Nano: All These Broken Pieces (Part 1)
Nov. 13th, 2008 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withimpunityTitle: All These Broken Pieces - Part 1
Pairing: Sam/Dean (mostly ust at this point)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 8136
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.
It's four in the afternoon and Sam's laying on top of his bed, arms crossed behind his head listening to the Radiohead cd Eric burned for him. His eyes are closed, shoes dangling off the edge of the bed, canvas wore thin in spots, laces tattered and grayed from dragging through dewy grass and mud. He'd hit another growth spurt just a few months ago and they haven't got around to getting him a bigger bed yet, one his arms and legs don't hang off of like he somehow stumbled into Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
Track five ends and in the moment of silence before the next one begins, Sam hears the squeak of the front of door being pushed open, apparently he's the only one in the house who knows how to use WD-40. He pulls the headphones down around his neck and scoops his cd player off the bed, carrying it with him over to his door, opening it only far enough to peek through the crack and make out the back of Dean's head. Sam quietly shuts his door again and breathes a sigh of relief. Dean's a jerk sometimes, but its better than having to deal with Dad right now. With Dean he doesn't feel like he's always walking on eggshells. Dean doesn't look at him like he'd rather be looking at anybody else.
“Burgers!” Sam hears Dean call from the kitchen and the rustle of paper bags, probably Burger King, Dean can't stand McDonalds. He got food poisoning there from a breakfast burrito when he was eleven and spent twenty-two hours spewing out of both ends. After that, he vowed never to set foot in the vile establishment again. Once, Sam went to McDonalds with some friends after school and when he got home Dean could smell it on him. He made Sam change his clothes and take a shower before doing anything else. Its kind of a family rule that they never, ever eat at McDonalds.
Sam glances at his reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of his door. There's a fringe of bangs falling in front of one eye, fever blister in the corner of his mouth, too many zits to count, and a nice sized, reddish-purple bruise beneath his right eye. He raises his fingers and barely touches them to his cheek bone.
“Fuck,” he gasps, wincing at the pain throbbing around his eye, spreading out over the bridge of his nose, making his eyes water. There's no way to cover it up. He doesn't even know how he's going to explain it yet.
“Sam, burgers!” Dean calls again. “Move it or your fries are mine, bitch!”
Sam rolls his eyes; it only hurts a little. “Coming!” He shouts back at Dean, untangling the headphones from his neck, winding them around his cd player and leaving it on his bed. He pulls the white t-shirt off over his head and throws it in the dirty laundry. There's a few drops of blood splattered across it and its not his, but he'd still rather Dean not ask anymore questions than necessary. He goes through a pile of clothes in the corner of his room, picking up a few shirts and smelling them before deciding on a black, long-sleeved shirt that only smells like cologne and books.
Sam opens the door, worrying the tear in the sleeve that his thumb fits through perfectly as he walks into the kitchen, expecting to see Dean already halfway through his fries. His dad standing there hits him like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from his lungs and locking up his muscles, freezing him in one spot. John's just getting off the phone when he turns around and sees Sam standing there, petrified, like a deer in the headlights. He takes a step toward Sam, setting the cordless on the table next to Dean's drink, and Sam knows exactly what he's staring at.
“You been fightin'?” John asks with short, punctuated words, eyebrows turned down in disapproval.
Sam opens his mouth to say something, but its Dean's voice that comes out.
“Yeah, Dad. Sammy here thought he could take me. Guess I got a little carried away.” Dean winks and grins like its all good, the lies coming as easily to him as breathing. Or in Dean's case, eating.
John glances at Dean, then looks back at Sam, shaking his head. “Sam,” he sighs, putting one hand on Sam's shoulder. “What have I told you about keeping your guard up? You leave too many holes, son. Its all about stance.”
“Yes sir,” Sam mumbles and as soon as John takes his hand away, Sam shoulders past him and digs a cheeseburger out of one of the bags, sitting at the table across from Dean. A couple of times during dinner he catches Dean looking at him, staring at the bruise under his eyes as he licks ketchup from the corner of his mouth. Then he looks away, asking Dad how work was, sitting back and listening as John goes on a half hour rant about how they all had to go to some ethics seminar because last week a cop roughed up a meth addict, stealing glances at Sam every few minutes. Sam knows he'll have to explain everything later and that Dean will be pissed and use it as blackmail for the rest of his damn life, but for the moment, Sam's really glad that Dean's his brother.
Dean waits until John's turned the tv off and gone to his room for the night before slipping out of his room and knocking lightly on Sam's door. When he doesn't get anything in response he lets himself in, snorting at the exaggerated rising and falling of Sam's chest beneath the covers.
