SpN: Impossible Things 2/?
6/27/10 01:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxy
Sorry, it just wouldn't let me go. Sam's a chatty thing right now--there will be more.
part one
Title: Impossible Things
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4255
Summary: What happens when you survive a thing you never expected to. Pre-slash
Sam leaned back in the shadows of the room and watched the outdoors through the slats of the Venetian blind. Watched Dean wrestle a lawnmower out of the shed at the end of the building's parking lot. The mower looked antique, but Sam was sure Dean would be able to get it to do whatever he wanted it to; his brother was good like that.
Dean tensed over the mower, and Sam could see from the curve of Dean's back and the set of his shoulders he was checking the thing out--right now, Sam could tell, his brother was running through a mental checklist and just by eyeballing it, knew what it needed.
Dean shook his head and from Sam's third floor perch, he imagined he could hear his brother's exasperated sigh. Sam smiled. Hell, he was prepared for outrageous amusement—Dean mowing a lawn? The very idea made him snicker to himself. They'd never stayed anywhere that they'd needed to mow a lawn; at least Sam didn’t remember either of them ever doing something like that. He dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a soda, and raced back to his hiding place at the window. There wasn't anything weird about peeking out of a window and secretly watching your brother do yard work. Nothing wrong about it at all. Sam took a guilty sip of his coke and wondered if it was hot enough outside to wear shorts or maybe take your shirt off or sweat some. His fingers flinched, the brief tremor making them unsteady so he put his soda down and closed his eyes. Took a steadying breath. God....
When he opened them again, Dean was leaning over the mower, yanking on a string of some kind, trying to get the thing started. It gasped and coughed before it caught and then Dean started pushing it along the narrow strip of lawn that flanked the parking lot. He got as far as the bushes that defined the end of the lawn before suddenly dashing towards them. Sam wondered what he'd seen to make him run like that, cat, dog—something bad? Dean slammed to a sudden stop, and Sam understood, in an unpleasant rush, what his brother was doing, was throwing up in the bushes.
What the fuck… Dean swayed to a stop, his head hanging down, one hand swiping across his mouth and the other gripping his knee. It looked like he was shaking. Sam leaped up, ready to run down the stairs but Dean stood, squared his shoulders and pushed the mower onward….
Sam pushed away from the window. It wasn't fun anymore to watch. Something must be wrong, for him to be sick like that. Maybe the sun. Maybe he ate something bad—Dean would eat green baloney if Sam didn't watch out for him. Yeah, that's probably what it was. Or. Maybe it was being stuck here with…without any space of his own.
Sam went back to his room.
"Sam—your sugar daddy's back!"
"Yeah, fuck you. Took you long enough—you've been mowing forever." Sam turned and raked his eyes over Dean. He looked okay, sweaty and a little red, but that was to be expected. Trading a fairly nocturnal lifestyle for all this sun and stuff, maybe he was having to adjust…"What do you want to eat? I made BLTs but if you're not feeling well…."
"What? I feel fine. BLTs sound great." Dean dropped the tool belt he'd taken to wearing lately on the couch, and kicked his boots off. He walked into the kitchen, shoved Sam away from the fridge. "Thirsty."
Shoving him back somehow ended up with Dean leaning against Sam. Just for a quick minute, sure, but it was real, and Dean grinned at him before wandering back to the table, chugging iced tea straight from the carton. Sam felt the warm press of Dean's body even after Dean swaggered away and threw himself into one of the chairs and propped his sweaty, grimy, filthy elbows on Sam's clean table. Which observation Sam thankfully managed to keep to himself—he'd already given Dean mocking material to last a lifetime. Couple lifetimes. Instead he addressed the other issue that was making him feel like kicking the crap out of his brother.
"Gug, you disgusting slob. I was going to have some of that tea, you know."
"Oh please, like we haven't shared grosser fluids than spit—" Dean stopped and flushed. "You know what I mean."
Sam laughed, kind of high and breathy, the way he did when he was seriously amused and he hated that he did it, it sounded so girly. "You know what they say about Freudian slips, Dean."
