SpN: Lodi part 14/A
4/16/09 03:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Lodi part 14 part A
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3582
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
Well! There was a lot of talking and a lot of porn, so to save y'all eyestrain, I broke chapter 14 into two parts...also my sneaky way of keeping this to 15 chapters. *does victory arms* Enough about me, (hah! I know! as if!) on to the story—marshmallows, anyone?
14
Sam's leaning against the sink, eating handfuls of cereal out of the box, when Dean comes stumbling in.
"Hey, Billy Sue Bob, what're you doing up?" He's peering out of one sleep-puffy eye, and Sam's pretty sure those are his underwear Dean's wearing, and he's rubbing at his face so hard, Sam snickers, if he keeps that up, Dean's going to rub his nose right off. Sam stuffs his cheeks with Corn Pops and waits for Dean to really wake up. Waits for the freaking to start.
Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. He digs his fingers in his ears and says, "Ew. Don't smack when you chew."
Surprise makes him stop chewing all together. He's standing there with his mouth open, he probably looks like a guppy but—seriously, Dean's reaction isn't quite what Sam's been expecting—hell, a fucking *lack* of reaction is definitely not what he expected. But, y'know. Good. Good. Dean'll just play this whole thing off and act like nothing happened about ten times last night....
But then because sometimes he's so fucking stupid, stupid shit falls out of his mouth. "How long? How long did you know?"
Dean hesitates, blinks hard. Shocks the fuck out of Sam by smiling--by knowing just what Sam means. "Always?" he kind of laughs and then, "Eh. Since you gave me that Mother's Day card," he says. He pulls open the fridge and grabs the milk, tips the carton to his mouth. He drinks, watching Sam from the corner of his eye. Sam thinks it's…fucking surreal. Okay. He can do it Dean's way.
"Fuck you. I was five," Sam snorts. "I didn’t know you couldn't be my mom." His grin loses some light. "It's just…you kinda were. You were always there. You made my lunch and kissed boo-boos and gave me bedtime stories, tucked me in, and…fuck, you loved me. And then—suddenly I was invisible."
"Dude, shit." Dean drops the carton on the counter, looks away. "I was *twelve*. Twelve, you start…feeling things different. You change. You start figuring stuff out...." He shrugs, like it's so fucking plain he doesn't need to speak.
"Yeah, well, I was eight, thought you hated me. I couldn't figure out what I did wrong."
"Always blaming yourself, Sammy." Dean rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I couldn't hate you ever, idiot." Sam sidles over and leans into Dean's side. It feels good when Dean throws his arm around him. "If I lost you…it'd kill me."
A shiver racks him. He pulls away so he can look into Dean's face.….
Dean punches him. "What? Stupid. I just mean like…ah, you know what I mean."
Sam grins, and wraps himself around Dean. "Yeah. Me too."
~~~~~~
Sam's cradling his chin in his palm, elbow on his desk; he's been staring at the screen for what seems like forever. There are bits of paper all over, with cryptic little notes scrawled on. He's in his own private world at the moment. There's a plate holding a dried out bologna sandwich next to his elbow, there's a coffee cup with a series of rings laddering up the inside and a pool of oily coffee sludge at the bottom…he's been there a while. He picks through the cups and bottles dotting the surface of his desk. Miraculously, one of the bottles is still somewhat cool, he grabs whatever it is and gulps. He uses the tee shirt he's yanked off and dropped on the floor to wipe his mouth. Seriously—he needs a fan. Maybe he can talk Dean into buying one for this room since dad's going to be home soon and then, no air-conditioned bedroom for Dean-o either.
There's a quick tattoo of knocks at the room's door, and Dean strolls in, letting in a blast of game show and the sound of the washer walking the laundry room floor. Sam blinks. He's been working so long, he's kind of forgotten about everyone else.
"Hey." Dean hooks his chin on Sam's shoulder and goose-bumps race over his skin. Dean's always been pretty casual about getting in Sam's personal space, only now…it feels different. And just as he's thinking that, Dean rests his nose against the back of Sam's neck, inhales. "How's it going—damn. You're disgusting. Look at this desk."
"Can't help it. Patrick keeps bringing me stuff, and I keep forgetting to eat it," Sam shrugs.
"Forget to eat?" Dean says, somewhat horrified. "How the fuck do you forget to eat?" Dean mutters, and picks through the pile around Sam's laptop, searching for something edible. Sam huffs, tries not to grin at the small grunt of satisfaction Dean makes when he finds a peanut butter sandwich that hasn't gotten crunchy at the edges. "So. Progress?" He crams the sandwich in his mouth, his hand resting on Sam's bare shoulder as he eats.
"Well…kind of. Maybe. I'll let you know."
Dean wipes crumbs from his mouth and Sam's shoulder, leans over to kiss his neck. "Okay, babe." He squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Don’t forget dinner time. I'm gonna mow the fucking lawn."
