SpN: Lodi part 11
3/30/09 06:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Lodi
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: R
Word Count: 2835
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
11
When Dean comes back, he's quiet. Locked up inside himself. Patrick offers to leave and Dean tells him to shut up. Sam just sits at the kitchen table staring into the wood-grain. It's going to get better, because it has to.
There's an uncomfortable silence in the house. Lots of avoiding of each other. Patrick would rather be elsewhere, he tells Sam, but since his mom has told him he probably shouldn't come back home, his options are limited. Sam feels bad about it. He knows that they're to blame, his brother and him, but Patrick tells him it's okay. "I couldn't live there anymore anyway."
Sam starts to hate hearing Patrick say 'it's okay'….
After what feel like the millionth time Dean walks past him without saying a word, Sam decides enough is enough and jumps up into Dean's way. Dean gives him a look and turns to go in the opposite direction. Sam grabs his arm. "Please. Stop it."
Dean looks at the floor, over Sam's shoulder, and finally settles for looking at a point just over his head. "I'm sorry…what I said. And I get it. You don’t need me."
Sam just stares at him, mouth open, eyes wide…"And you call me a princess, you asshole?" Okay, the effect is spoiled a little, Sam thinks, by his damn voice cracking and him actually sounding a little like a princess. Dean stares at him, eyes narrowed and dark--suddenly, the ice thaws. His expression doesn't change but it's there…in his eyes. His lip quirks, and Sam fights not to smile, too. His hand loosens, enough so Dean can shrug it off if he wants to. He doesn't. Sam feels like…like his insides are flying. Dean finally smiles. He covers Sam's hand on his arm with his own, and says fondly, "Whiny little drama queen."
Sam can feel his eyes getting watery but Dean doesn't tease him or comment on it. He just tightens his grip on Sam's hand, before dropping it. "Just…be careful. Be good."
"Dude." Sam draws back, but he's still smiling. "I'll be as good as you were at my age. Promise."
Dean turns bright, bright red, and laughs, kind of. "God," he says and walks away.
Patrick is standing by Dad's bedroom door, hands wrapped up in the hem of his t-shirt, and Sam's wondering if he's going to speak or throw up. Dean stops, his shoulders one tense line—Sam can see muscles jumping and twitching…he can read the desire to hurt in the curve of his arms. Patrick opens his mouth and for a moment nothing comes out and then, he says, "Dean," like someone's cut his throat.
Sam decides if Dean doesn’t say something to Pat, he was going to kick his ass himself, possible concussion or not. Dean holds up one hand, and Patrick closes his mouth, ready to turn away. Dean says, "Pat…if I thought you were trying to hurt him, you'd be dead already." And then he leans close, and says something that makes Patrick's eyes fall closed, and his mouth twitch downwards. He nods. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at Sam like all the world that Dean's not holding up, is on Sam.
~~~~~~
Sam feels this…crawling under his skin. Like tiny talons are scratching at his skin from inside of him, trying to work their way out. It's been this way for days. He's got this incredible need to get out, get away from Patrick and Dean. He feels like he's stuck in the middle between the two, slinking around each other, smiling and smiling and Sam feeling all the time like at any minute he was gonna have to throw himself on the hand grenade….
Sometimes, he wishes they'd fuck each other, then he'd know he had no chance at all, and he could stop thinking about Dean all together. Spread over his bed, alone in the house since both the guys are at work, he can think about that in a completely different way….
Breath heavy in his throat and chest, and he's slowly stroking, feeling heat sliding back and forth over his palm, his dick feels heavy and when he tightens his fingers, he feels pulsing all through him…in his mind, Dean is blowing Patrick and it's unbelievably hot, imaging him sliding his lips back and forth over Patrick's thick dick sends painful bolts of lightning racing through him, bolt after bolt. His hips fly up off the bed, and he whispers to himself, "now now now…" Patrick's hair is wet, clinging to his shoulders, his mouth…he throws his head back and moans, curses, loud and dirty like he never is in reality…Sam tries to imagine himself there, but it keeps slithering away. He can't put himself between them. He tries to imagine himself behind Dean, watching his dick slide in and out of him…it changes, slips around, Dean's fucking him, Patrick…Sam speeds up, tightens his hand. Warm slick joins the slightly sticky, horribly fruit scented stuff Patrick left in the bedroom, and remembering Patrick giving him a hand-job makes his balls tighten—one second from coming, and then DreamDean is groaning in his ear, 'fuck me, I need you to fuck me....'
