SpN: Lodi part 10
3/23/09 04:56 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: 2062
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
10
Sam's shoving dirty clothes into the avocado washer crowded up in a little room off the kitchen, pretty fucking grateful even after all these months to have it, that and the gold dryer have become his favorite things about the house. The place might still smell like old newspaper and the ghosts of long departed German Shepards, but not having to go to a Laundromat is like Christmas every day—the only drunks they have to worry about are themselves. He measures out detergent, sets the timer and he thinks….
Thinks about the possible 'job' he hasn't really talked to Dean about, about dinner tonight, and about this…thing, this…whatever was between him and Patrick. It's not like it's going anywhere or doing anything. Nothing's changed. Except Patrick smiles a lot more now. And there's the occasional unnecessary touching when they're doing dishes, or washing the car, stuff like that. Maybe giggling at the breakfast table. Maybe when they're sure no one's looking, a few swiped kisses. Because without even having to discuss it, they decide keeping it from Dean is the smart thing to do.
Of course, that kind of complicates things too, because he's not used to lying or hiding from Dean, not like this, and it also makes Patrick hyper aware of himself around Dean, and that means the whole thing really starts to end up being about Dean. Dean, Sam thinks, is like this huge thing standing on the horizon. Blocking out Sam's sun, being Sam's sun. Making him feel guilty every time he looks at him. Dean. He imagines saying it, imagines it coming out of his mouth in a groan—whispering it into his skin. "Dean."
Dean. Who right now, he can *feel* is behind him. Fuck. "Um. Hi?" Dean, who's looking at him like he's a crazy person for talking to himself. Dean watches him shove wet clothes into the dryer for a few seconds before sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looks at Sam like he's got something to say, and he's not quite decided…speak, or not….
"Sam…I…ah, forget it." Dean starts to walk away and Sam slams the dryer door shut and follows him.
"Wait--what was it you wanted?"
"I don’t want anything. I don't want anything." Dean repeats and looks so—something, worried, upset--Sam reaches out and tries to grab Dean's shoulder and Dean pushes him away, like *hard*—hard enough to stagger him.
"Ow! What the fuck? That *hurt*."
Dean turns bright red, looks embarrassed. He makes a big thing about taking a cigarette out, lighting it, exhaling. By the time he's exhaling smoke, he's looking a little calmer. "You. You better be careful. You hear me?"
"Dude, careful of what?" Sam glares at him, rubbing his shoulder, mostly because it makes Dean's nose wrinkle and his eyes go dark, not so much because it hurts, which it doesn't. Too much. "You know where I am all the time. And if you don’t, Patrick does." And now that he's saying it, it seems unfair. He's not some little kid; he shouldn’t have to check in with them all the time. He's a little freaked he's saying that out loud—he braces for another punch, but….
Dean's nose wrinkles some more, and he looks like he's biting into a lemon. He turns away. "Yeah, I know." He glances down at his hand and flips the cigarette though his fingers. "So…found anything new with that kid thing?"
Sam gapes—for Dean, that was the lamest change of subject ever. "No-oo, sorry…I kind of got distracted."
Dean looks at him—into him, and Sam feels his gaze right in the pit of his stomach. "I know," Dean says. "You shouldn't…you can't let stuff sidetrack you, y'know?"
Sam nods. He has no idea what Dean is talking about. It's not like they were decided about whether the missing kids meant a job or not, so far it's just been an idea, one that he'd gotten the impression Dean was humoring him with—as in, 'shut up and leave me alone'.
~~~~~~
Sam's been kicking around the idea about telling Dean what happened at the lake with Patrick and him, but in the end, he decides not to. He's just not sure how to talk to Dean about something so personal and besides, it's not just his decision whether to talk about it or not. He figures he can talk to Dean about his definitely confirmed sexuality, though. He doesn't need to go into detail and it should be easier to do now, simpler now that he's managed to attach himself to someone not his brother. Sam tries not to think about how really fucked up that sounds even in the privacy of his own head.
Dean's sprawled in the lounger, laying in it with his shirt pulled behind his neck, exposing…skin, lots of skin; he's Sam's whole definition of sex… yeah, really, really, fucked up ....