Babe?Sam's insides are twisting in a weird combination of thrill, fear, and happiness. Dean is taking to these changes like…like every hope and dream he'd ever had and not *once* has he said this is wrong, or this is weird or fucked up—hell, even Sam's been thinking it's a least a little fucked up—maybe a lot fucked up. And Patrick…Patrick keeps giving him this Look like he's done something wrong, he's walking around like…like the earth's about to open up and suck them all down to a fiery death, but…well; it's not stopping Patrick from climbing into bed with them, is it?
~~~~~~
They're trying to be quiet as possible. It's late, and they've been out in the dark of the back yard for a while…no idea where Dean is, this is Patrick's time anyway….
The street lights are blown again, so it's pitch black out and no one can see, but sound travels forever, and for this neighborhood, it's pretty quite tonight, no one's screaming, no screen doors are slamming, no engines roaring, cars gunning up and down the road…the sound of them breathing is trapped between them, Patrick's little moans, his breath hitching when Sam drives his hips forward, feels like they're wrapped up in the sound. Patrick's rocking up against him, slow, careful, because the lounger they're spread out on has seen better days, after having had the shit kicked out of it, it's kind of on its last legs…creaks ominously when Sam shifts to line them up perfectly. Sam groans…Patrick's all about dragging it out, and making him beg to come, the bastard. He's too careful, too gentle…Sam bites down hard on Patrick's neck. His skin is hot under Sam's tongue, sharp-salt with sweat.
"Ouch--slow down, Sam…slow down…" Sam shivers as Patrick's warm breath skates over his ear, wide, rough hands circle his waist. Sam likes when Patrick holds his waist—his hands are bigger than Dean's and if Sam plays it right, sometimes he can get Pat to tighten up until it's just shy of painful. At the moment Patrick's holding his waist too carefully, but he's slipping one hand down, tracing slippery, slick lines along the slope his spine, the curve of his ass…Sam kind of gets in the way, trying to help pull their clothes loose, Patrick slaps his hands away, and Sam thinks that's pretty funny. He lies there snickering as Pat works their shorts down, and complains about doing all the work. It's great to have Patrick in a playful mood; Sam's kind of missed it….
He heaves a sigh of relief when Patrick has their shorts open—finally--and then, slick and sweat and determined lust makes the slide against each other just right. It's pretty fucking good and then it gets better--he feels Patrick's fingers press between his cheeks. Wherever Patrick touches, sweat springs up, rolls down Sam's skin and tickles—just a little. Just until Patrick pulls another gasp out of him. The pad of his finger rocks against his hole, it fits perfectly there. Patrick's being mean as usual and won’t press in farther; he just kisses Sam, deep and wet, and strokes tiny shallow circles over his hole and Sam's wiggling and whining, trying to get more. But Patrick is Patrick--just so fucking frustrating—
Thank god, Sam thinks, when Patrick reaches the point that not even he can hold back—he sinks his finger in until his palm is cradling Sam's cheek. Finally. After all the god-awful teasing, it doesn’t take long for Sam to reach the edge of coming, shuddering so hard that he's afraid the lounger is finally going to yield to metal death. Patrick fucks him, sucks his tongue like it’s a dick and suddenly Sam's not worrying about the lounger, or the neighbors, or any damn thing except how it feels when he lets go, how Patrick's finger feels inside him, the hot and slick feel of his come flooding across his belly. And then there's the way Patrick sounds when *he* comes, and how his dick flexes and throbs between them and how wonderful the slide is…wild thoughts fly around in his head. Weird little dreamlets that rise ands pop…Dean and Patrick and him living far way being together, Dean kissing him and telling him I love you so much forever, and the sound of birds, and Dean, and rolling in big piles of fluffy, ticklish feathers, Dean, and Dean….
Sam jerks. "Nunh?" what the fuck?
His head is plastered to Patrick's chest, his cheek is in a puddle he's pretty sure isn't sweat, and that's just damn embarrassing. He can feel Patrick chuckle as well as hear it. "You fell asleep." He sounds amused and pleased…"I'm flattered."
"Did not! And if I did, it's not 'cause of you, dude. I'm just tired—shit, I've been awake for days."
"Umhmm." Patrick's hands stroke up and down his back, big wide bands of heat smoothing up and down his spine, soothing even though it's hot as hell, and so humid it's like breathing through wet cotton. He's starting to drift off again—well, not again because he wasn't asleep the first time, he was just resting his eyes a little….
"You know what? I'm happy," Sam mumbles into Patrick's sticky chest. "Really happy…."
Sam says it like he can't believe it, like if he says it louder, something or someone will leap in and snatch it from him.
"S'good," Patrick's voice rumbles in his chest, vibrates pleasantly against Sam's ear. "I'm glad. You weren't at the beginning of the summer. I can tell you are now."
Sam's more than happy to let Patrick pet him, but after a bit, the tacky, squelchy itch between them drives him upright. "Well, you’re happy, too, right? Isn't this like the best thing that could have happened—to both of us? Dean's like—he's like this magnet, holding us all together."
He doesn't get an answer right away. Patrick's quiet as he pulls his shirt off, he wipes them down like it's the most important thing in the world. When he does speak, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with what Sam was saying. "The summer's almost over," Patrick says. "Kids are coming into work, buying up school supplies. I see lots of guys I went to school with, getting ready for college. I'm looking at still being here next year." He shakes his head. "I don’t know what's going to happen."
