NANO: All These Broken Pieces - Part 2
Nov. 19th, 2008 07:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withimpunityPairing: Sam/Dean (mostly ust at this point)
Rating: R
Words: 5082
Summary: Supernatural AU. John's been a cop his whole life. Sam figures he should be used to it by now, but now he's dragging Dean into the family business and Sam just doesn't think he can handle that.
A/n: Sam, Dean, and John Winchester belong to Kripke, not I. The other characters are all from my warped head, however.
Previous part
When Dean pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park, the sun has just finished coming up and there are birds singing in front yard when he slips his key into the front door. His keys jingle in the door when it swings open, a sharp sound in the silence of the quiet, empty house, sunlight spilling onto the carpet through the curtains in thin slices. He shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of the sofa, and unlaces his boots, pulling them off next to the door.
The house has a yellowish tint to it and where the sun sneaks in, casting prisms of light, he can make out tiny dust particles floating in the air. He can hear his Dad snoring, even through the closed door. Dean's surprised the windows aren't rattling, the man snores so loud. The empty beer bottles clustered together on the bar create frown lines on Dean's face.
He pauses in the hallway at Sam's door, reaches out and skims his fingers along the poster of the periodic table Sam has taped up. His eyes are tired, burning from being awake for so long, so Dean closes them, rests his head on the door trim, palm still pressed up against Sam's door. He can smell himself, a mixture of sweat and sex and cigarettes; Dean doesn't smoke, but Randy does, and her sheets reeked of cigarette smoke, just like her hair. Even her skin tasted like nicotine. His head is pounding from not sleeping and he can still taste her on his tongue, strong and musky. He twists the knob slowly, pushes the door open just enough to steal a peek at Sammy, curled up on one side with his hands under his face, blankets pooled down around his ankles.
The thermostat said it was sixty-nine in the house, kid's got to be cold, so Dean sneaks in as quietly as possible. He watches the rise and fall of Sam's ribs through thin cotton for a few seconds, then reaches down, pulling the sheets and comforter up to his shoulders. The door snicks softly when he pulls it closed behind him, and he's pulling his shirt off before he even steps inside his room, throwing it in the corner and pushing the door shut with his foot.
He's exhausted, but not tired. His head aches with the memories of the last twenty-four hours. Usually he's good at repressing anything relatively unpleasant, but there's just too much. He's going to be a cop. Sam hates him because of it and somehow, they ended up kissing. No. Sam kissed him. Out of everything, Dean would love to forget that part out of all the epically fucked up things that's happened in the last twenty-four hours the most, but for some reason it just won''t go away. It's like a hangnail that keeps getting snagged on everything. He feels Sam's lips brushing his at the most random moments; driving down the road singing along to Bush, swallowing a shot of whiskey, telling Randy no when she offered to “return the favor.”
Its driving him crazy and Dean has no idea what to do about it. The worst part is, he's not that mad at Sam. Its like one of those things where your grandpa dies and you think you should cry because it feels like the right thing, feels like what you should do, but you just can't make yourself do it. He wants to be mad at Sam. Dean wishes he'd been so mad that he'd hauled off and popped Sam one, made sure Sam knew that it was never going to happen again. He hadn't though, and Dean was pretty sure if it did happen again, if Sam was crying and desperate, pulling and pushing at Dean, there was no way in hell he'd hit his brother.
It was just so...unexpected. Even Sam had acted surprised when Dean pushed him away, like he wasn't aware of what he was doing. That's the only thing comforting Dean right now, that Sam had just been so worked up that he'd really had no idea what he was doing, he was just latching on to the only person that he'd ever been close to. John's been a good father, in Dean's opinion, but he's never exactly been the hug it out type, and since Sam had never known their mother, the only real affection he's ever gotten was from Dean. It makes sense, Dean thinks, in the way only broken families do.
Sam loves him. Maybe he loves him a little too much, but if a little accidental kiss is all that happens, Dean figures he can live with that as long as Sammy can. No one else has to know.