Sam's eyes are tracing the long silvered trail of a scar starting under one nipple and curving around ribs when Dean opens his eyes, locks his gaze on Sam--who freezes. Knows he looks guilty—feels like he's been caught with his fist in the cookie jar. Dean gazes back, his eyes looking a little clouded, maybe still sleepy. He's got a hint of a smile on his lips…Sam sighs with relief when Dean finally drops his gaze. "Som'thn you need, Sam?" Dean asks in a sleep thick voice.
"I need to talk to you."
Dean throws sleep off instantly, sharpens all over and gives Sam a once-over with his eyes that feels like he's using razors to do it. When he sees that Sam's not bleeding or broken, he relaxes before growling, "This better be damn good." Reaches down and grabs his cigarettes from under the lounger, flicks the top of the big, old fashioned Zippo he's scrounged from somewhere. "What is it?" he asks.
Sam opens his mouth, thinks, closes it, opens it, and finally--shrugs. How does he start? What should he—
"What, damn it—I could be sleeping—"
"I'm gay. Pretty sure. Like ninety per cent sure. More. Yeah, I think it's more like—"
Dean's staring at him, the cigarette smoldering unnoticed on his lip, and Sam wonders how it is that the smoke isn't making him squint, because it always makes Sam squint, *and* cough, and isn't it weird that no matter where he sits, and whatever way the wind's blowing, as soon as Dean lights up, the smoke finds him—and not because of his enormous nostrils sucking up all the air like Dean always sa—
"The *fuck* are you talking about—no never mind. You're not gay."
"Yes, I am," Sam says reasonably.
"No you're not."
"Yes," Sam repeats emphatically, "I am." And why the hell is Dean arguing about this? "You think it's okay for Patrick but not for me?" —fuck, fuckfuckfuck. He was pretty sure it was a big damn bad idea to bring Patrick into this.
Dean proves it by surging up off the lounger like he's ready to kill and barely holding himself back—his lips are white from pressing them together. Dean's eyes bore into his. He looks like he's about to take a shot at Sam. It's worse than yelling when Dean speaks again, so hoarse, so…flat, emotionless. "Patrick? Did he touch you, is that why you think—I'm going to kill him."
"No, Dean! It wasn't Patrick. I knew way before he--Patrick had nothing to do with it."
Dean talks right past him, ignoring him. "That day at the lake right? I knew it, you were acting funny, I knew something was wrong—I'm supposed to take care of you, make sure you're safe—"
And Sam just kept replaying Dean's words in his head. Dean noticed? He noticed something was different? He watched Sam like that, enough to tell…Sam shivered.
"Where is he? Did he hurt you? Make you do stuff?"
"No, you fuckbrain! You're not the only one trained to defend himself. He did what I wanted him to do—hell, we barely did anything." Sam wishes he could hit something, scream—hates the whine he hears in his voice. Hates that he said a hell of a lot more than he fucking wanted to.
Dean's face twists in disgust. "I don’t want to know this. God." He throws the cigarette down and grinds it out, viciously. "God."
"You don't know anything. Patrick…is a good person. He cares about me. Looks after me—he takes care of me—" and that, Sam thinks, was probably the stupidest thing he could possibly have said to *Dean*, the worst thing….
There's a look on Dean's face that hurts like a slap. He looks like Sam's stabbed him—fuck, he looks like his heart's torn out. And then, anger rushes in to fill all the empty parts of Dean's expression, good solid anger—thick, and practically steaming, so hot Sam felt blistered—"Take care of you? Take care? What the fuck—he shows you some attention and you're on your knees with your mouth open? Is that it? Is that what it takes? Tell me!"
Sam's knees won’t lock up; his legs aren't going to hold him. He stares at this stranger, his brother. "Dean?" The way Dean's looking at him, like he's shit. Sam doesn't get it--he really thought Dean wouldn't care. His arms drift up to cross over his chest, he's really cold….
The screen door creaks as Patrick flings it open, startling the both of them. "Oh, there you are," he smiles, and looks confused—for a half second. Patrick's had an instinct beat into him. When Dean lifts his head and stares at him, Patrick's already moving into a defensive position, his eyes locked on Dean's. Instinct's telling him that dropping his eyes right now will probably get him killed.