Sam opens his eyes and groans. His throat is killing him, raw as if he's been strangled, he feels like he came his brains out and he feels like he could sleep for a million years. It's good to be home alone. He wipes up the mess and shoves the tissues under the mattress and mulls over his fantasy. The three of them. Why couldn’t it be that simple?
What the fuck, if the world was that simple, his Dad would be a—an accountant, Dean'd be in college and the worst Sam would have to worry about would be acne, not what to do if the salt lines break.
~~~~~~
He wakes up from a crystal-clear dream in which Dad had been trying to tell him how to make a snow angel, disappointment increasingly darkening his face. In the dream, he'd been on his back, wind-milling uselessly on the snow. The sky had hung low and dark over him, full of boiling clouds…he blushes when he pinpoints himself as the source of pathetic whimpering noises. He forces himself to breathe. Thinks about Dad and what he's doing now, wondering if he's thinking about them, worried about them. Sam snorts. Not effing likely. He bites his lip at the sharp stab he gets in the center of his chest…ignores it.
He's got to get out of the house. Be…away, out of the heat, away from the feeling he's shrinking inside his skin. Away from all of those guys. He sneaks a couple of bottles out of a six pack of Genesee Dean's got shoved behind the milk and OJ and tosses them into a little nylon cooler. The thought of Dean finding his beer gone makes him hesitate for like—a split second. Screw him. Screw Dean and screw himself for wanting Dean to approve of…of anything Sam wants. He bet if Patrick was an eighteen year old *girl*, Dean would be all over him, congratulating him and shit…bastard. A fucking annoying little voice at the back of his mind whispers, it's not so much the guy thing—it's the eighteen, hello, but he stabs it to death and keeps walking.
It doesn't take as long to get to the lake as it had when he went with Patrick, and nowhere near as fun. The sun's dipping and the air's just a little bit cooler by the time he gets there. The lake's perfect, no one around but a couple of kids, looking about middle-school age. He tosses the towel he'd thrown around his neck on the ground--quickly, secretively, tucks a couple of bottles into the water to cool. He jumps in, his breath leaves him in one explosive gasp—cold! But quickly, it becomes a good cold. The water feels great and once past the fact it's a nasty brown color, it's really kind of nice…the water laps his sides as he floats on his back, drifting…and no matter what bullshit Patrick tried to hand him about it being good for you, makes sure he doesn't get any of the brown water in his mouth.
Cedar water, that's why it's brown it won’t hurt you. Yeah, fuck you Patrick, he thinks. This shit isn't getting in his mouth. Sam snorts to himself and kicks his heels….
The kids are screaming, flailing about in the water, showing off for each other. A few older kids are sitting at the shoreline, sibs maybe, from the way they’re watching the young ones, and keeping their eyes out on the road across the field, too. The lake's not exactly a sanctioned swimming spot—just one every body knew about and came to, year after year. It's one of those places that belongs to kids, whether grown-ups like it or not. Sam kicks his heels, swirls his arms a bit to get himself moving, letting the sounds of the kids guide him around the lake. After a while, it sinks in how quiet it's gotten. He flips to his stomach and swims away to the center of the lake. The kids are dots in the field, walking away.
