Once a Nerd

Editor's Note: PHEW, buddy, I didn't realize how long this one was. I was going to add more to it, but that felt like a good cliffhanger to leave off at. We've got two POV switches, so be aware. This is primarily in Sam's perspective, but we do get a short segment from Dean before it switches back to Sam at the end. ALSO, TW: for some dubcon. Dean gets really mean in this one, and while Sammy does technically allow it, it can still be read as dubcon, so take that as you will.

Mrs. Hildabrant was not exaggerating.

I repeat: not exaggerating.

Thursday of that same week, a faculty meeting was called by the Vice Principal after the students' release. Jamie Rosenthal was introduced to the staff as Mr. Candy's replacement, starting Monday. She gave her introduction, and her voice has that throaty, raspy quality of a longtime cabaret performer.

"Thank you so much for welcoming me this late in the semester, especially considering I'm here under such unfortunate circumstances. I'm really looking forward to getting to know all of you, as well as the wonderful students in attendance here!"

Jesus Christ, is she on sabbatical from cat-walking in Milan for Louboutin's summer line? Jamie Rosenthal looks straight from the pages of a catalog. While she's dressed professionally enough [white button-up, blazer, slacks, kitten-heels], she's got the sort of body that invites harassment from a skeevy, male superior. She's well in line with the woman's golden ratio: bust, weight, and waist to hip measurements that'll bring a man to his knees. Long, honey hair styled in bouncy, loose curls, and the facial structure of a young Brooke Shields.

For those of us who haven't yet met her, there's at least five seconds of stunned silence after she introduces herself. Then, a round of awkward, hesitant applause. Mrs. Hildabrant, who sits in the row ahead of me, three seats to my left, turns back with a meaningful smile.

I know she's a grandmother, but is she legally blind, too? This woman is so far out of my league, we're not even in the same stratosphere. Not to mention my less-than-heterosexual inclinations. If anything, it would make much more sense for someone like Dean to pursue something with her, since he's not above seducing his teachers.

Huh.

Well, that's an unpleasant thought, but who's to say it won't come to fruition? The meeting wraps up after thirty minutes, and unsurprisingly, Ms. Rosenthal is swarmed with attention by most of the staff, men and women alike. Checking my watch, I decide to go the route of the Irish Goodbye. It's already close to four, and I'm drained in every way a person can be: mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually. Fuck, probably financially, too.

I return to my empty classroom to gather up my laptop, bag, and thermos, and depart for the faculty lot. Dean has practice today, and I absolutely refuse to look over towards the field as I make the short trip. I can hear them, however. Celner has a voice that booms and carries like thunder, and he drives the Vikings through drills and mock plays like every coming game is the Super Bowl. Going to State really renewed his vigor, not that it would've been possible without Dean's innate talent.

"Mr. Powell!"

Oh?

I turn, and sure enough, Ms. Rosenthal is performing a little jog to catch up with me. Once she clears that distance, I'm vaguely chagrined to realize she's taller than me in her heels. I'm not insecure about my height, and I'm used to looking up. But, for some reason, it's irritating to have to do it with her.

"Hello." I greet her with a small, confused smile. "Did you need something from me?"

She smiles back, abashed. "I'm sorry, this must seem sudden. I just wanted to introduce myself to you personally. I understand we're the two youngest teachers here, so I was hoping we could be friends. I just relocated here, so I don't know anyone yet."

Well, this is...unexpected.

I was raised to have manners, however, so I gather my wits and offer her my hand. She quickly takes it with a radiant smile.

"It's lovely to meet you. You can call me Sam, everyone else does."

"Then, please, call me Jamie. I'm looking forward to finishing out this semester with you, Sam."

As far as first impressions go, it certainly wasn't bad. She seemed friendly, easy to get along with, and down to Earth despite her exceptionally good looks. She did a damn, damn good job of disarming me, because the shitstorm that she proceeded to stir up in the next two weeks came like a bolt out of the clear blue.

By Wednesday of the next week, it becomes more than obvious what kind of woman she is. Unlike myself, Ms. Rosenthal has a strong, strong sense of favoritism towards the male, student athletes. In her classes, in the halls, during lunch, during practices that she's got no business sitting in on, she's a blatant flirt. She's not afraid to excuse their late work or exempt them from certain assignments. She throws her hair back and laughs like they're a gaggle of comedians. It's most certainly a two-way street, as they bathe her with just as much attention as she affords them. If they were literal dogs, their tails would be kicking up a tornado of dust.