“Dude, you fake sleeping apparently as good as you fight,” Dean says, pulling Sam's computer chair out from under the desk, turning it backwards and straddling it. Sam sighs and kicks the covers down to his ankles, pulls his legs up and sits with his back against the headboard, pray that Dean will just hurry up and get it over with.
“You're welcome,” Dean says wryly.
“Thanks,” Sam mutters, fidgeting with his watch strap. He feels weird, having Dean staring at him so much. He knows he's just checking out the shiner on his face, but Sam's not used to so much direct attention. It makes him nervous. “Um.”
“You hit him back at least?”
Sam pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and nods twice, looks up at the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars Dean help him put there when he was eight.
“You get caught?”
Sam shakes his head, staring down at his feet, and one sharp tooth pierces the inside of his lip, drawing the tiniest bit of blood. He doesn't look up, but he he can feel Dean sitting there, just staring at him for the longest time, the soft glow from his computer monitor the only light in the room.
“Good,” Dean finally says, gets up and pushes Sam's chair back under the desk. “Get some sleep. We're going shooting tomorrow.”
Saturday mornings are donuts from Jackie's and Dad and Dean watching ESPN, cleaning their guns on the sofa together. Sam pads through the kitchen a little after eight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and pours a cup of coffee. He leans against the counter, cradling the Lawrence P.D. coffee mug with two hands, eyes closed as he listens to the sound of metal clicking into place, the scent of gun oil heavy in the air.
Sam was eight when he shot his first gun, a pump action beebee. It accidentally hit a bird that flew in front of his target, bruising its wing so it couldn't fly, and Sam spent the rest of the night and half the next day crying, and swearing he'd never touch another gun, but when your Dad's a cop, that's easier said than done.
John had him learning gun safety pretty much before Sam even had all his adult teeth in his mouth. Having a cop for a dad didn't allow for gun shyness. One of his earliest memories is of his dad picking him up from the babysitter's, still in uniform, handgun tucked away safely at his side. He remembers John lifting him up, his foot digging at the holster on his hip.
“You're going to ride with Dean over to the range,” John's deep voice pulls Sam out of his thoughts. “I'm going to the station to finish up with some paperwork after we're done. Hurry up and get dressed. I'd like to be out of here before noon.”
Sam nods and takes his coffee with him to his room, checking out the fading bruise under his eye. Its already starting to yellow around the edges. When he pokes at it, its barely even sore anymore.
Hey Sammy, where's your boyfriend?
Shut up.
Aww, he doesn't even know you're a queer, does he?
Go away.
Its all right, Sammy. I know what you are.
I know what you want.
“Ready yet, Sammy?” Dean bangs on his door; Sam cringes when he uses that name. He fucking hates Viktor Allen. Dean's called him Sammy ever since he was born and now he can't hear it without thinking of Viktor, without remembering that sickening moment of dawning, when he realized that Viktor...was fucking right.
“I'm coming!” Sam yells, a little bit angry, grabbing the closet thing he can find (a beanie) and throws it at the door. “And stop calling me Sammy!”
John let Dean pick out his own car when he turned sixteen, a 1967 Chevy Impala, glossy black with a three twenty-seven under the hood. Sometimes Sam thinks its the only reason Dean's had so many dates.
“So, you gonna tell me what the hell caused my pacifist brother to tangle up with some dude, or am I going to have to play twenty questions?”
“Dean,” Sam sighs, staring out the window. “Don't.”
Dean's staring at him. Sam doesn't know how he knows it, he can just feel Dean looking at him, eyes crinkling in the corners like he's trying to figure him out. “I lied to Dad for you, Sam. I think I deserve an explanation.”
“Fine,” Sam eventually snaps. “Viktor called me a fag, so I hit him in the mouth. Busted his lip real good, Dean. Aren't you proud?” The sarcasm is ripe and bitter when it rolls off his tongue; Dean won't even look at him.
Ten minutes minutes goes by, nothing but the local rock station's deejay hyperactively blabbering about their latest concert giveaway. Dean's the one to finally break the silence.
“Sammy. You want me to-”
“No.” Sam interrupts. They've been here before, sixth grade, some punk kid a year older and thirty pounds heavier than Sam thought he could take his walkman. Sam had ran and told Dean what happened and Dean found the kid after school, nearly made him shit his pants by just staring at him, and threatened him within an inch of his life if he ever fucked with his brother again. He was only eleven then, though. If he got his big brother to back him up this time, Sam knew he'd end up with much worse than a black eye later on. Dean couldn't help him, not with this. Not anymore.
“Yeah, okay.” Dean murmurs and Sam can tell he understands, that he gets it. As they pull into the entrance of the shooting range, Dean looks over at him, grinning crookedly, and pats him on the leg. “C'mon, little brother. Lets go shoot some shit up.”
“Sam, I want you to watch your brother first.” John says after they check in, walking Sam and Dean over to their own booth. “Pay good attention to the way he holds his feet and shoulders.”
