SpN fic post: Lodi part 8
3/17/09 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Lodi
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: PG-13...R-ish?
Word Count: 1219
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
Later on that evening Dean and Dad spend a long time in the driveway, talking in low voices and glancing towards the house. Sam grits his teeth. Admits to himself that he sort of can't wait for Dad to leave, and he's not going to feel bad about wanting that, either. He came, he helped, he even made Dean smile, and Sam's damn grateful and now, he wants him to leave so he can have Dean back, like it should be. Sam's really shit at pretending he doesn't care, so Patrick takes him by the hand and pulls him into the back yard. He sits him on the lounger and stares at him with those eyes, full of—of—puppies and kittens, and Sam wants to smack him. He's waiting for Patrick to drone on and on about having patience and 'appreciate your dad a little more' and 'don't let this Dean thing eat you up'. But what he does is kiss him. It's nice, just as nice as the other day, and then suddenly, nice doesn’t begin to describe what it feels like. When Patrick pulls away, his lips are wet and tingling, he's sighing, and when Patrick finally lets go of him, his dick is throbbing.
Patrick strokes Sam's hair, the back of his neck, holds Sam's head against his collarbone, the ends of his hair tickle Sam's nose. He whispers "Your dad and Dean have a different relationship—not more, just different. He doesn't get you, but not 'cause he doesn't try. It is mostly you, Sam., you won't let him. Because of what you're feeling…."
Sam gets really fucking annoyed. First of all, Patrick doesn’t know shit about them and also, why can't Patrick just let that—*that* what they talked about go? Why does he have to ruin everything? There's a noise, the sound of a screen door slamming and they leap apart. No one is there, and then a second later Dean comes out smiling, holding car keys.
"Hey, Pat, feel like taking a ride?" The smirk on Dean's face slides into an expression of awed wonder—"Man, I still can't believe he gave it to me."
Sam gets to watch the tail lights recede after he's told to 'be good' and the lounger ends up at the end of the yard sporting a few new dents and Dad's yelling out the back door to "knock it the hell off, what's wrong with you?" and Sam wants to know too. He scrubs at his face, smearing wet over his cheeks and hands. What *is* wrong with him? Why can't he stop feeling like this?
~~~~~~
Sitting in Dean's bed, his sheets pressed against his nose so that every warm breath he takes in gets filled with Dean's smell, Sam's thinking. Has been thinking. He was so pissed off at Dean, and a little at Patrick for taking off with him, it takes him a while to realize that Patrick had kissed him. Not like the last time, when Pat just let Sam kiss him. Sam was—is--a little stunned by the kiss. That and he'd been so turned on, he'd felt a little nauseous. Was that normal? And what does the kiss mean, exactly? He's thinking about it so hard, he almost doesn't hear Dad knock on the door frame and ask if he can come in. Sam shrugs. What—he's going to say no?
"So…I'm heading out, son. I'll be gone for a little longer this time."
"We'll be fine." We're not babies.
"I know you'll be fine. I just wanted to let you know it's going to be a while." He steps closer to the bed and lays his hand real careful over Sam's sheet draped foot. "Hey. I love you, you know that right?"
Sam drops his head so his bangs cover his eyes. Nods.
"Okay," Dad says, pats his foot before moving away. "Okay, so, I'll see you in a couple of weeks."
A couple of weeks lands them in July. Sam nods again. "We'll be fine, sir," he says and Dad sighs under his breath.
"Yeah." He walks back out and closes the door and Sam sobs a time or two before wrestling himself under control. Hates himself for crying, hates that he's not really sure why he's crying.
~~~~~~
Morning comes, and he's been up for hours before he hears the bathroom door slamming, the toilet flushing….
Dean comes strolling in the bedroom, rolling the pink A-shirt he's wearing up over his stomach, scratching and yawning. The t-shirt was white last week—it's pink now because Dean doesn’t know anything about separating white clothes from colors…he does now. He's noisily chewing on a PBJ sandwich. If that's his breakfast, Patrick must be at work. Sam's crouched on the edge of his desk chair, eyes glued to the laptop. He glances quickly at Dean and away. He notices that the boxers Dean's wearing look like a pair of Dad's, too big. That there's a tear in the A-shirt and the pink is uneven. That Dean's freckles are darker, and his hair's gone lighter, probably from working in the sun…doesn't notice anything else at all.