"But Patrick, the important thing is this, right? Us? I mean, we've figured out something no one else has. We can be happy."
Patrick heaves a sigh. "Your dad's coming back home again, Sam. What happens then?"
Sam doesn't want to hear that—for once in his life, things are going his way—why the fuck is Patrick trying to dump on it? He punches him in the chest and pushes himself off of Patrick's lap. "Dad's got nothing to do with this. Don’t even—don’t say anything to Dean about Dad." He grabs Patrick's face, willing him to read everything in his heart, please get it, Patrick, please. "Dean will--it'll ruin everything--promise me."
"Hey, calm down…" Patrick covers Sam's hands with his. "Sam. It's coming. It's all going to end, you know that."
Sam shakes his head, hard. "No, no it doesn't have to. We love each other. We can find a way to make it work."
Pat pushes Sam gently away. "Sam, I get that you love him—I know he's loved you for forever. But this…thing that's going on? Hasn't changed things much at all. Not really, not the way you're hoping." Patrick lurches up off the lounger and eyes it sadly as it lists, almost falling to the ground. He shakes his head. "I gotta start dinner. You want spaghetti?" He stops at the porch stairs and runs finger tips across the frame of the bike leaning against the porch post. Sam can almost feel the touch on his own skin; Patrick touches the bike so carefully.
Patrick turns at the door, says so very seriously, "I love you both." A switch flicks and his dark drawn expression lightens, his whole face shines, bright and unconcerned…" Hey Sammy, summer's almost over. I think we should work on that bike tomorrow, don't you?"
~~~~~~
Sam knew of only one way of sending a ghost to rest—burn the bones.
And that right there was their problem. Major problem. No way are they finding bones in that lake, not unless they come up with some brilliant way to drag the bottom, all on their own. Right. There had to be some other way, some kind of exorcism they could perform, some rite to get her to move along. Shit. Dad would probably know just the thing—if they had his journal, they could probably find something that'd work. Which is why Sam's looking so fucking hard for an answer—he's got to find something before Dean thinks to ask Dad. Because if he does, Dad's going to give them hell for even thinking about going against his orders, or worse, he might just come home before Sam's ready, and ruin everything….
So, he's been sitting at his desk day and night, practically mainlining coffee, blearily searching site after site on line. Most make him snort with laughter, a few scare him. People are freaky….
Patrick comes in later in the evening and hands him a plate quietly and Sam realizes, Patrick's been quiet for a while. Sam looks up at him. "You okay?" not still thinking about the other day?
Patrick smiles and brushes the hair off Sam's forehead. It's getting longer; it's about time to ask Dean for a trim….
Pat shrugs, still smiling. "I'm good," he says. "Getting anywhere? I want to know that she…she won't be doing that…thing to anyone else."
Sam swallows, drops his eyes. "Patrick, we're going to make it so she doesn't come after anyone, ever again. Promise." and takes a big dry bite of the sandwich.
"I know you guys can do it. I trust you, Sam," he says as he leaves the room.
Fuck, really?Sam thinks. Because he can't imagine why Patrick should. Sam stares at the screen and chews his way slowly and methodically through whatever kind of sandwich it is and never tastes a bite.
~~~~~~
Around midnight, he comes across a summoning spell for spirits who've crossed. Thinking that it's kind of a stupid idea, and wondering what the point of *that* is, he checks it out. Skims through it and something catches his eye….
"The departed can be called to advise, to impart wisdom, or to enlighten". Sam blinks. Okaa—ay…that…what if.
What if they can bring her what she's wanted all these years? Maybe if she gets her heart's desire, she'll finally rest….
He studies the spell, and it's simple—*stupid* simple. There aren't any weird ingredients, thank goodness. Just shit he can practically yank out of the kitchen cabinets. Stuff Patrick's bought and put in there, next to the boxes of generic mac and cheese and Hamburger Helper. Well… except for the blood. That's…not such a good thing, he knows that, but summoning supernatural beings could be…sometimes you needed something to give them. A gift. Dad and Dean would lose their minds if they knew the spell called for blood--human blood, specifically. After all, that would have been too damn easy, right? Spell couldn't have called for a few teaspoonfuls of beef blood? Oh well, he thinks. It's not really such a big deal, they're just calling it and sending it back and even with human blood in it, the ghost won't be that strong…besides, Sam knows without a doubt, he can handle it.
He copies out the few lines of Latin they'll need to say, and writes up the list of herbs….
~~~~~~
When he tells Dean what the plan is, he looks at him like he's crazy. "And how is this supposed to work? What's to keep any of the spirits in the lake from popping out—if we're even on the right track here?"
"She's looking for her son—that spell will use her as the focus because her desires are strong—strong enough to keep her lakeside all these years, to keep her looking…okay, I know it's a long shot but Dad's gone on less."