“Yes sir.”
“I mean, it now.” John presses. “Proper stance could mean the difference between a wounding shot and a kill shot.”
A kill shot.
“Yes sir, I understand.”
“Good. Dean, let me know how he does.” John says, then walks away from them, taking his fifty caliber a few rows down where a few of his buddies are already shooting.
Dean gives Sam this slow smile and lowers his safety glasses down over his eyes. Sometimes Sam envies Dean for being able to enjoy this so much. He pops his earplugs in as Dean does the same and stands back, watching as Dean spreads his feet shoulder width apart, right foot planted slightly higher than the left. His posture straightens, shoulders pulled back as he raises his arms. Sam counts the seconds, one, two, three, until Dean squeezes the trigger. His shoulders barely flinch, but Sam can see the way his muscles bunch underneath his t-shirt, pulled tight across his shoulder blades. Sam reaches over and presses the button to retrieve the target sheet.
“See, Sammy?” Dean grins, snatching the target off the line. There's a bullet hole where the person's throat would be. “Easy as pie. Your turn.”
Sam wipes his palms on the front of his jeans as Dean holds the Beretta out for him to take. The nine millimeter feels cold and heavy in his hand and his hold body itches with the feeling of bad, wrong. Sam wishes like hell he didn't feel like this. Like some kind of freak in his own family, the only one that can't stand to hold a gun in his hand. Dean loves shooting because of all the power, right there in the palm of his hand. He controls it. Sam thinks that's exactly why he hates it. Its nauseating having that much power. He doesn't think he's strong enough to control it.
“Okay,” Dan says behind him, kicking Sam's feet apart with his boot. “Get a good, comfortable grip on it, Sammy.”
“Don't call me that,” Sam grumbles, planting his feet firmly in the ground, one a few inches higher than the other, stiffening his shoulders up, trying to mirror Dean's actions exactly.
“Not so stiff,” Dean mutters behind him. Sam feels Dean's hands on his shoulder, fingers curled around the bone, loosening him up a few notches.
“You don't wanna pull something, especially if you were firing something with a big ass kickback like Dad's fifty cal.”
“Okay,” Sam's voice is scratchy and he re-squares his shoulders, not quite as taut as before. “This good?”
“Yeah, perfect.” Dean says to his right. “Now raise it up, get it level with the target.”
Sam raises his arms, aiming at the far off target in the distance, at least fifty yards away. He's done this before, even shot Dad's Beretta before, but every single time his elbows go weak and his arms tremble and shake with the rush, a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He takes a few deep breaths, forcing his heart rate down, and his finger slips, curling around the trigger.
"Good," Dean says next to him softly. "Fire."
Sam squeezes the trigger, feels Dean's palm press into the small of his back as gunpowder explodes, deafening despite the earplugs. He's glad Dean made him loosen up, because he'd forgotten how much of a kick back the nine mill has. The vibrations coming off the metal sends this itchy tingle through the tips of Sam's fingers, up his arms, all the way down to Dean's fingers still resting on his back.
"Good job, Sammy." Dean says, and Sam thinks he can feel a puff of warm breath on the back of his neck when Dean moves to pull the target sheet in. Sam gets this feeling, couldn't describe it if you paid him to, but it almost feels like giddiness. He knows that's not it, but it almost is. Probably the rush of adrenaline, the tingle in his veins, and the pride in Dean's voice all hitting him at once. He doesn't even realize that he's bouncing on the heels of his sneakers waiting for the target sheet as it inches forward.
“Let's see how bad you suck,” Dean grins and snatches the paper from the line before Sam can get to it, holding it out of his reach.
“Let me see!” Sam squeals (there's really no other way to describe it), pressing against Dean's back, long arms reaching around to grab it. He's never cared before where he hit the target, never even looked twice at the flimsy paper before, but for some reason today he wants to know how he did. Dean starts laughing and ducks forward, rolling out of Sam's grasp.
“Wanna see, Sammy?” He grins, tongue poking in the corner of his cheek. Sam gets this urge to tackle him to the ground, roll around in the grass and dirt like the used to do, fighting over GI Joe's or the last piece of chocolate cake. Instead, he rolls his eyes.
“Whatever,” he says, trying to pretend he doesn't care, but the pink tint in his cheeks gives him away. Dean can tell there's some part of him that's enjoying this. “Are you going to show me or not, jerk?”
“Oh, pull your shorts out of your ass.” Dean smirks, turning the target sheet around and showing Sam his work.
Headshot.
Sam feels light headed as he stares at the tiny hole in the fake person's head, right where its fake brain would be. He folds it in half, then folds it again. He kind of wishes he had his lighter so he could watch it burn to ashes.
