Spn fic post: Lodi part 7
3/14/09 02:01 am![[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: 1717
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
Dad's home finally—Sam doesn't stop to think about it, analyze it, question it—Dad opens the door, and Sam is throwing himself into his arms and holding on tight. His fists are twisted in Dad's shirt, he's pressing his face so tight to Dad's chest, he can't see. He can smell smoke and sweat and metal—Dad. He's gripped him up like that so Dad can’t push him away like he expects/dreads, but instead, Dad drops his bags and one hand flies up to cup the back of Sam's head and the other arm is tight around Sam's body, just as tight as he needs it to be.
"Sammy?" his dad says, and, "Dean, what the fuck?" not even worrying that he was cursing in front of Sam. "Sammy--" his dad says again, stroking his head.
"Dad…" Dean doesn't say much more but gently prods Patrick to stand in front of him. Pat won’t look at anyone, just looks ashamed like it's his fucking fault or something.
"Holy—Dean, what the *hell* went on while I was gone—did you do that?" Dad sounds pissed off, but his hands are still gentle on Sam, rubbing gently on the little dent at back of his skull, like he used to do when Sam was a little kid. He tries to get even closer and Dad oofs when he hits him in tender places. "Easy, Sammy…"
"No! Dad!" Dean almost yells. "'Course not--Sam, let go of Dad for a bit, okay? I need to talk to him."
Sam reluctantly lets go, and Dad lets him go, just as reluctantly. "Okay."
He watches them walk outside and that leaves him alone in the kitchen with Patrick, who's a horrible mural of black and blue and red. Sam grabs some paper towels from over the sink, wets a handful and gives them to Patrick. Patrick just stands there, his head hanging down, and squeezing the towels into a sodden lump until Sam huffs and grabs them back, starts wiping at the blood still crusted on Patrick's forehead.
"Sorry," Patrick mumbles. "Hope your pop doesn't hit him too much." He looks as worried as his swollen face will let him.
"My dad's not going to hit him at all! Dad doesn't hit us." Well—not much. "He's sure not going to hit him now." They stand at the back door, and watch Dean talking animatedly to Dad, and Dad's getting more and more pissed off. He's looking bigger and bigger, kind of like a really hacked off grizzly. Finally he shouts, "I said we're done!" and Dean jerks back, his mouth a tight press of anger. They come back to the house, into the kitchen.
"Sit," he barks at Patrick and Patrick goes white as salt and throws himself into a chair. He's cowering, rolling his shoulders in like he's trying to squeeze his six foot frame into a much smaller shape, and apologizing for having Dean and Sam out late, for bleeding in their house, for breathing too loud, just when he gets to the part where he's apologizing for breathing at all, Dad's face crumbles up a little, but when he reaches out to soothe Patrick, he nearly flinches to the ground. "Jesus…kid…"
Dad folds his arms across his chest and steps back, looks Patrick up and down and glances at Dean. "You do this?" and indicates the bandages, the cream—all the attempts to repair the damage.
"Yes sir." Dean lifts his chin. "I checked him over good—he needed a couple of stitches under his chin. I stuck a butterfly on his forehead but he looked…okay, otherwise," Dean finishes with a bitter chuckle, and Dad doesn't say anything. Dad checks Patrick over himself and pronounces him in decent shape—turns to Dean. "Good job," he says. "You're lucky, Dean's good at this," he tells Patrick and Patrick makes a noise meant to be a laugh.
"Oh, yes, lucky…I should go now, sorry…."
"You're staying here. And I'm going out." Dad grabs something out of one of the duffle bags and heads back toward the front door. Dean hurries to catch up. "Nope. You stay here and get these guys settled down."
"Dad—you need to let me come with you. Dad—" Dean says, and goes silent, just lays his hand on Dad's arm. Sam can see he's not holding Dad back, he's asking him with his eyes. Dad sighs, glances at Patrick, who's been real quiet during all this. Patrick doesn’t speak, he just nods and Dad looks tired. "Okay.
A few hours later, Dad and Dean are back home, looking grim. They don’t talk about it, but a few days later, it's all over the neighborhood, Patrick's step-dad's fallen down a flight of stairs and got a little banged up. Sam goes with Patrick when he picks up some clothes from his mom's house.
