SpN: Public Enemies (part 2 of 4)
6/26/11 02:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Public Enemies Book One/part 2 of 4
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John Winchester, original characters
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5487
Summary: a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.
Notes/Warnings: abuse, dub-con, harsh images, morally challenged Sam, troubled Dean. There are hints of abuse, physical and sexual, but nothing terribly graphic. The rating is for the overall fic—it varies according to update. The fic features the boys at a very young age.
The boy sat at the little table and watched his brother write, his pencil working in fine swooping loops and dashes across the paper. Precise and careful, and his forehead wrinkled in deep concentration. His soft, candy-pink lips pursed and smoothed as he wrote, again and again, sometimes the tip of his tongue darted out and tapped his lip, like a kitten searching for milk. Dean smiled. Sammy was so serious sometimes. He eased away so as not to disturb his brother, and set a pot on the little coal stove. He emptied a can of beans into it, and added a few pieces of salt pork for flavor and what meat it offered. He stirred slowly, humming under his breath. A pot of water boiled on the back of the stove, cooking tea to a bitter blackness.
"Here, baby brother, ready for food?" He passed Sam a bowl with beans and a slice of bread he'd picked all the green off of, and a mug of tea. He brought a can of Borden's milk in from the deep, chilly windowsill of the basement window and poured a good slug into Sam's tea, his own as well. He passed out the sugar, a few heaping teaspoonfuls into Sam's mug because left to himself, he'd have emptied the bowl into his cup.
The night was no different than any other night they'd spent in their room under the stairs. School work, dinner, bed and every Saturday, a bath. It was regular as clockwork and Dean found the sameness comforting. After they ate, Sam sat on their bed and read, and Dean checked his shoes over. One boot was really kind of thin in the sole, plus Sam was growing fast, his shoes were getting too small. Dean's would do a while longer, he could get away with lining the soles of his boots with some cardboard but Sammy really needed new boots, no fooling. A couple of extra jobs and he could…"Ow!"
He pressed the heel of his hand against the brightly throbbing spot on his forehead that connecting hard with Sam's brought. Sam leaned back on his knees, his hands cradling his own head, staring at Dean like he'd slammed him on purpose. "Jesus, what the hell, Squirt, warn a fella before you attack him like that—and what was that anyway?"
"I wanted to do this, but you moved," he pouted, and then he leaped into Dean again and this time, his mouth slammed against Dean's. Dean felt a spot on his inner lip give way painfully, and blood slick his tongue. Sam meanwhile, leaned back and looked at Dean speculatively, blankly, waiting for his reaction in the much the same way a collector might watch a butterfly in a killing jar.
"Sam—what in the world was that?"
"A kiss," he said, his tone full of what an idiot Dean was for not knowing. "It's what you do when you like someone. And this," and he pushed his hand into Dean's lap.
"No! We don't do that," Dean cried and leaped as far back as he could on the narrow bed. "Where ya getting this stuff from? Who ya been talkin' to? You ain't been by Boggy's have yah?" he asked and rage swept over him in so fiercely, so deeply that he shook, suddenly weak with the desire to kill the man.
Sam's face flushed red, and then white as the blood drained away. He looked frightened, more than he'd ever looked when their dad was on a tear. "Don’t hit me," he begged and Dean felt like a monster.
"Jesus, I'm not gonna hit you, just tell me who showed you to do this?"
Sam jumped off the bed and stood at its side, swaying on one foot. His hand wrapped around the bed post, wringing it, worrying at flecks of peeled paint. He stared at the floor, swallowed and muttered, "It was Jeanie. She had a date in the stairwell and I watched. When she saw me, she told me what she was doing. Said it was how you showed someone you liked them."
"And did the bitch just tell you or show you?" Dean asked because he didn’t mind hurting her—he knew her pimp and he wasn't afraid of him, the guy was a bum and a pussy.
"Naw, she just laughed when she saw my…" Sam turned bright red and scrapped his nails down the bedpost, sending a shower of flakes to the floor. His lips twisted up, his cat's eyes looked even more slanted for a second…before a tear rolled over his cheek and splashed against Dean's foot.
"Wha—oh. Don’t worry about that. You felt…funny down there? He asked and poked Sam under the bellybutton. Sam giggled before he remembered he was upset and scowled and turned redder, nodded. "Yeah," Dean said, "no big deal. Happens to everyone—yeah, me too."
Dean sighed and patted the bed next to him until Sam jumped back in bed. "Only, don't do that anymore because boys don’t kiss each other."
Sam gasped at the absurdity of Dean's comment. "But you kiss me all the time!"
"Do not—well, not like that. I kiss you goodnight. Not ona lips. On the cheek's okay, or right here—" He pulled Sam close and kissed the top of his head. "See? That's okay. Now lay down an' go ta sleep."
They stretched out and shimmied and wiggled until they fit together like warm puzzle pieces. Dean sighed and let himself drift…the last thing he heard or thought he heard was Sam whisper, "I don't care if they don’t, I do…."
* * * * * *
The light struggling through the dirty basement window was what woke Dean up, and not the wet, ticklish slide of sweat between himself and his brother, wrapped around him like ivy on a wall. Sam always put out a little more heat than Dean did, but it wasn't as cold that morning as it had been. The season was turning and before long, it'd be warm every morning. That was a blessing, and a problem, Dean mused. They'd have no way to keep food cold, which meant buying daily, which meant….he'd probably have to turn part of that job over to Sam. Not that Sam couldn’t handle it, he just…well, that was his job, feeding his brother.
Dean slipped out of bed carefully, giving Sam a few more minutes sleep. He poured a little water in the pan on the stove and when the water warmed, dipped a piece of toweling into it. "Sam," he called and his brother came, grumbling and huffing, his face still sleep soft and wrinkled by the pillow, hair standing out around his head like a nimbus. He lifted his chin for a kiss, and Dean gave it, complaining about Sam's breath until his brother snorted a laugh. He shoved Sam towards the bowl Dean had set on the table, the tooth powder clenched in one small fist and a glass and brush in the other. He squinted around at the room, hissed a little.
"Headache again?" Dean frowned in sympathy when his brother nodded but it obviously wasn't one of the bad ones he'd get occasionally. Sam's eyes were red, but dry, and he didn't look sick. Dean decided he'd be okay to go to school. "Okay then, wash up quick. I gotta get to work and you gotta get to school."
Sam shoved the brush in his mouth and worked up foam while Dean flew through his birdbath. Sam took his place after Dean washed and when he was through they dressed, sat down to tea and toast.
"You come right home after school and you stay here, okay, and then we'll do something together."
Sam nodded, gave him a brief smile and ran off to school. Dean sighed. Sam needed him less and less these days….
