SpN: Lodi part 15 B/ complete

[roxy]

posting with the cover by taliosi_x because it's finished, also using the icon digitalwave made for me. Thanks a million guys--you made writing this a pleasure! Thanks for being nice to the OC, too! *G*

Title: Lodi part 15B,
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 2999
Summary: Sam finds out that love is never simple during a long hot summer in New Jersey



Lodi



Sam's got his back up against the closed bedroom door, pissed as hell—his head's pounding, he can even feel the throbbing pulse in his clenched fists. He looks around his fucking, choking hot closet of a bedroom, and blinks…something's off.

The bedroom is clean—like, cleaner than it usually is. He's not a slob, but two people in a closet sized space…hard to keep things from kind of spilling over. The bunks are neat, the dresser top is spotless. It's the mess of hair stuff that's gone…in fact Sam can see the bottles of hair gunk Patrick uses piled up in the wastebasket…his mouth goes dry.

Maybe it went bad—does that shit go bad?

He opens the drawer they gave to Patrick the time he finally admitted he had no place else to go but here with them--it's empty. But that makes no sense, because there's no reason for Patrick to take his stuff out of the drawer. Sam swallows, feeling a little sick.

Bathroom's the same—none of Patrick's stuff, not even a hair-band. There's always hair-bands under the sink, in the shower….

~~~~~~
Dean's watching TV, one of those stupid shopping channels. What the fuck is he doing—"Dean—?"

Turns out he's not so much watching the show as curling over himself on the edge of the couch, gripping his knees like he's about to lose them. He glances at Sam and he looks all hollowed out, like someone's punched him in the gut—or like someone's ripped his guts out. His mouth's moving—he gulps and—

Sam narrows his eyes. Yeah, well, right now, Dean's going to have to suck it up. Sam doesn't have room to worry about what Dad's said to make Dean shrivel up like that—"Patrick's not here."

"'Course not—he's at work. What? Isn’t he?"

Sam shifts forward until his knees are knocking up against the back of the couch. Dean huffs, "Sam—"

"Okay," Sam mutters. He twists, feels like his skin is too tight…uncomfortable and prickly and the way Dean's looking at him isn't helping. "His stuff's not here. His stuff's all gone, he's gone."

"For shit's sake, Sam, his vest's there on the chair, right? He's not going to leave that."

Sam can't help but stare at Dean like he's beyond stupid. "Dean. There's nothing else here but that." Asshole.

His brother's looking at him, his gaze is bouncing from Sam's eyes to his mouth, back and forth, like he's thinking hard, trying to fit puzzle pieces together…"Okay," he says. "Come on, get in the car."

They waste time going to Patrick's mother's house. Sam just manages to keep from kicking the door off its hinges. Dean kind of crowds in front of him, keeping Sam behind him, and somehow he talks to the woman as if she deserves being treated like a human being. Sam's disgusted, impatient and furious with both of them—Dean for being decent to her, and her for being—worthless. She's worthless--just flinches and looks everywhere but at them as she tells them she hasn't seen him, not in a long while and she thought he was staying with them, shouldn't they know what happened to him?

"You--*bitch*."

"Sammy!" How did Patrick manage it? How did he care about this bitch? Almost before bitch is completely out of his mouth, Dean's shushing him, wraps his fist up in his collar and practically marches him off the steps, silent and fuming all the way into the car. They're about five minutes down the road before Dean finally reacts in some way Sam can understand. He slams his fist against the steering wheel and curses—just a loud string of words, all of them starting or ending with 'fuck'—he's pretty loud. After a minute or two, he takes a deep breath and says, "Sorry, Sam. You know I wasn't mad at you, right?"

Sam waves his arms and then just slumps until his knees are tight against the dash. Sure, he knows that. It's just…it felt like Dean was taking the bitch's side...but. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I just wanted to…shit. I wanted to punch her lights out."

Dean exhales, tosses Sam a little half grin. "Me too."