“Can we,” He says quietly, staring at the silver cross hanging from Dean's neck instead of his face. “Can we not tell Dad, Dean?”
A beat.
“Yeah, whatever.” Dean says casually, fingers curling around the butt of the gun as he slides it out of Sam's hand. Sam watches him align with the target, perfect stance, perfect aim, and his eyelids flutter as Dean empties the clip. Bangbangbangbangbang. His ears are still ringing long after Dean's done firing.
“C'mon,” he says, sliding the clip out. “Let's go eat. I'm starving.”
They've been coming to Kelly's for years, ever since Dean got his license, anyway. There's an old jukebox in the corner that Dean played Bohemian Rhapsody on when he brought Sam here for his thirteen birthday and smashed chocolate cake in his face. Dean always picks a booth by the window so he can watch the car, he's ridiculously paranoid about someone parking next to it and dinging his “baby” with their door. Its your typical greasy spoon diner, which Dean goes crazy over, hashbrowns smothered, covered, and chunked, fresh peach pie at all hours of the day, and waitresses in tiny aprons and short skirts
Sam orders the same thing every time they come: grilled cheese with tomato, and a chocolate malt with a side of fries. Dean loves the entire menu. Sometimes he gets the patty melt, sometimes he gets the chicken club. Today he orders a cheeseburger, hashbrowns (which he smothers with ketchup), a slice of pie, and a vanilla coke.
“Hey boys,” Randy greets them with her notebook in the palm of her hand, pulling a pen out from her ponytail. Randy's Dean's age, muddy brown hair always pulled back in a ponytail or one of those half-flippy things the girls are doing now, and she always looks at Dean like he's the only one in the place, like Sam isn't sitting right across from him. Sam's never really liked her very much, even though he's not sure why. She's nice enough, always gets their order right and makes sure Ronnie doesn't burn his grilled cheese. There's just something about her that makes Sam wish he was older, or taller, or not so ugly and scrawny. Sometimes he thinks he hates her.
“Hey, Randy,” Dean smiles at her the way he smiles at everybody, and Sam's fingers pinch off corners of his napkin, shredding it until the table is covered in bits of snowy white paper, avoiding the way Randy's green eyes light up when Dean says her name. “Doing all right?”
“Yeah,” she smiles, pushing a few stray hairs behind her ear. She smells like coffee and grease, and under that, girl. “We've been super swamped today, just starting to slow down in here. What can I get you guys? Let me guess, grilled cheese, tomato, and a chocolate malt for Sam?”
“Side of fries,” Sam says, flashing a fake smiles as he pushes the menu he never needs at her.
“Got it,” Randy says, notepad unnecessary, and turns to Dean. The white shirt she wears tucked into her short black shorts isn't exactly see-through, but it might as well be She's pinned her named tag right over her right breast, making the subtle curves of her small breasts appear larger and well defined beneath the soft cotton stretched across her chest. Sam can make out the outline of the underwire in her bra. “What can I get you, Dean?”
Dean pauses a second like he's thinking about something. Sam watches him and wonders if Dean just can't decide on what he wants, or if he's actually thinking about Randy and her perfectly round breasts, how they'd feel pressed up against his palms.
“Cheeseburger and a side of hashbrowns, a slice of Dolores' peach pie, and um, a vanilla coke.” He finally says, handing her the menu, and Randy scribbles a few short words onto her notepad.
“Okey dokey,” She grins, sliding her pen back into her ponytail. “It'll be up in a few, guys.”
Dean smiles back at her as she skips off, clipping their order sheet with one of the clothespin above Ronnie's head.
“Dude, take a picture. It'll last longer,” Dean smirks, kicking Sam's feet with his boots underneath the table, laughing when Sam's blushes and jerks his eyes away from Randy's ass as she leans down to tie her shoelaces.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, looking up sheepishly at Dean as he nervously rearranges the sweet and low and sugar.
“Hey, I'd be worried about you if you weren't.” Dean jokes, popping a toothpick in between his teeth casually. “She's pretty cute, Sammy. Little old for you, though.” He winks.
Sam shrugs and kicks Dean in the shin under the table. Girls don't like him the way they like Dean. He has a few friends that are girls, but no girl has ever looked at him the way Randy looks at Dean.
Sam got his first and only girlfriend when he was fourteen. Her name was Taryn and she was a year older than him. Taryn wore black framed glasses and dyed her hair a different color every week and wore black t-shirts with sayings on them like, I hear voices and they don't like you. Sam kissed her one time after the winter dance, and she broke up with him the next Monday, gave his friend Eric a note to give to him during Biology. He kind of stopped trying after that.
