SpN: Lodi part 12

[roxy]

posting with the cover by taliosi_x because I like it. :)

Title: Lodi part 12
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3027
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey



Lodi




12
He stumbles into the backyard, and freezes, blinking in surprise. He can't believe he made it back so quickly. And there's Dean, staring at him, his eyes wide and mostly all Sam can see is green, green, beautiful sea green...Dean takes a step, takes another, and then suddenly, he's wrapped around Sam, arms around him so tight that for long seconds Sam can’t breathe, and all he can hear is the pounding of his own heart. Then Dean shifts and Sam hears him saying something--feels like he's been saying it a few times.

"Sammy." Hoarse, trembling, lips right against his ear—his breath is warm and it hits Sam like a sledge hammer. Dean. He slides his hands up Dean's arms, automatically reaching for his shoulders and then Dean's pushing him *away* so hard he hits the ground, right on his tail bone and it hurts like a motherfucker. "Ow, sonofabitch! What'dya do that for?"

"Where the *FUCK* have you been? We've been all over looking for you, you little shit!" Dean's so mad, he's so mad he's almost crying.

Sam is not getting this. He's been gone this long before…The whole town isn't big enough to get lost in. "I was at the fucking lake. You couldn't look at the lake?"

"We looked all over there, and in the woods, and in the fields and…" Now it's Patrick shouting at him, looming over him, and Sam's pretty sure he actually has been crying.

"What is wrong with everyone?" He climbs to his feet again, wincing because damn it, his ass really hurts, and he's getting pissed off with everyone. "What the fuck?" he yells, and Pat's head shoots up like he's been shot—his face is screwed up and red and he looks like shit. Patrick is one ugly crier, Sam thinks, and then suddenly his head is wobbling crazily. Patrick's got Sam by his t-shirt, shaking the hell out of him, ripping the shirt. "Hey! Clothes aren't free, you dick—"

"Where have you been? You never leave without telling anyone where you're going!" Patrick's still shaking him like a rag-doll and really, Sam is getting furious. This sucks.

"Fuck you, 'mom,' I'm allowed to have a life too—" okay, all this shaking around? Between the sun all day, and the water, and the walk home and maybe those crappy couple of beers, his stomach decides enough and surprise!--empties itself suddenly and violently. Sam's gasping, bent over, hands on his knees and gaping at his vomit covered shoes. Here he is, stinking of vomit and his gut aching, but that doesn't seem to matter to Patrick, who keeps on--and unfairly so, Sam notes--screaming at him. Like he's two or something. Like he's been a very bad boy. "Stop it, Pat; you're going to make me—" vomit again, yeah, just like that….

Patrick pushes him away, his face even more crumpled up, he yells, "Jerk—jerk, you're such a selfish jerk! You only think about yourself!" Patrick looks like he's going to explode or something, and as Sam struggles to stay upright, it's finally starting to break through the bleary fog dulling his brain, just how upset the guy is….

Dean comes out of nowhere, grabs Patrick's arm and pulls back. He's hanging off of him, calling his name again and again. That's when Sam realizes Patrick was about to clock him and he staggers back, shocked—and starting to get scared. Dean drags Patrick up the porch steps, and hisses at Sam, "Get your stinkin' ass in the shower." He whips around and leads Patrick inside the house and Sam's standing in the backyard, shoes wet and puke gluing his shirt to his chest. His head is pounding, his throat is burning. His skin is freezing, *he's* freezing, from the inside out. His teeth start chattering as he drags himself into the house.

What the fuck just happened?

He does take a shower, not because Dean said so, because he wants to. He's under the hottest water he can stand, and he's still cold, but at least the odd feeling of being too drunk is gone, and by the time the water starts to run somewhat cooler, he's thinking clearly again, and marginally warmer.

When he gets out, he heads toward the kitchen.

Dean's sitting there with a cup of coffee, looking too much like Dad. Sam sits quietly at the table with him, his hands still and flat on the table top. Just sitting. After a minute or two, Dean's hand comes up, tightens into a fist, but he just bounces it, soft and careful, on top of Sam's hand.