"Yeah, they go great with your pretty pink dresses. Shut up and feed me bitch. So--'' he continued after Sam dropped a plate piled with sandwiches in front of him. "What are you going to do? Can't hang out in the apartment all day every day."
Sam frowned. "What, you getting tired of me hanging around already?"
Dean stopped eating and swept Sam with his eyes, tight and intense, seemed to relax after a second. "Well, no—but you gotta be bored. Put that giant brain of yours to use, right?"
"Why can't I help you?" Sam fumed when Dean had the nerve to laugh like he'd told the funniest joke ever.
"Because for one thing, you don’t know shit about this kind of stuff and also, you'd fucking blow yourself up trying to change a light bulb."
Sam might have been a little more insulted if it wasn't kind of true. But fuck, anyone could break a light bulb off in a lamp socket. And electrocute themselves a little bit trying to take it out…and the wiring in the dumps they lived in was so crappy that hey, it was no surprise he'd knocked out electric to the room…house…whatever. Like it never happened to anyone else. To his brother he said, "Fuck you."
Dean just grinned. And winked.
Later, they washed the dishes, elbows rubbing and bumping in the narrow space. They collided and rebounded like bumper cars, Dean singing softly, casually, in his surprisingly pleasant voice. It reminded Sam of when they were kids and sometimes Dean would sing to him, like really sing, not yell all screechy and warbley the way he did now, mostly in the car, to get on Sam's nerves. It was nice, and Sam smiled a lot, even while he dodged the water Dean thought was so fucking funny to flick at him. He felt good and even better when he managed to hit Dean square in the face with the sopping dishcloth.
For a guy who only spoke English and a smattering of Spanish, it was amazing how many curse words in other languages he knew…Sam was always learning something new about his brother.
After, they sat in the living room and talked about the television they'd buy soon as they could afford it, until it was time to go to bed. Dean slapped his shoulder before going off to his bedroom and closing the door on Sam. Sam listened at the doorway to the bump and rustle of Dean getting ready for bed until he started to feel a little queasy and lot like some kind of creep, before going off to his own bed.
Sam thought about what Dean had said. He spent days thinking about it. He was right, it was weak to be sitting around and letting Dean take care of him—again. Even though Dean didn't really seem to mind. He'd said what he said out of concern, Sam could tell that. It was time to do something, to find a life like Dean had, however temporary.
The town had a tiny library with few current books but a surprising amount of excellent information about schools. Then again, maybe not so surprising—he figured most of the kids in the area must be as eager as he'd been once upon a time to get the fuck out.
On the heels of that thought came a wave of grief-guilt-sadness-frustration. Easy to ride out, it was something he'd become used to. These days, he wasn't even sure what it meant—the loss of his lover, or the hope of ever having a picture perfect life. Maybe it came from having lost the desire for such a thing in the first place. Or, maybe it came from knowing that lovers and homes, that none of that had ever had any chance of being his. Sometimes, he thought it came from having come so close to losing his brother, shucking him off like an old coat.
Sam sighed. His whole life was knotted, snarled, so entwined and turned in on itself he couldn't tease out the beginning from the end.
He raised his head and stared at the water marked ceiling, blinked back the hot weight in his eyes. It hurt, what he'd lost, and sometimes it felt like there was nothing in his life worth living for. Except for Dean. All he had left was a brother who was kind of high maintenance for a guy. Moody, bitchy as all hell, for all he complained what a bitch Sam was, no one could throw a bitch fit like Dean when he was pissed off….
Sam stared the length of the dark wood table. Drummed his fingers against the polished wood, pressed the callused pads into grooves cut by generations of disrespectful hooligans—scores of baby Deans. He'd lost those calluses at Stanford. How quickly they'd come back…and it hit him, all at once, like a punch in the gut.
Dean was getting ready to *leave* him. As soon as he was sure that Sam could take care of himself, he was going to leave.
Sam closed his eyes and waited for the sickening wave of fury to leach out of him.
