SpN fic post: Lodi part 2
3/4/09 09:10 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: 1571
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
2
Dad's got something going on down south; something that he explains will bring him home on some weekends but send him back during the week. Dean's eighteen and old enough to take care of things, or at least, he's old enough that the neighbors could give a shit it's just two kids in the house. Looking at the neighborhood, Sam figures they could probably cook crack in the front yard and sell guns out the back and no one would give a shit.
The thing Dad's after is bad, Sam can't remember the name of it, but it attacks in cycles of the moon and it goes after kids, so Dad's going to go after it, that's how Dean explains it when Sam goes stomping through the little kitchen—waking up to find Dad gone and Dean hanging sleepily over a cup of cold coffee.
When Dean tells him that, Sam feels an increasingly familiar mix of pride and exasperation that lately, seems to tip a little more to frustration and anger. He gets that someone has to do it but…frustration cramps his gut and he runs his hand through hair a little too long. He really does get that Dad has to go but sometimes Sam's just fucking tired of these other people who get his Dad's attention. He's jealous that Dean seems to get it with no problem and no resentment--the only thing that bugs Dean is that Dad leaves him behind.
Leaves him to be stuck taking care of his little brother, so Sam's made it his business to learn, quick, fast, and in a hurry, to take care of his damn self. He cooks, he does laundry, he cleans the house—he's good at it, and doesn't give a shit what it seems to say about him.
Sam is man enough to admit he likes it clean, damn it, and so does Dean, he just won't say because he's not as secure in his masculinity as Sam is.
~~~~~~
The end of May was hot but not humid yet, that was still coming, Sam knew. He'd checked the weather averages for the area and knew it was coming but right now, it was kind of perfect, warm and bright.
Sam's sitting on the porch, on one of the kitchen chairs, rocking forward on its front legs and he's got a book propped up on the railing. He's thumbing through the book, taking notes for a report with one hand and chewing the edge of the thumb of the other one. Sam is thinking how he's kind of lonely, the book is boring—he's already read it and done an essay on it at the last school. He's wondering if he can get Dean to hang out with him later. He's wondering if this need for attention is babyish, 'cause it's definitely a one-sided need. Dean doesn’t seem to want to hang out with *him*.
Dean, who's currently in the back yard with that busted out old car they inherited with the place, doing something and not doing it alone. Sam sighs. For a long time now, Dean's been working really hard at…at being a dick. He's doing a great job. He's a big dick.
A girl comes out of the back yard, five foot one thousand miles of leg and tight, tight tee shirt over bouncy boobs and long blonde shiny hair. Her smile is wide and kind of hot; she's red-cheeked, flushed, sweaty, mouth all swollen. Sam bites the inside of his mouth and hates Dean a little. Dean's lips—his eyes--are shiny. She saunters off down the walk and Dean smiles. "Working on cars can be fun, Sammy."
Dean's eyes are locked on the girl; she looks older than his brother. "Sam," he snaps back, and hates Dean a little more. Fuck you.
Girls fall out of the sky for Dean, easy as pie. Easy-peesy. Girls have always been around. They come, they go. For the most part, Sam's used to it. Girls aren't the be-all, end-all for him that they are for Dean, but he's not worried about it. Sam's not one to just kind of hope stuff goes away…problems mean research, and by this point, Sam knows a lot in theory about what he's feeling. Knew enough that he wasn't deeply worried about it; Sam's only real worry was about Dad's reaction, or Dean's, to his maybe being gay. So far it's a feeling, a possibility. He hasn't had any practical experience. It's just…longing…so far. He's not going to tell Dean or Dad just yet--but.
As far as Sam's concerned, this whole thing, these longings, this confusion, it's just one more proof he's not like Dean or Dad—he was *so* not like them. Even so, some days, he thinks that he maybe he could actually talk to Dean about it. Dean has his moments--he can be a decent listener, you just have to give him time to get the assshole out of his system—it's kind of his default position. It's okay. Sam deals, practiced at it, from the time he was Dean's only friend. When Sam lets himself think about it--how they used to be--he imagines Dean must have been embarrassed that the only friend he had was his little brother.
Sam sighs, remembering how he held onto that friendship like…like a prize. He deserved it; he was…sort of owed it, right? For not being able to have a simple life like everyone else? Being Dean's best friend gave him something. He'd held onto the ghost of that friendship way after the real thing died. Sometimes, it seemed like Dean was doing the same thing.
Sam blinks and realizes that Dean's been staring at him, his face kind of squinched, eyeballing him like he's a bug. "You. Go get the scissors."
"Fuck you," Sam says. He doesn't move an inch. Dean doesn't scare him…much. Dean just grins and says, "You've got five minutes to meet me in the back, or I'm shaving your head in your sleep." And he saunters away, fucking dick. Sam's pretty sure Dean won't do it, but there was that one time Dean had stained his lips blue with Kool-Aid while he was sleeping….
It's a lot longer than five minutes before Sam strolls out to the back yard, because Sam's not a pussy.
A lot longer, like—maybe ten.