When Sam wakes up, he feels hungover. The back of his head is throbbing like something is trying to rip his skull open and his eyes burn so hot it feels like they're bleeding, eyelashes matted together with the tears he spent most of the night shedding. He throws his legs over the side of the bed, shoulders hunched forward, and squeezes his head between his hands, relieving some of the pressure.
Some part of him would love to pretend that everything that happened yesterday was just a bad dream, but the sensible part of him knows that the twisting knot in his gut isn't going to fade as the day goes on the way nightmares usually do. The unbearable pain in his head and the sour bite of of stomach acid in the back of his throat serves as a reminder that everything that happened yesterday was all too real.
He feels raw from the inside out and his body aches with it. It feels like growing pains, but different – worse. Like he's got some kind of emotional whiplash from everything he was forced to feel yesterday, from the elation of having Dean act like his brother again, to going and doing something that will probably cause him to lose him. Sam's stomach turns over and despite the fact that its empty, he still feels like he might be sick.
Sam wonders when Dean finally made it home; if he made it home. His head hurts too much to block out the thoughts he refused to let himself entertain last night. He wonders if Dean went out with Randy or if he just called up some random chick, some “sure thing.” Its always made him a little uncomfortable, the way Dean treats girls, having his fun, then cutting them lose once it gets boring. It still does bother him a little, Sam just has a feeling there's a different reason behind it now.
After a few minutes, Sam's head finally stops throbbing enough for him to stand without the room spinning and he gets up. He needs a shower, hot enough to scorch his skin and fog the mirrors. He's still got the scent of gun powder and cigarette smoke on his skin and in his hair, and he hopes if he stands under the spray long enough, all the crap that went down yesterday will be washed down the drain with the rest of the dirt and grime.
Sam grabs a clean pair of underwear and slips out the door, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and breakfast sausage assaulting his senses. John's probably been awake a few hours already, washing uniforms and looking through the Sunday paper for the football scores from yesterday, and Sam can hear low voices coming from the television in his room, probably CNN or the weather channel. He walks to the end of the hall for a towel and that's when he notices Dean's jacket, hung on one of the hooks on the back of the closet door. Sam closes his eyes and exhales, the tension slowly unfurling from his shoulders. He's home. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the seam of his jacket, breathing in the scent of leather and Dean, and his eyes travel down the hallway, landing on Dean's door. His gut clenches when he realizes that sooner or later, he's going to have to face Dean in the daylight, and that scares him more than anything because Dean knows him. Dean has always been able to tell exactly what Sam's thinking, just by the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, or the tiny wrinkles in his forehead. It won't take long for him to see the truth laid out across Sam's face in big, bold letters. Sam's stomach lurches, but there's nothing in him to come up. He would thank god for small miracles, but he doesn't really believe in either, so he just picks up his towel and closes the bathroom door behind him.
Sam doesn't get out of the shower until he's burned up the last drop of hot water and the mirror is completely fogged over. He wraps a towel around his waist, twisting it under at his hipbone and wipes at the foggy mirror with the back of his hand, clearing an oval big enough to see his face. He picks up his toothbrush to brush his teeth and ends up knocking Dean's electric razor over on its side. He picks it up and sets it back on the charger base, then turns to look at himself in the mirror. Sam raises a hand to his face and palms his baby soft skin, scowling at the complete lack of stubble. He's pretty sure Dean at least had a mustache when he was his age.
After Sam finishes brushing his teeth and running a comb through his damp hair, he puts on the clothes he brought with him into the bathroom and makes his way toward the kitchen. There's a half a pot of coffee left, so he pours a cup and reaches in the cabinet over the stove where they keep the medicine, grabbing the bottle of aspirin. He swallows two of them with a large sip of black coffee and leans against the counter.