~~~~~~
Sam's doing his early morning stroll of the street, it being garbage day and all. At this point, he's not even looking for a bike anymore, not really. He likes walking the neighborhood as the sun rises. He likes listening to the street wake up. Walking by some houses, he can smell coffee, smell bacon frying…it's hot enough already that some places have their doors open and he catches snatches of conversation, music...he imagines the families in those houses. Sam's not naive, he knows that not being a Winchester doesn't make your life perfect—Patrick and few of Dean's other friends are proof of that but still…he promises himself that one day, he's going to be that guy, the one who wakes up knowing that the worst thing he'll have to face that new day is other people and he gets that other people can be bad, but there was no fucking way they were worse than the stuff that hides in the darkness—no possible way.
He's thinking about that, and thinking about how he was going to manage to fit Dean in his shiny new life when he spots a little round table on the curb and thinks it would look pretty good next to the couch, or maybe in a corner of the bedroom. He props it on his shoulder and walks back towards the house, and that's the end of his musing for the day.
First thing he sees coming up the walk is a strange truck parked in the driveway, next to the Impala. Dad's still home then…someone was visiting? Dad comes from around the back of the truck, wiping his hands on a grease streaked rag—catches sight of Sam and smiles. "Hey son, what ya got there?"
Sam sets the table down and stiffens his back. "A table. For my room." He hears the belligerent note in his voice and Dad sighs. Sam tries not to wince…he doesn't even know why he sounds like that.
"It's a good table," is all Dad says. He runs his hand over the truck fender. "So, what do you think about her, Sammy?" He smiles a little and Sam comes closer, smiles back. Sort of. He looks inside the cab and nods. Clean…rugs and upholstery a little worn, but intact…
"Looks good. This for Dean?" He gazes at Dad and he's kind of surprised that Dad blushes a little—he didn’t think the old man was capable.
"Nah. It's mine." He stops and lets the words sink into Sam's mind.
It takes a second…"Yours? You mean…oh man—Dean's going to lose his mind." He can’t help it—he grins full out at Dad. "Awesome!"
Dad grins back. "Awesome," he echoes.
By the time evening rolls around, it's hotter than hell outside; the breeze teasing the air doesn't do more than lift dust off the dead lawns and fling it around a little. Sam's still outside with Dad when Dean comes strolling up the street, his blue work vest is tucked in the back of his jeans, the sides and back of his red t-shirt streaked black with sweat. He's obviously hot, crabby with the frustration of dealing with clueless customers he's not allowed to knock out, tired from walking. He barely grunts at Sam and Dad, and he walks past them and the truck, casting it a suspicious scowl. Dad waits until Dean's about to walk through the front door before he speaks.
"Dean."
"Sir," he says, and turns to face Dad. Sam knows the look on his face. Dean's quickly scanning all his actions of the past couple of days, trying to search out where he screwed up. He glances at Sam and Sam bites his lip to keep from laughing, earning him a deeper scowl.
Dad tosses him a set of keys. "Thought you'd want to take your vehicle for a drive." Dean looks at the truck, awed and pink-cheeked and not just from the heat now. "Mine?"
Dad shakes his head. "Not that one."
Dean's face falls for a second before smoothing out. "No?"
He's not getting it, Sam knows, and is almost bursting with glee. He knows he looks like he has to pee but he tries to smooth out his face, look as casual and disinterested as Dad does.
"Keys are for that one." Dad points at the Impala, and Dean…screams.
Really. High pitched, girly, the kind of sound usually accompanied by hand-flapping and jumping up and down. Sam closes his eyes in pure and utter joy, the better to savor the moment, to commit it to memory. Dean will never, *ever* live this moment down, not in a million, million years, or at least as long as Sam draws breath. Even Dad looks kind of startled. Dean coughs, he's the brightest red Sam's ever seen him. "Ah, bug, swallowed—must have swallowed a bug." Dad makes a noncommittal noise, but it gets lost when Dean throws his arms around Dad and babbles out his thanks—rushes to the car. Dad laughs.
"You're welcome." Winks at Sam and heads inside. Sam watches Dean for a few minutes…he's smiling, just glowing like the sun. It's nice to see. When he glances up and catches Sam watching him, instead of flipping him off or making some kind of face he just smiles.