After another slow glide around the lake, he gets out and flops down in the grass. Feels tired and stretched out but in a good way. He spread-eagles in the sun, waiting for his shorts to dry. The bottles join him and before long, he's feeling kind of one with the universe. It feels good, too—between the swimming, the warmth of the sun, the Gennys, he's practically melting into a fantastic, wonderful nothingness. His eyes are shut and his face is turned up to the light and for a few fantastic minutes, he lets it all go, all the training, all the lessons, everything Dad and Dean try to beat into him day after day—for a few minutes, he's just that guy, that average kid he dreams about, laying in the grass, almost sleeping, just being….
A shadow comes between him and the sun and a chill washes over him—he's already rolling away, coming to his feet with his hands fisted and ready, blinking hard.
"Yo, yo, chill out, little man--sorry! It's just…" a small blonde woman with a huge smile and giant brown eyes is…twinkling at him, her laughably tiny hands up to show they're empty. "Wanted to make sure you weren't, like, dead, y'know?" She laughs, and wrinkles spring up in the corners of her eyes. She's entirely friendly looking, broadcasting 'big sister' vibes. Sam relaxes, just a fraction—undines and naiads and nixies were pretty too. Though they tended to dress a little less like Mardi Gras floats—she's gotta be human—anything supernatural wouldn't be caught dead dressed like she is.
Along with chains of glass beads and feathers and bits of things he can't identify, and long dangling earrings that catch the light, she's got an unfinished wreath looped around her neck, a chain of daisies it looks like she's waving into a strand of ivy. "Waiting for my kid, so I figured I'd walk around while I do. We love this lake. You?"
"I'm just swimming—I'm not waiting for anyone," he says for some reason. Her big brown eyes shadow for a moment, her smile dims before coming back full-wattage.
"Yeah? Just having a good time on your own, hunh? That's great. My kid, he's a little like you. He takes off sometimes, says he needs to have some alone-time." She chuckles. "I don’t blame him. He's a strong-willed little guy."
"My dad calls it mule-headed."
She laughs out loud, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard, second only to when Dean laughs, like really laughs, without thinking…she beams at him. "Yeah, I can see that. What does your mom say?"
Sam starts to lie, and suddenly it's all just bursting out of his mouth. "My mom's dead. She died in a fire when I was little. I don't remember her. Just what Dean's told me and that's not much, he was four when she died. He remembers that she was pretty, though, and soft, and that she hugged a lot, and sang songs to him in the tub—something about a baby whale or what--" Sam's just talking a mile a minute to the Mardi Gras float lady, and she's nodding and laughing in all the right places. Her round cheeks and round eyes, her round little face with its pointy little chin makes Sam fall a little in love with her—
"Family." She's saying. "That's what's most important. Family." She plops herself down on the ground and waits for Sam to do the same. "Nothing like screwing it up to let you know how important it is. I had, used to have…pretty bad problems." She stops and Sam gestures to her go on. "I really love my kid, more than any damn thing, but I still had—other things--that were eating up my life. I thought as long as I kept my kid separate from it, it'd all work out, you know? So I made a—like a *box* in my head, put everything to do with my kid in it, separate from the other stuff I was doing and I thought that was how to keep him safe."
Sam thinks he should feel weird about someone who would discuss such an obviously very personal story with a stranger--a kid, at that. Was more than likely a little nuts, but there was something so sad, and *reaching out* about her, so…gentle. "Yeah, I think sometimes my Dean's—my brother's like that. Keeps all his feelings in *this* box over here, and then duty and stuff in *that* box over there, and—yeah, I get it."
She smiles and the smile says 'no you don’t' but it doesn’t make Sam mad like it does when his dad does it.
"You know what the problem with that is? It's like…like…you know how a pearl's made? Like that. There's this sharp, pokey, can't-forget-it thing getting steadily covered over, all the sharp edges that won't let you stop thinking about it get smoother and smoother, until after a while, it doesn’t bother you at all, this box in your head. You don’t feel it anymore and you know you did the right thing, 'cause it's all neat and shiny, even pretty…right up until the day when it all blows up." She grins at him. "And that kind of screws up my little pearl metaphor seeing as how oysters don’t normally explode."
