SpN fic:Tail Gunner 2/5
5/14/07 11:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyone more time!
Title: Tail Gunner
Fandom: SpN
Pairing:Sam/Dean, eventually
Rating:3
Word count::3183
Summary: some people are born soldiers, some are made into soldiers.
Warning: hints of non-con
They were down for the night, and Dad was heading out. He thought he’d caught sight of some shape-shifters up on the edge of the camping grounds. Dean had managed to beg off of this assignment. Sammy had a pretty bad cold, all in his chest and Dean was worried. Dad actually looked concerned himself, and agreed.
The last time they’d had an assignment, it was a possession. Dad had fought hard, trying to throw the demon out of the young girl, but the thing had been too strong, and never gave up its hold on the girl, riding her right down into death. Dad had been shaken--torn to bits by her death. He’d dropped to his knees in the blood and held Dean and cried into his shoulder, so sorry and heartbroken that he hadn’t released her, but like he explained later, it was still a victory, the demon was dead. Dean had wrapped his arms around Dad, looked back over his shoulder. The girl had been pretty—before. So smooth and soft--almost shiny. Her hair was blonde and long…Dean had wondered what it would feel like. He tried not to remember how she’d screamed and begged Dad not to hurt her, how confused and terrorized she’d seemed, he tried instead to hold onto the image of her ponytail, high on her head, and how it had bounced and swung as she clambered down the trail….
******
He felt it later that night, all that golden hair, when Dad and he buried the girl under a stand of pine trees. In the dark, under the acid glow of the full moon, and no one to see her go but an owl spreading its wings above them, they dug the grave, and burned her in it, tossed sulfur and salt and St. John’s Wort in the flames. Dad made him recite words of holding in, and then they’d gone up the road some and washed off the blood in a lake off the trail. The dark water had been ass-freezing cold--he’d shivered and shook, his teeth chattered wildly but they’d been chattering before he got in the icy water.
When they were dry and dressed again, when they were in the car, Dad wrapped him in an old blanket they kept in the back. Dad told him he was so proud of him. Told him their work was important. It was Just. Godly.
He thought again of the gold hair falling through his fingers when they tossed her in the hole. It hadn’t felt as nice as he’d thought it would. Sammy’s hair felt nicer--warm and soft and…alive. Dean sighed and sat a little lower in the seat. He buckled up when Dad put the car in drive and closed his eyes.
Dean was twelve and had helped his dad put five demons down. He’d helped him torture out the demon, and then helped cleanse the bodies. He’d helped him put down three shape shifters.
Dean watched his dad carefully and never left Sammy alone.
******
Fire…
Dean kept the fire going in the cabin, and watched Sammy copy his lesson out in a new notebook his dad brought.
They taught themselves to read. They taught themselves to write and to reason. No one told them what they could or couldn’t read, so they read everything. They had no TV, no radio, so they read all the time. They studied the books dad brought them, math and science and literature and art…demonology, magic, werewolves, vampires. Eclectic. It was an eclectic education.
The boys spent days, months together, sometimes not seeing any other person, not talking to anyone except each other. They were the only people they knew, besides Dad. And Dean had given Sammy strict instructions, ever since he could walk—stay out of Dad’s way. Keep quiet; avoid him if you could and if you couldn’t be as unnoticeable as you could. Don’t draw his attention.
Dean remembered, a long time ago, in a room in Ohio…Sammy crawling across the brown carpet and pulling himself up on Dad’s knee and laughing, and Dad looking at him from eyes set a million miles away. Dean had snatched him up and laid him on the bed, stared back at Dad for what felt like a long, long time. He’d understood then that Sammy might not be as safe as he was.
He knew he’d always have to watch out for his brother.
******
Light filtered through the trees, speckling the gloom with bright checks and dashes of light. Birds kept up a steady chatter, calling each other, arguing in the branches high above the boy’s heads. The crunch of twigs and pine needles under foot was a pleasant sound, punctuated by Sammy’s chatter--almost as constant as that of the birds. Heat released the smell of pine from the broken needles, and he could smell the distinct smell of his brother...hay, sweat, raspberries…he concentrated on the trail.