So, it comes as no surprise when she brings up Dean during our lunch period, which she's insisted on taking with me. I normally enjoy the peace and relative solitude of the teacher's lounge, but Jamie convinced me to join her in the cafeteria. This makes one of many mistakes over the next few days, because this is Dean's lunch period, and Dean is much more observant than I give him credit for.

"You have Dean Saunders in your next period, right, Sam?"

It's a chore not to scowl, because his name from her mouth has me feeling unreasonably belligerent.

"Sure do."

"Gosh, he's such an impressive young man, isn't he? Believe it or not, I'm a huge football fanatic, so I dropped by their practice earlier this week. Coach Celner says Dean is the one who took them to State last year. He really is a force on the field."

I'll be honest. Jamie makes me feel a wee bit better about myself. Yes, yes, I let Dean have his way, but at least I can say I wasn't offering my pussy on a platter to him and his buddies on the team beforehand. That's got to count for something, right?

"Yeah, he's a really talented kid."

Emphasis on kid. Get a grip, Jamie.

"He's so bright, too. I've offered after school tutoring to some of the boys with lacking grades, but Dean's actually doing pretty well in my class. What about your's?"

Okay, so there's a lot to unpack here. Tutoring, after school? No teacher in this facility has ever made such a commitment, with a few exceptions, and she's already offering her 'after school services' to every meathead with a 'C -'? Also, Dean? Bright? Well, he's not stupid, but he certainly won't be winning any academic awards come graduation. He's only doing well in my class right now under threat of a sex ban.

"Mm, yeah, he tends to get everything turned in on time."

Jamie looks at me strangely, then smiles. "I heard the two of you were quite close."

I pause, taking a moment to carefully control my expression.

"Not especially." I laugh. "He was sucking up to me for a while so I'd cut him some slack on his grade. Thankfully, he got it up on his own, so he's not been such a pain in my ass lately."

It sounds completely legitimate even to my own ears, but Jamie makes this little sound like I'm full of shit. She cuts her eyes across the cafeteria, and I follow her gaze without thinking. Dean is sitting with some of his friends from the team, those who have the same lunch period as him. They're behaving as you'd expect a rowdy group of testosterone-riddled, teenage athletes to act: roughhousing, laughing loud enough to cut through the din of student chatter, flicking food from their trays. Dean, however, sticks out in the worst way imaginable, because he's looking over without an ounce of subtlety.

"You have quite an effect on these boys." I laugh, and I mentally pat my own back. It comes out smoothly, because for all I know, it's not even me he's looking at. He could very well be ogling Ms. Rosenthal, because his peers definitely aren't shy about doing so. Dean's eighteen, for Chrit's sake. He's got the sexual appetite of a diagnosed nymphomaniac, and Jamie's more than worthy of his attention.

With her ego inflated, she takes my comment at face value. She throws her head back and laughs, and it's a rich, gritty warble that draws some eyes. "You think so?"

Honestly, I sort of do. My watch glints at me mockingly.

The week carries on much like that. Jamie goes out of her way to badger me into socializing, and when I catch sight of her otherwise, it's difficult not to cringe. Passing through the halls, she'll be chatting with some of the boys from the team like she's a fellow student: hand on the shoulder, complimenting their physiques, flaunting her knowledge of the professional league [players, coaches, statistics, renowned plays, you get it]. Before long, her efforts are refocused almost exclusively on Dean. When I see them talking, he seems...into it.

Why wouldn't he be into it? She's stunning, smart, well-versed in his sport, and...a woman. She's also three years younger than me, if that counts for anything. It probably does. He laughs at whatever witty line she drops, he smiles with all his teeth, and he doesn't shy away from her wandering hands. He doesn't appear the least bit bothered by Jamie's excessive, overt attention, and that's...

It makes me feel like shit. Is this my rock bottom? Feeling...hurt, jealous, that the teenager who bullied me into being 'fuck buddies' is flirting with another, hotter teacher? It's because I allowed myself to feel special to someone like Dean. God, I really am fucked, even worse than I thought.