She chuckles and Sam laughs too, at the suddenness with which her tale ends, at the little joke. "So where's your kid now?" he asks and gets the sudden deep feeling that this very nice lady has been waiting for someone who's not ever coming back.
She glances at him and smiles at him, soft, sad, and says, "How about you Sam, who's coming for you? I want to help you. You have no one to love you, so alone—" she reaches out and takes his hand between her two, and for a moment, he's surprised how tiny, how soft they are. The contact feels electric, a warm wave of comfort sweeps over him, but suddenly it fizzles away and now, he's angry. How could she *say* that? He *does* have love.
She drops his ice-cold hand. "Oh, I was wrong--you have so much love around you, so deep—deep as the sea…." She draws in a trembling breath, shakes her head. "Oh Sam. Oh Sam…I'm so sorry. You poor boys."
"What do you mean? Is something…something wrong? Is something wrong with Dean?" He feels his chest clench as the ice moves up his arms and settles there.
She flows to her feet, chiming musically as her various pendants and beads and chains clash together. "I don’t know what you mean, honey. Listen; run along home before it gets dark. I know you're a big strong man, but I'll feel a lot better knowing you're home."
"Okay," he says. "It was nice meeting you. Hope you don't have to wait much longer." He gets to his feet and it's like the world is on roller skates…his stomach flips a time or two, and he can just barely feel the touch of icy fingers on his arm. "M'okay, really, m'fine…" the touch is gone and his feet take him in the general direction of home. He's halfway there before he realizes with a pang he not only left his towel, he also left the bottles on the sand. He hopes that the lady grabs them…God. How stupid was that, to forget the bottles. Now he feels really, really bad. He's also kind of startled that it's so dark—time really passed fast, but then, he had such an interesting afternoon….
part 12
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC
Rating: R
Word Count: 2835
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
11
When Dean comes back, he's quiet. Locked up inside himself. Patrick offers to leave and Dean tells him to shut up. Sam just sits at the kitchen table staring into the wood-grain. It's going to get better, because it has to.
There's an uncomfortable silence in the house. Lots of avoiding of each other. Patrick would rather be elsewhere, he tells Sam, but since his mom has told him he probably shouldn't come back home, his options are limited. Sam feels bad about it. He knows that they're to blame, his brother and him, but Patrick tells him it's okay. "I couldn't live there anymore anyway."
Sam starts to hate hearing Patrick say 'it's okay'….
After what feel like the millionth time Dean walks past him without saying a word, Sam decides enough is enough and jumps up into Dean's way. Dean gives him a look and turns to go in the opposite direction. Sam grabs his arm. "Please. Stop it."
Dean looks at the floor, over Sam's shoulder, and finally settles for looking at a point just over his head. "I'm sorry…what I said. And I get it. You don’t need me."
Sam just stares at him, mouth open, eyes wide…"And you call me a princess, you asshole?" Okay, the effect is spoiled a little, Sam thinks, by his damn voice cracking and him actually sounding a little like a princess. Dean stares at him, eyes narrowed and dark--suddenly, the ice thaws. His expression doesn't change but it's there…in his eyes. His lip quirks, and Sam fights not to smile, too. His hand loosens, enough so Dean can shrug it off if he wants to. He doesn't. Sam feels like…like his insides are flying. Dean finally smiles. He covers Sam's hand on his arm with his own, and says fondly, "Whiny little drama queen."
Sam can feel his eyes getting watery but Dean doesn't tease him or comment on it. He just tightens his grip on Sam's hand, before dropping it. "Just…be careful. Be good."
"Dude." Sam draws back, but he's still smiling. "I'll be as good as you were at my age. Promise."
Dean turns bright, bright red, and laughs, kind of. "God," he says and walks away.
Patrick is standing by Dad's bedroom door, hands wrapped up in the hem of his t-shirt, and Sam's wondering if he's going to speak or throw up. Dean stops, his shoulders one tense line—Sam can see muscles jumping and twitching…he can read the desire to hurt in the curve of his arms. Patrick opens his mouth and for a moment nothing comes out and then, he says, "Dean," like someone's cut his throat.