He doesn't know what's wrong with him. It's like there's some gene that Dean has that he's missing. He just doesn't get girls, what they want or like, or even what he's supposed to say to them. He watches Dean when he brings girls over, tries to learn from him because obviously Dean's not lacking in the girl department, and Sam can use all the help he can get. Dean's so smooth with girls he's nearly seamless, slipping his arm around her shoulder, slowly moving in and mouthing at her neck until she melts in his arms and makes these sounds that Sam's only ever heard on late night Cinemax.
Once, Eric's mom dropped him off after band practice ran late and John was working a double shift, and Sam accidentally walked in on Dean with Jamie Lyons. Sam heard noises coming from Dean's room, just figured it was the tv or radio or something, and when he pushed open the door to ask Dean if they could order Domino's for dinner, there they were. Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed and Jamie was on her knees, face buried between Dean's thighs, making wet noises with her mouth. When the door flung open, Dean's eyes shot up and met Sam's, and Sam blushed so hot he thought his face was going to catch fire. He shut the door quickly and ran to his room, locking the door behind him, and jerked off so hard that he fell to his knees when he came.
“Here we go,” Randy pops up next to their table, balancing three plates with two hands. “The usual for Sam,” she says and Sam thanks her when she sits his plate in front of him, grimacing at the slice of pickle on the side. He's always hated pickles, but never remembers to ask them to leave it off.
“And your burger, Dean.” She smiles sweetly before setting Dean's plate in front of him, pulling a bottle of ketchup from her apron.
“Thanks, Randy.” Dean smiles back at her and reaches for his plate of hashbrowns. Their fingers touch for a second and Randy pulls back, cheeks glowing pink as she tosses two straws on their table.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” She murmurs before flitting off to the next table,where an elderly couple just sat down.
Sam stares down at his sandwich, golden brown and perfect, melty colby jack dripping a little around the edges, and his stomach turns over. He hasn't had anything but coffee all day and going shooting always gives him this wicked adrenaline rush, but all of a sudden he doesn't feel all that hungry.
“What's going on in that melon?” Dean reaches over, plucking one of Sam's fries from his plate.
“Dude, you could've ordered fries.” Sam says, pulling his plate against his chest. “I think Randy likes you, Dean.”
“You think?” Dean snorts, picking up his cheeseburger in both hands and digs into it. There's a smudge of ketchup in the corner of his mouth as he chews, but Sam doesn't say anything. He just watches Dean chase it with his tongue, look up at Sam and grin as he picks up his coke. “Randy's been making eyes at me since eight grade, Sam.”
Sam's stomach does that thing again, like its revolting, but he stuffs a fry in his mouth anyway, just to have something to do, and takes his pickle off his plate, putting it on Dean's. Dean will eat anything. “So, why don't you go out with her?”
Dean cocks an eyebrow at Sam as he drowns his hashbrowns with ketchup. “Randy?” He asks, licking a little ketchup off the edge of his thumb. “She's nice, I guess. Little too nice, maybe.”
Sam picks up a fry, reaches over the table and swipes it over the top of Dean's hashbrowns, getting ketchup on the tip, and considers this. Dean's probably right. All the girls he's seen Dean go out with haven't exactly been what you might call nice, and he doesn't usually keep them around longer than a few weeks at the most. Randy's pretty, but not exactly hot either. She's nice and smart too, graduated Summa Cum Laude of their class. Randy's not like the girls Dean dates at all. Sam feels oddly comforted by this. He looks down at his sandwich and picks it up. All of sudden, he's starving.
“So, how's school?” Dean makes small talk between shoveling food in his mouth. They don't get a whole lot of time to catch up on the mundane stuff. Dean works at the transmission shop all week and Sam has math club, band, and chess club. Then, on the weekends Dean's barely there at all.
One weekend Dean didn't come home at all, didn't even call, and Sam drifted in and out of sleep with the cordless pressed up against his face. He woke up at seven to the sound of the Impala pulling in the driveway, pink indentions on his face where the button on the phone pressed into his skin all night.
He stood inside his bedroom door as Dean came down the hall, arms wrapped around himself, staring at Dean like he was looking at a ghost.
“Don't ever,” He'd mumbled, shoving Dean with both hands, then collapsed against him from pure exhaustion. “Just, don't.”
“Schoolish,” Sam replies, pushing his straw around the edges of his glass, taking it out and licking the malt off the end of the straw.
“Grades?'
“Same.”
“Teachers?”
“Same,” He replies as Dean ganks another one of his fries, smiling at he bites down it, mouth wide open. “Oh, I've got Mr. Anders this semester.”
Dean laughs and leans back a little, sprawling his legs apart under the booth; his knee bumps Sam's when they fall open and Sam has to reach down and scratch away the lingering feeling of contact. “Fruity French teacher Anders?” He asks, pushing the slices of softened peaches to the edge of the saucer. Mostly he just likes the pie crust and the gooey, sugary glaze in the middle. “Got a C in his class. Should have accidentally dropped my pencil in front of his desk a few times or something, I guess."
