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alexisjaneThey drove in silence. The diner was only a few minutes away but the tension coming off his father seemed to stretch out time with its discomfort. When they arrived, John didn't hold the door open for Sam. Usually, he'd let the boys walk through and pick the table, but that morning he pushed through the door and led Sam to the booth that was furthest away from the other families and couples and lone business men reading the morning paper. It was the one Sam would have chosen but the fact that his father picked it somehow made him nervous.
Sam slid onto the red vinyl seat opposite him, the fabric squeaking beneath his sweaty palms as he pulled himself into the corner. The waitress was small and far too blonde. Maybe if her demeanor had been sunnier it wouldn't have jarred so much, but she was clearly having a shitty morning.
John ordered for them both and then sat with his hands folded on the table. Sam tried not to notice how intently John was staring at him. It was clear something was coming but he wasn't sure what. John tried to make chitchat about nothing and Sam forced himself to give more than one word answers. When the waitress returned with their order, she practically slammed the plates down. Sam felt like he should pick at his food to make a point but he found himself suddenly ravenous and was wiping his plate clean before John had barely started his.
Sam leant back in the booth, giving his full stomach more room and let his head loll on the back of the seat. He kept his eyes out the window, watching the traffic roll by, keeping his mind off whatever his father wanted to talk about, and on the people inside those cars; where they were going, what they were doing. He tried to imagine what their lives were like and whether he could ever have a life like that. One where monsters didn't rule his every minute, dictate where he slept or how long he stayed in one place, where they didn't take his parents away, or turn him into some kind of monster yourself. Because he knew that's what he was. From the first moment he'd stood over a bleeding broken body, it's blood dripping off the machete in his hand, he knew damn well that he was as much a monster as the thing he'd just slaughtered.
John shifted in his seat and pushed his mostly full plate away. He pulled his coffee mug to him with one hand and brought the other up to rub at his jawline The rasping noise of his calloused palm on his stubble drew Sam's attention more than the scrape of the coffee mug. John stared hard into his eyes. "I want you to know you're not in trouble, Sammy."
Sam felt a void open up in him and the world start to fall away but he kept his cool, grunted and looked back out the window. A white Porsche drove by, it's cleanliness and sheen somehow mystical amongst the dusty trucks and pickups and station wagons. It seemed totally bizarre that a car like that should be in a place like this. Sam watched it's sleek lines roar into the distance and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little, thinking how Dean would have to fold himself like a pretzel to fit in the driver's seat.
"Is everything okay...with you...and Dean?"
Sam felt the void blossom and roll in the pit of his stomach, threatening to expel the breakfast he'd just wolfed down. He shrugged and grunted, keeping his eyes on the truck passing by, just the cab with no load, the logo written on the door obscured with dirt and dust, vaguely making out a 'M' and a 'T' beneath the grime.
"Sammy. This is important. You need to listen to me...Look at me, Sam."
Sam turned to face his father, skin hot and clammy, his limbs itching to get moving, hoping the petulant facade could cover up the screaming panic inside him, but John looked like the screaming panic was in him too. "Is everything okay..."
"Yes. Why do you keep asking?" Sam didn't mean for it to sound so high pitched and bitchy but it was too late.
"I just...Bobby said he thought you two...may have had a falling out."
"Uncle Bobby said that?"
Sam wasn't sure quite where his father was going, until he said, "Y'know...Dean's your big brother and I've always told you to do what he says..."
"Dad..."
"But if he ever asked you to do something you didn't want to do..."
Sam laughed. He didn't mean to but he couldn't keep it in. He hated the way it sounded, harsh and derisive and he knew his father didn't really deserve it. "What? You mean like get up at five in the morning to run PT drills before school? Or making me do shotgun practice instead of revising for my English test? Or filling shotgun cartridges with rock-salt all Saturday morning when I should have been at baseball practice...?"
"Sam." John's voice was quiet but his tone cut Sam dead in mid breath. "Watch what you're saying, boy."
Sam suddenly felt like crying. He couldn't win against his father. He knew it was hopeless. He knew that. But if he was asking what he thought he was...