“Sam, go tell your brother to get up.” John says when he enters the room, dumping cold coffee dregs down the drain and pouring himself a fresh cup. He doesn't get a “good morning, Sam,” or even a “hey, kid,” but he's used to it by now.
Sam knows he was an idiot to think he could avoid Dean for too long. Maybe during the week with him going to school and Dean working at the garage, but it was the weekend. It's finally time to own up and swallow his pride and all of that other cheesy bullshit and get it over with already. Who knows, maybe he'll feel better after looking Dean in the eyes one time and letting him see everything. Yeah, and maybe when he opens the door a magical genie will pop up and grant him three wishes.
“Yes sir,” Sam mutters, setting his coffee cup on the bar, and makes his way back down the hall to Dean's room. He manages to make it to Dean's door before he locks up, hand freezing mid-air, reaching for Dean's doorknob. Maybe he shouldn't just barge into Dean's room like he always does. Maybe Dean's still mad at him. Maybe Sam makes him sick and he never wants to look at his ugly face again. No. He has to do this. He has to just get it over with and deal with whatever the consequences are.
Sam takes a step closer to the door, his fingers curled around the doorknob, just about to twist it open, when he hears something; it sounds kind of like a groan. Sam swallows thickly and his hand falls away from the door to his side, his palms already turning clammy. Dean's breathing heavily on the other side of the door and Sam swallows the lump in his throat when he hears the springs creaking beneath Dean's weight when he shifts on the bed. He can't block the mental images that flood his mind as he stands there, listening to the sound of Dean's hand slickly fisting his cock. Sam pulls his bottom lip between his teeth when he hears the deep, strained noise Dean makes, wonders if Dean bites down on his lip when he comes just like he does.
Sam knows he should have turned away like ten seconds ago, but he physically can't. His feet are frozen in spot, his blood pumping loudly in his ears, and when he leans forward, his dick is hard, brushing against the doorframe. He lets his hand drift for a second, just needs to touch himself, relieve just a little bit of the pressure, but then he hears Dean grunt, loud and punctuated, and Sam just knows. Dean just came; he can see it, smell it, taste it. His body shudders quietly as the orgasm ripples through him and right there, standing in front of his brother's bedroom door, Sam comes without touching himself once.
“Dean,” He pounds on Dean's door twice, surprised at how ragged and hoarse his voice sounds. “Dad wants you to get up!” Then runs to his room and changes, stuffing his shorts in the bottom of the hamper. When John asks him later why he changed, Sam tells him he spilled coffee on himself and tries very hard not to choke on the sour taste in the back of his mouth. It's going to be a long day.
John's left for work already when Dean strolls into the living room, water still clinging to the back of his neck from just getting out of the shower. Sam's on the sofa, notebook in his lap with his biology book on the coffee table in front of him, copying definitions, Tech Tv turned down low. Twenty minutes ago he was standing outside Dean's door listening to his fist dragging over his own skin, violating what little privacy they still had between them, and its all he can think about. Dean clanks around in the kitchen behind him, digging his favorite coffee cup out from the back of the cabinet. Sam knows exactly which one it is, plain blue with a chip on the handle, so big around Sam thinks it could technically be classified as a bowl. He knows exactly how Dean likes his coffee, no cream, but enough sugar to stand a spoon in, and the real stuff, not that sweet and low crap. Sam knows so much about Dean it hurts sometimes, and now he knows even more, like the noises he makes when he's touching himself, what Dean sounds like when he comes. He just thought it was going to be hard to look Dean in the eye after what happened last night. Now, he pretty much wants to crawl in a hole and disappear.
If it weren't for the rustle of the newspaper pages being turned every couple of seconds, Sam would think he was alone in the house. He knows Dean's standing in the kitchen, probably leaning on his elbows on the counter while he sifts through the college football scores. Dean clears his throat and it startles him, makes him lose his grip on his mechanical pencil; it rolls off of his notebook onto the carpet.