Sam decides if Dean doesn’t say something to Pat, he was going to kick his ass himself, possible concussion or not. Dean holds up one hand, and Patrick closes his mouth, ready to turn away. Dean says, "Pat…if I thought you were trying to hurt him, you'd be dead already." And then he leans close, and says something that makes Patrick's eyes fall closed, and his mouth twitch downwards. He nods. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at Sam like all the world that Dean's not holding up, is on Sam.
Sam feels this…crawling under his skin. Like tiny talons are scratching at his skin from inside of him, trying to work their way out. It's been this way for days. He's got this incredible need to get out, get away from Patrick and Dean. He feels like he's stuck in the middle between the two, slinking around each other, smiling and smiling and Sam feeling all the time like at any minute he was gonna have to throw himself on the hand grenade….
Sometimes, he wishes they'd fuck each other, then he'd know he had no chance at all, and he could stop thinking about Dean all together. Spread over his bed, alone in the house since both the guys are at work, he can think about that in a completely different way….
Breath heavy in his throat and chest, and he's slowly stroking, feeling heat sliding back and forth over his palm, his dick feels heavy and when he tightens his fingers, he feels pulsing all through him…in his mind, Dean is blowing Patrick and it's unbelievably hot, imaging him sliding his lips back and forth over Patrick's thick dick sends painful bolts of lightning racing through him, bolt after bolt. His hips fly up off the bed, and he whispers to himself, "now now now…" Patrick's hair is wet, clinging to his shoulders, his mouth…he throws his head back and moans, curses, loud and dirty like he never is in reality…Sam tries to imagine himself there, but it keeps slithering away. He can't put himself between them. He tries to imagine himself behind Dean, watching his dick slide in and out of him…it changes, slips around, Dean's fucking him, Patrick…Sam speeds up, tightens his hand. Warm slick joins the slightly sticky, horribly fruit scented stuff Patrick left in the bedroom, and remembering Patrick giving him a hand-job makes his balls tighten—one second from coming, and then DreamDean is groaning in his ear, 'fuck me, I need you to fuck me....'
Sam opens his eyes and groans. His throat is killing him, raw as if he's been strangled, he feels like he came his brains out and he feels like he could sleep for a million years. It's good to be home alone. He wipes up the mess and shoves the tissues under the mattress and mulls over his fantasy. The three of them. Why couldn’t it be that simple?
What the fuck, if the world was that simple, his Dad would be a—an accountant, Dean'd be in college and the worst Sam would have to worry about would be acne, not what to do if the salt lines break.
He wakes up from a crystal-clear dream in which Dad had been trying to tell him how to make a snow angel, disappointment increasingly darkening his face. In the dream, he'd been on his back, wind-milling uselessly on the snow. The sky had hung low and dark over him, full of boiling clouds…he blushes when he pinpoints himself as the source of pathetic whimpering noises. He forces himself to breathe. Thinks about Dad and what he's doing now, wondering if he's thinking about them, worried about them. Sam snorts. Not effing likely. He bites his lip at the sharp stab he gets in the center of his chest…ignores it.
He's got to get out of the house. Be…away, out of the heat, away from the feeling he's shrinking inside his skin. Away from all of those guys. He sneaks a couple of bottles out of a six pack of Genesee Dean's got shoved behind the milk and OJ and tosses them into a little nylon cooler. The thought of Dean finding his beer gone makes him hesitate for like—a split second. Screw him. Screw Dean and screw himself for wanting Dean to approve of…of anything Sam wants. He bet if Patrick was an eighteen year old *girl*, Dean would be all over him, congratulating him and shit…bastard. A fucking annoying little voice at the back of his mind whispers, it's not so much the guy thing—it's the eighteen, hello, but he stabs it to death and keeps walking.