Sammy ran ahead on the trail and Dean caught up with him, in time to help him over a fallen tree trunk. Dean had Sam’s hand in his as the two of them looked up at the same time—stopped. In front of them was a circle, a magical patch of lawn, lit by beams of golden light. Flowers dotted lilac and white across the velvety green…diamond bright dust motes and tiny winged things danced in the beams pouring through the trees ringing the lawn….
“Wow,” Sammy said, in reverent tones.
“Yeah,” Dean said, almost as awed as his brother. “Pretty damn cool.”
“This has to be where good things happen, Dean. It’s a magic circle. Look, angels are sending light down to let us know it’s magic.”
Dean snorted silently, but nodded when his brother looked his way. He didn’t see any point to telling Sam there was no such thing as angels and heaven and magic and Big Daddy in the sky. He didn’t have the heart...his brother believed, believed like a saint. He *knew* they were on the side of the angels, that Dad did the work he’d been called to. Dean would never do anything to destroy Sammy’s faith. Their lives were hellish enough. Let him have what he could for as long as he could.
They played in the ring of light all day, Peter Pan and his Lost Boys lived there, Robinson Crusoe found his man Friday there, The World’s Finest forged a friendship there.
It was deep evening before they finally returned to the cabin. They discussed what to make for dinner, and picked blackberries along the way. “If we get enough, we can make a cobbler,” Dean said.
Sam looked up at him, his eyes round and glowing, “Really? Great! Let me help!” He whipped off his shirt, and the two of them filled the tee-shirt with all the berries they could find.
“You get to work the pump,” he told Sam, and when he wanted to make a face, Dean reminded him that he’d be the one to bring the water filled buckets in. “We’ll need to fill the tub tonight, too. You need a bath.”
Sammy was outraged, “I just had one! Monday, I had a bath!”
“Today is Friday, and you’re creaking, you’re so dirty.” Sammy stuck his tongue out and Dean pretended to grab it, chased him all the way back to the cabin--the woods rang with Sammy’s high shrill laughter.
Dad came home that night. He stood in the cabin door, and his eyes were wide and dark, they glanced around the room, taking everything in.
The floor was swept, a fire was burning in the stove, dinner was made, dessert cooling on the table. Lamps were lit, and Sammy sat on a pillow in a big Adirondack chair, skin still pink from scrubbing and his hair curling wet around his neck. He closed the book he was reading at the sound of the door opening and looked up at his dad.
Dean walked out from the single bedroom he and Sam shared, pulling on clean pajamas. They were clinging to where he was still wet from the bath. He looked over at the doorway. “Hi.”
His dad looked tired. He looked around the room, frowning. “You boys…okay? Food hold out?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah. We’re good.”
“Okay. I’m going to…wash up. There water?
“Not hot water. I dumped the dirty water, but didn’t put a kettle on yet.” He jerked his chin at the huge copper tea pot sitting on a metal table near the stove. “Want me to fill it, Dad?”
“Nah. Go to bed, Dean.”
He lay in bed, and listened. Dad bathed, and then made coffee. He heard his feet shuffling across the wooden floor, and the creak as he sat on the couch. There was silence for so long that Dean was almost asleep before he heard the muffled sound of crying. He pulled his blanket higher, and pulled Sammy closer to him, and fell asleep with the rabbit quick beat of Sam’s heart against his chest.
******
For Sammy’s twelfth birthday, he got a gun.
Dean wasn’t as excited as Sammy was, even though he knew it was coming. He knew the day was coming soon that Dad would take Sammy on hunts as well…some small part of him hoped that Dad’d keep on ignoring him, but Sammy was old enough now. “Ready to join the fight, Sammy,” Dad had said, and handed him the box. There was a gun and a cleaning kit. Sammy already was an old hand at cleaning the guns, keeping the knives edged. He knew how to load a shotgun shell with salt or silver flechettes, make protection…the kid was more than eager to do good, just like his dad. Dean’s stomach leaped any time they practiced shooting…fighting.