* * * * * *
Boggs looked up when Dean sauntered into his place. He tilted the bowler hat he wore constantly and winked at Dean. "Got a job for you," Boggy said, biting down on the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Dean looked at him, glanced over the other men standing around Boggy, his own little collection of scabs and bums he called his gang. Some of them snickered. Whatever it was probably wasn't good but…Dean shrugged. "Okay…."
The man opened the door to his room and ushered Dean inside. "This is a special job. I'm gonna need you to run this over to Mr. Assasi's," Boggy said, rocking back on his heels, smiling.
Dean's stomach grumbled. He smelled sausage and bread and it made his mouth fill with spit so fast it hurt. He'd given Sam almost all of the bread that morning, them being short of cash the last few days and Dean couldn't stand for Sam to be hungry. Along with the spicy scent of the meat and the buttery-flour scent of bread, he smelled tea, boiling away on the stove and He glanced around the room at the table set for one, and in the corner, a big bed. Two fox-faced boys were sitting in it, the blankets to their hips and their thin chests bare. Dean made a face. More 'foundlings'. More unfortunates that good-hearted old Bill Boggs was watching out for, bless his fucking twisted heart. One of the boys sneered at Dean, his narrow face twisting up in amusement. He licked something off his fingers and Dean turned his eyes away. He didn’t give a damn what Boggs did, as long as it didn’t involve him and Sam….
Dean thought about the offered job and cursed. Assasi. The old man was sure the mug had killed their mother. What if…what if stripping away everything that had made John Winchester a man hadn't been enough for Assasi? What if when he saw Dean, he knew him? Maybe decide his revenge needn't stop with the old man—what if he wanted to ice him, and Sammy, too? What if…Dean's eyes narrowed. Well, fuck him, he thought. The goon 'd just find himself face to face with another Winchester not so easy to kill, and even if he managed it, Sam…his Sam would find a way to make Assasi sweat blood, sure as shit, he would.
Dean flinched at movement at the corner of his eye and his hand tightened on the ever-present knife in his pocket. It was one of the of the boys in Bill's bed, up now and strolling over to the stove, his bare ass flexing as he took thick china cups off the hooks above the stove, and Dean thought how much he looked like Sam that way, thin and ribby and pinched. He thought of Sam stuffed into Boggy's bed and felt his stomach roll. "Yeah. Okay. I'll get it to him."
* * * * * *
Assasi's 'place' was in that section of town that Dean wouldn't voluntarily go. Tall brownstones marched up each side of the street, wide, clean marble steps leading up to neat brick houses. Neatly painted doors flanked by windows, some with flowers drooping out of iron grilles, made the houses look happy. There were trees on the street and brass hitching posts set along the curbs though there were no horses in this neighborhood. A large town car, a beautiful Pierce-Arrow, rolled past him and he swung around to watch it go, transfixed.
Dean found the address at last, and trudged up to the wide marble doorsteps. A few pinstripe-suited mokes hung out on the steps—Dean could see they were packing--house guards. They let him come up the steps when he waved the note from Boggy. The package he held onto like it was gold.
The older of the men looked Dean over, taking in his ragged, tweed cap, knobby knees poking out from his thread-bare shorts. He definitely looked unimpressed.
"Wait here," he said, took the note and slipped in the front door. The other moke watched him, a cigarette barely hanging off his lip. He watched Dean like he was watching a roach and wondering if it was worth bothering to grind it into the sidewalk. Dean took a deep breath or two, trying to force the dry lump in his throat away. Time ticked by slow as ice melting. He wondered what the odds were he walked back out of this house alive. The blood between Winchester and Assasi was bad, what with the old man firing weapons in Assasi's place—killing one of his men, the mob boss was probably the reason he was parked up in jail now. Dean's eyes roamed over the front of the townhouse. This was it, the place Dad walked right in and killed Assasi's lieutenant, right in the foyer. Right under the double crystal chandelier.
At least that's what the old man bragged about when he was in his cups….
The gunsel squared his shoulders and shifted the butt in his lips from one side of his mouth to the other, a thin stream of smoke poured out of his nose, like a leaky steam pipe. Dean shifted nervously under the punk's lizard-like regard. Licked his lips and thought, fuck this—this waiting. What if this was about Boggy wanting him dead—this would be just his kind of gag. What if Assasi iced him and Boggy stole Sam, made him one of his toys? Fuck, this could all be about that, a way for Boggs to get him out of the pict—
"Yeah? Whatha fuck you want?" Dean snapped out of his half-panic to see a huge man in a neat, pinstriped suit glaring at him from out of the opened doorway. He looked Dean up and down like he was a bag of garbage tossed on the step. Behind him, the little gunsel snickered.
"Bill Boggs sent me, gotta package for Mr. Assasi." Dean was grateful his voice didn't crack.
"Yeah. The Boss said someone was coming. Din' say it was gonna be a fuckin' leprechaun."
The moke behind him brayed out laughter and Dean glared at the floor, furiously wishing he could control the hot flush that swept up his neck and made his ears burn. He kept quiet, not sure what he should say, but let him catch this fat slob on his lonesome somewhere…grubby, nail-bitten fingers tightened on the knife in his pocket so hard they ached….
"C'mon kid. Boss is in the garage." The big guy stepped out of the door and took Dean down a narrow side alley that opened into a wide courtyard. At one end of the cobble stone courtyard was an iron gate that opened into a road. At the far end of the yard was a converted coach house made of brick, one side overgrown with ivy. Two wooden doors stood ajar, made wide to allow access for carriages, now for cars. The smell of gasoline was in the air, the smell of oil, and Dean's heart skipped a beat. Cars…he loved them, loved the look of them, the smell of them, loved watching them roll past him. He wanted a car like other kids wanted…cake, or candy. Like the bigger boys wanted girls.
The fat guy took him right into the coach house--what he called the garage.
There were three cars parked there, three…Dean sighed and his hands itched to touch them. He gripped the paper wrapped package tighter and filled his eyes desperately with the sight of them.
"Whatcha got here, Louie?" The man came out of the shadows behind the cars, his shirt sleeves rolled up, suspenders hanging around his waist. Dean noticed streaks of black on the pale forearms, on long, elegant hands. "Ah, ya must be my package. Hand it here, raggazo. Here's a dollar, getcher self some gum or something'." He reached for the suit jacket, carefully folded, and hanging over the phaeton's open door, and fished a dollar out of the inside pocket.
Dean barely heard the man, Mr. Assasi—the mortal enemy of the Winchester's. He was busy, he was, busy falling in love.
Assasi caught that Dean was overwhelmed, caught up in the cars, and he chuckled. "Hey, hey little boy. You gonna drool all over the cars. If I let you look, you gonna keep your chin wiped?"