He can feel the wall Dean's putting up between them, keeping him out. He can feel the tension in the air, so heavy and thick it feels like drowning. It reminds Sam of when Dean put the stars on his ceiling when he was little when he was still afraid of the dark, and how he'd stare up at them for hours when he was supposed to be sleeping. He'd liked to pretend he was a star, floating around weightless in the infinite miles of cold blackness that stretched on forever. That's exactly what it feels like now, Sam thinks, like there's an infinite universe of burning up stars and planets between them, and this time Dean isn't going to be there to soothe him and make it better.
Sam concentrates on the words in front of him when Dean walks into the livingroom, sitting on the edge of the ottoman as he slides his boots on his feet. He reads the word mitosis so many times over Sam thinks its probably permanently etched into his cornea.
“M'going to work on the car,” Dean mutters as he reaches for the door and Sam exhales when it shuts behind him. He feels like he's finally breached the surface of the water, but when he looks out the window and sees Dean slide in the driver's seat and pop the hood, its like being pushed right back under. Sam wonders if he'll ever be able to look at Dean again without feeling like he just wants to give up, let himself drift under and drown in whatever this is.
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, doing his best to force those thoughts to the dark place in his head where he keeps all the things he can't think about without wanting to shut down. He's got a weekends worth of homework to do and only a couple of hours to do it. He can't sit around and mope and think about all the hundreds of ways he's fucked up all day. He's got biology definitions to copy and Shakespeare to read before Monday, and he's pretty sure his teacher isn't going to like the excuse, “Sorry I didn't read act II, I accidentally kissed my brother and screwed up my whole life.”
He's been scribbling definitions on college ruled notebook paper for an hour or so, getting up every now and then to use the bathroom or grab a snack, when Sam looks out the window again. Dean's leaned over the hood of the car, probably checking the oil or the water, and the old t-shirt he put on to work outside in is riding up the span of his back, giving Sam a peek of smooth, tanned skin. He knows that there's a tiny birthmark on Dean's right hip, right below the waist of his jeans and that his back isn't hairy except for a soft patch of downy hair on the small of his back. It takes Sam's brain a minute to realize that he knows this because they're brothers; they used to take baths together, for christ's sake. Of course he knows every freckle and mole and scar on Dean's body and it shouldn't send the thrill through him that it does.
Sam's just picked up Romeo and Juliet when Dean walks back inside the house, sweat beading across his upper lip and around the edges of his hair. Juliet's just started questioning why Romeo has to be her enemy and why it even matters if she loves him, not his name, when Dean comes out of the kitchen, popping the top on a cold soda and stands behind Sam. Sam can smell the sunshine and sweat on Dean's skin, thinks he can feel the heat radiating off on Dean's body he's standing so close. The back of his neck feels hot and prickly and Sam wets his lips, reading the same line over and over again.
“What ya reading, Sammy?” Dean asks, belching loudly and lays his hand on the sofa next to Sam's shoulder. It smells like engine grease and Gojo and Sam's breath stutters.
“Romeo and Juliet,” He mutters, flipping the page even though he wasn't even half-way finished. When he looks over he can see the grease caked beneath Dean's fingernails, in the lines of his knuckles, and Sam wonders idly if its the same hand he was fucking into earlier this morning, same fingers he came all over.
“Yeah. Wasn't Juliet like, twelve?” Dean snorts, crunching the empty can in his palm when he finishes it. “That's naughty.”
Sam's still staring at the door when it shuts behind Dean. All he has to do is make it through the day. If he manages that, he's pretty sure he should receive the Nobel fucking peace prize and he is so not kidding. Dean has absolutely no idea what he's doing to him and its killing Sam just to be in the same room with him. At least the tension wasn't so thick he was choking on it this time. It almost felt like Dean was acting normal, like nothing had ever happened. Actually, it wouldn't surprise Sam if an hour working on his car was all it had taken for Dean to push everything that happened yesterday to the back of his mind and forget about it. Sounds just like Dean. Sam takes a deep breath and opens his book back up to where he left off. If Dean can do it, so can he.