"Dean would never do that, Dad." Sam wanted the words to be forceful but they were a whisper. John opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Sam sat forward, put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. He was determined not to cry but he wasn't sure he could keep back the tears. When he felt John's hands gentle take hold of his biceps, all the weakness left him and he snapped his hands away from his face. "I can't believe that you'd think that Dean would hurt me, would do anything...would make me do anything..." He faltered but with a hitching breath continued, "...would make me do anything I didn't want to do. He's not like that, Dad. You know he's not."
John slowly withdrew his hands, sliding them back across the table. He looked down and shook his head. "No. No. I can't..." He looked Sam dead in the face, his tone more definite when he said, "Your tee-shirt...this morning. It wasn't ripped last night..."
Sam shook his head, "That wasn't...that was just...it's nothing."
John started muttering mostly to himself. "Maybe it's time. Maybe he should be starting out on his own, he's old enough. Or maybe you should go stay with Jim until you graduate..."
The panic took him totally by surprise. Sam couldn't stop the sobs in his voice. They bubbled their way out as he leant forward and pleaded, "Oh god, no...he didn't...he wouldn't... Please, Dad, please! He's all I have...please...he would never hurt me. Never. Please don't..."
John seemed taken aback by Sam's reaction. John reached out for him reflexively but his tone was hard. "Sam, calm down." He took him by the arms and held him tight while Sam hung his head and his breathing returned to normal.
The waitress appeared and refilled their coffee. John ordered Dean's breakfast to go in a voice so calm, Sam wondered if there was actually something wrong with his father – if he was a sociopath – that he could cover his emotions like so easily. The waitress huffed an acknowledgement at him and ambled off, casting a sideways glance at Sam as she went. If she was concerned about his obvious distress, she wasn't going to say anything. John sat back, his fingers dancing on the rim of the coffee mug, letting his eyes fall softly on the stream of traffic outside
Sam sat back and ran his hands over his face, wiping away the few tears that had escaped. He felt like the void inside him had been washed away and all that was left was hard acceptance. It showed in his voice when he said, "This is down to you." John looked at him in confusion. " You made this choice for us, to drag us around the country, to keep us away from anything vaguely normal..."
"To keep you safe..." John tried to say but Sam cut him off.
"All Dean and I have is each other. It's all we've ever had and it's probably all we ever will."
John shook his head. "No. No I won't accept that. When you're both older..."
"Older...are you serious?" Sam laughed and felt as bitter as it sounded. "I've been hunting since I was thirteen...Dean longer than that...the chances of our luck holding out long enough for us to hit thirty is pretty damn slim, Dad. And you know it...This is it for us."
John looked stunned but the truth of it was written all over his face. He shook the horror of it away. "No. I won't accept that. When we get back to the motel, I'm going to call Bobby. Dean can go stay with him while he gets back on his feet and then we'll talk to Jim about you staying with him for the rest of the year..."
If there was more, Sam didn't hear it. Somehow through the red misting his vision he found himself on his feet, rushing through the diner, suddenly desperate to get away from the cloying atmosphere. He thought he felt himself knock into something and heard a distant crash and thenhe found himself in the parking lot, palms burning against the hot paint of the Impala, hot dusty air in his lungs. He heard his father yell at him from the doorway of the diner but he didn't turn to face him until the sounds of his father's heavy boots scuffing through the gravel were close.
Sam wheeled around. "You're not sending me away and you're not sending Dean away either."
"You'll do as you're damn well told, boy..."
"No." Sam could feel the fragile thing inside him that had forced out tears, suddenly becoming hard and sure and he absolutely felt like he could will his way out of this. "You separate us, and I'll be gone. I don't care how good at tracking you or Uncle Bobby are, I will run and you'll never find me..."
"Sam..."
"No! You want me safe? Where's the safest place for me, Dad? Sleeping in some New York back alley, or..." He paused to take a breath, uncertainty creeping into his voice and making his body fidget. "...or sleeping in my brother's bed."
John turned away like the words were a physical blow. "Sam, you don't know what you're saying...Oh god, what would Mary say..."