"What's up, Mary Agnes. Whatcha doin'?"
"Screw you, Stimpy. Nothing, just effing around. This missing kid thing…it's been on my mind." Dean strolls over and leans on Sam, dribbling crumbs all over his shoulder. He reads what's on the screen, his eyes flitting rapidly back and forth.
"Hunh. I don't know…it's sort of not a big deal. I mean, kids take off. Specially kids around this neighborhood. This is one of the crappier places we've ever been, you know?"
Sam nods. He did know. Hell, they'd spent weeks in a motel that rented the rooms around them by the hour and it was still better than here. The people around here had even less hope than the hookers at that hotel. Here, they bled out kids' lives like they were worthless. It was sad, in a chills-down-your-back way. Like when he'd catch Patrick staring across the yard at nothing, just staring….
"Are you working on pinpointing the area they go missing?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Well, duh. It's not like I'm some ignorant kid—"
Dean loops his arm around Sam's neck and pulls up until Sam's cursing and coughing, his fingers scrabbling against the desk, and Dean is snickering.
"You *are* a kid," he says, lips a half inch away from Sam's ear and his voice so low, Sam feels it in his chest. "Fourteen doesn’t make you grown. No matter how fucking tall you get, you're still a snot nosed brat. Always will be." Dean suddenly drops him back in the chair and ruffles his hair hard enough to make Sam's scalp feel like it's burning. "Let me know if anything you find makes sense."
He strolls out of the room, and Sam's left shaking in the chair, pressing down on the tented front of his pajama bottoms, breathing fast.
"FUCK." He tilts his head back, shoves his hand under the waistband and squeezing his dick a few times, comes. He gets up, cursing that his legs are as shaky as a foal's. He manages to strip off the pants, wet with thick fluid, without falling down, and tosses them under the bed. Fucking Dean, he hates him so fucking much.
part 9
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: PG-13...R-ish?
Word Count: 1219
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
Later on that evening Dean and Dad spend a long time in the driveway, talking in low voices and glancing towards the house. Sam grits his teeth. Admits to himself that he sort of can't wait for Dad to leave, and he's not going to feel bad about wanting that, either. He came, he helped, he even made Dean smile, and Sam's damn grateful and now, he wants him to leave so he can have Dean back, like it should be. Sam's really shit at pretending he doesn't care, so Patrick takes him by the hand and pulls him into the back yard. He sits him on the lounger and stares at him with those eyes, full of—of—puppies and kittens, and Sam wants to smack him. He's waiting for Patrick to drone on and on about having patience and 'appreciate your dad a little more' and 'don't let this Dean thing eat you up'. But what he does is kiss him. It's nice, just as nice as the other day, and then suddenly, nice doesn’t begin to describe what it feels like. When Patrick pulls away, his lips are wet and tingling, he's sighing, and when Patrick finally lets go of him, his dick is throbbing.
Patrick strokes Sam's hair, the back of his neck, holds Sam's head against his collarbone, the ends of his hair tickle Sam's nose. He whispers "Your dad and Dean have a different relationship—not more, just different. He doesn't get you, but not 'cause he doesn't try. It is mostly you, Sam., you won't let him. Because of what you're feeling…."
Sam gets really fucking annoyed. First of all, Patrick doesn’t know shit about them and also, why can't Patrick just let that—*that* what they talked about go? Why does he have to ruin everything? There's a noise, the sound of a screen door slamming and they leap apart. No one is there, and then a second later Dean comes out smiling, holding car keys.
"Hey, Pat, feel like taking a ride?" The smirk on Dean's face slides into an expression of awed wonder—"Man, I still can't believe he gave it to me."
Sam gets to watch the tail lights recede after he's told to 'be good' and the lounger ends up at the end of the yard sporting a few new dents and Dad's yelling out the back door to "knock it the hell off, what's wrong with you?" and Sam wants to know too. He scrubs at his face, smearing wet over his cheeks and hands. What *is* wrong with him? Why can't he stop feeling like this?
