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To The Waters And The Wild part 17
Title:To The Waters And The Wild
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:2402
After breakfast, Sam called a cab and didn’t tell Dean where they were going, aside from Dean's one muttered curse word, he didn't say a word--they didn't talk to each other at all. Their entire conversation had devolved into a series of grunts and sighs, and then they were in front of a chain link fence sporting a once colorful sign that read "Max's Garage". The unlocked chain link gate shrieked and wobbled on its track as Sam pushed it to one side.
Once in the yard, he shouted to let whoever was there know they had company. "Hey, Max! Anybody here?"
An older guy in a faded once navy cover-all waved at Sam, the guy with his head stuffed into the engine of the old Mercedes they were working on looked up curiously, before tossing Sam a dis-interested salute. The old guy jerked his chin towards a shack surrounded by cars in various stages of repair, squatting on the edge of the concrete yard.
A heavy set man in crisp navy blue work shirts and pants looked out. "Winchester," Max called out. "Come to look at your piece of shit Chevy?"
"Whoa, watch out dude, you're treading on dangerous ground--" Sam mocked a growl and Dean was suddenly in front of him, crowding Sam back and bristling at Max. He growled too—and sounded so dangerous that both Sam and Max stopped and stared at him. Sam leapt to diffuse the situation. Dean was more than cranky this morning, he was royally pissed off at the world, it seemed. "Um, I'm pretty sure Max was kidding, Dean. He didn’t mean to insult your car."
"Oh, hey, this is Dean? Man, I'm just twisting your brother up. I respect anyone who kept that car practically cherry." He grinned. "I've heard a lot of real good stuff about you man," he grinned, "pretty much non-stop."
Dean glanced at Sam, and Sam cursed—he could feel his cheeks go red. "Yeah...well, he's back home with me now, to stay."
Max nodded. "Yeah, shit happens." He spoke straight to Dean. "You're home now and that's what counts—that and this." He gestured to Dean and they walked over to a shrouded shape behind the shack. "I took care of her myself." He yanked the cover off of the Impala. "There she is son, just like you left her." He winked. "Maybe a little better than when your bro dropped her off."
Dean stared at the car silently. He walked around it, expressionless. He peered into the window, he ran his hand from the hood to the trunk…when he looked up at Max, his eyes were red. "Thanks."
Max coughed. "Nah, don’t thank me. I liked looking after her." He looked at Sam. "You want the keys, right?"
"Yeah, it's time to take her home. I thank you for taking care of her all this time. We both thank you."
Dean nodded. "That we do."
Max went back to the shack, and tossed the keys to Dean. "Check her out while me and your brother settle up."
Sam walked into the little shack that served as lounge and Max's office. Inside, the smell of bitter, burnt coffee, grease, metal, and old wood reminded Sam of Bobby's yard, and sixteen year old Dean tailing the man, sniffing around the cars and learning whatever Bobby would let him, sun burning his freckled skin lobster red but Dean not giving up, giving in…Sam's stomach clenched. He watched Dean through the windows—he was frozen at the hood of the car, one hand on the hood, the other clutching the keys like he held a lifeline.
Max noticed Sam's set expression, and Dean standing like a statue against the car, and asked softly, "He gonna be okay?"
Sam jerked his head back to Max, anger making his jaw bunch. "What—"
The other shook his head and held out his hands. "Man, I recognize the signs, that's all. I'm not trying to get in your business, I'm just saying--I know how it can be."
"Okay." Sam nodded. "Appreciate the concern, man, but we're doing all right—really. Thanks again for, you know."
Dean was still frozen in front of the car when Sam came out of the office, looked almost pathetically grateful when Sam held his hands out for the keys. "Later, Dean, later you can drive."
Dean just nodded and got in the car. He didn't ask when.
~~~~o0o~~~~
Dean's mood swings got more intense; he seemed to simmer at the edge of a rage all the time now. He watched Sam with an expression that seemed to say whatever was wrong, was Sam's fault. Sam was beginning to feel Dean was right, that for whatever was wrong, he as to blame. He tried to keep his feelings for Dean under control. He pulled away a bit more, just so Dean could breathe…it didn't seem to help.