Dean looked up at Assasi like he was…God. "I…I can look?"
"Sure, little one." The flint in the man's eyes changed somewhat—not exactly warm, more—curious. Calculating in a different way than Dean had ever seen before. Mr. Assasi gazed at him, like he was something odd…or like he was some brand new thing that he'd never known existed, instead of some punk kid Boggy'd sent 'round the way. Dean figured it didn’t seem likely he was going to be coughing out a lung in the alley in the next few minutes, so….
"This here is a touring car."
The sound of a car hood being opened snapped Dean out of his thoughts and back to the wonderful, beautiful cars. Assasi had the hood of Pierce-Arrow up, and demanded Louie bring a stepstool so Dean could look at the engine. He pointed out parts and explained them, let Dean touch the leather seats; gave him a piece of sheepskin and let him wipe down the bonnet of one….
* * * * * *
The afternoon sun was long gone, thin strings of black shadow fell across the floor, climbed the garage walls. Dean lifted his head and paled—gasped out, "Oh cripes! Sammy!"
Assasi stopped, wiping a trace of oil off his hands and it made Dean want to take them in his own. Here he was, the boss, oiling and fueling his own cars. Dean heard his voice again, saying, "If you love something kid, only your hands should be on it. I don’t let anyone touch these cars but me. 'Cause I love them. I know them."
"What's the matter, raggazo? You got a hot date?" he laughed, and Dean gulped and shook his head.
"My brother, he's alone, we're supposed to do something tonight and I…" his eyes filled."I forgot him. Left him. I stink."
Assasi touched Dean's shoulder, squeezed. He gave him a crooked smile. "You’re a good boy--buon raggazino. You love yer brother. That's the way it should be. Family is everything. I want you should take good care of yer little brother, he needs you. Here." He shoved a few bills in Dean's hand—ignoring his gasp of surprise. "Take him out, feed him, do something nice for him. And don’t forget you get that chiseling bastard Boggy to pay you, right? Now gwan, get outta here." He shook Dean's shoulder, and gave him a little push towards the door, and in that instant, Dean fell in love with Assasi. At that moment, he'd do anything in the world for him, anything. He threw a wide grin over his shoulder, and ran.
He ran all the way back to their block, took the stairs down to their little squat two at a time, and burst into the humid, wet-cardboard and boy smell of the basement.
Sam was sitting on the bed, his face blank and pale, the edge of his lip caught in his teeth. He glanced at Dean when he called his name but said nothing.
"Sam, I'm sorry, you must be hungry—cold too, whyn't you start a fire, hunh?" Dean babbled, the silence was so heavy, Sam was so quiet. He tossed a few pieces of coal in the stove and went to the bed, sinking down next to Sam. He reached up to pat Sam's head, and Sam flung himself back, away from Dean's touch. His breath hitched and a little bead of blood ran over his lip. He spat in Dean's face, the thin blood spattered against Dean's cheek.
"Hey—what the fuck—" Dean wiped at his face but his guilt made him sit there and take it.
"You stinking liar," Sam hissed. "You son of a bitch shit face liar," and he kicked out at Dean.
"Wait, wait, I got somethin' for you, I was at—" he grunted when Sam's foot clipped his hip and he fell. "At Assasi's," he gasped and Sam jumped on him, a whirlwind of fists and curses. Dean lay there, only moving his arms to cover his face. Sam slugged him, over and over until he fell forward on Dean, dripping from eyes and nose. Dean let him shake out his tears, stroked his back, rubbed small, slow circles across his back. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, baby boy, so sorry…."
"I was afraid! You were gone and it got dark and. I didn't leave like you told me, I stayed," he howled, "but next time you do that I'm coming looking for you." He ended up howling it into Dean's shirt collar, spit and snot soaking the fabric and Dean cried a little himself, and felt too guilty not to let Sammy crawl into his lap and pepper his face with kisses. He let Sam wrap his skinny little arms and legs around him and kiss him until he calmed down.
When Sam was calm enough to listen, Dean told him about Assasi, and his garage, his house, and Sam was awed. "Oh brother, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was about cars…" He nodded. "I know how you are about cars. Just…next time don’t forget," he said and kissed Dean's knuckles. Dean pulled his hand away slowly, an almost painful ache deep in his gut. He let Sam kiss his knuckles because they ached and it felt good and made him wonder how it would feel if he pushed a finger into his mouth. He bit his lip because he knew it wasn't a right thing to think, even if he knew Sam wouldn't mind at all.
Sam babbled on happily as he sat on his side of the bed and unwrapped the sandwich Dean had brought him and put the licorice whips he'd been thrilled to get to the side to enjoy later. He shoved his little feet under Dean's thigh and sighed like all was right in the world; Dean was left to weather his turmoil on his own.
* * * * * *
Then next days were quiet, Boggs had no jobs, and food was getting low. There were a few pieces of coal left, enough for a day or two and the nights were still cold. Dean shoved another few pieces of newspaper into the cracks around the window. He gave idle thought to the wash hanging on the lines over the alley. He wondered if he could snag a blanket or two…he was pretty sure he could. If he grabbed a few, they'd make it all right. All he had to do was eat less…and maybe Boggs would spare a hand-out. If worse came to worse, they'd try the soup kitchen. And if that didn’t pan out…well, he'd think about that later.
And then Sam woke up crying, again.
Dean was getting used to them—the headaches that made his brother a ball of misery. There were days that all Sam could do was roll into a ball and cry. Days that Dean covered the windows and gave up his pillow to Sam, so he could try and rest. What he needed was medicine—something to help squash the monsters stamping around in his head—that was how Sammy described it. Sometimes it helped if he let Dean rub his temples, sing to him, low and slow. Poor Sam. It looked like it was going to be one of those days.
Dean made tea, shaking out the can to get the last of it. He added what sugar they had left and toasted the heel of the bread—all they had--on the stove. Sam was trying not to cry, now that he was awake. He took the tea with a mumbled thanks, but refused the bread. Dean watched him drink, slow sip by slow sip. He peered up at Dean. "Can you sit with me a little?"
Dean nodded and slid into bed behind him, pulling Sam in between his legs, tucking the blanket around Sam when he settled back against him with a sigh and asked, "Tell me a story?"
Dean snorted. "A story, hunh? Okay." He took the tea out of Sam's hands, tilted his head down so Dean could rub his thumbs over Sam's scalp, soothing up and down, talking while he did it.
"Okay. There was this guy, see, an' he had everything anyone could ever want, an' he had it all locked up in this big stone joint. But there was these two…knights, all shiny in armor, and they decided they should get this guy's stuff an' give it to…the poor." Dean's thumbs slipped around Sam's neck, stroked under the soft roll of his chin, than back up to his scalp.