He stood behind Sammy, positioned him for the shot. Sammy’s back was to him, his arm lay straight along Dean’s. He moved it, and Sammy’s hold wavered… “Lock your arm, Sammy,” he murmured in his ear. “…straight—there you go. Good boy.” He slid a leg between Sam’s and tapped his instep. His leg rested against the inside of Sam's thigh for a moment...he imagined pressure back and a wave of warmth flooded him. He swallowed, and shook his head to clear it. “Move your legs…wider, ‘bout shoulder width—good. Okay—breathe--pull.
The shots hit one after the other in the middle of the target, just where they should. Dean let out his own breath, and smiled, looped an arm across Sammy’s chest. “Good job, kiddo.” He could feel Sammy’s whole body smile right through his skin.
He took the gun back, and checked to make sure it was empty, and Sammy asked. “When do I get to carry it myself, Dean?”
“When I’m sure you’re not gonna shoot my balls off—and when Dad says so.” He sighed. “When you need to.” Dean made Sammy follow safe procedure, drilling it into him until it became second nature. They threw knives at Huey, the wooden plank painted with a smile and googly eyes until lunch time, and then Dean cleaned up the cabin while Sammy cooked lunch. It was a routine—one they followed without deviation. After lunch, they did what they wanted, but before it was study, weapons practice, a little martial arts—what Dad taught them.
It was maybe an odd way of life, but Dean thought it was okay. He had a vague sort of knowledge that other people’s lives weren’t like this, but it was hard to imagine living any other way. He had everything he needed, and mostly that was Sam. Sammy always sensed when Dean’s mood was turning. He’d be right there, with a joke or a smile, a hug, a kiss…Dean shrugged uncomfortably at the thought of Sam kissing him, rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. Thinking of Sam kissing him…somehow it seemed different…was becoming different. Sometimes when he thought about his soft kisses, he got...a little hard. It was happening more often when Sam touched him at night, when he rolled over to his side of the bed, or flopped his long legs and arms over him. He knew getting hard wasn’t supposed to be a big deal…it’d never been one before. It was just a thing that happened to guys, Dad said so...natural and normal. It was just…sometimes now, he sought the feeling out. He touched Sam on purpose to feel that way.
It made him feel guilty and it made him feel good. He felt kind of…trapped between the two feelings, and there was no one he could talk to about it. He felt really lonely sometimes, really lonely.
******
“So you mean…the way people live in some books…you mean normal like that? ‘Cause that could be anyone. Or maybe you mean like Harry Potter?” Sammy looked thoughtful. “Well, some people could live like that--they *are* witches--”
“No, no, not like that, I mean like. Like…hmm. You know Harry Potter’s not real, Sam.” Dean was beginning to wish he’d never brought up the subject. Sammy had the most oddball way of looking at things. He should have known better than to ask him if he wished he’d lived a normal life.
“Sure--” Sammy agreed, but not very convincingly “—but isn’t his story kind of symbolic of a hunter’s life? The way Harry’s rejected by ‘normal’ people, and then he finds a family that’s like him and accepts him—you know, Hogwarts. Dean, I *know* there are other hunters out there—we just haven’t met them yet. When we do, they’ll seem like family, I bet. Still…you have to be careful, you know? Just because someone seems like they’re part of the family doesn’t make them good. Look at Draco. Evil can hide in plain sight Dean, it can look beautiful.”
Dean lifted an eyebrow. “Been thinking about it, have you?”
Sammy grinned and blushed. “A little,” he laughed. “I wonder why Dad won’t look for other hunters?”
Dean had his suspicions but he kept them to himself.