Dean's had better training than Patrick, though. Faster, harder, a killer by training….
Dean's standing over him, his knuckles bleeding from impact with Patrick's teeth. "You fucking pervert, you sick-ass mother-fucker—he's a kid!" Dean raves on, ignoring Patrick shouting at him, trying to explain, and Sam's hanging from Dean's raised arm, slamming into his side when his brother wants to kick Patrick.
Pat's up, furious, tears pouring down his face, and Sam knows they're tears of I want to beat your fucking ass, but Patrick loves Dean too, and it's obvious his heart is shattering, he loves Dean and Sam loves Dean. And Dean hates them both right now. He storms into the house, and a few minutes later, they hear the impala roar away.
Patrick scrubs his face, smearing blood from his swollen lip all over his chin, his cheeks. "You told him? Why in the hell did you do that? Where you…trying to make him jealous?"
Sam feels like throwing up. "NO!" No. No way, that's not the reason and it sounds lame even to himself. "That wasn't…I just wanted him to know, about me being gay and then. And then shit blew up."
Patrick laughs, and Sam winces. He spits a scary amount of blood onto the dead lawn and looks at Sam. Stares really, just…stares. "How the fuck are you sure, Sam? Dean's right—you're a kid, just barely…just."
Sam looks at Patrick like he has two heads. "Do you think…think you're that hot? Come on."
Patrick does a double take, startled into laughing, a real laugh this time. "Okay, so maybe not… but I wasn't sure at your age. Not so sure now…"
Sam sighs. "Oh, I'm sure all right. Pretty damn sure. I didn’t say anything…much, Patrick. He just assumed all kinds of stuff. And then there you were." and he was mad, shit, so mad.
Patrick loops his arm around Sam's neck, it's warm and feels good, and in spite of the heat, Sam's shivering, feels cold right down to his bones. He pulls him in until their heads are tipped together, touching. "It's okay," he says but he looks worried. "He was mad, hunh?" That's all Patrick says. He rubs up high between Sam's shoulders, scratches soft at where the hair's curling at the back of Sam's neck. He sighs and goes inside the house, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts.
part 11
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2062
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
10
Sam's shoving dirty clothes into the avocado washer crowded up in a little room off the kitchen, pretty fucking grateful even after all these months to have it, that and the gold dryer have become his favorite things about the house. The place might still smell like old newspaper and the ghosts of long departed German Shepards, but not having to go to a Laundromat is like Christmas every day—the only drunks they have to worry about are themselves. He measures out detergent, sets the timer and he thinks….
Thinks about the possible 'job' he hasn't really talked to Dean about, about dinner tonight, and about this…thing, this…whatever was between him and Patrick. It's not like it's going anywhere or doing anything. Nothing's changed. Except Patrick smiles a lot more now. And there's the occasional unnecessary touching when they're doing dishes, or washing the car, stuff like that. Maybe giggling at the breakfast table. Maybe when they're sure no one's looking, a few swiped kisses. Because without even having to discuss it, they decide keeping it from Dean is the smart thing to do.
Of course, that kind of complicates things too, because he's not used to lying or hiding from Dean, not like this, and it also makes Patrick hyper aware of himself around Dean, and that means the whole thing really starts to end up being about Dean. Dean, Sam thinks, is like this huge thing standing on the horizon. Blocking out Sam's sun, being Sam's sun. Making him feel guilty every time he looks at him. Dean. He imagines saying it, imagines it coming out of his mouth in a groan—whispering it into his skin. "Dean."
Dean. Who right now, he can *feel* is behind him. Fuck. "Um. Hi?" Dean, who's looking at him like he's a crazy person for talking to himself. Dean watches him shove wet clothes into the dryer for a few seconds before sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looks at Sam like he's got something to say, and he's not quite decided…speak, or not….
"Sam…I…ah, forget it." Dean starts to walk away and Sam slams the dryer door shut and follows him.
"Wait--what was it you wanted?"
"I don’t want anything. I don't want anything." Dean repeats and looks so—something, worried, upset--Sam reaches out and tries to grab Dean's shoulder and Dean pushes him away, like *hard*—hard enough to stagger him.
"Ow! What the fuck? That *hurt*."