Dean shakes his head, "Sam, that's different. Dad's got more experience--" He holds up his hand to stop Sam. "But I think we're up to this, between the two—three—of us." and then his eyes crinkle up, and he gets that completely goofy and totally fucking sexy smile, the one that makes his whole body looks like it's smiling. "Okay, Genius Boy. We'll do it your way."
Sam fights to keep from wiggling all over like a crazed puppy--Dean agreeing with him, it's like getting an all over body massage *and* a happy ending—"Yeah, fucking right I'm a genius. This is what we're going to need…" He hands Dean a list as he's rummaging around in the fridge—pushes him aside and grabs the beer he's looking for. "Here. Sit, read."
Dean tilts the bottle at him in thanks, and sits at the kitchen table. He smoothes the wrinkled sheet of notepaper flat against the table top, running his fingers down the page as he reads. Nodding, tapping the bottle against his lip, and then, "A brazier? What—like a firebowl?" He hands the list back to Sam, who frowns.
"Uh, yeah—but only about this big—" He sketches a small, vaguely bowl-shaped space in the air with his hands. "We don't have anything like that…" Dad didn’t mind using holy water, Latin, semi-automatics and blessed bullets—all in the name of killing things that needed to be dead. *Actual* magic, though--casting spells, scrying, things like that--he drew the line there. They didn’t have magical supplies. Sam had no damn idea where to *get* magical supplies. Not like there was a Magiks Are Us in the neighborhood.
Dean's playing with the bottle, rolling the neck between his fingers and thinking and Sam's watching his fingers and thinking…not about the spell. Suddenly Dean thumps the bottle against the table top, and Sam jumps guiltily. "What? What is it?"
"Grill—a disposable grill." Dean grins wide. "We got 'em at work—unless it needs to be out of a specific metal or something?"
Sam does a double take—fuck, that was a pretty good question, and one he hadn't thought of…Dean narrows his eyes, reaches up and pulls Sam's hair a bit. Okay, Dean's not stupid; Sam feels kind of like an asshole for acting so surprised.
He'll apologize later. He saw something on line he's been wanting to try anyway….
Checking the spell doesn't reveal that the brazier *needs* to be iron or brass so he figures all the spell needs is a container and fire and basically, some raiding of the kitchen cabinets. Easy. And if he doesn't tell Dean everything, it's just to keep him from worrying. Hell, Dean would—has done—the same. It's one of the ways they have for looking out for each other. He smirks at Dean when he tells him the good news, runs his tongue slowly along his lower lip, hopes like hell it looks sexy and not like he's got something stuck on his lip…this at least, he doesn't have to hide, not anymore.
"Tell me again I'm a genius," Sam says. He *knows* he's a genius.
"Tell you what," Dean grins, and yanks Sam between his spread knees. "I'll let you show me what a genius you are." He rubs his thumb over Sam's damp lower lip and he opens by instinct and Dean presses his thumb inside where the skin is wet and slick. Sam closes his mouth around Dean's thumb and sucks hard, flicks his tongue against it and bites the tip.
"Oh. Shit—" Dean groans. "Hell yeah, you are a genius,."
Sam spits Dean's thumb out and laughs. "Dude, so fucking easy. Come one—we got a ghost to bust, right?"
"What? Dude. Ghost buster--please. You're embarrassing yourself."
continued in part B
TBC
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3582
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey
Lodi
Well! There was a lot of talking and a lot of porn, so to save y'all eyestrain, I broke chapter 14 into two parts...also my sneaky way of keeping this to 15 chapters. *does victory arms* Enough about me, (hah! I know! as if!) on to the story—marshmallows, anyone?
14
Sam's leaning against the sink, eating handfuls of cereal out of the box, when Dean comes stumbling in.
"Hey, Billy Sue Bob, what're you doing up?" He's peering out of one sleep-puffy eye, and Sam's pretty sure those are his underwear Dean's wearing, and he's rubbing at his face so hard, Sam snickers, if he keeps that up, Dean's going to rub his nose right off. Sam stuffs his cheeks with Corn Pops and waits for Dean to really wake up. Waits for the freaking to start.
Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. He digs his fingers in his ears and says, "Ew. Don't smack when you chew."
Surprise makes him stop chewing all together. He's standing there with his mouth open, he probably looks like a guppy but—seriously, Dean's reaction isn't quite what Sam's been expecting—hell, a fucking *lack* of reaction is definitely not what he expected. But, y'know. Good. Good. Dean'll just play this whole thing off and act like nothing happened about ten times last night....
But then because sometimes he's so fucking stupid, stupid shit falls out of his mouth. "How long? How long did you know?"
Dean hesitates, blinks hard. Shocks the fuck out of Sam by smiling--by knowing just what Sam means. "Always?" he kind of laughs and then, "Eh. Since you gave me that Mother's Day card," he says. He pulls open the fridge and grabs the milk, tips the carton to his mouth. He drinks, watching Sam from the corner of his eye. Sam thinks it's…fucking surreal. Okay. He can do it Dean's way.