Dean was an idiot. He wasn't ever going to separate little from brother. Dean was going to try and keep doing Sam's thinking for him, keep jumping in front of the gun for him. His brother was a monumental asshole, and Sam was going to kick his fucking ass from one end of town to the other. What would it take to make Dean understand, it was done? There was no place he could be now except wherever Dean was. He didn't have anything to give to anyone else. He was a shell, filled with horror and guilt and shame. It didn't exactly make for a tempting package, not even for someone desperate enough to settle for a fixer-upper. Didn't have anything left to fix. And Dean. The stubborn sonofabitch refused to see that Sam had nothing to offer anyone.
Sam shook himself and glanced at his watch. Twelve. Dean would be coming in for lunch soon; he'd probably want more than peanut butter sandwiches. Demanding jerk. Maybe it'd be better to stop and pick up something on the way home, one of those precooked chickens he liked. The ones made mostly of salt and enough grease to gag a—a—whatever liked grease as much as Dean did.
If such a thing existed.
On the way home, he passed a bookstore, an antique shop, a café, a bar, a bakery, a daycare center….
"I'm going to finish my degree."
Dean stopped chewing. Swallowed. "Hunh. All right then. Let me know when and where you want me to drop you. Shouldn't take long to wrap stuff up here—"
What Dean said sent Sam into babbling mode. "Jesus. I *meant* I'd go to school here. Online. It's possible--unless you'd rather go somewhere else. I go somewhere else. I just thought you were comfortable. I mean with me being here."
Dean leaned back in his chair, a look on his face Sam couldn't read. "Some day, you're going to have to go out on your own, right? It's, whada'ya call it, inevitable."
Sam stared at his brother, counted to ten, said 'fuck it' and threw a spoon at his head. "Fucking say it, *Dean*. Just tell me you don’t want me around." Which was stupid really, because of course Dean wanted him around, he was sure of it. More or less.
His brother stood and glared, and said, "You're such a pain in the ass, *Sam*." He buckled his tool belt around his hips, glared at Sam again before flipping him off and storming to the door.
Sam yelled, "You just wear that stupid belt because you think it makes you look hot—well, it doesn't!"
The apartment door slammed shut, hard enough to shake the thrift shop prints Sam had hung on the walls. Sam stared after, two things on his mind—how hot his brother looked with that tool belt hugging his hips and how much he wished Dean cared the same way back.
He felt so sad, and it was just ridiculous to feel sad. All that mattered was that Dean wasn't happy here—or rather, Dean was even unhappier than Sam had guessed. Dean didn’t deserve being unhappy, not after everything he'd given. This—this whole thing wasn't worth it if Dean was that fucking miserable.
Sam said to the empty room. "I should leave. I am going to leave." He grabbed his backpack and walked out the door, down the steps, out the front doors and right past Dean.
Den watched him—Sam knew he was watching, he felt it. When he stepped off the curb to cross the street he heard, "Bring some ice-cream back."
Sam thought, you're going to be waiting a god damn long time for ice-cream, you asshole. He wiped dust out of his eyes and trudged down the street, the bag hanging like a dead weight on his shoulder.
That night, they split a pint of Phish Food and Sam had a job at the food market a few blocks over. Dean kept smiling at him and Sam kept blushing and wishing he'd stop.
"Did you have a nice walk—"
"You know what, shut the fuck up, eat your ice-cream, I don't want to hear it."
It pissed Sam off how Dean managed to smile even louder.
Somehow, Sam thought everything was going to fit better after that, that Dean would see that he needed Sam around…that Dean would finally see the Sam he was now.
Nope.
Sam was dragging himself up the stairs, tired, smelling of stale air and damaged produce. All he was capable of thinking about clearly was getting home, getting clean and maybe talking Dean into going out later for some Chinese and a few beers. He hit the second floor landing the very same minute that Dean was letting himself out of some woman's apartment. He was flushed a satisfied pink, and smirked over his shoulder in a theatrically leering way. She was propped up in the doorway, looking like a Guild of Seamstresses reject. she giggled when Dean winked at her.