Sammy exhaled, snuggled closer to Dean. "To the poor? Really?" He sounded kind of doubtful.
"Yeah. 'Cause that's what good guys do an' they was good guys. So they whacked this guy, right, chopped his head off with a axe an' there was blood all over the place and the guy's head rolled down the tower stairs like bumpa-bumpa-bump—"
"Ooooo," Sammy said, sounding pleased with the way the story was going.
"Yeah an' the knights, they got the gold and they got a couple of princesses, real lookers, just for them—"
"I don’t want princesses, just the knights. They stay with each other. And they keep some of the gold, right Dean? That's how it goes, right?"
"Yeah Sammy, that's how it goes. They chop off the pigeon's head, get the gold, kick the broads outa the joint—"
"And they live happily ever after, together." Sammy sounded satisfied, and not long after, he fell asleep. Dean looked down at him, still rubbing his thumbs against Sam's head. Feeling the soft warm weight of him holding him down, warming him up, from the inside out. A flight of butterflies tumbled in his stomach, good at first, but turning, twisting into something that didn't feel right.
* * * * * *
"I need a job, some extra money. Sammy—he gets bad headaches and he needs something to help him. And we're going through food real fast now…." Dean stammered, trying to get his words out fast, before Boggy brushed him off.
Boggs leaned against his desk, rolled his eternal cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, and said in a voice that dripped disinterest, "Headache powders work wonders, you know. Why don't you head down to the drugstore, hmm. They've got a nice selection."
Dean felt rage swim up on him. "I don’t have the money for it. I gotta get us food, an'…that basement is cold, an' wet. We don’t got enough blankets to keep us warm, let alone dry. 'Sides, I been over there a few times and they're starting to get wise." He wiggled his fingers. "I think they seen me lift some stuff…"
Boggs tsked at Dean's lack of light fingered skill, asked, "Are you complaining, my boy? Do you find your lodgings unsuitable? Because there are people I can rent to for more than I charge you, my dear, much more." His ratty nose twitched in a ratty way, and Dean's fingers trembled over the ivory handled blade resting in his pocket. Dean knew Boggy was talking shit, the chislin' bastard, and Boggy knew he knew it--the place was a way station to hell.
The man rose from his perch on the edge of the desk and wandered over to the curtain hung by the bed. He pinched a bit of fabric between his fingers. "Sorry times now, my dear," he sighed, "there are no jobs to be had right now, and…hmmm." He looked thoughtful—as thoughtful as a rat could look. He fixed Dean with a look of false concern and asked, "Have you tried warm towels?"
"Damn it--I'll do any job—Sam needs medicine. Whatever you got—I'll do anything!"
"Will you, my dear?" Boggs smiled and motioned Dean closer. He twitched the curtain back, and glanced toward the bed revealed. Smirked. One of the pair of boys almost always at Boggs' side lie there, mostly under the covers, fully dressed, and rolled over to look at them when the curtain was pulled. He blinked slowly, scowled when he spied Dean, and Dean returned it. He hated those guys, hated them the same way he hated rats. The kid stared at him, brown eyes drilling into his, a long unbroken stare as Boggs blathered on and on. It was hot in Boggs' room, and dry, he could smell dust and the coal stove, smell ink. His eyes slid over Boggs' desk, the phone gleaming blackly on the wall. Hanging next to the phone, a calendar announced it was February but it was March now, and Sam's headaches were getting worse and worse. Boggs' voice disappeared. Through the closed door, the sound of the club leaked through, the clack of balls speeding around the pool tables, the high-pitched laughter of the newsies and runners, the lower rumble of the club members, Bogg's crew…under it all the tinny sound of the old upright piano, someone coaxing Glow Wormout of it ….
Dean perched stiffly on the edge of the big bed. The boy was gone, casting Dean a sidelong, evil look as he slouched away, like Dean had won something from him. Dean ached to punch him right between the eyes. Boggs was kneeling in front of him, long, long fingers sitting on Dean's thighs like yellow spiders. "Don’t be afraid, I'd never, ever hurt you. You'll like this. All you have to do is sit still." The spiders walked up his thighs and over his trouser buttons, prying them loose. Bone thin fingers reached in, gliding over his skin and leaving long streaks of ice behind. "This isn't going to hurt at all."
Dean looked down at the yellow finger bones and closed his eyes. He filled his head up with nothing and darkness and Sam.
* * * *
"Hey Sammy, gotcha something to help." He set a little sack on the floor next to the stove, and took out a small can. He swirled a little powder from the can into a glass, topped it with water and handed it to Sam. "Drink it all—I promise it'll help." He turned his back, and put the food he'd scrounged into the cupboard. "Drink that and I'll give ya canned peaches—you like those."
He heard Sam yelp happily, "peaches!" and when he turned around again, Sam was at the table, trying to drink the mixture and making a face—it was gritty and bitter, Dean knew, but the stuff was supposed to help and that was all he cared about.
Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, soft with baby-fat and warm under his palm. He stroked up his neck, tucked a few wild pieces of hair behind Sam's ear. Sam shuddered, dropped his head back to Dean's chest. "It tastes bad…and you smell funny. Where you been? Where did Boggy send you?"
"Don’t worry about that—it ain't none of yer business. You just drink this stuff and lay down, sleep some so's you can go to school tomorrow." He grabbed Sam's free hand—hard, too tight. "You gotta go to school, Sam, you gotta. Make somethin' of yourself—don't be like me an' Dad, promise me."
Sam yanked his hand away. "Quit it! Leave me alone. Stop that." His voice was high and shrill, and Dean knew he'd scared him. Sam jumped off the chair and threw himself in bed, his back to Dean. When Dean tried to get in too, Sam kicked him. "Sleep on the floor. I don’t want you touching me."
Dean gaped—on the floor? Alone? His eyes filled but he blinked tears back. "Why the hell you being like this Sam? What's eatin' you now?"
"Just…shut up and go to sleep."
Dean inched towards the bed. He took off his jacket, rolled it up and shoved it under his head. He closed his eyes, tried to mask a deep, unhappy sigh. When Sammy got like this, there was no dealing with him. Fine. He didn’t give a shit if Sam wanted to be a bitch. That was fine with him, it was only important that Sam get better, and that Dean was following John Winchester's command. If John beat the rap somehow and got out of the joint, he was gonna find a smart, fat, happy Sam. Dean was gonna show him, he could take care of Sam; he could do the job, no matter what it took.
part 3
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John Winchester, original characters
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5487
Summary: a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.