"Fuck you. I was five," Sam snorts. "I didn’t know you couldn't be my mom." His grin loses some light. "It's just…you kinda were. You were always there. You made my lunch and kissed boo-boos and gave me bedtime stories, tucked me in, and…fuck, you loved me. And then—suddenly I was invisible."
"Dude, shit." Dean drops the carton on the counter, looks away. "I was *twelve*. Twelve, you start…feeling things different. You change. You start figuring stuff out...." He shrugs, like it's so fucking plain he doesn't need to speak.
"Yeah, well, I was eight, thought you hated me. I couldn't figure out what I did wrong."
"Always blaming yourself, Sammy." Dean rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I couldn't hate you ever, idiot." Sam sidles over and leans into Dean's side. It feels good when Dean throws his arm around him. "If I lost you…it'd kill me."
A shiver racks him. He pulls away so he can look into Dean's face.….
Dean punches him. "What? Stupid. I just mean like…ah, you know what I mean."
Sam grins, and wraps himself around Dean. "Yeah. Me too."
Sam's cradling his chin in his palm, elbow on his desk; he's been staring at the screen for what seems like forever. There are bits of paper all over, with cryptic little notes scrawled on. He's in his own private world at the moment. There's a plate holding a dried out bologna sandwich next to his elbow, there's a coffee cup with a series of rings laddering up the inside and a pool of oily coffee sludge at the bottom…he's been there a while. He picks through the cups and bottles dotting the surface of his desk. Miraculously, one of the bottles is still somewhat cool, he grabs whatever it is and gulps. He uses the tee shirt he's yanked off and dropped on the floor to wipe his mouth. Seriously—he needs a fan. Maybe he can talk Dean into buying one for this room since dad's going to be home soon and then, no air-conditioned bedroom for Dean-o either.
There's a quick tattoo of knocks at the room's door, and Dean strolls in, letting in a blast of game show and the sound of the washer walking the laundry room floor. Sam blinks. He's been working so long, he's kind of forgotten about everyone else.
"Hey." Dean hooks his chin on Sam's shoulder and goose-bumps race over his skin. Dean's always been pretty casual about getting in Sam's personal space, only now…it feels different. And just as he's thinking that, Dean rests his nose against the back of Sam's neck, inhales. "How's it going—damn. You're disgusting. Look at this desk."
"Can't help it. Patrick keeps bringing me stuff, and I keep forgetting to eat it," Sam shrugs.
"Forget to eat?" Dean says, somewhat horrified. "How the fuck do you forget to eat?" Dean mutters, and picks through the pile around Sam's laptop, searching for something edible. Sam huffs, tries not to grin at the small grunt of satisfaction Dean makes when he finds a peanut butter sandwich that hasn't gotten crunchy at the edges. "So. Progress?" He crams the sandwich in his mouth, his hand resting on Sam's bare shoulder as he eats.
"Well…kind of. Maybe. I'll let you know."
Dean wipes crumbs from his mouth and Sam's shoulder, leans over to kiss his neck. "Okay, babe." He squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Don’t forget dinner time. I'm gonna mow the fucking lawn."
Babe?Sam's insides are twisting in a weird combination of thrill, fear, and happiness. Dean is taking to these changes like…like every hope and dream he'd ever had and not *once* has he said this is wrong, or this is weird or fucked up—hell, even Sam's been thinking it's a least a little fucked up—maybe a lot fucked up. And Patrick…Patrick keeps giving him this Look like he's done something wrong, he's walking around like…like the earth's about to open up and suck them all down to a fiery death, but…well; it's not stopping Patrick from climbing into bed with them, is it?
They're trying to be quiet as possible. It's late, and they've been out in the dark of the back yard for a while…no idea where Dean is, this is Patrick's time anyway….
The street lights are blown again, so it's pitch black out and no one can see, but sound travels forever, and for this neighborhood, it's pretty quite tonight, no one's screaming, no screen doors are slamming, no engines roaring, cars gunning up and down the road…the sound of them breathing is trapped between them, Patrick's little moans, his breath hitching when Sam drives his hips forward, feels like they're wrapped up in the sound. Patrick's rocking up against him, slow, careful, because the lounger they're spread out on has seen better days, after having had the shit kicked out of it, it's kind of on its last legs…creaks ominously when Sam shifts to line them up perfectly. Sam groans…Patrick's all about dragging it out, and making him beg to come, the bastard. He's too careful, too gentle…Sam bites down hard on Patrick's neck. His skin is hot under Sam's tongue, sharp-salt with sweat.
"Ouch--slow down, Sam…slow down…" Sam shivers as Patrick's warm breath skates over his ear, wide, rough hands circle his waist. Sam likes when Patrick holds his waist—his hands are bigger than Dean's and if Sam plays it right, sometimes he can get Pat to tighten up until it's just shy of painful. At the moment Patrick's holding his waist too carefully, but he's slipping one hand down, tracing slippery, slick lines along the slope his spine, the curve of his ass…Sam kind of gets in the way, trying to help pull their clothes loose, Patrick slaps his hands away, and Sam thinks that's pretty funny. He lies there snickering as Pat works their shorts down, and complains about doing all the work. It's great to have Patrick in a playful mood; Sam's kind of missed it….