He was better in the car. Sam started driving around the city, out to the suburbs…over the bridge and driving past tank farms and factories, out to the country just driving aimlessly and Dean would relax, tense muscles stretching, the lines bracketing his mouth, his eyes, easing…he'd roll the window down and smile into the wind, and each time Sam thought, we need to see, we need to go…we have to leave….
In the morning he called Dana and let her know that she was in charge of the office until he said different. She was the soul of solicitude, which was so unlike her that it could only mean one thing--Raph had a damn big mouth. Sam sighed inwardly. That was the part of letting other people in that he'd never accept lightly. They took it for granted that they *belonged* in, that your life and their's were…intertwined in some way. It was what Dean warned him against over and over….
Dean had always had this fantasy about his Stanford life, that it was full of him being Social Sammy and it wasn't really. Jess pulled him into her life and her friends and he'd let her but it didn't mean it's really been his life, or that he'd been the one to initiate the friendships. Though once he'd learned how to be friends, he'd done his best to hang on to them, even with moving all over until…until it was made plain to him that no, it wasn't possible. Being a *Winchester* made it impossible.
But settling here, and just being himself had brought a change. His crew had evolved into friends and eventually…family. And family brought it's own set of problems….
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
"Dean…"
"*What*?" Dean shouted. He leapt off the couch with a glare at Sam and stomped off to the bedroom. Sam followed behind, clenching and unclenching his fists, telling himself over and over, be nice to the brother, be understanding, be non-homicidal….
"Dean, would you let me talk to you, please?" Sam tried to keep his voice soft, non-confrontational and…it was hard. "Dean," you incredibly bitchy little…" Sam eased himself into the bedroom, ready to duck if necessary, ready to grab tissues if it what he'd be dealing with was a Dean blaming himself for everything wrong in Sam's life, and the world in general. "Look, Dean, what do you say to getting out of here for a while—say, a road trip—"
"Fuck yeah!" Dean boiled up off the bed. "Yes, let's get the fuck out of here, this place is eating me alive, it's like a god damn cage—" He grabbed Sam's shirt, pulled him into a hard, quick kiss, and let him go so suddenly Sam staggered. He stared after Dean, totally forgetting how to breathe, how to blink….
"Shit, yeah, lemme see," He flung open Sam's closet and tossed a bag onto the bed, started throwing clothes at it. "We need to take some of that stuff you got in the duffel too, no reason we can’t do some work on our way to—where the fuck are we going to, anyway?" The look Dean tossed him was—Dean. Pure and simple, bright and shining.
"I don’t know, just—s-someplace. Together, right?" Sam was reeling--he hadn't expected such enthusiastic agreement, he hadn't expected…he touched his mouth with shaking fingertips.
Dean dropped to his knees and rifled through the duffle, acting like nothing strange had happened. Sam was mesmerized by his frenetic activity, it was…interesting. "Let's see…shotgun, shells…hunh. My Colt." he stopped and rubbed his thumb along the grip…"I can't believe I haven't asked for it."
Dean muttered on, pleasure evident in the curve of his body, the timber of his voice. "Okay, nice…knives, good edge, silver—ouch.
Sam was instantly at Dean's side. "Cut yourself? Let me see."
"No!" Dean jerked away and shoved fingers into his mouth. "Get off, I'm not a girl--it's no big deal," he mumbled around his fingers.
Sam had seen a brief flash of what looked like a blister…he picked up the silver knife, and bounced it in his palm….
Knuckles knocked against his forehead. "Sam, hey. You here? What are you thinking about?"
"Ah…the last time we rode together. Our last job."
"Yeah." Dean patted his cheek, that odd, endearing gesture he'd picked up lately. "So, when we leaving?"
"Soon as I get it cleared at work—"
"Bullshit. You already cleared it before you asked me, sneaky mother fucker—oh! I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
Sam threw his arms up. "For fuck's sake, stop apologizing to me! Be yourself, Dean!"
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yeah…myself. Sorry." Sam watched the excitement leach away, and it made him want to scream.
"Dean…" he grabbed his arm and swung him to face him. "That wasn't a criticism, not really. It's just…I want you to stop walking on eggs around me. What do you think will happen if you curse at me? Jesus, it's got to be better than you scowling and growling and slinking around here with your tail between your legs."