Sam feels his face flush, heat crawling up from his neck to the tips of his ears, and stares down into his milkshake. Dean sits up and leans forward, offering Sam a piece of pie on the end of his fork.
“Its okay if you think he's hot,” He says just as Sam's mouth closes around the fork; he nearly bites down on metal. “Everyone does. He's a good looking dude. Just, you know. About as straight as a rainbow.”
Sam rolls the peach slice around in his mouth for a minute, sucking off all the glaze before chewing it up and swallowing it. Dean's finishing the rest of his pie, but every now and then he looks up at Sam and he's got this weird expression on his face, eyebrows pulled together curiously.
Sam reaches over and grabs one of the abandoned peach slices off Dean's plate, lips smacking as he licks the sticky sugar off of them. When he looks up, Dean's still staring at him, but his expression's changed. Sam can't put his finger on how, though.
“What?” Sam asks, but then Randy sidles up next to their table and hands Dean the check, smiling with her cherry chapstick lips, and Sam excuses himself to the restroom while Dean pays the bill. He's starting to feel sick again.
On the ride home, Dean turns the radio down and Sam looks away from the window. “I noticed you got something in the mail today,” he says casually, but there's something unidentifiable in his tone. “California's a long way away, dude.”
“I know that.” Sam mutters, picking at a fraying hole in his jeans. “It was just something. There was this fair at school. Its nothing.”
“No, Sammy.” Dean says, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “I think its awesome you want to go to school.”
“Don't you?” Sam asks. Its not something they talk about much, mostly because he doesn't want to offend Dean or anything, but since Dean brought it up, he really wants to know.
“Me? Nah, you're the genius among us.” He says, glancing over at Sam. “People need guys like me to work on their cars, ya know?”
“Plus you get to fix up the Impala for free,” Sam teases, grinning when Dean throws the car in neutral and revs up the rpm's. When he pops it back into drive, Dean reaches over and turns the radio back up, classic AC/DC blaring through the speakers. Sam rolls his window down and closes his eyes, lets the cool, humid night air whip across his lips and nose and eyes, listens to Dean sing along to the music, loud and off-key. He can still smell fried food and cigarette smoke on their clothes from the diner, and he can't stop smiling.
It was a good day.
When they get home, John's truck is already sitting in the driveway. They walk up the steps, Dean tripping Sam half way so he can get to the bathroom first.
“How was shooting?” John asks Sam as he shuffles into the kitchen, grabbing the last soda to spite Dean for tripping him on the steps. Sam straightens his face out, tries not to think about the bullet sized hole in the head of the target.
“Fine,” He replies, taking a sip from the can. “Dean did better than me, though.” It's what John expects to hear. He nods and folds the newspaper in his hands closed, setting it on the table in front of him and takes a long pull from the beer in his hand. “You boys already eat?”
Sam nods. He has flashes of round breasts and the taste of sweet pie and salty fries, and of Dean's tongue licking ketchup from the corner of his mouth, his knees brushing Sam's under the table. “Yes sir.”
They both turn their heads when they hear the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. Dean comes out, waving a hand in front of his face dramatically. Sam rolls his eyes. “Better take a match or two if you're plannin' on going in there, Sammy.” He grins, opening the fridge door, and scowls. Sam holds up the soda can in his hand and grins.
“Bitch,” Dean mutters under his breath so only Sam can hear.
“Dean,” John says, smiling as he pushes his chair away from the table and stands up. He's practically beaming. “Got some good news today, son.”
Sam looks at Dean, hoping to see some kind of something on Dean's face to tell him what the hell's going on, but Dean's full attention is on John. “Yes sir?”
“I talked to Captain Bryant this afternoon, Dean. That's where I was headed when I left the range. He told me there's finally a spot open for you at the Academy.” He looks like he wants to hug Dean, or worse, cry.. Sam feels like he's going to be sick all over the linoleum.
“Wow,” Dean replies after a few seconds of nothing, chewing the inside of his cheek raw. “That's...”
“Its what we been waiting for, son!” John claps him on the back. “Now you don't have to work down at that greasy shop everyday. C'mon, aren't you glad? I've been up Bryant's ass for months for this. Don't just stand there, son.”
“Course I'm glad, Dad.” Dean smiles, reaching over and giving John a half-assed hug and a quick pat on the back. “I appreciate it, you know I do. Its just-”
“Its just what, son?” Sam watches John's jaw tighten against his skin, clenching and unclenching, fingers tightening around the neck of his beer. Sam doesn't ever remember him being a very patient man.
“Well its just, do you really think I'd make a good cop?” Dean's voice breaks a little in the middle of his question. Sam watches it all play out in front of him, like he's not really there. Its surreal, except that its not. This is real and he's so scared he could cry.