******
Dean looked out the window towards the back of the cabin. Dad was wandering back and forth, looked like he was talking to himself. He’d been drinking all day—weeping on and off. Came in from a hunt the night before and looked like something a bear vomited up—bloody and bruised from head to toe, reeking of copper and burnt herbs. He was off, totally off, and Dean was worried. If Dad was falling apart, he didn’t know what he could do, how he could help Sammy.
Dean took Sammy into the bedroom, and told him that Dad would be fine, but to stay out of his way…keep quiet and wait until he fell asleep. Even Sammy understood at times like this, Dad was someone else….
They went to bed—Dad was off in the woods, and Dean was bone-tired, exhausted from being on edge all day. He was groggy, desperate for sleep. Dean trusted that Dad would be too drunk to notice he hadn’t gone through all the little rituals he was under orders to do, and Sammy was sound asleep, trusting that he had done them. He curled up on the mattress next to his brother, in little nest of blankets he always made and dropped off to sleep.
“Dean…”
Dean woke up almost at once; awake but not alert—awake enough to know it was Dad who was shaking him gently.
“Dean, get up—quietly.”
Dean got up, barely aware he was moving…Dad took him by the elbow and led him out to the living area of the cabin. The only light was the fire dancing in the stove. In the semi-dark, he tripped over something on the floor, a blanket, or a sheet…
“C’mere,” Dad whispered and Dean smelled alcohol, smelled it in his sweat, and fresh, sharp on his breath. His hands were on him, hot, rough, damp, skimming off his sweats…
“Wha…Dad, what…” His words felt mushy in his mouth and he could hardly keep his eyes open. He yawned, and yawned again. “Dad…your clothes--”
“Shh.”
Dad made him lay face down on the floor, and Dean’s heart sped up …something was wrong, he just didn’t know what. Dad lay over him and wrapped a callused hand around his mouth, squeezed hard. Dean felt like he was covered in darkness, he was too hot, and too heavy, and stuck in places, slid in others. “Shh,” Dad whispered in his ear. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, but he did.
Morning came and even though it was just dawn, the sun barely up, the air was already humid and sticky and he felt dirty. He ached, the cabin was stuffy—it felt like the air was clinging to him, sticking in his pores.
He made breakfast for Sammy and woke him; his skin was sticky under his touch. Hot.
“Where’s Dad?” Sammy asked, his wild mane of hair flying every which way, his eyes sticky at the corners from sleep.
Dean shrugged. “Not sure, he left before I woke up.”
Sammy nodded, used to disappearances like that. He rubbed his eyes, and seemed to actually see Dean for the first time. “Hey, your mouth is bleeding—in the corner there.”
He reached out to touch it and Dean grabbed his hand and forced it back. “Don’t.”
“Ow, you’re hurting me, Dean!”
He snatched his hand back. “Shit, I’m sorry Sammy, sorry.” He hugged him, for so long that Sam got a little huffy.
“You’re going to smother me—or pop my head off like a dandelion—do you mind?”
Dean laughed a little. “Okay, okay--c’mon, let’s eat.”
He gave Sammy his plate and went outside into the damp air. He headed to the side yard of the cabin, to the water pump. He dragged the big stainless steel bucket over to the pump, and pumped the handle, filled the steel bucket full of water. The water was icy cold, and he peeled his sticky damp tee shirt off, soaked it in the water and scrubbed himself clean, right there at the pump. He dropped to his knees and stuck his head into the bucket, held it there until his lungs screamed for air. He whipped his head back, gasping hard, water flew everywhere...one deep breath, and he stood again, headed back to the cabin. Back to his brother.
******
Dad came back late that night, sober and blasted looking. His eyes were deep black wells of pain in his paper white face. He apologized again and again. “I don’t know what happened…I don’t know why. It wasn’t your fault.”
Dean stared…he didn’t see how he was supposed to think it was. Dad promised with tears standing in his eyes never ever again. Dean nodded. He didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. He believed Dad was sorry, but he wasn’t sure he believed in anything else. He knew only that it made him question himself more…confused his feelings for Sammy even more.
part3
Title: Tail Gunner
Fandom: SpN
Pairing:Sam/Dean, eventually
Rating:3
Word count::3183
Summary: some people are born soldiers, some are made into soldiers.