It doesn't take as long to get to the lake as it had when he went with Patrick, and nowhere near as fun. The sun's dipping and the air's just a little bit cooler by the time he gets there. The lake's perfect, no one around but a couple of kids, looking about middle-school age. He tosses the towel he'd thrown around his neck on the ground--quickly, secretively, tucks a couple of bottles into the water to cool. He jumps in, his breath leaves him in one explosive gasp—cold! But quickly, it becomes a good cold. The water feels great and once past the fact it's a nasty brown color, it's really kind of nice…the water laps his sides as he floats on his back, drifting…and no matter what bullshit Patrick tried to hand him about it being good for you, makes sure he doesn't get any of the brown water in his mouth.
Cedar water, that's why it's brown it won’t hurt you. Yeah, fuck you Patrick, he thinks. This shit isn't getting in his mouth. Sam snorts to himself and kicks his heels….
The kids are screaming, flailing about in the water, showing off for each other. A few older kids are sitting at the shoreline, sibs maybe, from the way they’re watching the young ones, and keeping their eyes out on the road across the field, too. The lake's not exactly a sanctioned swimming spot—just one every body knew about and came to, year after year. It's one of those places that belongs to kids, whether grown-ups like it or not. Sam kicks his heels, swirls his arms a bit to get himself moving, letting the sounds of the kids guide him around the lake. After a while, it sinks in how quiet it's gotten. He flips to his stomach and swims away to the center of the lake. The kids are dots in the field, walking away.
After another slow glide around the lake, he gets out and flops down in the grass. Feels tired and stretched out but in a good way. He spread-eagles in the sun, waiting for his shorts to dry. The bottles join him and before long, he's feeling kind of one with the universe. It feels good, too—between the swimming, the warmth of the sun, the Gennys, he's practically melting into a fantastic, wonderful nothingness. His eyes are shut and his face is turned up to the light and for a few fantastic minutes, he lets it all go, all the training, all the lessons, everything Dad and Dean try to beat into him day after day—for a few minutes, he's just that guy, that average kid he dreams about, laying in the grass, almost sleeping, just being….
A shadow comes between him and the sun and a chill washes over him—he's already rolling away, coming to his feet with his hands fisted and ready, blinking hard.
"Yo, yo, chill out, little man--sorry! It's just…" a small blonde woman with a huge smile and giant brown eyes is…twinkling at him, her laughably tiny hands up to show they're empty. "Wanted to make sure you weren't, like, dead, y'know?" She laughs, and wrinkles spring up in the corners of her eyes. She's entirely friendly looking, broadcasting 'big sister' vibes. Sam relaxes, just a fraction—undines and naiads and nixies were pretty too. Though they tended to dress a little less like Mardi Gras floats—she's gotta be human—anything supernatural wouldn't be caught dead dressed like she is.
Along with chains of glass beads and feathers and bits of things he can't identify, and long dangling earrings that catch the light, she's got an unfinished wreath looped around her neck, a chain of daisies it looks like she's waving into a strand of ivy. "Waiting for my kid, so I figured I'd walk around while I do. We love this lake. You?"
"I'm just swimming—I'm not waiting for anyone," he says for some reason. Her big brown eyes shadow for a moment, her smile dims before coming back full-wattage.
"Yeah? Just having a good time on your own, hunh? That's great. My kid, he's a little like you. He takes off sometimes, says he needs to have some alone-time." She chuckles. "I don’t blame him. He's a strong-willed little guy."
"My dad calls it mule-headed."
She laughs out loud, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard, second only to when Dean laughs, like really laughs, without thinking…she beams at him. "Yeah, I can see that. What does your mom say?"