Dean's sitting on the kitchen chair Sam'd had on the porch. He's smoking a cigarette and looking comfortable, eyes closed and face tilted to the sun…relaxing. Sam holds his breath to watch him.
He grins around the butt when he opens his eyes and sees Sam standing there, and Sam coughs to cover the flutter and squeeze of his belly when Dean grins…everyday, he prays that Dean stays blind to what he's feeling. Sam makes a face--the one Dean calls Bitch Face like he's so funny--stalks up to Dean and thrusts out the scissors and comb. "Be careful, ass-wipe. I don't wanna look like a GI Joe wanna be." Like you, goes unsaid.
Dean snorts. "You wish you could be as cool as GI Joe was." He slams Sam down into the chair and runs the comb through Sam's hair, yanking when he has to pull snarls and ignoring Sam's yelps. He does it until the hair runs freely through the comb's teeth and tickles Sam's neck and cheeks. Sam lets a little sigh out, and relaxes…he gets that Dean is trying to give him something after all. He's not stupid enough to throw it back in his face.
"Told you you need a cut," Dean murmurs, and runs the comb up under the hair at the back of Sam's neck, follows it with warm, slim fingers. Sam shudders but Dean doesn't stop, doesn't seem to see it.
Sam tries…not to lean into Dean's touch, not to shiver when his fingers drift over his heat sensitized skin. His eyes drift shut and he sways with Dean's touch anyway. At least he can blame the sun, the heat makes him drowsy; he licks his lips and tastes salt, feels moisture trickle in the creases of his neck, his arms.
Dean stops, lights another Newport and snorts when Sam fakes a cough and whines, "Second hand smoke, you dick."
"Shut the fuck up," Dean murmurs and runs his hand over Sam's neck, around his temple, checking on his barbering job. Dean hums, and pulls the now much shorter hair back from Sam's forehead. For what feels like a long, shatteringly silent moment, Dean holds Sam's head against his hip. "Good now?" he asks, low and smooth. Sam nods his head. Fuck, he's terrified of speaking. Of moving. Sam's got his hands in his lap and he hopes to God it looks casual.
"Good," Dean says, and ruffles his hair, flinging cut pieces up into the air. "Go get the hair off, and I'll start dinner."
Sam's startled enough to yelp—"You? Dinner?"
"Hell yeah—hotdogs, hamburgers on a flaming grill—manly man's cooking, bitch."
Sam huffs and jumps up, he runs to the house and turns back when Dean calls his name.
"You're a good kid Sam," he says, his face all soft, and his eyes…Sam flips him off, like Dean expects him too.
part 3
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1571
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
2
Dad's got something going on down south; something that he explains will bring him home on some weekends but send him back during the week. Dean's eighteen and old enough to take care of things, or at least, he's old enough that the neighbors could give a shit it's just two kids in the house. Looking at the neighborhood, Sam figures they could probably cook crack in the front yard and sell guns out the back and no one would give a shit.
The thing Dad's after is bad, Sam can't remember the name of it, but it attacks in cycles of the moon and it goes after kids, so Dad's going to go after it, that's how Dean explains it when Sam goes stomping through the little kitchen—waking up to find Dad gone and Dean hanging sleepily over a cup of cold coffee.
When Dean tells him that, Sam feels an increasingly familiar mix of pride and exasperation that lately, seems to tip a little more to frustration and anger. He gets that someone has to do it but…frustration cramps his gut and he runs his hand through hair a little too long. He really does get that Dad has to go but sometimes Sam's just fucking tired of these other people who get his Dad's attention. He's jealous that Dean seems to get it with no problem and no resentment--the only thing that bugs Dean is that Dad leaves him behind.
Leaves him to be stuck taking care of his little brother, so Sam's made it his business to learn, quick, fast, and in a hurry, to take care of his damn self. He cooks, he does laundry, he cleans the house—he's good at it, and doesn't give a shit what it seems to say about him.
Sam is man enough to admit he likes it clean, damn it, and so does Dean, he just won't say because he's not as secure in his masculinity as Sam is.
The end of May was hot but not humid yet, that was still coming, Sam knew. He'd checked the weather averages for the area and knew it was coming but right now, it was kind of perfect, warm and bright.
Sam's sitting on the porch, on one of the kitchen chairs, rocking forward on its front legs and he's got a book propped up on the railing. He's thumbing through the book, taking notes for a report with one hand and chewing the edge of the thumb of the other one. Sam is thinking how he's kind of lonely, the book is boring—he's already read it and done an essay on it at the last school. He's wondering if he can get Dean to hang out with him later. He's wondering if this need for attention is babyish, 'cause it's definitely a one-sided need. Dean doesn’t seem to want to hang out with *him*.
Dean, who's currently in the back yard with that busted out old car they inherited with the place, doing something and not doing it alone. Sam sighs. For a long time now, Dean's been working really hard at…at being a dick. He's doing a great job. He's a big dick.