He heaves a sigh of relief when Patrick has their shorts open—finally--and then, slick and sweat and determined lust makes the slide against each other just right. It's pretty fucking good and then it gets better--he feels Patrick's fingers press between his cheeks. Wherever Patrick touches, sweat springs up, rolls down Sam's skin and tickles—just a little. Just until Patrick pulls another gasp out of him. The pad of his finger rocks against his hole, it fits perfectly there. Patrick's being mean as usual and won’t press in farther; he just kisses Sam, deep and wet, and strokes tiny shallow circles over his hole and Sam's wiggling and whining, trying to get more. But Patrick is Patrick--just so fucking frustrating—
Thank god, Sam thinks, when Patrick reaches the point that not even he can hold back—he sinks his finger in until his palm is cradling Sam's cheek. Finally. After all the god-awful teasing, it doesn’t take long for Sam to reach the edge of coming, shuddering so hard that he's afraid the lounger is finally going to yield to metal death. Patrick fucks him, sucks his tongue like it’s a dick and suddenly Sam's not worrying about the lounger, or the neighbors, or any damn thing except how it feels when he lets go, how Patrick's finger feels inside him, the hot and slick feel of his come flooding across his belly. And then there's the way Patrick sounds when *he* comes, and how his dick flexes and throbs between them and how wonderful the slide is…wild thoughts fly around in his head. Weird little dreamlets that rise ands pop…Dean and Patrick and him living far way being together, Dean kissing him and telling him I love you so much forever, and the sound of birds, and Dean, and rolling in big piles of fluffy, ticklish feathers, Dean, and Dean….
Sam jerks. "Nunh?" what the fuck?
His head is plastered to Patrick's chest, his cheek is in a puddle he's pretty sure isn't sweat, and that's just damn embarrassing. He can feel Patrick chuckle as well as hear it. "You fell asleep." He sounds amused and pleased…"I'm flattered."
"Did not! And if I did, it's not 'cause of you, dude. I'm just tired—shit, I've been awake for days."
"Umhmm." Patrick's hands stroke up and down his back, big wide bands of heat smoothing up and down his spine, soothing even though it's hot as hell, and so humid it's like breathing through wet cotton. He's starting to drift off again—well, not again because he wasn't asleep the first time, he was just resting his eyes a little….
"You know what? I'm happy," Sam mumbles into Patrick's sticky chest. "Really happy…."
Sam says it like he can't believe it, like if he says it louder, something or someone will leap in and snatch it from him.
"S'good," Patrick's voice rumbles in his chest, vibrates pleasantly against Sam's ear. "I'm glad. You weren't at the beginning of the summer. I can tell you are now."
Sam's more than happy to let Patrick pet him, but after a bit, the tacky, squelchy itch between them drives him upright. "Well, you’re happy, too, right? Isn't this like the best thing that could have happened—to both of us? Dean's like—he's like this magnet, holding us all together."
He doesn't get an answer right away. Patrick's quiet as he pulls his shirt off, he wipes them down like it's the most important thing in the world. When he does speak, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with what Sam was saying. "The summer's almost over," Patrick says. "Kids are coming into work, buying up school supplies. I see lots of guys I went to school with, getting ready for college. I'm looking at still being here next year." He shakes his head. "I don’t know what's going to happen."
"But Patrick, the important thing is this, right? Us? I mean, we've figured out something no one else has. We can be happy."
Patrick heaves a sigh. "Your dad's coming back home again, Sam. What happens then?"
Sam doesn't want to hear that—for once in his life, things are going his way—why the fuck is Patrick trying to dump on it? He punches him in the chest and pushes himself off of Patrick's lap. "Dad's got nothing to do with this. Don’t even—don’t say anything to Dean about Dad." He grabs Patrick's face, willing him to read everything in his heart, please get it, Patrick, please. "Dean will--it'll ruin everything--promise me."
"Hey, calm down…" Patrick covers Sam's hands with his. "Sam. It's coming. It's all going to end, you know that."
Sam shakes his head, hard. "No, no it doesn't have to. We love each other. We can find a way to make it work."
Pat pushes Sam gently away. "Sam, I get that you love him—I know he's loved you for forever. But this…thing that's going on? Hasn't changed things much at all. Not really, not the way you're hoping." Patrick lurches up off the lounger and eyes it sadly as it lists, almost falling to the ground. He shakes his head. "I gotta start dinner. You want spaghetti?" He stops at the porch stairs and runs finger tips across the frame of the bike leaning against the porch post. Sam can almost feel the touch on his own skin; Patrick touches the bike so carefully.
Patrick turns at the door, says so very seriously, "I love you both." A switch flicks and his dark drawn expression lightens, his whole face shines, bright and unconcerned…" Hey Sammy, summer's almost over. I think we should work on that bike tomorrow, don't you?"
Sam knew of only one way of sending a ghost to rest—burn the bones.