Sam kind of wanted to rip her head off and poke Dean's eye out. Dean turned around and startled when he saw Sam. "What are you doing here?" he snapped—practically accused. Blonde hussy was no fool; she slipped back in her apartment quick as a wink.
Sam snarled, "Coming home from work and what are you doing, trying to lose your job?"
"Who's gonna know besides me and her--and now you?" Dean scowled and in general carried on way beyond what the situation called for. If anyone had a right to pout and scowl, Sam felt it was all his. Well, sort of. Okay maybe he didn’t have a right to be…fuck. Jealous, damn it. But he was, and his heart hurt too. It'd been so long that Dean had flirted or gave any of the usual signs he'd 'got lucky' that Sam had started to think…stupid thoughts. Stupid thoughts. So he sucked it up, and smiled at Dean and winked. "Eh, you're right. Go get 'er, tiger."
"'Go get 'er, tiger'? What are you, someone's inappropriate creepy grandpa? Beat it, I got work to do."
"Think you can keep it in your pants next job?" Which was totally not what Sam had planned to say, he'd meant to come out with something witty and risqué and boys talking shit together but that had come out kind of thirteen year old girl-ish.
Dean looked at him like he was crazy. "Yeah, think I can since it's old Mr. K on six…."
Sam shoved down all his stupidity, managed a smirk and said, "I don't know, he's got a great smile and killer calves…."
Dean laughed and Sam laughed too, and everything was back to their slidey version of normal again. Which didn't last long. Sam had to acknowledge he was the genius of fucking things up.
Yeah, fucking things up, making epic fucked up choices, that was something he was really good at.
"So, I got us invited to bar tonight."
"Yeah?" Dean's attention was mostly on the baseball game playing out on their new TV. It looked good sat on their new fake cherry wood TV stand. Dean's feet looked comfortable planted solidly on their new rug.
"Some people are getting together after work tonight and I thought you might like to come. Booze and loose women—well, some of the girls I work with seem like they might like hanging out with ugly old guys like yourself."
"Shut up. Your friends know you're pimping 'em out?" Dean asked, but when Sam turned from tossing discounted groceries into the cabinets Dean looked milder than his tone had been. He looked to be still absorbed in the game. Sam shook his head. Sometimes his brain played weird tricks on him, like when it told him Dean was watching and when he looked Dean wouldn't even be in the room.
"They're not exactly my friends, and I'm not pimping anyone. I'm just asking if you want to come with me."
"You don't have to bribe me, kid. I'd come hold your hand without you waving wenches at me." Now Dean really was looking at him, and his smile was genuine.
"You’re so…" Sam wanted to say 'disgusting and sexist in a medieval way', but it was hard to when his lips were stuck on a grin. Hold his hand. It was an image Sam's heart seemed to like a lot. But then, his heart always was stupid as fuck.
It was fun. He was having a good time, and nothing could have surprised Sam more, he was shocked, even. The people turned out to be a lot more interesting than he'd imagined people forced to care about whether all the cans on a shelf were facing with the labels out would be. There were a few who were in the same boat as he was—not temporarily ex-hunters, but possessing degrees that at the moment, weren't doing shit for them.
Life. It had everybody by the shorts.
And Dean. His brother was getting on with everyone. Seemed that he'd turned the charm-o-meter to high and was doing that thing that reeled in defenseless, unsuspecting victims, that thing that made Sam stumble around sleepless in the middle of the night, wishing he was drunk, or living far away in another country. He consoled himself with the thought that none of these people would ever get to know who Dean really was, not like he knew. He turned on his stool in time to catch Dean walking out the door with the chick who worked pharmacy.
Then again, some people would get to know Dean in ways he was never going to. Unless there really was such a thing as sex pollen, or some crazy witch would actually curse them to have....