Dean took a breath, and huffed, sharp and short. "Yeah. Okay. It's just…I don’t know. I know how much I owe you and it makes me feel like…I shouldn't piss you off."
"What you owe me? What about what I owe you? Dean, we're going to have to let go of owe and shit like that. It'd just you and me, and what we feel." He blushed hard—that came out wrong, it'd sounded--like a fucking soap opera. But it seemed to be what Dean needed to hear. He calmed, and smiled again. Bumped his fist against Sam's shoulder.
"Yeah. I hear ya."
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Sam was at the kitchen table, only the light over the stove illuminating the small space. He was quiet—Dean was sleeping, had been for a few hours, and Sam had finally worked up the nerve to dial a number he hadn’t for a few years.
"Bobby…." Sam fought the urge to whisper, cleared his throat and began again, a fraction louder this time. "Hey, Bobby…"
"Sam? Is that you? Boy, what the fuck! Where have you been—do you know how long it's been?"
Sam swallowed hard, blinked his eyes fast. "Better than anyone, I'd guess."
The answer was slow in coming, and when Bobby did speak, his voice sounded a little rougher. "Yeah, well…fuck…it's been three years this August, exactly. This day in fact."
"Bobby…wait a minute. How do you know?"
"Never mind that," came the mumbled reply. "Are you--are you okay? Sam—shit. You're not about ta try anything crazy are you?"
"Bobby, would I have waited three years if I was going to?"
"I guess not," Sam heard, after a short pause filled with hell yeah you would.
"I'm...really, I'm okay. I'm good." At the huff from the other end of the line, Sam said, "Besides, who'd know better than you if I was—okay, or not? Trust me, I'm doing fine."
"Well, what I do know is you dropped out of the community, not a God damn peep outa ya, not a thing. Not a word," Bobby said accusingly.
"I know." Sam rubbed knuckles against his eyes, in between his brows, trying to work out the tension there…"I just couldn't…couldn't. I need a favor."
"Oh, fucking surprise. What?"
Sam couldn't help the short bark of laughter that escaped him at Bobby's sarcasm. "Look, I'm sorry. I know, it sucks to get in touch, and then ask you for something, but it's important." All humor leeched away when he thought of just what it was he wanted. "Just—please."
"Oh fuck boy, go on ask."
"I just need to come out and see you, that's all. Tell you what's been going on. Man, honestly? I need a break."
Bobby sounded worried now. "What *are* you doing, Sam?" he asked, in a soft tone Sam knew he saved for those moments he was really concerned. "Are you keeping safe? You're in New York, ain't cha? Just…well, hunters out that way've been getting anonymous tips. Good tips."
"And you put one and one together and got four. You're one wily son-of-a-bitch, you know that?"
"Hell yeah. Kept our fat out of the fire on more than one occasion, boy, don’t you forget that."
"Yeah, that you did…thanks Bobby. Thanks for…"
"Ahhhhh, save it. Like your brother used ta say, no damn chick-flick moments, right?"
"Right," Sam said, and managed a laugh. Hearing Bobby's voice was steadily undoing him, his hand was shaking, and he had to blink harder, and faster….
"Okay, then. Get yer ass in gear, boy. You flying out?"
"No, I'll be driving the Impala."
"That a fact? Like to see her again. All right—you know where to stop on the way—Jackson's cabin's free right now—the one at the halfway point? Could tell him you'll be using it."
"That'd be fine Bobby. That'd be great. Here's my number."
"All right. See you in a few. Bring groceries; I ain't forgot your appetite."
"Hey—that was way back when--I was still growing back then—"
He got a snort in return and dead air. Sam grinned wide. Okay. That part was over, and it went a fucking lot better than he expected…what Bobby was going to say when he showed up on his porch with Dean…well, he'd leave thinking about that to another day.
TBC
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:2402
After breakfast, Sam called a cab and didn’t tell Dean where they were going, aside from Dean's one muttered curse word, he didn't say a word--they didn't talk to each other at all. Their entire conversation had devolved into a series of grunts and sighs, and then they were in front of a chain link fence sporting a once colorful sign that read "Max's Garage". The unlocked chain link gate shrieked and wobbled on its track as Sam pushed it to one side.