And that right there was their problem. Major problem. No way are they finding bones in that lake, not unless they come up with some brilliant way to drag the bottom, all on their own. Right. There had to be some other way, some kind of exorcism they could perform, some rite to get her to move along. Shit. Dad would probably know just the thing—if they had his journal, they could probably find something that'd work. Which is why Sam's looking so fucking hard for an answer—he's got to find something before Dean thinks to ask Dad. Because if he does, Dad's going to give them hell for even thinking about going against his orders, or worse, he might just come home before Sam's ready, and ruin everything….
So, he's been sitting at his desk day and night, practically mainlining coffee, blearily searching site after site on line. Most make him snort with laughter, a few scare him. People are freaky….
Patrick comes in later in the evening and hands him a plate quietly and Sam realizes, Patrick's been quiet for a while. Sam looks up at him. "You okay?" not still thinking about the other day?
Patrick smiles and brushes the hair off Sam's forehead. It's getting longer; it's about time to ask Dean for a trim….
Pat shrugs, still smiling. "I'm good," he says. "Getting anywhere? I want to know that she…she won't be doing that…thing to anyone else."
Sam swallows, drops his eyes. "Patrick, we're going to make it so she doesn't come after anyone, ever again. Promise." and takes a big dry bite of the sandwich.
"I know you guys can do it. I trust you, Sam," he says as he leaves the room.
Fuck, really?Sam thinks. Because he can't imagine why Patrick should. Sam stares at the screen and chews his way slowly and methodically through whatever kind of sandwich it is and never tastes a bite.
Around midnight, he comes across a summoning spell for spirits who've crossed. Thinking that it's kind of a stupid idea, and wondering what the point of *that* is, he checks it out. Skims through it and something catches his eye….
"The departed can be called to advise, to impart wisdom, or to enlighten". Sam blinks. Okaa—ay…that…what if.
What if they can bring her what she's wanted all these years? Maybe if she gets her heart's desire, she'll finally rest….
He studies the spell, and it's simple—*stupid* simple. There aren't any weird ingredients, thank goodness. Just shit he can practically yank out of the kitchen cabinets. Stuff Patrick's bought and put in there, next to the boxes of generic mac and cheese and Hamburger Helper. Well… except for the blood. That's…not such a good thing, he knows that, but summoning supernatural beings could be…sometimes you needed something to give them. A gift. Dad and Dean would lose their minds if they knew the spell called for blood--human blood, specifically. After all, that would have been too damn easy, right? Spell couldn't have called for a few teaspoonfuls of beef blood? Oh well, he thinks. It's not really such a big deal, they're just calling it and sending it back and even with human blood in it, the ghost won't be that strong…besides, Sam knows without a doubt, he can handle it.
He copies out the few lines of Latin they'll need to say, and writes up the list of herbs….
When he tells Dean what the plan is, he looks at him like he's crazy. "And how is this supposed to work? What's to keep any of the spirits in the lake from popping out—if we're even on the right track here?"
"She's looking for her son—that spell will use her as the focus because her desires are strong—strong enough to keep her lakeside all these years, to keep her looking…okay, I know it's a long shot but Dad's gone on less."
Dean shakes his head, "Sam, that's different. Dad's got more experience--" He holds up his hand to stop Sam. "But I think we're up to this, between the two—three—of us." and then his eyes crinkle up, and he gets that completely goofy and totally fucking sexy smile, the one that makes his whole body looks like it's smiling. "Okay, Genius Boy. We'll do it your way."
Sam fights to keep from wiggling all over like a crazed puppy--Dean agreeing with him, it's like getting an all over body massage *and* a happy ending—"Yeah, fucking right I'm a genius. This is what we're going to need…" He hands Dean a list as he's rummaging around in the fridge—pushes him aside and grabs the beer he's looking for. "Here. Sit, read."
Dean tilts the bottle at him in thanks, and sits at the kitchen table. He smoothes the wrinkled sheet of notepaper flat against the table top, running his fingers down the page as he reads. Nodding, tapping the bottle against his lip, and then, "A brazier? What—like a firebowl?" He hands the list back to Sam, who frowns.
"Uh, yeah—but only about this big—" He sketches a small, vaguely bowl-shaped space in the air with his hands. "We don't have anything like that…" Dad didn’t mind using holy water, Latin, semi-automatics and blessed bullets—all in the name of killing things that needed to be dead. *Actual* magic, though--casting spells, scrying, things like that--he drew the line there. They didn’t have magical supplies. Sam had no damn idea where to *get* magical supplies. Not like there was a Magiks Are Us in the neighborhood.
Dean's playing with the bottle, rolling the neck between his fingers and thinking and Sam's watching his fingers and thinking…not about the spell. Suddenly Dean thumps the bottle against the table top, and Sam jumps guiltily. "What? What is it?"
"Grill—a disposable grill." Dean grins wide. "We got 'em at work—unless it needs to be out of a specific metal or something?"
Sam does a double take—fuck, that was a pretty good question, and one he hadn't thought of…Dean narrows his eyes, reaches up and pulls Sam's hair a bit. Okay, Dean's not stupid; Sam feels kind of like an asshole for acting so surprised.
He'll apologize later. He saw something on line he's been wanting to try anyway….