"We were really worried, that's all—I was worried. I thought…maybe I've been too hard on you. Maybe…"

"Dean. I would never just *leave*."

Dean nods, but doesn’t say anything, doesn't really meet Sam's eyes. He starts to take his hand away, but Sam grabs it, squeezes…watches Dean's face. When Dean just gives him this tiny, tiny smile, he relaxes—but doesn't let go of his hand. "I *was* at the lake," he says. Dean watches him, nods. "And…I spent the afternoon talking to a ghost."

Dean just closes his eyes. "Fuck, Sammy."

~~~~~~
"So…she thinks she's doing a good thing. I think…she's taking these kids who have no one, and making them part of her family. Or bringing them peace. She was around the water both times I saw her. Maybe she's taking them down into the water?"

Dean nods, wide eyes on Sam. He's milk-white and it takes some effort for him to relax. Sam gets it; he's started to feel chilled again. Like it suddenly hit him, telling Dean what happened, that he could have been one of those vanished kids….

"Okay. Okay." His voice wanders off; he licks his lips…and asks the question that Sam suddenly realizes is the only important one, to Dean. "She. She thought you were—unloved?"

"I was really upset, Dean. Really…but when she touched me, she said I was surrounded by love. Deep love." Sam blushes and looks away from Dean, until curiosity drags his eyes back to his brother, and Dean blinks, his eyes dart around the kitchen, his ears turn red. He grabs one of the Gennys sitting almost forgotten in front of both of them, drinks deep…and then he's all business again.

"Yeah. Okay. She thinks she's saving kids, kids that no one loves." He flips a bottle cap between his fingers and Sam watches the hypnotic movement, Dean's fingers are graceful, clever…."I think I should talk to Dad." Dean leans back, stares at the ceiling like the answer to everything is printed on it, mindlessly flipping the cap and Sam's getting hard watching him, flip, shift, flip, fingers flashing in the light. "Patrick…might come in handy here, y'think?"

Patrick might come in handy…Sam comes back to the everyday world with a jolt, his fist squeezing, sliding up around the neck of the bottle, lost in thought--sweaty, slick, hands and tongue--Sam-sandwich thought. His face flushes hot and red, and he's infinitely thankful there's no such thing as ESP. "Hunh--what?"


And then Dean's words click together like Lego's and make sense—a stupid kinds of sense. What he's hearing can't be what Dean seems to mean. "Are you nuts? How could you--and besides. He doesn't know about this stuff. We're not doing this to him."

Dean sits back and his eyes are everywhere but on Sam. "So we tell him. And then we stop this thing."

"No, we're not telling anyone anything. Besides, you know Dad would kill us both. We leave the civilians out of it." Sam stands so fast he knocks his chair back, pissed off that Dean would even suggest exposing Patrick to this shit. Dean's knocking the bottle cap against the table, jittery and tense, and Sam know he's not as comfortable as his expression says he is about using Patrick as bait.

"What about the kids, hunh, Sam? We're going to be right there. He'll be safe with us. It's not like we haven't done this before. You have, I have—we've both been bait, right? And we can do it on our own, I know we can. C'mon, Sam—it'll be—"

He stops, biting his cheek and Sam leaps into the silence. "You're forgetting one thing, shit-for-brains. She won’t take him. She's after the kids who have no one. He has *us*." He stares at Dean, willing him to see in his eyes what he won’t say out loud, wants Dean to get angry—hurt, he wants it to hurt. He has me.

Dean narrows his eyes, gets that stony look and his eyes look black, like deep water. It scares Sam just as much as it makes him mad and he's never been able to figure out why, or how not to be scared of it…Dean blinks and nods slowly, thoughtfully—says," Well. Let me talk to Dad."

~~~~~~
Dean comes home at lunchtime the next day. He's got an open bag of ketchup flavored chips, hands them off to Sam with a grin. "Lunch," he says and heads into the kitchen. Sam looks down at the chips…asshole. They are his favorite flavor though, even if they are half-eaten….