"Nothing." John peered wide-eyed at him over his shoulder. It was cold and Sam knew it but he pressed ahead anyway. "She wouldn't say anything, Dad... 'cause she's dead...and all I have is Dean."
John shook his head but Sam looked him dead in the eye, internally astounded at how calm and certain he felt. "Dean would never hurt me and I would never hurt him. He's my brother...and I love him. Don't you dare try and tell me there's something wrong with that."
John stared at him, horrified. And then his face shifted and he laughed. There were tears in his eyes but he laughed, and Sam actually felt afraid of his father for the first time.
"Your Uncle Bobby said exactly the same thing."
Sam's mouth dropped open and he felt his face flush red, unable to process the statement and unsure whether he even wanted to.
Sam leant back against the car and quietly watched his father's back, listening to the stop-start flow of the traffic. After a long while, he whispered, "What are you going to do?"
John laughed again, bitter and hard. "I've been asking myself the same question for a while now, Sam."
Sam could feel the sting of tears in his eyes, as much at the implication of the statement as the anticipation of the answer.
John turned to face him. "I'm out-numbered." He scraped at the ground with one boot and then covered his face with his hands. Sam sat and watched him, scared to breathe. John drew his hands down in a long slow motion. As his face emerged it seemed somehow less tense but profoundly older at the same time. He looked weary and it was only 8am. "If you tell me that everything is...okay...between you and Dean, I guess… I have to try to accept it."
The door to the diner swung open and the waitress appeared with a Styrofoam box, looking more worried than pissed, but pissed all the same. John didn't move so Sam walked over and took the box from her hands and doubled back to the car. He pulled open the passenger door and got in. The door slamming shut seemed to smack John awake. He walked around the front of the car, flipping two bills from the wad of cash in his hand. He pressed them into the waitress's open hand as he passed her and got into the car without a word.
The return journey to the motel was similarly silent. Sam cradled the box in his lap and tried not to think about what would happen when they got back.
When John pulled up in front of the room, he killed the engine but neither of them made to leave the car.
Sam sat and looked at the container in his hands. It squeaked slightly as he shifted it, the plastic making his hands sweat uncomfortably now the sun was burning higher. He wasn't sure what made him say it. "He thinks that you would hate him. Said that you would kill him."
John was silent, motionless. When Sam finally looked at him, he was surprised at the absolute hurt on John's face. His words came out ragged and broken. "I would never...I could never hate him...not either of you. I just want you to be safe..." John looked defeated, a world away from the warrior, the drill sergeant, he was so used to.
Sam suddenly felt so guilty, and so sorry for him. "We're fine, Dad. Honestly, we're fine. We'll be fine."
John shook his head. He stared out of the windshield at the motel door, pressing his lips together until they were almost white. "This not what I want for you. Not for either of you...but I would never hate you...I love you...you're my boys...but this..."
Sam felt his chest tighten and his defences snapped tight. The words were out before he knew it. "But what?"
John let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He turned to Sam but didn't look at him. "He shouldn't stay in bed all day. He needs to move, for his chest but make sure to take the strapping off his ribs when his sitting around...but don't let him go crazy and mess up that ankle either."
Sam suddenly felt five again and he hated his father for making him feel that disappointment and need. "You're not coming in?"
"Gonna drop in on the garage, see if they have any work going, might as well check out the area if were sticking around for a bit." John turned on the engine, the Impala coughing then roaring awake.
Sam knew that was his cue to get out but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He fingered the handle of the door until he got the courage to ask, "Don't tell him, Dad. If he thought you knew..."
John smiled. It was somehow sad but reassuring. He reached over and pulled Sam's head to him by his neck, kissing him on the temple. "See you later, Sam."
Sam stood outside the motel room and watched his father drive away, praying that he would. When the sound of the Impala blended into the hum of the distant traffic, Sam took a breath and opened the motel door.
Dean's eyes half opened and he tried to sit himself up, his hair sticking up on one side where he'd been sleeping and a crust of drool on the corner of his mouth. "Where's Dad?"