Notes/Warnings: abuse, dub-con, harsh images, morally challenged Sam, troubled Dean. There are hints of abuse, physical and sexual, but nothing terribly graphic. The rating is for the overall fic—it varies according to update. The fic features the boys at a very young age.
The boy sat at the little table and watched his brother write, his pencil working in fine swooping loops and dashes across the paper. Precise and careful, and his forehead wrinkled in deep concentration. His soft, candy-pink lips pursed and smoothed as he wrote, again and again, sometimes the tip of his tongue darted out and tapped his lip, like a kitten searching for milk. Dean smiled. Sammy was so serious sometimes. He eased away so as not to disturb his brother, and set a pot on the little coal stove. He emptied a can of beans into it, and added a few pieces of salt pork for flavor and what meat it offered. He stirred slowly, humming under his breath. A pot of water boiled on the back of the stove, cooking tea to a bitter blackness.
"Here, baby brother, ready for food?" He passed Sam a bowl with beans and a slice of bread he'd picked all the green off of, and a mug of tea. He brought a can of Borden's milk in from the deep, chilly windowsill of the basement window and poured a good slug into Sam's tea, his own as well. He passed out the sugar, a few heaping teaspoonfuls into Sam's mug because left to himself, he'd have emptied the bowl into his cup.
The night was no different than any other night they'd spent in their room under the stairs. School work, dinner, bed and every Saturday, a bath. It was regular as clockwork and Dean found the sameness comforting. After they ate, Sam sat on their bed and read, and Dean checked his shoes over. One boot was really kind of thin in the sole, plus Sam was growing fast, his shoes were getting too small. Dean's would do a while longer, he could get away with lining the soles of his boots with some cardboard but Sammy really needed new boots, no fooling. A couple of extra jobs and he could…"Ow!"
He pressed the heel of his hand against the brightly throbbing spot on his forehead that connecting hard with Sam's brought. Sam leaned back on his knees, his hands cradling his own head, staring at Dean like he'd slammed him on purpose. "Jesus, what the hell, Squirt, warn a fella before you attack him like that—and what was that anyway?"
"I wanted to do this, but you moved," he pouted, and then he leaped into Dean again and this time, his mouth slammed against Dean's. Dean felt a spot on his inner lip give way painfully, and blood slick his tongue. Sam meanwhile, leaned back and looked at Dean speculatively, blankly, waiting for his reaction in the much the same way a collector might watch a butterfly in a killing jar.
"Sam—what in the world was that?"
"A kiss," he said, his tone full of what an idiot Dean was for not knowing. "It's what you do when you like someone. And this," and he pushed his hand into Dean's lap.
"No! We don't do that," Dean cried and leaped as far back as he could on the narrow bed. "Where ya getting this stuff from? Who ya been talkin' to? You ain't been by Boggy's have yah?" he asked and rage swept over him in so fiercely, so deeply that he shook, suddenly weak with the desire to kill the man.
Sam's face flushed red, and then white as the blood drained away. He looked frightened, more than he'd ever looked when their dad was on a tear. "Don’t hit me," he begged and Dean felt like a monster.
"Jesus, I'm not gonna hit you, just tell me who showed you to do this?"
Sam jumped off the bed and stood at its side, swaying on one foot. His hand wrapped around the bed post, wringing it, worrying at flecks of peeled paint. He stared at the floor, swallowed and muttered, "It was Jeanie. She had a date in the stairwell and I watched. When she saw me, she told me what she was doing. Said it was how you showed someone you liked them."
"And did the bitch just tell you or show you?" Dean asked because he didn’t mind hurting her—he knew her pimp and he wasn't afraid of him, the guy was a bum and a pussy.
"Naw, she just laughed when she saw my…" Sam turned bright red and scrapped his nails down the bedpost, sending a shower of flakes to the floor. His lips twisted up, his cat's eyes looked even more slanted for a second…before a tear rolled over his cheek and splashed against Dean's foot.
"Wha—oh. Don’t worry about that. You felt…funny down there? He asked and poked Sam under the bellybutton. Sam giggled before he remembered he was upset and scowled and turned redder, nodded. "Yeah," Dean said, "no big deal. Happens to everyone—yeah, me too."
Dean sighed and patted the bed next to him until Sam jumped back in bed. "Only, don't do that anymore because boys don’t kiss each other."
Sam gasped at the absurdity of Dean's comment. "But you kiss me all the time!"
"Do not—well, not like that. I kiss you goodnight. Not ona lips. On the cheek's okay, or right here—" He pulled Sam close and kissed the top of his head. "See? That's okay. Now lay down an' go ta sleep."
They stretched out and shimmied and wiggled until they fit together like warm puzzle pieces. Dean sighed and let himself drift…the last thing he heard or thought he heard was Sam whisper, "I don't care if they don’t, I do…."
The light struggling through the dirty basement window was what woke Dean up, and not the wet, ticklish slide of sweat between himself and his brother, wrapped around him like ivy on a wall. Sam always put out a little more heat than Dean did, but it wasn't as cold that morning as it had been. The season was turning and before long, it'd be warm every morning. That was a blessing, and a problem, Dean mused. They'd have no way to keep food cold, which meant buying daily, which meant….he'd probably have to turn part of that job over to Sam. Not that Sam couldn’t handle it, he just…well, that was his job, feeding his brother.
Dean slipped out of bed carefully, giving Sam a few more minutes sleep. He poured a little water in the pan on the stove and when the water warmed, dipped a piece of toweling into it. "Sam," he called and his brother came, grumbling and huffing, his face still sleep soft and wrinkled by the pillow, hair standing out around his head like a nimbus. He lifted his chin for a kiss, and Dean gave it, complaining about Sam's breath until his brother snorted a laugh. He shoved Sam towards the bowl Dean had set on the table, the tooth powder clenched in one small fist and a glass and brush in the other. He squinted around at the room, hissed a little.
"Headache again?" Dean frowned in sympathy when his brother nodded but it obviously wasn't one of the bad ones he'd get occasionally. Sam's eyes were red, but dry, and he didn't look sick. Dean decided he'd be okay to go to school. "Okay then, wash up quick. I gotta get to work and you gotta get to school."
Sam shoved the brush in his mouth and worked up foam while Dean flew through his birdbath. Sam took his place after Dean washed and when he was through they dressed, sat down to tea and toast.
"You come right home after school and you stay here, okay, and then we'll do something together."
Sam nodded, gave him a brief smile and ran off to school. Dean sighed. Sam needed him less and less these days….
Boggs looked up when Dean sauntered into his place. He tilted the bowler hat he wore constantly and winked at Dean. "Got a job for you," Boggy said, biting down on the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Dean looked at him, glanced over the other men standing around Boggy, his own little collection of scabs and bums he called his gang. Some of them snickered. Whatever it was probably wasn't good but…Dean shrugged. "Okay…."