Sam thought maybe the best thing to do here was to get seriously, fucking, pass-out drunk. It was a good plan but a few minutes into it, one of the guys from the loading dock asked him if he wanted to smoke in his car and Sam said yes and one thing led to another and he found himself being kind of manhandled all over the inside of a Civic. There really wasn't enough room for what the guy was trying to do but Sam admired his enthusiasm. Sam decided he was too drunk to continue when everything the guy did made him break out in giggles.
The guy stopped, huffed a patient breath into the pot-scented air. "So. This isn’t going to happen, is it?" he asked.
"Um…no, I don’t think so…m'sorry?"
"Eh." The guy shrugged—grinned in a friendly way that reminded Sam a little of his brother. That grin tugged at his heart. "Maybe some other time?" the guy asked. "And definitely some other place?"
He laughed quietly, and patted Sam's arm. Sam felt a deep wave of alcohol-and-cannabis fueled affection sweep him. The guy, Jamar, Jake, whatever, the guy was a real nice person, a sweetheart; he'd love to try again, partly because Jerry, Jalil, was so nice. Mostly because Sam didn’t think he had a lot of other options and he so wasn't planning on living his life like a monk. But not a slut either, not like some other people he could name. The look on Jarek's, Jamie's--the guy's face--a kind of befuddled curiosity, made Sam realize he'd been talking out loud. Okay. Sam was about to say that he thought it was a good idea to try some other time if Jacob was still interested when the car door opened and Sam fell out onto the gravel.
"What the fuck is going on here!" Dean yelled, and reached around to the back of his waist and Sam shouted, "No Dean!" before remembering they didn’t really go strapped anymore. He jumped up to grab Dean's arm and everything slid sideways.
"Whoa—who's moving things?" he muttered and Dean cursed, caught Sam in both arms. He glared at poor Civic guy and Sam figured he'd remember his real name at some point. Jason, pretty sure that was it…meanwhile, Dean was warm and solid and just so…there. He sighed and melted against him. Warm. Nice.
"The only reason I'm not kicking your ass right now is my hands are full of idiot," Dean snarled and the guy just nodded like Sam was a blushing virgin and not a twenty-eight year old man who was responsible for himself and hadn't he told Dean he was bi at some point? Sam stood scrunching his face at the sky, trying to remember that conversation, when Dean pushed him upright and let go of him. He kept a steadying hand on Sam's arm. Sam whimpered at the loss of warmth.
"Come on, you drunk ass yeti, let's get you home. Jesus. How drunk *are* you? I mean--a guy? Sam, what's going on here?"
Sam said, I'm bi, and you're a homophobe but it came out, "Nur, gun thrup."—and Dean did an amazing kind of side-step, arm-twist thing that had Sam twirling and bending and vomiting away from them instead of all over their shoes. He had a brief second to admire Dean's grace before harking all over the edge of the gravel drive. Shit, he'd only had a few beers and some shots and smoked a little, it'd been a while but not that long—"arrrgh. Bunh-bunh—"
"God, stop trying to talk and get it done. You're not getting in my car 'til you're all barfed out."
"Dean…" tears of strain ran down Sam's face. Strain, nothing else. He slid his hands over Dean's chest, looking for some shirt to hang onto, and dropped his head on Dean's shoulder because he was so tired. He waited for a smack or for Dean to push him away but Dean kind of…un-tensed, shoved his fingers under the hair at back of Sam's neck and rubbed his knuckles at the base of his skull, the way he hadn't done since Sam was thirteen or so. It felt so good he wanted to cry.
"You poor idiot. What're you trying to do? Hunh? Is it that bad, Sammy?" he whispered.
Sam nodded. Yes. Feeling this way was that bad. Being tortured daily was that bad. It was.
Dean made soothing noises and let Sam hang off of him a wonderful long time. Of course, it had to end, and finally Dean pushed him off and shoveled him into the car.
"You're lucky, no one saw you act like a girl. Don’t worry about Handsy McDeadGuy; he's not gonna say a word." Dean scowled. "But next time, no drinking without me."