Sam pressed the door shut. "Gone to find some work. How you feeling?"
Dean shrugged. "Meds are making me feel stupid."
Sam laughed. "Yeah, not sure that's the meds."
Dean half smiled, half grimaced as he pushed himself back against the headboard. "Shut up and give me food already. I'm starving." Sam sat on the bed and opened the box. He automatically took up the plastic fork and held out a piece of bacon but Dean didn't move to take it. "Did he say anything?" His face was pale.
Sam lowered his arm. He felt like screaming. His insides were liquid and he all he wanted to do was collapse into Dean's arms and tell him they had to go, to run and not look back. Instead, he leant forward and kissed Dean, gently at first and then insistently, lips working earnestly against his brother's, teeth and tongue bringing blood to the surface, putting color back in his skin. Then he sat back, smiling and held out the bacon once more. "Nah. Like you said, we've been too careful. Besides, he's got other stuff on his mind, why would he even notice?"
Dean smiled, the relief evident and opened his lips. Sam pushed the bacon in, his mouth echoing Dean's movements as he opened and closed around the fork, in the same way that his mouth would mimic Dean's when he was small and would sit and watch Dean shave. The bacon left a smear of maple syrup on the corner of Dean's mouth that Sam could taste later when he kissed him in the shower as he helped him wash. Dean showed his gratitude by jerking Sam off with his soapy good hand. They spent the rest of the day watching tv and talking, and Sam sat and read while Dean slept. It was dark by the time he heard his father crashing into the room next door, the familiar drunken pattern of door slamming, muffled curses and glass smashing. Sam was glad Dean wasn't awake to hear it. The next morning, John showed up with coffee and bagels and it was like the previous day's conversation had never even happened.
Three weeks later, they were back on the road. The sun was high in the sky and the scenery whipped past and for the first time in a while Sam suddenly felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. He rubbed his bare arms, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring his duffle in the back with him instead of parking it in the trunk.
His movement caught Dean's eye and he twisted to look back at him. "Y'okay, Sammy?" Sam nodded but Dean rolled up his window anyway. John threw him a glance. "Sam's cold."
John nodded. "Sam, there's a sweater in the top of my kit, if you need it." Sam unzipped the bag and pulled out the fleece-lined sweater. It was stained on one sleeve and he caught the vague smell of smoke and reassurance as he pulled it over his head. "I guess the days are drawing in some." John was almost talking more to himself. "We should start thinking about getting you into school."
Sam tried not to smile too much, his internal Finally! so close to becoming a whoop.
Two days later they were standing in front of a rundown cabin on the forested outskirts of a small town in Iowa. A smattering of amber leaves drifted around the place threatening autumn even though the sun was still summer hot.
Sam peered through the murky windows, wondering whether the last resident died of lung fungus or boredom, while John handed over two months rent and inquired about casual work with a tall lanky man wearing a faded red truckers hat pulled low on his forehead. It wasn't until he heard Dean cuss that Sam realized he was unloading the bags from the car by himself. Sam bounded down the steps and grabbed at the bag Dean was reaching for.
Dean scowled at him. "Hey...!"
Sam smirked and cut him off. "Yeah, whatever! I saw you wincing. You'll put your damn shoulder out again if you're not careful."
"'S not the arm, it’s the goddamn ribs." Dean winced and put a hand to his chest.
Sam laughed. "Yeah, yeah, princess, don't worry. I gotcha." Dean smiled wide at him before punching him in the arm. They climbed the short set of steps to the porch, laughing and joking, easy with each other as always. As Dean opened the door and went in, coughing dramatically and making Sam laugh, Sam glanced down at John standing in the yard and the laugh died on his lips.
John was watching them, looking so sad and so guilty, like he was about to send them to their deaths or something. Sam froze. Their eyes met, and for a second Sam thought his father had changed his mind, that tomorrow he'd wake up to find Dean gone or himself alone. But then John smiled. It was sad and forced and absolutely full of love. And Sam knew that they'd never speak of it again.
