SpN fic post: Lodi part 1/?
3/3/09 03:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Lodi
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1209
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
yes, yes! I have this story I need to get out, so here I go! It's a medium length story (so far)all chock full of nothing really, just hanging out in summer time. Some day, I'll write a story about hanging out in winter time. And some place besides New Jersey. :)
Here be warnings: eventually but not right now--under-age sex, slightly dub-con sort of. Mostly it's pretty darn mild, 'cause I have become a mellower, kinder, gentler roxy.
Lodi
It starts out with a bike.
When Sam thought back to places that they'd lived—any place they'd stayed longer than a few weeks—Lodi always came to mind. That year in Lodi, New Jersey had been real educational; it had helped him, in a lot of ways—helped him grow up, helped him to decide about college. His future in general, really. It'd been a damn funny year. Sort of equal parts suck, and. Not suck at all.
Lodi. He remembered the Impala rolling down this narrow dirt-edged road, and coming to a stop in front of the saddest looking little dump, surrounded by other houses just as crappy. He remembered Dad leaning his head on the steering wheel for a second before turning, smiling into the backseat.
1
April showers might bring spring flowers but it also brought mind numbing boredom, brought being stuck inside—in the car, in motels on the way—when Dad finally does come to a stop, Sam's so fucking ready to get out he could just about claw through the side of the car.
"This is it, boys."
Sam's staring open-mouthed out the window, not exactly horrified, more kind of…puzzled. The place they've stopped at squats on a tiny square of pale tan sand, the sand that's pretty much everywhere here. But…it's a house. Not a great house, but a house, not a god-awful, pay-by-the-week motel, not a trailer barely wide enough to fit his shoulders….
It boasts a tumble-down attempt at a fence, a sickly strip of garden trying to live in the shadow of a couple of pine trees, and a mailbox on top of a post so stupidly high, the mailman is either a giant or one pissed off dude. The house number's painted on the side, and also painted on one of the house's fake shutters. The place is kind of white where it's not patched with scabs of gray exposed wood. The front door is out of place—a pathetically cheerful red. There's a porch though. It looks in better shape than the house itself, and for some reason, the porch is blue, a weird shade of blue that Sam doesn't think he's ever seen before. He think's that’s kind of nice, not the blue, the having a place to sit outside in summer—if they're there that long. He's spent the summer on the east coast before—it sucks.
Dad's giving him a look that's a cross between hopeful and annoyed or something, before he's back to staring at the dump again. "It's going to be fine," Dad says, and Dean nods. Of course.
But Sam's watching Dad, waiting for it—and there it is—that thing in his Dad's eyes when he looks over whatever place they'd be camping in. It's like his heart's tearing. Sam has never really tried to imagine who his mom had been, and he bet not even Dean really knew, but he got the sense early on, just from watching Dad, that the way they were living would have hurt her, bad.
He's never talked to Dad about it because he has no idea how to talk about the fact that once Dean and him had had a mom, some one else who loved them. Besides, most of the time, Sam didn't think it was important. What counted was making sure what'd happened to Mom wasn't going to happen again. That's what Dean said.
"Come on, doofus. Grab a bag and get inside, all ready." Dean's shouldering a duffle, and Dad's dragging a trunk up the stairs and Sam watches them move in step, like they'd trained to do it.
This is what happens when Sam drags his suitcase up the porch steps: Sam catches the edge on the porch stairs and stumbles across the threshold into the house. "Fucking figures," he says to himself.
~~~~~~
The inside of the house is as inviting as the outside. It's been closed up for a while, looks like--dark, smells of body and floor polish and dust.
"Why don’t you get the curtains, Sam—Dean, get the windows open, okay?" Dad heads into the kitchen. "I'll check the appliances, supposed to be usable…."
Sam pulls the heavy drapes open on the picture window—the only window—in the living room, and lets light into the joint, and the air swirls with glittering clouds of dust from the drapes….