Once in the yard, he shouted to let whoever was there know they had company. "Hey, Max! Anybody here?"
An older guy in a faded once navy cover-all waved at Sam, the guy with his head stuffed into the engine of the old Mercedes they were working on looked up curiously, before tossing Sam a dis-interested salute. The old guy jerked his chin towards a shack surrounded by cars in various stages of repair, squatting on the edge of the concrete yard.
A heavy set man in crisp navy blue work shirts and pants looked out. "Winchester," Max called out. "Come to look at your piece of shit Chevy?"
"Whoa, watch out dude, you're treading on dangerous ground--" Sam mocked a growl and Dean was suddenly in front of him, crowding Sam back and bristling at Max. He growled too—and sounded so dangerous that both Sam and Max stopped and stared at him. Sam leapt to diffuse the situation. Dean was more than cranky this morning, he was royally pissed off at the world, it seemed. "Um, I'm pretty sure Max was kidding, Dean. He didn’t mean to insult your car."
"Oh, hey, this is Dean? Man, I'm just twisting your brother up. I respect anyone who kept that car practically cherry." He grinned. "I've heard a lot of real good stuff about you man," he grinned, "pretty much non-stop."
Dean glanced at Sam, and Sam cursed—he could feel his cheeks go red. "Yeah...well, he's back home with me now, to stay."
Max nodded. "Yeah, shit happens." He spoke straight to Dean. "You're home now and that's what counts—that and this." He gestured to Dean and they walked over to a shrouded shape behind the shack. "I took care of her myself." He yanked the cover off of the Impala. "There she is son, just like you left her." He winked. "Maybe a little better than when your bro dropped her off."
Dean stared at the car silently. He walked around it, expressionless. He peered into the window, he ran his hand from the hood to the trunk…when he looked up at Max, his eyes were red. "Thanks."
Max coughed. "Nah, don’t thank me. I liked looking after her." He looked at Sam. "You want the keys, right?"
"Yeah, it's time to take her home. I thank you for taking care of her all this time. We both thank you."
Dean nodded. "That we do."
Max went back to the shack, and tossed the keys to Dean. "Check her out while me and your brother settle up."
Sam walked into the little shack that served as lounge and Max's office. Inside, the smell of bitter, burnt coffee, grease, metal, and old wood reminded Sam of Bobby's yard, and sixteen year old Dean tailing the man, sniffing around the cars and learning whatever Bobby would let him, sun burning his freckled skin lobster red but Dean not giving up, giving in…Sam's stomach clenched. He watched Dean through the windows—he was frozen at the hood of the car, one hand on the hood, the other clutching the keys like he held a lifeline.
Max noticed Sam's set expression, and Dean standing like a statue against the car, and asked softly, "He gonna be okay?"
Sam jerked his head back to Max, anger making his jaw bunch. "What—"
The other shook his head and held out his hands. "Man, I recognize the signs, that's all. I'm not trying to get in your business, I'm just saying--I know how it can be."
"Okay." Sam nodded. "Appreciate the concern, man, but we're doing all right—really. Thanks again for, you know."
Dean was still frozen in front of the car when Sam came out of the office, looked almost pathetically grateful when Sam held his hands out for the keys. "Later, Dean, later you can drive."
Dean just nodded and got in the car. He didn't ask when.
Dean's mood swings got more intense; he seemed to simmer at the edge of a rage all the time now. He watched Sam with an expression that seemed to say whatever was wrong, was Sam's fault. Sam was beginning to feel Dean was right, that for whatever was wrong, he as to blame. He tried to keep his feelings for Dean under control. He pulled away a bit more, just so Dean could breathe…it didn't seem to help.
He was better in the car. Sam started driving around the city, out to the suburbs…over the bridge and driving past tank farms and factories, out to the country just driving aimlessly and Dean would relax, tense muscles stretching, the lines bracketing his mouth, his eyes, easing…he'd roll the window down and smile into the wind, and each time Sam thought, we need to see, we need to go…we have to leave….