Warning: hints of non-con
They were down for the night, and Dad was heading out. He thought he’d caught sight of some shape-shifters up on the edge of the camping grounds. Dean had managed to beg off of this assignment. Sammy had a pretty bad cold, all in his chest and Dean was worried. Dad actually looked concerned himself, and agreed.
The last time they’d had an assignment, it was a possession. Dad had fought hard, trying to throw the demon out of the young girl, but the thing had been too strong, and never gave up its hold on the girl, riding her right down into death. Dad had been shaken--torn to bits by her death. He’d dropped to his knees in the blood and held Dean and cried into his shoulder, so sorry and heartbroken that he hadn’t released her, but like he explained later, it was still a victory, the demon was dead. Dean had wrapped his arms around Dad, looked back over his shoulder. The girl had been pretty—before. So smooth and soft--almost shiny. Her hair was blonde and long…Dean had wondered what it would feel like. He tried not to remember how she’d screamed and begged Dad not to hurt her, how confused and terrorized she’d seemed, he tried instead to hold onto the image of her ponytail, high on her head, and how it had bounced and swung as she clambered down the trail….
He felt it later that night, all that golden hair, when Dad and he buried the girl under a stand of pine trees. In the dark, under the acid glow of the full moon, and no one to see her go but an owl spreading its wings above them, they dug the grave, and burned her in it, tossed sulfur and salt and St. John’s Wort in the flames. Dad made him recite words of holding in, and then they’d gone up the road some and washed off the blood in a lake off the trail. The dark water had been ass-freezing cold--he’d shivered and shook, his teeth chattered wildly but they’d been chattering before he got in the icy water.
When they were dry and dressed again, when they were in the car, Dad wrapped him in an old blanket they kept in the back. Dad told him he was so proud of him. Told him their work was important. It was Just. Godly.
He thought again of the gold hair falling through his fingers when they tossed her in the hole. It hadn’t felt as nice as he’d thought it would. Sammy’s hair felt nicer--warm and soft and…alive. Dean sighed and sat a little lower in the seat. He buckled up when Dad put the car in drive and closed his eyes.
Dean was twelve and had helped his dad put five demons down. He’d helped him torture out the demon, and then helped cleanse the bodies. He’d helped him put down three shape shifters.
Dean watched his dad carefully and never left Sammy alone.
Fire…
Dean kept the fire going in the cabin, and watched Sammy copy his lesson out in a new notebook his dad brought.
They taught themselves to read. They taught themselves to write and to reason. No one told them what they could or couldn’t read, so they read everything. They had no TV, no radio, so they read all the time. They studied the books dad brought them, math and science and literature and art…demonology, magic, werewolves, vampires. Eclectic. It was an eclectic education.
The boys spent days, months together, sometimes not seeing any other person, not talking to anyone except each other. They were the only people they knew, besides Dad. And Dean had given Sammy strict instructions, ever since he could walk—stay out of Dad’s way. Keep quiet; avoid him if you could and if you couldn’t be as unnoticeable as you could. Don’t draw his attention.
Dean remembered, a long time ago, in a room in Ohio…Sammy crawling across the brown carpet and pulling himself up on Dad’s knee and laughing, and Dad looking at him from eyes set a million miles away. Dean had snatched him up and laid him on the bed, stared back at Dad for what felt like a long, long time. He’d understood then that Sammy might not be as safe as he was.
He knew he’d always have to watch out for his brother.
Light filtered through the trees, speckling the gloom with bright checks and dashes of light. Birds kept up a steady chatter, calling each other, arguing in the branches high above the boy’s heads. The crunch of twigs and pine needles under foot was a pleasant sound, punctuated by Sammy’s chatter--almost as constant as that of the birds. Heat released the smell of pine from the broken needles, and he could smell the distinct smell of his brother...hay, sweat, raspberries…he concentrated on the trail.