Suddenly, there's this something in his throat that makes it hard for Sam to swallow.
part 8
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1717
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
Dad's home finally—Sam doesn't stop to think about it, analyze it, question it—Dad opens the door, and Sam is throwing himself into his arms and holding on tight. His fists are twisted in Dad's shirt, he's pressing his face so tight to Dad's chest, he can't see. He can smell smoke and sweat and metal—Dad. He's gripped him up like that so Dad can’t push him away like he expects/dreads, but instead, Dad drops his bags and one hand flies up to cup the back of Sam's head and the other arm is tight around Sam's body, just as tight as he needs it to be.
"Sammy?" his dad says, and, "Dean, what the fuck?" not even worrying that he was cursing in front of Sam. "Sammy--" his dad says again, stroking his head.
"Dad…" Dean doesn't say much more but gently prods Patrick to stand in front of him. Pat won’t look at anyone, just looks ashamed like it's his fucking fault or something.
"Holy—Dean, what the *hell* went on while I was gone—did you do that?" Dad sounds pissed off, but his hands are still gentle on Sam, rubbing gently on the little dent at back of his skull, like he used to do when Sam was a little kid. He tries to get even closer and Dad oofs when he hits him in tender places. "Easy, Sammy…"
"No! Dad!" Dean almost yells. "'Course not--Sam, let go of Dad for a bit, okay? I need to talk to him."
Sam reluctantly lets go, and Dad lets him go, just as reluctantly. "Okay."
He watches them walk outside and that leaves him alone in the kitchen with Patrick, who's a horrible mural of black and blue and red. Sam grabs some paper towels from over the sink, wets a handful and gives them to Patrick. Patrick just stands there, his head hanging down, and squeezing the towels into a sodden lump until Sam huffs and grabs them back, starts wiping at the blood still crusted on Patrick's forehead.
"Sorry," Patrick mumbles. "Hope your pop doesn't hit him too much." He looks as worried as his swollen face will let him.
"My dad's not going to hit him at all! Dad doesn't hit us." Well—not much. "He's sure not going to hit him now." They stand at the back door, and watch Dean talking animatedly to Dad, and Dad's getting more and more pissed off. He's looking bigger and bigger, kind of like a really hacked off grizzly. Finally he shouts, "I said we're done!" and Dean jerks back, his mouth a tight press of anger. They come back to the house, into the kitchen.
"Sit," he barks at Patrick and Patrick goes white as salt and throws himself into a chair. He's cowering, rolling his shoulders in like he's trying to squeeze his six foot frame into a much smaller shape, and apologizing for having Dean and Sam out late, for bleeding in their house, for breathing too loud, just when he gets to the part where he's apologizing for breathing at all, Dad's face crumbles up a little, but when he reaches out to soothe Patrick, he nearly flinches to the ground. "Jesus…kid…"
Dad folds his arms across his chest and steps back, looks Patrick up and down and glances at Dean. "You do this?" and indicates the bandages, the cream—all the attempts to repair the damage.
"Yes sir." Dean lifts his chin. "I checked him over good—he needed a couple of stitches under his chin. I stuck a butterfly on his forehead but he looked…okay, otherwise," Dean finishes with a bitter chuckle, and Dad doesn't say anything. Dad checks Patrick over himself and pronounces him in decent shape—turns to Dean. "Good job," he says. "You're lucky, Dean's good at this," he tells Patrick and Patrick makes a noise meant to be a laugh.
"Oh, yes, lucky…I should go now, sorry…."
"You're staying here. And I'm going out." Dad grabs something out of one of the duffle bags and heads back toward the front door. Dean hurries to catch up. "Nope. You stay here and get these guys settled down."
"Dad—you need to let me come with you. Dad—" Dean says, and goes silent, just lays his hand on Dad's arm. Sam can see he's not holding Dad back, he's asking him with his eyes. Dad sighs, glances at Patrick, who's been real quiet during all this. Patrick doesn’t speak, he just nods and Dad looks tired. "Okay.
A few hours later, Dad and Dean are back home, looking grim. They don’t talk about it, but a few days later, it's all over the neighborhood, Patrick's step-dad's fallen down a flight of stairs and got a little banged up. Sam goes with Patrick when he picks up some clothes from his mom's house.