Sam slid onto the red vinyl seat opposite him, the fabric squeaking beneath his sweaty palms as he pulled himself into the corner. The waitress was small and far too blonde. Maybe if her demeanor had been sunnier it wouldn't have jarred so much, but she was clearly having a shitty morning.
John ordered for them both and then sat with his hands folded on the table. Sam tried not to notice how intently John was staring at him. It was clear something was coming but he wasn't sure what. John tried to make chitchat about nothing and Sam forced himself to give more than one word answers. When the waitress returned with their order, she practically slammed the plates down. Sam felt like he should pick at his food to make a point but he found himself suddenly ravenous and was wiping his plate clean before John had barely started his.
Sam leant back in the booth, giving his full stomach more room and let his head loll on the back of the seat. He kept his eyes out the window, watching the traffic roll by, keeping his mind off whatever his father wanted to talk about, and on the people inside those cars; where they were going, what they were doing. He tried to imagine what their lives were like and whether he could ever have a life like that. One where monsters didn't rule his every minute, dictate where he slept or how long he stayed in one place, where they didn't take his parents away, or turn him into some kind of monster yourself. Because he knew that's what he was. From the first moment he'd stood over a bleeding broken body, it's blood dripping off the machete in his hand, he knew damn well that he was as much a monster as the thing he'd just slaughtered.
John shifted in his seat and pushed his mostly full plate away. He pulled his coffee mug to him with one hand and brought the other up to rub at his jawline The rasping noise of his calloused palm on his stubble drew Sam's attention more than the scrape of the coffee mug. John stared hard into his eyes. "I want you to know you're not in trouble, Sammy."
Sam felt a void open up in him and the world start to fall away but he kept his cool, grunted and looked back out the window. A white Porsche drove by, it's cleanliness and sheen somehow mystical amongst the dusty trucks and pickups and station wagons. It seemed totally bizarre that a car like that should be in a place like this. Sam watched it's sleek lines roar into the distance and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little, thinking how Dean would have to fold himself like a pretzel to fit in the driver's seat.
"Is everything okay...with you...and Dean?"
Sam felt the void blossom and roll in the pit of his stomach, threatening to expel the breakfast he'd just wolfed down. He shrugged and grunted, keeping his eyes on the truck passing by, just the cab with no load, the logo written on the door obscured with dirt and dust, vaguely making out a 'M' and a 'T' beneath the grime.
"Sammy. This is important. You need to listen to me...Look at me, Sam."
Sam turned to face his father, skin hot and clammy, his limbs itching to get moving, hoping the petulant facade could cover up the screaming panic inside him, but John looked like the screaming panic was in him too. "Is everything okay..."
"Yes. Why do you keep asking?" Sam didn't mean for it to sound so high pitched and bitchy but it was too late.
"I just...Bobby said he thought you two...may have had a falling out."
"Uncle Bobby said that?"
Sam wasn't sure quite where his father was going, until he said, "Y'know...Dean's your big brother and I've always told you to do what he says..."
"Dad..."
"But if he ever asked you to do something you didn't want to do..."
Sam laughed. He didn't mean to but he couldn't keep it in. He hated the way it sounded, harsh and derisive and he knew his father didn't really deserve it. "What? You mean like get up at five in the morning to run PT drills before school? Or making me do shotgun practice instead of revising for my English test? Or filling shotgun cartridges with rock-salt all Saturday morning when I should have been at baseball practice...?"
"Sam." John's voice was quiet but his tone cut Sam dead in mid breath. "Watch what you're saying, boy."
Sam suddenly felt like crying. He couldn't win against his father. He knew it was hopeless. He knew that. But if he was asking what he thought he was...
"Dean would never do that, Dad." Sam wanted the words to be forceful but they were a whisper. John opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Sam sat forward, put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. He was determined not to cry but he wasn't sure he could keep back the tears. When he felt John's hands gentle take hold of his biceps, all the weakness left him and he snapped his hands away from his face. "I can't believe that you'd think that Dean would hurt me, would do anything...would make me do anything..." He faltered but with a hitching breath continued, "...would make me do anything I didn't want to do. He's not like that, Dad. You know he's not."
