, he prays through gritted teeth.
“You close?” Boone pants and Sam nods. Boone changes his grip, angling his wrist and his strokes are harder and faster now, almost merciless. Sam can feel it coming, starting from his toes, and winding up and up. It hits as hard as a train, knocking out his breath and stopping his heart and blinding him with an intense, white light. His whole body clenches tight and then when it’s over, there’s always that little part of him that wishes this had been it, that thing there’s no coming back from.
He lies, sprawled and spent, not moving, so Boone tucks up the comforter around them both. He’d almost forgotten how good the warmth of another body felt pressed against him, almost better than that short, sharp burst of forgetfulness.
He falls asleep, for once, not dreading quite so much what the morning will bring.