A girl comes out of the back yard, five foot one thousand miles of leg and tight, tight tee shirt over bouncy boobs and long blonde shiny hair. Her smile is wide and kind of hot; she's red-cheeked, flushed, sweaty, mouth all swollen. Sam bites the inside of his mouth and hates Dean a little. Dean's lips—his eyes--are shiny. She saunters off down the walk and Dean smiles. "Working on cars can be fun, Sammy."
Dean's eyes are locked on the girl; she looks older than his brother. "Sam," he snaps back, and hates Dean a little more. Fuck you.
Girls fall out of the sky for Dean, easy as pie. Easy-peesy. Girls have always been around. They come, they go. For the most part, Sam's used to it. Girls aren't the be-all, end-all for him that they are for Dean, but he's not worried about it. Sam's not one to just kind of hope stuff goes away…problems mean research, and by this point, Sam knows a lot in theory about what he's feeling. Knew enough that he wasn't deeply worried about it; Sam's only real worry was about Dad's reaction, or Dean's, to his maybe being gay. So far it's a feeling, a possibility. He hasn't had any practical experience. It's just…longing…so far. He's not going to tell Dean or Dad just yet--but.
As far as Sam's concerned, this whole thing, these longings, this confusion, it's just one more proof he's not like Dean or Dad—he was *so* not like them. Even so, some days, he thinks that he maybe he could actually talk to Dean about it. Dean has his moments--he can be a decent listener, you just have to give him time to get the assshole out of his system—it's kind of his default position. It's okay. Sam deals, practiced at it, from the time he was Dean's only friend. When Sam lets himself think about it--how they used to be--he imagines Dean must have been embarrassed that the only friend he had was his little brother.
Sam sighs, remembering how he held onto that friendship like…like a prize. He deserved it; he was…sort of owed it, right? For not being able to have a simple life like everyone else? Being Dean's best friend gave him something. He'd held onto the ghost of that friendship way after the real thing died. Sometimes, it seemed like Dean was doing the same thing.
Sam blinks and realizes that Dean's been staring at him, his face kind of squinched, eyeballing him like he's a bug. "You. Go get the scissors."
"Fuck you," Sam says. He doesn't move an inch. Dean doesn't scare him…much. Dean just grins and says, "You've got five minutes to meet me in the back, or I'm shaving your head in your sleep." And he saunters away, fucking dick. Sam's pretty sure Dean won't do it, but there was that one time Dean had stained his lips blue with Kool-Aid while he was sleeping….
It's a lot longer than five minutes before Sam strolls out to the back yard, because Sam's not a pussy.
A lot longer, like—maybe ten.
Dean's sitting on the kitchen chair Sam'd had on the porch. He's smoking a cigarette and looking comfortable, eyes closed and face tilted to the sun…relaxing. Sam holds his breath to watch him.
He grins around the butt when he opens his eyes and sees Sam standing there, and Sam coughs to cover the flutter and squeeze of his belly when Dean grins…everyday, he prays that Dean stays blind to what he's feeling. Sam makes a face--the one Dean calls Bitch Face like he's so funny--stalks up to Dean and thrusts out the scissors and comb. "Be careful, ass-wipe. I don't wanna look like a GI Joe wanna be." Like you, goes unsaid.
Dean snorts. "You wish you could be as cool as GI Joe was." He slams Sam down into the chair and runs the comb through Sam's hair, yanking when he has to pull snarls and ignoring Sam's yelps. He does it until the hair runs freely through the comb's teeth and tickles Sam's neck and cheeks. Sam lets a little sigh out, and relaxes…he gets that Dean is trying to give him something after all. He's not stupid enough to throw it back in his face.
"Told you you need a cut," Dean murmurs, and runs the comb up under the hair at the back of Sam's neck, follows it with warm, slim fingers. Sam shudders but Dean doesn't stop, doesn't seem to see it.
Sam tries…not to lean into Dean's touch, not to shiver when his fingers drift over his heat sensitized skin. His eyes drift shut and he sways with Dean's touch anyway. At least he can blame the sun, the heat makes him drowsy; he licks his lips and tastes salt, feels moisture trickle in the creases of his neck, his arms.
Dean stops, lights another Newport and snorts when Sam fakes a cough and whines, "Second hand smoke, you dick."
"Shut the fuck up," Dean murmurs and runs his hand over Sam's neck, around his temple, checking on his barbering job. Dean hums, and pulls the now much shorter hair back from Sam's forehead. For what feels like a long, shatteringly silent moment, Dean holds Sam's head against his hip. "Good now?" he asks, low and smooth. Sam nods his head. Fuck, he's terrified of speaking. Of moving. Sam's got his hands in his lap and he hopes to God it looks casual.
"Good," Dean says, and ruffles his hair, flinging cut pieces up into the air. "Go get the hair off, and I'll start dinner."
Sam's startled enough to yelp—"You? Dinner?"
"Hell yeah—hotdogs, hamburgers on a flaming grill—manly man's cooking, bitch."
Sam huffs and jumps up, he runs to the house and turns back when Dean calls his name.
"You're a good kid Sam," he says, his face all soft, and his eyes…Sam flips him off, like Dean expects him too.
part 3
TBC
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3/13/09 04:56 am (UTC)