John slowly withdrew his hands, sliding them back across the table. He looked down and shook his head. "No. No. I can't..." He looked Sam dead in the face, his tone more definite when he said, "Your tee-shirt...this morning. It wasn't ripped last night..."
Sam shook his head, "That wasn't...that was just...it's nothing."
John started muttering mostly to himself. "Maybe it's time. Maybe he should be starting out on his own, he's old enough. Or maybe you should go stay with Jim until you graduate..."
The panic took him totally by surprise. Sam couldn't stop the sobs in his voice. They bubbled their way out as he leant forward and pleaded, "Oh god, no...he didn't...he wouldn't... Please, Dad, please! He's all I have...please...he would never hurt me. Never. Please don't..."
John seemed taken aback by Sam's reaction. John reached out for him reflexively but his tone was hard. "Sam, calm down." He took him by the arms and held him tight while Sam hung his head and his breathing returned to normal.
The waitress appeared and refilled their coffee. John ordered Dean's breakfast to go in a voice so calm, Sam wondered if there was actually something wrong with his father – if he was a sociopath – that he could cover his emotions like so easily. The waitress huffed an acknowledgement at him and ambled off, casting a sideways glance at Sam as she went. If she was concerned about his obvious distress, she wasn't going to say anything. John sat back, his fingers dancing on the rim of the coffee mug, letting his eyes fall softly on the stream of traffic outside
Sam sat back and ran his hands over his face, wiping away the few tears that had escaped. He felt like the void inside him had been washed away and all that was left was hard acceptance. It showed in his voice when he said, "This is down to you." John looked at him in confusion. " You made this choice for us, to drag us around the country, to keep us away from anything vaguely normal..."
"To keep you safe..." John tried to say but Sam cut him off.
"All Dean and I have is each other. It's all we've ever had and it's probably all we ever will."
John shook his head. "No. No I won't accept that. When you're both older..."
"Older...are you serious?" Sam laughed and felt as bitter as it sounded. "I've been hunting since I was thirteen...Dean longer than that...the chances of our luck holding out long enough for us to hit thirty is pretty damn slim, Dad. And you know it...This is it for us."
John looked stunned but the truth of it was written all over his face. He shook the horror of it away. "No. I won't accept that. When we get back to the motel, I'm going to call Bobby. Dean can go stay with him while he gets back on his feet and then we'll talk to Jim about you staying with him for the rest of the year..."
If there was more, Sam didn't hear it. Somehow through the red misting his vision he found himself on his feet, rushing through the diner, suddenly desperate to get away from the cloying atmosphere. He thought he felt himself knock into something and heard a distant crash and thenhe found himself in the parking lot, palms burning against the hot paint of the Impala, hot dusty air in his lungs. He heard his father yell at him from the doorway of the diner but he didn't turn to face him until the sounds of his father's heavy boots scuffing through the gravel were close.
Sam wheeled around. "You're not sending me away and you're not sending Dean away either."
"You'll do as you're damn well told, boy..."
"No." Sam could feel the fragile thing inside him that had forced out tears, suddenly becoming hard and sure and he absolutely felt like he could will his way out of this. "You separate us, and I'll be gone. I don't care how good at tracking you or Uncle Bobby are, I will run and you'll never find me..."
"Sam..."
"No! You want me safe? Where's the safest place for me, Dad? Sleeping in some New York back alley, or..." He paused to take a breath, uncertainty creeping into his voice and making his body fidget. "...or sleeping in my brother's bed."
John turned away like the words were a physical blow. "Sam, you don't know what you're saying...Oh god, what would Mary say..."
"Nothing." John peered wide-eyed at him over his shoulder. It was cold and Sam knew it but he pressed ahead anyway. "She wouldn't say anything, Dad... 'cause she's dead...and all I have is Dean."
John shook his head but Sam looked him dead in the eye, internally astounded at how calm and certain he felt. "Dean would never hurt me and I would never hurt him. He's my brother...and I love him. Don't you dare try and tell me there's something wrong with that."