There's a short hallway ending in a bathroom, and on either side of it, a bedroom. Dean's going to take Dad's the minute he's out of town, no doubt. Sam can't wait. The need for privacy is just one of the things eating at him, and lately, it's beginning to take priority…he tosses his bag on the floor of the smallest room. There's a set of bunkbeds and a dresser against one wall. Miracle of miracles, there's also a desk in the room, and Sam smiles. There at least is a place he can put the laptop that a Mr. Milo Minderbinder's credit card bought for him, a place he can stack the few books he's allowed to carry around with him. And a little lime-green plastic dinosaur from Burger King that he would kill for, if forced to, but no one needs to know that. The closet is narrow, and shallow, but good enough for them--between it and the dresser, there's plenty of space for their clothes.
Dean squeezes by, and opens the skinny window at the end of the room, and flicks the switch on the wall. "Jesus."
The overhead light has no shade and it’s hanging right over the top bunk of the bunk-beds.
"Fuckin'…what the fuck is up there, a hundred watt bulb? Christ, that's gotta go…" Dean scowls at Sam like it's his damn fault the last occupants were blind. Sam ignores him, stands at the end of one of the beds and purses his lips, staring at the lower bunk's mattress. He's not sleeping on that thing until he's checked it out, like thoroughly. Dean tosses a pair of socks at him.
"Princess—it's fine, okay? Relax."
Relax. Sam snorts. Dean's a pig. He could sleep on a corpse and be fine. He could go without showering for days and not give a shit. Dean's disgusting.
Disgusting Dean is spread all over the lower bunk, barefoot and shirtless. Smiling up into the top-bunk's underside. Sam yelps, "Dude—what the fuck—I'm taking the lower bunk."
"Guess what—I had a vote and you lost. Upper bunk, bitch."
Sam hates his brother. His brother is a dick, a jerk, an asshole. Disgusting. Sam threw his bag under the desk, and hisses," The desk is mine, illiterate bitch."
"Dude, take it. Who gives a fuck—" Dean throws himself off the bed and stomps out, and Sam just seethes. How come Dean can say nasty shit and walk off with a smile, and Sam's always left feeling like the guilty one?
In retaliation for the bitchy way Dean's behaving Sam kicks the fucking ugly 1970's fake birds-eye maple bed post, and then has to bite his lip bloody to keep from screaming like a girl—that fucking hurt like a motherfucker.
part two
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1209
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
yes, yes! I have this story I need to get out, so here I go! It's a medium length story (so far)all chock full of nothing really, just hanging out in summer time. Some day, I'll write a story about hanging out in winter time. And some place besides New Jersey. :)
Here be warnings: eventually but not right now--under-age sex, slightly dub-con sort of. Mostly it's pretty darn mild, 'cause I have become a mellower, kinder, gentler roxy.
Lodi
It starts out with a bike.
When Sam thought back to places that they'd lived—any place they'd stayed longer than a few weeks—Lodi always came to mind. That year in Lodi, New Jersey had been real educational; it had helped him, in a lot of ways—helped him grow up, helped him to decide about college. His future in general, really. It'd been a damn funny year. Sort of equal parts suck, and. Not suck at all.
Lodi. He remembered the Impala rolling down this narrow dirt-edged road, and coming to a stop in front of the saddest looking little dump, surrounded by other houses just as crappy. He remembered Dad leaning his head on the steering wheel for a second before turning, smiling into the backseat.
1
April showers might bring spring flowers but it also brought mind numbing boredom, brought being stuck inside—in the car, in motels on the way—when Dad finally does come to a stop, Sam's so fucking ready to get out he could just about claw through the side of the car.
"This is it, boys."
Sam's staring open-mouthed out the window, not exactly horrified, more kind of…puzzled. The place they've stopped at squats on a tiny square of pale tan sand, the sand that's pretty much everywhere here. But…it's a house. Not a great house, but a house, not a god-awful, pay-by-the-week motel, not a trailer barely wide enough to fit his shoulders….
It boasts a tumble-down attempt at a fence, a sickly strip of garden trying to live in the shadow of a couple of pine trees, and a mailbox on top of a post so stupidly high, the mailman is either a giant or one pissed off dude. The house number's painted on the side, and also painted on one of the house's fake shutters. The place is kind of white where it's not patched with scabs of gray exposed wood. The front door is out of place—a pathetically cheerful red. There's a porch though. It looks in better shape than the house itself, and for some reason, the porch is blue, a weird shade of blue that Sam doesn't think he's ever seen before. He think's that’s kind of nice, not the blue, the having a place to sit outside in summer—if they're there that long. He's spent the summer on the east coast before—it sucks.