Dean turns bright red, looks embarrassed. He makes a big thing about taking a cigarette out, lighting it, exhaling. By the time he's exhaling smoke, he's looking a little calmer. "You. You better be careful. You hear me?"
"Dude, careful of what?" Sam glares at him, rubbing his shoulder, mostly because it makes Dean's nose wrinkle and his eyes go dark, not so much because it hurts, which it doesn't. Too much. "You know where I am all the time. And if you don’t, Patrick does." And now that he's saying it, it seems unfair. He's not some little kid; he shouldn’t have to check in with them all the time. He's a little freaked he's saying that out loud—he braces for another punch, but….
Dean's nose wrinkles some more, and he looks like he's biting into a lemon. He turns away. "Yeah, I know." He glances down at his hand and flips the cigarette though his fingers. "So…found anything new with that kid thing?"
Sam gapes—for Dean, that was the lamest change of subject ever. "No-oo, sorry…I kind of got distracted."
Dean looks at him—into him, and Sam feels his gaze right in the pit of his stomach. "I know," Dean says. "You shouldn't…you can't let stuff sidetrack you, y'know?"
Sam nods. He has no idea what Dean is talking about. It's not like they were decided about whether the missing kids meant a job or not, so far it's just been an idea, one that he'd gotten the impression Dean was humoring him with—as in, 'shut up and leave me alone'.
Sam's been kicking around the idea about telling Dean what happened at the lake with Patrick and him, but in the end, he decides not to. He's just not sure how to talk to Dean about something so personal and besides, it's not just his decision whether to talk about it or not. He figures he can talk to Dean about his definitely confirmed sexuality, though. He doesn't need to go into detail and it should be easier to do now, simpler now that he's managed to attach himself to someone not his brother. Sam tries not to think about how really fucked up that sounds even in the privacy of his own head.
Dean's sprawled in the lounger, laying in it with his shirt pulled behind his neck, exposing…skin, lots of skin; he's Sam's whole definition of sex… yeah, really, really, fucked up ....
Sam's eyes are tracing the long silvered trail of a scar starting under one nipple and curving around ribs when Dean opens his eyes, locks his gaze on Sam--who freezes. Knows he looks guilty—feels like he's been caught with his fist in the cookie jar. Dean gazes back, his eyes looking a little clouded, maybe still sleepy. He's got a hint of a smile on his lips…Sam sighs with relief when Dean finally drops his gaze. "Som'thn you need, Sam?" Dean asks in a sleep thick voice.
"I need to talk to you."
Dean throws sleep off instantly, sharpens all over and gives Sam a once-over with his eyes that feels like he's using razors to do it. When he sees that Sam's not bleeding or broken, he relaxes before growling, "This better be damn good." Reaches down and grabs his cigarettes from under the lounger, flicks the top of the big, old fashioned Zippo he's scrounged from somewhere. "What is it?" he asks.
Sam opens his mouth, thinks, closes it, opens it, and finally--shrugs. How does he start? What should he—
"What, damn it—I could be sleeping—"
"I'm gay. Pretty sure. Like ninety per cent sure. More. Yeah, I think it's more like—"
Dean's staring at him, the cigarette smoldering unnoticed on his lip, and Sam wonders how it is that the smoke isn't making him squint, because it always makes Sam squint, *and* cough, and isn't it weird that no matter where he sits, and whatever way the wind's blowing, as soon as Dean lights up, the smoke finds him—and not because of his enormous nostrils sucking up all the air like Dean always sa—
"The *fuck* are you talking about—no never mind. You're not gay."
"Yes, I am," Sam says reasonably.
"No you're not."
"Yes," Sam repeats emphatically, "I am." And why the hell is Dean arguing about this? "You think it's okay for Patrick but not for me?" —fuck, fuckfuckfuck. He was pretty sure it was a big damn bad idea to bring Patrick into this.
Dean proves it by surging up off the lounger like he's ready to kill and barely holding himself back—his lips are white from pressing them together. Dean's eyes bore into his. He looks like he's about to take a shot at Sam. It's worse than yelling when Dean speaks again, so hoarse, so…flat, emotionless. "Patrick? Did he touch you, is that why you think—I'm going to kill him."