~~~~~~
At work, one of Dean's buddies tells them Patrick was a no-show, probably fired, and wasn't that a bitch, 'cause Pat's a great guy—

They check everywhere they can think of, every place Patrick might go—they even get Mike to ask around, because he knows people who know people. He gets back to them before the afternoon's begun to shade toward evening, and Sam figures that's not a good sign. No one's seen Patrick. Patrick's gone. Patrick's grabbed his shit, packed his bag and left them without a word, without a sign. Sam's so mad—he's so mad he smashes his fist against the dashboard, and it hurts so good, he does it a couple of times—Dean winces, but he doesn't stop Sam from hitting his car. Sam wishes with all his heart Patrick was in front of him, so he could kick the mother-fucking shit out of him.

Dean doesn’t say anything about Pat leaving except, "Patrick's grown", and "it's just time", and "not everyone can deal with this shit"…and Sam doesn't believe that's the reason—it couldn't be. Patrick wasn't that weak—Patrick was way braver than that.

There's not even time to breathe or process what's happening because when they pull up in the drive, there's Dad, sitting on the front porch. He's staring down the drive toward them, smoking and looking thoughtful. It's fucking eerie, Sam thinks, how much he and Dean look alike…what similar expressions they have…how much they *are* alike…his stomach does a tight little unhappy flip.

What's coming next is not going to be good. He can hear Dean's quiet, unhappy sigh. Yeah, it's going to suck balls….

At least Dad's not looking murderous. "Boys," he says, calmly and evenly, when they stop in front of him. Dad's looking at him so hard, Sam feels like he's trying to unpeel him with his eyes. Takes Sam a few seconds to get that Dad only has eyes for him--he doesn't even glance at Dean. "Where's Pat? Dad asks, and Sam shrugs.

"Gone…somewhere." He shrugs again and Dad just nods.

"Well." He says. In fact, that's all he ever says about Patrick, ever. Another long few minutes pass and Sam tries not to glare---or look away. He can just feel Dean standing next to him, doing his stupid version of parade rest—makes Sam want to punch his lights out, it really does.

"Want to talk to you, boy," Dad drawls and flips his butt down the driveway.

"Yes sir," Dean snaps out, and Dad shakes his head.

"Nope. Not you Dean, you go on in, I'll talk to you later, tell you about this hunt…" He shakes a fresh butt out of his pack—holds the pack out to Dean.

Okay—what the fuck? Dean's not—he's not in trouble but I am? Sam tries to think faster, think his way around this before Dad catches him unprepared. He licks his lips, and hopes this whole shit's not going to hurt too bad.

"Sit down, Sam."

God help him—he's going to die….

"What you did was careless, and dangerous, and disobedient."

Sam feels the hairs on his spine, all the way up to the back of his neck, rise—the way the anger pours through him, he really feels like he's going to pass out. Before he can unlock his jaws, Dad speaks again.

"Sam…" He lets out this long sigh, this irritating, 'you-fucked-up-big' wash of noise. "You've got to get past this thing where I'm picking on you. I'm not. I'm tryin' to save your life. Keep you safe. It's a damn hard job son; I don't need you making it harder."

Yeah, well fuckin' excuse me for being here. Making your job harder.

Dad rolls the cigarette in his fingers. "I had a long drive up here, and somewhere around Virginia, I decided not to kill you—"

Sam jerks a little, not sure whether to laugh or scowl so he settles for snorting….

"'Round about then, I began to admire your solution. That was…elegant."

Okay, that was about the weirdest thing he's ever heard Dad say and there have been…some pretty weird things have come out of his mouth. Sam peeks at him through the curtain of his bangs. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah." Dad shakes his head. "Gotta tell you son, that was a new one on me. You're still balls deep in hot water but I'm impressed." He inhales and shots a rapid succession of smoke rings skyward, watches them drift apart. "We'll talk about what your punishment will be later—we're going to be busy right quick."