Dad's giving him a look that's a cross between hopeful and annoyed or something, before he's back to staring at the dump again. "It's going to be fine," Dad says, and Dean nods. Of course.
But Sam's watching Dad, waiting for it—and there it is—that thing in his Dad's eyes when he looks over whatever place they'd be camping in. It's like his heart's tearing. Sam has never really tried to imagine who his mom had been, and he bet not even Dean really knew, but he got the sense early on, just from watching Dad, that the way they were living would have hurt her, bad.
He's never talked to Dad about it because he has no idea how to talk about the fact that once Dean and him had had a mom, some one else who loved them. Besides, most of the time, Sam didn't think it was important. What counted was making sure what'd happened to Mom wasn't going to happen again. That's what Dean said.
"Come on, doofus. Grab a bag and get inside, all ready." Dean's shouldering a duffle, and Dad's dragging a trunk up the stairs and Sam watches them move in step, like they'd trained to do it.
This is what happens when Sam drags his suitcase up the porch steps: Sam catches the edge on the porch stairs and stumbles across the threshold into the house. "Fucking figures," he says to himself.
The inside of the house is as inviting as the outside. It's been closed up for a while, looks like--dark, smells of body and floor polish and dust.
"Why don’t you get the curtains, Sam—Dean, get the windows open, okay?" Dad heads into the kitchen. "I'll check the appliances, supposed to be usable…."
Sam pulls the heavy drapes open on the picture window—the only window—in the living room, and lets light into the joint, and the air swirls with glittering clouds of dust from the drapes….
There's a short hallway ending in a bathroom, and on either side of it, a bedroom. Dean's going to take Dad's the minute he's out of town, no doubt. Sam can't wait. The need for privacy is just one of the things eating at him, and lately, it's beginning to take priority…he tosses his bag on the floor of the smallest room. There's a set of bunkbeds and a dresser against one wall. Miracle of miracles, there's also a desk in the room, and Sam smiles. There at least is a place he can put the laptop that a Mr. Milo Minderbinder's credit card bought for him, a place he can stack the few books he's allowed to carry around with him. And a little lime-green plastic dinosaur from Burger King that he would kill for, if forced to, but no one needs to know that. The closet is narrow, and shallow, but good enough for them--between it and the dresser, there's plenty of space for their clothes.
Dean squeezes by, and opens the skinny window at the end of the room, and flicks the switch on the wall. "Jesus."
The overhead light has no shade and it’s hanging right over the top bunk of the bunk-beds.
"Fuckin'…what the fuck is up there, a hundred watt bulb? Christ, that's gotta go…" Dean scowls at Sam like it's his damn fault the last occupants were blind. Sam ignores him, stands at the end of one of the beds and purses his lips, staring at the lower bunk's mattress. He's not sleeping on that thing until he's checked it out, like thoroughly. Dean tosses a pair of socks at him.
"Princess—it's fine, okay? Relax."
Relax. Sam snorts. Dean's a pig. He could sleep on a corpse and be fine. He could go without showering for days and not give a shit. Dean's disgusting.
Disgusting Dean is spread all over the lower bunk, barefoot and shirtless. Smiling up into the top-bunk's underside. Sam yelps, "Dude—what the fuck—I'm taking the lower bunk."
"Guess what—I had a vote and you lost. Upper bunk, bitch."
Sam hates his brother. His brother is a dick, a jerk, an asshole. Disgusting. Sam threw his bag under the desk, and hisses," The desk is mine, illiterate bitch."
"Dude, take it. Who gives a fuck—" Dean throws himself off the bed and stomps out, and Sam just seethes. How come Dean can say nasty shit and walk off with a smile, and Sam's always left feeling like the guilty one?
In retaliation for the bitchy way Dean's behaving Sam kicks the fucking ugly 1970's fake birds-eye maple bed post, and then has to bite his lip bloody to keep from screaming like a girl—that fucking hurt like a motherfucker.
part two
TBC