Sam's doing his early morning stroll of the street, it being garbage day and all. At this point, he's not even looking for a bike anymore, not really. He likes walking the neighborhood as the sun rises. He likes listening to the street wake up. Walking by some houses, he can smell coffee, smell bacon frying…it's hot enough already that some places have their doors open and he catches snatches of conversation, music...he imagines the families in those houses. Sam's not naive, he knows that not being a Winchester doesn't make your life perfect—Patrick and few of Dean's other friends are proof of that but still…he promises himself that one day, he's going to be that guy, the one who wakes up knowing that the worst thing he'll have to face that new day is other people and he gets that other people can be bad, but there was no fucking way they were worse than the stuff that hides in the darkness—no possible way.
He's thinking about that, and thinking about how he was going to manage to fit Dean in his shiny new life when he spots a little round table on the curb and thinks it would look pretty good next to the couch, or maybe in a corner of the bedroom. He props it on his shoulder and walks back towards the house, and that's the end of his musing for the day.
First thing he sees coming up the walk is a strange truck parked in the driveway, next to the Impala. Dad's still home then…someone was visiting? Dad comes from around the back of the truck, wiping his hands on a grease streaked rag—catches sight of Sam and smiles. "Hey son, what ya got there?"
Sam sets the table down and stiffens his back. "A table. For my room." He hears the belligerent note in his voice and Dad sighs. Sam tries not to wince…he doesn't even know why he sounds like that.
"It's a good table," is all Dad says. He runs his hand over the truck fender. "So, what do you think about her, Sammy?" He smiles a little and Sam comes closer, smiles back. Sort of. He looks inside the cab and nods. Clean…rugs and upholstery a little worn, but intact…
"Looks good. This for Dean?" He gazes at Dad and he's kind of surprised that Dad blushes a little—he didn’t think the old man was capable.
"Nah. It's mine." He stops and lets the words sink into Sam's mind.
It takes a second…"Yours? You mean…oh man—Dean's going to lose his mind." He can’t help it—he grins full out at Dad. "Awesome!"
Dad grins back. "Awesome," he echoes.
By the time evening rolls around, it's hotter than hell outside; the breeze teasing the air doesn't do more than lift dust off the dead lawns and fling it around a little. Sam's still outside with Dad when Dean comes strolling up the street, his blue work vest is tucked in the back of his jeans, the sides and back of his red t-shirt streaked black with sweat. He's obviously hot, crabby with the frustration of dealing with clueless customers he's not allowed to knock out, tired from walking. He barely grunts at Sam and Dad, and he walks past them and the truck, casting it a suspicious scowl. Dad waits until Dean's about to walk through the front door before he speaks.
"Dean."
"Sir," he says, and turns to face Dad. Sam knows the look on his face. Dean's quickly scanning all his actions of the past couple of days, trying to search out where he screwed up. He glances at Sam and Sam bites his lip to keep from laughing, earning him a deeper scowl.
Dad tosses him a set of keys. "Thought you'd want to take your vehicle for a drive." Dean looks at the truck, awed and pink-cheeked and not just from the heat now. "Mine?"
Dad shakes his head. "Not that one."
Dean's face falls for a second before smoothing out. "No?"
He's not getting it, Sam knows, and is almost bursting with glee. He knows he looks like he has to pee but he tries to smooth out his face, look as casual and disinterested as Dad does.
"Keys are for that one." Dad points at the Impala, and Dean…screams.
Really. High pitched, girly, the kind of sound usually accompanied by hand-flapping and jumping up and down. Sam closes his eyes in pure and utter joy, the better to savor the moment, to commit it to memory. Dean will never, *ever* live this moment down, not in a million, million years, or at least as long as Sam draws breath. Even Dad looks kind of startled. Dean coughs, he's the brightest red Sam's ever seen him. "Ah, bug, swallowed—must have swallowed a bug." Dad makes a noncommittal noise, but it gets lost when Dean throws his arms around Dad and babbles out his thanks—rushes to the car. Dad laughs.
"You're welcome." Winks at Sam and heads inside. Sam watches Dean for a few minutes…he's smiling, just glowing like the sun. It's nice to see. When he glances up and catches Sam watching him, instead of flipping him off or making some kind of face he just smiles.
Suddenly, there's this something in his throat that makes it hard for Sam to swallow.
part 8
TBC