John's been a cop his whole life. Sam figures he should be used to it by now, but he's not, and apparently he's never going to be. Everytime he hears something on the news, everytime he hears sirens, his chest aches and he just knows that one of those times its going to be his dad in the middle of a robbery or a gunfight. No one's lucky forever. Now, Dean's going to do the same thing to him. The room starts to spin a little and Sam braces his hand against the wall as they talk.
“Dean,” John grins, throwing an arm around his shoulder. Sam's always hated the way he does that, like they're more like buddies than father and son. Sometimes he thinks John doesn't know the difference. “You're a Winchester, son. Its in your blood. My dad, my dad's dad. All of us, Dean. Its your turn.”
Dean's eyes flick over to Sam's, sees them filled with hurt and worry, about to brim over with tears, then up at his father, so full of pride he looks like he'll burst any second.
“What do you say, son? Should I give Bryant a call?”
Dean's eyes flicker back to Sam. He knows how Sam feels about John's line of work, how much he worries, how he prays every night that John will make it home safe and alive, but Dean also knows that his dad is right. He can't work at the garage for the rest of his life and Sam's already planning to go off to college and leave them. Then he wouldn't even have a reason to hang around the house. “Yeah, Dad.” His mouth speaks before his brain is even finished processing the information. “Make the call.”
The next thing Dean hears is the front door slamming and just like that, Sam's gone.
Dean grabs his keys from the hook on the wall immediately, then reaches for his coat.
“He'll be back,” John sighs calmly, sitting back down at the table and grabbing his beer.
“I gotta go after him, Dad.” Dean says softly, fingers on the door knob.
“I know you do.” John says, grabbing another beer from the fridge as Dean's car roars to life outside the kitchen window, tires squealing across pavement when he takes off. Its times like these he wishes Mary was here. He just feels like he never says the right thing. Mary always knew exactly the right thing to say or do, everything made sense when they were together. Sometimes John feels like nothing in his life has made sense since she passed.
He twists open the beer with the tail of his shirt and swallows. It helps, but not much.
Dean drives with the windows down and the headlights on high beam through town. He makes a couple of stops, at Sam's friend Eric's house, at the Game Stop, but he can't find him anywhere. He drove by the library, but it was already closed.
“Dammit, Sam!” He beats on the steering wheel and sighs. The last twelve hours feel like such a blur he can hardly breathe. They'd been getting along so well, catching up and joking around, and it had felt so much like a few years ago, when Dean was still in school and Sam was still Sammy, before all the teen angst started setting in. When Dean didn't have to work all the time and they just sat around, watching tv every night, wrestling and playing nintendo. They were like brothers then, and Dean hasn't felt that way around Sam in a long time; not until today.
Dean turns onto sixth street, on his way back to the house because maybe the little shit just hopped up on the roof and has been there the entire time. Of course, if he has, Dean's going to beat the ever living crap out of him when he gets home, but at least he'll know where he is. He drives by the park a couple blocks from their house and by chance, looks out his window, noticing a lanky figure sprawled out on top of one of the picnic tables. Dean turns the wheel so sharp the tires squeal in protest across the asphalt and he's barely put the car in drive before he's opening the door and getting out, squinting his eyes in the fading sunlight.
Sam's laid out on top of the picnic table, hoodie bunched up underneath his head like a pillow and a cigarette perched between his lips, tip of it glowing bright red.
“You little son of a bitch,” Dean pants, one hand resting on his hip. His body is give out, exhausted from the rush of adrenaline and panic. “And since when do you fucking smoke, Sam?”
Sam rolls his shoulders casually, pinches the cigarette between two fingers and pulls it from his lips, exhaling a cloud of greyish smoke to his left. “Since when do you care?”
“Whatever, Sam. Quit being a bitch and get in the damn car.” Dean's not sure how to handle this Sam, defiant and careless and so, so angry. Part of him wants to hug him or ruffle his hair, and part of him kind of wants to throw down with him, give him a matching black eye and teach him a fucking lesson. Life sucks, you lose people. Just the way it fucking is.
“I'm not going home,” Sam says as casually as stating the weather, taking another drag from his cigarette.
“Yes, you are, Sammy.”
“NO I'M NOT!” Sam stands on the ground and shouts at him; his hands are shaking by his side, ashes littering the grass. “I can't do it anymore, Dean! I – I hate what he does and you know it, and you – you just don't care! You'll do whatever he wants you to do. No one cares what I want! I don't matter!” His body crumples and falls down onto the bench, cigarette rolling out of his fingers into the dirt.