I do my best to put the blinders on. I wouldn't say I'm ignoring Dean, but I try not to look in his direction too much during class or in the halls. The intensity of his looks haven't wavered, his eyes still track me in that vaguely hungry way of his, but he hasn't loitered in my class [like I asked him not to]. He goes on to his pre-calc course with Ms. Rosenthal as soon as the bell rings, and I try not to take that so personally. It's his schedule, and I'm sure he's all too thrilled to be in attendance now.

There isn't a game until next Friday, but the Vikings still have practice. It only occurs to me close to the end of the day that I've not left any notes on the corner of my desk this week, signaling for Dean to come over. He hasn't asked about it either. I stare at the corner of my desk for a moment as I realize this, and I have to take a minute to regulate my breathing. Because goddamnit, it's trying to hitch, and my eyes are starting to burn like there's something to cry about.

You know what? I could use...some distance. This is a good thing, actually. Dean and I need distance, and the sooner the better. Graduation is a month and a half away. Whoever else he wants to fuck, it's none of my business. Sickening and immoral as it is [not that I can judge, who am I kidding], perhaps playing around with Ms. Rosenthal will get him off my back for good. I'll spend the weekend cleaning, getting my affairs in order for autumn's move, and...

Well, I suppose there's not much else for me to do. I could see if Jamie wants to hit the town, and that thought makes me laugh a little self-deprecatingly. I gather up my things into my tote, stand, and--

"Mr. Powell."

Dean's in my doorway, looking...pissed?

What the hell does he have to be pissed off about?

He peers back into the mostly empty hall, then steps bodily into the room. He closes the door behind him, locks the door, and flips my little curtain down to cover the window. Well, that's not good. I frown at him. "I thought I told you--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but when the fuck else am I supposed to talk to you, huh?"

I can't argue that, I guess. Sighing, I ask: "What is it?"

He looks at me like I've said something unbelievable. He crosses the room, always so quick to breach my personal space. He has me boxed against my desk, and he taps an impatient finger on the corner of it. "You didn't leave any notes. Can I come over tomorrow?"

My knee-jerk reaction is to say, 'why don't you ask Ms. Rosenthal?'

But I choke it back, because I've got more maturity than a fifteen-year-old. In the cage of my ribs, a war is waged. I'm...happy that he's at least asking, that he remembered, that he's still expressing some sort of interest in me. But, I also hate myself for feeling that way. I'm much more of an adult than he is, my happiness shouldn't hinge on his interest. I shouldn't be feeling any type of jealousy over him, but I am. Even as he's asking me this, I can't help but wonder who he's got lined up behind me to fuck if I turn him down. I wonder if he'll get sick of my refusal to put out, if I say 'no' one too many times, and begin a dogged pursuit of someone else--like Ms. Rosenthal.

Instead of any of these unhinged thoughts, I say: "I'm busy."

"Busy with what?" He fires back immediately, looking down at me through his amber lashes. "You're busy in the middle of the fuckin' night?"

"I--"

"Busy with who?"

"Dean!" I snap. "Please, just...I'm busy, okay? It really is none of your business with what or with who, so just leave it at that. Don't you have practice?"

"Don't change the subject. Is something going on? Is everything okay--"

I guess I can spare him a scrap of peace of mind. Pulling his jaw between my hands, I lift onto my toes [damn this height] and press a soft, yielding kiss to his mouth. He sighs into it, before returning it tenfold. I didn't intend to be hefted onto my desk and kissed like he's going off to war, but all the blinds are drawn and the door's locked, so I let him have it. I'm also not totally opposed to his tongue in my mouth, his hands dragging up my spine, or his clothed erection grinding roughly into mine, but that's neither here nor there.

When we pull apart to breathe, Dean bumps our noses together. "Sammy, I really can't come?"

Shit. Now I want him to. He really is a world-class manipulator, or I'm just that pathetically weak. He can always tell when I'm about to cave, too, because his eyes brighten and he gets the beginnings of a victorious, little grin. Someone needs to knock this kid down a peg, but it's doubtful that'll be me. Just as I'm about to huff out an agreement, my worst nightmare comes to fruition.

The door handle rattles, because someone tried coming in. Then, there's a knock. "Mr. Powell, are you in there?"

It's Vice Principal White.

Dean and I snap apart, and for a few terrible seconds, my brain goes blank with abject terror. How in God's name can I explain this: being locked in my classroom, curtain drawn, after hours, with a student? Dean is looking at the door like he's fully prepared to murder Mr. White in cold blood, his jaw jumping and hand clenching and unclenching into a fist. Thankfully, this grants me a moment's clarity.