The man opened the door to his room and ushered Dean inside. "This is a special job. I'm gonna need you to run this over to Mr. Assasi's," Boggy said, rocking back on his heels, smiling.
Dean's stomach grumbled. He smelled sausage and bread and it made his mouth fill with spit so fast it hurt. He'd given Sam almost all of the bread that morning, them being short of cash the last few days and Dean couldn't stand for Sam to be hungry. Along with the spicy scent of the meat and the buttery-flour scent of bread, he smelled tea, boiling away on the stove and He glanced around the room at the table set for one, and in the corner, a big bed. Two fox-faced boys were sitting in it, the blankets to their hips and their thin chests bare. Dean made a face. More 'foundlings'. More unfortunates that good-hearted old Bill Boggs was watching out for, bless his fucking twisted heart. One of the boys sneered at Dean, his narrow face twisting up in amusement. He licked something off his fingers and Dean turned his eyes away. He didn’t give a damn what Boggs did, as long as it didn’t involve him and Sam….
Dean thought about the offered job and cursed. Assasi. The old man was sure the mug had killed their mother. What if…what if stripping away everything that had made John Winchester a man hadn't been enough for Assasi? What if when he saw Dean, he knew him? Maybe decide his revenge needn't stop with the old man—what if he wanted to ice him, and Sammy, too? What if…Dean's eyes narrowed. Well, fuck him, he thought. The goon 'd just find himself face to face with another Winchester not so easy to kill, and even if he managed it, Sam…his Sam would find a way to make Assasi sweat blood, sure as shit, he would.
Dean flinched at movement at the corner of his eye and his hand tightened on the ever-present knife in his pocket. It was one of the of the boys in Bill's bed, up now and strolling over to the stove, his bare ass flexing as he took thick china cups off the hooks above the stove, and Dean thought how much he looked like Sam that way, thin and ribby and pinched. He thought of Sam stuffed into Boggy's bed and felt his stomach roll. "Yeah. Okay. I'll get it to him."
Assasi's 'place' was in that section of town that Dean wouldn't voluntarily go. Tall brownstones marched up each side of the street, wide, clean marble steps leading up to neat brick houses. Neatly painted doors flanked by windows, some with flowers drooping out of iron grilles, made the houses look happy. There were trees on the street and brass hitching posts set along the curbs though there were no horses in this neighborhood. A large town car, a beautiful Pierce-Arrow, rolled past him and he swung around to watch it go, transfixed.
Dean found the address at last, and trudged up to the wide marble doorsteps. A few pinstripe-suited mokes hung out on the steps—Dean could see they were packing--house guards. They let him come up the steps when he waved the note from Boggy. The package he held onto like it was gold.
The older of the men looked Dean over, taking in his ragged, tweed cap, knobby knees poking out from his thread-bare shorts. He definitely looked unimpressed.
"Wait here," he said, took the note and slipped in the front door. The other moke watched him, a cigarette barely hanging off his lip. He watched Dean like he was watching a roach and wondering if it was worth bothering to grind it into the sidewalk. Dean took a deep breath or two, trying to force the dry lump in his throat away. Time ticked by slow as ice melting. He wondered what the odds were he walked back out of this house alive. The blood between Winchester and Assasi was bad, what with the old man firing weapons in Assasi's place—killing one of his men, the mob boss was probably the reason he was parked up in jail now. Dean's eyes roamed over the front of the townhouse. This was it, the place Dad walked right in and killed Assasi's lieutenant, right in the foyer. Right under the double crystal chandelier.
At least that's what the old man bragged about when he was in his cups….
The gunsel squared his shoulders and shifted the butt in his lips from one side of his mouth to the other, a thin stream of smoke poured out of his nose, like a leaky steam pipe. Dean shifted nervously under the punk's lizard-like regard. Licked his lips and thought, fuck this—this waiting. What if this was about Boggy wanting him dead—this would be just his kind of gag. What if Assasi iced him and Boggy stole Sam, made him one of his toys? Fuck, this could all be about that, a way for Boggs to get him out of the pict—
"Yeah? Whatha fuck you want?" Dean snapped out of his half-panic to see a huge man in a neat, pinstriped suit glaring at him from out of the opened doorway. He looked Dean up and down like he was a bag of garbage tossed on the step. Behind him, the little gunsel snickered.
"Bill Boggs sent me, gotta package for Mr. Assasi." Dean was grateful his voice didn't crack.
"Yeah. The Boss said someone was coming. Din' say it was gonna be a fuckin' leprechaun."
The moke behind him brayed out laughter and Dean glared at the floor, furiously wishing he could control the hot flush that swept up his neck and made his ears burn. He kept quiet, not sure what he should say, but let him catch this fat slob on his lonesome somewhere…grubby, nail-bitten fingers tightened on the knife in his pocket so hard they ached….
"C'mon kid. Boss is in the garage." The big guy stepped out of the door and took Dean down a narrow side alley that opened into a wide courtyard. At one end of the cobble stone courtyard was an iron gate that opened into a road. At the far end of the yard was a converted coach house made of brick, one side overgrown with ivy. Two wooden doors stood ajar, made wide to allow access for carriages, now for cars. The smell of gasoline was in the air, the smell of oil, and Dean's heart skipped a beat. Cars…he loved them, loved the look of them, the smell of them, loved watching them roll past him. He wanted a car like other kids wanted…cake, or candy. Like the bigger boys wanted girls.
The fat guy took him right into the coach house--what he called the garage.
There were three cars parked there, three…Dean sighed and his hands itched to touch them. He gripped the paper wrapped package tighter and filled his eyes desperately with the sight of them.
"Whatcha got here, Louie?" The man came out of the shadows behind the cars, his shirt sleeves rolled up, suspenders hanging around his waist. Dean noticed streaks of black on the pale forearms, on long, elegant hands. "Ah, ya must be my package. Hand it here, raggazo. Here's a dollar, getcher self some gum or something'." He reached for the suit jacket, carefully folded, and hanging over the phaeton's open door, and fished a dollar out of the inside pocket.
Dean barely heard the man, Mr. Assasi—the mortal enemy of the Winchester's. He was busy, he was, busy falling in love.
Assasi caught that Dean was overwhelmed, caught up in the cars, and he chuckled. "Hey, hey little boy. You gonna drool all over the cars. If I let you look, you gonna keep your chin wiped?"
Dean looked up at Assasi like he was…God. "I…I can look?"