“Sam,” Dean says softly, squashing the glowing embers with the toe of his boot and sitting down next to Sam at the table. “Sammy.” He reaches out, fingers curling around Sam's bony shoulder and its like a trigger for Sam's waterworks. The tears flow freely down his cheeks as he sobs and Dean's body aches to hold him close, touch his head, and tell him, promise him, that everything's going to be all right.
“C'mere,” he says, wrapping his hand around the back of Sam's neck, tugging him forward.
“No,” Sam resists, sobbing and sniffling. “No.” But he leans into Dean's touch anyway, presses his face, soaked with hot, wet tears, against Dean's neck and let's Dean arms envelop him.
“Please,” Sam mumbles against Dean's skin, his tears saturating the neck of Dean's t-shirt. “Don't, Dean. Please. I can't-”
“Shh,” Dean says, rubbing soothing circles down Sam's back, stroking the nape of his neck with his thumb. “Don't worry, Sammy.”
“You don't understand,” Sam sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and looks up at Dean. “You. I can't. I don't have anybody else.” His eyes close, face falling forward until his forehead is pressed against Dean's and he can feel Dean's breath on his lips when he exhales through his nose. He holds onto Dean as tight as he can, like he thinks it might change something. He wants to stay like this, just like this, wrapped up inside the one person he thinks might actually love him, forever.
“Sam.” Dean's voice is startled and Sam doesn't understand why he's pushing him away now when he was just pulling him close, but oh, he notices how close their faces are and he can feel the tingle on his lips from where they just brushed Dean's, and oh. Oh God. Not Dean, not his brother. Not-
He just barely makes it to the trash can before he starts throwing up; it tastes like chocolate malt and peaches and stomach acid. It feels like the beginning of the end.
There are just some things they don't talk about. They don't talk about Mom around Dad, they don't talk about what kind of lube Sam uses when he jerks off, and he's pretty sure this is one of those thing that they are never, under any circumstances, going to talk about again. He takes a shower when he gets home and Dad grounds him for the weekend for running off and "worrying his brother." Sam goes to bed straight after getting out of the shower, ignoring the growling protests from his stomach, and tries not to listen to the sounds his brother makes in the next room, the soft thud of feet across carpet, the muted sounds of music coming from his stereo.
Thing is, Sam wouldn't blame Dean if he hated him, except for the fact that he didn't do it on purpose. It just kind of happened, like a sneeze or a hiccup. That's exactly what it was, Sam thinks, his brain just had a hiccup. He was so upset, so overwrought with stupid emotions and hormones and being angry at John for dragging Dean into his life, not giving a second thought to what Dean wanted, that for a moment his brain separated Dean his brother from Dean his best friend, and that's when it happened. He slipped. Dean pushed him away and Sam looked up, and there was only one Dean. His brother. He kissed his fucking brother.
Its not enough to be a freak, too smart for his own good, laughing stock of the human race, the inferior of John Winchester's two sons, but now he has to go and throw incest into the mix. Sam rolls over onto his stomach, smashes his face into his pillow, holds his breath and starts counting down from a hundred. By the time he reaches twenty-one, he's asleep, dreaming of cold metal in his hands, waitresses with green eyes, and dry, chapped lips, salty with his own tears.
He wakes up at three, gasping for air, tears dried on his face, heart racing like he was just pulled out of a nightmare. He can't take this anymore. Maybe Dean's okay with ignoring things, but Sam's never been great at repressing. He needs to talk things out to get them out of his system. He needs Dean to know it was just an accident, that he didn't mean it. He needs them to be okay, because what he said in the park was true. Dean's all he has.
Sam's eyes burn from crying so much and his head hurts from thinking so much and he just wishes it would all stop. Everything. He doesn't want to think anymore or cry anymore, and please God, don't let him grow anymore. Sam kicks the covers off of him angrily, like they've personally done something to him. He just can't stand it. They're twisting around his legs and its suffocating, or maybe that's how everything feels these days. Sam twists his body around and sits up, cradling his head in his hands and rubbing his hot, puffy eyes with his knuckles. When he looks up, he notices the hall light shining under his door. His socked feet hit the floor in an instant and he pulls on a shirt before padding across his room.
Sam opens his door slowly, wincing when it squeaks. John's bedroom is at the other end of the house, but sometimes he falls asleep in the recliner in the living room and right now Sam really doesn't want to have to deal with him too. He opens it just far enough so that he can slip through and switches the hall light off. He stops at Dean's door, resting his palm on the wood and it startles him when it slips open, not completely shut to begin with.
Sam stands there, staring at the emtpy, made-up bed and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying again. He turns around and goes back to his own bed. He lays there on his side, closes his eyes and doesn't think about where Dean is. He doesn't think about sweet perfume and a perfectly placed name tag. He doesn't think about small, soft hands touching Dean's face, fingers running through his hair, glossy, pink lips saying his name. He doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about it.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 07:41 am (UTC)