In the morning he called Dana and let her know that she was in charge of the office until he said different. She was the soul of solicitude, which was so unlike her that it could only mean one thing--Raph had a damn big mouth. Sam sighed inwardly. That was the part of letting other people in that he'd never accept lightly. They took it for granted that they *belonged* in, that your life and their's were…intertwined in some way. It was what Dean warned him against over and over….
Dean had always had this fantasy about his Stanford life, that it was full of him being Social Sammy and it wasn't really. Jess pulled him into her life and her friends and he'd let her but it didn't mean it's really been his life, or that he'd been the one to initiate the friendships. Though once he'd learned how to be friends, he'd done his best to hang on to them, even with moving all over until…until it was made plain to him that no, it wasn't possible. Being a *Winchester* made it impossible.
But settling here, and just being himself had brought a change. His crew had evolved into friends and eventually…family. And family brought it's own set of problems….
"Dean…"
"*What*?" Dean shouted. He leapt off the couch with a glare at Sam and stomped off to the bedroom. Sam followed behind, clenching and unclenching his fists, telling himself over and over, be nice to the brother, be understanding, be non-homicidal….
"Dean, would you let me talk to you, please?" Sam tried to keep his voice soft, non-confrontational and…it was hard. "Dean," you incredibly bitchy little…" Sam eased himself into the bedroom, ready to duck if necessary, ready to grab tissues if it what he'd be dealing with was a Dean blaming himself for everything wrong in Sam's life, and the world in general. "Look, Dean, what do you say to getting out of here for a while—say, a road trip—"
"Fuck yeah!" Dean boiled up off the bed. "Yes, let's get the fuck out of here, this place is eating me alive, it's like a god damn cage—" He grabbed Sam's shirt, pulled him into a hard, quick kiss, and let him go so suddenly Sam staggered. He stared after Dean, totally forgetting how to breathe, how to blink….
"Shit, yeah, lemme see," He flung open Sam's closet and tossed a bag onto the bed, started throwing clothes at it. "We need to take some of that stuff you got in the duffel too, no reason we can’t do some work on our way to—where the fuck are we going to, anyway?" The look Dean tossed him was—Dean. Pure and simple, bright and shining.
"I don’t know, just—s-someplace. Together, right?" Sam was reeling--he hadn't expected such enthusiastic agreement, he hadn't expected…he touched his mouth with shaking fingertips.
Dean dropped to his knees and rifled through the duffle, acting like nothing strange had happened. Sam was mesmerized by his frenetic activity, it was…interesting. "Let's see…shotgun, shells…hunh. My Colt." he stopped and rubbed his thumb along the grip…"I can't believe I haven't asked for it."
Dean muttered on, pleasure evident in the curve of his body, the timber of his voice. "Okay, nice…knives, good edge, silver—ouch.
Sam was instantly at Dean's side. "Cut yourself? Let me see."
"No!" Dean jerked away and shoved fingers into his mouth. "Get off, I'm not a girl--it's no big deal," he mumbled around his fingers.
Sam had seen a brief flash of what looked like a blister…he picked up the silver knife, and bounced it in his palm….
Knuckles knocked against his forehead. "Sam, hey. You here? What are you thinking about?"
"Ah…the last time we rode together. Our last job."
"Yeah." Dean patted his cheek, that odd, endearing gesture he'd picked up lately. "So, when we leaving?"
"Soon as I get it cleared at work—"
"Bullshit. You already cleared it before you asked me, sneaky mother fucker—oh! I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
Sam threw his arms up. "For fuck's sake, stop apologizing to me! Be yourself, Dean!"
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yeah…myself. Sorry." Sam watched the excitement leach away, and it made him want to scream.
"Dean…" he grabbed his arm and swung him to face him. "That wasn't a criticism, not really. It's just…I want you to stop walking on eggs around me. What do you think will happen if you curse at me? Jesus, it's got to be better than you scowling and growling and slinking around here with your tail between your legs."
Dean took a breath, and huffed, sharp and short. "Yeah. Okay. It's just…I don’t know. I know how much I owe you and it makes me feel like…I shouldn't piss you off."