Sam starts to lie, and suddenly it's all just bursting out of his mouth. "My mom's dead. She died in a fire when I was little. I don't remember her. Just what Dean's told me and that's not much, he was four when she died. He remembers that she was pretty, though, and soft, and that she hugged a lot, and sang songs to him in the tub—something about a baby whale or what--" Sam's just talking a mile a minute to the Mardi Gras float lady, and she's nodding and laughing in all the right places. Her round cheeks and round eyes, her round little face with its pointy little chin makes Sam fall a little in love with her—
"Family." She's saying. "That's what's most important. Family." She plops herself down on the ground and waits for Sam to do the same. "Nothing like screwing it up to let you know how important it is. I had, used to have…pretty bad problems." She stops and Sam gestures to her go on. "I really love my kid, more than any damn thing, but I still had—other things--that were eating up my life. I thought as long as I kept my kid separate from it, it'd all work out, you know? So I made a—like a *box* in my head, put everything to do with my kid in it, separate from the other stuff I was doing and I thought that was how to keep him safe."
Sam thinks he should feel weird about someone who would discuss such an obviously very personal story with a stranger--a kid, at that. Was more than likely a little nuts, but there was something so sad, and *reaching out* about her, so…gentle. "Yeah, I think sometimes my Dean's—my brother's like that. Keeps all his feelings in *this* box over here, and then duty and stuff in *that* box over there, and—yeah, I get it."
She smiles and the smile says 'no you don’t' but it doesn’t make Sam mad like it does when his dad does it.
"You know what the problem with that is? It's like…like…you know how a pearl's made? Like that. There's this sharp, pokey, can't-forget-it thing getting steadily covered over, all the sharp edges that won't let you stop thinking about it get smoother and smoother, until after a while, it doesn’t bother you at all, this box in your head. You don’t feel it anymore and you know you did the right thing, 'cause it's all neat and shiny, even pretty…right up until the day when it all blows up." She grins at him. "And that kind of screws up my little pearl metaphor seeing as how oysters don’t normally explode."
She chuckles and Sam laughs too, at the suddenness with which her tale ends, at the little joke. "So where's your kid now?" he asks and gets the sudden deep feeling that this very nice lady has been waiting for someone who's not ever coming back.
She glances at him and smiles at him, soft, sad, and says, "How about you Sam, who's coming for you? I want to help you. You have no one to love you, so alone—" she reaches out and takes his hand between her two, and for a moment, he's surprised how tiny, how soft they are. The contact feels electric, a warm wave of comfort sweeps over him, but suddenly it fizzles away and now, he's angry. How could she *say* that? He *does* have love.
She drops his ice-cold hand. "Oh, I was wrong--you have so much love around you, so deep—deep as the sea…." She draws in a trembling breath, shakes her head. "Oh Sam. Oh Sam…I'm so sorry. You poor boys."
"What do you mean? Is something…something wrong? Is something wrong with Dean?" He feels his chest clench as the ice moves up his arms and settles there.
She flows to her feet, chiming musically as her various pendants and beads and chains clash together. "I don’t know what you mean, honey. Listen; run along home before it gets dark. I know you're a big strong man, but I'll feel a lot better knowing you're home."
"Okay," he says. "It was nice meeting you. Hope you don't have to wait much longer." He gets to his feet and it's like the world is on roller skates…his stomach flips a time or two, and he can just barely feel the touch of icy fingers on his arm. "M'okay, really, m'fine…" the touch is gone and his feet take him in the general direction of home. He's halfway there before he realizes with a pang he not only left his towel, he also left the bottles on the sand. He hopes that the lady grabs them…God. How stupid was that, to forget the bottles. Now he feels really, really bad. He's also kind of startled that it's so dark—time really passed fast, but then, he had such an interesting afternoon….
part 12
TBC
(no subject)
3/30/09 01:33 pm (UTC)Great chapter, Roxy. Poor Sammy, you can really feel all of the chaos swirling around in his poor muddled head right now. I wish the older guys in his life could get themselves together long enough to see just how crazy they're making Sam.
I'm not sure which it is they need more; lots of hugs or some gentle whumpage upside of their heads. :)
(no subject)
3/31/09 02:09 am (UTC)It's kind of hard to decide, lol!!
Sam came pretty darn close, all right. He doesn't realize just what he has in his life because he's too involved with what he thinks he wants. And the older guys in his life are all too busy running away from everything, poor things.