"No, Dean! It wasn't Patrick. I knew way before he--Patrick had nothing to do with it."
Dean talks right past him, ignoring him. "That day at the lake right? I knew it, you were acting funny, I knew something was wrong—I'm supposed to take care of you, make sure you're safe—"
And Sam just kept replaying Dean's words in his head. Dean noticed? He noticed something was different? He watched Sam like that, enough to tell…Sam shivered.
"Where is he? Did he hurt you? Make you do stuff?"
"No, you fuckbrain! You're not the only one trained to defend himself. He did what I wanted him to do—hell, we barely did anything." Sam wishes he could hit something, scream—hates the whine he hears in his voice. Hates that he said a hell of a lot more than he fucking wanted to.
Dean's face twists in disgust. "I don’t want to know this. God." He throws the cigarette down and grinds it out, viciously. "God."
"You don't know anything. Patrick…is a good person. He cares about me. Looks after me—he takes care of me—" and that, Sam thinks, was probably the stupidest thing he could possibly have said to *Dean*, the worst thing….
There's a look on Dean's face that hurts like a slap. He looks like Sam's stabbed him—fuck, he looks like his heart's torn out. And then, anger rushes in to fill all the empty parts of Dean's expression, good solid anger—thick, and practically steaming, so hot Sam felt blistered—"Take care of you? Take care? What the fuck—he shows you some attention and you're on your knees with your mouth open? Is that it? Is that what it takes? Tell me!"
Sam's knees won’t lock up; his legs aren't going to hold him. He stares at this stranger, his brother. "Dean?" The way Dean's looking at him, like he's shit. Sam doesn't get it--he really thought Dean wouldn't care. His arms drift up to cross over his chest, he's really cold….
The screen door creaks as Patrick flings it open, startling the both of them. "Oh, there you are," he smiles, and looks confused—for a half second. Patrick's had an instinct beat into him. When Dean lifts his head and stares at him, Patrick's already moving into a defensive position, his eyes locked on Dean's. Instinct's telling him that dropping his eyes right now will probably get him killed.
Dean's had better training than Patrick, though. Faster, harder, a killer by training….
Dean's standing over him, his knuckles bleeding from impact with Patrick's teeth. "You fucking pervert, you sick-ass mother-fucker—he's a kid!" Dean raves on, ignoring Patrick shouting at him, trying to explain, and Sam's hanging from Dean's raised arm, slamming into his side when his brother wants to kick Patrick.
Pat's up, furious, tears pouring down his face, and Sam knows they're tears of I want to beat your fucking ass, but Patrick loves Dean too, and it's obvious his heart is shattering, he loves Dean and Sam loves Dean. And Dean hates them both right now. He storms into the house, and a few minutes later, they hear the impala roar away.
Patrick scrubs his face, smearing blood from his swollen lip all over his chin, his cheeks. "You told him? Why in the hell did you do that? Where you…trying to make him jealous?"
Sam feels like throwing up. "NO!" No. No way, that's not the reason and it sounds lame even to himself. "That wasn't…I just wanted him to know, about me being gay and then. And then shit blew up."
Patrick laughs, and Sam winces. He spits a scary amount of blood onto the dead lawn and looks at Sam. Stares really, just…stares. "How the fuck are you sure, Sam? Dean's right—you're a kid, just barely…just."
Sam looks at Patrick like he has two heads. "Do you think…think you're that hot? Come on."
Patrick does a double take, startled into laughing, a real laugh this time. "Okay, so maybe not… but I wasn't sure at your age. Not so sure now…"
Sam sighs. "Oh, I'm sure all right. Pretty damn sure. I didn’t say anything…much, Patrick. He just assumed all kinds of stuff. And then there you were." and he was mad, shit, so mad.
Patrick loops his arm around Sam's neck, it's warm and feels good, and in spite of the heat, Sam's shivering, feels cold right down to his bones. He pulls him in until their heads are tipped together, touching. "It's okay," he says but he looks worried. "He was mad, hunh?" That's all Patrick says. He rubs up high between Sam's shoulders, scratches soft at where the hair's curling at the back of Sam's neck. He sighs and goes inside the house, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts.
part 11
TBC
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4/7/09 12:07 am (UTC)