He wanders out into the kitchen, nonchalantly as possible—Dean's on the phone, makes the shhh sign with his eyes. Must be Dad on the line. He glides over to the fridge, rummages quietly and tries not to make it too obvious that he's eavesdropping. He drinks Kool-aid out an old Gatorade bottle and watches Dean from the corner of his eye as he takes notes, talking low and serious with Dad.

The yellow afternoon light streaming through the window turns the kitchen colors bright and hard-edged, makes crisp, sharp shadows and Sam looks at Dean and gets this weird feeling—he wishes he could make Dean look like this forever. Forever young, not growing to look careworn and ground down like Dad does most times. He squints at his brother, imagining Dean in Dad's place—living for nothing but hunt, and run, and never stopping—Sam's eyes prick and ache. Well, fuck that, he thinks. This Thing that's taken Dad, this Thing that's probably going to take Dean, it's not going to take *him*.

The problem with that plan is that even as he tries to frame his mind around the idea of leaving Dean behind someday, the thought of losing him makes his gut cramp. It's ridiculous and impossible and just not…doable. He shakes his head, and gulps down Kool-aid until he chokes and he's got a reason for red, watery eyes.

"Hey, Sam." Dean hangs up the phone and turns back to the papers on the table, his pendant clicking against the table top when he reaches for a notebook. "That was Dad," he says, ignoring Sam's weak, wanting to be snotty, 'duh'. "He wants us to wait on the ghost thing until he comes home…he wasn't wild about getting Pat involved, but we think he can handle it." He smiles at Sam. "Asked about the car, too." His grin falters. "What's wrong?"

Sam wipes his face. "Nothing. Nothing, I'm going—um—to lie down. Read. Something."

Dean looks a little disappointed. "You don’t want to sit with me?" Before Sam can even respond, the look is gone and he's gathering up the notebook, the notes, and heads for Dad's room. "Fine. Talk to you later."

Sam watches him walk away. Fine.

~~~~~~
A couple of days, a week go by, with no word from Dad yet about what to do about the ghost. Sam's been worrying about her. Not worrying about her hurting people--well yeah, that--but also worrying about *her*. It's sad, and awful, what she's done to herself without knowing. It's awful what she's doing to others. And he knows she needs it--that the right thing to do is put her soul to rest, but it kind of sucks. There's something in her that makes him…like her.

~~~~~~
Dean and Sam are side by side in the kitchen, washing dishes. It's quiet, so quiet, the fan agitating the air sounds loud, unnatural. Under that, Sam can just make out the murmur of the television talking to itself in the living room, maybe Leno, maybe Dave…Dean huffs, and starts speaking. Unlike Sam, he doesn't like the quiet.

Sam lets him run on a bit as he concentrates on the dishes, and sort of free flow thinks…he dunks a mug in the pan of soapy water, rinses it and sets it on the drain-board for Dean. Interrupts Dean's dramatic reenactment of Silence of the Lambs, complete with voices, with a question. "Hey—when's Dad coming home?" Nudges Dean's ankle with his toes when he doesn't answer fast enough. Dean frowns and moves out of toe range, throws Sam a look when he snickers and flexes his toes at him.

"Ha, ha, monkey foot. Dad…well, there's been a little…um. Glitch. The thing is moving. Not supposed to be moving but it is. Maybe Dad spooked it." Dean says that reluctantly because it means some how Dad's screwed up, and in Dean's world, that just doesn't happen.

Sam huffs and hands Dean another wet mug to dry. "Well, that's just great. So fuckin' typical of both of you not to say something to *me*. So now, what? We're stuck here alone and he has no idea when he's coming home--what about money, what about *our* job, we're supposed to just sit tight like good little soldiers or—"

Dean slams the mug back into the dishpan and a wave of soapy water slops over its edge, splashing Sam and the floor. "God—shut up! You're worse than a fucking girl! Bitch, bitch all the mother fucking time—it's like you got permanent PMS, or something."

Sam curses and yanks his soaking t-shirt off—he's wet all down the front of his shorts too and that just seems to piss Dean off more. He throws the dishtowel at Sam's head and stomps out of the kitchen. Sam stares after him, wet, pissed off, and seriously reconsidering any feeling he has for Dean that don’t start with kick and end with his ass. "You fucking misogynistic bastard," he screams after him.