"What? I mean, yes, sir—what?"

"Leaving at the end of the week. We're going to meet up with Jim, and then, I've got a job, this one's just me, Dean…and you, I'm thinking."

Sam barely hears him. Impressed? Sam's trying to sort out how that makes him feel, Dad being impressed—with him. Pissed off, but still, impressed. Sam decides he feels….cheated almost, which is crazy as fuck because he's not a masochist but still. He was ready for a fight. He was ready for a knock-down, drag out, never-speak-to-him-again, fight with Dad. And now. Now what?

Now, Patrick's gone, they're leaving, and there's not enough time to look for him and what if he comes back and they're not here?

~~~~~~
That night, Dean drops on the bottom bunk and he starts talking, his voice low, even. "I cleaned up the room. Before Dad went in it. There was nothing in it of Patrick's… I uh…I changed the sheets. Shoved everything into the laundry. We're clean."

Clean. Sam lays on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling and listening to Dean speak, and he knows. Everything that made life worth living this summer—it's over. He was losing again. Dean was quiet and then, "Dad and I are going out to the lake in a bit. We'll be back." The bunk creaks and Sam can't help it, he breaks--starts begging.

"Don’t do this Dean, please don’t do this. It'll be fine—no one needs to know, you and me, don’t. Don't do this to me, okay? Please? Please, Dean?"

"Sam—" he hisses, "I'm doing this for you, don’t you get it? I'm saving you—this is for you." He stomps out of the room.

As quietly as he can, Sam goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower…he drops to the floor, presses his back against the cold, hard side of the tub. He pulls his knees up, and tells himself he's just waiting for the water to warm up, and cries so hard, he nearly throws up. When he can breathe in again without wanting to scream, he's grateful. Done. He's thinking this is the end of it; this is the part where he can stop thinking and just…be.

That lasts right up until he leaves the bathroom.

Dean stops him in the hall, hesitates a moment before he runs his hand over Sam's bangs. "You need a haircut." Sam gets it. This is Dean playing normal. Right. Like they ever knew what the fuck that was. Sam grabs his wrist, holds on and leans into Dean's space—applies as much pressure as he can, grinding the bones in his wrist until Dean winces, curses—"Damn it, Sam--stop."

Sam holds him and it occurs to him…Dean won't pull his hand loose; not until Sam lets go. It just makes Sam want to hurt him, and at the same time, makes him sad. He loves Dean. He loves him…"Don't touch me. If you don’t need me, then don't. Just…stop." He loosens his fingers and Dean yanks his hand away, jerks up his chin up, and he smiles. It's an ugly smile, hard, and hurt, and trying hard to be cold. "You're such a bitch, Sam. You're such a fucking bitch."

Sam's right behind him, eyes on him as he leaves the house, carefully not slamming the front door.

Dad peers around the kitchen doorway. "Where’s your brother going?" he asks.

"To say goodbye to all his…girlfriends, of course." Sam smirks.

"Dean." His dad shakes his head, but he's smiling, and it's all over his face, men, what are ya gonna do, right? Sam blinks, and holds on…. "Well, wanna watch a movie? He's not going to be home for a while."

For one perfectly clear second, he sees years rolling past and jealousy gnawing and eating away at him like a cancer and he has to get away or die…"Sure Dad, sounds good…beer?" if Dean can smile through it, so can he.

Dad looks him up and down and then he winks. "Sure, get us a couple of beers Sammy. We earned it."

"You're fuckin' right we earned it," he mutters under his breath.

~~~~~
"Sam… "

Sam comes awake all over, all at once. He freezes in place, takes him a moment to figure out he's still in the living room, sacked out on the couch and a sheet that had probably covered him was pleated around his knees.

"Sam…you awake?"