"Sure, little one." The flint in the man's eyes changed somewhat—not exactly warm, more—curious. Calculating in a different way than Dean had ever seen before. Mr. Assasi gazed at him, like he was something odd…or like he was some brand new thing that he'd never known existed, instead of some punk kid Boggy'd sent 'round the way. Dean figured it didn’t seem likely he was going to be coughing out a lung in the alley in the next few minutes, so….
"This here is a touring car."
The sound of a car hood being opened snapped Dean out of his thoughts and back to the wonderful, beautiful cars. Assasi had the hood of Pierce-Arrow up, and demanded Louie bring a stepstool so Dean could look at the engine. He pointed out parts and explained them, let Dean touch the leather seats; gave him a piece of sheepskin and let him wipe down the bonnet of one….
The afternoon sun was long gone, thin strings of black shadow fell across the floor, climbed the garage walls. Dean lifted his head and paled—gasped out, "Oh cripes! Sammy!"
Assasi stopped, wiping a trace of oil off his hands and it made Dean want to take them in his own. Here he was, the boss, oiling and fueling his own cars. Dean heard his voice again, saying, "If you love something kid, only your hands should be on it. I don’t let anyone touch these cars but me. 'Cause I love them. I know them."
"What's the matter, raggazo? You got a hot date?" he laughed, and Dean gulped and shook his head.
"My brother, he's alone, we're supposed to do something tonight and I…" his eyes filled."I forgot him. Left him. I stink."
Assasi touched Dean's shoulder, squeezed. He gave him a crooked smile. "You’re a good boy--buon raggazino. You love yer brother. That's the way it should be. Family is everything. I want you should take good care of yer little brother, he needs you. Here." He shoved a few bills in Dean's hand—ignoring his gasp of surprise. "Take him out, feed him, do something nice for him. And don’t forget you get that chiseling bastard Boggy to pay you, right? Now gwan, get outta here." He shook Dean's shoulder, and gave him a little push towards the door, and in that instant, Dean fell in love with Assasi. At that moment, he'd do anything in the world for him, anything. He threw a wide grin over his shoulder, and ran.
He ran all the way back to their block, took the stairs down to their little squat two at a time, and burst into the humid, wet-cardboard and boy smell of the basement.
Sam was sitting on the bed, his face blank and pale, the edge of his lip caught in his teeth. He glanced at Dean when he called his name but said nothing.
"Sam, I'm sorry, you must be hungry—cold too, whyn't you start a fire, hunh?" Dean babbled, the silence was so heavy, Sam was so quiet. He tossed a few pieces of coal in the stove and went to the bed, sinking down next to Sam. He reached up to pat Sam's head, and Sam flung himself back, away from Dean's touch. His breath hitched and a little bead of blood ran over his lip. He spat in Dean's face, the thin blood spattered against Dean's cheek.
"Hey—what the fuck—" Dean wiped at his face but his guilt made him sit there and take it.
"You stinking liar," Sam hissed. "You son of a bitch shit face liar," and he kicked out at Dean.
"Wait, wait, I got somethin' for you, I was at—" he grunted when Sam's foot clipped his hip and he fell. "At Assasi's," he gasped and Sam jumped on him, a whirlwind of fists and curses. Dean lay there, only moving his arms to cover his face. Sam slugged him, over and over until he fell forward on Dean, dripping from eyes and nose. Dean let him shake out his tears, stroked his back, rubbed small, slow circles across his back. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, baby boy, so sorry…."
"I was afraid! You were gone and it got dark and. I didn't leave like you told me, I stayed," he howled, "but next time you do that I'm coming looking for you." He ended up howling it into Dean's shirt collar, spit and snot soaking the fabric and Dean cried a little himself, and felt too guilty not to let Sammy crawl into his lap and pepper his face with kisses. He let Sam wrap his skinny little arms and legs around him and kiss him until he calmed down.
When Sam was calm enough to listen, Dean told him about Assasi, and his garage, his house, and Sam was awed. "Oh brother, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was about cars…" He nodded. "I know how you are about cars. Just…next time don’t forget," he said and kissed Dean's knuckles. Dean pulled his hand away slowly, an almost painful ache deep in his gut. He let Sam kiss his knuckles because they ached and it felt good and made him wonder how it would feel if he pushed a finger into his mouth. He bit his lip because he knew it wasn't a right thing to think, even if he knew Sam wouldn't mind at all.
Sam babbled on happily as he sat on his side of the bed and unwrapped the sandwich Dean had brought him and put the licorice whips he'd been thrilled to get to the side to enjoy later. He shoved his little feet under Dean's thigh and sighed like all was right in the world; Dean was left to weather his turmoil on his own.
Then next days were quiet, Boggs had no jobs, and food was getting low. There were a few pieces of coal left, enough for a day or two and the nights were still cold. Dean shoved another few pieces of newspaper into the cracks around the window. He gave idle thought to the wash hanging on the lines over the alley. He wondered if he could snag a blanket or two…he was pretty sure he could. If he grabbed a few, they'd make it all right. All he had to do was eat less…and maybe Boggs would spare a hand-out. If worse came to worse, they'd try the soup kitchen. And if that didn’t pan out…well, he'd think about that later.
And then Sam woke up crying, again.
Dean was getting used to them—the headaches that made his brother a ball of misery. There were days that all Sam could do was roll into a ball and cry. Days that Dean covered the windows and gave up his pillow to Sam, so he could try and rest. What he needed was medicine—something to help squash the monsters stamping around in his head—that was how Sammy described it. Sometimes it helped if he let Dean rub his temples, sing to him, low and slow. Poor Sam. It looked like it was going to be one of those days.
Dean made tea, shaking out the can to get the last of it. He added what sugar they had left and toasted the heel of the bread—all they had--on the stove. Sam was trying not to cry, now that he was awake. He took the tea with a mumbled thanks, but refused the bread. Dean watched him drink, slow sip by slow sip. He peered up at Dean. "Can you sit with me a little?"
Dean nodded and slid into bed behind him, pulling Sam in between his legs, tucking the blanket around Sam when he settled back against him with a sigh and asked, "Tell me a story?"
Dean snorted. "A story, hunh? Okay." He took the tea out of Sam's hands, tilted his head down so Dean could rub his thumbs over Sam's scalp, soothing up and down, talking while he did it.
"Okay. There was this guy, see, an' he had everything anyone could ever want, an' he had it all locked up in this big stone joint. But there was these two…knights, all shiny in armor, and they decided they should get this guy's stuff an' give it to…the poor." Dean's thumbs slipped around Sam's neck, stroked under the soft roll of his chin, than back up to his scalp.
Sammy exhaled, snuggled closer to Dean. "To the poor? Really?" He sounded kind of doubtful.