From the open doorway he can hear Dean shout back, "I don’t even know what the fuck that means, you dick!"

"Liar!" Sam yells back, just as Patrick walks in the backdoor.

"Oh crap, did I miss 'Winchester Family Hour'? Darn," he says and walks past Sam, rolling his eyes.

"Hate you too," Sam mutters, kneels to wipe up spilled water.

~~~~~~
He's still pretty much pissed off when Dean comes in early the next morning and wakes him up with a coffee and a couple of donuts. "Here. I filled the coffee full of that girly flavored fake milk and sugar."

Okay, so it's a peace offering of sorts, and really—staying pissed is eating up too much energy and Dean doesn't give a shit about him being mad anyway—so. Sam takes a donut and the coffee because…he's a nice guy, and he's not going to turn his back on Dean when he's sort of trying. And of course, hates himself for rolling over just like that. He shrugs. What ever. The coffee's good.

They're sitting on the porch side by side, drinking their coffees and watching the sun rise bright and yellow. Dean leans closer than he has to, bumps their shoulders and grins at Sam, and Sam…hates the way his pulse speeds up, the way he grins back and just how good it makes him feel. They sit quietly, drinking, when Sam remembers it's trash day…he's about to ask Dean if he wants to walk along with him when Patrick comes strolling around the corner.

"Yo, lazy butts! You're up--finally." Since it's barely six, Sam flips him off…and then notices what he's holding. A bike….well most of a bike. It's a frame, grimy and patchy with rust. There's a seat post with no saddle, and it's missing pedals and the chain looks iffy but…"And here you go." Patrick holds the bike out, like he's giving Sam a puppy or maybe just his heart. "It might look like crap now, but give me a week or two, and this thing's gonna look brand new, promise."

Sam looks at Dean and Dean looks at Sam. "Unh, Pat," Dean says. "Gotta talk to ya, man."

Patrick drops the bike; it bounces once on its rotted tires and falls over. "What—you don’t want the bike now? You're getting him a new one…or. Something's wrong?" he asks Dean.

"No, no…I…me and Sam, we need to talk to you. About us. About…what we do."

Patrick's mouth drops open...his eyes dart from Sam to Dean, and a deep flush floods his cheeks, his neck…all the way to his chest, and Sam watches, fascinated by its progress. "…what…you…do?" Patrick says at last, his voice hoarse, faint….

Sam wonders what the hell is with Patrick, until Patrick meets his eyes and it hits him—oh fuck! No! "What our *family* does—our um, our family business!"

"Family business, hunh?" Dean looks Sam up and down before grinning. "Yeah, I like that. Family business. So, Pat…" he stops and gives Patrick a puzzled look. "Wait, what did you think I meant?"

"Oh, ha! Nothing…so. What? Tell me what you do." Patrick's eyes are bright, inquisitive…and Sam's impressed. He had no idea Patrick was capable of projecting so much earnest bullshit.

In the end, it went a lot better than Sam thought it might, but then, Sam had been expecting total disaster and Patrick running from them screaming, so…over all, not bad. Pat's not running, but he is smirking a lot, obviously thinking Dean's bullshitting him and Sam's in on the game. But Patrick's cool—he pays attention, and promises to protect himself from what he refers to as the ghostie. Dean looks at Sam, and Sam shrugs. Better forewarned than walking in cold. He gets that now, Patrick is his responsibility.

part 13
TBC

Comments

[tanpopo03.livejournal.com]

YAY new chapter! I almost had a heart attack though when my delicious link didn't lead to anything anymore. Like ohmygodshedeletedthestorynoooo. Don't do that to me. ;)

Loved Dean and Pat both freaking out about how long Sam had been gone. And those little tidbits that show us how much Dean wants Sam to spend more time with him - to BE with him. Maybe you should just lock them in a closet for a bit.

I do have a bad feeling about Patrick being bait though... poor kid won't know what hit him.

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

I think I can absolutely guarantee you I won't be deleting the story. :) I'm not sure why folks do that but I really hate when that happens! *g*

Lock them in a closet for a bit...hmmmmm, there's an idea...lol!