John stared at him, horrified. And then his face shifted and he laughed. There were tears in his eyes but he laughed, and Sam actually felt afraid of his father for the first time.
"Your Uncle Bobby said exactly the same thing."
Sam's mouth dropped open and he felt his face flush red, unable to process the statement and unsure whether he even wanted to.
Sam leant back against the car and quietly watched his father's back, listening to the stop-start flow of the traffic. After a long while, he whispered, "What are you going to do?"
John laughed again, bitter and hard. "I've been asking myself the same question for a while now, Sam."
Sam could feel the sting of tears in his eyes, as much at the implication of the statement as the anticipation of the answer.
John turned to face him. "I'm out-numbered." He scraped at the ground with one boot and then covered his face with his hands. Sam sat and watched him, scared to breathe. John drew his hands down in a long slow motion. As his face emerged it seemed somehow less tense but profoundly older at the same time. He looked weary and it was only 8am. "If you tell me that everything is...okay...between you and Dean, I guess… I have to try to accept it."
The door to the diner swung open and the waitress appeared with a Styrofoam box, looking more worried than pissed, but pissed all the same. John didn't move so Sam walked over and took the box from her hands and doubled back to the car. He pulled open the passenger door and got in. The door slamming shut seemed to smack John awake. He walked around the front of the car, flipping two bills from the wad of cash in his hand. He pressed them into the waitress's open hand as he passed her and got into the car without a word.
The return journey to the motel was similarly silent. Sam cradled the box in his lap and tried not to think about what would happen when they got back.
When John pulled up in front of the room, he killed the engine but neither of them made to leave the car.
Sam sat and looked at the container in his hands. It squeaked slightly as he shifted it, the plastic making his hands sweat uncomfortably now the sun was burning higher. He wasn't sure what made him say it. "He thinks that you would hate him. Said that you would kill him."
John was silent, motionless. When Sam finally looked at him, he was surprised at the absolute hurt on John's face. His words came out ragged and broken. "I would never...I could never hate him...not either of you. I just want you to be safe..." John looked defeated, a world away from the warrior, the drill sergeant, he was so used to.
Sam suddenly felt so guilty, and so sorry for him. "We're fine, Dad. Honestly, we're fine. We'll be fine."
John shook his head. He stared out of the windshield at the motel door, pressing his lips together until they were almost white. "This not what I want for you. Not for either of you...but I would never hate you...I love you...you're my boys...but this..."
Sam felt his chest tighten and his defences snapped tight. The words were out before he knew it. "But what?"
John let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He turned to Sam but didn't look at him. "He shouldn't stay in bed all day. He needs to move, for his chest but make sure to take the strapping off his ribs when his sitting around...but don't let him go crazy and mess up that ankle either."
Sam suddenly felt five again and he hated his father for making him feel that disappointment and need. "You're not coming in?"
"Gonna drop in on the garage, see if they have any work going, might as well check out the area if were sticking around for a bit." John turned on the engine, the Impala coughing then roaring awake.
Sam knew that was his cue to get out but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He fingered the handle of the door until he got the courage to ask, "Don't tell him, Dad. If he thought you knew..."
John smiled. It was somehow sad but reassuring. He reached over and pulled Sam's head to him by his neck, kissing him on the temple. "See you later, Sam."
Sam stood outside the motel room and watched his father drive away, praying that he would. When the sound of the Impala blended into the hum of the distant traffic, Sam took a breath and opened the motel door.
Dean's eyes half opened and he tried to sit himself up, his hair sticking up on one side where he'd been sleeping and a crust of drool on the corner of his mouth. "Where's Dad?"
Sam pressed the door shut. "Gone to find some work. How you feeling?"
Dean shrugged. "Meds are making me feel stupid."
Sam laughed. "Yeah, not sure that's the meds."
Dean half smiled, half grimaced as he pushed himself back against the headboard. "Shut up and give me food already. I'm starving." Sam sat on the bed and opened the box. He automatically took up the plastic fork and held out a piece of bacon but Dean didn't move to take it. "Did he say anything?" His face was pale.