Sam puts the book down over an hour later, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Reading always makes hims sleepy. He gets up from the couch, walking around the room to stretch his legs and hopefully wake his body up so he can finish the rest of the book before tomorrow, stops by the window to see what Dean's doing. The sun is directly overhead now, glinting off the hood of the Impala blindingly and Dean's reaching across the windshield, scrubbing the glass with a large, yellow sponge. His shirt is clinging to the sweat on his back in spots, soaking through the thin, white cotton. There's stains under his armpits and the back of his neck is bright pink from sunburn.
Sam doesn't think twice as he heads to the kitchen, filling a tall cup with ice and water and taking it out to Dean. If he keeps drinking soda and working out in the sun like that he's going to get dehydrated. Plus, and he knows its lame, but he's kind of hoping this can be his olive branch. Like, by bringing Dean a glass of ice water will erase all their problems. Nothing says I'm-Sorry-I-Have-Wrong-Incestual-Feelings-About-You like water from the tap.
As soon as he's outside though, hovering a few feet away from the puddle spreading across the concrete from under Dean's car, Sam's tongue ties itself in knots. Anything he thinks about saying just sounds stupid and insignificant. What can he say? “I. Uh. Brought you some water.” He mutters, wondering if he'll ever be able to talk to Dean again without sounding like he has a brain injury.
“Uh, thanks.” Dean grins, but its kind of off, a little crooked on one side, as he takes the glass from Sam's hands and raises it to his mouth. Sam watches the line of his throat as he swallows, notices the tiny stream of water that escapes the corner of Dean's mouth as he chugs half the glass down in one swallow. Dean just stares at him for a moment, like he's waiting for Sam to make the next move, and licks away the watery mustache over his top lip.
“You should wear sunscreen,” Sam blurts out, picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails. Dean still doesn't say anything though and he's got that feeling that he's being watched; its like having an itch right in the center of your back that you can't reach. “Well, um. I gotta. Homework.” He says, turning around and heading back for the door.
“Hey, Sam. Wait,” Dean says and when Sam turns around, he's getting sprayed in the face with the water hose, Dean grinning wide and bright, head thrown back and erupting with laughter.
“Asshole!” Sam cries, but he's grinning too, so wide he feels like his face might split apart. It feels good. He wipes the water out of his eyes with the hem of his shirt and charges at Dean, getting sprayed again. His shirt is completely saturated now, sticking to his chest and stomach like a second skin, and the ends of his are dripping onto his neck and shoulders. “Stop it!” He yells, reaching for Dean and trying to wrestle the sprayer out of his grasp.
“Get off me, brat!” Dean can barely talk for laughing. He ducks forward and shoves Sam off of him, spraying him again when his ass hits the muddy ground, hair completely soaked, his shirt practically transparent now, looking more like a drowned rat than a lanky teen.
“You're gonna get it, Dean.” Sam promises and picks up the bucket full of soapy water. Dean has just enough time to give Sam this doubtful, “you wouldn't dare,” look before Sam runs over and dumps the bucket out over the top of his head, nearly doubling over in a fit of laughter when Dean splutters on the soapy water.
“You little bitch!” Dean yells, his voice hitting a higher pitch in the middle somewhere, and tackles Sam on the grass. The ground splashes when Sam falls down on his back, pinned down by Dean's arms and legs, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. They used to fight like this when they were kids, wrestling over the remote control or the last pixie stick from their Halloween stash, but its been years since they've tangled like this. When Sam started getting regular growth spurts and his arms and legs started shooting out in every direction, it actually began to get dangerous. He remembers blacking Dean's eye with his elbow when he was eleven, but now its different. He's not as scrawny as he used to be; he's got a little muscle in places that he only had skin and bone before, and instead of being all knees and elbows, its like his and Dean's body kind of fit together, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
“Okay, enough.” Dean chuckles, shoving Sam off of him. He's covered in mud and leaves and his shirt is clinging to his chest, sleeves tight around the bulge of muscles in his arms. There's patches of wetness on the front of his jeans and dirt smeared across his forehead, but he's pointing at Sam and laughing, and Sam feels like he's finally out of the water.