Sammy ran ahead on the trail and Dean caught up with him, in time to help him over a fallen tree trunk. Dean had Sam’s hand in his as the two of them looked up at the same time—stopped. In front of them was a circle, a magical patch of lawn, lit by beams of golden light. Flowers dotted lilac and white across the velvety green…diamond bright dust motes and tiny winged things danced in the beams pouring through the trees ringing the lawn….
“Wow,” Sammy said, in reverent tones.
“Yeah,” Dean said, almost as awed as his brother. “Pretty damn cool.”
“This has to be where good things happen, Dean. It’s a magic circle. Look, angels are sending light down to let us know it’s magic.”
Dean snorted silently, but nodded when his brother looked his way. He didn’t see any point to telling Sam there was no such thing as angels and heaven and magic and Big Daddy in the sky. He didn’t have the heart...his brother believed, believed like a saint. He *knew* they were on the side of the angels, that Dad did the work he’d been called to. Dean would never do anything to destroy Sammy’s faith. Their lives were hellish enough. Let him have what he could for as long as he could.
They played in the ring of light all day, Peter Pan and his Lost Boys lived there, Robinson Crusoe found his man Friday there, The World’s Finest forged a friendship there.
It was deep evening before they finally returned to the cabin. They discussed what to make for dinner, and picked blackberries along the way. “If we get enough, we can make a cobbler,” Dean said.
Sam looked up at him, his eyes round and glowing, “Really? Great! Let me help!” He whipped off his shirt, and the two of them filled the tee-shirt with all the berries they could find.
“You get to work the pump,” he told Sam, and when he wanted to make a face, Dean reminded him that he’d be the one to bring the water filled buckets in. “We’ll need to fill the tub tonight, too. You need a bath.”
Sammy was outraged, “I just had one! Monday, I had a bath!”
“Today is Friday, and you’re creaking, you’re so dirty.” Sammy stuck his tongue out and Dean pretended to grab it, chased him all the way back to the cabin--the woods rang with Sammy’s high shrill laughter.
Dad came home that night. He stood in the cabin door, and his eyes were wide and dark, they glanced around the room, taking everything in.
The floor was swept, a fire was burning in the stove, dinner was made, dessert cooling on the table. Lamps were lit, and Sammy sat on a pillow in a big Adirondack chair, skin still pink from scrubbing and his hair curling wet around his neck. He closed the book he was reading at the sound of the door opening and looked up at his dad.
Dean walked out from the single bedroom he and Sam shared, pulling on clean pajamas. They were clinging to where he was still wet from the bath. He looked over at the doorway. “Hi.”
His dad looked tired. He looked around the room, frowning. “You boys…okay? Food hold out?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah. We’re good.”
“Okay. I’m going to…wash up. There water?
“Not hot water. I dumped the dirty water, but didn’t put a kettle on yet.” He jerked his chin at the huge copper tea pot sitting on a metal table near the stove. “Want me to fill it, Dad?”
“Nah. Go to bed, Dean.”
He lay in bed, and listened. Dad bathed, and then made coffee. He heard his feet shuffling across the wooden floor, and the creak as he sat on the couch. There was silence for so long that Dean was almost asleep before he heard the muffled sound of crying. He pulled his blanket higher, and pulled Sammy closer to him, and fell asleep with the rabbit quick beat of Sam’s heart against his chest.
For Sammy’s twelfth birthday, he got a gun.
Dean wasn’t as excited as Sammy was, even though he knew it was coming. He knew the day was coming soon that Dad would take Sammy on hunts as well…some small part of him hoped that Dad’d keep on ignoring him, but Sammy was old enough now. “Ready to join the fight, Sammy,” Dad had said, and handed him the box. There was a gun and a cleaning kit. Sammy already was an old hand at cleaning the guns, keeping the knives edged. He knew how to load a shotgun shell with salt or silver flechettes, make protection…the kid was more than eager to do good, just like his dad. Dean’s stomach leaped any time they practiced shooting…fighting.