"Yeah. 'Cause that's what good guys do an' they was good guys. So they whacked this guy, right, chopped his head off with a axe an' there was blood all over the place and the guy's head rolled down the tower stairs like bumpa-bumpa-bump—"
"Ooooo," Sammy said, sounding pleased with the way the story was going.
"Yeah an' the knights, they got the gold and they got a couple of princesses, real lookers, just for them—"
"I don’t want princesses, just the knights. They stay with each other. And they keep some of the gold, right Dean? That's how it goes, right?"
"Yeah Sammy, that's how it goes. They chop off the pigeon's head, get the gold, kick the broads outa the joint—"
"And they live happily ever after, together." Sammy sounded satisfied, and not long after, he fell asleep. Dean looked down at him, still rubbing his thumbs against Sam's head. Feeling the soft warm weight of him holding him down, warming him up, from the inside out. A flight of butterflies tumbled in his stomach, good at first, but turning, twisting into something that didn't feel right.
"I need a job, some extra money. Sammy—he gets bad headaches and he needs something to help him. And we're going through food real fast now…." Dean stammered, trying to get his words out fast, before Boggy brushed him off.
Boggs leaned against his desk, rolled his eternal cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, and said in a voice that dripped disinterest, "Headache powders work wonders, you know. Why don't you head down to the drugstore, hmm. They've got a nice selection."
Dean felt rage swim up on him. "I don’t have the money for it. I gotta get us food, an'…that basement is cold, an' wet. We don’t got enough blankets to keep us warm, let alone dry. 'Sides, I been over there a few times and they're starting to get wise." He wiggled his fingers. "I think they seen me lift some stuff…"
Boggs tsked at Dean's lack of light fingered skill, asked, "Are you complaining, my boy? Do you find your lodgings unsuitable? Because there are people I can rent to for more than I charge you, my dear, much more." His ratty nose twitched in a ratty way, and Dean's fingers trembled over the ivory handled blade resting in his pocket. Dean knew Boggy was talking shit, the chislin' bastard, and Boggy knew he knew it--the place was a way station to hell.
The man rose from his perch on the edge of the desk and wandered over to the curtain hung by the bed. He pinched a bit of fabric between his fingers. "Sorry times now, my dear," he sighed, "there are no jobs to be had right now, and…hmmm." He looked thoughtful—as thoughtful as a rat could look. He fixed Dean with a look of false concern and asked, "Have you tried warm towels?"
"Damn it--I'll do any job—Sam needs medicine. Whatever you got—I'll do anything!"
"Will you, my dear?" Boggs smiled and motioned Dean closer. He twitched the curtain back, and glanced toward the bed revealed. Smirked. One of the pair of boys almost always at Boggs' side lie there, mostly under the covers, fully dressed, and rolled over to look at them when the curtain was pulled. He blinked slowly, scowled when he spied Dean, and Dean returned it. He hated those guys, hated them the same way he hated rats. The kid stared at him, brown eyes drilling into his, a long unbroken stare as Boggs blathered on and on. It was hot in Boggs' room, and dry, he could smell dust and the coal stove, smell ink. His eyes slid over Boggs' desk, the phone gleaming blackly on the wall. Hanging next to the phone, a calendar announced it was February but it was March now, and Sam's headaches were getting worse and worse. Boggs' voice disappeared. Through the closed door, the sound of the club leaked through, the clack of balls speeding around the pool tables, the high-pitched laughter of the newsies and runners, the lower rumble of the club members, Bogg's crew…under it all the tinny sound of the old upright piano, someone coaxing Glow Wormout of it ….
Dean perched stiffly on the edge of the big bed. The boy was gone, casting Dean a sidelong, evil look as he slouched away, like Dean had won something from him. Dean ached to punch him right between the eyes. Boggs was kneeling in front of him, long, long fingers sitting on Dean's thighs like yellow spiders. "Don’t be afraid, I'd never, ever hurt you. You'll like this. All you have to do is sit still." The spiders walked up his thighs and over his trouser buttons, prying them loose. Bone thin fingers reached in, gliding over his skin and leaving long streaks of ice behind. "This isn't going to hurt at all."
Dean looked down at the yellow finger bones and closed his eyes. He filled his head up with nothing and darkness and Sam.
"Hey Sammy, gotcha something to help." He set a little sack on the floor next to the stove, and took out a small can. He swirled a little powder from the can into a glass, topped it with water and handed it to Sam. "Drink it all—I promise it'll help." He turned his back, and put the food he'd scrounged into the cupboard. "Drink that and I'll give ya canned peaches—you like those."
He heard Sam yelp happily, "peaches!" and when he turned around again, Sam was at the table, trying to drink the mixture and making a face—it was gritty and bitter, Dean knew, but the stuff was supposed to help and that was all he cared about.
Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, soft with baby-fat and warm under his palm. He stroked up his neck, tucked a few wild pieces of hair behind Sam's ear. Sam shuddered, dropped his head back to Dean's chest. "It tastes bad…and you smell funny. Where you been? Where did Boggy send you?"
"Don’t worry about that—it ain't none of yer business. You just drink this stuff and lay down, sleep some so's you can go to school tomorrow." He grabbed Sam's free hand—hard, too tight. "You gotta go to school, Sam, you gotta. Make somethin' of yourself—don't be like me an' Dad, promise me."
Sam yanked his hand away. "Quit it! Leave me alone. Stop that." His voice was high and shrill, and Dean knew he'd scared him. Sam jumped off the chair and threw himself in bed, his back to Dean. When Dean tried to get in too, Sam kicked him. "Sleep on the floor. I don’t want you touching me."
Dean gaped—on the floor? Alone? His eyes filled but he blinked tears back. "Why the hell you being like this Sam? What's eatin' you now?"
"Just…shut up and go to sleep."
Dean inched towards the bed. He took off his jacket, rolled it up and shoved it under his head. He closed his eyes, tried to mask a deep, unhappy sigh. When Sammy got like this, there was no dealing with him. Fine. He didn’t give a shit if Sam wanted to be a bitch. That was fine with him, it was only important that Sam get better, and that Dean was following John Winchester's command. If John beat the rap somehow and got out of the joint, he was gonna find a smart, fat, happy Sam. Dean was gonna show him, he could take care of Sam; he could do the job, no matter what it took.
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(no subject)
6/26/11 09:59 am (UTC)The stuff with Assasi was fascinating - Dean's been taught to instinctively hate the guy, but then he treats him so well... And poor Dean, desperate for money and being forced to be with that nasty Boggs!
Your Sam is such an interesting character, so intense and changeable. I'm so excited to see what he does next!
(no subject)
6/27/11 01:06 am (UTC)The next bit will come very, very soon. The second book might take a little longer, but this first part of their lives will be completely posted by Tuesday, maybe Monday.