Checking the spell doesn't reveal that the brazier *needs* to be iron or brass so he figures all the spell needs is a container and fire and basically, some raiding of the kitchen cabinets. Easy. And if he doesn't tell Dean everything, it's just to keep him from worrying. Hell, Dean would—has done—the same. It's one of the ways they have for looking out for each other. He smirks at Dean when he tells him the good news, runs his tongue slowly along his lower lip, hopes like hell it looks sexy and not like he's got something stuck on his lip…this at least, he doesn't have to hide, not anymore.
"Tell me again I'm a genius," Sam says. He *knows* he's a genius.
"Tell you what," Dean grins, and yanks Sam between his spread knees. "I'll let you show me what a genius you are." He rubs his thumb over Sam's damp lower lip and he opens by instinct and Dean presses his thumb inside where the skin is wet and slick. Sam closes his mouth around Dean's thumb and sucks hard, flicks his tongue against it and bites the tip.
"Oh. Shit—" Dean groans. "Hell yeah, you are a genius,."
Sam spits Dean's thumb out and laughs. "Dude, so fucking easy. Come one—we got a ghost to bust, right?"
"What? Dude. Ghost buster--please. You're embarrassing yourself."
continued in part B
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
4/16/09 08:06 pm (UTC)You continue to impress me with Sam's voice... it IS Sam. I can't wait for the end, but I kind of don't want it to.
(no subject)
4/16/09 08:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/16/09 08:29 pm (UTC)*mutters* HAHAHA I cannot read this while facing a room full of 12 patrons HAHAHAHAH I'll be all red!
(no subject)
4/16/09 08:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/16/09 08:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/16/09 10:23 pm (UTC)He's right, though, because this little idyll will not last and Sam is just so damn desperate for it too, and Patrick just so sure that nothing good will ever stay for him....
*sniffles*
And Dean, i think, just likes seeing Sam happy, just....
*flails*
I will most likely hate you when this is all over, won't i?
*clings*
(no subject)
4/16/09 11:53 pm (UTC)I don't want to hurt Patrick--you know I don't! But...I'm thinking you're not going to hate me--not exactly. Maybe a little. But if it helps, I'm writing a happy story for Patrick in my head. *g*
Sam's just a wee bit manipulative in this story. He's lucky everyone else wants him to be happy. :)
(no subject)
4/17/09 12:22 am (UTC)You can't fool me, Ms. Thang. You wanna make them all *suffer*. *Horribly*.
'Cause you're evol like that.
*pets them*
(no subject)
4/17/09 12:27 am (UTC)*knits mittens for kittens and bakes cookies for the children*
(no subject)
4/17/09 12:28 am (UTC)You can't fool me.
*hides*
*with Dean and Sam*
(no subject)
4/16/09 11:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/16/09 11:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/16/09 11:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/17/09 12:01 am (UTC)No HookerDean, darn it!! No!
(no subject)
4/17/09 12:08 am (UTC)MarthaStewart!Patty=cooks for love=Mommy
AlonePiningInCollegeMaturbatingOverCookies!Sammy=baby all grown up leaving nest=...
I'm telling you! It all works!
(no subject)
4/17/09 12:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/17/09 12:00 am (UTC)Then there's Sam doing his hiding-of-important-information thing, and that's just so canon, it makes me love your Sam. See, you know I'm not the biggest Sam fan, and I think that's mostly because in fics, a lot of the time (ones that I've read, anyway -- not all of them, by any means), Sam strikes me as too. . . perfect. I'm probably missing all the fleshed-out stories, but in what I've read, he's the smart one. And he always gets the girl, and yadda, yadda, yadda. But. . . he's a guy, right? He's human (with some demon juice floatin' around in the red cells, but still. . . ), and he makes mistakes. That's why I like the show so much. It doesn't gloss over the boys' flaws or weaknesses, but it doesn't dwell on them exclusively, either. And that's why I love your writing, too!
it's like getting an all over body massage *and* a happy ending
Oh Lordy, that's a helluva good description! Yowza!
Okay, Dean's not stupid; Sam feels kind of like an asshole for acting so surprised
I love that you wrote that bit because it strikes me as extremely faithful to the Sam character. And to Dean, too.
I really liked Sam here. I mean. . . it's strange cos I'm just so used to tolerating him, but I thought you really brought him to life in this story. You write good characters, roxy. I am always able to identify with them (even the scary/Evol ones O_O).
Yay!!
(no subject)
4/17/09 01:07 am (UTC)Thank you a million times--I'm all over dancing with what you had to say about the boy! *HAPPYSMILE*
(no subject)
4/17/09 01:39 am (UTC)Exactly. More and more, Sam's gettin' to be an. . . ends-justify-the-means kinda guy. Not in a bad, malicious way, or anything, more just pretty stupid, desperate, and determined to save Dean. *shrugs* Can't blame him, really. Dean's pretty stupid about Sam, too.
And we all know where they got it from. :(
(no subject)
4/17/09 02:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/18/09 02:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/18/09 05:12 pm (UTC)