He stood behind Sammy, positioned him for the shot. Sammy’s back was to him, his arm lay straight along Dean’s. He moved it, and Sammy’s hold wavered… “Lock your arm, Sammy,” he murmured in his ear. “…straight—there you go. Good boy.” He slid a leg between Sam’s and tapped his instep. His leg rested against the inside of Sam's thigh for a moment...he imagined pressure back and a wave of warmth flooded him. He swallowed, and shook his head to clear it. “Move your legs…wider, ‘bout shoulder width—good. Okay—breathe--pull.
The shots hit one after the other in the middle of the target, just where they should. Dean let out his own breath, and smiled, looped an arm across Sammy’s chest. “Good job, kiddo.” He could feel Sammy’s whole body smile right through his skin.
He took the gun back, and checked to make sure it was empty, and Sammy asked. “When do I get to carry it myself, Dean?”
“When I’m sure you’re not gonna shoot my balls off—and when Dad says so.” He sighed. “When you need to.” Dean made Sammy follow safe procedure, drilling it into him until it became second nature. They threw knives at Huey, the wooden plank painted with a smile and googly eyes until lunch time, and then Dean cleaned up the cabin while Sammy cooked lunch. It was a routine—one they followed without deviation. After lunch, they did what they wanted, but before it was study, weapons practice, a little martial arts—what Dad taught them.
It was maybe an odd way of life, but Dean thought it was okay. He had a vague sort of knowledge that other people’s lives weren’t like this, but it was hard to imagine living any other way. He had everything he needed, and mostly that was Sam. Sammy always sensed when Dean’s mood was turning. He’d be right there, with a joke or a smile, a hug, a kiss…Dean shrugged uncomfortably at the thought of Sam kissing him, rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. Thinking of Sam kissing him…somehow it seemed different…was becoming different. Sometimes when he thought about his soft kisses, he got...a little hard. It was happening more often when Sam touched him at night, when he rolled over to his side of the bed, or flopped his long legs and arms over him. He knew getting hard wasn’t supposed to be a big deal…it’d never been one before. It was just a thing that happened to guys, Dad said so...natural and normal. It was just…sometimes now, he sought the feeling out. He touched Sam on purpose to feel that way.
It made him feel guilty and it made him feel good. He felt kind of…trapped between the two feelings, and there was no one he could talk to about it. He felt really lonely sometimes, really lonely.
“So you mean…the way people live in some books…you mean normal like that? ‘Cause that could be anyone. Or maybe you mean like Harry Potter?” Sammy looked thoughtful. “Well, some people could live like that--they *are* witches--”
“No, no, not like that, I mean like. Like…hmm. You know Harry Potter’s not real, Sam.” Dean was beginning to wish he’d never brought up the subject. Sammy had the most oddball way of looking at things. He should have known better than to ask him if he wished he’d lived a normal life.
“Sure--” Sammy agreed, but not very convincingly “—but isn’t his story kind of symbolic of a hunter’s life? The way Harry’s rejected by ‘normal’ people, and then he finds a family that’s like him and accepts him—you know, Hogwarts. Dean, I *know* there are other hunters out there—we just haven’t met them yet. When we do, they’ll seem like family, I bet. Still…you have to be careful, you know? Just because someone seems like they’re part of the family doesn’t make them good. Look at Draco. Evil can hide in plain sight Dean, it can look beautiful.”
Dean lifted an eyebrow. “Been thinking about it, have you?”
Sammy grinned and blushed. “A little,” he laughed. “I wonder why Dad won’t look for other hunters?”
Dean had his suspicions but he kept them to himself.