"What you owe me? What about what I owe you? Dean, we're going to have to let go of owe and shit like that. It'd just you and me, and what we feel." He blushed hard—that came out wrong, it'd sounded--like a fucking soap opera. But it seemed to be what Dean needed to hear. He calmed, and smiled again. Bumped his fist against Sam's shoulder.
"Yeah. I hear ya."
Sam was at the kitchen table, only the light over the stove illuminating the small space. He was quiet—Dean was sleeping, had been for a few hours, and Sam had finally worked up the nerve to dial a number he hadn’t for a few years.
"Bobby…." Sam fought the urge to whisper, cleared his throat and began again, a fraction louder this time. "Hey, Bobby…"
"Sam? Is that you? Boy, what the fuck! Where have you been—do you know how long it's been?"
Sam swallowed hard, blinked his eyes fast. "Better than anyone, I'd guess."
The answer was slow in coming, and when Bobby did speak, his voice sounded a little rougher. "Yeah, well…fuck…it's been three years this August, exactly. This day in fact."
"Bobby…wait a minute. How do you know?"
"Never mind that," came the mumbled reply. "Are you--are you okay? Sam—shit. You're not about ta try anything crazy are you?"
"Bobby, would I have waited three years if I was going to?"
"I guess not," Sam heard, after a short pause filled with hell yeah you would.
"I'm...really, I'm okay. I'm good." At the huff from the other end of the line, Sam said, "Besides, who'd know better than you if I was—okay, or not? Trust me, I'm doing fine."
"Well, what I do know is you dropped out of the community, not a God damn peep outa ya, not a thing. Not a word," Bobby said accusingly.
"I know." Sam rubbed knuckles against his eyes, in between his brows, trying to work out the tension there…"I just couldn't…couldn't. I need a favor."
"Oh, fucking surprise. What?"
Sam couldn't help the short bark of laughter that escaped him at Bobby's sarcasm. "Look, I'm sorry. I know, it sucks to get in touch, and then ask you for something, but it's important." All humor leeched away when he thought of just what it was he wanted. "Just—please."
"Oh fuck boy, go on ask."
"I just need to come out and see you, that's all. Tell you what's been going on. Man, honestly? I need a break."
Bobby sounded worried now. "What *are* you doing, Sam?" he asked, in a soft tone Sam knew he saved for those moments he was really concerned. "Are you keeping safe? You're in New York, ain't cha? Just…well, hunters out that way've been getting anonymous tips. Good tips."
"And you put one and one together and got four. You're one wily son-of-a-bitch, you know that?"
"Hell yeah. Kept our fat out of the fire on more than one occasion, boy, don’t you forget that."
"Yeah, that you did…thanks Bobby. Thanks for…"
"Ahhhhh, save it. Like your brother used ta say, no damn chick-flick moments, right?"
"Right," Sam said, and managed a laugh. Hearing Bobby's voice was steadily undoing him, his hand was shaking, and he had to blink harder, and faster….
"Okay, then. Get yer ass in gear, boy. You flying out?"
"No, I'll be driving the Impala."
"That a fact? Like to see her again. All right—you know where to stop on the way—Jackson's cabin's free right now—the one at the halfway point? Could tell him you'll be using it."
"That'd be fine Bobby. That'd be great. Here's my number."
"All right. See you in a few. Bring groceries; I ain't forgot your appetite."
"Hey—that was way back when--I was still growing back then—"
He got a snort in return and dead air. Sam grinned wide. Okay. That part was over, and it went a fucking lot better than he expected…what Bobby was going to say when he showed up on his porch with Dean…well, he'd leave thinking about that to another day.
TBC
no subject
I love that they got the Impala back, and Dean's reaction to the guy's comment. Sam's got his head in the right place when he was telling him they need to stop keeping score, but he kinda missed the point, I think, when he told Dean to act like himself.
They've both changed, but it's the little things that are still there. I love what you've done with the previous sections, and I always squee when you post!
*happysigh* You still breathing deeply over there? *eyes you*
no subject
no subject
Though, why am I surprised? :)
no subject
Though, why am I surprised? :)
Omg, the little eyes!!!
*hugs you, snickers so hard*
no subject
Miss Rose, what are you doing to me?
Hell, what are you doing to *them*??
*flails a bit*
Bobby!!