Fucking brilliant advice. Dean should have given it at the start of the evening—or not left Sam alone while he went off with some hobag. "Oh crap," he muttered to himself. He didn't mean that, she was a nice enough girl, it was just—the car rocked and bumped over the gravel parking lot and Sam clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Hey! You okay, Sam?" Dean was balling up a napkin—tossed it out the window. He caught Sam's eyes on him and shrugged. "Nothing important," he said, "relax, we'll be home soon."
Fuck…home. What was a home?
part three
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
6/27/10 03:09 pm (UTC)*sniffles*
Poor Sam, all tangled up and confused and unhappy.
*pets him*
"You’re so…" Sam wanted to say 'disgusting and sexist in a medieval way', but it was hard to when his lips were stuck on a grin. Hold his hand. It was an image Sam's heart seemed to like a lot. But then, his heart always was stupid as fuck.
Love it.
And Dean being *Dean*, i love your Dean....heh.
Good stuff!
You've got a few things in asterisks, like - *Dean* that I'm thinking should be italics?
(no subject)
6/28/10 01:37 am (UTC)Yeah, that asterisks thing again...I start out using the * for emphasis, and then forget and use italics. I get excited...*G*
I'm going to have to put tape over that asterisks key, oy!
(no subject)
6/28/10 01:48 am (UTC)And i use * * for emphasis *all the time*. See?
So yeah, i totally get that you forget when writing.
*twirls you*
(no subject)
6/27/10 03:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/28/10 11:14 am (UTC)We'll have to fix that!
(no subject)
6/27/10 08:30 pm (UTC)It seems like they're trying to build a relationship that's based on what they had in Season 1 and 2; ignoring all the messed up crap they had to deal with after. I hope it works. =]
(no subject)
6/28/10 11:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/27/10 10:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/28/10 11:19 am (UTC)*pats Sam*
Right?
(no subject)
6/29/10 03:53 am (UTC)Gorgeous! I love the unspoken discord between the boys, and Dean's reaction to Sam and his male co-worker was very interesting indeed. But, the final line just summed up all of Sam's current emotions.
(no subject)
6/29/10 02:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/29/10 04:37 am (UTC)At least you're neglecting NTM for something truly enjoyable. I forgive you now. NOW GIVE ME NTM. :)
(no subject)
6/29/10 02:36 pm (UTC)Okay, okay!!
I'm so glad you like Impossible Things though, I'm not always sure about the stuff that's totally self-indulgent!
I will give you NTM when you help jump-start my brian--nyah!
(no subject)
6/30/10 05:58 am (UTC)Why is Dean puking? *whimpers*
Poor in denial Sammy. *pets Sammy*
*grabby hands*
(no subject)
6/30/10 03:00 pm (UTC)Ah! Dean is puking because the last time he mowed a lawn, things went horribly, horribly wrong!
Yes, poor Sam--he's all twisted in knots but in the next bit, it gets
really twistybetter!!*G*
impossible part 2
7/5/10 11:52 pm (UTC)This is just marvelous:
Sam stood scrunching his face at the sky
He so would. Thinking while drunk. Sam, if you had discussed your sexual orientation with Dean, don't you think you'd remember it? Unless you were as out of it as you are right now, in which case, probably not going to remember ever?
And he's right, his coworker is a sweetheart. It's not everyone who can accept rejection so gracefully. Especially rejection in the form of stoned giggling at your best moves.
Re: impossible part 2
7/6/10 01:34 am (UTC)It's not everyone who can accept rejection so gracefully. Especially rejection in the form of stoned giggling at your best moves.
Right? The man's a saint!
(no subject)
7/2/10 04:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/6/10 01:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/6/10 09:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/24/10 02:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
10/16/10 07:07 pm (UTC)Still, loving the story.
(no subject)
10/17/10 01:08 am (UTC)*hug*
*G*
(no subject)
10/16/10 11:31 pm (UTC)But then, his heart always was stupid as fuck.
Oh, Sammy.
(no subject)
10/17/10 01:12 am (UTC)