Dean looked out the window towards the back of the cabin. Dad was wandering back and forth, looked like he was talking to himself. He’d been drinking all day—weeping on and off. Came in from a hunt the night before and looked like something a bear vomited up—bloody and bruised from head to toe, reeking of copper and burnt herbs. He was off, totally off, and Dean was worried. If Dad was falling apart, he didn’t know what he could do, how he could help Sammy.
Dean took Sammy into the bedroom, and told him that Dad would be fine, but to stay out of his way…keep quiet and wait until he fell asleep. Even Sammy understood at times like this, Dad was someone else….
They went to bed—Dad was off in the woods, and Dean was bone-tired, exhausted from being on edge all day. He was groggy, desperate for sleep. Dean trusted that Dad would be too drunk to notice he hadn’t gone through all the little rituals he was under orders to do, and Sammy was sound asleep, trusting that he had done them. He curled up on the mattress next to his brother, in little nest of blankets he always made and dropped off to sleep.
“Dean…”
Dean woke up almost at once; awake but not alert—awake enough to know it was Dad who was shaking him gently.
“Dean, get up—quietly.”
Dean got up, barely aware he was moving…Dad took him by the elbow and led him out to the living area of the cabin. The only light was the fire dancing in the stove. In the semi-dark, he tripped over something on the floor, a blanket, or a sheet…
“C’mere,” Dad whispered and Dean smelled alcohol, smelled it in his sweat, and fresh, sharp on his breath. His hands were on him, hot, rough, damp, skimming off his sweats…
“Wha…Dad, what…” His words felt mushy in his mouth and he could hardly keep his eyes open. He yawned, and yawned again. “Dad…your clothes--”
“Shh.”
Dad made him lay face down on the floor, and Dean’s heart sped up …something was wrong, he just didn’t know what. Dad lay over him and wrapped a callused hand around his mouth, squeezed hard. Dean felt like he was covered in darkness, he was too hot, and too heavy, and stuck in places, slid in others. “Shh,” Dad whispered in his ear. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, but he did.
Morning came and even though it was just dawn, the sun barely up, the air was already humid and sticky and he felt dirty. He ached, the cabin was stuffy—it felt like the air was clinging to him, sticking in his pores.
He made breakfast for Sammy and woke him; his skin was sticky under his touch. Hot.
“Where’s Dad?” Sammy asked, his wild mane of hair flying every which way, his eyes sticky at the corners from sleep.
Dean shrugged. “Not sure, he left before I woke up.”
Sammy nodded, used to disappearances like that. He rubbed his eyes, and seemed to actually see Dean for the first time. “Hey, your mouth is bleeding—in the corner there.”
He reached out to touch it and Dean grabbed his hand and forced it back. “Don’t.”
“Ow, you’re hurting me, Dean!”
He snatched his hand back. “Shit, I’m sorry Sammy, sorry.” He hugged him, for so long that Sam got a little huffy.
“You’re going to smother me—or pop my head off like a dandelion—do you mind?”
Dean laughed a little. “Okay, okay--c’mon, let’s eat.”
He gave Sammy his plate and went outside into the damp air. He headed to the side yard of the cabin, to the water pump. He dragged the big stainless steel bucket over to the pump, and pumped the handle, filled the steel bucket full of water. The water was icy cold, and he peeled his sticky damp tee shirt off, soaked it in the water and scrubbed himself clean, right there at the pump. He dropped to his knees and stuck his head into the bucket, held it there until his lungs screamed for air. He whipped his head back, gasping hard, water flew everywhere...one deep breath, and he stood again, headed back to the cabin. Back to his brother.
Dad came back late that night, sober and blasted looking. His eyes were deep black wells of pain in his paper white face. He apologized again and again. “I don’t know what happened…I don’t know why. It wasn’t your fault.”
Dean stared…he didn’t see how he was supposed to think it was. Dad promised with tears standing in his eyes never ever again. Dean nodded. He didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. He believed Dad was sorry, but he wasn’t sure he believed in anything else. He knew only that it made him question himself more…confused his feelings for Sammy even more.
part3
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5/15/07 02:34 pm (UTC)