Sam sighs. Yes, he's awake, and Dean's not doing him any favors by leaning over him and whispering in his ear. He smells like weed and alcohol and smoke. Dean's too messed up to notice that Sam is awake. He strokes his arm, light, lingering touches that make Sam hard in an instant, fucking bastard.

"Sammy…I'm so sorry…" Dean is stroking his back now, and his fingers slip over the waistband of his boxers. He leans right over Sam, his breath warm against his cheek. "Sorry." And Sam imagines he can feel the tip of Dean's tongue trace the swell of his cheek. He must be imagining it, because Dean's still talking to him, and Sam still feels the wet trail running down his cheek. He feels hot gusts of air, down his neck, skirting over his shoulder, and down the center of his spine, and he can't help but groan, just managing to keep it down, inside…he flexes, a little, full of…hope, need. Dean's lips stop right at the waistband of his boxers, linger, and open. His tongue presses there, hot and wet, soft…his fingers press down where spine curves into the swell of his ass, move under the waistband and stop at the top of his cleft. It burns like a brand and then… and then Dean's moving away. It takes every bit of strength Sam has not to scream, to grab Dean back. He's saying it again, "Sam, sorry, so sorry…" and he's gone. Sam waits until he hears the bathroom door snick shut, and he's jerking off right there on the couch, knowing it's over makes the blood boil in his veins, makes him so desperate. He's sorry too, sorry this happened, sorry he's got to live with it. His hips lift, he comes like scalding water over his hand….

And then, he's just relieved that it's over. Dean…Dean's right. This is the end.

~~~~~~
Dawn comes, grey and wet, heavy, just as it has every day since they dropped here—only now there's a chill underneath it, a clammy feel to the wet. Walking through the house is weird--his footsteps echo through the house. The smell of wet dog is stronger now that all their stuff is out. The place feels empty, feels…like its guts have been torn out. Sam twists a worn out hair-band around his wrist. He had happy days in this house, miraculously happy days. And looking around, he can't even feel it, like it was a dream someone else told him.

He follows Dean and Dad across the dead grass, it's so fucking quiet he hears the grass break underfoot. He hears gravel scratch bit against bit, the screech of the trunk opening, thump of bags dropped inside. Morning, this morning…he feels every cell in his body cling, stretch…hurt. Hurts not breathing.

Dad slaps the truck roof. "Sammy, pick a vehicle and let's roll." Sam decides he wants to drive with Dad, because Dean won’t look at him and that's fine—fucking better than fine, it's just what Sam wants. And then curses because he's not supposed to be caring—he's a brick, a rock, he's made of ice and not caring one fucking bit.

Right before they pull off Sam notices—he sucks in a breath that makes his lungs ache and he breaks into coughing. Dad's reaches across the seat and grabs his knee, asking him "What? What's wrong, what do you see?"

Sam shakes his head. But he feels like ice, he feels stupid for freaking, and he can't tell Dad, it's that bike—his bike—leaning against the wonky fence. Still scabby looking with rust, still ugly as fuck but with a brand new seat, new pedals and new chain…"Nothing Dad, just really tired—gonna close my eyes a bit." Sam balls up his jacket, shoves it against the window and buries his face against it, and wishes like hell he'd gone with Dean after all, because at least with Dean, he could let go of this burning ache in his throat….


~~~~~~
There are some things they never talk about.

Things change, they grow up. Reach for what they think they want—they pull apart and they come back together again and normal…Sam's getting that normal's fucking overrated and never been in the cards for them anyway.

They never went back to Lodi. Sam's never wanted to, has never asked if Dean's ever thought about it. Doesn't even know how to ask him. Closest they ever came to Jersey again was crossing through Pennsylvania, and neither one of them suggested a side trip to the Garden State.

Of course, none of them ever mentioned the boy again, but for years afterward, in his dreams, Patrick would come bounding through the door, and fling his bags down and hold out his arms and call, "Hey, Sammy, I'm back—I'm home."

4-21-2009