Sam lowered his arm. He felt like screaming. His insides were liquid and he all he wanted to do was collapse into Dean's arms and tell him they had to go, to run and not look back. Instead, he leant forward and kissed Dean, gently at first and then insistently, lips working earnestly against his brother's, teeth and tongue bringing blood to the surface, putting color back in his skin. Then he sat back, smiling and held out the bacon once more. "Nah. Like you said, we've been too careful. Besides, he's got other stuff on his mind, why would he even notice?"
Dean smiled, the relief evident and opened his lips. Sam pushed the bacon in, his mouth echoing Dean's movements as he opened and closed around the fork, in the same way that his mouth would mimic Dean's when he was small and would sit and watch Dean shave. The bacon left a smear of maple syrup on the corner of Dean's mouth that Sam could taste later when he kissed him in the shower as he helped him wash. Dean showed his gratitude by jerking Sam off with his soapy good hand. They spent the rest of the day watching tv and talking, and Sam sat and read while Dean slept. It was dark by the time he heard his father crashing into the room next door, the familiar drunken pattern of door slamming, muffled curses and glass smashing. Sam was glad Dean wasn't awake to hear it. The next morning, John showed up with coffee and bagels and it was like the previous day's conversation had never even happened.
Three weeks later, they were back on the road. The sun was high in the sky and the scenery whipped past and for the first time in a while Sam suddenly felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. He rubbed his bare arms, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring his duffle in the back with him instead of parking it in the trunk.
His movement caught Dean's eye and he twisted to look back at him. "Y'okay, Sammy?" Sam nodded but Dean rolled up his window anyway. John threw him a glance. "Sam's cold."
John nodded. "Sam, there's a sweater in the top of my kit, if you need it." Sam unzipped the bag and pulled out the fleece-lined sweater. It was stained on one sleeve and he caught the vague smell of smoke and reassurance as he pulled it over his head. "I guess the days are drawing in some." John was almost talking more to himself. "We should start thinking about getting you into school."
Sam tried not to smile too much, his internal Finally! so close to becoming a whoop.
Two days later they were standing in front of a rundown cabin on the forested outskirts of a small town in Iowa. A smattering of amber leaves drifted around the place threatening autumn even though the sun was still summer hot.
Sam peered through the murky windows, wondering whether the last resident died of lung fungus or boredom, while John handed over two months rent and inquired about casual work with a tall lanky man wearing a faded red truckers hat pulled low on his forehead. It wasn't until he heard Dean cuss that Sam realized he was unloading the bags from the car by himself. Sam bounded down the steps and grabbed at the bag Dean was reaching for.
Dean scowled at him. "Hey...!"
Sam smirked and cut him off. "Yeah, whatever! I saw you wincing. You'll put your damn shoulder out again if you're not careful."
"'S not the arm, it’s the goddamn ribs." Dean winced and put a hand to his chest.
Sam laughed. "Yeah, yeah, princess, don't worry. I gotcha." Dean smiled wide at him before punching him in the arm. They climbed the short set of steps to the porch, laughing and joking, easy with each other as always. As Dean opened the door and went in, coughing dramatically and making Sam laugh, Sam glanced down at John standing in the yard and the laugh died on his lips.
John was watching them, looking so sad and so guilty, like he was about to send them to their deaths or something. Sam froze. Their eyes met, and for a second Sam thought his father had changed his mind, that tomorrow he'd wake up to find Dean gone or himself alone. But then John smiled. It was sad and forced and absolutely full of love. And Sam knew that they'd never speak of it again.
*~*~*
The title for this story was inspired by this line, forever etched in my mind.
"...but the worst part is when the slap of skin against skin ceases and John’s whole room, his whole head, fills to the brim with Dean’s lazy whispers and Sam’s low, languorous laugh, and the sound of soft, sleepy kisses, because it all sings of love, and John is in his room alone, not nearly drunk enough..."
from Second Glance by Ygrawn
from Second Glance by Ygrawn
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Date: 2014-11-11 06:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-15 07:27 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it, Sweetie!! Thank you for the lovely words : ) xx