“You're such a jerk,” he mutters, plopping down on the front steps, the frayed edges around the bottom of his jeans dragging wet spots across the wood. He's smiling as bright as the chrome on the Impala when Dean sits down next to him, their shoulders bumping together, comfortable, familiar. They stay like that for few quiet seconds, knees pressed together through denim, elbows touching, side by side, just soaking up the sun and the moment.
“So, what ya got planned today, Sammy?” Dean asks, picking up the hem of his shirt to wipe away sweat and mud, flashing flat, tanned skin and rippled stomach.
Sam swallows and picks at one of the rips in the knee of his jeans. “Homework mostly,” He mumbles, rolling a pebble under the toe of his shoe. “You wanna...” He looks up and Dean's eyebrows are pulled together, his focus somewhere off in the distance. He follows Dean's gaze and figures it out quickly. There's a red Honda pulling in the driveway and he's pretty there's a girl behind the wheel who keeps her hair in a ponytail and looks at his brother like she's staring into the sun.
“Wonder what she wants,” Dean grumbles, brushing his hands off on his thighs when he stands up. It should feel comforting that Dean's isn't exactly ecstatic that Randy basically showed up on his front door without calling, but there's still this cold pit in the bottom of Sam's stomach, pulling him back under.
Sam watches Dean walk over to her car, clenching his jaw when she leans in and throws her arms around his waist like she's done that same thing hundreds of times before. She's wearing this light blue dress that makes Sam remember that her family actually goes to church on Sunday, and when the wind blows, it ripples through her dress and presses the flimsy material against her curves. It flutters around her thighs, and the image of Dean laying between them flashes through Sam's head before he can stop it. Something in his gut clenches and his eyelids flutter, but the sound of Randy's laughter carrying in the wind sobers him up. Sam looks up again and she's reaching for Dean, laughing as she pulls a leaf out of his hair; the back of her hand lingers against his jaw for a split second and Sam's fingernails bite into his palm.
Sam squints across the yard, trying to read their lips, but they're too far away. All he can see is Randy smiling and Dean smiling and he wants to put his fist in something; that or throw up. Then Dean's shaking his head and Randy's not smiling anymore, tucking her hair behind her ear and nodding, muttering something, and Sam sees her hand Dean something; its too tiny for Sam to make out what. Dean nods and smiles, his mouth moving into what Sam assumes is a thank you, then he's reaching behind his head and the sun glints off of something hanging from his neck.
Sam gets nauseas when his brain starts putting the pieces together. That's the cross he gave Dean for Christmas when he was seven, before he lost his faith in everything. Dean must have wore it to Randy's house last night, where he mostly likely fucked her, and somehow it came off in the middle of everything and here she was, bringing it back like a good fucking Samaritan. Maybe it didn't just come off. Maybe Dean took it off, didn't want to have Sam so close to him while he was pushing inside of her, making those same sounds Sam heard him making earlier that morning.
When she pulls out of the driveway and Dean turns around, headed back to the porch to see if Sam feels like Burger King or Whataburger for dinner, he's not there and there's a dirt clod splattered across Dean's clean windshield.
“Shit,” Dean mutters, fingering the silver cross against his chest. He sighs, picking up the water hose and rinses the windshield off again. Sam doesn't come out of his room for the rest of the day.
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Date: 2008-11-20 01:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 02:13 am (UTC)LOOK HOW BIG IT'S GETTING!!! I'm used to seeing little bits and pieces on my kick or in yahoo, but its so awesome to see it all coming together :DDD
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Date: 2008-11-20 02:16 am (UTC)