We have heteronormativity on our side, after all.

Clearing my throat of nerves, I call back: "Yes, just a moment!"

Looking at Dean, I point to his desk and hiss: "Sit the fuck down!"

He does immediately. I rip out a blank assignment from one of my drawers and fling it at him, as well as a pencil. "Start working on that, and for God's sake, get rid of your boner."

Mine wilted instantly at the sound of potential intrusion, but Dean's a different breed. I straighten out my clothes, scrub my hands down my face, and steel my nerves as I approach the door. I unlock it and pull it completely open, and Mr. White gives me a curious look. Then, he spots Dean, who shoots him a little wave. Without my having to say anything, Mr. White reaches his own conclusion. "Oh! I apologize, I didn't mean to intrude. Is Dean having to make up an assignment?"

Christopher White is a caucasian, god-fearing, conservative man of sixty-five--it would never even cross his mind that two men [let alone an English teacher and the best highschool quarterback in Illinois] would be doing anything illicit behind a closed door in his school. "It's no problem, I was just trying to avoid any interruptions from other students."

Mr. White apologizes again, then says there will be another faculty meeting next week to discuss the end-of-year testing. He excuses himself after that, and I leave the door ajar this time. I drop into my squeaky, debilitated desk chair and bury my face in the clamshell of my hands. The silence is deafening, and Dean clears his throat awkwardly after another minute. When I finally look up, he's giving me a sheepish, apologetic look. I scowl at him.

"That was quick thinking, Sammy." He whispers.

"Fuck. Off."

He slides out of the desk, retrieves his bag from the floor, and says under his breath: "I'll be over at seven."

True to his word, Dean waltzed through my front door at seven the following evening. True to my spineless nature, I allowed it. Dean is in...a mood, however. While he generally fucks me like he's trying to break my spine, he's violent tonight. He's mean, and it's almost frightening. I was wrapping up some grading that I'd procrastinated on in my usual position on the couch when he came clunking through the front door. He didn't sing out his usual greeting, the one he's adapted as of late ["honey, I'm home!"], simply shut and locked the door behind him.

At the sound of his approach, I look over the back of the couch. "Hey, I'm just--"

His handsome face is strangely, uncomfortably blank. He shrugs out of his jacket, throws it across the ottoman, and rounds the couch. Dean plucks the papers out of my hand without a word and sets the pile on the end-table. "What the hell are you--ah! Hah, shit! Dean, wait, nngh!"

It's his mission to disrobe me as quickly as humanly possible. My glasses are set on the table, then my T-shirt is ripped over my head with enough force to stretch the fabric beyond wearability. His hands hook into the back of my knees, and he yanks me down the couch. My head drags against the cushions, musing my hair across my scalp and flopping it into my eyes. He tears my shorts over my ass, down my legs, and flings them into the ether over his shoulder. It's discombobulating, to go from pouring over my student's abysmal essays that were somehow typed up without the aid of spellcheck, to being stark naked and manhandled.

"Dean--!" I hiccup.

The first thing he says, and it brings me no comfort: "You can say it, if you want me to stop."

He's talking about the safeword. That's the only thing that will make him stop. Otherwise, he's going to do as he pleases. I blink up at him, breathing hard. He takes my continued silence for what it is: permission. For whatever fucked-up reason, I'm allowing even this much. Maybe, I'm just willing to endure anything, because I'll take whatever I can get while he's willing to give it. He lowers to his knees, throws my legs over his massive shoulders, and retrieves an unopened bottle of lube from his back pocket. It finally hits me that he's still fully clothed, the only thing he's taken off is his jacket.

It makes me feel more like a whore than any of the times he's called me one, the disparity between our state of dress. I'd already stretched myself, as I do when I know he's coming, but Dean takes it upon himself to practically fist me open. It hurts before it feels any kind of good, and I pin the inside of my elbow across my face, sobbing into it. If I hadn't done any preparation on my own, Dean certainly would have torn something with how intensely he does it. Three minutes might have gone by, and he's got half his hand [minus his thumb] shoved up my ass. His forearm is a brace across my stomach, pinning me to the couch. I'm sweating, crying, twitching by the time he finally, finally decides to stimulate my prostate.