Sitting in Dean's bed, his sheets pressed against his nose so that every warm breath he takes in gets filled with Dean's smell, Sam's thinking. Has been thinking. He was so pissed off at Dean, and a little at Patrick for taking off with him, it takes him a while to realize that Patrick had kissed him. Not like the last time, when Pat just let Sam kiss him. Sam was—is--a little stunned by the kiss. That and he'd been so turned on, he'd felt a little nauseous. Was that normal? And what does the kiss mean, exactly? He's thinking about it so hard, he almost doesn't hear Dad knock on the door frame and ask if he can come in. Sam shrugs. What—he's going to say no?
"So…I'm heading out, son. I'll be gone for a little longer this time."
"We'll be fine." We're not babies.
"I know you'll be fine. I just wanted to let you know it's going to be a while." He steps closer to the bed and lays his hand real careful over Sam's sheet draped foot. "Hey. I love you, you know that right?"
Sam drops his head so his bangs cover his eyes. Nods.
"Okay," Dad says, pats his foot before moving away. "Okay, so, I'll see you in a couple of weeks."
A couple of weeks lands them in July. Sam nods again. "We'll be fine, sir," he says and Dad sighs under his breath.
"Yeah." He walks back out and closes the door and Sam sobs a time or two before wrestling himself under control. Hates himself for crying, hates that he's not really sure why he's crying.
Morning comes, and he's been up for hours before he hears the bathroom door slamming, the toilet flushing….
Dean comes strolling in the bedroom, rolling the pink A-shirt he's wearing up over his stomach, scratching and yawning. The t-shirt was white last week—it's pink now because Dean doesn’t know anything about separating white clothes from colors…he does now. He's noisily chewing on a PBJ sandwich. If that's his breakfast, Patrick must be at work. Sam's crouched on the edge of his desk chair, eyes glued to the laptop. He glances quickly at Dean and away. He notices that the boxers Dean's wearing look like a pair of Dad's, too big. That there's a tear in the A-shirt and the pink is uneven. That Dean's freckles are darker, and his hair's gone lighter, probably from working in the sun…doesn't notice anything else at all.
"What's up, Mary Agnes. Whatcha doin'?"
"Screw you, Stimpy. Nothing, just effing around. This missing kid thing…it's been on my mind." Dean strolls over and leans on Sam, dribbling crumbs all over his shoulder. He reads what's on the screen, his eyes flitting rapidly back and forth.
"Hunh. I don't know…it's sort of not a big deal. I mean, kids take off. Specially kids around this neighborhood. This is one of the crappier places we've ever been, you know?"
Sam nods. He did know. Hell, they'd spent weeks in a motel that rented the rooms around them by the hour and it was still better than here. The people around here had even less hope than the hookers at that hotel. Here, they bled out kids' lives like they were worthless. It was sad, in a chills-down-your-back way. Like when he'd catch Patrick staring across the yard at nothing, just staring….
"Are you working on pinpointing the area they go missing?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Well, duh. It's not like I'm some ignorant kid—"
Dean loops his arm around Sam's neck and pulls up until Sam's cursing and coughing, his fingers scrabbling against the desk, and Dean is snickering.
"You *are* a kid," he says, lips a half inch away from Sam's ear and his voice so low, Sam feels it in his chest. "Fourteen doesn’t make you grown. No matter how fucking tall you get, you're still a snot nosed brat. Always will be." Dean suddenly drops him back in the chair and ruffles his hair hard enough to make Sam's scalp feel like it's burning. "Let me know if anything you find makes sense."
He strolls out of the room, and Sam's left shaking in the chair, pressing down on the tented front of his pajama bottoms, breathing fast.
"FUCK." He tilts his head back, shoves his hand under the waistband and squeezing his dick a few times, comes. He gets up, cursing that his legs are as shaky as a foal's. He manages to strip off the pants, wet with thick fluid, without falling down, and tosses them under the bed. Fucking Dean, he hates him so fucking much.
part 9
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
3/19/09 03:07 am (UTC)